crystaldesiree

[crystaldesiree]

UGH FAVOURITE CHAPTER YETTTTT

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 43 - stay

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x OC ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 3.6k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: none but PREPARE FOR THE ANGST ↣ playlist: stay down - boygenius // the love you want - sleep token // glass eyes - radiohead // wait - m83 previous // masterlist // next

↳ before you head to verdansk, you and simon finally have a conversation you'd been putting off for way too long.

Aren’t I the one constantly repenting for a difficult mind? — Stay Down, boygenius

It was around 9 PM when you ventured into the night.

You only had an hour before it was wheels up again—turned out Shepherd had even more valuable intel than previously thought. As soon as you landed at Nikolai’s base, an online meeting was set with Laswell and Shepherd while the two were en route to the States. Everyone huddled around the table as the General relayed what he knew, and plans were made around that info.

In just one hour, Nikolai would fly you, Simon, and Johnny to Verdansk to stop the Gora Dam from being blown to bits, destroying the city, and possibly causing World War III. No pressure at all.

You didn’t know what to make of it. When you signed up for the Navy, you certainly didn’t envision saving the world Mission Impossible-style. The three of you were going in alone, and while it was nothing new, it was still a daunting task. The dam would surely be heavily guarded—more than Fallingwater base, more than Pluto Island. This was a plan that Makarov, and Konni, couldn’t afford to fuck up.

Was it reckless? Sure, but at this point, you had no other choice. There was no time to ask for backup. The others would head back to Urzikstan with Farah to hunt Makarov down once and for all. You seriously hoped this would be the end of this endless goose chase, seeing as everybody was running on fumes at this point. The entire team was at their limit, and you couldn’t imagine how much further you could keep going on like this.

Dinner was quiet. Tense. Heavy with the weight of everyone’s new assignments, full of resentment, anger, and contempt. You forced down your MRE to give your body some fuel, but after the events of today, you were far from hungry. Your stomach churned with dread every time you glanced Simon’s way. He avoided you, of course, sitting on the far end of the room, next to Johnny, quietly eating his food.

Your promise to Price and the others hung over your head like a raincloud, their words from days ago echoing relentlessly.

“Promise me, Mick. Talk to him,” Price had said.

After dinner, Simon was nowhere to be seen.

You didn’t realise he was gone until after you’d brushed your teeth. You figured that, with an hour to kill, you’d try to talk things out with Simon and hopefully put an end to this agony, but you scoured the base trying to find him, to no avail.

“Have you seen Simon?” You asked Johnny, who was on his way to the toilet. The Scot shook his head and rushed past you. Farah also had no clue, as did Kyle.

“I passed him ten minutes ago,” Nikolai said a minute later after asking Price, water bottle in hand. “Said he needed to smoke.”

“Simon doesn’t smoke,” You and Price said incredulously. Out of the whole team, you and Simon were the only ones who didn’t smoke, not even occasionally. To suggest that Simon would partake in something like that was… worrying, to say the least.

Nikolai only shrugged. “I’m only relaying what I saw.”

You sighed, arms crossed. “I’ll go check on him.”

“Good luck,” Price said, offering you a reassuring pat on the back. “Try not to kill each other.”

“We’ll see,” you said, turning around to leave.

“I expect grandchildren,” Nikolai shouted after you as you walked away.

You would’ve snapped back at him had you not heard a soft thud followed by an ‘oomf’, and then: “John!”

You had to hide your smirk once you stepped outside into the cool evening air.

Nikolai’s hangar base was properly hidden within a valley, protected by mountains and covered by the surrounding wilderness, the perfect place to retreat when you didn’t want to be found, when you needed to shield yourself away from the entire world. Granted, it wasn’t an off-the-grid cabin or a five-star resort, but the grounds around the base were peaceful enough to instil an unexpected calm in you. Simon couldn’t have gotten far, not with a time limit, but you still hoped finding him wouldn’t take too long.

The stars guided you. Nikolai generally kept his lights off at night unless it was necessary, and without other sources of light nearby, the sky up above was at its clearest. There was no need for a torch; the fireflies, the moon, and the stars made it bright enough.

You wandered outside for about ten minutes until you found him perched on a large boulder with his back to you, a thin tendril of smoke coming out of the cigarette on his gloveless fingers.

He wasn’t wearing the mask.

“Thought you didn’t smoke,” you said, not really knowing where to start.

Simon jumped mid-inhale, startled. “Jesus, fuck,” he coughed, standing up and covering his mouth. “Bloody fuckin’ hell, Mick, what the fuck?”

He swatted the smoke away and took another drag—he was almost done. You’d never seen him quite like this—lost in his thoughts, easily startled, guard down. He genuinely thought he was alone out here.

Your face heated up. “Sorry about that,” you muttered, hands meekly clasped in front of you.

Silence. Awkward stares. Where to start?

“I thought you didn’t smoke,” you repeated, mind going a thousand miles per second.

Simon blew out another puff of smoke. “Used to, as a teenager. Quit after enlisting.”

You didn’t miss his tone—sharp, dry, slightly irritated. You’d intruded on his personal space, and he probably wanted you gone. Was he meditating? What was he thinking about?

“Why are you smoking now, then?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. S’pose I needed it.”

More silence. He took another drag and leaned back against the rock he’d been sitting on. A faint breeze blew past, making you shiver. It was getting colder now. You were glad for your longer sleeves, but your body hadn’t quite acclimatised after getting back from Siberia—you still couldn’t shake off the chill.

You crossed your arms; looked at the grass under your boots. “Stress?”

“No shit,” he replied.

After puffing out smoke one last time, he squashed the cigarette butt under his boot. Moonlight reflected over his short-cropped hair, a dark, dirty blonde you’d only seen glimpses of, but the rest of his face remained slightly obscured by the night. You barely remember seeing his face at the beach—his strong jaw, his aged scars, those intimidating eyes—but you’d been too focused on his well-being to bother detailing his face. How you wish you’d taken a better, closer look when you could. This might’ve been the last time you ever saw him without it, depending on how the conversation went.

He took a long look at you before sighing and starting to make his way back, but your reflexes were quick, and you caught his arm before he could walk past you.

“I need to talk to you, Simon,” you said. He looked down at where your hand gripped his bicep, and your heart jumped up your throat. You released him.

“About?” He asked sharply.

You looked up at him, at the dark voids of his irises. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

He swallowed thickly, looking down at you, mask between his fingers. You bet he itched to put it on now, feeling way too exposed like this.

“Simon—”

“Now you call me Simon?” He scoffed.

Your heart was beating so fast, you felt palpitations, hands trembling from the nerves. You shoved them down your pockets in an attempt to retain some dignity.

“Look, I—”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” he cut you off with a scowl, stepping back and turning around.

“Okay, stop! Stop!” You grabbed his arm again, this time pulling him back slightly. “Please don’t leave. Stay. We need to talk.”

He stopped in his tracks and turned back around, arms crossed. You put your hands back in your pockets in shame.

Simon raised an eyebrow. It was still somewhat jarring to see him emote. Was it like that under the mask?

“Well?” He asked, annoyance dripping off his tone. God, it felt like you were back to square one with him.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you pointed out.

He blinked. “That's it? Seriously?”

You bit your lower lip. “I need to know what I did to upset you.”

He sighed. “You don’t see it, don’t you?”

You frowned, confused. You had some theories, but you couldn’t deal with this evasiveness. “See what? You’ve been off since the crash.”

Simon huffed, incredulous, rolling his eyes, small patches of his skin illuminated by the moonlight. 

You spoke again. “Look, I know we left England in bad terms—”

“Bad terms,” he snapped. “You fucking rejected me.”

“I told you it was complicated!”

“You told me you didn’t want me,” he pointed at you.

Your throat was dry, the skin of your hands clammy, heart thumping wildly inside your ribcage. This was harder than you thought it would be. “I said I couldn’t.”

“Like it makes a fucking difference, Mick,” he spat. “Couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t… Might as well sack me in the balls while you’re at it.”

You scoffed, the anger rising within you. Why did everything have to be so difficult with him? “Oh fuck you. Is that why you won’t even look at me? Huh?”

He glared at you, mouth shut, emotions you couldn’t quite place dancing behind those dark eyes.

“Was I just some replacement to you?” He asked quietly.

You blinked, opening your mouth and then shutting it, trying to make sense of what actual fuck came out his mouth. Did he really just…?

“What?”

“George,” he said simply.

“Is—” Your hands balled into fists inside your pockets. He did not just fucking— “Is that—”

“That’s why you can’t want me, right?” He snapped, the harshness in his tone laced with pain. “You’re hung up over a dead man.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you pinched the bridge of your nose, utterly appalled he would even suggest that. “That is not true!”

“Then what is?” He said, raising his voice, desperate. “'Cause from my perspective it fuckin’ looks like it.”

You shook your head, throat tightening. This is not how you wanted things to go. He’s got it all wrong. Fuck. 

“No, no, you’re twisting my words, Simon, that’s not how it is—”

He laughed bitterly. “Oh, fuck off—”

“I opened up to you!” You snapped. “And you pushed me away for it! How do you think that fucking makes me feel?”

“How do—” Simon shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Guess you understand how that feels now, yeah? You admitted you still love him.”

“What, you think this is easy for me?” Your voice cracked. “That I can just… ignore everything, shut my feelings on and off like a fucking switch? I’ve struggled for months, making sense of my own feelings, lying to myself, pretending like everything’s fine when it’s clearly not. And you have the gall to think I don’t want you?”

He groaned. “Fuck’s sake, you fuckin’ said it yourself, Mick.”

“I—” Your voice cracked once again, so you paused and took a deep breath, feeling the tears bubbling up. All the pent-up frustration and regret from the past weeks were finally coming to the surface, and it wasn’t looking pretty. “Fuck, I didn’t mean for it to go like this.”

“What, you expected I’d hear you out like a posh fuckin’ debate club?” Simon said, his ruthless words biting down on you. He was just as angry, frustrated, and desperate as you. Perhaps more. You couldn’t blame him. He had every right to be mad at you. But god, did it hurt.

“N-No, I—”

“I’ve been dealing with this fuckin’ mess just like you,” he said.

“Please, just—”

“No,” he said firmly. “Listen to me for once in your life, Mick. Do you know what this feels like? How overwhelming everything is? I can’t focus—”

“I can’t focus either!” You retorted.

“I can’t think straight when you’re in front of me!” He yelled, voice breaking, breath shaky. “I can’t breathe when you’re around me, and I fuckin’ wish I could. I wish this could be easier. I wish I could force you out of my head, but I can’t. Tried. Failed miserably. It’s impossible and I hate it. I hate how much I want you, against my better judgment. I hate how much I need you like I need air. I hate the way I know what perfumes you use, how much I notice your stupid little pink pens, how I know what you taste like. It’s drivin’ me mad, Mick, and I hate it, but I crave it all the same, because I can’t quit you, and I wish I knew how.”

Your lips quivered. Tears had begun streaming down your face, hot and scalding and silent. “Don’t say that.”

“And then that night, before deployment. The laundry room. You just ran.”

“I panicked, Simon,” you said, but it came out pathetic and gurgled.

“Thought we were alright. Then you legged it. Just like always.”

“I panicked, okay?!” You cried. “I was having a panic attack! You were too oblivious to notice and so of course, I’m the villain in this situation for leaving—

“Yeah, of course, make it my fault again,” he said bitterly, voice cracking at the end. You could tell he was fighting back his own tears, too. “Do you even listen to yourself? How come I’m always getting blamed for every single fight we have? It’s me constantly getting shit from everyone else, because you got upset. Nobody fucking cares to check if I’m okay.”

You shook your head, feeling every bitter word that Simon spewed. He was right. He was so fucking right and it hurt to know that he’d been feeling this way for so long. You had no excuse for that.

You looked around—at the base, dark and quiet, looming in the distance, at the clear, starry night sky above you, and at Simon, who drew shaky breaths and never diverted his eyes from your face.

“Are you going to run away now?”

By this point, you were a complete mess, tears running like waterfalls, breaths deep yet shaky, your composure hanging by a thread. Just another push and you’d end up sobbing. You weren’t sure if you wanted Simon to see that.

Don’t panic. Don’t break down. Stay. Stay for him. For yourself. Show him you’ll stay. He’s here. Don’t leave. 

“No,” you said in a small, squeaky voice, trying your best not to cry, but the tears just kept falling. You finally looked up at him and noticed the pain, the pure agony in his eyes. It grabbed you by the throat, constricted your airflow. Guilt threatened to consume you whole.

You did this. It’s your fault he’s like this. 

“Simon, I—” Your lips trembled. You pinched the bridge of your nose in an attempt to keep your composure. “I… Fuck, you’re not a replacement, okay? You never were, I just…”

He drew in a shaky breath. Under the moonlight, you managed to make out his eyes, filled to the brim with unshed tears. He wiped them away. “What?”

“You were dead, Simon,” You finally broke into sobs. “You died! In my fucking arms! Just like—just like he did. Can’t you see? It was my fault. I’m cursed.”

Simon’s features softened, no less painful, but at least the anger had receded from his eyes. What remained was concern. “Mick—”

“No,” you stopped him with a jab to the chest. “I promised myself, after George died, that this wouldn’t happen again, that I wouldn’t let myself fall for someone like that, much less in the military. B-Because I know where this leads to,” you took a deep breath to calm yourself, but your shoulders were already shaking with the force of your sobs. Your head throbbed. You were hyperventilating. “And-And I… I was doing so well until I met you. And I tried, I fucking tried, not to let it get to me. I-I thought it was just a phase, a stupid crush, but it wasn’t, a-and you kept pushing, and things kept happening, and I just—”

“Hey, hey,” he stepped closer, grabbing your wrists, forcing you to look at him. His voice had softened. Gone was the roughness and bitterness from before. “Breathe, love. Breathe for me.”

You dissolved into messy, shaky sobs. Simon released one of your wrists to cup your face. “I almost lost you.”

“But you didn’t,” he said, soothing but anguished. “Y-You saved me. I’m here.”

That’s what finally broke you. Despite his own anguish and grievances, he still cared.

Simon released your wrist and pulled you closer as you sobbed, burying your head in his firm chest, staining his long-sleeved shirt with your tears. He held you for what felt like an eternity, letting you cry your heart out until you calmed down. Silence settled around you, only interrupted by the rustling of leaves in the breeze or the occasional singing of crickets and bugs.

“I’m… I’m so scared,” you admitted moments later, sniffling, cheek smushed against Simon’s chest, arms wrapped around him. He smelled musky, tangy and sweaty. Your head pounded from how hard you’d been crying. “I don’t know what to do.”

His hand cupped the back of your head, careful not to mess your braid, and he leaned down to kiss your hair. Once, twice, three times. Soft and soothing.

“I wish I knew what to do,” he admitted, lips still lingering on your hair. He breathed deeply. “What to say. I’m as helpless as you.”

You finally looked up at him, noting his strong jaw, his sparse eyebrows, now that you were closer. His eyes were glassy again, but he blinked the unshed tears away and sniffled. 

“You’re not going to lose me, Micky.” His voice cracked.

“You can’t promise me that,” you replied softly, throat tight, words choked. “Not with what we do. Not with our lives on the line.”

“Might as well try,” he said, wiping your tears away with his thumb. “You’re not the only one who’s lost people, love.”

You nodded, placing one hand atop his, leaning into his touch. “I know.”

“And you won’t be the last.”

“I know.”

“I get—” he choked on his words. “I get proper fuckin’ rattled when you get injured. You think I liked watchin’ you bleed out in Georgia?”

You shook your head, the calm finally settling in. Flashes of Simon’s panicked driving flooded your mind, how he yelled at Johnny to help you into the car, how he tied your tourniquet while driving and made sure it stayed put before exfil. You thought of the times he showed he cared, making sure you ate, piggyback carrying you back to the barracks when you were drunk, sparring with you.

“It goes both ways,” you replied, still sniffling.

“Aye, it does,” he nodded, tucking a couple of stray hairs behind your ear. “Better?”

Your throat hurt when you swallowed, and your head still throbbed, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel a weight lifted off your shoulders. “Yeah. You?”

He responded with a hum and a nod.

“You’re not a replacement,” you repeated. You needed to make that distinction, make sure that he understood. He had to know. “You never were. I was just… scared. I still am.”

He nodded. “Bit funny, no? Got a type for bossy pricks?”

You couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at the corners of your lips. “You’re not my superior.”

“Senior Lieutenant says otherwise,” he replied, lips forming a cheeky grin. Even in the darkness, you couldn’t help but think he looked so beautiful like that-

“Playing the old geezer card, are we?” You chuckled gently.

He huffed. “I’m 38, love, not bloody ancient.”

“Love?”

He smiled softly. “Love.”

You smiled back for the first time in days. It felt earned.

“I’m sorry for everything. I’ve been such a bitch to you… I didn’t… I was so wrapped up in my own head…”

“Hmm…” He chuckled, features softening. “Apology accepted. You are a bitch. Sometimes. I’ve been a right bastard too.”

“Yeah, you’ve been a dick,” you laughed, head straining after each words. You fought back the wince, but Simon noticed, running his thumb on the apple of your cheek, making your heart pick up the pace.

“You’re not cursed,” he said, pressing his lips to your temple, then your cheek. “And you’re not going to lose me.”

The tips of your noses touched. God, you wanted to kiss him. Badly. You opened your mouth to speak—

“Wheels up in 20!”

Price’s voice rang from a distance. Your shoulders sagged, and Simon sighed, running a hand across his face. You weren’t sure just how far Price had walked out, or how long you had been out here, but you didn’t want to leave. Not now. Not with so many things still left unsaid.

“Si—”

“Let’s go,” he said. Not upset. Not irritated. Neutral. He grabbed your hand, the coarse callouses rubbing against the scars on your knuckles until your fingers intertwined. “Come on. We have a job to do.”

But before he could drag you back to base, you planted your feet into the ground and pulled him back. He looked down at you with curiosity.

“Hold on,” you said, never once releasing him. You cupped his face, then stood on the tips of your toes, and pulled him into a quick kiss. Short, soft, sweet—a promise.

He blinked a few times after it was over, dazed, stunned into silence.

“We can go now,” you said, slightly hoarse, and cleared your throat. He nodded, almost as if he couldn’t believe you’d done that. He put the mask back on on the way, then tightened his hand around yours, reassuringly. Neither said anything, but walked with a pep in your step, feeling lighter.

There was still a lot left unsaid, so many things to talk about, but right now you couldn’t complain. The worst was already behind. Now it was time to look forward.

crossposted on AO3.

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[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 41 - paper trails

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x OC ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 5.7k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: mild violence; character gets threatened at gunpoint ↣ playlist: back to friends - sombr // would? - alice in chains // going under - evanescence // freak on a leash - korn previous // masterlist // next

↳ thanks to shepherd's intel, you set the course to pluto island to find makarov's oligarch financier.

How can you look at me and pretend I’m someone you never met? — back to friends, sombr

Your left eye twitched. Johnny was busy cleaning his rifle, Simon wasn’t so much as determining your existence, and your left eye fucking twitched.

It had been a while since you’d last been under this type of stress. Not even the mess in Azerbaijan and Georgia could’ve prepared you for the absolute clusterfuck that was coming your way, both mentally and physically. But you were used to stressful situations—hell, it had been part of your training. SEALs were prepared to endure any obstacle, any hardship, all while keeping their heads cool.

None of this was helping you keep your cool.

You scratched your twitchy eye with the back of your fist and yawned, feeling the exhaustion of multiple sleepless nights creeping up on you. You tried your best to ignore it, though. Maybe after this mission, you could finally catch up on sleep, or at least try to sleep more than five continuous hours. Whatever happened first.

After some light stretching, you sat back down on your foldable chair and skimmed through your briefing notes again while munching on some BBQ-flavoured chips Nikolai had lying around. Milena Romanova, Makarov’s financier, apparently owned an island off the Mediterranean coast, and it was your job—and Johnny’s and Simon’s—to infiltrate it and acquire a FOB key that would give you access to Konni’s servers, where Kate would work her magic to try and figure out Makarov’s whereabouts.

Another fucking island, you thought. What is it with these people and private islands?

You weren’t too excited about the idea of going on another mission alone with Simon and Johnny, especially not after the former had been ignoring you for days. The way his hands tightened in anger after Price forced you to tag along told you enough.

The subsequent briefing with Kate had been arguably worse than the chat with Shepherd. No words were ever spoken between you. No banter, no quips, no jabs, no insults. It was dead silence. He didn’t even acknowledge your presence until it was absolutely necessary, refusing to meet your gaze whenever you spoke or looked at him.

What went wrong here? Ever since Fallingwater base, Simon had been giving you the cold shoulder, and you tried your best to figure out why that was. One minute, he’d been dragging your ass to that helo, and the next he pretended like you didn’t exist. For a second, you thought that moment of vulnerability, of raw need for each other, on that beach would make him understand, would bring you closer together, but it seemed to have done the opposite.

But you couldn’t really blame him, could you? You pushed him away, time and time again, hiding beneath your insecurities and your fears, when all he wanted was to be close to you. No wonder he finally snapped and saw you for what you were.

“Can I have some of that?”

You lifted your head up from your notes to meet Kate’s warm gaze to your left. A small, placid smile lightened up your face. “Sure,” you said, handing her the bag of chips.

Kate pulled up the second chair and sat next to you, munching on the chips with gusto, the soft crunch echoing in the makeshift office. “Reviewing notes?”

“You know me.”

“Smart girl,” she said, and the room fell into a small silence, until… “Would you care to explain?”

You cocked your head to the side. “Explain… the op?”

“Explain why you look like you’re getting skinned alive every time Simon ignores you.”

Shit. Not her, too.

Heat crept up your face, cheeks going red. You looked down at the table in embarrassment. “It’s complicated.”

“Uh-uh, none of that,” Kate said, poking your shoulder repeatedly until you finally—reluctantly—met her gaze. “Tell me. You’ve been keeping me in the dark for months. What happened?”

You swallowed thickly. “It’s a long story… I-I don’t think there’s much time before—”

“Then be quick with it.”

You shut your mouth, then took a deep breath. There was no hiding under Kate Laswell’s clinical gaze. Her CIA experience already turned her brain into a weapon, now add Isabelle’s therapeutic influence on top…

“Micky…”

“I may or may not have feelings for Simon,” you painstakingly admitted, shamefully evading her stare.

“Uh-huh…” She crossed her arms.

“We, uhh… God, I don’t know how it happened, really. It’s just… one day we were fighting, the next things were weird between us. And after Azerbaijan things just weren’t the same, y’know? He…” You shut your eyes and tried to calm your erratic breathing. You’d only spoken to Kyle about this, and it had taken a toll on you just openly admitting that you liked Simon. “We did things.”

“What kind of things?”

“We… God, Kate. We sparred in the gym once, and it got out of control. That was before Azerbaijan. He pissed me off and I told him to never spar with me again, but after I healed from my injury we kinda went at it again and…”

“And?”

Now you felt your face heating up once more. “And we almost kissed, but Kyle walked in on us, so I panicked and ran away. And it kept happening. Close encounters, almost kissing, tension. All the time. It was driving me insane. And he kept pushing and pushing, and I just—I didn’t know what to do. I started having panic attacks again, Kate.”

At this, her eyes widened. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your eyes stung, tears building up, but you angrily wiped them away before they could spill. “Because it was fucking stupid, and I knew that I was gonna get in trouble for even thinking of pursuing anything with him. But he kept trying, and I didn’t know what to do and… and I started thinking about George again, and it just wouldn’t leave me the fuck alone. He wouldn’t leave me the fuck alone.”

“George or Simon?”

You swallowed thickly. “Both.”

Kate blinked, processing the information, then her brows furrowed. “So… is that why…?”

You shook your head, sniffling. God, I look like a mess. “No, I… After Kyle and Price left, and we were left back on base, Simon and I, we…” You sighed, then massaged your temple, feeling a headache forming as you tried to figure out how to best tell the story. “We had an argument, and then we kissed, and one thing led to another—”

“You had sex with him?” Kate asked, appalled.

“W-Well, not really—”

Kate lowered her voice. “Michaela Duarte, you had sex with Simon Riley?”

“No!” You half-whispered, half-yelled. “Sort of! I don’t know!”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“He went down on me in the laundry room and then I had a panic attack and I fucking ran away,” you blurted out in a hurry, getting more exasperated by the second. “And then you fucking called us in, and Simon tried to corner me on the hangar and ask about what happened, but I told him I couldn’t do it, and that it was better to leave things as they were, and he obviously didn’t fucking like it, because he dragged me to a different helo during exfil, and the helo fucking crashed, and he almost fucking died on me like George did, and while we were waiting for rescue I told him about George, and now he won’t even fucking look at me.”

By the end of your rant, your hands were trembling slightly. You took deep breaths to calm yourself, and then snatched the bag of chips off Kate’s hands and shoved a handful into your mouth. Kate only looked at you with concern.

“Micky…”

“Please don’t sermon me, Kate,” you pleaded, taking another chip into your mouth. “It’s the last thing I need.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

You sighed. “Good.”

“I was going to insult you instead.”

“What?”

“You are fucking dumb.”

Kate’s bluntness made you sit up straighter, eyes dry and sinuses clear. “Excuse me?”

“Price was right,” she mused to herself. “You two are a pair of idiots.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but then paused. “Wait—the fuck you mean Price was right? What did he tell you?”

“Everything,” she answered simply. “But now I see it for what it is.”

“Wha—” You wiped your eyes to make sure this wasn’t a dream. When you realised Kate was still there, you frowned. “I thought you’d understand.”

Kate gave you a look—one part sympathy, three parts ‘you’re lucky I love you’.

“Oh, I do understand, Micky. Trust me,” she said. “And I feel for you, I really do. I know what you’ve been through. But as your friend, and your boss, and your therapist’s wife, I have enough authority to tell you that you’re being stupid.” She pointed a chip at you like it was Exhibit A. “You and Simon alike. Two idiots. One brain cell. Shared custody.”

You opened your mouth, but all that came out was a scoff.

“You didn’t even like him when this started,” Kate added, leaning in conspiratorially. “And now look at you. Losing sleep, twitching like a cartoon character, crying into Nikolai’s snacks—”

“I am not crying into the snacks—”

“And spiralling like you’re in a TV drama.” She popped another chip into her mouth and raised a brow. “Do you know how—”

Kate froze in her tracks at the sight of someone else approaching. You turned around to find the source of the thudding boots against the polished concrete, and your eyes landed on Kyle. Shoulders hunched, face sheepish, looking like he was about to ask permission to leave class early.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he grimaced. “But Mick, Price wants to talk to you.”

You groaned. “What now?”

“Cap said it was important.”

You glanced at Kate, who sighed and nodded like this wasn’t her first rodeo. “Go. We’ll continue this later.”

You grabbed the last chip and followed Kyle outside toward the eastern wall of the hangar. It was quieter there, far enough from the others. But the second you spotted Price and Johnny both leaning against the wall like two mob bosses about to break someone's kneecaps, your gut dropped.

Your pace slowed. “Nope.”

Kyle grabbed your arm. “Nope what?”

“Nope, I see where this is going.”

“Mick—”

“Nope.”

You turned on your heel, ready to walk away, but Kyle caught you around the waist and spun you back like a bouncer at a club.

“You’re not going anywhere, doll,” he grunted, keeping you in place. “Stay fuckin’ still.”

“Is this—” you looked at the three of them in disbelief “—is this a goddamn intervention?”

“Think of it more like… a team huddle,” Johnny offered, barely holding in a smirk.

“We need to talk, Mick,” Price said firmly, stepping forward.

“Why does everyone want to talk today?” you snapped. “Aren’t we supposed to go after Makarov’s financier in, like, what, thirty minutes? You want to schedule a group therapy session next, or should I just fill out a fuckin’ intake form?”

“This was supposed to happen days ago,” Kyle said. “After the reactor op. But we didn’t have time. You know that.”

“And we still don’t—”

“Exactly,” Price interrupted. “Which is why we’re doing this now. Because after this, we might not get another chance.”

You looked between all three of them—Johnny with his arms crossed and a look of reluctant sympathy, Kyle still gently holding your arm like you were a flight risk, and Price with the look of a stressed-out father, which meant you were well and truly screwed.

You sighed, defeated. Kyle released your arm. “Fine. Talk fast.”

“What did ye say to Simon at the beach?” Johnny began quickly, stepping to the front. “We already got his POV, but we need yours.”

Your eyes widened. “You what?”

“Woah, slow down, man,” Kyle held up a hand. “We agreed not to bombard her.”

“Well, what else are we supposed ta do? Eh?” Johnny paced around the four of you, boots thudding softly against the grass. He pointed at you. “Wait for these two ta kill each other?”

“Excuse me?” 

“Don’t play dumb, bon,” Johnny said, pointing a gloved finger at you. “Whole team’s been walking on eggshells for months. Simon won’t talk to ye, ye look like ye haven’t slept in a week, and the three of us have been stress-smoking like a fuckin’ chimney. Ye think we haven’t noticed?”

You blinked, stunned. “You guys had a whole debrief about me?”

“No,” Kyle muttered. “But maybe we should’ve.”

“That’s not the point,” Johnny went on, quieter now. “The point is… he likes ye, Mick. For God’s sake. Talk to him.”

You flinched at the word. Like. Not lust. Not tolerance. Not respect. Like.

It frightened you more than it should’ve.

“He can fuckin’ say it to my face then,” you snapped.

“He’s tried,” Johnny shot back. “Multiple times. And every time, you shut him down like he’s the bloody villain in all this.”

“It’s not that simple,” you said, crossing your arms. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kyle stepped forward, gentler. “Then tell us. Please.”

You looked between them, and then at Price, who had been unusually quiet, arms crossed over his chest, watching you like a disappointed parent.

“…Wait. You’re in on this, too?” you asked him, incredulous.

Price didn’t blink. “You and Simon were compromised before this mission even started. The whole team's been feeling it.”

“Oh my God,” you groaned. “I can’t believe this is real.”

Price took a step closer, calm but firm. “For the record—I don’t give a fuck if you’re dating. If it happens, it happens. I'm not gonna report it.”

That… stung. Not in a bad way, just something about the way he said it. Like it was a given that he wouldn’t. Like you weren’t some freak or problem for feeling the way you did. Something inside you settled. Just a little.

“But,” he continued, “this thing you two have? Whatever it is? It’s bleeding into missions now. I can't let that happen. We can’t.”

You stared at him. There wasn’t a trace of judgment in his face. Just concern. He really did care.

You bit your bottom lip, then sighed, resigned to tell them the truth.

“…It started before Azerbaijan,” you finally said, your voice small. “We argued. We always argued. You know that. But then it stopped being about the fights.”

You didn’t go into full detail like you had with Kate. This was the abridged version—military clean. A debrief. “We almost kissed. More than once. Tension got worse. After you two got deployed,” you pointed at Kyle and Price, “we had an argument. It got… physical.”

Johnny raised a brow.

“Not like that, we didn’t kick each other.” You clarified quickly.

“So then what was it?” Kyle asked.

You sighed again. This was even harder than talking to Kate. “Like… sexual.”

The others exchanged looks. Nobody said anything, which gave you relief.

“I panicked. Ran. He tried to talk to me after, in the hangar, but I shut him down again. I thought if I walked away, it’d be easier. That maybe he’d forget about me and move on. Then the crash happened. I pulled him out of the water. He was dead when we made it to the beach. I performed CPR and revived him, and… at the beach I told him about—”

“George,” Kyle said.

You opened your mouth to speak, but then it hit you. “I—how do you know about this?”

“Simon told us,” Price explained solemnly. “We’re sorry about your loss.”

“Aye, we are,” Johnny said. “Kyle never said a thing before you bash his head in.”

You looked at Kyle, who nodded, his dark brown eyes sincere. You were inclined to believe him—Kyle was a man of principles, and if he had opened his mouth before, you would’ve known it. It still didn’t take away the fact that your secret wasn’t so secret anymore, and that it could jeopardise your credibility.

“Y-You understand why I kept this hidden,” you said, heartbeat racing. “Why, I just couldn’t tell you about this.”

A faint breeze rustled the leaves on the trees around you, filling in the silence. Price nodded. “Sometimes you have to protect yourself.”

“It’s all good, bon,” Johnny added, stepping closer to you, laying a gloved hand on your shoulder and squeezing gently. “We understand.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a weight lifted off your shoulders. Who knew it would be that easy? How could you possibly have known they would understand you? That they would’ve empathised? 

“What else happened on that beach?” Price prodded softly, also edging closer. Seconds later, the three men surrounded you, but you didn’t feel intimidated, not in the slightest. That wasn’t their intent. They truly cared.

“From the looks of it, Simon’s already told you,” you mumbled.

Johnny shook his head. “We want your perspective.”

“He might’ve left something out,” Kyle added.

You snorted, still on the defensive. “What are you lot, detectives?”

“Mick, we just want to understand,” Price said, almost pleading. “What else happened?”

“You arrived,” you said, resigned. “A-And Simon didn’t really get to say anything, after I told him about George. And in the helo I tried reaching out for him and… he withdrew his hand.”

Silence. No quips. No jabs. Just stunned and quiet.

“…The bastard,” Johnny muttered.

Kyle rubbed the back of his neck. “Shit.”

But Price only looked at you, finally piecing everything together, judging from his stare. As if he’d cracked the case.

“I saw that happen,” he muttered.

“You did?”

He nodded gruffly. “I looked at him afterwards. Didn’t know what was going on, but I suspected it was bad.”

“I don’t know what he’s thinking,” you mused. “He just keeps pretending I don’t exist.”

“Talk to him, then,” Kyle said, arms crossed. “Tell him the truth.”

“Easier said than done,” you scoffed. “He’s got his mind made up now. He won’t listen.”

“Then make him,” Johnny said.

You scoffed, half-laughing. “You think he’ll just stand there and take it?”

Johnny smirked. “I’ll hold him down, don’t worry.”

You almost smiled at that. Almost.

A soft beep went off from Price’s watch.

“Time’s up,” he said, pulling his gloves on. “We move in twenty.”

You nodded, exhaling long and deep.

Price gave you one last look. “Promise me, Mick. Talk to him.”

You met his gaze, heart hammering. “I’ll try.”

The ride to Pluto Island was a fucking mess, and not because something happened—far from it. It was the lack of interaction that was eating Simon alive.

You sat next to Johnny, opposite Simon, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up at you. His mind couldn’t decide which torture method was better—looking at you and spending around three hours in pure agony, or not looking at you and spending around three hours in pure agony.

The floor did look quite enticing.

So for three hours, the three sat in silence. No need to recap what was said during the briefing. Everyone knew their parts to play. Simon caught Johnny’s hand, grabbing your knee and squeezing it at some point, and jealousy gnawed at him to the point where he averted his gaze and stared out the window. He didn’t want to see or think or even fucking feel.

Why did he have to feel so much?

Why couldn’t he squeeze your fucking knee? Why did it have to be Johnny and not him?

Why were you so guarded? Why did you tell him about your dead ex? To what end? To rub it in his face? Was this a misery contest?

Why did everything have to be so fucking complicated?

Why couldn’t you just fucking want him back?

Simon kept bitterly mulling these questions over and over until they made it to the island by boat. Something odd prickled in the back of his spine. Not another fucking island, he thought. Hopefully, he wouldn’t drown this time. And if he did, he prayed it was Johnny who revived him. It would save him from the post-CPR awkwardness.

Once they reached the drop-off point, everyone was off to their assigned duties. Johnny looked for the Konni guard with the FOB key that would give them access to the servers while you and Simon secured the rear perimeter. He wasn’t exactly pleased with Price’s demand that you join them. He’d been looking forward to spending time without you in his mind, even if it meant getting hit by a bullet or two—he just needed some clarity.

Laswell was on comms. Some light jokes were exchanged during the course of the mission, but Simon mostly stayed silent, and whenever he and you crossed words, the interactions were sharp and concise—no banter, no lighthearted jokes, no jabs. Just dry. Precise.

He tried not to give it too much thought. The island was crawling with Konni soldiers, and he couldn’t exactly eliminate them with you in his mind, so he stuck to his path as best as he could and expected you to do the same. If you could put your differences aside and work together for the past year, then what difference would it make now? You were professionals. You knew when to draw the line between personal and professional. Simon had drawn his, he could only hope you’d done so, too.

At least a small part of him was grateful that Price forced you to come—had you not been there, the sheer amount of Konni guards would’ve overwhelmed him. One had to see the silver linings, however small.

So now the three of you stood inside Milena’s control room in the main house, after Johnny realised they would need Milena’s biometrics to access the server, and fighting Konni tooth and nail to get to the damned building. Simon stood to the side, sticking to the windows to gauge movement outside. If something went wrong, he’d be the first to know. He was sure the fuckers were already calling for reinforcements. Their exit would be action-packed. He was sure of it.

You and Johnny took turns interrogating Milena. She was a petite, feisty woman. Slightly taller than you, but not by much. Maybe it was the slight heel in her shoes. Maybe it was just her sticking her neck out to appear more intimidating. He could feel the irritation radiating off her, all broad shoulders and sharp eyes. She wasn’t impressed by you or Johnny—in fact, she seemed bored and appalled that you’d even have the nerve to question her.

Simon figured that, after spending some time with Vladimir Makarov, hardly anything would surprise her.

This was going to be difficult.

Johnny stretched out his hand to use Milena’s fingerprint. He would ask first, of course. Johnny was a gentleman. He liked putting people at ease. Simon would’ve just grabbed it without asking.

“Give me your hand.”

“Why?” Milena snapped. “Or else you'll cut it off?”

“Not my style,” Johnny said, calm, then nodded in Simon’s direction. “He might.”

There it is.

Milena turned to her right, icy gaze threatening to cut holes in Simon’s gear. “Why the mask?”

Simon was not in the mood for games. “To hide my face,” he answered simply.

A small silence settled in the room. Milena seemed to weigh her options. You sat in front of the laptop, leaning back and toying with a knife, as Johnny still held his hand out.

“You better do what he says, Milena,” you suggested, earning a death glare from the other woman, but you kept fiddling with the sharp knife like it was cutlery. 

“I can take it, if you want,” you continued, the pointy end of the blade facing Milena, using her same condescending tone. “Won’t hurt much, if I do it quickly, but you can imagine how inconvenient it must be.”

Simon had seen you interrogating people before, over the course of the year. You were pretty persuasive, and you were almost as good as Kyle when it came to digging for information, but you also had a short temper, one that snapped more often than not. He could sense the irritation coming off you, despite your calm exterior. The anger had barely started simmering; you were starting to lose your cool way too quickly. Simon suspected it had to do with him. The stress of everything going on.

Reluctantly, Milena snapped her hand towards Johnny, who took it with a sigh of relief and scanned it against the laptop’s sensor. Simon, feeling the paranoia creeping in, looked outside the window again, surveying the area.

“We’re in,” Laswell announced through the comms.

Johnny perused the information on Konni’s servers while Milena scoffed. “Nothing in my banking will get you any closer to Vladimir.”

“We'll see about tha’,” Johnny said. The room fell into a small silence while you stood up and paced around the room, analysing the layout. Johnny sat in your empty chair and worked away.

“There's multiple Konni Group accounts hiding in plain sight,” Laswell said. “Several recent transfers to Zordaya Prison…”

“The gulag,” Simon chimed in, gripping his rifle tightly. He had a prickling feeling that reinforcements would arrive soon. They needed to leave the compound immediately before they were surrounded and overwhelmed by the enemy.

“Money for Makarov's escape,” Johnny mused.

You crossed your arms, standing by the wall of CCTV monitors. “Not surprising, is it?”

Milena just shrugged. “Wealth opens doors.”

“Let's withdraw a few rubles from Makarov's coffers, then, shall we?” Johnny threatened, typing something into the laptop and smugly hitting the Enter key.

“Done,” Laswell said. “Let me know if we hit a nerve.”

“85 million of Makarov's transferred to a CIA black fund,” Johnny said.

Milena smirked. “Vladimir's... work... is already bought and paid for. You're not very good at this.”

“Neither are you,” you pointed out, stalking closer towards Milena until you stood behind her. “All your men are dead and your accounts are wide open.”

Milena’s face tensed visibly. “You're stealing from Makarov's future, not mine.”

“Ahh... Soap, do you hear that?” Laswell said.

Johnny’s face brightened at this, and you and he exchanged subtle glances. “I did,” he smirked.

“Let's make this more personal,” she said.

“We need to get off the X,” Simon reminded, urgency evident in his tone. He was getting restless. “Make this happen, or we take her with us.”

Your gaze met his after he spoke. Nothing happened, but you held it for longer than he would’ve liked. Like months ago, when all he did was stare into your eyes until either of you recoiled. Now, just barely crossing sights made his insides twist.

“Suisse National Bank…” He heard Laswell muse.

Johnny turned the laptop around to show Milena’s account. You finally broke the stare, and relief coursed through his veins. He had to force himself to pay attention.

“This is yer personal account, huh?” Johnny asked.

“Money's hardly been touched,” Simon commented.

“It will be…”

Milena’s eyes widened like saucers, and she spat a string of words in Russian that Simon struggled to pick apart, but he didn’t need to know what she was saying to get the frustration and the offence in her tone.

“Looks like we found our pressure point, guys.”

You smirked. “Jackpot.”

Johnny moved to grab Milena’s hand, but the oligarch recoiled violently, standing up in a rage. “Don’t—don’t you fucking dare!”

Almost instantly, you cocked your rifle and pressed the barrel to the back of her head. Milena froze. “Ah, ah! Sit. Back. Down.”

“Something wrong, Ms. Romanova?” Johnny asked calmly, not minding to stand up. Milena’s hands balled into fists and she sat down. Slowly. Reluctantly. Simon could feel the rage radiating off her petite body.

“I don't know Makarov's plans. I am a financier, nothing more!” She finally said.

“Give him your print,” Simon urged.

“Or tell us where to find Makarov,” Johnny finished.

“Fuck you,” she snapped. “And that little birdie in your ear. That account is my money! I fought for it! I earned it!”

“One more push and we got her…”

Johnny inclined his head towards Simon. “Last call or he takes over,” he threatened.

Milena stared at him defiantly. Silence. Tense fucking silence. Simon was growing impatient.

You still held the rifle to her head. “You heard him, Milena.”

At this point, Simon was surprised the woman was still holding on even with a gun to her head. Most would’ve cracked by now. The woman had more balls than most soldiers he knew.

But time was running short.

Johnny sighed and stood up. It was Simon’s turn now.

“He'll know you were here,” Milena began as Simon’s boots thudded on the expensive marble floor, inching closer to her. “I'm as good as dead without my money. I need my money!”

Simon leaned in threateningly, one hand on the table, the other on his rifle. “We need Makarov. Where is he?”

Milena’s right eye twitched. She looked at Johnny, then back at Simon, then towards the floor, breath ragged, battling her loyalty internally.

“Vostok!” She finally exploded. “There's a wire transfer to Vostok Capital in St. Petersburg.”

For a moment, the three of you exchanged glances. You finally put the gun away. Milena let out a deep sigh. Johnny sat back down and looked at the laptop to confirm Milena’s information. Satisfied, he nodded at Simon.

“Vladimir buys old properties, abandoned buildings…”Milena explained. “I don't know how he uses them. That's all I can tell you!”

“I see it. That's all we need,” Laswell declared.

Johnny closed the laptop and offered a handshake to Milena. “Pleasure doin' business with you.”

She didn’t budge.

With a shrug, Johnny got up and took the laptop as you began to exit the control room.

“Thanks for the help, babes,” you sang-songed while following Johnny out.

“Good chat,” Simon deadpanned.

“When you beg him for your lives, he won't let you have them!” Milena yelled from behind them, adding some more curses in Russian for good measure. Simon didn’t look back, not even when he heard one of the chairs getting pushed into the floor. 

The trip back was still quiet, but slightly less tense than before. At least they did this one thing right. It calmed down Simon’s racing thoughts by a small amount, but it was better than nothing. He’d take anything he could get.

Back at the hangar, Kate greeted you and revealed she sent Nikolai, Kyle and Price to Russia with Milena’s intel. The information gave him even more relief. Perhaps tonight he would rest properly.

“...and please, wash up and get some sleep,” she finished, taking a good look at you three. Simon didn’t even want to know the state he was in. You and Johnny already looked fucked up. What would he see once he took the mask off?

After the debrief, everyone scattered. Johnny raided Nikolai’s cabinets for food while you and Kate sat down for a chat. Simon tried not to pry, but when he passed you by, he caught Kate mentioning that Kyle left you some melatonin pills in his backpack. He just kept walking, eager to wash all the dirt of the past few days off. He really needed a long shower.

An hour later, after showering and stuffing himself with MREs alongside Johnny, Simon walked towards the small bathroom to brush his teeth. The sky outside was already dark, and he was, for the first time in a while, looking forward to getting some rest. He and Johnny set up sleeping bags in the office used for briefings—yours and Kate’s were huddled together on the other side, closer to the monitors. 

Simon briefly wished yours were closer to his instead.

No. She doesn’t like you. Remember.

He agonised silently over trying to forget about you. How could he, when you’re always feet away from him? So close, yet so far? He couldn’t just pretend like you didn’t exist.

Absorbed in his thoughts, he opened the bathroom door without paying attention to his surroundings and bumped into you.

Fucking hell.

Your hair was wet. Loose. Almost dripping down your standard issue olive shirt. Face clean, sans some cuts and scratches from the past few days. There was a slight blush on the apples of your cheeks.

A scent enveloped his senses. Clean, floral and sweet. Cherry blossom.

It twisted Simon’s guts.

He wanted to kiss you.

He wanted to grab you by the waist and kiss you and tell you how he felt. Tell you that it’s just you. That he wasn’t the same and he would never be. That he didn’t think he would want anything else. That he wanted you so badly, it consumed every thought, every reaction in his body. That it fucking terrified him how badly he yearned to keep you close, always. That it wasn’t just sex, and that if he could take back what happened in the laundry room, if it meant still having you by his side, he’d do it in a bloody heartbeat. That he’d never felt anything so strongly before, and he was so fucking scared.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

You didn’t feel the same, and that was that.

You looked up at him, stunned, but also relieved, almost as if you planned on seeing him. Simon knew a conversation was due, but he couldn’t right now. It was too much. The missions, the stress, the lack of sleep, you. He was overwhelmed.

But you looked so beautiful like this—hair wet, face bare, smelling of cherry blossoms. Supple. Inviting. Warm.

You opened your mouth to speak. “Simon, I—”

“Will you let me through?”

The moment it left his lips, he regretted it. He didn’t mean for it to come out like that. Sharp. Rude. Cold. But he couldn’t handle it. He was about to implode and you were standing right in front of him, looking like a lost puppy.

He didn’t know how to make it better. How to apologise. He’d tried so hard to apologise before. Now he felt like everything he said just fucked things up even more. Was it even worth it to apologise if you were just going to end up hating him?

Simon expected you to bite back for his rudeness, to push him back, to slap him, to do something. 

Instead, you shut up. Closed your mouth. Slumped your shoulders. Eyes losing shine. You walked away, leaving Simon alone by the doorframe, prisoner to his own thoughts and his volatile tongue. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t chase after you. Didn’t fix it. Not again. He just stood there, watching you disappear like you always did. His heart was racing.

This was the end.

crossposted on AO3.

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[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 36 - simon

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader (OC) ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 2.2k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: ANGST. SO MUCH ANGST HERE. minor character deaths, near-death experiences, near-drowning, CPR, (mild) blood and depictions of injuries ↣ playlist: motion picture soundtrack - radiohead // through the eyes of a child - aurora // the kill (bury me) - thirty seconds to mars // bring me to life - evanescence previous // masterlist // next

↳ falling, falling, falling, falling.

It’s not like the movies — Motion Picture Soundtrack, Radiohead

You were falling.

Falling. Falling. Falling. Falling.

Down. Down. Down. Down.

You couldn’t see a thing. You couldn’t breathe. You heard screaming, maybe from you, maybe someone else’s, as the bird plummeted into the raging waves of the Black Sea.

This was the end.

There was no escaping this.

You stayed strapped to your seat, shaken violently when the chopper hit the water hard, the straps digging into your uniform.

Everything went white. Then blue. Then black.

You couldn’t move.

Darkness.

Then cold water, hitting your skin, droplets spraying on your mouth.

Saltwater.

It jolted you awake, the water almost up to your chest. Smoke, ash, and salt overcharged your nostrils, leaving almost no room for oxygen. Still, you tried your best to breathe. Your brain kicked into assessment mode out of inertia. Scanned your immediate surroundings. 

Part of the chopper’s fuselage was broken, almost ripped apart. Weak light came through—the sky was a deep gray, and the wind kept hitting whatever bits of the chopper jutted out of the increasingly violent waters. It was only a matter of time before the storm hit and took you with it.

The cockpit.

You looked to your right. Only the broken half of a helmet floated, the rest was already underwater. You didn’t want to know what became of the pilot.

Now your gaze turned left. There was nothing. The missile had blown it away. The pieces that remained afloat creating a derelict graveyard of metal.

You swallowed thickly, but found your throat dry. The straps of your seat held you down as your body quickly sunk with the rest of the fuselage, the water soon reaching your chin. If you didn’t break free in time, you’d be brought down with the debris. Every nerve ending screamed in agony, your ears still ringing from the explosion, blood dripping down your forehead from the nasty cut you sported.

Soon you realised you were alone. The pilot was gone. The other soldiers were gone, too. Deep underwater.

Simon was gone, too.

Fuck.

Panic set in. Your hands sprung to action—shaky and nimble, fumbling with the harness a few times until you hit the buckle. When you did, you plunged into the icy depths, weighted down by your tac vest. The chopper was sinking. Simon wasn’t here. Where the fuck was he?

“Simon!” You yelled, fear creeping in.

No response.

Only thunder.

“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself, swimming out of the wreckage. Maybe he managed to swim out, too. Maybe he ditched everyone and was already halfway to the shore.

You looked around as the sky grew darker and darker, snuffing out the setting sun, just as the water ran colder. You hoped that somebody would resurface. The pilot. The soldiers. Simon. Anyone. You waited one, two seconds. Nothing. Nobody came up for air.

A chill went down your spine, and you kept kicking just to keep yourself warm. Thankfully, you were close enough to the shore to swim over without issue, but that didn’t mean you’d survive if you made it back to the island.

You squinted toward the rocky shore. No signs of life. Only smoke trails and dead bodies near the docks.

No trace of Simon.

“SIMON!” You yelled louder, hoping that, by some miracle, he’d appear right next to you, and you could go back to ignoring each other.

But there was no response.

Your heart quickened. This couldn’t be. You couldn’t be the only survivor. You couldn’t.

“SIMON!” You yelled for the third time, but when no answer came, you cursed to yourself. “No, no, no, no.”

You dove underwater, ignoring the sting on your forehead. You shuddered, struggling to keep your eyes open. It was easier in pools, with regulated temperatures and crystal clear waters. Not here. Not in the wild. Not without light.

It was like a graveyard.

From what little you could see, debris and bodies alike floated around the dark expanse, slowly sinking. You didn’t know how deep the water went, but it had to be at least enough to swallow an entire military helicopter and then some. Enough to drown.

You kept looking for signs of him, holding in the air until it burned your lungs—you didn’t care. You needed to find him, even if it killed you. 

Where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you—

He had to be here. Alive. Floating. Something. He had to be. You had to find him.

You swam up to the surface for air and then dove back down, not stopping for a second. Salt stung your eyes. Muscles burning from exertion. The current pulled at your clothes, your hair, but you pushed with all your might, diving deeper and deeper. Shapes floated in the gloom. Arms. Legs. A glint of something metallic. Bodies. Your soldiers. You had no time to think about them. They were gone. Simon hot to be somewhere.

You didn’t have time to think that he might’ve been dead. For that, you had to find him first.

You spun in place, heartbeat hammering in your ears. Down here, the world was silent. Muffled. Dark. Whatever light crept in through the clouds dissipated at the surface. Time was running out. Your chest ached.

But then—

A flash of white. Hard bone. A skull.

Simon.

He was sinking like a stone, arms limp at his sides, face hidden behind the mask. No movement. No bubbles. No sign of breath.

No no no please please please—

You kicked harder, slicing through the water until you got a hold of him, wrenching him by the tac vest. He was so fucking heavy. A monolith. A mammoth. But you pulled anyway. Your lungs screamed for air. Your arms burned. You didn’t care.

He’s gone. He’s dead. You killed him.

When you broke the surface, it was already raining. You gasped for air, coughed a little, chest still aching, then prodded Simon’s neck, checking for a pulse. You couldn't feel anything through the goddamned mask, so you slipped them in, careful not to let him go, and prodded the skin, looking for a pulsepoint.

Nothing.

You whimpered, shaky and panicking. Not now, not now, please, please, no.

“Simon,” you shook him in horror. “S-Simon, please.”

You killed him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whispered, glancing around and finding the final piece of the chopper sinking completely. A crack of lightning gave way to thunder, and then the rain got heavier.

Get to the shore NOW.

Your instincts kicked in. You pulled Simon along—the shore wasn’t that far away, and if you swam fast enough, you’d be able to administer CPR in no time. You couldn’t let him slip away. Not after the things you said. Not after telling him you couldn’t want him.

This is what you get. Don’t you see? This is your fate.

No. No. It couldn’t be.

So you swam with all your might, kicking and pulling and swallowing saltwater, making sure Simon’s head remained over the surface.

Please be awake. Please don’t die. Please, please, please.

You prayed to every deity you knew of. Pleaded to keep that man next to you for just a bit longer. This couldn’t be how it ended. You wouldn’t survive this if he didn’t.

The waves got bigger. More violent. They urged you to swim harder. Faster. You allowed them to push you out, to give you the boost needed.

“Come on, come on,” you grunted, spitting out saltwater, left arm strained from pulling Simon’s vest. The shore was just several metres away, rocky and uneven, but firm nonetheless. Firm and dry.

Your heart hammered in your ears. Bullets whizzed around as you bled out from your thigh, face pale. Weakly, you heard him scream for you. Call your name. Panicked. His voice got drowned by the boom of grenades.

No. No. No. Not now. 

You kept pushing yourself harder, tears blurring your vision. Please stay alive for me.

“Stay with me, please,” you murmured, on the verge of tears, your voice cracking. The shore was so close now. Your feet planted on the seabed. You stood weakly, but kept dragging Simon, not once letting him go, adrenaline coursing through your body.

“Stay with me, Micky,” George said soothingly after reaching you, kneeling on the ground, assessing the wound. He’d stayed behind. For you, he did. He always did. He always stayed behind for his men. That’s just how he was. Selfless. Sacrificial. “We’ll get you out of here.”

More bullets whirled past. In the distance, the others had resumed fighting the captors. You’d almost managed to make a clean escape with the hostages. Almost. It was your fault for getting caught in the crossfire.

“G-George,” you said weakly, clothes wet from the pool of your own blood. The sun beamed down on your overheated body, almost cooking you. “You should’ve left.”

“I’m never leaving you, alright, love?” He said firmly, warmth radiating from his emerald green eyes. His decision was final, and there was no other way of countering it. You knew it from his tone. He was headstrong like that. “I’d rescue you from the pits of hell if I had to.”

If Simon seemed heavy in the water, in dry land he was ten times heavier. You struggled dragging him to shore far enough that water wouldn’t reach his head, but you managed. By the grace of whatever higher being was out there, you managed.

Your hands trembled.

He still wasn’t responding.

Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer.

You killed him.

You quickly kneeled, tiny rocks digging into your uniform, and checked his pulse once again. No breath. No sound. No twitch of the fingers. He just lay there, heavy and limp, his mask still clinging to his face like a cruel joke.

Nononononononononononononononononononononononono—

This couldn’t be happening.

Killer.

He couldn’t be dead.

You fucking killed him.

He couldn’t be fucking dead.

“S-Simon,” your voice broke once more, ragged breathing preventing you from saying anything else. Scalding hot tears ran down your cheeks.

George lied next to you, eyes never leaving yours as he bled out of the many bullet-riddled holes in his body. He never stopped looking at you. Not for one minute. 

“Love,” he whispered faintly, calling to you, but you were too weak to even utter a response, crying in horror as the light was snuffed out of him. It was the last thing he said.

Killer. Killer. Killer.

You acted on impulse. Instinct. Inertia.

Between sobs, your shaking hands took off his tac vest, then tore off his mask, tossing it somewhere in the sand. His face was pale. Too pale. You pressed your ear to his mouth. Nothing. 

Your stomach dropped. The world shifted around you.

“No,” you gasped again, a lump forming on your throat. You were hyperventilating—on the verge of a panic attack. “Don’t you fucking do this to me.”

Tears burned your eyes as you pressed your mouth to his, pushing air to his lungs with desperation. You drew back, scrambling to find the correct rhythm for chets compressions. One, two, three—press, press, press.

“Please,” you sobbed, voice ragged. “Please don’t go.”

Your hands slipped. Your rhythm faltered. You choked on a breath and had to start again.

This is futile, your conscience said. He’s gone. You killed him.

George’s lifeless eyes stared at you.

“Please,” you cried, pressing again. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven— “Please don’t leave me. Please. Please wake up, Simon.”

Your chest heaved. Your hands felt numb. The rain mixed with your tears as you bent down again, another breath forced into his lungs.

Guilt racked through you. All the things left unsaid. All the wrong things you did say. You rejected him. Tore down what never was. You strung him along and left him there in that ramp. You denied yourself until the very last minute.

Weak. Killer. You don’t deserve love. You’re cursed.

“Don’t leave me,” you begged through a sob, compressions frantic now. “Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me—”

“Wake up.”

Your voice broke into a scream.

“WAKE UP!”

More compressions. Your palms ached. Your arms burned. Your heart was shattering beneath your ribs.

“WAKE THE FUCK UP!”

Simon jolted awake.

He caughed, sharp and wet, as he convulsed beneath your palms. You gasped, scrambling to help him onto his side as he vomited seawater, sputtering and choking. His entire body shook from the force of it. And yet, you held him with whatever strength you still had, relief coursing through you as tears streamed down your face.

He was breathing.

He was alive.

A choked sob left your mouth, and you finally broke down, hand bracing the back of his neck. When he was done, he turned to you, eyes fluttering open, bleary and unfocused, until they finally found yours.

For the first time in your life, you saw past the mask, past the soldier. You saw Simon, the man.

It wrecked you. Salt-streaked, rain-drenched, crying like a child.

He didn’t say anything. He only stared. Eyes softening. Glassy.

Without thinking, you lunged for each other. Your arms wrapped around him. His arms came up slowly, weakly, but holding you just as tightly. He hid his face on the crook of your neck while you cried, breathing you in, finally feeling his skin on yours.

As the rain poured on you, Simon also broke into sobs.

crossposted on AO3.

taglist: @joufrance @callsign-denmark @lostintro @readingthingy @maskfan25 @theonottsblog @ficcharsimp @defronix @sarcasticwalrus0 @nina-from-317 @w0ede @jamesrifftapes @simons-missus @ofthesouthernislesjohn @dumbledoom @kittykatgorl @lolo1821 @aikojwhpa @konigsm @alastors-staff @kammachem @invisibiliadei

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[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 33 - you shouldn't want me either

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x OC ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 2.9k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: none ↣ playlist: ful stop - radiohead // i’m not calling you a liar - florence + the machine // the chain - fleetwood mac // the death of peace of mind - bad omens previous // masterlist // next

↳ hours after the encounter in the laundry room, simon gets a call.

You really messed up everything — Ful Stop, Radiohead

Simon stood still, perplexed, in the middle of the laundry room, facing the door. His right hand clutched the edge of the washer, the other held tightly a dirty shirt he was about to throw in there. 

The door hadn’t finished closing when he heard your bedroom door slam shut in the distance, stealing his breath on the way.

Simon felt lightheaded.

What the hell did just happen?

One moment, it was all pure bliss. His head was between your thighs and he’d finally fucking tasted you. Felt you come all over his tongue. He would’ve continued right then and there, fucked you against the drier, but he figured you’d need a moment to yourself, so he kissed your forehead and let you catch your breath while he loaded the washer.

Then, the next moment you were clearly on the verge of a breakdown and escaping as if he’d personally wronged you.

Gone.

Escaped his grasp once again.

No explanation given.

He thought he’d done it right this time. He was tired of playing games at this point. Tired of you scurrying away and avoiding him like the plague. So his best option was to force a confrontation. Honestly, he hadn’t been planning to even kiss you at that point, but it had been almost inevitable, given how much you’d danced around each other for nearly two months. 

His legs twitched, hand itching to open the door and run after you, to ask what went wrong, to get answers, to see if you were okay, because you clearly weren’t. But he couldn’t move. He was stuck. No matter how much he wanted to run to you, something held him back. A nagging sensation in the back of his head.

Did he do something wrong?

Was he at fault?

His heartbeat accelerated at the possibility. He took a deep breath. No. He couldn’t allow himself. Not now. He tried to stabilise himself, to replay the past hour’s events over and over and try to see if he missed something.

For fuck’s sake, he thought, leaning against the washer and running a hand across his bare chin. Did she even want this at all? Did I scare her?

Was it too soon?

Your face popped up in his mind, the desire evident in your half-lidded stare. You told him not to stop. He asked. Was that not enough?

She wanted this.

Did she?

Simon swallowed thickly. He could still taste you in his mouth, tangy and enticing.

She wanted me. She wants me.

You admitted it in anything but name. The way you kissed him, held onto him, it was evident. You wanted him as much as he wanted you. You spoke his name as you came undone on his tongue. Was that not proof enough of your desire? If so, then why the hell did you run away again?

What on earth did he do now to make you so upset?

You obviously did something, spoke his conscience. Maybe she just realised how much of a bastard you are and felt guilty about it.

But what exactly had gone through your head? What made you want to escape the laundry room so suddenly? Simon wished he could pick your brain apart, study it neuron by neuron, just to figure you out.

How come you wanted him one moment and the other you avoided him like the plague?

Simon couldn’t sleep after that.

After finishing his laundry, he stood in front of your door for ten minutes, quietly debating whether to knock on your door or not. He needed answers. He needed to see you, to hold you, to explain himself yet again, even though he wasn’t sure of what he did wrong this time. He just needed to see you, to make everything alright again.

He had been so close to making things right.

In the end, he decided against it. Partly because Johnny had caught him wallowing in front of your door like a stray mutt. He promptly locked himself in his room to avoid unwanted questions. Didn’t even eat dinner, which was a new low for him. He couldn’t stomach the idea of food. Not right now. Not with you being so distant again.

He twisted and turned in his bed for hours. His insomnia had only gotten worse since he realised he harboured feelings for you. The thought even made his insides churn.

Since when did Simon Riley had feelings?

He couldn’t properly put it into words. It’s not like he hadn’t been in love before—if he could call it that. Simon had a girlfriend before enlisting, but during service it’s only been casual flings here and there. Nothing like this. Never like this.

Nobody had ever ignited such desire, such longing within him.

And if it were just a physical thing, then fuck it. He would’ve managed. He would’ve controlled himself. But this was beyond his own capacity for self control. His resolve shattered whenever you were near. He couldn’t help that ugly, selfish impulse to have you all to himself.

He couldn’t help his heart beating wildly whenever you passed him by. He couldn’t help but worry about you constantly. He couldn’t help the way you disarmed him without even trying. He couldn’t help but be drawn towards your ferocity and tenacity. 

Simon had stupidly, selfishly, irrevocably fallen for you, and it was eating him alive.

Right now, it wasn’t letting him sleep.

He kept replaying that moment over and over while staring at the ceiling. You falling apart in his mouth, his name rolling off your tongue like a prayer. You tasted like spiced honey. Sweet and tangy and heady in all the right ways. He’d taken all of you in and didn’t even get to savour it properly.

He thought he’d done well, dressing you up again, cleaning you up, kissing your forehead after he was done. He thought giving you space to process what had just happened was a good thing; that going back to his own laundry would allow you to come down from your high and then you’d have a laugh and all would be well, but all it appeared to do was make you panic and run away.

A fucking fool is what you are, his conscience chided.

You’re an idiot for thinking this is more than lust for her. She doesn’t want you. Not in the way you want her. Think about it. Why else would she avoid you? Why else would she bolt out of a room when you enter? You disgust her. You—

His phone rang.

Simon snapped his head towards the bedside table. His brain was sluggish and his eyes hurt from the brightness of the screen. It was nearly 2 AM. Who the hell would call at this time of night? Unless it was something importa—

Kate Laswell.

That woke him up fast. His back straightened when he sat up and answered the call. Laswell never called at this hour unless something had gone to absolute shit.

“Ghost here,” he rasped. God his throat was too dry. He needed some water.

“Ghost, so sorry to call you at this time, but we have a situation on our hands,” Laswell breathed into the phone. She sounded hurried. Worried, even. That tone didn’t sit right with him. Made his stomach churn with dread.

“We need you on standby,” she continued. “Immediate deployment. It’s Makarov.”

Simon went deathly still. For a moment, he swore he misheard her. The name slammed into his chest like a brick, his mind scrambling to piece together the information—Makarov?

That wasn’t possible.

That wasn’t fucking possible.

That sodding bastard was in prison. They’d put him there years ago. Johnny personally saw to it.

“You sure?” Was all he could say, for the dread that coursed through his veins wouldn’t allow him to speak further.

Laswell’s tone was grim. “Price and Gaz confirmed it. We need reinforcements. You’re wheels up in two hours.”

Simon squeezed his eyes shut. Fucking hell. “Is he out?”

“That’s need to know. You’ll be debriefed when you get to base. For now, wake the others. See you in a couple of hours.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling a headache forming at the forefront of his head. That bastard was supposed to be in prison. Locked away. Handled. And yet, here they were.

“Copy that,” he said, and the line went silent. Simon dropped his phone on the bed and sighed. A slow, creeping panic settled in his chest, coiling tight around his ribs.

He moved on instinct.

Years of training prepared him for moments like these. He changed quickly into his fatigues, put on his mask, laced up his boots, and grabbed his gear before his mind could catch up with his body. His movements were mechanical. Pure inertia.

Johnny’s room was across the hallway. Simon didn’t knock—just slammed the door open and strode inside.

Johnny jolted awake the moment Simon barged in, inhaling sharply, clutching his chest in order to calm his racing heartbeat. “LT, what the—”

“Get up,” he said flatly, but his mind was racing all the while. “We’re getting deployed. Wheels up in two hours.”

Johnny blinked slowly, almost groggily, like he couldn’t comprehend what was going on.

There’s no time for this, he thought.

“It’s Makarov,” Simon clarified.

That seemed to wake him up instantly. Johnny froze, all dizziness leaving his eyes and replaced by something cold, hard and lethal.

“Makarov?” His voice was hoarse, like he couldn’t believe it.

Simon only nodded. The two stared at each other for a second, and then Johnny stood up. The grogginess was gone. He threw off his blanket, all muscle memory and military training kicking in. He reached for his boots, his fatigues, his weapons—because they’d done this before. They both knew what this meant.

His jaw clenched so hard Simon could hear his teeth grind.

“Tell me yer jokin’,” Johnny said while grabbing his rucksack. He already had most things packed, as they all did, but he was stuffing other personal belongings in there as well. Mostly underwear. “Tell me yer just fuckin’ with me.”

Simon didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. He just stared.

“Fuck,” Johnny cursed to himself, zipping the rucksack closed with a bit more force than necessary. “Ain’t he supposed to be in prison?”

“Yeah, well…” Simon adjusted the strap of his tac vest. “Here we fuckin’ are.”

Soap scrubbed a hand over his buzzed hair, exhaling through his nose. “Fucking hell, man.”

Simon watched him. Johnny wasn’t panicked—no, this was something different. This was anger. A slow-burning, vengeful kind of anger. He knew that gaze too well.

“We’ll handle it,” Simon muttered.

Soap snorted, but there was no humor in it. “Damn right, we will.” He grabbed his sidearm, checked the mag, then holstered it with a snap. “Who else knows?”

“Just got off with Laswell. Price and Gaz are waiting for us. We’ll get debriefed there.”

Johnny nodded, rolling his shoulders. “Ye tell Mick yet?”

Simon went rigid.

Fuck.

In his haste, he had completely forgotten about you. He’d barely had time to process what had gone on in the laundry room hours ago, and now, of all times, you were all getting thrust into an op without knowing if you’d come back from this. He could still taste you in his mouth. How the fuck was he supposed to wake you up after the shitshow that he put you through? After you’d escaped without any explanation?

“Ye haven’t,” Johnny guessed.

His throat tightened. He scratched the back of his neck, exhaling sharply. “Not yet.”

Johnny didn’t seem to notice his hesitation. He was already securing his belt, moving with quick, angry precision. “I’ll do it.”

Simon blinked. “What?”

Johnny pulled on his jacket. “I’ll wake her.” He shrugged. “Ye need to pack. I’ll handle it.”

Simon should’ve refused. Should’ve told Johnny no, I’ll do it, I have to. Should’ve explained what had just transpired between you. But he didn’t. Instead, relief washed over him so fast it made his stomach turn. He was a coward. A big fucking coward.

“Yeah,” Simon muttered, shoving down the guilt. “Alright.”

Soap clapped him on the shoulder before disappearing down the hall. Simon let out a slow breath, flexing his fingers. Then, without another word, he turned and went to pack. Because if he let himself think about you right now, he wouldn’t be able to fucking leave.

Hours later, at 3:55 AM, Simon stood at the hangar overseeing soldiers boarding the plane. It wasn’t the first time he got deployed at the wee hours of the morning. It wouldn’t be the last, he guessed.

It was, however, the first time he went on an op with a heavy heart.

The air was thick with a pre-dawn chill, the sky black and clear of clouds. A shiver ran down his spine. The tarmac was alive with movement—soldiers hauling gear, engines roaring, voices blending into a low, constant hum. He looked around the hangar until his eyes landed on you, walking briskly towards the plane, bag slung over your shoulder, face blank.

But not too blank, for your eyes were red and swollen. Even from a distance Simon could notice it. He wondered if the other soldiers saw it, too.

Johnny exhaled through his nose, standing next to him. “She was already awake when I knocked.”

Simon’s gut twisted. This was all his fault. All his doing. Did he really think that you’d just sleep it off? That you’d be fine in the morning? You were everything but fine, already in high alert, only to be thrust into combat mode once again.

One step forward, three steps back.

You walked right past them without a word. Simon clenched his jaw, watching you. He wanted to stop you. Wanted to grab your arm and force you to look at him, to tell him what the hell was going on inside your head. But you were gone before he could move, settling close to the ramp.

Coward. Coward. Coward.

Johnny clapped him on the shoulder before striding toward the plane, leaving Simon alone for a moment. The base felt too loud all of a sudden, but also too far away, like he wasn’t quite part of it, like he was just watching things happen to him.

He inhaled deeply, shaking himself out of it. Then he walked forward, toward the only thing his brain had been fixating on all goddamn night.

Your eyes were distant as you watched soldiers pile into the plane. Your whole body was tense, hands curled into fists at your sides. Simon stopped beside you, close but not touching. You didn’t run away.

Good, he thought.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was low, even. Controlled. Even though inside, he felt anything but.

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “No.”

“Me neither.”

You gave the slightest huff, barely there. “Have you tried melatonin?”

“Again with that?”

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

Simon exhaled sharply through his nose. “I want to know what happened back there.” His voice dipped, rough around the edges. “Why you left me like that.”

You tensed even more than what Simon thought possible, looking away. “It’s complicated.”

“You told me not to stop, Mick.” Simon stared at you. Unblinking. Unrelenting. “You either want me, or you don’t.”

Your breathing hitched, but you recovered quickly, lowering your voice. “It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

“It is to me.”

Your gaze flickered around the hangar. Soldiers moving, voices blending, engines whirring. Time was running out.

You sighed. “Let’s go.”

Simon reached out before he could stop himself, his fingers closing gently around your wrist. Not a demand. Not a forceful grip. A plea.

“Tell me you don’t want me.”

Your lips parted, chest rising and falling sharply. One wrong move, one wrong phrase, and he could lose you again. He didn’t want that.

“I—”

“Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll walk away.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cracked anyway. He hadn’t meant for it to. But he was unraveling, thread by thread, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. “Kick me. Push me. Punch me. Do whatever. I can take it. But don’t fucking string me along, Mick.”

Your breathing shuddered. You stood there, time suspended between you, tension drawn so tight it could snap at any moment. Simon felt his own pulse hammering, a deep, aching thud in his chest.

Then—

“I can’t.”

His heart stopped.

“You can’t what?”

You swallowed hard. Hesitated. Looked away. And then, so quiet he couldn’t almost hear it:

“I can’t want you.”

Simon blinked. It hit like a punch to the ribs, one he hadn’t braced for. A sharp, breath-stealing thing that left him winded, disoriented.

“What do you—” His grip on your wrist tightened ever so slightly, desperate for something.

But you wrenched yourself free, features twisting with something raw, something that looked too much like regret.

“I can’t want you, Riley. Understand?” Your tone was sharp, harsh even, but your eyes—your eyes were glassy, agonized. A single tear escaped before you angrily wiped it away. “I shouldn’t want you. You shouldn’t want me either.”

Then you turned around and walked up the ramp.

And Simon—Simon just stood there, watching you slip further and further away.

And it fucking hurt.

crossposted on AO3.

taglist: @joufrance @callsign-denmark @lostintro @readingthingy @maskfan25 @theonottsblog @ficcharsimp @defronix @sarcasticwalrus0 @nina-from-317 @w0ede @jamesrifftapes @simons-missus @ofthesouthernislesjohn @dumbledoom @kittykatgorl @lolo1821 @aikojwhpa @konigsm @alastors-staff @kammachem

lmk if you want to be added to the taglist!

[crystaldesiree]

Soap loves bitches.

Sweet little birds with pretty faces are fun to fuck with but he needs someone with grit. Something with a bite.

He needs you rolling your eyes and saying “ew” as if you’d stepped on a bug at his offer to buy you a drink.

He needs you to tell him how pathetic and disgusting he looks begging to take you home, making him go slack jawed and stupid.

He needs to eat your sweet cunt for hours, cock damn near ripping through his zipper only to be sent off home with a tap on his ass when you’ve had your fill.

Every insult, every nail biting into his arm, every scoff and huff absolutely sends him reeling and all but crawling on his knees to you.

Soap loves bitches.

[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 32 - the laundry room

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader (OC) ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 5.8k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: NSFW (YES LORD): (oral (f receiving), male masturbation, heavy petting); panic and anxiety attacks ↣ playlist: vore - sleep token // closer - nine inch nails // ball and biscuit - the white stripes // the first taste - fiona apple previous // masterlist // next

↳ duty calls price and kyle on a mission. with them gone, it's only a matter of time before the tension between you and simon explodes.

I wanna have you to myself for once — Vore, Sleep Token

“I can’t fucking believe this,” you muttered to yourself as Kyle folded another shirt and stuffed it in his duffel bag. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“Wish I could tell you anything other than to stay strong, but it is what it is,” Kyle sighed.

It was an early Monday morning. The sun had barely risen, and yet you woke up earlier than usual to watch Kyle pack his bag and chat with him before he and Price left.

“Wish Kate would’ve asked me to come.” You were leaning against the wall in Kyle’s bedroom, arms crossed defensively. As a Sergeant, it was slightly smaller than yours, and shared a connecting bathroom with Johnny’s. “I’d much rather be knee-deep in shit than having to deal with S— Riley.”

Kyle paused and gave you a look. “I warned him you weren’t ready to talk.”

“Yeah and then he accused you of trying to get in my pants,” you rolled your eyes at the memory, the tense silence in the living room once they all realised you were standing there, watching it all.

Kyle snorted. “Baseless claims, really.”

“This would be the point where I ask whether that’s true or not, but…”

He smirked. “But I am a raging homosexual.”

“You said it, not me,” you chuckled. “I’m actually surprised he didn’t know.”

“I’m not. For one, I don’t go around telling people that I am gay. It’s none of their business. And two, Simon is so emotionally stunted he doesn’t know what to do. He finds it hard to get close to you because you don’t let him in, and in contrast, he sees that you and I are close, and that makes him jealous.”

Your brows furrowed. When he put it like that… 

“He said all those things?”

He shook his head. “He didn’t tell me shit, but Price and Soap were trying to get him to talk before we arrived. He’s not very expressive, but he is as frustrated as you are. The rest is just me theorising. But look, I’m not saying you have to let him in just because he wants you to. You are not obligated to do anything, and he is not entitled to anything from you. But his frustration is valid nonetheless, and I think both of you need to have a serious conversation.”

You bit your cheek. “And you majored in software engineering? You sure you don’t have a hidden psych degree?”

Kyle sighed. “Don’t dodge the topic, doll. I know you.”

You gave him a cheeky smile, averting your gaze to the floor in shame, while Kyle zipped his duffel bag and sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes scanned your face carefully, the easy humour from moments before giving way to something more measured.

“You’ll be okay,” he said, voice softer. He patted the space next to him. “I have faith in that.”

You accepted the invitation with a half-hearted chuckle, resting your head on his shoulder once you sat beside him. “Easier said than done.”

“Oi,” he smirked. “Ain’t everything?”

“Who’s gonna listen to my yapping now?”

He shrugged. “Soap’s still here.”

“Soap will rat me out to Riley and you know it.”

Kyle chuckled. “Aye, that’s true. He’s too much of a nosy bastard to keep a secret.”

The room settled into an awkward silence. Perhaps a bit too long. You swallowed thickly, trying to fill the gap with something else. “Did Price tell you any details?”

Kyle didn’t bother to hide his annoyed sigh at you changing the subject once again, but he played along anyway. “Kate’ll brief us once we make it to Armenia.”

“Armenia?” You straightened up, suspicious. “That’s close to Georgia.”

“Again, I don’t know the details. We’re getting briefed on the base there.”

“You don’t think Valeria finally talked, do you?”

Kyle looked at a loss for words. “Doll, I know as much as you do.”

You nodded, then ran your hands through your hair and sighed. Ever since Price announced their deployment last night, you’d been dealing with an awful sensation in the pit of your stomach. It was your anxiety manifesting again, that much was clear. You just didn’t expect to be struck again so soon after unloading the majority of your emotional weight on Kyle over the weekend.

You didn’t deserve a friend like him.

“If the CIA broke Valeria, we’d be the first to know,” Kyle reasoned.

“Nah, that would be Alejandro, who then would beg Kate dibs on breaking the news first. I guarantee it,” you joked, even though the uneasiness didn’t recede.

Kyle scanned you for a moment. “Hey,” he began. “You’ll be okay.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you muttered, shifting your weight.

“It’s written on your face, doll. I can tell you’re worried. It’s fine.”

You sighed. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“You can be honest, for a start,” Kyle suggested, but broke into a smile once you glared at him. “Start small. You could also not leave the room whenever he enters.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” You replied sarcastically.

“Doll,” he chuckled at first, but steadied his tone. “I’m serious. It’s not just me. We’re all worried. This affects the team.”

“I know,” you said. “I’ll try to talk to him.”

“Promise me that you will, or else Price’ll force you into one of those ‘getting along’ shirts.”

You snorted, though the weight of the commitment you were making hung heavily on your head. “I promise,” you said, even though in your mind you prayed for the contrary.

Three torturous days passed since Kyle and Price left. Three days in which you, Johnny, and Simon had to navigate your daily tasks and responsibilities without them. It was far from the first time some of you got deployed while the rest hung back—rather, it was quite a common occurrence—but this was the team’s first mission after nearly two months of nothing. 

With Price gone, Simon was in charge.

You didn’t mind it, most of the time. Simon was a competent leader, albeit much less charismatic than Price, but he knew how to get shit done. No, that wasn’t the issue. It was the fact that, for the past three days, you’d had to report everything to him, forcing you into brief, yet excruciatingly tense exchanges whenever you entered his office. Under the dull glow of overhead lights, every word out of your mouth felt heavier than it should, and every glance between you lingered a bit too long.

At least you had stopped avoiding him so overtly. One step closer to fulfilling Kyle’s promise. Start small, he said, the words floating through your mind every hour or so.

So you spoke to him only when necessary. You kept your voice even. Kept your posture rigid. Kept your gaze neutral. Or at least you tried. But that didn’t stop the way he looked at you.

It wasn’t obvious. He was subtle about it, as always—just the occasional slow rake of his gaze across your body before meeting your eyes, like he knew he’d been caught but didn’t care. At least, during office hours, there was some degree of professionalism.

Outside, though? That was different. 

He didn’t try to talk to you. He didn’t push. He didn’t storm up demanding answers, or corner you in hallways. No. He was waiting for you to come to him. You could feel it in the weight of his glances, the silent expectation every time you crossed paths. And god, was it frustrating.

Because if you were being honest with yourself—if you stripped away all the walls, all the pretense, all the fear—you wanted to go to him. But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. You refused. Call it whatever you want: stubbornness, self-preservation, cowardice. You wouldn’t dare open that can of worms. Not yet.

So, you continued your quiet little dance.

If he entered a room, you left. If he looked at you, you looked away. If he was nearby, you made sure someone else was there, too. You told yourself it was for the best. That you couldn’t be alone with him. Because you didn’t trust yourself around him. If you gave in—if you let him in—you wouldn’t recover.

So, even though ignoring him hurt, even though it probably hurt him too, you convinced yourself that this was the only way. Time would pass, and your feelings would subside, and all would be well again, and this would become just history, like everything else.

Still, you felt him everywhere.

In your dreams, late at night, where he haunted you—shadows of hands on your body, heat in your veins. In your thoughts, where he lingered—etched so deep into your bones it was maddening. In your restless nights, where you curled your fingers into the sheets and ached.

You hadn’t touched yourself since that night weeks ago. How could you, after you were left a tearful mess? And yet, every time he passed by, every time his voice rumbled through a room, every time his presence closed in around you—the need threatened to consume you whole.

So when Thursday evening rolled in, you welcomed the mundane distraction of doing your laundry.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you sorted through your basket. Two weeks’ worth of dirty clothes had piled up past its breaking point—some from before London, some from training, some of your bedding and towels.

You moved methodically, stuffing the last batch into the dryer, the familiar scent of your detergent (the one Kyle kept stealing) lingering in the air. The laundry room was small—two washers, two dryers, and a sink for handwashing. You were glad your flat included a laundry room—you weren’t sure if you’d withstand sharing laundry facilities with more than four smelly men.

Not many people came in this late anyway, nor did you make it a habit to wash your clothes in the middle of the week, but you appreciated the respite the room offered you. It was quiet. Secluded. Safe.

Until the door swung open behind you.

You pretended to ignore it, continuing to stuff your pillowcases into the drier, but the unmistakable sound of slippers skidding to a halt alerted you. The door swung shut.

Please be Johnny, please be Johnny, please be Johnny—

“Mick.”

Your skin pricked. Simon’s voice was low and rough and carried weeks of frustration in its tone. A pang of guilt mixed with dread settled at the pit of your stomach as you focused your gaze on the sheets you were stuffing into the drier. You couldn’t see him. You didn’t want to.

“Riley,” you answered curtly, now grabbing a towel, ignoring how your heart raced a thousand miles per minute.

“We need to talk.”

Your stomach dropped. Not here. Not now. I’m not ready for this. I don’t think I will be. 

You shoved the towel into the drier and blurted out: “I can’t.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said matter-of-factly, and the guilt settled deeper into your gut. He hates you, he hates you, he hates you.

“With good reason,” you found yourself saying without meaning to. Your mouth acted faster than your brain whenever he was around. It only brought you trouble. “Now scram.”

Rather than dignifying you with an answer, you heard the door lock.

Your insides twisted as you shoved the last piece into the drier, shut it, and started the cycle. Your heart was pounding so strongly you could feel the veins pumping blood in and out. That was when you finally whipped your head to take a good look at him. He was in his long sleeve undershirt and cargos and traded his usual boots for slippers around the flat. He set his own loaded laundry basket on top of the washer next to you, the metal thud rumbling across the room.

“Planning on murdering me or something?” You said, staring at his dirty clothes.

“Can’t have Johnny barging in,” he replied flatly.

“What’s wrong with Johnny?”

“You know how nosy he is,” was all he said.

You swallowed thickly, then took a deep breath. “Right.” A tense silence settled for a moment as your mind went blank. Everything escaped you, except for your mind telling you to leave leave leave leave leave immediately leave leave leave.

“I should go,” you whispered nervously, heading towards the door.

“Michaela,” he warned.

You whipped your head towards him. “Don’t say my name like that.”

His eyes narrowed into slits, and you could almost picture the smirk behind that damn piece of fabric. “Why? You like it?”

Oh, so that’s how it is?

You rolled your eyes and scoffed incredulously, arms wrapped defensively. “Fuck you.”

“I tried telling you I was sorry. Several times,” he said.

You stood several feet apart, but the distance almost felt like a chasm. “I know.”

He stared hard at you. “And?”

Your throat was dry when you swallowed. “It’s complicated.”

He sighed. “For fuck’s sake, Mick.”

You didn’t know what it was, exactly, but something about his attitude pissed you off, and then you took a decisive step towards him. “You humiliated me in front of the whole team,” you pointed out harshly. “How do you think that makes me feel? Why the hell did you think it was fair to air my business out like that?”

“I was drunk,” he defended quickly.

“That is not an excuse,” you shot back.

He nodded. “Alright. Fair. You weren’t drunk when you decided to grind on my lap at the gym.”

You scoffed, mouth agape, completely appalled by his comment, and then shook your head. “I am not having this conversation.”

You turned to leave once more, but this time, Simon caught your upper arm. “Yes you are,” he said firmly, pulling you back to face him. “We will fucking have this conversation right now, whether you want it or not, because you always fuckin’ run away from me.”

He didn’t squeeze hard, but his grip was firm enough that you tried to pry yourself away, hand large enough to circle most of your bicep. He didn’t budge. “Well, maybe you keep giving me reasons to.”

Now you were less than a foot apart.

“We both know that’s not true,” he said.

You eyed him defiantly. “Is it?”

“You’re afraid,” he said.

You seethed. “You calling a coward, Riley?”

“You want me.” His voice dropped an octave. “And that frightens you.”

He’s right.

He knows.

He sees right through you.

Still, you didn’t appreciate getting read so thoroughly. So openly. “Let go of me,” you commanded.

He kept his grip firm. “Not until you talk to me like a normal person—”

“Oh, so you wanna talk like a normal person?” Your hands curled into fists. God, this man got under your skin so quickly. “Fuckin’ rich comin’ from you.”

“Like you’re any better.” His eyes darkened with anger, the last threads of patience finally snapping. “At least I can admit I’m a right bastard, yeah? You think you’re so above it all. So high and mighty.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you are in denial.”

You grabbed him by the collar of his cotton undershirt, pulling him down to your eye level, anger simmering in your chest. “You don’t fucking know me—”

“I know enough,” he snapped, pulling you closer. “I know that you like to pretend that you don’t want this. That you don’t want me. But you were the one touching me at the gym—”

“You got hard the moment I pinned you down on that mat,” you interrupted him. He took a step forward, forcing you back.

“And at the end of the day, you go to bed and you think about me, yeah?”

One step forward. One step back.

“You eye-fuck me every chance you get,” you said accusingly. “Don’t act so innocent.”

“Good. You have eyes. I have eyes. Glad we sorted that out.”

Your grip on his shirt tightened. “Don’t act like you’re the only one struggling here.”

“Never said I was,” he replied.

“Then why—”

“‘Cause you always run away from me, Mick.” His dark brown eyes bore into your very soul. He took another step forward. “You get too close and then you panic, and you never fucking let me explain myself. So this cycle will keep repeating again and again until one of us does something about it.”

Your back hit the edge of the dryer.

“So go on. Try to push me away. See where that takes you,” he said.

You stared at him with the same intensity. For once, you didn’t have any jab to throw his way. He finally released your arm, but his hand slid up to your shoulder, then your neck, raising gooseflesh in its path. He was breathing so hard you could smell the mint of his hot breath through the mask.

“Can’t even call me by my name, can’t you?” His voice softened slightly, but darkness dripped through every word. “Not unless you’re thinkin’ about me fuckin’ you. S’ that right, Michaela?”

The way your name rolled off his lips sounded like honey. Your cheeks reddened a deep scarlet, and there was no way to hide your reaction now. It was all out in the open for him to see. You didn’t like being so exposed, so vulnerable and raw in front of him, but even when you tried to conceal it, he was able to see right through your defences.

“You weren’t meant to hear that,” you whispered shamefully, thinking of your dirty little fantasy, or your fingers knuckle deep inside your cunt, coaxing his name out of your mouth. You released his shirt, but kept your hand on his chest. Trying to create a barrier was futile. There was nowhere to hide. Still, you pretended to keep him at bay.

“But I did,” he leaned closer until your foreheads connected, breaths mingling. “Heard all of it.”

His admission made you blush harder.

“Should’ve kept my voice down,” you argued.

“No,” he shook his head, his thumb tracing your jaw. The aluminium edge of the dryer dug into your lower back. “I should’ve been there.”

He had you right where he wanted to. Right where you swear you didn’t want to be, but fantasised deeply in your dreams. It was right where you belonged, really.

Your noses touched. He still wore his balaclava, the final barrier that separated your mouths. You could’ve run away like you always did, shove him off with all your strength and leave. But you were gripping his shoulders like a lifeline instead. You should’ve told him to stop. But you didn’t want him to.

“Shouldn’t have let you run away at the gym,” he admitted. You held onto his shoulders for dear life, heart palpitating so strongly inside your ribcage it might as well burst out. He leaned in, and your lips met the dark fabric of his mask. He sighed, suddenly remembering it was still on, and pushed it up to his nose. “Should’ve kissed you in the kitchen,” he said softly.

And that’s when your lips finally met.

You tensed at first, muscles hard and rigid as his lips slotted themselves between yours. The kiss didn’t last long, and by the time it broke, the two of you were panting. Simon’s pale cheeks had reddened profusely.

He just kissed you.

Too short.

You wanted more.

You shouldn’t have wanted more.

You should’ve bolted out of there.

You locked eyes with him. He kissed you once again, this time softer, then looked at you, gauging your reaction. You kissed again through shaky breaths and trembling hands. This was uncharted territory now. You could taste his minty mouthwash, smell the remnants of his aftershave. Too close. He was too close.

You leaned in. By god, you wanted him. You wanted this so bad even though you perfectly knew you shouldn’t.

Regardless, you cupped his face and pulled him in for another kiss.

This kiss was slower. Softer. Purposeful. No more gauging reactions, no more tension. He slowly eased into it and you melted into his touch, let yourself feel his hand on your neck, the other on the small of your back, pulling you closer.

But then he pulled back. Not entirely. He rested his forehead against yours and drew shaky breaths. He didn’t allow you to move an inch.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, breath fanning your face. His voice was raw, wrecked—barely holding it together. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

Stop this. He’s giving you the chance. Stop this before you take this any further.

Your fingers curled tighter around his shoulders, holding onto him like a lifeline. No. You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want an out. You wanted this. You wanted him.

You shook your head.

His hands flexed where they held you, as if he was barely restraining himself. He swallowed thickly. “Say it,” he rasped, voice fraying at the edges.

Stop this.

“Don’t,” you whispered back.

His breath hitched. “Don’t what?”

You pulled him back down. “Don’t stop.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, deep and guttural, before crashing his mouth against yours.

The second he tasted you, something inside him snapped. He devoured you. His mouth was searing, his tongue sweeping against yours, all teeth and heat and weeks of pent-up frustration spilling out between every kiss. His hands gripped your waist, strong and commanding as he lifted you onto the dryer in one smooth motion, stepping between your thighs.

Your fingers found the soft hair at the nape of his neck and tugged, remembering how responsive he was to his hair getting pulled at the gym. He groaned into your mouth, grinding against you, and just then you felt exactly how hard he was through his cargos. 

So eager, so quickly.

You gasped at the contact, thighs instinctively tightening around his hips. He grabbed your ass, dragging you impossibly closer. No room to breathe.

“You’re so fucking frustrating,” he growled against your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin beneath your ear. His hands roamed greedily, sliding beneath your shirt, calloused fingers searing against your back.

“Shut up,” you panted, yanking him back up to kiss him again. “Just shut up.”

He smirked against your lips but obeyed. For now.

Simon’s palms skated lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. Gripping, kneading, pulling. You gasped at the firm press of his fingers against your bare skin, your body already melting under his touch.

His hips rolled against you, slow and deliberate, grinding into the heat between your legs. The friction sent sparks up your spine, making you whimper into his mouth. He groaned in response, his grip on you tightening. God, you were soaked all the way through. You felt the fabric sticking to your skin with every grind of his hips. Could he feel it too?

Simon buried his face in your neck, tongue lapping up the beads of sweat forming. He breathed you in, still kneading your ass like dough, pressing you into the hardness in his cargos. “You always smell so fucking good,” he groaned, nipping below your ear. “I could fuckin’ eat you right now.”

You craned your head back to give him easier access, still playing with the hairs at his nape, and you chuckled. “Do I smell edible?”

He kissed up your jaw. “S’ not what I meant.”

You knew perfectly what he was referring to. It was all you’d been thinking about for weeks. And he offered it to you so easily. How could you not accept?

Give in, give in, give in, give in.

“I know,” you whispered.

Your eyes met. Like a thousand times before, you refused to look away. But unlike all those past staring contests, you both knew you’d lost to each other. There was no winner or loser here. There was only desire.

A whole conversation transpired in that stare.

I want to eat you out. Right here. Right now, his eyes said.

Please, yours replied.

Through heavy breaths, Simon hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts. His eyes asked for permission, pupils blown wide and hungry. Yours consented without a second thought. To hell with it.

You raised your hips slightly. He pulled your shorts and underwear down in one fluid motion, and flung it to the side, never breaking eye contact.

He kneeled.

Your legs parted without thinking. No words were exchanged. He pulled you closer to the edge of the drier, and then he stuffed his face between your legs.

His tongue felt like magic.

Simon ate you out like you were mana fallen from the sky, like he’d been deprived of sustenance and your pussy was the essence of life. He moaned to himself at the taste, fingers digging into your thighs as he lapped up all your wetness.

Your fingers clutched hard at the edges of the dryer. Every drag of his hot tongue over your clit drove you insane. Just how neglectful had you been with yourself over the years? Not even a minute in and you were already teetering at the edge of insanity. 

“F-Fuck,” you whimpered, legs involuntarily closing in around Simon’s head. He didn’t mind it. Instead, he pressed his face harder against your cunt, breathing you in deeply. You threw your head back in pleasure as your heels dug into his defined backside, biting your lip to prevent more sounds from coming out.

He sucked on your clit, slurping messily, somehow louder than the dryer next to you. It was all you could hear, all you could feel. All him. Just him. Simon. Yours. On his knees for you, just for you.

One of his hands disappeared, and you were sure his fingers had left indents on your thighs from how desperately he was holding onto them. But then you heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper unzipping, and then Simon moaned once more, eyes rolling to the back of his head, mouth never detaching from your pussy. You watched his right arm shake slightly and—

He was jerking off.

He was fucking getting off on this.

He got off on eating you out.

Jesus Christ.

Even though you couldn’t see, the mental image it created was more than enough to have your walls clenching around nothing. Simon Riley, on his fucking knees, stroking his cock to the taste of you… If you weren’t close already, you sure were now.

Your eyes screwed shut as your whole body pulsed with desire, a hot coil tensing more and more with every passing second. You held onto Simon’s forearm with one hand, and steadied yourself on the dryer with the other, tiny little whimpers escaping your mouth.

But then he stopped. His lips detached from your clit. And then came his voice.

“Look at me, Michaela.”

A command. A plea. Your whole fucking name falling off his lips.

Your eyes opened. There he was, face still between your thighs, mask hunched up to his nose, chin glistening with your juices, lips parted, pupils blown wide. He looked so fucking wrecked.

“I want you to look at me when you come,” was all he said before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking reverently. He resumed jerking himself off, muted moans reverberating sonically across your skin. He never stopped looking at you, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to avert your gaze.

You did as told. For him, you did.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t fucking think. Not with him looking at you like you hung the moon and the stars in the sky while absolutely devouring the life out of you. Not when such sinful sounds came from his mouth.

You released his forearm, finding his hand instead and lacing your fingers with his. He held your hand tightly while stroking his cock furiously with the other.

Too much, too much, too much.

“I’m going to—f-fuck,” you moaned, almost crying desperately. “S-Simon, I’m going to come.”

He groaned against you, his tongue dragging in slow, deliberate strokes as his other hand worked furiously, and it was too much—

The coil snapped. Eyes rolled to the back of your head as pleasure overtook you in waves. Your body shook with the strength of your orgasm, and when his name slipped past your lips, ragged and breathless—

That was all it took.

Simon let out a low, guttural groan against your pussy, his whole body tensing. He continued to lick until your legs had stopped shaking, continued to stroke himself until you figured he’d made a huge fucking mess on his pants and on the floor. Both of you were utterly spent.

You released him, slumping against the dryer, panting heavily and in a daze. The world spun around you. He remained on his knees, pulling you even closer. You barely had time to process anything before he began to lick you clean, slow and thorough, pressing hot, open-mouth kisses to your inner thighs when he was done.

He tucked his spent cock into his pants before standing up, straightening his shoulders. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t look bothered, either. Instead, he looked around the laundry room until he found a box of tissues, and grabbed several to wipe his semen off the floor and dispose of it in the bin.

Then, his hands were on you again, pulling you up, cupping your face. He kissed you messily. Sloppily. You tasted yourself through him, but you barely had time to react to the kiss, anyway, still stuck in your own daze.

The kiss broke, but he rested his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses touching. Your hands fisted his shirt, breaths mingling together, basking in the silence.

The dryer beeped, snapping you out of your little reverie, bringing you back to the real world.

“Shit,” you mumbled against his lips, body going still.

What the fuck did you just do?

Simon barely registered it, still lost in you, in this moment, in this fucking haze—

But you? You felt it. The weight of what you’d just done.

“I’ve got you,” he said softly, kissing your cheek affectionately—perhaps disturbingly so—and he stepped back to retrieve your shorts and underwear. Then he grabbed your hands and helped you down like the gentleman he ought to be. He helped you get dressed again and even kissed your forehead when you were done, but your vision was off in the distance, your brain a million miles away.

You just got eaten out by your CO in the laundry room.

This must be an ethics code violation in some way.

You let yourself go.

Fickle bitch.

Everyone will know about this. Everybody will find out.

Command will find out you did this.

Simon will get suspended, probably. But you? You will get fired. They will not want you anymore. Command will not want you. Laswell will not want you. The CIA, the SAS, the government will fucking throw you away because you decided to think with your clit rather than keep a cool head. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Next to you, Simon started to load the washing machine like nothing had happened. You took this as a cue to unload your linens and towels off the dryer, but your movements were slow and sluggish. Your heart was thumping wildly. All of a sudden, the room felt stuffy and your clothes constricting.

You were spiralling.

This is so not right.

Not right, not right, not right. You’re doomed to repeat history.

As you kneeled on the floor, taking out piece by piece and stuffing it into your laundry basket, flashes of George flooded your mind. His body next to yours, tangled in the heat of the night, and then bleeding out in the middle of the day. His face morphed into Simon’s. Green eyes turned brown. A cracked skull mask identified the man bleeding out next to you in the jungle. The images blended together and created a traumatic mosaic of your past and the possible future.

Simon is going to die in your arms.

Whore. Sinner. You should be ashamed of yourself.

You’re going to kill Simon. He is going to die in your arms just like George. You will watch him die. Selfish bitch.

You won’t be able to save him.

You don’t deserve him.

You never fucking learn, do you? Doomed to repeat history.

You don’t deserve him.

You don’t deserve love.

Killer. Traitor. Useless.

Fear took over you, the hairs at the back of your neck prickling up. Tears welled up in your eyes as your body was paralysed by sheer fucking panic. You tried to swallow, but your throat closed up. So you took a deep, silent breath. Simon kept loading the washer, his back to you, blissfully unaware of your panic attack.

You’re going to kill him.

You deserve to be alone.

Weak.

You can’t have him.

Your hands shook as you pulled out the final towel.

He’s going to see you breaking. He’ll think you’re weak. He thinks you’re weak and frail and he wants to save you but he can’t, and he’ll die because of it. Because you’re a weak bitch who never learns.

You needed to get out of there.

The laundry room felt stuffy and suffocating, and your clothes itched and stuck uncomfortably to your skin. The air reeked of a mix of bleach, floral detergent, and sex.

You needed to get out of there now.

Simon continued to stuff the washer at a leisurely pace. You noticed a large stain on his cargos, close to his crotch. His mask was still up, oddly enough, and he didn’t seem to notice you staring. He had his guard down.

You’re going to kill him.

You’re going to be the death of him.

The memory of the light leaving George’s eyes flashed before you. A warning. A reminder.

You angrily wiped the tears away, stood up, and grabbed your basket. You needed to leave. Your mind kept telling you to flee, to run away, to lock yourself in the safety of your room, for your own good and his. A lump formed in your throat. You slipped on your flip-flops and slowly, quietly, made your way to the door, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

But he did, sadly. He always fucking noticed.

“Mick?” He asked gently, a slight concern in his voice. Such a big contrast to his desperate roughness minutes before. The last time he spoke so gently to you was when he patched you up in Azerbaijan. “You okay?”

You stopped briefly before the door, hand on the pommel, your back to him. You knew that if you turned around, you would break down instantly. Again, you tried to swallow, but your anxiety had you in a chokehold.

Tears streamed, hot and angry, down your face freely. “I’m sorry, Simon,” you managed to croak out before unlocking the door and running away like you always did.

You bolted towards your room, not bothering to see if Simon followed you. You hoped, prayed, that he didn’t. It would only make things harder.

When you made it to your room, you dropped the basket on the floor, and leaned against the door, finally breaking down into sobs, as the image of Simon bleeding out on the field tormented you over and over and over.

crossposted on AO3.

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[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 31 - damage control

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader (OC) ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 3.2k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: none ↣ playlist: vermillion pt. 2 - slipknot // all i can think about is you - coldplay // my own prison - creed // from the inside - linkin park previous // masterlist // next

↳ with you gone, johnny and price stage an intervention for simon.

I don’t know what to do when she makes me mad — Vermillion pt. 2, Slipknot

Simon was a cunt.

No sugarcoating. No beating around the bush. Simon is, was, and has always been a Class A cunt. He thought he had it figured out by now. He thought he knew his limits.

There were no limits, apparently, for his stupidity.

He didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did. Hell, he shouldn't have opened his mouth in the first place, but he did. He just couldn't help himself, with all your snapping and foul mood.

The way your eyes widened in panic at the pub was imprinted in his brain, taunting him constantly for fucking up yet once more. Guilt wracked his whole body for the following week, exacerbated by the fact that you were clearly avoiding him. But how could you not? Simon had exposed your fantasies to the whole team, hell, perhaps the entire fucking pub. He’d seriously overstepped this time.

He had to make it right somehow.

As soon as they’d made it back to the barracks that night, Simon drunkenly attempted to barge into your room. Didn’t even think—just moved, let instinct guide him, let that overwhelming, twisting feeling in his gut drag him to your door like some pathetic moth to a flame.

But before he could even reach the handle, he was yanked back by Price, an iron grip locking around his arm. Then Garrick stepped in, hand pressed firm to Simon’s chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“Y’don’t understand,” he’d said, words slurring as his body swayed, vision swimming. He’d forgotten just how many pints he’d had. “I fucked up.”

“Did you? Didn’t realise, mate,” Garrick snapped, the hand on his chest keeping him steady. Johnny was holding Simon by the shoulders to prevent him from collapsing. “She doesn't want to see you. You’ve done enough damage already.”

“Come on, mate,” Johnny said, adjusting his grip when Simon stumbled. “Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

But Simon wasn’t listening. His mind was on you.

Your face—your expression after he said those words, how you looked at him like he’d stripped you bare in front of everyone. Like he’d betrayed you. You couldn’t even look at him after that.

A lump lodged itself in his throat.

“I just…” Simon blinked sluggishly, shaking his head, swaying slightly as nausea coiled in his stomach. His hands clenched into fists. “I—I need to talk to her.”

Garrick’s expression darkened.

“Kyle,” Price warned.

But Garrick didn’t back down.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Garrick’s voice was flat, frustration barely concealed. “You humiliated her.” His eyes bored into Simon’s, expression taut with something dangerous. “You made her feel small. You think she wants to hear whatever the fuck you have to say right now?”

Simon’s stomach curled. A flicker of something tight and suffocating clawed at his ribs, winding up his throat.

“I—”

The words died in his mouth. His head swam. His throat burned. And then, suddenly—

His body lurched. His stomach flipped.

Johnny barely had time to react before Simon wrenched himself away, staggering down the hall in a mess of stumbling limbs and muttered curses, one hand clamping over his mouth as he ran toward the nearest bathroom.

He barely made it in time.

Collapsing to his knees, he gripped the rim of the toilet, heaving up every last bit of alcohol until his throat was raw and his stomach ached.

His mind spun.

Distantly, he could hear someone outside—Johnny, probably—muttering something, voice too muffled to make out. He didn’t care. Instead, he braced himself over the toilet, head pressed against the cool porcelain, breathing heavy.

His chest ached.

Absolutely fucking great, Simon. Great job. Now she hates you. She won't even look at you. She's disgusted by you. She won’t let you explain. Won’t let you fix it. Won’t let you in. You've driven her away once again.

The following week was fucking excruciating, to say the least. You pretended he didn’t exist. Didn’t spare him a glance. Didn’t acknowledge him in the hallways. During drills, you were composed, movements sharp and precise, but you may as well have been a fucking ghost to him. You brushed past him without a word. Without so much as a look.

And now Garrick had fucking snatched you away to London for the weekend. Of course he had.

Didn’t fucking bother to look behind you as the door closed.

Simon watched you climb into his car. Watched as he opened and closed the door for you. Watched you two speed away from him.

Simon didn’t know whether he preferred your cold indifference or not having you around at all.

But one thing was sure—you were on your way back now. Maybe Simon could finally pull you aside and explain himself. Put this behind you. Make sure you understood. Maybe.

He wore himself out at the gym today, channelling all his stress into every punch, every kick. The punching bag almost gave out, too.

Sticky with sweat, Simon had barely taken two steps toward his room when a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder. Before he could react, another grabbed his arm, and suddenly, he was being dragged back toward the living room.

“What the fuck—”

He was forcibly sat down on the couch. Johnny and Price stood over him like two executioners preparing to pass judgment.

“Gaz called,” Price said, arms crossed. “ETA is one hour. Need you on your best behaviour.”

Simon stared, bewildered, between Price, who looked fed up, and Johnny, who appeared way too excited. Frankly, he wasn’t sure which was worse.

“I just need to apologise, I know,” Simon sighed.

“Aye, since all ye do is open yer mouth and piss her off,” Johnny began.

He rolled his eyes. “I do not—”

“If it were me,” Johnny continued, “ye’d need more than just a wee apology.”

Simon’s jaw tensed. “She always fuckin’ runs away without giving me a chance to explain.”

This was not easy. At all. Especially not with Price here. Johnny, he could talk to more frankly, but Price? He respected the man, he really did, and he knew he had the best intentions, but stupid crushes weren’t exactly the Captain’s forte.

Simon didn’t appreciate being cornered like this.

“We done here?” He snapped, standing up.

A hand on his chest. A firm shove.

“You are not going anywhere,” Price said.

Simon glared. Price stared right back, unimpressed, like he was dealing with an insubordinate recruit instead of a fully grown man. Johnny was practically vibrating with suppressed amusement.

Silence.

Then: “Do you like Mick?”

Simon’s stomach dropped. His pulse spiked. His fingers twitched. Something in his brain short-circuited.

“Seriously?” His voice came out strained, like the words were being wrung out of him.

Price shrugged, unfazed. “I mean, everyone can tell.”

“Aye,” Soap nodded.

Simon sent him a death glare.

“But I need to hear it directly from you,” Price continued, scratching his beard with the casualness of someone discussing the weather. “Because this is getting out of hand.”

Simon’s face heated up under the mask, no doubt as red as a tomato. How fucking embarrassing, he thought. Can’t escape this, can’t I?

Johnny only stared at him expectantly, arms crossed. “Well?”

Simon scanned the two men. “Is this… is this an intervention?”

“What else would it be, ye bastard?” Johnny shot back.

Simon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “For fuck’s sake.”

Price exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “Just answer the damn question.”

“Christ—”

“Well?” Johnny pressed, grinning. “What’s the verdict, LT? Ye wanna fuck her, marry her, or run her over with a truck?”

“Johnny.”

“Look, mate, I’m just tryin’ to make sense of the situation—”

“None of those options,” Simon gritted out.

“Right,” Johnny said, rolling his eyes. “Because you, Simon fucking Riley, are definitely the picture of emotional indifference when it comes to Mick.”

Simon inhaled deeply through his nose, then exhaled.

Price levelled him with a stare. “Are you actually gonna answer, or are you just gonna sit there and glare at us all night?”

Silence.

“…I don’t know.”

Johnny snorted. “Bollocks.”

Simon clenched his jaw. “I don’t.”

“You do,” Price said. “You just don’t wanna admit it.”

His head throbbed. He was this close to getting up and walking out, but somehow he knew that wouldn’t work.

“Alright,” Johnny said, leaning forward. “Let’s take a different approach, then. What exactly did ye hear through the wall?”

Simon stiffened. His stomach flipped.

Johnny grinned. “Ah. There it is.”

Price sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Soap.”

“What? I’m just sayin’, it was clearly somethin’—”

Again, Simon felt his skin flare up. Getting cornered like this was enough humiliation already. Now he was getting questioned?

“I shouldn’t have said that, I know,” Simon acknowledged painstakingly. Shit, if he felt like he was put on the spot just in front of them, he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must’ve felt like for you.

Bastard, bastard, bastard.

“But you did,” Johnny said. “Now spill.”

“Soap,” Price said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t.”

Johnny visibly deflated. 

Price sighed and looked at Simon. “Look,” he began, “I don’t care if you two fuck or not. Just fix this, for fuck’s sake. I want what’s best for the team and, right now, your constant fights are negatively affecting the team’s dynamic, and we can’t have that. You two might be professionals and put your differences aside on the field, but that is not a guarantee that your personal grievances will endanger us in the future.”

Simon wanted to look away in shame. He stayed quiet.

“It’s my fault, too, for letting it get this far,” Price said. “I should’ve done this months ago. But this ends now. You are going to fix it. I don’t care how.”

Silence.

A muscle feathered in Simon’s jaw. He exhaled sharply, hands braced against his knees. Then, finally, he spoke.

“She’s been driving me insane for months.” His voice was clipped, every word strained as if it physically pained him to admit it. “Since the first time we sparred—no, way before that. Since she fucking arrived. I don’t know how to deal with her.”

Johnny and Price both went dead silent.

Simon rubbed a hand down his face, his entire body tense. “She gets under my fucking skin. Every time I see her, I can’t think straight. She acts like I’m the problem, but then she’s the one watching me, lingering, standing too fucking close—” His teeth ground together. “And then the gym thing happened.”

Johnny and Price exchanged a look.

“The gym thing?” Johnny asked, slow and suspicious.

Simon’s jaw locked. He wasn’t going to explain it in detail, for fuck’s sake. The worst thing he could do right now was to admit he almost came in his pants just from touching you.

“She—” He huffed, looking at a very interested Soap. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It absolutely matters.”

Simon rolled his shoulders back, unwilling to be dragged into that conversation. “And then she runs away whenever I try to talk to her. It’s fucking maddening.” His voice tightened. “But then she does things—little things. Looks at me a certain way. Lingers. Gets so fucking close sometimes I swear she does it on purpose. But the second I get close, she shuts me out. Like I’m some threat.”

“…And the moaning?” Johnny prompted, barely restraining his grin.

Simon sent him the nastiest glare imaginable.

“I should punch you in the face.”

Johnny cackled, and even Price let out a tired exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Simon sighed heavily, leaning forward, forearms braced against his knees. “I don’t know what to do with her,” he admitted with a defeated sigh.

Johnny bit the inside of his cheek, nodding. “To be fair, me neither.”

Price let out a slow, exasperated breath, rubbing his temples like he was resisting the urge to bash both their heads together.

Before any of them could say anything more, the front door opened. A burst of cool evening air rushed in, and then, you and Garrick stepped inside.

Simon froze.

You stood in the doorway, eyes puffy and deep set, skin slightly pale from fatigue. Your expression was unreadable—guarded in a way that made Simon’s stomach twist.

Garrick scanned the room, brows subtly raising as he took in the scene before him, standing awkwardly at the threshold. “Uhh, hi?”

Simon barely heard him. His attention was on you.

You stood there for a moment, eyes flicking between the three men before finally settling on Simon. Something tightened in his chest.

“I’m… going to my room,” you said, voice raspy and raw, suddenly avoiding Simon’s gaze. You sniffled. Had you been crying on the way here? “Need to sleep.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Price nod. You quickly brushed past everyone and made your way to the hallway. Automatically, Simon followed you, the need to talk to you greater than anything else at the moment.

“Mick,” he called after you. “Can we talk?”

However, before Simon could reach the hallway, Garrick spoke.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Simon stopped in his tracks. Your bedroom door clicked shut quickly. Again, you’d evaded his grasp. He took a long, deep breath, then turned back.

“Why don’t you fuck off, Garrick? This is none of your business.”

Garrick cocked an eyebrow and finally set foot inside the flat. “I think it is very much my business,” he said arrogantly. “That’s my Lieutenant that you’re trying to harass into a conversation she doesn’t want.”

“Oh, your Lieutenant?” Simon snapped, blood boiling in his veins. This was the last fucking straw with the boy. “I see. You want to fuck her? That what it is?”

Price sighed. “Simon, don’t—”

Johnny groaned. “Why don’t we all calm down—”

But Garrick was having none of it. “See, unlike you, I actually give a fuck about her wellbeing. I don’t think with my cock.”

Simon’s right eyelid twitched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Garrick stepped forward.

Price groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“It means,” Garrick said, voice low, “that if you actually cared about her, you’d leave her the fuck alone.”

“And who the fuck are you to know what she needs?”

Garrick sneered, closer than ever. “I’m her fuckin’ friend, you wanker.”

Simon’s hands balled into fists. The air was thick—charged with tension, with something primal, something ugly. The second Garrick’s jaw ticked, Simon knew he was about to take a swing—

A soft creak cut through the tension. The sound of a door opening.

All four of them froze.

Simon turned his head—and there you were. Standing just down the hall, door open, holding a water bottle. Your face was blank. Expression unreadable.

Simon’s throat tightened. “Mick—”

You didn’t look at any of them. You simply exhaled quietly and walked toward the kitchen.

Garrick gripped Simon’s shoulder, voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t say anything. You’ll only make it worse.”

Simon’s fingers twitched again. He watched as you filled your water bottle, moving through the kitchen with slow, tired movements. When you finished, you didn’t spare them a glance. You left the kitchen, walking right past them, disappearing back into your room, locking the door behind you.

Simon swallowed thickly. A heavy silence followed.

Johnny sighed, rubbing his hands down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Price exhaled. “We’re never fixing this, are we?”

Simon just stood there, watching the hallway, a deep ache spreading across his chest.

Johnny took a slow drag of his cigarette.

It had been a while since he last smoked. He tried not to make a habit of it—Simon had slowly been influencing him to stop smoking altogether—but sometimes he just needed a fucking drag to take the edge off.

Crickets chirped in the distance, hidden beneath the bushes and trees that adorned the barrack’s driveway. Most residents of their building were already asleep, except for Kyle, Price, and him, who haunted the quiet street like spectres.

Kyle took a drag of his own cig. Like him, Kyle was an occasional smoker, though he’d been taking smoke breaks more often than not these days.

“Mick ain’t ready,” he said, puffs of smoke leaving his mouth. “She’s been through a lot.”

“Did she tell you somethin’?” Price asked, balancing on the balls of his feet. Johnny hadn’t seen his Captain so restless in a while.

Kyle nodded, then looked down at the pavement while trying to gather his thoughts. “She, uhh… She told me things about her past. Her time with the SEALs.”

Johnny urged him on. “Well?”

Kyle sighed, then took another drag. “S’ classified.”

Johnny and Price groaned in unison.

“You’re truly not good at this, Kyle,” Price said, scratching his forehead.

“Listen,” he began, “I already broke my promise to keep quiet about the gym thing. This is personal. Deeply fucking personal. I won’t betray her trust like that. Anyway, that information is only contextual. What I can tell you about it is that Mick has lost people before, and that is the reason why she is so afraid to talk to Simon.”

“But she likes him, yes?” Price asked.

“Yes,” Kyle said. “Took a while to get her to admit it, but yes.”

“I’ll be fucked,” Johnny muttered. “So not only do they both like each other, but they’re also idiots about it.”

Kyle shrugged. “S’ complicated.”

“You tell me,” Price said, throwing his used cigarette butt into the pavement and smothering it with his shoe.

“She cried in my arms back in London,” Kyle said. “Fully broke down. I’m worried about her. S’ not lookin’ pretty.”

Johnny pursed his lips. “Well, what are we supposed ta do ‘bout Simon, then?”

“Wish I knew,” Price admitted. “If what Kyle says is true, then we can’t force them to talk.”

Kyle nodded in agreement. “I don’t think she’s ready.”

“But Simon is driving us all insane,” Johnny argued. “It’s been a week. He wants ta apologise but the lass won’t let ‘im. He’s right about her avoiding him. I get why he’s mad.”

“Yeah, but how could she not? She’s overwhelmed,” Kyle reasoned.

Johnny crossed his arms. “At some point she has to get over it, as harsh as it sounds.”

Price stood between the two Sergeants. Johnny could picture the gears turning in his head. Never in a million years could any of them imagine being stuck in a situation such as this one. For once in their career they were openly discussing feelings, and it wasn’t just about team dynamics. Johnny liked this new development, seeing the more introspective sides of his mates. It was long overdue.

“I’ll talk to her,” Price said. “Maybe she’ll listen to me.”

“She’s a stubborn thing,” Kyle reminded him.

Price grinned. “But I’m her Captain.”

The three chuckled slightly, but the late-night silence was soon disturbed by Price’s phone ringing.

“Sorry,” he said, fishing his phone out of his pocket, “better take this. It’s Laswell.”

As Price stepped away into the street to take the call, Johnny looked at Kyle and continued smoking.

“Hurts to see them both like this,” Johnny admitted.

Kyle hummed in agreement. “They’re both trapped in prisons of their own making. I just hope they find it in themselves to break free.”

“Aye,” Johnny said, watching Price’s body tense during the call. Whatever information Laswell was relaying couldn’t be good. “Let’s hope.”

crossposted on AO3.

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[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 30 - london

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader (OC) ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 2.7k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: ANGST; mentions of minor character death; explicit sexual dialogue ↣ playlist: smiling - alanis morissette // i hate everything about you - three days grace // working for the knife - mitski // the archer - taylor swift previous // masterlist // next

↳ to clear your head, kyle invites you to spend the weekend with him in london.

This is the sound of me hitting bottom — Smiling, Alanis Morissette

You hadn’t moved from your spot by the window all morning.

His flat was lovely—an inheritance from his favourite uncle who passed away childless. Lots of the furniture had been his, with some new appliances and bookshelves bought by Kyle in recent years, slowly mixing the old with the new. It was timeless.

And it had a very comfortable windowsill which you’d been hogging since 10 AM.

Kyle had tried his damnedest to distract you, to get you to see the sights. He paraded you around Central London the entire day, but despite his best efforts, you still felt hollow inside.

The street below was quiet, almost calm. Every once in a while, a car would pass by, but it was mostly people out and about, enjoying the sunshine, walking their dogs, joking around with friends and family. A stark contrast to the cloudy static in your mind.

You kept tapping the rim of your porcelain mug with your nail. Despite sitting still, you were restless. Thoughts circled you menacingly. You dared not revisit them, nor touch any of them. You let them come and go, as you often did when anxiety took hold of you. But this time it wasn’t working. They were pushing you. Prodding. Taunting.

Why did Simon have to open his mouth?

Just a week after that fatidic night, things weren’t looking good at all. Not for anyone. Not for Simon. Especially not for you. After that Sunday, you spent the entire week finding every possible excuse to avoid even looking at Simon. You couldn’t hide your shame, disdain, and anger, and you were sure if that man opened his mouth in your direction, you were either going to flee, or scream at him. 

Your dreams were getting worse, too. Your subconscious tortured you with images of what could’ve been—Simon knocking on your door, late at night, after listening to your moans through the wall, and finishing the job himself. Fucking you senseless. You swore you could even feel his weight on top of you.

In truth, you were mortified he even heard it at all. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was your fault, in the end, for giving in. This mess wouldn’t have happened if you’d stuck to your vows in the first place. 

And then he had the gall to say it out loud?

Granted, he was drunk. People did stupid things while drunk. But that still wasn’t an excuse. Now the rest of the team knew you rubbed one out to the thought of him. Now you were left exposed. Weak. Vulnerable.

You heard Kyle humming to himself in the kitchen, making lunch for both of you. You could smell the basil from here.

In his defense, he hadn’t uttered a single word about what Simon said. Instead, bartered with Price to get you two the weekend off, and whisked you away to London as soon as your shifts were done on Friday.

You had to give him credit. He tried his best to cheer you up, taking you to the Tate and to the typical touristy sites, taking pictures of you with his old camera, and even taking you out for lunch with his parents. His mom was a wonderful lady, and his dad looked exactly like him, personality and all. Carbon copies.

For a moment, you’d forgotten about Simon’s existence, but the nagging feeling at the pit of your stomach returned with force after you made your way back to his flat.

You wondered, while looking wistfully out the window, why you couldn’t like Kyle romantically instead of Simon. He seemed like the better option. Smooth, attentive, good listener, handsome, open, kind. The perfect man. Simon was raw punishment, frayed nerves, and lust that threatened to consume you whole. The longer you let your feelings for Simon sit, the more they felt like a curse.

Kyle didn’t push you after the argument. Instead, he let you cry and cry and cry in his car until your tears had dried and your head pounded, and then bid you goodnight in front of your room with some paracetamol. 

You tried to sleep the anger away, but you were too restless, and at some point in the night, between fading states of consciousness, you heard a commotion outside your bedroom door. Raised voices. Anger. You couldn’t make out what was said, for sleep overtook you right then. Kyle never talked about what happened.

“Doll,” Kyle said, gently grabbing your shoulder to not startle you. “Lunch’s ready.”

The table was already set—Kyle had made pesto spaghetti with some grilled salmon—and just then you realized how long you’d truly been sitting there, contemplating (or more like brooding).

You ate in silence. Your movements were slow. Heavy. Sluggish. Kyle didn’t ask you shit about Simon, and while you appreciated that he gave you your space, you couldn’t help but feel like you were slowly drowning in a puddle of your own making. This was eating you alive.

After lunch, you sat on the floor of his living room, playing Go Fish. There was still some time left before you had to return to base at 4 pm, and you still hadn’t packed your stuff, but Kyle insisted on distracting you yet again.

“I wish I could stay here a bit longer,” you confessed after drawing a card from the pile.

“Not ready to go back to base?” Kyle asked, studying his own deck of cards.

You shook your head.

“Do you have any eights?” He asked.

Again, you shook your head. “Go fish.”

While Kyle grabbed a card, your phone vibrated on the coffee table. You leaned closer to inspect. A text from Johnny.

Johnny: hey bon when are u coming back home??? LT is driving us insane with his moping

Home. 

Johnny said home. Were the barracks home? You’d never thought of it that way. Should you? The barracks were just dorms. A place to sleep. It was your base. Home was in Miami with Mom and Dad and your sisters. Home was your old room, untouched, just the way you left it at 18. Home was the safety of George’s arms around you. But that home didn’t exist anymore, did it?

A knot formed in your throat.

After Johnny, a text from Simon followed immediately. Another one, amidst the hundreds he’d sent throughout the week, and just like the others, left unopened.

Riley: Mick, I’m sorry.

You debated opening it. You really did. But in the end, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You couldn’t. Honestly, you didn’t know what was worse: ignoring him, or acknowledging him.

“Mick,” Kyle said. “What’s wrong?”

It was your turn again. You’d gotten distracted.

You locked your phone and set it face-down on the table, straightening up. “Soap’s asking when we’re coming back.”

Kyle sighed and grabbed his phone. “I’ll let him know we’ll be there for dinner.”

You nodded, and the living room fell into silence as he typed. You couldn’t bear this any longer. This silence. Walking on eggshells just to avoid upsetting you further.

“Thank you.” Your voice was small, but in the silence of his living room, it sounded clear. Anything to fill the silence. “For bringing me here. For everything.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, setting his phone down. “To be fair, I was getting rather annoyed in there. You and I deserved a break.”

“It’s my fault,” you said shamefully.

Kyle scoffed. “No, it’s not, Mick. Simon’s just got his head up his arse.”

“He was telling the truth, you know? About me.”

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

You looked down at your deck of cards, still in hand. “That I… well. He heard me. Through the wall.”

Kyle sighed and clenched his jaw. “Whether it was the truth or not, he shouldn’t have said that.” He paused for a moment, debating whether to continue. “I told him, y’know? After you’d gone to sleep, they arrived hours later, and Simon went straight to knock on your door, but Price stopped him. I almost knocked his teeth out.”

Your eyes widened. So that was what happened outside your bedroom when you were trying to sleep. You wondered exactly what Kyle and Price told Simon, how Kyle had probably clenched his fists and bit his tongue, dying to sucker punch his CO, but forced to hold back.

Still… 

“He was trying to apologise?”

He gave you a look. “Were you going to forgive him?”

Your fingers trembled slightly, and you put your cards down on the table. “I… don’t know.”

“Are you going to forgive him?”

“I don’t know, Kyle,” you snapped now, voice firm. “Are you?”

He raised his hands in defeat. “This ain’t my problem to solve, doll.”

“Sorry,” you sighed. “I shouldn’t—” Your voice broke, and the knot in your throat tightened. Another sigh. You hid your face in your hands. “I’m sorry.” You took deep breaths to steady yourself. All this crying was getting tiring. “He’s so fucking frustrating.”

Kyle rested his head back on the edge of the couch. “Okay, so tell him that.”

You rubbed your eyes and wiped the tears away. “You think I haven’t?”

“I’m just saying,” he began. “Just saying you two need to talk. It’s only a matter of time before Price stages an intervention, because this,” he waved his hands around, “is getting out of hand.”

It’s your fault, your conscience told you. The team is falling apart and it’s all because of you. You’re useless. You’re a distraction. You’re a liability. They don’t want you.

You shook your head. “I don’t think I’m capable of talking to him. Not right now, at least.”

“If not now, then when, Mick?” Kyle snapped. “When you’ve finally worked out that you like him?”

You scoffed. “I don’t—”

“Don’t what? You don’t like him? Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

“Kyle—”

“Look, doll. You know I care about you, alright? A lot. I'm saying this as your friend: you need to get your head out of your ass. You like him. Admit it.”

Silence.

You bit your lip. It was slightly cold inside his flat, and you shivered. But this time Kyle offered no consolation. No. He was staring you down with the resignation of a father scolding his troubled teen. For the first time, Kyle was being a hardass, and you knew perfectly that you deserved it.

“It scares me,” you finally admitted. It was time to. You had to tell him. Your hands flew to your tags, fiddling with the metal, thumb running over George’s name. You had the grooves and indents committed to memory.

Kyle’s brows scrunched in confusion, but he didn’t speak.

You kept going. “I… I’ve been here before. In this position. I know what it’s like to like someone on your team. I swore to myself I wouldn’t make that same mistake again.”

Now Kyle looked utterly confused. This was new to him. “You… what?”

You held each other’s gaze for a moment. Your throat tightened again. Tears welled up in your eyes, but this time you didn’t wipe them away.

“During my rookie year with the SEALs, I became close with my CO. He saw me in ways other people didn't. He was safe. He didn’t judge me like my team mates, and… it was friendly at first, but…”

His face fell. “You fell in love with him.”

“And he fell for me, too.” You smiled forlornly. “We tried to fight it at first. He was my captain, after all, but… it was too much. We couldn’t handle it. So we started seeing each other in secret.”

As you talked, Kyle watched you—a mix between horror, understanding, and curiosity.

“Nobody knew. Ever. We were very good at keeping it hidden. We went on like that for several years. My mates thought I was just the teacher’s pet, basically. At least that thought kept them at bay.”  Tears rolled down your cheeks freely. Apart from the Laswells and your family, this was the first time you’d ever opened up about George. Not even Price knew about this. “We had a dream, y’know? Getting married. Having kids. A house with a fence and lots of pets. The whole thing. He even proposed to me during a mission. It was a stupid thing to do, but he did it anyway.”

Kyle was astounded. “Mick…”

You swallowed thickly. “He… He was killed in action weeks after proposing to me.” The knot in your throat got tighter. “We were on a mission in Central Africa. Hostage rescue. We managed to get them all safe, but I got shot before exfil. George covered me while the others disposed of the hostiles. He didn’t see the guys behind us.”

Kyle paled.

“They shot him sixteen times,” your voice broke, but you kept your composure. “I was on the floor, bleeding out, useless, watching him get shot. He bled out in my arms and I couldn't even talk from the pain. He died looking at me.”

Your lip quievered. It was getting harder and harder to speak. “My team mates never looked at me the same. They already didn’t like me very much, whereas they loved George to death. In their eyes, had I not been a stupid bitch and gotten shot, George would still be alive.”

Kyle starred at you in horror. “Mick…”

“I can’t like simon,” your breath was shaky. “If-if I do—”

“Don’t say that.”

“—I will kill him. I'm going to kill him, Kyle. He's going to die and it will be my fault. That's how these things end. It’s fuckin’ useless.” You choked out a sob. “What I want doesn’t matter.”

“You don’t know that, Mick.”

You shook your head. “I do. I've lived through it. And it almost fucking killed me. I can’t go through that again.” Scalding hot tears spilled down your cheeks as you cried. “I can't. I can't go back to that. I don't think I can handle… my heart getting broken again.”

Your body shook with the force of your sobs. This was it. You were finally letting it all out, after months, years of shutting everyone out. Kyle just scooted closer and put an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer until your head rested on his chest. He didn’t say anything. He just let you bawl your eyes out.

“God, and he’s so…” You stammered, frustration knotting your throat. “S-So infuriating. It’s like he wants to humiliate me sometimes.”

“I'm sure that’s not his actual intention,” he said gently. “You know he’s not good with words. Or thoughts.”

“I hated him so much at first, I really did,” you said, weeping into his grey cotton shirt. “I don’t even know when this started. But I want it to end. Now.”

“You can’t just do that, doll,” he said, his voice a low hum reverberating through his firm chest. 

A choked sob wracked through you, frustration spilling out in thick, uneven gasps. “I’ve tried. I have tried so fucking hard, Kyle.”

You cried for a while—about Simon, about how much of a bastard he was, about how he never said anything but his actions always felt like a confession. You cried about the way he watched you, the way he lingered in doorways, the way his voice always softened when he said your name. Kyle listened to it all without judging.

And then, between sniffles and bitter laughs, you whispered, “George saw me as I was.” A shaky exhale. “But Simon… he sees through me.”

Kyle went still.

Your voice cracked. “It terrifies me.”

After your sobs had subsided somewhat, Kyle finally said: “It’s worse if you repress it.”

You shook your head. “It’s worse if I let it happen.”

“Is it, really?” He said, letting the question hang in the air before continuing. “And don’t talk to me about fraternisation. Don’t think about that. It’s a non-issue. Think. Would it be that bad if something happened between the two of you?”

You sniffled, throat raw and eyes puffy. “I don’t think I wanna find out, Kyle. I just want to be at peace.”

His hand twitched over your shoulder. You knew he wanted to say more, but bit his tongue. It was no use. Instead, he pulled you into a warm hug, and let your breathing even out.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said.

On the coffee table, your phone kept vibrating every now and then. You knew who it was. You didn’t bother to check.

crossposted on AO3.

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[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 29 - had to open your mouth

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader (OC) ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 4.7k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: light descriptions of panic attacks and hyperventilation, some shoving ↣ playlist: bad decisions - bad omens // take me to church - hozier // tick tick boom - the hives // bangers + mash - radiohead previous // masterlist // next

↳ as part of price's scheme to get you and simon together, you're forced to endure a gruelling pub quiz session that ends terribly.

Hennessy and a lot of bad decisions - Bad Decisions, Bad Omens

Kyle wasn’t a fan of bonding time.

Not that he was antisocial (he wasn’t Simon), nor did he hate his team mates (he, in fact, actually liked them). No. It was the awkwardness that bonding time thrust upon him. The sheer torture of it all.

It was because you and Simon always managed to ruin the night for everyone with your bloody bickering.

He still remembered the dip incident almost two months ago. How Simon essentially stormed off after you’d sprayed him. That was one of the milder cases. During your earlier months Johnny and him had to physically restrain you to stop an all-out brawl when playing Uno.

Kyle had the feeling this time was no different—if you took away the fact that you and Simon were crazy for each other and were two seconds away from imploding.

No big deal. Nope.

Emotionally constipated cunts.

He knocked on your door at 4 PM. Price had called for official bonding time outside the base. It was a Sunday, so they were allowed to go into town for some R&R, and that included participating in a pub quiz (Price’s words).

So not only was his plan lame as fuck, he was forced to follow through as well.

Couldn’t it just have been a movie night? That would’ve been much easier. Sit you two together, force you to share a bowl of popcorn and a blanket, put on a racy movie, and give you some wine. Let nature take its course. Not this convoluted mess.

You opened the door and let him in, leaving it wide open. You were “airing out the room”. The windows were open, too. The citric, lemony scent of floor cleaner wafted through the air.

“Busy mornin’?” He asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame.

“Bled through my sheets and had to wash ‘em,” you said casually and sighed, plopping on the edge of the bed. “Figured I’d deep clean the entire room while at it, but now I have these stupid cramps beatin’ the hell out of me.”

He nodded. “Need paracetamol?”

You shook your head. God, he could see how deep your dark circles were. He’d never seen you so drained. 

“Already had two, but thanks.”

You sighed again, and patted the space next to you. Kyle took the invitation and sat down on the bed as you tied your boots.

“What’s wrong, doll?” He asked softly. “And don’t say your period. I know it’s more than that.”

“I just had a rough night, that’s all,” you said, but Kyle could see through the lie. It was definitely more than just a rough night. “Too tired to go out, anyway. But I guess it the Captain insists…”

See? Even she don’t wanna go. Fuckin’ pointless, this is.

It was Soap’s plan, actually, and a terrible one at that. But Price had the authority to execute it. Both men were so invested in getting you and Simon to fuck that they’d forgotten that, right now, it was the last thing you needed.

“Would’ve been better off playin’ Uno. We haven’t had a game night in weeks,” he said. 

“And then have Price wipe the floor with us again?” You scoffed. “No thanks.”

Kyle laughed, and silence fell. Not awkward, no. Silences with you were never awkward. Tense, maybe. But never awkward. He never felt like he had to fill the silence when around you. It was something he enjoyed about your friendship. 

He looked around your room, the small trinkets you’d collected over the years, your pink sheets, your lamps and fairy lights. It was hard to even imagine that this room belonged to a black ops soldier and not to a normal girl, but that’s who you were at heart, warm and soft and girly, despite the roughness of your exterior.

“You, uhh, alright with what happened yesterday?”

Your eyebrows scrunched. “What do you mean?”

“The cookies… Simon… Nothin’ happened?”

“No. Nothing happened. The cookies just… I got distracted.”

Kyle grinned. “Right. Simon distracted you.”

“Yeah—no! I-I mean…” You pinched the bridge of your nose. Kyle suppressed a chuckle. “Fuck’s sake.”

“You know you can just tell me, doll. You ain’t gotta carry it all by yourself.”

Your hands rubbed slow circles over your thighs, like you were soothing yourself, eyes trained on the floor. “Well, I don’t wanna burden anyone with it, Kyle.”

“It’s not a burden.” He placed a hand on your shoulder and squeezed affectionately. “You are not a burden.”

You nodded, then bit your lip and continued to lace your other boot in silence. Then:

“We almost kissed.”

Kyle blinked, confused. “Didn’t that happen at the gym?”

You shook your head, done with the boot, and straightened up. “We didn’t kiss at the gym. He never took off his mask.”

Now that surprised him. “You still don’t know what he looks like?”

You snorted. “Funny that, right?”

He bit his tongue. Tell you that he’d seen Simon unmasked a couple of times. That he had Simon’s face burned into his brain. But he refrained. That wouldn’t have been fair to you, would it?

“So what now?” He pivoted. “What happened in the kitchen?”

“The cookies happened.”

“Ah.”

“And then I got pissed at him and told him to fuck off.”

Kyle winced. “That’s… not nice.”

You shrugged. “Wasn’t tryin’ to be. I don’t… wanna talk about it.”

“One last question.”

You sighed. “Kyle—”

“Mick,” he interrupted. “One last question. Please.”

He had to gauge how ready you were. He has to make sure you were doing okay. What the others were planning… it had a huge chance of ending terribly. And because he knew who he was dealing with, he had to make sure he’d be right by your side to inevitably calm you down.

“Okay,” you relented. “No promises.”

He nodded. “Had you not been interrupted… would you have kissed him back?”

Your eyes widened at the question, and you pondered for a second. “I… plead the fifth.”

Kyle snorted. “We’re not in America, doll.”

You shrugged. “I plead the fifth regardless.”

She’s impossible. “Mick…”

“I said no promises.”

“I’m going to take that as a ‘yes’.”

You turned to him. “Take that as an ‘I am absolutely terrified of answering’.”

Kyle smirked. That was answer enough for him. “So yes.”

You sighed. “My god, I can’t with you.”

Tiny chuckles left your bodies. From an outside perspective, seeing you so in denial of your own feelings was, in truth, a bit hilarious. But as your friend, his heart ached whenever you avoided his questions or his advice. He could tell how deeply conflicted you were, how the slightest interaction with Simon put you in distress.

“Nobody knows about this, right?”

Oh, Jesus.

“Eh, well, I wouldn’t say—”

“Kyle.” You regarded him sternly, but panic briefly overtook your vision. “Nobody can know.”

Kyle chuckled nervously. “Not to bum you out, but you two ain’t exactly subtle.”

Your face fell. “I’m working on that.”

He gave you a look, but spoke softly for your sake. “On what? Sucking Simon’s face off?”

“On making sure that ‘us two’ doesn’t exist. You know fraternisation rules are fucking strict in here. We could lose our jobs.”

Kyle shook his head. “Price wouldn’t allow that and you know it.”

“I can’t take any risks. My position in both the States and the UK is precarious as it is.”

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I’m an american female soldier working in an international task force, Kyle. I fuck up, I get sent home.”

“Well, so do the rest of us. And I don’t think Laswell would leave you jobless for kissing Simon.”

“Simon is my superior officer,” you argued.

“You’re both lieutenants.”

“He has seniority. He's older. Even if the roles were reversed or we were the same age it would still count as fraternisation and I-”

You stopped in your tracks, eyes glued to the door. Kyle turned around to catch Simon passing by, almost like a shadow, eyes burning into you, noting how close you were sitting together. Had he been listening to your conversation all this time?

He caught the way your fingers tensed against the fabric of your jeans.

“I shouldn’t even be telling you this,” you whispered, shaking your head. 

“Yes, you should,” he reasoned. “We’re friends. I care about you.”

“I am your superior office, Kyle. We’re not in high school.”

He frowned. “Ah, so now, you’re going to play the authority card?”

“Yes,” you said sternly. “I think everyone here forgets that we have a hierarchy for a reason.”

Price’s voice resonated across the hall, urging everyone to leave immediately. You stood up with a sigh and grabbed your leather jacket from the coat rack next to your door.

Kyle didn’t buy a single thing you said.

“Come on, let’s go,” you beckoned, a bit too sharp.

Kyle stood up as well. “You know this conversation isn’t over.”

You glared at him. “It is. We don’t have to speak about it ever again. I’m not planning on pursuing anything. It was just a heat of the moment thing.”

Keep telling yourself that, he thought. “Sure.”

He didn’t have the energy to argue with you anymore. He’d need the rest to deal with the inevitable fallout of whatever happened tonight.

The pub was loud, but not unbearable. Top 40 hits blared through the speakers, but it was low enough that he could hear himself without issue. He always hated that about certain pubs—or worse, clubs. Screaming over the music? Absolute fucking nightmare. That’s why he always preferred house parties growing up.

The place wasn’t a complete shithole—Price had taste, after all. The drinks were solid, better than last time’s pub. Depending on tonight’s outcome, he’d make a point of returning here on future occasions.

Getting here was… a travesty.

They’d agreed to take their cars this time. Price had no desire to drink, wanting to keep his eyes and ears peeled for the occasion. He was almost treating it like an actual mission.

You had shared a placidly quiet ride with Price, enjoying his music selection like you were just two normal people, not soldiers trained to kill. According to you, he had great taste.

And Kyle?

Kyle had been forced to drive Simon and Johnny

Johnny at least was good company. His music taste was passable at best. But Simon? The tosser stunk the backseats with his sulking, silent and vaguely pissed off about something. Kyle had half a mind to ask what crawled up his arse, but he already knew.

You.

Whatever you’d said in your room had done something, because Simon had been acting like he was properly pissed off the entire way here.

Now you sat in your chosen booth, sandwiched between Simon and the wall, because of course Johnny and Price did their damnedest to ensure you two sat together. Of course. It was all according to plan.

Kyle’s brow twitched as he saw Simon down his first pint of the night. Jesus. It had only been twenty minutes since you arrived, and you’d barely had your first sip. Johnny wasn’t even halfway his.

“Alright, folks,” the quiz master announced through the mic, just a couple of tables away from them. “In a few minutes I’ll be handing you sheets and pens to start the quiz. Remember that it’s groups of max four people. Extra ten points for the most creative name.”

Kyle barely had time to register the rules before Price let out a deeply unbothered shrug and—without hesitation—said, “Oh well, look, we’re already split. Soap and Gaz, on me. Simon and Mick, you play as a team.”

He saw it coming from a mile away. Though Kyle had been privy to Johnny and Price’s planning session, he’d dissociated through most of it out of guilt. Manipulative bastards.

Simon looked indifferent. You, however, looked ready to commit war crimes. 

After a painful second, you just inhaled sharply and clenched your jaw, and then took another sip of your beer. “Got it.”

Before either of you could make a move, Price not-so-gently guided you towards the adjacent table. Big enough for just two people. “Can’t have you muppets lookin’ at our answers”

Reluctantly, you grabbed your drink and switched tables, while Simon approached the bar to get his second pint.

Kyle switched to the other side of the booth, sighing. This was going to be a long night.

The quiz master passed by, handing you two sheets per team, and one pen. Johnny immediately took ownership of it, writing down the team’s name without consulting. Kyle didn’t care. Instead, he glanced at Price who, without missing a beat, kicked him under the table.

Kyle hissed. “What the fuck?”

“Don’t lose sight of ‘em,” he muttered, sipping his Coke like nothing happened.

He glanced aside. You and Simon were engrossed in your phones, ignoring each other’s presence. So far, so great. 

Kyle’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Price gave him a knowing look. “Nonsense. Teamwork makes the dream work.”

“That’s not—”

“They work well together,” Johnny piped up, resting his chin on his fist. “You just have to force ‘em a bit.”

Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing too well that you were like two seconds away from breaking. “Bonding time always ends in disaster.”

Price scoffed. “That’s not true.”

Kyle gave him a pointed look. “Remember Uno?”

Price conveniently pretended not to hear that.

Across the table, Johnny smirked, ever the instigator. “Do ye, or do ye not, want them to be together?”

Kyle let out a slow breath. “Not at the expense of their peace of mind.”

Price frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

Kyle hesitated. He wanted to say it. That you weren’t just avoiding Simon for no reason. That this wasn’t just sexual tension—you were standing at the edge of something that neither of you knew how to handle.

That you were genuinely struggling with whatever the hell this was.

“I think Mick—”

Before he could finish, the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers. “Alright, let’s get started! First round, history.”

Johnny leaned back, grinning like a menace. Finally.

Kyle glanced at the name written on their answer sheet. Johnny had named their team ‘Quiz in My Pants’.

Kyle groaned. This night was already a disaster.

Round One: History

You held the pen. More like strangled it. Kyle supervised carefully. The bickering was low-key at first, more like quiet sniping than an outright war. You both clearly didn’t want to be here.

By the fifth question, Simon was finishing his second pint.

“D’you reckon this is working?” He asked, not able to make out what you were saying.

Johnny, who’d been busy scribbling out the answer, replied. “Just ye wait. Same as last time. She’ll drink too much, and he’ll carry her out of here, and they’ll be smitten, and that’ll be that.”

Kyle looked at Simon fiddling with his glass, itching to go and order a third pint.

“At this rate, I think we’ll be the ones carrying him out.”

Price just waved him off. “Son, he just needs some liquid courage. He’ll be fine.”

Kyle begged to fucking differ.

Round Two: Geopolitics

This was where things started to unravel. The bickering got louder. Kyle could actually make out the words now, and it was getting heated.

“You’re wrong. The British Empire didn’t extend to Vietnam,” you said, writing down the answer.

Simon gulped down a generous amount of beer. “Britain has territories everywhere. Sun never setd on the British Empire. Know that?”

You squinted, annoyed. “I have a political science degree, don’t talk to me about geopolitics, man.”

“You went to college?”

“You didn’t?”

Kyle winced. Christ. The shift in your voice was subtle, but dangerous. You had such a short temper, and Simon knew how to push your buttons just as well as you pushed his.

“I didn't know Mick had a college degree,” Johnny mumbled.

Kyle sighed, arms crossed. “Most of us have degrees, mate. Didn’t you do chemistry?”

Price sipped his drink, totally unfazed. “Never went to uni. I just enlisted. You?”

Kyle shrugged. “Software engineering.”

The round continued, but so did Mick and Simon’s petty war.

Kyle gromaced. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Price’s attention remained on the quiz master. “Shush.”

Round Three: Name the Animal

This is when things got loud. For some reason, you and Simon were passionate about animals.

“I’m tellin’ you that’s a fuckin’ sea otter,” you hissed.

“Are you daft?” Simon snapped, equally exasperated. His speech had begun to slur a little, considering he was halfway down his third pint.

He’s proper drunk now. Great.

“I know what my eyes are seein’.”

He scoffed and shook his head. He was being more expressive than usual. Perhaps it was the alcohol. “Gimme that paper,” he said, snatching it out of your hands. “I watch animal documentaries. I know my otters.”

He held up his hand expectantly, waiting for you to hand him the pen.

“Fine,” you groaned, slamming the pen onto the table. Hard “If we lose, that’s on you.”

Round Four: Pop Culture

Simon was fucking lost on this one, staring blankly at the questions displayed on the giant projector. So much so Kyle had to hold back a laugh. He’d reluctantly handed you the paper back, letting you answer all the questions effortlessly.

Except for question seven.

“Wait, no, that’s Robbie fucking Williams, Mick. What the actual fuck?”

You squinted. “Who?”

“Robbie. Williams.”

You shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

Simon looked personally insulted. “Are you shitting me? He’s one of the most well-known singers ever. Man’s everywhere.”

You rolled your eyes. “Nobody in the States knows who he is.”

“How American of you.”

The quiz had reached its midpoint, and all teams exchanged papers to grade. You excused yourself to the bathroom meanwhile.

Price took it upon himself to grade yours. Kyle glanced at the name: M&S. 

“That’s clever,” he mused. “In a corporate kind of way.”

“Aye, they could use a little sweetness in their life, no?” Johnny joked.

“Should’ve named ours Sainsbury’s or something,” Kyle continued. “Not Jizz in my Pants or whatever the fuck.”

“It’s Quiz in my Pants, and I was trying ta be funny.”

Price finished grading, and exchanged papers with Simon just as you returned.

“So? How did we do?” Johnny asked.

Price scratched his beard, looking at their sheet. “29 out of 40.”

Kyle nodded. “Not bad.”

Johnny scoffed. “Not bad? That’s pathetic! How are we supposed to win first place if we keep fucking up? What’s their score anyway?”

Price sighed. “37 out of 40.”

Kyle’s eyes widened.

Johnny chuckled. “Tellin’ ye. They work great together.”

Kyle looked at Simon, who was now on his fifth pint of the night.

Your glass? Still half full.

Kyle sighed. “Yeah. Real great.”

Round Five: Science

It began with a single question.

And devolved into pure chaos.

“That’s not true,” you said. “The moon doesn’t actually have a dark side.”

“Yeah, it fuckin’ does.”

“It doesn’t. It’s tidally locked to the Earth, so the same side always faces us, but it’s still illuminated by the sun,” you explained.

Simon rolled his eyes. “It’s called the dark side for a reason.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Yeah, because of Darth Vader, you idiot.”

Kyle, trying to prevent violence, chimed in from his table. “You’re both right, technically—”

Simon glared at him. “Shut the fuck up, Garrick.”

Round Six: Relationships and Sex

This was it. This was the kicker. You sat stiffly across each other when the announcer named the category, staring at each other uncomfortably. Not even Price could plan a situation such as this.

A storm was forming, and it was only a matter of time before it went out of control. This, Kyle knew for sure.

The first three questions were tame. Easy. You wrote down the answers, blushing slightly, and Kyle didn’t have to do any mental gymnastics to know why. Simon just stared at your hand, analysed your handwriting, too uncomfortable to bother speaking. At this point Kyle had lost count of how many pints Simon had gone through.

“Couldn’t have planned this better, I tell you,” Price said, smugly munching on the chips Johnny had ordered.

Kyle muttered. “You just want them to humiliate themselves.”

“We’re trying to get them to see the light on their own accord,” he explained unapologetically. “Just a little push—”

The quiz master interrupted Price’s question with their own.

“What percentage of people admit to having sex dreams about a coworker?”

You audibly choked on your beer.

Kyle’s entire table whipped their heads toward you.

You coughed, wiping your mouth, before slowly turning toward them, eyes flashing pure, unfiltered murder.

Kyle blinked, utterly confused. What the fuck was that?

You, however, tried to regain your composure, tapping the pen against the table as you scanned the multiple choices on the projector. “W-What do think? I think it’s B. But C also sounds plausible.”

Simon shrugged, his voice dripping with a previously unseen drunken confidence. “Pff, I don’t know. You didn’t seem to have any trouble dreamin’ about me.”

You froze mid-writing. Kyle snapped his head up so fast his neck actually cracked. Johnny and Price immediately perked up like bloodhounds catching a scent.

Your face went as white as the sheet in your hands. “What?”

Simon, too drunk to realise he just casually dropped a nuclear fucking bomb, took another sip of his beer. “You know. The walls are thin.”

Kyle couldn’t believe this. He briefly glanced at Johnny, who seemed as flabbergasted as him. Price shot him a look that screamed ‘what the actual fuck is going on?’.

You stared at him, motionless. The rest of the pub kept buzzing about like nothing had happened. The quiz master moved onto the next question, but none of you heard it. Your tables were dead fucking silent.

“What. The hell. Are you talking about,” you said, gripping the pen a little too tightly.

And then Simon set his pint down, just a little too sure of himself. “Come on, Mick. I could hear you moaning my name last night. D’you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Kyle’s stomach dropped. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.

He heard Price set his drink down. “Good grief.”

This was it. You were about to crash out. He could already see it. He fucking knew this wasn’t going to end well. He warned Price this would happen. But did anyone listen to him?

The whole table exchanged panicked looks. This was not how it was supposed to go. Simon wasn’t supposed to open his fucking mouth.

He was one more stupid comment away from decking his CO in the face.

You sat there, face pale, no doubt going into shock, gripping the pen so hard until your knuckles turned white.

You shook your head once. “I can’t,” you said, voice shaky as you pushed back your chair. “I can’t do this.”

Simon, blinking, sobered up slightly. His expression shifted—panic, confusion, realisation, regret. So much regret. As if shocked that those words had left his mouth.

“Shit, I—” He began.

“I need air.”

“Mick—”

“Save it.”

Kyle was already up, moving before you broke completely. He’d been there for you before, he’d be here now. “Come on,” he murmured, guiding you away.

Outside, the night air was crisp and cold. The second you stepped out, you took a deep breath, like you’d been deprived of oxygen, and stumbled against the nearest wall, hands in your hair, gripping, pulling.

She’s imploding. She’s crumbling completely. My god, what do I do?

“Hey, hey, doll,” he muttered, standing close but trying not to suffocate you. He’d lived through enough panic attacks in his life to know how to handle them. You needed space, yes, but you also needed support. Guidance. “Breathe for me, okay?”

You shook your head violently. “I can’t do this. I can’t. I need to get out of here.”

He nodded. “That’s fine, we’ll take my car—”

“No, you’re not getting it.” You turned to him, fear and desperation settled in your eyes. “I need to get away. I need to not see him.”

Kyle’s stomach twisted. You were spiraling hard. Panicking. Falling apart at the seams.

He hesitated before rubbing your back. You didn’t pull away. Good. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, trying to sound as soothing as possible. “Count to ten with me, yeah?”

You shook your head again. “Take me to London.”

Kyle stilled. “...What?”

“I-I need a break, Kyle,” your voice broke. “I need to get the fuck out of here. I’m going insane. Please.”

His heart sank. He’d never seen you so raw, so vulnerable. Part of him wanted to say yes. Whisk you away to his flat in London and keep you safe and happy. He wanted to tell you that everything would be fine, that you would get out of this. That you weren’t trapped. What else could he fucking do?

But before he could answer, the door to the pub slammed open, and out stumbled Simon, tailed by Johnny and Price, who were doing their best to keep him upright and begging him to stay the fuck still.

“Yer only going ta make this worse,” Johnny whispered harshly.

Under his touch, he felt you tense again. You straightened up, steeling yourself.

Simon halted a few paces away, looking utterly fucking wrecked, even through the mask.

“Mick, I—”

“Don’t fucking talk to me,” you spat.

Simon edged closer. “Just listen—”

“I told you to shut the fuck up.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

You walked up to him and jabbed him in the chest, anger rolling off you in waves. “I don’t wanna fuckin’ hear it.”

Kyle immediately caught you by the shoulders before you could do some damage. Price stepped in between you, while Johnny pulled Simon back. The last thing you needed was a physical fight. And a drunken one, at that.

“Hey, how about we all calm the fuck down?”

You ignored him, breathing hard, eyes shooting daggers at Simon. “You had no right to say that.”

Simon’s words slurred, he was losing his balance. Just how many pints had this man drunk?

“I’m tellin’ you I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re NOT!” You yelled, voice cracking. “You’re not one bit sorry. Had to open your mouth, didn’t you?”

You broke free from Kyle’s grip, walking over to Simon. “Can’t you just fucking let me breathe for a second?” 

Before anyone could react, you shoved Simon back. 

Johnny gasped. “Whoa, whoa!”

Price’s eyes widened. “Mick!”

Kyle grabbed you instantly, pulling you toward him. “Hey—”

Your body was trembling, whether from anger or panic, he didn’t know. But he knew he had to get you out of here as soon as possible. You were hyperventilating again.

Everyone went still. Silent. Simon didn’t fall from the shove, but he stumbled back a few paces. He took it all without a sound, completely stunned.

He didn’t wait for approval. “We’re going now,” he announced.

He shot Price a look, who nodded. He began to pull you in direction of his car, but Simon tried to follow. Kyle gritted his teeth. Releasing you and stopping Simon with a hand on his chest, keeping his own anger in check.

“I think you’ve done enough, mate,” he seethed.

Simon clenched his jaw, his bloodshot eyes looking past Kyle’s shoulder, straight to you, then back at him.

“I need to apologise,” he responded gruffly, looking ready to fight Kyle right then and there.

He would’ve done it. Gladly. He didn’t care that Simon was taller, or stronger. He was fed up with this whole situation, and Simon’s complete lack of sense.

Why you liked Simon was beyond him.

Kyle stood still, unrelenting. “Si. You’re my mate, and you know that,” he began, clenching his free fist. “But if you take another step, I will fucking deck you.”

The two men held their gazes for a whole moment, before Simon finally stepped back, dragged by Johnny and Price, who tried their best to stabilise him.

Kyle finally sighed. Crisis averted. He grabbed your hand tightly, and led you towards his car. 

The walk was silent. Shocked. Stunned.

The helped you in, held your hand all the way, then climbed onto the drivers seat. The moment the doors closed, your lips quivered, and you finally broke down in tears.

crossposted on AO3.

taglist: @joufrance @callsign-denmark @lostintro @readingthingy @maskfan25 @theonottsblog @ficcharsimp @defronix @sarcasticwalrus0 @nina-from-317 @w0ede @jamesrifftapes @simons-missus @ofthesouthernislesjohn @dumbledoom @kittykatgorl @lolo1821

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[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 28 - little deaths

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader (OC) ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 3.7k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: lots of self-loathing; NSFW (male and female masturbation, fantasies, penetrative sex, fingering) ↣ playlist: all i need - radiohead // shameless - camila cabello // imagine - ariana grande // wicked game - chris isaak previous // masterlist // next

↳ it's hot outside. you're going insane. there's only one way to get this over with.

What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you — Wicked Game, Chris Isaak

The night was thick, heavy, suffocating.

Sleep had evaded you for hours, slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you chased it. You had done everything—tossed and turned, scrubbed yourself raw in the shower, let cool water drip down your feverish skin, lit a jasmine-scented candle, played the kind of music that was supposed to lull you into oblivion. Nothing worked.

But at some point, exhaustion took over. Your limbs went slack. Your breathing slowed. Rest, at last.

And then he appeared.

Like clockwork, Simon barged into your subconsciousness like he belonged there. This time, though, it wasn’t tense, nor frantic or desperate. There was no hard fucking, no clawing at his back, no filthy words mumbled to the shell of your ear.

This time, Simon kissed you.

You were in the kitchen, like earlier this morning, and he was kissing you deeply. Properly. Lips slotted against yours like a puzzle piece. He cupped your face, tilting your chin up as his lips moved against yours, slow and purposeful. Your fingers fisted his shirt, clutching the cotton like a lifeline, afraid that if you let go, he would disappear.

Then the kiss deepened. He slid his tongue into your mouth as he hoisted you onto the kitchen counter, stepping in between your legs to pull you in closer. His mouth ghosted over your jaw, then nipped at the column of your neck possessively.

His fingers dipped underneath your shirt, gently tracing random patterns on your back, inciting gooseflesh. Then came his voice, heavy and quiet, like a confession.

“What are you doing to me?”

Your stomach clenched, pulse pounding in your chest. This was different. This was new. Every dream before had been feverish, frantic, animalistic—a haze of sweat and heat and desperation. But this? This was slower. This was intimate.

And that terrified you more than anything.

You reached for his mask, fingers curling around the fabric, peeling it away. You needed to see him. But his face blurred. Hazy and indistinct, like a forgotten memory. A shadow. A ghost.

Frustration curled in your chest, but Simon didn’t let you dwell on it. He captured your lips again, firmer this time, with a bit more force, a little more teeth. His hands slid lower. His fingers gripped tighter. His tongue teased yours, and you—

You woke up.

The room was pitch black, but the heat in your body burned bright. You tore the blanket off, kicking it aside, lungs straining for air. Your skin was damp, slick with sweat, your pyjamas clinging uncomfortably to your overheated body.

Your cunt ached, sticky and wet between your thighs, begging for something. Anything. Scraps of attention. Something to hold on to.

And suddenly you were angry. Not at Simon, nor the dream. No, you were angry at yourself.

How could one almost-kiss reduce you to a trembling, burning, aching mess? How dare you get horny over Simon’s perfect lips ghosting atop yours?

Ruined. You’re fucking ruined. He’s ruined you, and you don’t even know what he looks like. Pathetic bitch.

Your nails dug into the sheets. Your hips shifted. The heat was unbearable, and the fabric sticking to your body only overwhelmed you further, so you peeled your clothes off, threw them somewhere on the floor, and stared at the ceiling in frustration. Hopefully, if you stayed still, sleep would come to you again.

Your pussy throbbed again, reminding you of its neglect. You needed release now, or else you were going to truly go insane.

But you’re not just horny, aren’t you? Your mind said. You like him. You want him. You need him.

And what if you touched yourself now, just to get it over with? Would that suffice? Would that erase the carnal need in you? Would that finally exorcise Simon from your system?

Maybe that’s what you really needed. An orgasm. Release. Climax. It had been, what, five years since you last had sex? Since you’d ever been touched? Hell, you couldn’t remember the last time you were aroused by anything. Your libido had pretty much died when you fell into depression after George’s death. You got used to a sexless existence. You embraced the detachment it brought your mind. It allowed you to think clearly.

You’d spent so long ignoring your body’s pleas that now sexual arousal felt alien to you. Your mind couldn’t comprehend what your body begged for. You were at war with yourself.

But what if, this time, rather than fight it, you let go? Just this once?

Orgasms are like food, fuel to the body. Maybe that’s just what your body needed. Fuel. To keep going. Maybe that would make you stop torturing yourself. All you needed was a good self-love session.

A chill ran down your body. You shivered and pulled the blanket back up, then buried your face on the pillow, exhaustion weighing your eyelids down. Every day was more tiring than the last, and you weren’t sure how much longer you were going to go on like this. You just wanted this to be over, to be free from your own feelings. You’d rather continue feeling numb than deal with the mess that was Simon. 

He represented everything you worked hard to distance yourself from. Every aspect of a man that you vowed never to touch again. Hard-lined, no-nonsense, extremely competent, serious, in control, and, most importantly, your superior officer.

If you allowed this… whatever this was, to go on, things would only end up badly. You knew it from experience. You had to kill the problem at the root.

So no, you weren’t going to masturbate. Fuck that. Fuck him. You weren’t about to succumb to your pussy’s whims. You had autonomy over yourself. You could think with your brain, not your clit. Things were going to be okay. You were going to be okay.

As sleep washed over you again, you briefly considered taking another cold shower, but you were too exhausted to even lift a finger.

In your second dream, you were back at the gym.

You were on top, grinding against the bulge in his sweatpants. Kyle was nowhere to be seen. It was just you and Simon dry humping in the mats like a pair of horny dogs. His clothed cock, big as it was, wasn’t enough, just rubbing against your clothed pussy. No, you needed him inside. You needed him to fill the void in your cunt and your heart. To fill you up completely.

He pulled his mask up to his nose, revealing his sharp jawline, and kissed your neck as he met his thrusts with yours. You caressed the hairs at his nape, throwing your head back to give him more room to worship. He licked your sweat, bit whatever parts he could reach, marking you as his.

Pleasure shot down to your cunt, and you pushed harder against him, earning a soft “Fuck” from him. More, more, more, more. Please just fuck me now, I can’t handle this.

His lips found yours, eager and desperate, as he flipped you over, tongue deeply exploring the crevices of your mouth. Now in control, he thrust into your clothed cunt, a low grunt rumbling in his chest. He took his mask off, and again you were met with the same blurry haze from before. But he gave you no respite, for he pinned your wrists to the mat with just one large hand, and you didn’t fight him. You didn’t dare. You wanted this. You wanted his weight on top of you. You wanted him to suffocate you.

“God, what are you doing to me, Mick?” Simon repeated as his free hand slid down your body. “You’re makin’ it hard f’ me to concentrate.”

Your eyes met just as his hand cupped your sex over your tight, wet shorts. A tiny gasp escaped your mouth.

“Hard to concentrate thinkin’ about your pretty cunt.”

You jolted awake, clutching your chest, as your heart raced a thousand miles per hour. 

No no no no no no no not again, not a-fucking-gain, not again. Why, why, why?

You sat up, kicking the covers off once more, your skin clammy and feverishly sweaty. It had felt so real, the weight of him, his fingers, his breath on your face, his tongue tangled with yours. His lips. Dear god.

You couldn’t go on like this. You needed him badly. But you couldn’t, wouldn’t, have him. Not in good conscience.

You squeezed your thighs in desperation, a wanton whimper escaping your mouth. You wanted to cry from the frustration. Please, just something. I need something. I need him. Give me something. 

Your left hand cupped your breast, heavy and perked up, fingers rolling and pinching your nipple, while your right hand caressed your stomach, then your hips, as you awkwardly shuffled on the bed. All those places that Simon had touched in your dream with those thick, calloused fingers—you touched them with the same need, the same utter desperation.

Releasing your breast, you favoured your neck this time, head thrown back to give you some space. You squeezed it just so, hips undulating, chasing the ghost of a hand that was never there.

“Please,” you whimpered in a tortured voice, interrupted by ragged breaths.

In your mind, the mattress below you dipped. He lay next to you, hand on your neck, squeezing ever so slightly, keeping you in place, his soft lips on your mouth, where they belonged. His other hand gently caressed your skin, helping you settle, calming you. 

“What are you doing to me?” You whispered, thighs still pressed together to make the throb go away. It wasn’t working.

His hand reached your thighs. “Nothing you wouldn’t want me to do.”

He kissed your temple, then squeezed your neck for good measure. “Open up, love. C’mon.”

Your legs parted with slight hesitation. Your hand—his hand—slid down to cup your sex. The room was scorching hot, and your pussy felt even hotter. Hot and wet and slippery. You whimpered.

“Good girl,” Simon whispered in your delirium. His fingers—your fingers, you couldn’t really tell—parted your lips, then rubbed small, tentative circles on your clit, tearing a small moan from your throat. God, you were so sensitive, so pent up, that your body shivered.

Pleasure shot up your spine as you continued, increasing the speed, pretending that Simon whispered filthy things in your ear in his gruff voice. It was almost like he was there.

He kissed your temple again. “Mine,” he said. “All mine.”

Your cunt clenched around thin air. Your hips bucked up, and you felt lighter than usual. Lighter and emptier. You needed that extra weight on top of you. Needed to be filled. You needed him on top of you, filling you up, stretching you out with his cock. You’d felt it, back at the gym. The monstrous bulge in his sweatpants. It made you salivate. You rubbed harder, pads pressing your clit, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t Simon.

So you plunged two fingers deep inside of you, as far as the length of your fingers allowed, but again, it wasn’t enough. It felt good, regardless, pretending that he had this control over you.

You squeezed your neck hard enough to hurt, but not enough to stop the airflow, while your fingers curled inside you with vigor. Wet sounds echoed across the room.

“Fuck,” you moaned, tears welling up in your eyes. “Fuck me, please. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

The Simon in your fantasy kept fucking you with his fingers, lips pressed to your temple. “Say my name, love. Say it.”

“S-Simon,” you whimpered, back arching off the bed. Scalding hot tears spilt down your face, staining the pillows below. You choked yourself harder, nails leaving small indents in the skin.

“Tell me what you need, love,” he whispered gently, contrasting the calculated precision of his—your—movements.

“I need you, p-please, Simon.” Your voice wavered, a knot in your throat mangling your words. 

“What do you want?”

Say it, your conscience told you. You know you want it. You know you want him. Say it.

“I want your cock inside me.”

You felt his lips curl into a smile, kissing your temple once more before slotting himself between your thighs, and sliding his thick, hard cock into you, replacing his fingers. You fucked yourself harder at the thought, fingers curling, palm grinding against your clit, chasing that final push over the edge. Juices dripped out of your hole and into the sheets below. You didn’t even want to think of doing the laundry tomorrow.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.” Your hips moved in tandem with your fingers, catching as much friction as you could. You choked yourself harder as you envisioned him fucking you thoroughly. 

He was everywhere. In your mind, in your eyes, in your skin, in your heart. You couldn’t erase him if you tried. You didn’t want to. You wanted him here, next to you, over you, under you, inside you. He was all you could think of. All you could breathe.

His name rolled off your lips like a prayer. For a brief moment, you wondered why you never said it before, because it tasted so good on your tongue.

“Suck a good girl, taking my cock like this,” Simon said. You could almost picture his tattoo sleeve on the hand squeezing your neck. Your pussy clenched around your fingers. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”

A knot formed in your throat again. “Y-yes.”

“You’re mine.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I’m yours.”

In your vision, he wrapped your legs around his torso, pushing his weight onto you, pushing himself deeper in you. All you could see were his deep brown eyes, half-lidded and fucked out like at the gym.

“Say my name,” he commanded.

“Simon.” You obeyed, the tension in your lower belly rising. You were so close now. So close to the finish line, to freeing yourself from these shackles.

“Louder.”

More tears flowed, hot enough to burn and sting your eyes. “F-fuck, Simon!”

Your entire body shook, as your moans grew louder. Though you tried your best to keep it quiet, it was as if your body was possessed by something otherworldly. You no longer had any control over your actions. All that mattered was your pleasure. All that mattered was crossing the finish line.

The Simon in your mind groaned with satisfaction, kissing you roughly as he pounded his thick cock into you, and that image became your undoing. Your legs trembled as you said his name one final time in a choked-out sob, as your orgasm finally crashed into you with force. Waves after waves of pleasure ripped out of your body, leaving you breathless and rendering you immobile.

After it was done, you released your neck, slid your fingers out, and lay on our bed, looking at the ceiling, absolutely spent. Filthy. Sweaty. Sticky. Tears still flowed down your face as your breathing evened out.

For a moment you thought you’d find some respite after this. And fuck, it felt good to finally act on your impulses for once, to finally feel pleasure after five years of numbness. For a moment, you thought doing this would make you feel better.

In all honesty, you’d never felt worse than how you felt right now.

A tiny sob left your mouth, as the knot on your throat tightened. This did not make it any better. Stupid bitch. Did you think that rubbing one out would help? You’re fucked. Absolutely fucked.

You curled up into a ball, trying desperately to catch your breath, but failing. As you sobbed into the pillow, your thoughts spiralled.

Weak. You’re weak. Stupid. You lost your composure again. Dirty whore. You lost control. 

How many times can you fail until you realise that you’re utterly fucked? 

This will bite you in the ass later. 

You’re forgetting George. You’re forgetting what happened to him. Traitor. Betrayer. Have you no dignity?

Price will find out. Command will find out. You’ll get fired. This will end badly. You are going to kill him.

Control yourself.

Whore.

Whore.

Whore.

Weak.

Weak.

You don’t deserve him.

You don’t deserve happiness.

You don’t deserve Simon.

You don’t deserve love.

You don’t deserve anything.

This is your punishment. He is your punishment.

Simon had been tossing and turning in the dark for the better part of the night. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest—this was a nightly occurrence for him. He mostly got three hours of sleep per night. Four on good days. 

Damn his insomnia.

Perhaps he should’ve listened to you when you told him to take melatonin pills.

You.

You. You. You. You.

He’d been replaying this afternoon’s events over and over in his head. He’d almost had you this time. For fuck’s sake. He’d only managed to get a taste of your lips before John fucking Mactavish, the bastard, cockblocked him.

It seemed that every time he tried to make a move, every time he tried to get close to you, the world conspired against him.

He was getting tired of these constant interruptions.

And now you were pissed at him again. This time for something he didn’t even do!

Way to go, Simon. You bastard. You always seem to find a way to fuck it up, don’t you, Simon? Simon? Simon.

“S-Simon.”

Huh?

His eyes shot open. What the fuck was that?

“Fuck.”

The sound was muffled. Tiny. Desperate. Coming from the other side of the wall. His wall. His bedroom wall. The wall right next to his bed. The wall that separated your room from his. The wall that, surely, was right next to your bed, too.

Was he imagining things? Surely it couldn’t be. You never said his name. No matter how much he tried to get you to say it. It was the one line you wouldn’t cross.

But that’s when he heard it. Clear as day.

A moan.

Small and soft and fucked out, coming from the other side of the wall. His cock twitched in his boxers. He knew the walls were thin. Paper thin. He’d heard you countless times laughing at something while on calls with, presumably, your family. He’d heard you play music on your speakers, or watch movies on your laptop. He never minded. You always kept it at a low volume, even though he could clearly hear it. Nothing that some noise-cancelling headphones couldn’t fix.

But not this. Never this.

You moaned again.

“I need you, p-please, Simon.”

Oh.

Fuck.

The world shifted around him.

Blood rushed to his cock, swelling immediately.

“I want your cock inside me.”

You were masturbating.

To the thought of him.

You were calling his name.

His fucking name.

No Riley. No Ghost. Simon.

And you were fucking moaning it. Fucking yourself to the thought of it.

Your beds were against the wall. Your beds shared a wall. You’d been so close to him all this time. Less than a metre away. So close, yet so far. You had been sleeping next to each other all this time without knowing.

And less than a metre away, you were masturbating while thinking of him.

Lord help him.

He sat upright, hand flying to palm his dick through his underwear. It was already hard. Less than thirty seconds and he was stiff as hell. You whimpered. His cock twitched again.

Simon scooted closer to the wall, and rested his back against it, angling his head to hear you better. His jaw clenched. This was wrong. So wrong, on so many levels. 

Pervert. Filthy animal. Weak.

He wondered briefly what you were doing. If your fingers rubbed your swollen, sensitive clit, or if they were deep inside of you, going in and out, juices dripping out of your pussy. God what he’d give to lick it all up, make you come the right way, worship you the right way, taste you properly.

You’re a fucking pervert. This is why she runs away from you. You scare her.

But if he scared you, then why were you moaning his name?

He fished his cock out of his boxers, swollen and angry and desperate. Just as fucking desperate as your moans. Ever-increasing in volume. God, you sounded so fucking wrecked. He couldn’t even begin to think of the things running through your head.

How did you picture him, when you didn’t know his face at all?

Did you picture his hands?

Did you think of what happened at the gym?

Because he did. All the time. He replayed the memory over and over. Fantasised about it until his dick was raw. Came over and over to the thought of you stuffed full of his cock on the training mats. He hoped you thought about it too.

“I’m yours.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. No fucking way you just said that.

Simon stroked himself hard and fast. There was no time to play around with his racing thoughts. He wanted to catch every whimper, every cry, every sound that came from your pretty lips. Burn it into his brain.

You were his. You finally admitted it. And he was yours. Irrevocably, terrifyingly, obscenely, completely yours. From the ends of his hair to the soles of his feet. All yours.

If only you knew.

You repeated his name over and over. All tiny cries and whimpers and stuttered words made Simon fuck himself faster, grip his cock harder. God, he was embarrassingly close.

He came in two minutes.

Just as you cried out his name one final time, Simon bit his fist to prevent any sound from coming out. But he wanted to moan your name just as bad, show you how much he wanted you, kiss you when he came.

Thick spurts of semen coated his hand as he sat there, staring off at the distance as his head, his heart, and his cock throbbed in tandem. He was tired of these games. You fucking wanted him. Then why did you hesitate? What pulled you back? Was it because of the fraternisation rules? He could work that out. He didn’t care.

Just as long as he had you, he’d be fine.

He just wanted you—point blank. Fuck his self-control. Fuck everything else. You wanted him too. That was all he needed. The rest could be solved once you got there.

He just needed you to admit it to his face.

crossposted on AO3.

taglist: @joufrance @callsign-denmark @lostintro @readingthingy @maskfan25 @theonottsblog @ficcharsimp @defronix @sarcasticwalrus0 @nina-from-317 @w0ede @jamesrifftapes @simons-missus @ofthesouthernislesjohn @dumbledoom @kittykatgorl

lmk if you want to be added to the taglist!

[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 23 - weakness

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader (OC) ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 3.7k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: nsfw; heavy petting, grinding, foul language *evil laughter* ↣ playlist: hit me where it hurts - caroline polachek & chino moreno // a kiss with a fist - florence + the machine // change (in the house of flies) - deftones // movement - hozier previous // masterlist // next

↳ you and simon give sparring another try.

Promise one day you will hate me, but right now just ride it out — Hit Me Where It Hurts, Caroline Polacheck & Chino Moreno

You went back to the gym the next Saturday. The PT had advised you to wait it out a bit more as you had just ditched the crutches, but you felt ready. You were ready. After many insistent, and admittedly pathetic, whiny attempts, she relented and gave you the green light. But only on the condition that you wouldn’t push yourself. 

Fine. You could do without weights for a couple of weeks. 

To the machines you went. There was no time to waste.

At this hour of the night the gym was mostly empty. Most soldiers went into town on Saturdays, drowning their sorrows with cheap pints from any of the pubs in Hereford’s city centre. Hell, that was you a week ago. But tonight it was just you, at least two more soldiers, and the machines.

Good. 

You didn’t need people around to witness you uncomfortably shuffle from machine to machine, sticking with the lowest settings. Your leg still ached if you moved too fast, or if you rested on it for too long, but thankfully the therapy had worked its wonders. You wouldn’t be here had the PT not cleared you for physical activity. You might’ve been stubborn, but you weren’t stupid. Now you were back on your own, and damn, it felt good to be here, to finally move after nearly a month of sitting on your ass.

You’d texted Kyle to come meet you at the mats for a soft sparring session, but the man had yet to show up. Said he was running late or whatever. No biggie. You needed to warm up anyway.

First thing you noticed, walking past the weights section, was that Simon Riley was haunting the space, his back turned to you, curling a pair of dumbbells with practised ease. His back muscles rippled under the sweat-stained fabric of his grey shirt. Tonight he showed a bit of skin. The whole forearm, shiny with sweat. Perhaps it was the late hour. Perhaps he was just hot. British summers were weird, and these old buildings often lacked proper ventilation.

You swallowed heavily as you passed him by. This was no time to ogle. You half-expected him to turn your way and nod in acknowledgement. He didn’t. No nods, no words. Nada. Zero. 

Weird.

Still, you felt the burn of his piercing gaze in the back of your head after you passed him without a word. You didn’t dare turn back. It was no use. Not like you were expecting any sort of enthusiasm on his part, but ever since you came back from the pub, since you let him hold you in the back of the car, since you agreed to keep it cool, Riley had been… off.

Not like he’d reverted back to his rude ways, but his attitude was different. He ignored your presence now. Whenever you stepped into the room, he somehow found an excuse to leave. In the mornings, before the team left for training, he was the first to wake and the first to leave the flat. He was gone for most of the day. He ate at odd hours. And then he was the first to head back to bed. 

The first day you thought it was just a fluke. The second day, was a mere coincidence. On the third day, you suspected something fishy was going on.

Weren’t you supposed to be on good terms now? Did you do something to piss him off? Did you make him uncomfortable when you sat on his lap? The thought of it made your stomach churn.

Oh god, that must’ve been it, wasn’t it? You sat on his lap and said weird things while drunk and it made him uncomfortable and now he wasn’t able to look you in the eye. Shit.

Fine. If he was going to ignore you, then two could play that game.

You reached the row of ellipticals and, after locating your favourite, stretched slightly. The real warm-up would begin after this. You climbed onto the elliptical.

Just a few metres ahead, Riley stepped onto the treadmill, facing you.

You paid him no mind, tapping the screen and choosing a low resistance, then began pedalling. 

Minutes passed.

You focused on your steps, on the beat thumping in your ears, matching the pace. Your playlist was filled with cunty pop music that helped you keep a perfect stride. 

One, two, one, two. 

You stared ahead, gaze lost in the white paint of the walls, ignoring the fact that Riley was in your line of sight.

Don’t look at him.

You looked at him.

Damn you.

He had been staring at you the whole time.

You locked eyes. He didn’t look away.

Riley increased his speed, lengthening his strides. His pecs bounced with every step.

So it’s going to be like that, huh?

You gripped the handles tighter, never breaking eye contact. Who the hell did he think he was? Did he think he could just incite another staring contest as if he hadn’t been actively ignoring you this past week? Like you could just go back to… whatever weird thing was going on between you? Like it didn’t matter?

You increased the resistance and pace. Your thigh screamed in protest, but you ignored it. You were many things, but a weak bitch was not one of them. If somebody here was going to relent, it was going to be him.

Minutes pass.

Riley kept increasing the speed until he broke into a full-on sprint, never taking his eyes off you. Your thigh, on the other hand, kept protesting each time you increased the resistance, but you powered through well until the end of your workout half an hour later.

Your legs trembled when you dismounted the elliptical, sweat dripping down your back and chest, coating you in a thin, wet sheet. Riley looked no better, his grey t-shirt drenched in sweat. You wondered briefly if that damned mask ever suffocated him. A part of you pettily wished it did.

You grabbed your water bottle and walked towards the sparring mats with a huff, feet heavily stomping the ground just to keep your knees from giving out. If Kyle didn’t arrive soon you were going to strangle him…

The door to the combat area shut behind you and the lights flickered on. It was a large, open space, empty, and eerie this late at night. Last time you were here you sparred with Price and Riley, just before everything had gone to shit. You remembered storming off after knocking the wind out of Riley, letting your anger get the better of you. Even now you didn’t regret knocking him down a peg. At least he admitted he deserved that slap. 

You collapsed on the mat and sighed. After ditching the crutches you had insisted on going on long walks to keep you busy and active, but perhaps in your stubbornness, you had pushed too far this time. You glanced at the wound on your thigh—the stitches had already been removed, and only an angry pink scar remained. It would take long until it fully healed, but you didn’t care. You were alive. That was blessing enough.

As you settled into your long-practised deep stretching routine, muscle memory guiding you all the way through, the doors to the training area opened and closed. You expected Kyle to announce his arrival, but the hairs standing on the back of your neck and the overall silence told you enough.

“Everything all right?” Riley spoke several metres away. You heard the clink of his heavy metallic water bottle on the floor, and then footsteps behind you. His voice carried a casual tone that wouldn’t have surprised you last Saturday but now felt odd. Did he think he could just go back to normal after avoiding you all week?

You exhaled slowly, sitting upright and craning your neck to look up at him. “Yeah. Why?”

He crossed his arms. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

You scoffed. “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t gotten the green light, y’know.”

He cocked his head to the side. Bored. Unimpressed. Unreadable. “Just makin’ sure.”

You shook your head. “You sound like Price.”

“That supposed to be an insult?”

“Depends,” you grinned, tilting your head, “you growing a moustache anytime soon?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shifting his weight.

Well, that’s something.

You leaned forward, legs stretched out on the mat, loosening up your hamstrings. “You know,” you began, the weight of his gaze upon you, “about us never sparring again… I kinda regret saying that.”

He shifted slightly. “Still think you can beat me?”

“I technically did.”

“You slapped me in the face and left me standing there.”

You smirked. “Well, you already know why that happened, don’t you?”

He hummed in acknowledgement, absentmindedly rubbing his cheek. You wondered if he still felt the sting of the slap. Your hand tingled just from the memory.

“So you wanna give it a go now that you don’t technically hate my guts?” He said after a moment.

You sighed. “I don’t hate you, Riley.” 

Silence. 

“You frustrate me sometimes,” you admitted. “There’s a difference.”

He nodded, savouring your words for a moment. “Good to know,” he said, walking over to you and casually offering you a hand. “You sure you want to do this?”

You considered it for a moment. Kyle was nowhere to be seen, and you had a lot of pent-up energy that needed release. Riley didn’t seem fazed by your proposal either, so you took his hand. He pulled you up wordlessly, and your chest collided with his hard torso. Too close. Too warm. You almost forgot how to swallow.

“It’s just sparring,” you said, taking a step back, and unlacing your hands. Let’s just ignore that. “We don’t have to get all violent.”

He snorted, unfazed. “That’s the whole fuckin’ point.”

You rolled your eyes. “Aish, you know what I mean. Get in position.”

He gave you a once-over. “No gloves?”

“No gloves.”

He rolled his shoulders and sighed. “Fine. Have it your way. Don’t whine if I hit you too hard.”

You smirked, circling Riley like a predator. “Don’t hold back, then.”

He mimicked your movements, eyes locked onto yours. Reading you. Assessing you. Your leg protested with every step, but you stubbornly ignored it. It was only a matter of time before you got deployed again—you had to get used to the pain as quickly as possible now that you were cleared for action.

Without warning, he lunged.

You barely dodged his first strike, body twisting as you pivoted fast, but not as fast as him. Your fist swung in retaliation. He blocked it swiftly before countering with his own calculated attack, which you barely managed to parry.

He’s stronger. Always stronger, always faster, always better, always one step ahead. You have to be better. You have to be faster. You have to be smarter.

You stepped into his space for a takedown, but he didn’t let you get that far. Be smarter. Be quicker. You used his weight against him, dodging blows with fluidity, slipping through his defences just enough to keep yourself in the game.

It was a dance.

“That all you got?” You huffed, dodging one more strike. So far, none of you had managed to land a single blow on the other, always scurrying away, dodging and parrying. If he were someone else, you’d be proud of yourself for holding them off for so long. Not with him. You couldn’t explain it, but something deep inside you wanted to beat him at his own game. Last time was a fluke and he knew it. You got angry and it turned into an argument.

No, you had to beat him fair and square for it to truly mean something.

Something in the back of your mind, however, told you this was different. That this was no normal fight. There was a grace in his movements that hadn’t been there the last time. Was he holding back? No. Impossible. Riley doesn’t hold back. Does he?

The smirk under his mask was unmistakable. Sweat dripped from his brow, shining under the fluorescent lights of the gym. “Not even close.”

Thrill and adrenaline zipped through your spine. You were enjoying this. More than you wanted to admit.

Then, without warning, Riley swept your legs from beneath with a swift kick. You hit the mat with a soft thud, the wind knocked out of you. 

Motherfucker. Bastard. Asshole—

“You alright?” He asked, crouching beside you, offering you a hand. Again, so casual of him, considering he’d spent the entirety of this week ignoring you. Avoiding you. Why, why, why did he have to be like this, so full of contradictions? How could he ignore you and act as if nothing had happened?

You sat up, still panting, and took his hand. “Never better.”

Then, you pulled him down, using the momentum to roll you over until his back hit the mat. You quickly moved to pin his hands away, but he was faster. A split second later, you were the one beneath him, his weight pressing you down. His hands pinned your wrists to the mat on either side of your head. You could feel his hot breath, muffled as it was through the mask.

Your noses almost touched.

Too much. Too close. Too warm. 

You squirmed.

The banter had died down, giving way to a tension so thick it gripped you by the throat. Riley was on top of you, and if anyone were to walk in, they’d find you in a very compromising position.

Your heart pounded against your ribcage, breaths slowing down to calm your racing heart. They almost matched Riley’s.

He was looking at you differently.

The usual sharpness of his gaze was gone. Dulled, perhaps. Replaced by something different. Something darker. Something you should not want.

But you wanted it anyway.

You swallowed hard. “You plannin’ on movin’?”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes crinkling. Oh god, he was smirking. “Why? You in a hurry?”

Fuck.

His voice was low, rich and deep. Right there, in the empty gym, his Manchester accent rolled heavier off his tongue, sending a chill down your spine.

“Enjoying this, then?” You asked.

He answered with a low hum, still holding your wrists tightly, still pressing against you. “Very much so, yes.”

After a second or two, you did the only thing that made sense. Despite the tight grip on your wrists, Riley wasn’t expecting you to actually flip him over—you took him by surprise. Just a quick movement, a shift of weight, and he was under you. His eyes widened as you pinned his hands to the mat just as he did, straddling his hips.

He chuckled breathlessly. “Clever girl.”

Your lips curled into a timid smile, heat creeping up your cheeks. “Shut up.”

“Enjoying this?” He shot back at you.

“Makin’ you suffer? Greatly.”

You shifted your weight, pressing even harder against him until you heard his breath hitch just a tiny bit. He squirmed, but you held on, pushing him down into the mat. You could feel all of him like this.

“Y’not movin’, then?”

You smirked. “Yield.”

“Fuck off.”

“Admit I bested you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ain’t doin’ such a thing.”

“Then I’m stayin’ right fuckin’ here.”

“Flippin’ me over don’t mean y’won.”

“And pinnin’ me to the ground doesn’t mean you won, either.”

Silence.

“You’re a sore loser, Mick.”

“And you’re a stubborn prick, Riley,” you shot back.

His gaze darkened, eyelids dropping slightly. Your throat tightened as much as your wrists did. “Y’know I could shove you off if I wanted.”

“Oh, yeah? Must be comfy, then. Me sittin’ on you,” you teased, wriggling slightly just to fuck with him.

“...It is.”

Your brows furrowed. All this teasing made you forget that, indeed, you could feel all of him like this. His warmth, his taut muscles, his breath, his strong arms, all of him. You shifted your hips again, and Riley’s breath hitched again, enough for you to register. 

The moment it dawned on you, it hit you like a ton of bricks. A small gasp left your parted lips.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

You opened your mouth to speak, but words didn’t come out. You stilled, face going beet red. Riley, for once, did the same. Neither of you spoke. Both of you understood that words escaped you right now. What were you even supposed to say in a situation like this?

He was hard as a rock beneath you. Only his sweatpants and your shorts separated your skin, but that wasn’t enough to hide the monstrosity that was Simon Riley’s hard cock. No wonder his breath hitched with every minuscule movement of your hips.

Your head swam with thoughts. Terrible thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. What would people say if they found you like this, practically riding your fellow Lieutenant in the sparring mats?

Riley’s fingers twitched. You gripped his wrists tighter. His eyes fell on your parted lips, and you saw his jaw move under the mask. His chest rose and fell shakily.

You barely realized you were moving until your hips shifted. Riley inhaled sharply. Your pulse skyrocketed. You did it again. He let you.

A deep, wrecked noise left his throat. His hands balled into fists. For the first time in years, your pussy throbbed with want.

Oh, fuck.

Your eyes locked again as you let out a shaky breath. Nothing else existed. Not this damned gym, not the sparring mats, nothing. Just him.

You let go of his wrists, sitting up straighter. His hands immediately found purchase on your bare thighs, encountering only gooseflesh. He squeezed, then slowly slid them up until he held your hips and pulled you harder against him as if that could even be possible.

He pushed up, grinding his hips against you—meeting your movements. You could feel every inch of him like this, pressing against your aching cunt. A soft whimper left your lips. He pushed harder.

Riley then sat up slowly, keeping you close, until there was no space at all between you, sweaty chests pressed flush against each other. You rode him harder as his hands kneaded your ass like dough. The clothed tip of his nose bumped against yours, his hot breath fanning your face.

You barely even noticed your own hands wandering under his grey cotton shirt, skimming his toned back muscles, pads pressing against warm skin. He let out an utterly fucked out moan. Your pussy clenched around thin air. Too good, too fucking good.

If you kept humping him like this you were going to explode.

You dragged your nails down his back slowly and deliberately, feeling the muscles tense under your touch. When you reached his lower back, you abandoned it in favour of his shoulders, nails digging through the thin layer just enough—a sharp, delicious sting that had him hissing and pulling you even closer.

As if in a trance, you stared deep into each other’s eyes, mouths so close and yet so far. Without thinking, your fingers wandered, slipping beneath the back of his balaclava, the fabric old and worn and so very him. You caressed the nape of his neck until your fingers touched his hair—soft and short-cropped—tangling themselves in it, nails scraping slightly against his scalp. You felt him shudder.

The moan that tore through his throat was nothing short of sinful.

Fuck me, you thought, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

A rough, calloused hand cupped your face, thumb swiping your bottom lip. You rode him harder, eyes rolling back in pleasure as you felt yourself getting closer. You threw your head back. You could come like this—untouched, grinding against him like a horny teenager. How would it feel to have him fully crumble beneath you? Have him come undone like this?

Your bare neck was an invitation. He took it, nuzzling his face against your neck and taking a long, shaky inhale you in deeply. 

He let out the most fucked out moan you’d heard in your life.

“Fuck’s sake, Mick,” he groaned, nipping at your neck through his mask. You pulled his hair slightly, ripping another moan from him.

“Kiss me,” you finally whimpered, fingers reaching the front edge of the mask, eager to pull it up, to slide your tongue into his mouth. God, it had been a while since you last kissed someone. You had to feel his lips on yours. You wanted him to consume you.

Unbeknownst to you, the door to the sparring mats creaked open.

“Hey, sorry I’m late, I— oh shit. Um, fuck, sorry. I-I haven’t seen anything—”

You froze.

Kyle.

You’d completely forgotten he was coming.

The heat drained from your face, replaced with horrible shivering panic. 

What the fuck were you doing?

Your stomach dropped. Riley still had his hands on your ass, yours were still inside his mask. You quickly withdrew them, sobering quickly. Kyle raised his hands in surrender, backing out of the gym as quickly as he’d entered.

You had to leave right fucking now.

Just what the hell were you thinking? Fucked around and found out.

“Mick,” you heard Riley say, bringing you back to reality. Your breathing quickened, pulse racing as dread settled in. 

“No,” you shook your head, scrambling off him, never mind the wet patch that stained his crotch now. Your body trembled, the weight of your actions closing in on you.

Riley sat on the mat, watching you in shock.

“I-I,” you stuttered, barely able to look at him as you stood up, “I shouldn’t—”

“Mick,” he pleaded, standing quickly, the tent in his pants now deflated.

Shame on you. Weak fucking bitch. You never learn.

“I have to go,” your voice cracked, a lump forming in your throat, eyes brimming with tears. Leave before he sees you cry. Don’t show weakness. You’ve let him in too deep already. Don’t let him see you like this. He can’t see you like this.

He reached out to you. “Please don’t—”

You stepped back as if he were made of hot iron. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

And then you ran away.

crossposted on AO3.

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[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 22 - indulgence

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader (OC) ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 4.7k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: nsfw (evil laugh); male masturbation; graphic fantasies. ↣ playlist: perverts - ethel cain // so hot you're hurting my feelings - caroline polachek // i want your sex - george michael // chokehold - sleep token previous // masterlist // next

↳ desperate and frustrated, simon goes on a run to clear his head, but soon finds out that his growing obsession runs deeper than he imagined.

Heaven has forsaken the masturbator — Perverts, Ethel Cain

Remnants of your perfume still lingered in his hoodie by the time Simon woke up the following morning. He nuzzled the piece of fabric with his nose pretending it was your skin, inhaling deeply, lips parting in hopes of a kiss that never came. You weren’t there—never were. Simon’s mind conjured your presence like an oasis in a desert, leaving him parched, frustrated, and with a raging erection.

He went to bed last night with a semi, thinking that if he just slept it would go away and stop torturing him, but no. Perhaps he should’ve just thrown the hoodie into the laundry basket instead. Stop feeding his delusions. Because that’s what they were: delusions.

Simon stared at the ceiling, trying in vain to push those thoughts of you away—the warmth of your body in his lap, the softness of your cheek against his mask, the allure of your voice in his ear.

It wasn’t just about how you looked. You were stunning, yes, body built like an Amazon warrior, hardened by war, scarred and toned and curved in the right places. It drove him fucking mad just thinking about it. But it wasn’t just that. 

It was how you were. Hard and unyielding and raw. You were stubborn, sharp-tongued and frustratingly independent. Never took shit from anyone, least of all him. And yet, despite that tough exterior, there was a calm softness buried beneath, something he’d only seen glimpses of. How neat you were, your love for the colour pink, your scent, the way you looked after the others, your laugh—he’d been forced to witness it from the sidelines, for that softness was never for him.

You never let him close enough to feel it, and perhaps that’s what truly gnawed at him the most. He wanted to unearth it, peel back the layers of sarcasm, anger and pain until he could see all of you. Hold you. Keep you for himself, no one else. Make you his.

Fuck.

His cock pulsed against his boxers, clouding his thoughts, refusing to be ignored. Simon reached down, tugged it lazily over the fabric, bit his lower lip as the thought of you consumed him. What he’d give to feel your pretty hands on him. Would they feel as rough as his calloused palm, worn after years of handling weapons? Would they feel softer? Or would he prefer your mouth, warm and velvety, taking him all in, worshipping his co—

No.

Simon let go of himself, dragging a hand down his face. He could not do this. If he gave in now, it’d mean Johnny was right. That he liked you more than he was willing to admit. More than was safe. And he couldn’t afford to lose control like that. Not with you.

Some lines weren’t meant to be crossed.

He stirred. Yawned. Judging by the cloudy sky outside the opened curtains it was probably mid-morning. He sat up, hoodie still in his hands, dumbfounded. It had been a while since he’d been able to fall asleep so quickly. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or just exhaustion from the past few weeks. Either way, he welcomed it. God knows his body needed rest.

He pushed himself off the bed, discarded the hoodie into the laundry bin, as if keeping it out of sight would help him. It was useless. Your mysterious new perfume had embedded itself into his very soul anyway, ready to torture him at any point.

An ice-cold shower would to the trick, he supposed. It always worked to wake him up. Perhaps letting his hard cock shrivel under the temperature would give him the respite he needed.

It didn’t help much, either. The water was freezing, and his cock deflated, thankfully, but it did nothing to stop his thoughts from circling back to you. To the way your skin glowed under the amber light of the pub, to your fuzzy, sugary cocktails, to your legs wrapping around him when he carried you and you admitted that he was comfortable like it was nothing. How could you say that and not expect Simon’s resolve to shatter?

This has to stop. Once and for all.

When he stepped out of the shower, his body was chilled but his mind still wasn’t clear. He dressed quickly, tugged on his running shoes, and stepped outside for a jog.

The cloudy sky matched his racing mind. Aided by heavy rock music on his headphones, his sneakers stomped on the pavement until he reached his preferred hiking trail just on the outskirts of the base. He’d often run into other soldiers in their morning jog, but most were still slacking off at this hour on Sundays. Thankfully, he had the trail to himself and his thoughts. Thoughts that refused to settle.

With every twist and turn his mind went back to you. You were every-fucking-where; your voice, your laugh, the way you carried yourself like an uncontained storm, your rage and the swing of your fists during training, how you refused to back down in your staring contests, always eager to make him break before you did. You had wormed yourself into every crevice of his mind, sinking your claws deep into him and refusing to let go, all without trying.

It fucking terrified him, how easily he bent for you. How easy you could bring him to his knees, if only you’d ask.

Simon pushed himself harder, running until his lungs burned, until the loud boom of the bass ruptured his ear drums, until his feet bled. You were becoming a distraction—a liability. Worse of all, you were his fucking teammate—he couldn’t risk his job because of a stupid fucking crush.

Grow the hell up, Simon, he thought.

He was going to exorcise the idea of you out of his mind one way or another. Even if it killed him.

Simon returned from his run a little before noon drenched in sweat and ten times more frustrated than when he left. The run did little to cast you off his mind. If anything, it only made it worse. He shouldn’t have worn headphones. The music provided a nice background for him to imagine filthy things. Like you bent over his desk, for example.

His muscles ached and his chest heaved and nothing he could say or do would wash away the image of you bathed in the morning sun, lazily allowing him to bury himself inside of you—

Done for. I am done for.

By the time he reached the flat, his mood had soured. Never in his life had he felt this ugly mix of frustration, longing, and horniness. He couldn’t even remember the last time he was horny. His irritation had compounded into a slow-simmering rage, though whether directed at you or the world, he could not say.

He paused before entering the living space, a sparsely furnished but cosy open space containing the couches and dining area, and caught sight of several grocery bags sitting on the dining table. Garrick and Johnny sat there, chatting over the half-unpacked bags.

“Morning, LT,” Johnny smiled as Simon gruffly toed off his running shoes at the entrance. “How’s the hangover treatin’ ye?”

He didn’t respond. Garrick took one long look at Simon’s dishevelled state and smirked. “Rough morning?”

“You could say so,” he said, bending over to grab his shoes.

“You look like you’re ready to punch a wall,” Garrick pointed out. “Careful not to pop a vein.”

Simon walked over to the pair. “What were you two yappin’ about?”

“Groceries,” Johnny said, gesturing to the contents half unpacked, “and Micky.”

That caught Simon’s attention. He glanced wearily around the room, careful not to give too much away. “What about her?”

“Poor girl’s got a hangover from hell,” Kyle said with a chuckle. “Woke her up an hour ago, and she nearly bit my head off. Said she’d run out of soap and craved some chocolate, so I grabbed her some.” He gestured to the table, where several bars of chocolate and four packs of Dove soap sat neatly next to a loaf of bread and a box of cereal.

So Garrick can enter her room now? Is that what it is?

Johnny smirked. “You could deliver ‘em to her, y’know. Be her knight in shinnin’ armour and all.”

Simon glared at Johnny, though the idea seemed quite enticing—entering your private space, seeing you all groggy and adorably sleepy…

Get a grip, Simon.

Garrick, oblivious to Simon’s inner turmoil, grabbed his water bottle and stood up. “Well, I’m off to the gym. If any of you knuckleheads see Micky let her know her stuff’s on the dinner table, yeah?”

Both men nodded, and with that, Garrick headed off. The door clicked shut, leaving Simon and Johnny alone.

“Y’gonna stand there sulkin’, or are you gonna tell me what’s crawled up yer arse this mornin’?” Johnny asked, crossing his arms.

“Not sulkin’,” Simon muttered, grabbing the seat Garrick vacated, leaving his shoes on the floor.

Johnny raised a brow, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “Saw ye and Micky gettin’ cosy in the car last night.”

Simon stiffened, his jaw tightening. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Johnny laughed. “Oh, c’mon, mate. She was on yer lap like a bloody cat. Even fell asleep on ye.”

“She was drunk,” Simon said flatly. “Didn’t mean anything.”

“Sure, sure.” Johnny didn’t look convinced. “Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

Before Simon could snap back, the door to Price’s room creaked open, and the captain shuffled out, rubbing his eyes. His hair was tousled, his shirt rumpled, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Morning,” Price grumbled, a glass of water in hand. “Please tell me you’ve got paracetamol in one of those bags.”

“Gaz got some,” Johnny said, gesturing to the table.

Price rifled through the bags, pulled out a packet of paracetamol, and downed two pills with the water. He glanced at Simon, who was trying to will away the heat creeping up his neck.

“You alright, Simon?” Price asked, raising a brow.

“Fine,” Simon said quickly.

“Good,” Price said, smirking faintly. “Though I’d keep an eye on Micky if I were you. She might need some lookin’ after today.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Simon muttered, avoiding Johnny’s knowing grin. Was everybody trying to piss him off today?

Price left for his room with a nod, leaving Simon alone with Johnny again.

“Don’t say a word,” Simon warned, pointing a finger at him.

Johnny raised his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it, LT.” He stood up, gathered the rest of the bags and headed towards the kitchen to unpack, leaving behind your stuff and Garrick’s pack of paracetamol.

Simon stood up as well, grabbing his shoes. He took one good look at the soap. Dove bars. Were those the same ones you used in Azerbaijan? His hand closed around the box before he could stop himself, brought it up to his nose and inhaled.

Fuck.

Indeed it was. Soapy and clean and soft and very much like you, layered under your cherry blossom splash and your new mystery perfume. He closed his eyes, and imagined you freshly out of the shower with a towel wrapped around your body, hair wet and still dripping onto the tiles, smelling like absolute heaven.

What the hell was he doing?

He put it down with a sigh. Was this how women felt when they were ovulating? What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he get you out of his head?

It all came back to your stupid scent. Made him think things he wouldn’t dare speak aloud. Drove him fucking insane. You and your perfumes.

And your body and your lips and your hair and the sway of your hips.

Fucking hell.

He took another look at your stack of things, hand twitching to grab the soap bar again, but he squashed the idea. Those were your things. Some lines aren’t mean to be crossed. 

But Garrick had bought them for you, hadn’t he?

Your head pounded. Too much alcohol. Way too much alcohol. What were you thinking? You weren’t 19 anymore. This wasn’t a college frat house party. You were 31, for fuck’s sake, your body wasn’t up for this tomfoolery nowadays.

You stirred on the bed, groaning as the throbbing in your skull increased the more you moved. Your mouth was as dry as sandpaper, making it hard to swallow what little saliva you had left. Goddamn whiskey. Goddamn tequila. Goddamn Johnny for suggesting the themed rounds.

Slowly, reluctantly, you rolled onto your back, hand lazily draping over your face to block out the light. The events of the previous night filtered into your memory, piecing themselves together like fragments of a hazy dream. The drinks. The laughter. Dancing with Kyle.

And Riley.

You groaned louder, this time from mortification rather than physical pain. Now you remembered everything—how you’d sat on his lap in the car, warm and giddy and buzzed from the drinks, his large hands steadying your hips like they belonged there. How you’d fallen asleep on him, head against his chest, lulled by his masculine, musky scent and the subtle rise and fall of his breath.

Worse than that, you remembered how he’d looked at you the whole night, like you were some mystery waiting to be solved, taking up all of his attention. You knew that stare. You’d seen it on missions—calculating, curious, determined, but there was something extra in there you couldn’t quite place.

You couldn’t bring yourself to admit that you liked it.

You winced, rolling onto your side and curling into a ball, as if the thought could be physically expelled. You couldn’t afford to like it. Couldn’t afford to like him. Not like that. Not when everything between you had been built on sharp barbs and silent tension. Not when he was Simon fucking Riley—impossible, untouchable, and likely indifferent to you in any meaningful way.

Long ago you’d promised yourself there wouldn’t be anybody else. You intended to hold onto that promise.

Still, the memory of his hands on your hips lingered, searing itself into your brain despite your best efforts to ignore it. There had been something deliberate in the way he’d touched you—firm but careful, like he didn’t trust himself to let go too soon or hold on too tight. And you’d allowed it. You’d welcomed it.

“Shit,” you muttered, rubbing your eyes and wincing. Even the act made your head throb.

You lay there for a couple more minutes, thoughts spiralling, before you couldn’t bear the dryness in your throat anymore. You reached over to your nightstand, hand brushing past your dog tags, sitting in their ceramic bowl you’d brought over from home, and grabbed your phone. You wore those things almost every day, either under or over your clothes. It was the only thing you had left to remind you of George.

With a deep breath, you unlocked your phone, squinting at the brightness. Twenty-something messages from the team group chat, including the pictures taken yesterday at the pub, and those two incriminating pics of Riley holding you. Bastards, you thought, making a note to enact revenge on Kyle and Johnny.

A message from the former caught your attention. Received half an hour ago.

Kyle: hey doll, your stuff’s on the dinner table. bought some painkillers as well. got you chocolate too. stay hydrated please xx

You smiled faintly, heart softened by the gesture. Over the past few months, Kyle had become your confidant within the team, so much so you’d call him your closest friend. He always did these little things for you, making sure you were okay, and checking up on you, all without asking for anything in return. 

You: thank u babes. owe u one.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you threw on an oversized hoodie over your pyjama top and shorts. Your head kept pounding as you shuffled out of the room, but the promise of chocolate and a hot shower was enough to keep you moving.

The smell of coffee wafted faintly from the kitchen as you approached the dining table. Sure enough, there sat your chocolate bars and soap, neatly placed alongside the pack of painkillers and some hay fever tablets. But something was off.

You counted the packs of soap.

Three.

Your brow furrowed. You distinctly remembered asking for four.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, standing there with your hands on your hips. You glanced around the flat suspiciously, as if expecting Johnny to jump out from behind the couch with a shit-eating grin.

“That fucking thief,” you grumbled, picking up the three packs and turning them over in your hands. Dove, of course. The usual. You remembered Johnny complaining about running out of his own soap a few days ago. “Bet he’s the one who took it.”

It wasn’t about the soap, really. Three packs were still plenty. But the principle of it—that smug bastard thinking he could just take your stuff—was enough to make your blood boil.

You grabbed your stuff and marched back to your room. You weren’t about to give John MacTavish the satisfaction of a fight. Not in your sorry state. There were bigger problems to tend to, like the fact that Riley had turned your resolve into goo just by sweet-talking you into accepting his help, and not only did you like the idea of him carrying you around, you wanted him to do it again.

What was wrong with you? Why couldn’t your body follow your brain for once? You were supposed to sort of tolerate the guy, not sport a crush on the idiot. You hadn’t even seen his face properly, if you didn’t count the bathroom incident.

Shutting the door, you wondered what would’ve happened if Riley’s hands had wandered further south, before shaking your head. No. This couldn’t end well. Falling for a teammate never bode well, and you knew that from experience. This would only end in heartbreak for you once again.

And you swore to yourself you’d die before having your heart broken a second time.

She’s going to hang you for this.

Simon stood in his bathroom, in his boxers, eyeing the little carton box of Dove soap that he’d set on the granite counter. A fucking bar of soap will be the death of me, he thought, crossing his arms. You’re a fucking creep and a pervert. This is why she doesn’t like you. You’re an asshole.

Why the hell did he have to steal your soap bar?

Guilt gnawed at his gut. This was wrong. He shouldn’t have done this. Between taking a whiff of your toiletries in Azerbaijan and this it was clear that his crush on you was becoming a nuisance. How was he supposed to do his job properly when his mind short-circuited over something as trivial as your soap?

But it’s not just soap, his mind countered, it’s her. It’s everything she represents.

He considered putting it back on the pile. It had only been less than an hour. You were probably still holed up in your room. If he got dressed quick enough he’d be able to sneak into the living area and place it back where it belonged, and nobody would know it even happened.

His phone vibrated.

The screen lit up. Your profile picture popped up on the screen along with your message to the team group chat.

Mick Duarte: @johnmactavish wankstain

Mick Duarte: i know u stole my soap. is that why they call you soap???

John MacTavish: bon wtf are u on????

Simon’s heart pounded, gaze darting between his phone screen and the damned soap pack, cold sweat dripping down his back. Now he definitely couldn’t go and put it back where it was. If he did, you’d know it was him. If he did, he’d be admitting to far more than just having a crush on you. And not only would you know. Everyone on the team would know.

He couldn’t have that.

Bloody hell, what have I done?

The phone kept vibrating, surely you and Johnny had started bickering in the chat, but Simon paid no attention to it, his head spiraling with the possible consequences of his actions. So what if he had stolen a soap bar? Was that the end of the world? No. Did it diminish his self-respect a little? Perhaps. 

If you found out it would surely cause an argument. You might not talk to him for days. Simon could play the stupid card and pretend he didn’t know the soap was yours and that he’d been running low on it as well. Own up to it, but partially. Yes. That seemed the best course of action, given the circumstances.

He ran a hand through his face and sighed. Might as well get in the shower and use it, right? He was running low on soap, so it wasn’t truly a lie.

You weren’t going to find out either way.

Right?

He stripped off his boxers and dumped them in the laundry basket, then popped the bar out of the box, ripped the carton to shreds, and threw it in the bin. Less evidence of his crimes.

The water was cold, perhaps colder than this morning. Despite braving it, like usual, the temperature didn’t feel right for his overheated body, bordering on uncomfortable. He grabbed the handle and turned up the temperature until it was lukewarm, almost bordering on hot. There. Much better. He sighed, enjoying the warmth. He wasn’t one for warm or hot showers. The point of it was to wash up as quickly as possible. Warm water invited the mind to wander, and that was the last thing he needed…

…but he had to admit it felt kind of nice to indulge.

Steam rose out of the shower stall as he shut off the water and grabbed his shampoo bottle. Even though he’d showered this morning, a gnawing feeling remained in his chest that he wasn’t clean enough, exacerbated by his strenuous run an hour ago. Best thing he could do was to wash all the filth off, physically and mentally.

His mind was still reeling by the time he rinsed off the shampoo.

When he reached out to grab the soap bar, his hand hesitated briefly, but he grabbed it nonetheless. Cherry blossoms, that mystery perfume, and now this. God, it smelled so much like you. Clean and pretty and shapely and full of rage and deadly and so fucking beautiful he wanted to eat you. Have you sit on his lap all day like last night, so he could bury his face on your neck and inhale your very being and kiss you senseless. Then slide his hands inside your shirt and play with your full, gorgeous tits—having you squirm on top of him as he pinched and twisted your nipples.

He began to lather soap on his chest as his thoughts wandered, breath coming out ragged and shaky as his hand morphed into yours, touching him, caressing him.

Fuck, he was hard again. Painfully so. But no, he couldn’t touch himself. Wouldn’t touch himself. He had to stay in control. He’d caved in so many times now. This was the one line he couldn’t cross.

Simon jacked off, of course. He’d read that frequent sexual activity was good for the body. So, like anything else in his life, he turned it into a routine. Once a week was more than enough for him. A quick, porn-enhanced session before sleeping on Fridays. Over and done in five minutes, maybe seven. His dick had come to expect it, even. Looked forward to it. Pulsed within his trousers when it knew it was time.

He got horny, yes, but he’d never really craved anything the way he craved you. He wasn’t blind. He could acknowledge when a woman was hot. He could watch porn and it would turn him on and it could make him come without issue.

But desire?

When was the last time Simon had desired anything?

Give in, give in, give in, give in, give in.

He would sneak his hands under your gym shorts, the ones you liked to wear when lifting weights, the tight ones that showed your thick arse and made Simon dizzy every fucking time he saw you in them. Those ones. He’d take them off slowly after playing with your tits, undressing you until nothing remained, until you were naked on top of him. Then he’d pry your legs open and slide his fingers into your wet, warm cunt. Oh, he’d fuck you with his fingers until you forgot your own name, make you come over and over and over and fuck he needed to come right now or else he’d explode.

He grabbed his cock, rigid and thick, and gave it a few tugs, gripping the soap bar with his other hand, enveloped in your scent. He pressed his forehead against the cool tile, his shaky breath fogging up the shower stall, small whimpers escaping his mouth as he slid his hand up and down his shaft, aided by slick pre-come and your creamy soap, squeezing slightly at the tip, just as he liked. His eyes screwed shut in desperation.

“Mick…” He moaned, mind reeling, thinking about all the ways he’d love to fuck you.

He thrust into his hand, wishing it were yours for a change, wishing you were here with him, right now, so he could kiss you, worship you like you deserved, so he could lift you up in his arms and fuck you against the shower wall, have your nails dig into his back and scratch him.

But in his mind you were still in his lap, riding him, foreheads pressed together as his hands urged you on, kneading your perfect ass. Perhaps in his bed. Perhaps in the rec room or in the car or in the living room. Or perhaps in your bed, surrounded by your pink fuzzy things and your blankets and your cosy lavender-scented candles he’d seen you buy while grocery shopping. In his mind you stared right into his soul, no longer quarrelling but moaning his name instead. His name. He’d never heard you utter his name, not once.

In his mind, it was all that came out of your mouth.

“Mick…” He whimpered, fucking himself faster, pathetically calling out for something he’d never have. He was close now, he could feel the tension brewing. In his mind your velvety walls squeezed him, urged him to fill you up with his come. Claim you. Make you his.

Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine.

He braced himself, balls tightening. Your ghost kissed his cheek, ground against him, bit the shell of his ear, moaning for him. You were about to come, too. Such a good girl you were. Coming just for him. Only for him. His girl. His. His Mick.

“Come for me, Simon.”

Just the thought of you whimpering his name was enough to tip him over. Simon came hard, harder than he ever did, convulsing against the shower wall, mouth open agape as if to scream, but no sound making it out. He continued to stroke himself, riding the wave of his orgasm as he shot his load into the tiles in thick spurts, imagining you taking it all like the good girl you were. His good girl.

“Fuck,” he croaked out, releasing his cock once he was done, chest still heaving. He pushed himself off the wall and stared at the mess he made—thick globs of semen coating the shower wall—and at the soap bar still in his hand, horrified at what he’d just done.

He really was a fickle bastard, wasn’t he? Just this morning he tried to act all high and mighty, swearing up and down that he wouldn’t do it, he wouldn’t cross this line, and look at where that got him.

Selfish cunt.

He was completely and utterly fucked. There was no salvation for him. No coming back from this. He wanted you. Badly. But you were his teammate, for fuck’s sake! And there was no guarantee that you wanted him back. Hell, for all he knew, you still somewhat despised him.

This was uncharted territory. Never in his life had Simon Riley felt something remotely close to this twisted, all-encompassing desire that settled in his gut.

You were going to be the death of him.

Tired, he turned on the shower once again, setting the temperature back to cold, letting the water wash away the evidence of his sin.

crossposted on AO3.

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[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 21 - the bar

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader (OC) ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 5.4k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: slightly nsfw at the end. you'll see *evil cackle* ↣ playlist: i wanna be yours - arctic monkeys // undisclosed desires - muse // wars - of monsters and men // limousine - bring me the horizon ft. aurora previous // masterlist // next

↳ the 141 celebrates your recovery by heading out to a pub.

I wanna be your vacuum cleaner, breathing in your dust — I Wanna Be Yours, Arctic Monkeys

“I keep telling you,” Garrick said after finishing drink number two with a wince. “You and Micky could’ve gone a little softer on us this time ‘round, Sir. We’re only on round two, and we’ve got three more to go.”

Price swirled the rest of his rum-on-the-rocks nonchalantly. He looked unsettlingly different tonight in his beanie and civilian attire. Simon was mostly used to seeing him in uniform, with a tac vest and heavy duty boots and gloves—not jeans and a plaid shirt.

Then again, Simon hardly went out with his teammates.

It’s not like they didn’t invite him or anything—the 141 hardly hung out outside the base. The barracks were their home. Whenever Price insisted on “team bonding time” it mostly ended up with them playing a board game in the rec room still wearing their fatigues in various levels of disarray.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, the five of you took a small trip to Hereford, the town just outside the base, for a much-deserved break at one of the many pubs in the town centre. Price picked it, of course, and also forced you and Simon to share an agonisingly awkward (and silent) cab ride while he, Johnny and Garrick trailed behind on another cab. The bastard.

“Not my problem you can’t handle rum,” Price said, downing the rest of the amber liquid and smiling contently.

“I can handle rum,” Garrick huffed. “Just saying there’s no need to bring out the big guns so soon.”

Simon had to snort at that. He’d long since finished his own drink, and was now chasing it with a pint of lager. The place was not too shabby. Most soldiers on base frequented either this pub or the ones a block away. Tonight it was packed, though. Loud and fuckin’ packed. 

“Pretty sure Johnny will just hand us a bottle of ethanol and force us to chug it,” Simon commented.

“Knowing him, he’ll try to get us thrown out of this pub,” Garrick said. “Rowdy bastard.”

Price snorted. “Didn’t he get banned from three different pubs in Edinburgh?”

His comment was cut short by the setting of several glasses by the end of the booth, Johnny’s shit-eating grin flashing his pearly white teeth. “Right, lads,” he began. You caught up to him and set down two more drinks on the table, your expression as mischievous as Johnny’s. “Round three. Whiskey. A proper man’s drink.”

You and Johnny slid the drinks across the table and sat back down—Johnny next to Simon and you sandwiched between Price and Garrick. It had been around ten days or so since you angrily stormed off to your room, and as always, you’d refused to talk about it. Simon couldn’t blame you, really. He’d should’ve just said thanks and let it be, but no, he had to keep pushing.

You’d stopped using your crutches today after throwing yourself wholeheartedly into your physical therapy sessions. Pure stubborness and determination, that one, Simon thought. You were still a long shot from full recovery, but your progress so far had been astounding, and what better way there was to celebrate that than by drowning yourselves in alcohol?

It had been Kyle the one to suggest it firsthand during lunch at the mess. “Pop a nice bottle o’ wine, a cheese board, some cake…” He’d said, almost proud of himself for coming up with such an idea. Simon had fought the urge to roll his eyes.

But then yours lit up at Garrick’s suggestion, and Simon knew something had to be done about that. But what?

“Too much work,” Johnny had chimed in, as if reading Simon’s mind. His salvation. “It’s a Saturday, should be going out rather than staying in.”

You’d stopped before shoving a spoonful of chicken soup into your mouth, interest piqued. “What do you suggest, then?”

So there Simon sat at the booth hours later, squished between Johnny and the wall, at the far end of the pub. The lights were dim and one of the speakers stood just several metres away from their faces, some bloke with a guitar belting out well-known tunes for the public. On another day it would’ve given him a headache, but tonight’s headache merely sat right in front of him, leaning into Garrick’s arms.

“So,” Price clapped his hands, eagerly staring at the drinks on front of them. “What do we got here?”

Johnny beamed. “On the rocks f’r LT and I, neat f’r ye, Sir. An Old Fashioned f’r Gaz and a Whiskey Sour f’r our wee lady.” He pointed to each drink, finishing with a wink in your direction. You smiled back at him, making Simon’s throat constrict slightly in response. “Drink up! Cheers.”

Simon grabbed his whiskey and took a sip. If it were up to him he would’ve just stuck to whiskey the entire night—no bullshit. But no. It had been Garrick’s idea to do themed rounds, and you apparently heeded his every word like the sun came out of his arse. 

You’d opened the night with a round of tequila shots, salt and lime included. Then Price followed with rum. You’d opted for a Piña Colada while everyone else drank theirs on the rocks. 

You and your fruity little cocktails…

“Ah. Dunno why I even bother,” Johnny shook his head, setting down his drink, squinting with disgust. “English whiskey is shite.”

Garrick smirked. “Got better at home?”

“Got a pal back in Glasgow who owns a distillery,” Johnny shuffled in his seat, getting comfortable. “That’s real whiskey. Not this glorified wood water.”

You giggled, swirling your drink around. “Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”

“Could be worse,” Price agreed. “Y’can’t expect much. Most people here come for a pint or two.”

So strange, seeing you so cheery. Must be the alcohol. Three rounds in and you were already giggling like a child. You weren’t exactly grumpy, but Simon had been at the receiving end of your short temper many times, and it was easier to run into you sporting a scowl on your face rather than a genuine smile.

Most of those smiles were for Garrick. None for him.

“Drunk already?” Price tutted sternly, though the curl at the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “We’ve got two more rounds to go, darling.”

“Lightweight,” Simon murmured, taking a sip of his whiskey. 

Your eyes locked onto his. Loud as the music might’ve been, you had radar dishes for ears, catching every minuscule sound that leaked from Simon’s lips. Again with his mouth moving faster than his brain.

“Fuck you,” you laughed, mouth caught between a snarl and a smile. He didn’t know whether you were playing or if you actually meant it. But still, it was better than another fight.

“Aye, let ‘er be,” Johnny playfully slapped Simon’s shoulder. “She deserves it.”

“Thank you, Johnny,” You nodded, then turned to Simon. “Why don’t you tell us about your choice for the next round?”

Simon only shrugged. “I guess vodka?” He heard back groans from the rest of the table. “What? Whiskey was already taken by someone.”

“Ye cannae erase my heritage!”

The table erupted in laughter, except for Simon, who pretended not to notice how Garrick casually draped his arm on your shoulder. You kept drinking without a care in the world, as if Garrick wrapping an arm around you were the most normal thing ever.

Things had been sort of tense between you since the breakfast argument. But since when have things between us not been tense? After not speaking for three days, Simon mustered up the courage necessary to shoot you a text. He spent the better part of an hour staring at his phone screen, typing a whole paragraph before deleting it. Then writing a new one, then deleting it again. Too flowery. Too wordy. Not like him. It was just an apology. Why did he suck at writing one simple fucking apology?

After wracking his brain trying to come up with a message that didn’t suck, he ended up texting the following: Hey. I know you’re pissed at me for what I said. I apologize. Thank you for the pancakes.

To which you responded: Ok. Apology accepted.

Fucking hell.

Simon then replied with a thumbs up emoji. It was radio silence after that. He’d bumped into you several times around base and inside the flat, but your exchanges were brief and curt. No bitterness, no sarcastic remarks, no quips. It made Simon want to tear off his eyelashes.

At least when you insulted him he was entertained.

You laughed at something Johnny said, head resting against Garrick’s bicep. He tried not to think of how you had slept on his shoulder on the chopper ride to base weeks ago, how soft your cheek looked smushed against his jacket, how pouty your lips were.

Instead he gulped down his whiskey and scanned you, as he found himself doing more often than not. It was hard not to stare most days. Tonight was no different. Simon would’ve argued it was worse.

Your hair was down. It had been a while since he’d seen it like that—usually it was either braided or up on a bun. It was longer now, too, reaching your mid-back. The longest he’d seen it yet. No wonder she keeps it up all the time, he thought. Not tactical at all. He wondered how soft it would feel against his calloused fingers.

You tucked it behind your ear, revealing a simple gold hoop, and laughed again—this time Price had mentioned something about mortgages, but Simon didn’t give two shits about what his Captain was saying. His attention was on your paper crane tattoo, visible once you pulled the sleeves of your shirt back. A black, thin high-neck. Skintight. Paired with lightwash baggy jeans, held up by a black belt that defined your waist. His hand would fit well in there, would it not? The perfect size to pull you in.

You had makeup on, too. He’d seen you wearing it a couple of times in more professional settings, but on base and on missions your face is bare. Of course you dolled up for tonight, with your cheeks flushed and rosy from the alcohol. Cute wasn’t a word that Simon used commonly, if at all, but he had to admit you looked cute. Your long eyelashes paired with simple winged black eyeliner. But the real kicker were your lips—pink and glossy. So much so, they looked juicy. Simon hadn’t been able to tear his eyes off them. Every once in a while you’d take out a small compact mirror from your purse and reapply the damn lip gloss, and Simon would just sit there and pathetically let his mind wander.

Would your lips taste like strawberry or cherry if he were to kiss them? Would they bruise if he bit them ever so slightly? Would you whimper if he slid his tongue into your mouth, claimed it for himself?

“Y’know what we need? Dancing.”

Garrick’s voice cut through Simon’s fantasy like a hot knife slicing butter. For the hundreth time this week he’d caught himself fantasising. Did his mind hate him? You were just another teammate. Like Johnny. Like Garrick. Why did he have to fixate on the taste of your lipgloss?

“Aye? Wanna humiliate us?” Johnny shot back.

“Us? Speak for yourself, white boy.” Your eyes twinkled with mischief. “I don’t think you could even carry a beat.”

Johnny scoffed. “I can carry all the beats.” The music switched to an upbeat poppy song that Johnny absolutely hated. Simon fought the urge to laugh in his face as his friend’s face fell. “Just not that one.”

“Suit yourself, then,” Garrick smiled, his gaze mirroring yours.

Simon watched, helpless, as the two of you headed towards the dancefloor, joining the rest of the patrons, screaming their lungs out. He swirled his drink again and took another gulp. You pranced around with Garrick without a care in the world, the tension in your body gone. 

A small voice in the back of his head reminded him of your limp, of the stitches still on your thigh. You’d only shed the crutches today and now you were fucking dancing with Garrick. Why didn’t he speak up? He should’ve advised you not to go. And risk another fight? Another death glare?

Why was he so pressed about it? Was he really concerned about your leg? Or was it the fact that Garrick twirled you around the dancefloor as he pleased?

Two songs later, Garrick dragged you back to your seats, all smiles and giggles. You finished your cocktail, fanning your sweaty face with your hand. It was the happiest he’d seen you in weeks, and it was because of Garrick.

His phone vibrated. Weird. He usually didn’t receive texts unless it was urgent, and all of his notifications were off. He fished it out of his pocket only to find a text from Johnny.

John MacTavish: 😏

Simon’s brows furrowed. The fuck?

He turned to his friend with a menacing glare, who only smirked back and typed something into his phone.

Another text.

John MacTavish: you like her, don't you? 😏😏😏😏

Simon took a deep breath and calmly typed a short, succinct message. This kid, he thought.

Simon: 🖕

Johnny laughed, but didn’t push further. He knew better than to poke the belly of the beast.

Worry took over him, however. Had he been too evident? Did he stare too sharply? Johnny had been catching onto Simon’s subconscious acts even quicker than him, almost as if he knew what went down in Simon’s fantasies long before he realised he was daydreaming.

This was becoming too much. You were becoming too much. All you had to do was bat your pretty eyelashes at Garrick and Simon’s insides turned to mush. He had to get out of here—had to find a way to put some distance between you and him before his body did something his mind wouldn’t approve of.

Before he truly lost control.

The night dragged on along with Simon’s suffering. Despite thinking that everyone would stop after round five, Price ordered pints for everyone, and all this substance mixing had nearly everyone just one step ahead of vomiting.

So at 1 AM Simon did the sensible thing and called an Uber to take them all back to base.

After doing mental gymnastics to pay the tab, the five of you made your way outside the pub, with Simon trailing behind you to make sure you wouldn’t stumble and fall. Despite your drunkenness and your limp, you seemed to keep your balance, but one could never be so sure.

Even Price was too drunk to function, waiting outside the crisp August air for their car to arrive. Simon thankfully had a higher alcohol tolerance than most, and while he was certainly not sober, he still retained enough of his faculties to be of sound mind.

Unlike you.

You kept joking around with Johnny and Garrick, your cackles loud enough to echo across the empty car park, words slurring more and more until it sounded like you’d just woken up from a deep slumber. Simon couldn’t help the harrowing feeling that gnawed at his stomach every time you flashed a smile in Garrick’s general vicinity. 

Johnny he could handle. 

Price he could stomach. 

Kyle Garrick? No comment.

“Guys, y’know wha’ we shoul’ do?” You squealed, twirling around despite the obvious pain that shot up your leg with every step. Even while tipsy, Simon could tell the tremendous effort you pulled not to complain about your leg. How could Garrick not see that you were in pain? How could he take you dancing knowing that you’d gotten stabbed weeks ago? Did he not care?

“What?” The others replied in unison.

“We shoo go hikin’!” You stumbled slightly while giggling. Simon scanned you up and down and noticed your shoelaces had come undone. He had do to something about that.

“Mick…” He began, though his voice was drowned by Garrick’s louder tone.

“And where would we go?” Garrick replied, hands in his pockets, swaying from side to side.

“Ye lot forget I’m Scottish,” Johnny slurred. “Sooooo many trails in Scotland…”

“Will you take us to Loch Ness?” You turned around quickly, accidentally tripping on your shoelaces and stumbling backwards.

Even in his drunken state, his reflexes allowed him to catch you quickly, trapping you in his arms just before Garrick and the others reacted.

“Shit,” you breathed heavily, your back against his chest, almost enveloped by his figure.

“You okay?” Simon asked, helping you back up, only releasing you once you were stably on your feet. The others relaxed and turned back to their chat.

“Why wouldn’ I be?”

“Just checkin’. Your shoelaces,” he pointed down. “Better tie them up.”

You scoffed. “You worry too much.”

“You keep giving me reasons to worry.”

You rolled your eyes and groaned, but did as told. Simon stood protectively by your side, helping you back up once you were done, catching the faintest wince on your face as you stood up.

Idiot, he thought, you should’ve tied them up for her.

The Uber arrived—a black sedan. The others merely stared at each other in confusion for a second.

“Who ordered this thing again?” Price asked.

“Simon,” Garrick and Johnny answered in unison.

You and Price gave him a look.

“What?” Simon asked. “One car is more than enough.”

“Johnny takes up twice the space,” you argued.

“I can always carry you, bon,” Johnny shrugged.

“Is that even legal here?”

“We can always shove you into the trunk,” Garrick laughed. You responded by playfully swatting his chest.

“Alright, enough chatting, get in,” Price ordered, already taking the shotgun seat for himself without asking.

Sometimes Simon wanted to smack his Captain.

Simon and Garrick sat by the windows, sandwiching Johnny between them. The three men helped you climb into the car and sit on Johnny’s lap, his hands respectfully sitting on your hips to keep you steady. Simon didn’t know what to think of this. Perhaps he regretted ordering just one car. Perhaps an awkward, silent ride home would’ve been better than this.

You and Garrick kept trading drunken jokes back and forth, sometimes joined in by Johnny or Price, but Simon kept to himself, staring out the window as the car left the city centre. 

“I don’t understand how you two got so hammered. Y’drank the same amount as everyone else!” Price said from the front.

“Lightweights, I tell ye Sir!” Johnny answered. “Kyle cannae handle his liquor.”

You pouted. “Least Kyle and I are th’ prettiest in this team.”

Garrick laughed, slapping your knee in jest and then keeping his hand there. Simon wouldn’t dare to do such a thing. How did you allow him to do that?

Johnny mockingly gasped. “You offend me,” he said. “I thought ye thought I was beautiful!”

“You are, bu’ not as much as me,” you smiled.

“And Gaz?”

Garrick shook his head. “Don’ look at me, ev’ryone knows I’m the face of this team. ‘Should put me in an ad campaign for the military. Perhaps we’d get more recruits that way.”

Simon only rolled his eyes.

“Mick, can ye stop movin’? Yer hurting my knee,” Johnny groaned minutes later.

You snorted. “Can’t handle my ass?”

“Not if ye keep squirmin’ like that, no.” The two of you laughed. Simon caught Johnny’s stare for a second, and his expression shifted from mild discomfort to pure mischief. Dread simmered in Simon’s stomach.

“C’mon,” Johnny said, lifting you off his lap and manoeuvring you into Simon’s. “He can definitely handle yer arse better than I can.”

He stilled as you shuffled awkwardly on top of Simon, your warmth seeping through the fabric of his and your clothes and pressing down on him overwhelmingly so. He kept his hands away from you. If he gave in and held your hips like Johnny did he wouldn’t be able to control himself.

You were sitting on his crotch and you didn’t seem the least bit fazed by it. 

“Better now?” You asked Johnny, still getting comfortable on Simon’s meaty thighs. Fuck, you were so warm. Heat crept up Simon’s face the more your ass pressed against him. 

Think of something else, you bastard. Focus on the road. Focus on the road. Yes. The road. Not her arse. Definitely not her arse. Nor her hips. Or her thighs. Just breathe. Breathe. That’s it. In and out. In and out. She smells too fucking good. Fucking cherry blossom—

Wait.

That wasn’t cherry blossom.

He didn’t know what it was, exactly, but by now he had committed your signature scent to memory. It was all you wore—the scent that trailed past you in the mornings after you got ready for the day.

Not tonight though. New perfume, perhaps? Still floral and feminine, but less sweet, a bit muskier. Darker. Mature. Elegant. Sensual. The smell sent shivers down his spine. You laughed at something Garrick said, but Simon didn’t have it in him to care when such deliciousness was pressed upon him. You smelled luxurious. Indulgent. Delectable. Worth sinking your teeth into.

He stilled once more when you relaxed against him, yawning. Exhaustion had finally caught up to you, he figured. His hands, stuck to his jeans, balled into fists. Would it be so bad if he held your hips like Johnny? If he could do it why couldn’t he?

“You know,” you muttered, relaxing into his chest, head leaning back against his shoulder, neck exposed. God, he could smell you better like this. It wouldn’t take much for him to bury his face in your neck, and breathe you in properly. “You’re quite comfortable.”

He only responded with a low grunt, trying to act disinterested, but he would be lying if he said his stomach didn’t do somersaults. He wanted to keep you there, on his lap, forever.

You shuffled again, and Simon grabbed your hips to help you get more comfortable. He didn’t take his hands off, however. Testing the waters. You didn’t mind. Neither did he. Perhaps it was the copious amounts of alcohol you’d both consumed. Yes. Perhaps you two were just too drunk.

“Better?” He asked you, almost purred into your ear, low enough for only you to listen. His thumb hooked onto one of your belt loops just as your head lolled to the side, the tip of your nose poking his cheek. He breathed in deeply, drunk on your perfume. He made a mental note to find out what it was.

“Hmmhmm.” Your breathing evened out, and your eyes closed. What if he lifted his mask up and felt your face against his? What then? Would you mind? Would you breathe him in too?

His thoughts spiralled out of control as he held you, stuck in his own reverie. You fell asleep on top of him, enveloping him in your comforting warmth, your delicious scent. Fuck, he was hopeless like this. Completely disarmed and done for. He could hold you like this for days if you allowed him to, without alcohol dulling both of your logic receptors.

“Jesus, get a room, you two,” Price commented from the front. A low whistle came from Garrick’s direction, and Johnny couldn’t hold back the giggles that escaped him once he realised the position you two were in.

Simon’s cheeks reddened under the mask, sobering him in seconds. This was getting out of hand. Fuck, this was wrong. Since when did he lose control like this? Let himself get carried away by stupid sentimentality? He was supposed to keep his body, his feelings in check, and here he was, cuddling you.

“She is asleep,” he muttered, not daring to wake you up.

“We can see that, mate,” Garrick laughed, fishing out his phone and quickly snapping a picture. “Another one for the collection.”

Everyone’s phones chimed. Fucking Garrick. Bastard cocksucker.

“Beautiful work,” Johnny smirked, opening Garrick’s text and showing Simon the picture, rubbing it in his face. Seriously. What did he do to deserve this kind of psychological torture?

“Five stars,” Price commented. “How many more pictures do we have like this?”

“Just the one from the chopper, Sir,” Johnny said. “But I’m willing to bet the collection will keep growing.”

“I hate all of you,” Simon sighed, helpless.

Ten torturous minutes later, the Uber dropped you off right at the gate. Simon woke you up gently and helped you out of the car. He had to suppress the urge to carry you again, remembering when he carried you to bed in Azerbaijan. Dealing with Alejandro and Johnny’s knowing looks then was already torture enough. He couldn’t possibly stand dealing with Price and Garrick as well.

It seemed that all he did these days was look after your sleepy arse.

You still stumbled and limped all the way back, though Simon walked silently next to you to make sure you wouldn’t fall. His conscience wouldn’t let him sleep properly if he didn’t help you. It gnawed at him constantly to look after you ever since he patched you up in Azerbaijan.

You yawned. “God, can’t wait to hit the bed.”

Simon agreed with a hum. “How’s your leg? And your arm?”

He almost expected you to answer with an insult, but you only groaned, hands shoved into the pockets of your leather jacket. “Fine, I guess. My arm is completely healed, but the scar is kinda nasty. Leg’s getting there.”

He nodded. “You’re limping.”

“Don’t start, please.” Boots halted on the gravel, and you locked eyes with Simon. He could see the exhaustion mixed with annoyance. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I know—”

“Let me finish,” you said. Simon sighed and crossed his arms, shutting his mouth. “I understand that you’re worried, but I’m not a child. I can look after myself. You already apologised the other day. Let’s not start another argument, okay?”

“Thought you were still pissed at me,” he said.

“I might be, I don’t know,” you shrugged. “Why do you care so much?”

Simon tried to swallow but found his throat too tight to even let air through. Why did he care, anyway? Did he even have an answer to that question? Was he willing to look deep enough to answer it?

“You’re too stubborn for your own good,” he said instead. Perhaps this was the best course of action. “And I care for Johnny just the same,” he added for good measure. It wasn’t a complete lie. Sometimes the best lies contained truths in them.

“Hmm, how comforting,” you said.

“Why do you hate getting cared for anyway?” He shot back.

You scoffed. “I can look after myself.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”

You bit your lower lip, considering his words, then looking away in shame. “I’m used to it. Patching myself up, dealing with everything by myself.”

“I’ve been there,” Simon said.

“It’s different. You wouldn’t get it.”

“Because you’re a woman?”

“Yes, actually,” you said, stepping closer to him, breaching that considerable gap that kept him at arm’s length. He could smell your perfume from there, wafting through the air, aided by a soft breeze. “If I so much as broke a nail during training, I’d get shit on. They say it builds character. Nobody prepares you for it, though. I wanted to fucking crawl into a hole and die. But I kept going. I swallowed the pain and kept going, because if I didn’t show up for myself, who would?”

“You don’t have to do that now,” Simon said, his voice softening. 

“Why, because you care about me?”

“We all care, Mick,” Simon said. “Don’t be so stubborn and accept the help when it’s being offered.”

“You think me ungrateful?” You stepped even closer, now inches away from him.

“More daft than ungrateful, really,” he snapped. “Too busy thinkin’ about being perceived as tough, thinkin’ you hold all the answers and y’can magically heal yourself. You don’t need to prove anyone anythin’, Mick. Much less to me.”

You swallowed thickly, eyes scanning him up and down. “I don’t know how.”

The vulnerability of your answer rendered him speechless for a moment. Simon didn’t know how to respond to that. He’d been there once, years ago. So used to working alone that he didn’t know how to be a team player. Accepting someone else’s help took a huge mental toll on him—going from his lone wolf days to part of a family. He could tell that despite working in teams your whole life you’d never been close to your teammates. Even almost a year into your contract, you were still adapting to the team. Finding your place. He could relate to that.

“You’ll learn,” he said seconds later. “Just try.”

You took a step back and resumed walking (more like limping), Simon trailing silently behind you. The others were several metres ahead, thankfully out of earshot. He’d already been humiliated enough times tonight. He didn’t need the others prying into these little moments he got with you.

“I don’t want to argue anymore,” you said after a moment.

“Who said we’re arguing?”

“No,” you sighed, “I mean in general. You were right. It gets tiring.”

“Right,” he said, catching up to your side. “I don’t want to argue either.”

“Okay. I guess we’re cool?”

“We are.”

Content, you kept walking in silence, your boots skidding along the pavement. Simon kept close attention to your every step, how you winced every few seconds, swallowing back whimpers of pain, masked by heavy breaths and hisses. He stretched his palm, but fisted it later, unsure of what to do. Did you even want his help? You were clear with him: you knew what you were doing, you could take care of yourself.

Doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.

“Need help?” He found himself asking.

You glanced at him, clearly torn between your pride and your pain. Give in, Simon thought, help me help you.

“Yes,” you admitted reluctantly. “Hurts like a bitch.”

He nodded. “I can carry you.”

You stopped and crossed your arms, shoulders squared. “You will not carry me bridal style all the way to the barracks.”

“Piggyback, you idiot.”

“Oh,” your shoulders relaxed, “right.” 

He wasted no time, crouching down to your level and helping you up once your firm thighs wrapped around his torso. Once he checked you were okay, he picked up the pace to the barracks.

“Hmm.” Your face was again dangerously close to his, your perfume feeding his lungs. He could breathe you in for eternity. Let you smother him, perhaps. Wouldn’t be a bad way to go. “I wasn’t lying when I said you were comfortable.”

“Yeah?” He croaked out. “You enjoyin’ this?”

“Well, the view certainly doesn’t hurt,” you chuckled, your breath fanning his neck, sending goosebumps across his entire body. “Seriously, man, you’re built like a watchtower.”

“Ha,” he deadpanned. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”

“Still deciding.”

It didn’t take long for you to catch up to the others, only a hundred metres away from their building.

“And look what we have here,” Garrick cackled once he saw the two of you.

“This night keeps on givin’,” Johnny grinned mischievously, quickly snapping another picture with his phone and showing it to Price, who laughed and kept on walking.

“Not again,” you groaned, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. It took Simon all his willpower to prevent himself from going insane.

“You should see the one Gaz took,” he said. “You were asleep.”

“I’m going to kill him,” you whispered.

“The archive just keeps growing,” Simon quipped.

“Incriminating, if you ask me,” you joked.

Minutes later, you made it to the barracks in one piece. Simon set you down in front of your bedroom door and bid you goodnight. The less he lingered there, the better. Too many things to think about tonight. At least you didn’t hate him. You were on good terms. He could sleep well tonight.

After getting ready for bed, he proceeded to put his boots and dark-wash jeans back into the closet, but when he grabbed his hoodie to throw it into the laundry basket, the scent of your perfume wafted into the air. 

He didn’t have the heart to throw it away. Instead he sat on the edge of his bed, holding the garment up to his nose and inhaling it like a drug. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. Blood rushed down to his cock as he pressed the scent of you harder against his face.

I’m fucked.

crossposted on AO3.

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[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 20 - bed rest

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader (OC) ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: ?.5k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: none ↣ playlist: bullet with butterfly wings - the smashing pumpkins // headlock - imogen heap // salt in the wound - boygenius // paper bag - fiona apple previous // masterlist // next

↳ med leave keeps you restless. ten days after the mission, you make too many pancakes.

Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage — Bullet With Butterfly Wings, The Smashing Pumpkins

“How’s your leg going?”

You looked up from your phone to find Kyle sitting across from you at the table, grabbing two pancakes from the pile in the middle of the dining table. He was so silent. When did he get here?

It was a Sunday. The mess was closed and everyone had the day off, so of course you did the sensible thing and woke up at the ass-crack of dawn to make pancakes. It’d been a while since you last cooked something, but your whole body was itching to move after ten full days of bed rest. At least when you sported a broken rib you could move. Painfully, yes, but you could move.

Getting stabbed was not fun.

“Healing,” you answered gruffly, sipping your sugary coffee, and scrolling further on Pinterest.

“Thought you were supposed to be resting,” he said, hungrily eyeing the pile and grabbing a third, then sliding the blackcurrant jam towards him. You gave him a look.

“Ten days is enough. I know I’m supposed to take things slowly but I just can’t stand staying in bed all day,” you explained.

“And you got out of bed at 6 AM to further aggravate your leg for… pancakes? Darling, you know I could’ve made them for you had you asked.”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t make them the way I do.”

Kyle chuckled, taking a jam-filled bite and moaning at the taste. You smiled to yourself. I didn’t lose my touch. Great. “What’s with the pile, anyway? You plannin’ to feed the entire barracks?”

“No, I just… miscalculated,” you said sheepishly. That wasn’t a lie. You thought you’d made the right amount of pancake batter for two, but then for some reason, you made enough for six people. “There’s enough for everyone.”

“Didn’t think you’d be the stress-baking type,” he said, taking another bite. His gaze drifted to your empty plate. “You haven’t eaten yet?”

You shook your head. “Not quite hungry right now.”

“Not quite hungry or waiting for someone?”

Not this again. “Fuck off, Kyle,” you groaned.

Ever since you came back from Georgia, Kyle and Johnny have done nothing but tease you about the picture Johnny took on the chopper. You didn’t know how else to explain that you were tired and Riley’s shoulder was right there. It’s not your fault that it made such a good pillow.

You glared at him. Best thing you could do right now was to deflect. “If by ‘waiting for someone’ you mean Johnny, then yes, weren’t we supposed to go grocery shopping today?”

Kyle shook his head. “You’re not going out like that, Micky.”

“But-”

“No buts. You might try and walk around the barracks all you want, but you’re not setting one foot outside, ma’am.”

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me, asshole, you know I don’t like that,” you kicked him playfully under the table with your good leg. Kyle was right, sadly, but you weren’t about to tell him that. “I just need fresh air, that’s all.”

“Then open the window. Or if you want I can wheel you out for a walk.”

“Ha! No chance. I’m getting out of this place by my own means,” you said. “I’m not an invalid, you know? I can walk.”

“With crutches, and barely.” He gestured to the crutches resting against the wall behind you. “You’re still supposed to be on bed rest, doll. The git who stabbed you nearly missed your femoral. A couple of centimetres down south and you might as well walk amongst the dead and not the living.”

“Are you done?”

“No, actually,” Kyle said, gesturing around with his fork, talking like a concerned mother. Times like these brought out the mother hen in Kyle Garrick. “You’re lucky you didn’t get surgery. If you had, we wouldn’t be as lenient as we’ve been with you.”

You scoffed. “Lenient?”

“Yes, lenient.”

“So you’re saying I’m able to get up and make you guys pancakes because you’re allowing me?”

Kyle grinned. “Precisely.”

“Smells good in ‘ere.”

The two of you turned to find both Johnny and Riley entering the open-concept dining and living area, still in their pyjamas. Johnny in his shorts and tee, and Riley in his black hoodie and sweats. Riley had scrubbed his face clean of the eye-black, and you could already imagine his tousled short blonde hair under his cotton balaclava. His eyes quickly assessed the room until they found yours, and then they softened ever so slightly. You, however, felt a tension in your belly and a heat creep up your cheeks.

“Morning.” Kyle smiled. “Our darling Micky here made us breakfast while disregarding her bedrest orders. Still debating whether to thank her or carry her back to bed.”

You gasped. “Fuckin’ snitch.”

Johnny laughed, approaching the table and sitting next to Kyle. “Why not both?”

“I hate you,” you rolled your eyes, pushing the stack of pancakes toward him. Johnny smiled and winked playfully before accepting the plate.

There was a seat next to you. Another one next to Kyle.

It didn’t take long for Simon to figure out where to sit.

He felt the heat radiating off of you. Summers in England weren’t that hot to begin with, but Simon had come to understand over this past year that you just weren’t built for this type of weather. You wore a hoodie and sweats, like him, but more out of a need for warmth than to hide your skin.

Silence. Simon felt Johnny’s gaze burning holes through his mask as he took a bite out of his pancakes. He didn’t know what to do next. Should he just grab a few and dig in like Johnny? Or did you have a special “no-Simon-allowed” rule? Was that even a thing?

He heard you sigh and grab his plate. Simon panicked, but stayed freakishly still. Were you serving him right now? What is this? Why is she doing this?

You paid him no mind as you served him three pancakes and slid his plate towards him, the faint smell of vanilla and sugar wafting through the air. Well, I’ll be damned.

Simon hesitated a moment before speaking. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you answered softly, taking a gulp of your (undoubtedly sweet) coffee.

Simon’s eyes briefly locked with Johnny’s, who only wiggled his eyebrows in return, hiding a knowing smirk behind his tranquil facade.

He had to repress the urge to kick him.

After that, the four of you ate in silence. Or, rather, you scrolled through your phone while everyone else ate. Simon couldn’t help but notice that your plate was empty.

“You ate already?” Simon asked softly.

You shook your head, eyes glued to the screen. “Not hungry.”

Kyle and Simon looked at each other in exasperation. He must’ve had this same conversation with you before he arrived.

This won’t do.

Without thinking, Simon grabbed your plate and served you one pancake, then put it back down in front of you. Stunned, you set your phone aside and stared at the food, then at Simon.

“Eat,” he said.

“Told you I’m not hungry,” you replied.

“Just eat one. You’re in recovery. You need something on your stomach.”

You sighed. “Riley—”

“Just eat it. You woke early to stress-cook all of this and you’re telling me you’re not eating?”

You huffed, then reached for the strawberry jam. Slathered it on your lone pancake rather hastily. That did the trick.

He watched you take the first bite and then began to eat again. Fucking hell, he knew you were a stubborn little thing, but not to this level. To think you were so frustrated over being bedridden that you woke up in the wee hours of the morning just to cook for everyone… stress must’ve been eating you alive. He knew that all too well.

It was no secret that he’d been quite concerned about your injury. The soldier who stabbed you missed your femoral by an inch. You could’ve bled out in the car if it weren’t for that tourniquet. You could’ve died, and then Simon would’ve been ridden with guilt.

But who was he kidding, really, when he already felt guilty for letting you get injured?

It’s why he checked on you every day for the past ten days. He didn’t care if he was being annoying—whether you tolerated his nagging presence or not was beyond him and irrelevant. He just needed to check for his own peace of mind. If you were okay, then he was okay.

So maybe that was why he was so adamant that you eat at least something. He couldn’t stand to see you so weak, and he knew that you hated appearing weak in front of him. She should be thanking me, really. I’m doing both of us a favour.

Price came in a minute later, scratching his scruffy beard, slippers padding on the floor. Usually, Price was out and about at 7 AM on the weekends, so seeing his captain all dishevelled and groggy at 9:30 was high-quality entertainment. 

“Mooornin’,” Price yawned. “I’m seein’ you all started without me. What’s all that?” He pointed at the (still quite high) stack of pancakes.

“Micky here said ‘fuck you’ to her leg and made pancakes for everyone,” Johnny laughed, earning a death glare on your part.

“Next time I make pancakes there’ll be none for you, MacTavish,” you threatened.

Price only chuckled and patted the top of your head before sitting down between you and Kyle. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, darlin’. I know you’re frustrated, but you’ll only make things worse.”

Darling. Simon mulled the word over and over. He heard Kyle call you darling as well a couple of minutes ago. It was no secret that you and Kyle had stricken up a closer friendship ever since you left Las Almas months ago, but up until now he never realised it included terms of endearment privileges. It sounded different on Price, though. More fatherly. He didn’t know how to feel about that.

“Any word from Alejandro or Laswell?” Price asked, pulling Simon back into reality. John helped himself to a considerable stack of pancakes, which you happily helped him serve. 

“Johnny and I talked to Alejandro last night,” Simon said. “Nothing so far. They’re still trying to crack Valeria, but she’s tougher than we give her credit for. Laswell is gathering intel on Konni.”

Your head snapped towards him. “I wasn’t informed of this.”

“You were asleep, Mick, and you needed rest. You still need your rest,” Simon countered. His tone was softer than usual. The last thing he needed was to be at odds with you again.

Your grip on the fork tightened noticeably, and Simon wondered briefly if he’d struck a nerve. 

“I was part of this mission too if you don’t remember,” you said bitterly. “You could’ve woken me up.”

“It was just a regular phone call, Micky, nothin’ ta get upset about,” Johnny interjected. Simon mentally thanked his friend for intervening. Maybe that way your anger wouldn’t be entirely placed on him. “Alejandro called me because he and Rudy had an argument over whiskey, of all things.”

You looked at him, then at Simon. “Right,” you sighed, “because you’re a whiskey expert.”

“Nah, I’m just Scottish.”

“Eh, speaking of whiskey. Groceries,” Kyle interjected.

“Way to change the subject,” Price muttered, mouth full of pancakes.

Kyle glared at Price. “We’re out of tea.”

“A tragedy for you lot,” you quipped, downing the rest of your coffee.

“I’m out of soap, ironically,” Johnny added.

“So… when do we leave?” You asked.

“You’re not going,” the four men said in unison.

You bit the inside of your cheek and crossed your arms. “You fuckers are no fun.”

“I offered to wheel you out, darling, but you said no, so perish,” Kyle said.

There was it again. Darling. The word felt strange coming from Kyle’s mouth—too casual, too easy. Simon’s jaw tightened before he could stop it. Of course, it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t.

Johnny and Kyle agreed to go into town to shop for supplies later in the afternoon. The others soon fell into conversation, leaving you and Simon out of it once more. 

“How’s your leg?” He asked for what felt like the hundredth time since you came back from the op. 

“Fine,” you answered succinctly. “How’re the pancakes?”

“They’re good. I like them. Thank you,” he answered in the same tone. To be fair, those were the best pancakes he’d had in his life. Had it been another day he would’ve pestered you for the recipe, but he knew from the irritation on your face that that wasn’t what you wanted to hear. “But don’t butcher your recovery process over pancakes, Mick, seriously.”

You reached for your mug, but then remembered you’d finished your coffee, so you grabbed the fork again and toyed with your food. “I actually made them for you,” you admitted, eyes trained on the barely touched pancake in front of you. “Thought I made enough for you and me, but I miscalculated and made enough to feed this whole fucking building. Don’t ask me how.”

Simon’s throat constricted, his insides twisting into knots. Why go through all this trouble for him? He couldn’t get it. You were supposed to be on fucking med leave, not prancing around the kitchen looking to get injured again.

“Why would you hurt yourself like that?” He blurted out.

The question had seemed simple enough, but the way you stiffened told him he'd said the wrong thing. Again. It always seemed to go this way when it came to you—his words came out wrong. Too sharp. Too careless. Didn’t matter how hard he tried to be careful. You’d made the sodding pancakes for him. Said it so casually, too. It hit him like a punch to the chest.

“Just wanted to thank you for looking out for me. But I guess I made too much of an effort now, huh?” Your tone was icy, clipped, and calm. Too calm. Simon had undoubtedly fucked up again. Fucking wanker—could’ve just left it at ‘thank you’. “Don’t worry, I won't do that again.”

You bit your lip. Kyle and Johnny were engrossed in whatever story Price was telling, not noticing the fumes coming out of your ears.

He didn’t know what to say. How could he fix this? He already thanked you for the food, so he knew you knew he wasn’t an ingrate. But now you probably thought he didn’t care for the food. You were trying to thank him for Christ’s sake!

“Mick, I—”

You stood up abruptly, your chair scraping against the hardwood floor, dropping your fork on the plate, and effectively shutting everyone up. Price’s eyes widened once he saw you standing.

“Mickey, what—”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, taking a deep breath and painstakingly turning around to grab your crutches. The four men watched in shock as you proceeded to slowly walk unassisted, dragging your crutches behind you, swallowing the pain of every step. 

The slam of your bedroom door reverberated through the silence you left behind. The clatter of Kyle’s fork against his plate seemed louder than it should’ve been. Johnny shot Simon a look that was somewhere between amusement and disbelief, while Price’s frown deepened, his eyes fixed on Simon like he was waiting for an explanation.

“Alright,” said Price. “What the fuck did you do now?”

crossposted on AO3.

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[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 19 - the bane of my existence

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader (OC) ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 2k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: mild description of injuries ↣ playlist: daydreaming - radiohead // mayonnaise - the smashing pumpkins // spiders - system of a down // up in the air - thirty seconds to mars previous // masterlist // next

↳ after the mission, you reach the airstrip.

This goes beyond me, beyond you

Simon’s hand was on your knee. 

Had been so for the better part of an hour. Lightly squeezing the flesh as you writhed uncomfortably on the shotgun seat. It appeared to steady you, calm down your breathing. But Johnny saw through the rearview mirror the splotch of red marring your cheeks, and how your gaze was set strictly forward, as if everything would crumble if you so much as looked at Simon’s hand.

You never made an effort to push it away.

This was going to get interesting. Interesting for sure. Gaz was going to have a field day once he found out.

It was pitch black when you made it to the airfield, two hours away from the nearest city in Georgia. An unregistered patch of dirt with a shed small enough to house maybe a crop duster. Two helicopters waited for you. Salvation. Fucking finally, Johnny thought.

Simon roughly pulled up on the dirt, and Johnny was the first to get out of the car. He groaned and stretched his legs. Nearly one hour of listening to Alejandro and Valeria bicker like an old married couple had him dangerously close to jumping out the moving car.

His first instinct was to help you get to the chopper. At this point you’d been toeing the line between conscious and blacking out, and Johnny was deeply worried you’d lost too much blood. But before he could round the car, Simon got off and held up a hand.

“Leave her to me,” he said, then nudged his head towards the car. “Go help Alejandro.”

The implications of that request weren’t lost on him. 

Christ redeemed, Johnny thought while suppressing a smirk, the man is done for.

He merely nodded, however, not willing to open that can of worms this late at night. There would be more time to nag Simon about this in the future.

He rounded the car in the opposite direction and found Alejandro already pulling Valeria out of the backseat, her hands cuffed behind her back. She looked worse than the last time he’d seen her—a busted lip, twigs and leaves on her longer-than-usual hair, cuts on her arms and dirt on her face. Yeah, he could picture how hard she struggled against Alejandro, who by no means looked better than her.

They both looked like they’d been pulled out of a catfight.

“Ye alright?” He asked the Mexican.

Alejandro bit the inside of his cheek before speaking. “I will be. Gotta get this one onto the chopper first.” He grasped her shoulder tightly, as if she’d vanish if he loosened his grip on her.

As per the rest of the evening, Valeria looked unimpressed, if not displeased. She kept quiet, however, having spent the majority of the ride reminding Alejandro how much of a cuck he was. 

Alejandro tasked Johnny to retrieve the canister from the trunk, and then the three set off for the chopper on the right. “What now?” Johnny said, keeping the canister at arm’s length.

“You three go home and rest. You’ve earned it,” Alejandro said, guiding Valeria forward. “Make sure Mick doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Like getting herself stabbed again,” Valeria mocked.

“Tu cállate,” Alejandro groaned, pushing her aggressively. You shut up. 

Johnny chuckled darkly. “And you?”

Alejandro sighed. “Wish I could go back to Mexico but duty calls. The CIA wants this one,” he pointed to Valeria. “Even sent papers for her extradition and everything.”

Valeria froze. “Wait, what?”

At that, Alejandro smiled menacingly, pushing her forward. She stumbled slightly but kept walking, albeit not as smugly as before. “Aw, didn’t you know? You just won yourself an all-expenses paid trip to whatever fucking dark hole the CIA puts you in. I’m willing to bet they’ll send you to Guantanamo, but I know those fuckers aren’t so lenient.”

“Let me guess,” Johnny said. “Laswell?”

“Bingo. They want the gas, too.”

Alejandro wasted no time in shoving Valeria inside the chopper, his touch rather rough but not aggressive. There was still a lingering resentment in his friend’s gaze, and Johnny knew that that type of wound didn’t heal so easily. Valeria didn’t put up a fight, more or less resigned to her fate, but by no means looking defeated. No, she still looked like she owned the place.

Johnny stood by, hands on his hips, watching as Alejandro barked orders at the pilot, then sent a scathing look to Valeria, who ignored it and gazed at the black nothingness around the airstrip. Johnny then handed the canister to Alejandro, who placed it on a small crate inside the chopper, out of Valeria’s reach, as if to mock her.

When he was done, he turned to Johnny. “Glad we all could make it.”

“Hope next time I see ye, we’re not workin’,” Johnny smiled.

Alejandro returned the smile, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “Hopefully. Let’s get to the others. I need to say goodbye.”

He patted Johnny’s shoulder and off they went. “So you’re going to Laswell’s now?”

“For a while. Need to figure out where the hell those soldiers came from. Laswell will help with the research,” Alejandro explained.

By the time they’d reached the car, Simon had your door open and was crouched beside you, inspecting your thigh for the second time. You looked annoyed, arms crossed, lips pursed, never keeping your eyes off him while his hands tugged on the tourniquet.

“I told you I’m fine, for fuck’s sake,” you groaned, still weak from the blood loss but pushing through. Under the orange light of the airstrip, you looked rather pale, but no less feisty.

Simon grunted, unconvinced. “You got stabbed, Mick. Fucker might as well have slashed your femoral, and you’d be dead. I told you I didn’t want you to die on me.”

Your posture softened slightly at that but tensed again when you noticed both Johnny and Alejandro were staring. Even Simon seemed to realise (too late) what he had said, and immediately stood up.

Alejandro promptly spoke to avoid tensing things further. “I’m taking Valeria to DC and dropping off the sarin. CIA wants a word with her.”

Simon leaned, perhaps too casually, against the hood of the car. “Laswell?”

He nodded. “Need to know where those PMCs came from. She can help us accelerate things. Valeria’s also getting extradited and I need to make sure I’m the last thing she sees before she gets thrown into a dark cell.”

You chuckled. “Wow. Vindictive much?”

The comment made Alejandro’s lips curl. “Yeah, well, serves her right. By the way, does the name Konni ring a bell?”

The three of you scrunched your eyebrows in confusion. 

“Not to me,” you said. “Why?”

“Those were the fuckers we were up against. Valeria said they exchanged the sarin for safe passage to Russia,” Alejandro explained. “Name-dropped ‘em like the fucking boogeyman.”

Johnny mulled the name over and over. It seemed familiar. He’d definitely heard it before somewhere, but couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out where exactly. “Sounds familiar ta me, but I cannae—”

“Put your finger on it?” Simon finished. Johnny nodded. “Yeah, same here.”

Alejandro bit the inside of his cheek. “Okay. I’ll make sure to keep you posted.” There was a pause. “I wanted to thank you for the help. If it weren’t for you three I’d be dead already. I owe you one.”

Johnny smiled and patted his friend on the shoulder. “That’s what we’re here for.”

“You still owe me that whiskey you promised months ago,” Simon joked.

Alejandro chuckled. “When this shitshow’s over I’ll fly you guys out to Las Almas for a barbecue.”

You smiled. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Alejandro’s gaze softened, and he leaned closer to hug you tightly. “You good?”

“I’ll live,” you said. Johnny’s eyes glazed over Simon, who stared intensely at the way Alejandro’s arms wrapped around you. Jesus, he thought, can he be more obvious?

Alejandro murmured something in Spanish that Johnny couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Whatever it was, you chuckled at his comment and patted his back, sniffing. When he detached himself from you, Johnny almost missed you discreetly wiping your eyes and blinking aggressively.

Alejandro cleared his throat. “Be good to each other, okay? I’ll be seeing you.”

He patted Simon and Johnny’s shoulders like a proud dad and gave everyone one last nod before heading back to his chopper.

“Hope this time it sticks,” Johnny said, watching him go. “Valeria in prison, I mean.” Simon hummed in agreement.

“Alejandro deserves some peace,” you hissed, and both men whipped their heads around to find you trying to climb out of the car.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Simon muttered, scooping you up before your feet could even hit the ground.

“Wait, no, Riley—”

“If I set you down, you’ll fall in less than two seconds,” he cut you off, already moving toward the chopper. “Stop being a fuckin’ brat and let me carry you.” 

You sighed in defeat. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you are the bane of my existence.”

Johnny trailed behind, smirking. “Ye two bastards argue like an old married couple, y’know that?”

“Fuck off, Johnny!” The two of you snapped at the same time. Simon stopped in his tracks, gave you a weird look, and then kept walking, eyes trained on the chopper. Yours were lost elsewhere.

No one was going to unpack that.

Simon propped you on your chair and returned to the car with Johnny to retrieve all your luggage, but Johnny’s mind was reeling all the while. At this point, it was hard not to notice that there was definitely something going on between you and Simon. It was already obvious to him since Las Almas, between the bickering and the staring contests.

Something had shifted in this mission, though. 

On the way to Azerbaijan, you two looked one hair’s width away of ripping each other’s throats. Perhaps it was the forced proximity that did it. Simon was already a tough nut to crack, and the fact that he apologised for his actions willingly said a lot. Carrying you to your room while asleep? Tucking you to bed?

Simon Riley liked you, plain and simple. However, Johnny was sure his friend didn’t even know that little piece of information.

Did you like him?

Well… The answer to that question seemed more complicated. There were limits to Johnny’s perceptive abilities, and even with his mask on, Simon was easier to read than you sometimes. He knew this much, though: your walls had begun to crack, and so did his. 

Simon and Johnny finished climbed onto the chopper with your backpacks and closed the door. Almost by instinct, Simon sat next to you, hand flying straight for your tourniquet now that he had better access to your thigh. You didn’t stop him this time, too tired to even protest.

The hum of the chopper blades was steady, almost soothing as the adrenaline began to wear off. Liftoff. Finally.

Your head rested back against the wall, pale but awake. You refused to let your eyes close, even though Simon kept telling you to stay sharp.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he said, nudging you gently.

“I’m not,” you muttered, blinking slowly.

“You are.”

“Riley.” He didn’t answer—just tugged at the tourniquet again, testing it. You hissed and smacked his hand away. “Ow. Quit it.”

“You’ll thank me later,” he said, settling back into his seat but not taking his eyes off you.

You didn’t last long. The hum of the engines, the warmth of Simon’s shoulder beside you—it didn’t take much to pull you under. Your head lolled sideways, resting lightly against him. Simon stiffened, looking down at you, then across the chopper to Johnny.

Johnny’s grin spread slow and wicked.

“Don’t,” Simon warned, voice low.

Johnny reached down for his backpack, then pulled out his phone.

“Johnny,” Simon growled.

Snap.

Johnny tucked the phone away with a satisfied smirk. “The boys are gonna love this.”

Simon’s free hand balled into a fist. “Speak one word about this, and I will have you hanged.”

Johnny winked. “Sure thing, sir.”

crossposted on AO3.

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[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 2 - paperwork

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader (OC) ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slowburn ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 2346 ↣ chapter warnings & tags: none ↣ playlist: supremacy - muse // it's on - korn // bells in santa fe - halsey // by the way - red hot chili peppers previous // masterlist // next

↳ staring contest no. 1.

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Greatness dies, unsung and lost, invisible to history

Simon watched, three days later from his spot between Johnny and Kyle, as his captain personally wheeled you out of the hospital wing, taking over from the nurse who’d been pushing your wheelchair. Admittedly, you looked worse than the night they’d rescued you from the prison, albeit cleaner. Stitches on your forehead, dark circles in your eyes, bruises on your cheeks, collarbone, and legs. Your ankle still bore the mark from where the cartel shackled you to the concrete floor like a rabid dog. He couldn’t begin to imagine the bandages around your torso underneath the oversized shirt and sweats you chose to wear.

Yet, you sat with your back straight, clutching your dog tags like a rosary, undefeated. Price wheeled you with equal parts purpose, satisfaction, and concern. John liked you, Simon gathered. How could he not? The perfect little soldier, always strutting behind him like a minion, always doing his bidding, all prim and proper, unwavering, steel under silk. You were his lapdog in more ways than Kyle could ever be.

Bitch.

There weren’t enough words in the English language that could convey the way you made the blood in Simon’s veins boil. He couldn’t comprehend it, much as he’d like to, why exactly you could get under his skin so easily without even trying. Why your little remarks and lame jokes got a rise out of him. It came so easily to you.

Alejandro and Rodolfo joined the three men, waiting for your discharge. Alejandro especially seemed the most eager to see you, all twitchy and buzzing with energy. He supposed it was the shared language that incited the closeness between you. There was a different world out there, one that you, Alejandro and Rodolfo existed in. One that Simon was privy to.

“There she is,” Kyle said, walking over to meet you, no longer limping. The sergeant had gotten away from the prison mostly unscathed, save for the bruises and cuts. His eye was still purple. Soap joined you, placing a friendly hand on your good shoulder and squeezing. Simon stayed put, next to the nurses’ counter. The distance was for the best.

You smiled at them fondly. “Hi, boys.” Then, your eyes locked on his. “Riley.”

“Duarte.”

Silence. Crickets chirping.

Price’s sigh broke the awkwardness, hands resting on the wheelchair handles. “Lieutenant Duarte has been put on bed rest, effective immediately .” Good, Simon thought, peace at last.  

“And I told you that’s a load of bullshit, sir,” you said, looking up to him. “I can help. Put me on mission control. Kate’ll take care of me. I won’t have to move.”

“Isn’t that the opposite of resting?” Alejandro said, leaning on the wall behind him. “You’re on med leave, Micky.”

“If you send me back to London-”

“We’re not sending you back to London, Sweets,” Price interjected, the beginnings of a smirk twisting his mouth. “You’re to stay here on base for the remainder of the mission. We can’t afford to keep you out of our sight.”

You sighed and pouted . You actually fucking pouted. Simon couldn’t believe he was colleagues with a child . “Fine, but I expect updates. I will not be left out of the loop.”

Pleased, Price patted your head. Like a lapdog. “Will do.”

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The mission wasn’t a success, but it wasn’t a complete failure either.

Things like these happen more often than not. You go in, hoping for the best, hoping you catch the bad guy and rescue everyone else. But sometimes, though, the bad guy escapes, or the hostages die, or maybe there weren’t any hostages at all and you were duped. Maybe it was all a trap.

Or maybe, just maybe, you come out of the mission not having caught the baddies, nor releasing the hostages, but with loads and loads of intel.

Your days at the CIA were mostly like that. Contrary to what movies and video games sold the masses, most missions were slow and boring. Being a CIA agent required patience and timing, something you had to learn after years working as a Navy SEAL. You liked it, however. The paperwork, tedious to most, was an odd comfort. You kept your cubicle nice and clean, you had cute stationery supplies, and you could light up a scented candle and listen to music while working on reports of people you’d personally gutted.

Doing your own paperwork at the CIA and the Navy was bliss. Desk duty, back at the CIA, after clandestine missions, consisted mostly on typing up essay-level reports and then redacting most of it. Laswell sometimes invited you to her office so you could work together in silence. She enjoyed the company, and her office was cozier than yours. She had a couch with a thick blanket (knitted by her wife Isabel, bless her soul), plants, and incense. It was fucking fire.

Doing the 141’s paperwork was like wiping your ass with sandpaper.

You avoided that shit like the plague. There weren’t any offices for you to work on except for your personal study at the London base, so you were forced to work on the shitty dinner table of the barracks within Alejandro’s base in Las Almas. Luckily, the 141 had an entire floor cleared out for yourselves, and since the boys were all out doing god knows what, you had the entire space for yourself.

You didn’t realize how much these fuckers could kill. Sure, you weren’t exactly a saint. There was a special place in hell awaiting you. But fucking hell. Was any of this necessary?

You sat on a sturdy Rimax chair, fan directly blowing stray locks of hair on your face which you hastily tucked back into your ear. You had heaps of papers and reports in front of you, some in Spanish, your work laptop, charging, and a fresh cup of coffee beside it. The deal with Price was that if you wanted to be of use while on med leave, you could always get started on the team’s paperwork. You weren’t exactly sure why you accepted.

The door to the barracks (apartment? floor? flat? the lines were blurred here. you didn’t know what to call this) opened and in came Simon Riley, skull balaclava covering his face like always. He wasn’t wearing tactical gear. It was early in the morning. He’d gone on a run, probably, or maybe he’d been running drills with the others, judging by the sweat stains in his army green shirt. It hung loose on his body, and you wondered how could the SAS find a shirt so huge it looked oversized on him. You could see his forearms and elbows, which was much more than what you were used to, like seeing a Victorian woman’s ankle. The skin glistened with sweat. He was drenched .

“Riley,” you greeted curtly, vision drifting back to the spreadsheet on your screen. You couldn’t stare. Staring was rude . You definitely didn’t want to take a peek at the tattoo sleeve on his left arm. Nope.

“Duarte,” he responded. Stiff, cold. “Having fun?”

“I would be if you showed some restraint in the field,” you said.

“Pardon?”

Hmm. Polite. Yum. “Work on your bloodlust, sport. It makes the paperwork a bitch.”

Riley tilted his head ever so slightly, but no sound came. That was Riley for you. Stoic. Still as a statue. You caught the slight, indifferent shrug as he walked past the dinner table and into the kitchenette. It was an open space, combined with the dining and rec room. On busier days the common room harbored chaos and noise. Today it was mostly silence, save for the fan, and the soft jazz playing in the background.

You chose to ignore him as he fished a water bottle from the fridge, uncapped it, and lifted his mask up to his nose to take a long gulp. You definitely weren’t staring at the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed.

He sighed and pulled the piece of fabric back down, inching closer to the dinner table as you worked. “Hogging the fan now?”

You craned your neck up to face him. It almost hurt, how you had to look up at the absolute mountain of a man before you. “I’ve been alone the entire morning, and it’s hot as fuck, so yes.”

He gave a non-committal grunt, then walked past you, coming to a halt between your body and the fan, soaking up all the fresh air and allowing his sweaty stench to reach your nostrils. You recoiled, then wailed in disgust.

“Fucking hell, Riley, go take a shower you fucking pig ,” you said, covering your nose.

Riley paid you no mind. Instead, he began to stretch. “Can’t hear you over the sound of the fan, Duarte.” Liar. “Need a bit of fresh air.”

“Then go outside !” You protested.

“It’s fucking scorching outside. Shut the fuck up,” he snapped back.

“You’re stinkin’ up the room,” you muttered, wincing as you got up and rounded him, unplugging the fan before he could notice. He glared at you. “Shower.”

A low grunt. Then, he crossed his thick arms, veins bulging. You doubled down. “Shower, Riley, now.” 

His eyebrows, sparse and so blonde it almost appeared he had none, furrowed. Was he trying to intimidate you into leaving him alone? You stared him down harder, unrelenting. His piercing gaze wouldn’t faze you. Was it unnerving? A little. Were you about to let him know that? Fuck no.

“Y’should sit down.” Was all he said.

“You should wash the dirt off your fingernails. Scrub real good,” you countered.

Riley huffed. Huffed. Nearly scoffed. Mentally, you gave yourself a high five. Though the Lieutenant never lost his cool, little things usually gave him away. Through the past months you’ve spent in the 141, you’ve managed to achieve an intermediate level in Ghost language. The best of you was Johnny, of course, but that was because he and Johnny were close friends. Best friends, if the Scot was to be believed. Your ever-increasing fluency in Ghost told you that he found you terribly annoying, as usual, but today you were getting in his nerves. Good.

His eyes, dark and menacing, remained locked onto yours as he bent down and plugged the fan back in. You could almost picture the shit-eating grin under that mask of his. He stood to his full height, a good 6’4, and looked down on you with a hint of condescension, still speechless. He didn’t need to talk to make you feel small and insignificant, his eyes and stature spoke for themselves.

You craned your neck upwards once again, hands on your hips, a scowl plastered on your face. “I’m going to buy a spray bottle and train you like a house cat, Riley,” you seethed. “So whenever you misbehave, I’ll spritz a bit of water on your face. Not spray. Spritz . Hose you the fuck down. Pavlov you into subservience.”

“Kinky,” he answered cooly, and you didn’t know whether his nonchalant tone or the way he looked at you pissed you off more. The fan blasted him at full speed, swinging from side to side, and the documents you had carefully spread over the table began flying off. Fucker. Asshole. Annoying little shit- “Can’t wait to try it.”

More staring. “Pick up my documents.”

He remained still. “Fuck off.”

You painstakingly inched closer to him. He reeked of sweat. “Pick up. The fucking. Papers.”

He leaned down ever so slightly. “Again, no.”

You wanted to grab him by the collar and shake him so hard his head popped off. Wipe the floor with him. Slap him. Something . He always did this. He was never overtly rude, never directly insulting you. No. He was calculated in his disdain. A condescending comment here, a refusal to help there, a mild inconvenience every fucking day he spent in your vicinity. It’s like he had a Piss-Mick-O’-Meter ingrained in the matrix of his robot brain, and had to fill a certain quota each day to keep functioning. He was lagging behind today, you realized.

“So you’re just going to let your injured fellow Lieutenant further aggravate her battle wounds after she was put on med leave? I wonder what Price has to say about this,” you threatened.

“This isn’t an office, Duarte, and Price isn’t H fuckin’ R.”

You squinted, never taking your eyes off his during this silent war. “You Brits always say your Hs so weirdly.”

For once, Riley looked taken aback by your odd comment. “What the fuck-”

“Ah, Simon, Mick, there you are!”

In unison, you turned to Price, who just crossed the door and stood before the mess of documents on the floor. He scanned the common room, then looked at the two of you standing terrifyingly close to each other, at the scowl on your face, at his crossed arms, and at the fan that cooled down Riley’s overheated body.

“Captain,” you and Ghost said.

“Meeting with the Vaqueros in one hour.” The two of you nodded like scolded children. Price’s tone was firm, unwavering, and just a tiny bit fatherly. “Ghost, go take a shower, you reek.”

“Sir,” Riley nodded.

“And help Duarte with the documents, she’s already doing us a favor with the paperwork.” You grinned internally, already sensing Riley tensing up beside you. Oh, you were about to enjoy this. “Matter of fact, wheel her out of here when you leave, will you?”

You witnessed how his jaw tensed under the mask. Your insides squirmed with malicious, devilish glee. 

“Yes, sir,” he responded firmly.

With that, Price nodded, satisfied, and made his way past the strewn documents and into his assigned room. The room stayed silent, save for the fan, which you bent down and unplugged once again, this time swallowing down the strain.

When he felt the fan stop, he turned to you. “You heard him, Riley. Get to work,” you smirked. “I’m definitely getting that spray bottle now.”

He audibly sighed and began to do as told. He’d win another time. Today, the little victory was yours.

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crossposted on AO3.

[crystaldesiree]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 14 - caring makes you blind

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader (OC) ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 5539 ↣ chapter warnings & tags: minor depictions of blood and injuries + gun violence ↣ playlist: knife prty - deftones //the summoning - sleep token // figure 09 - linkin park // brutus - the buttress previous // masterlist // next

↳ with your temper rattled by the bathroom accident, things go wrong during the raid on the lab.

Come see inside my bones

Simon fired four more rounds into a cartel member’s head and ducked behind a crate. It was muscle memory at this point—his finger on the trigger, pushing ever so slightly, bullets raining down wherever he aimed. He fought with precision. Every slash of his knife, every gun fired, every punch he threw, it was carefully executed, coldly calculated. 

He could not say the same about you.

Simon popped his head out from behind the crate, scanning the chaos around him. Bullets whizzed past, forcing him back into cover. His focus should have been on the fight, on clearing the next room—but his mind kept drifting back to you.

You were professional, yes. Clinical, dedicated, and precise. But you fought with rage. 

Simon had been there once. Early on in his career, when death and tragedy could not seem to release him from their clutches, Simon raged until there was nothing left in his heart, until nothing could hurt him. He knew that rage well, all-consuming and all-encompasing. He’d been moulded by it.

You, however, seemed to be made of it. It leaked from your pores—from your deadly piercing gaze when brushing shoulders with him to the precision of your aim when taking down an enemy. You were brash, eager to prove yourself, full of emotion and with a trigger-happy finger.

The two of you made a great team, working in tandem, clearing room after room inside the factory. You’d make an even greater team if you’d deign to speak more than two words to each other.

“Room clear,” you said a full ten seconds after popping another man’s head. Two words. Clipped. Sharp.

Simon looked around, confirming what you had just said. “Let’s keep going. We need to find the sarin and get rid of it.”

You didn’t meet his stare, rather choosing to reload your weapon. Ever since this morning you’d been refusing to lock eyes with him, refusing to engage in your silent squabbles, leaving Simon to think to himself—what the fuck did he do wrong this time? When you spoke, your voice was clipped, cold, every word sharp enough to cut. He’d seen fire in you many times, but all he got now was ice. 

“Got it,” you said, cool indifference seeping through your teeth.

You hadn’t talked much since the bathroom incident the previous night. By the time Simon had left the bathroom, you were already asleep and with your back to him. Later that morning, he tried checking if your head was alright, but you gave him the cold shoulder, and Simon was forced to retreat back to that same hostility from the past few days.

It seemed that every step forward you took meant three steps back. Simon didn’t know what to make of the situation.

Johnny noticed the slight bruise on your forehead as soon as you woke up, face swollen from sleep, lips formed into a pout. Your headache had come back in full force, no thanks to the absolute hit you took last night. Alejandro noticed too, but didn’t ask you about it. He knew better than that. Johnny instead fell victim to your pissy mood as you barked at him to ‘mind his goddamn business, Sergeant’, and that was that. Thankfully, Johnny knew better than to ask Simon as well.

He wasn’t sure how to breach the subject with you. The last thing he wanted was for your temper to get in between you and the mission. It was rule number one in the military: it is never that serious—leave your shit behind when going on a mission. Generally, he succeeded at that, but this time the problem was too big to ignore.

You’d seen him without his mask. Naked.

Granted, it had been an accident, and he could commend the fact that you immediately turned away from him once you realised, but Simon had gone to great lengths to keep his identity hidden over the years. That was the compromise with the higher-ups after he’d been through absolute hell. The mask was protection. It was security.

But, again, you’d seen his fucking face. This was never supposed to happen, or at least not this way. The mask, the layers, had to come off on his terms. When he wanted, and if he wanted to—not by accident. You weren’t supposed to know what he looked like (in fact, not even Johnny and the others were, but they knew how to keep a secret, and it had been a one-time thing, but it had been his choice in the end).

And now, to make things worse, you had seen him at his most vulnerable. There was a reason he covered up, but you’d seen his scars, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. A boundary had been crossed, no matter how accidental it might’ve been, and Simon wasn’t sure if you could come back from that.

Every time he looked at you, he pictured the many ways you scrutinised him in your head. Or maybe that was just his own paranoia. He’d never been good at letting people in, but this was something else entirely. You’d seen the scars he kept hidden for a reason. What the hell were you thinking now?

Despite your anger, you’d been nothing but professional since you left the hostel, but Simon could sense the underlying threat to your tone. He’d observed you long enough to pick apart the small tells in your voice. You were back at square one—only this time Simon knew that he was on the losing side. He hated it. Fucking despised the fact that you held something over him now. Were you going to taunt him with it? Were you going to gloat about it? Were you going to use that information against him?

The fragile truce you’d built over the past few days had shattered, Simon knew it. He could sense it in the coldness of your eyes because he’d been there before. He’d been the distant one, the one to purposefully build the walls, to keep his distance, but now it was you, and he couldn’t stand it.

Hurts when it’s you the one being distant.

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“No sign o’ the lass here,” Johnny said to Alejandro on the other side of the compound after exiting one of the maintenance rooms. They were getting closer to the main offices now. Maybe they’d get lucky there.

“We keep pushing,” Alejandro barked, checking his rifle. So far, they had met little resistance sweeping through their accorded side of the compound. You’d had little luck, facing the bulk of the armed resistance head-on. He knew you could handle it, though. You and Ghost. If Johnny had learned anything this past year it was that, while you did fight, you and Simon could at least be professional about it.

“What are you waiting for, Soap?” Alejandro barked again, now several steps away from him. Johnny shook his head and followed, trying to stop his thoughts from drifting back to you, to Simon, to everything that had transpired between you in this forsaken op.

You’d woken up with a sour mood. Johnny hadn’t even opened his mouth to ask about the fresh, purplish bruise on the left side of your forehead when you were telling him to go fuck himself. At this point, Alejandro or Simon would’ve retaliated, but everyone’s nerves were so frayed by the mission that Johnny was left to ponder by himself. Not even Simon had it in himself to mock the bruise on your forehead. No, he’d been too busy looking at his cup of coffee to even bother speaking.

No snide comments, no remarks. Just rawdogging your pissy attitude. That wasn’t the Simon Riley he knew.

Just what exactly happened last night? Something was amiss here.

They reached the emergency stairs and climbed towards the third floor. It was a Sunday, so the majority of the lab and admin staff hadn’t even shown up. Good, Johnny thought, gun at the ready, inspecting the empty reception on the landing. Makes things easier. 

“No signs of hostiles here,” Alejandro whispered into the comm, a few metres away at one of the desks, ruffling through some papers. “Check for any intel you can gather.”

Johnny lowered his rifle. “Yes, sir.”

Alejandro had also woken up cranky as fuck, but Johnny could’ve seen it coming from miles away. It was no secret how much this op was affecting him. Back in Las Almas, Johnny had seen firsthand just how easily Valeria could get into his head, how she managed to escape him time and time again. He wasn’t allowed to fail now, especially after missing her in Baku. He had to get her now or risk exposing who knows how many with the sarin. 

This was the big leagues.

Or so had Alejandro said last night, while smoking out on the street, just a few metres away from the hostel entrance.

Johnny remembered the forlorn look on his friend’s face as he took a drag of his cig and puffed out smoke. “If we don’t get her, I don’t think I can forgive myself.”

“Worse things have happened, Al,” Johnny had said, leaning into a lamppost.

But Alejandro shook his head. “Nah, man. This is personal.”

Johnny tapped his cigarette, ashes falling into the cobbled streets. “She was yer teammate, right?” 

“We were more than just mates, hermano. She was…” Alejandro trailed off and took another drag of his cigarette. He considered his words for a moment. “We never put a label on it. Couldn’t. It was hard, being in the military together. I worried about her constantly, maybe more than she did, and that became a liability.”

Johnny tried to keep a straight face, but the weight of Alejandro’s admission stayed with him. He didn’t know what to say. On one hand, he should’ve seen it coming. The rage that burned within Alejandro wasn’t something you’d reserve for just another mate. No. The man was heartbroken, and Johnny wasn’t equipped to be everyone’s psychotherapist, as much as he wanted to.

“I think caring makes you strong, Al,” Johnny said, trying to shift towards something more positive. “You’re here because you care. Most people in this business wouldn’t be able to say the same.”

“Caring makes you blind,” Alejandro snapped. “I couldn’t see what was right in front of me, man. She slipped right past me back then. Still does, to this day.”

Silence fell between them. Groups of people walked past them, mostly youths on the way to and from bars. Johnny briefly remembered his early enlistment days, going out with his mates without a care in the world. “Do you still… have feelings for her?” He asked after a moment.

Alejandro ruminated Johnny’s words carefully, pursing his lips and gazing towards the sky, avoiding eye contact. “I… I don’t think I can even entertain that thought, to be honest,” he admitted. 

“That’s not a no,” Johnny snorted, looking at his friend’s hands. No ring. Alejandro had never gotten married, citing the strain his job puts into his personal life. But maybe this was why. Maybe he still held a torch for the woman he was supposed to catch.

“All I want is to put the fucking woman behind bars. Make her pay for what she’s done. My feelings are irrelevant.” He dropped his half-finished cigarette and stomped it with his shoe, and that was that.

Johnny rummaged through papers—all of them in Azerbaijani. Nothing about numbers or chemical formulas that stood out to him. Sunlight hit his face through the large floor-to-ceiling windows of the third level. It was close to noon now and time was of the essence.

“Anything noteworthy?” Alejandro said, coming closer to him. Johnny shook his head. “Let’s keep going, then.”

Johnny held onto his rifle as he followed Alejandro back into the staircase. “Bravo 0-8, this is Bravo 7-1. Office level three is clear. Moving to level four.”

He heard some static from the other side of the comm, then your voice, tired and irritated. “Bravo 0-8. Good copy. We’re meeting resistance at the lab. Keep up. Ghost, you fucking wanker-”

And then the transmission was over.

“Heard that?” Johnny said as the pair landed on the fourth floor—also empty. Something was not right here.

Alejandro grunted. “I swear if they don’t kill each other I might step in and get the job done for them.”

“Harsh,” Johnny replied. Again, he couldn’t prevent his thoughts from drifting back to you and Simon. Regardless of whatever had transpired last night, Johnny knew that Simon had already started to soften, and there was no going back from it. Simon was a very complicated man, but after years of working together Johnny was proud to say that he knew him like the back of his hand. 

The signs were there. He’d blocked the sun for you. Nursed your headache. He’d carried you to your bed and tucked you in. When had Simon done that for him during his benders? The man was a goner, Johnny was sure of it.

Alejandro paced the open-plan office in irritation. The more they kept looking for information, the more time Valeria had to escape. 

“This isn’t working,” Alejandro said, gripping his rifle tightly. “We need to meet with the others-”

The ground shook before the loud blast even registered. Desks and light fixtures rattled under the force of the explosion, and Johnny even lost his balance but managed to stay on his feet. Alejandro remained still, however, glancing at his surroundings suspiciously. “You okay?”

Johnny nodded. “The others-”

“Bravo 0-8 to Bravo 7-1. We’ve been hit. Ghost and I are trapped. How copy?”

Both men shared worried glances as your voice filled the silence. This couldn’t be good.

“This is Victor 1-1, good copy. Where are you?” Alejandro immediately replied. “Are you safe?”

“Got hit on the chest plate,” Simon’s voice cut in. “We were in the control room when the explosion occurred. The only exit is blocked by debris.”

Johnny sighed. From what it looked like, none of you were in immediate danger, which was a relief. 

“We can’t get out,” you said.

Alejandro gave Johnny a look, and he understood immediately. “Soap is on his way to you. Hang tight.”

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You paced around the room, arms crossed defensively, eyes on the three cartel idiots outside. Lucky for you, the glass that separated the control room from the rest of the lab was bulletproof. So, for now, you were in a standoff. 

They eyed you as if you were a fish in a tank, and you returned the look, hoping that if you stared hard enough, bullets would pierce their skulls. But alas, you had no telekinetic powers, as much as you wished for them. All you could do at the moment was sit and wait.

But when did sitting and waiting get you what you wanted?

The explosion had been unexpected, to say the least. You and Riley had finished sweeping one of the maintenance rooms and had moved onto the lab where, unsurprisingly, mooks had been loading the sarin into crates. You managed to hold them off for a while, but then Simon got his on his chest plate, forcing you to retreat into one of the control rooms overlooking the lab, and then boom.

The lab was wrecked now, and the mooks managed to get away with the crates to fuck-knows-where. What little mooks remained where there just to make sure they got to kill you before leaving, if they managed to remove the debris from the entrance.

Riley sat on one of the chairs, inspecting his rifle and loading more ammo, ever the patron saint of nonchalance. Seriously, the man could’ve died and yet there he was, without a single scratch, checking his rifle without a care in the world.

Not you. No. Something inside this sardine can of a room would have to be of use for you to get out of here. You couldn’t just sit still waiting for Soap. Anything to keep you from thinking about last night.

“Oi. Would you stop pacing around?” Riley said.

Your right hand balled into a fist, nails digging through the fabric of your gloves. God, you’d give anything to slap his mouth shut. His mouth, full and masculine and-

No. Fuck this.

You had half the urge to slap the image of a naked Simon Riley out of your head. The more you tried not to think of him, the more the image bullied itself into the forefront of your mind. Riley, all six-foot-four of him, covered in suds, water dripping down his scarred, sculpted, strong body, his dirty blonde hair all short and wet, his full tattoo sleeve that reached up to his collarbone… You’d only glanced at him for less than five seconds, but that was enough for the image to burn itself into your retinas.

“Duarte, stop moving. You’re unnerving,”

“Oh, I’m unnerving?” You asked almost neurotically, placing your hands on your hips. You were going insane. “You think I’m off-putting, Riley? Have you checked yourself out?”

“So you think I'm intimidating?”

“I think if I didn’t know any better I'd think you look like the Grim Reaper. Not the most pleasant thing to stare at.”

Riley tensed. Oh shit. Bad thing to say. Stupid bitch is what you are, you thought. How could you say that right after (accidentally) seeing him without his mask for the first time? Did he think you considered him ugly? Because that was most certainly not the case. What little you managed to see had been… quite enticing.

“Right.” He snorted. “Because you’re such a pleasant thing to look at.”

“You think I'm hot?”

“I think you’re full of yourself. Who even brings moisturiser to an op?”

You rolled your eyes. “Bet you’re one of those guys who uses 5-in-1 shampoo.”

“It’s 3-in-1 and it’s a practical choice.”

You almost let out a chuckle. “Right. That’s why you fucking stink after jogging for one mile.”

“Mind you, I’m very clean.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. 3-in-1 fucking shampoo, for fuck’s sake...” You muttered under your breath, pinching the bridge of your nose and turning away from Riley.

Silence. “Johnny sure takes his time.”

“He’s keen on torturing us.”

“You think my presence is a torture?”

You weren’t about to answer that. No fucking way. “Why are you so guarded?” You answered instead. “Why do you hide under that mask?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he retorted defensively, brown eyes gazing straight into yours for the first time that day.

You scoffed. “I don’t wear a mask.”

“We all do, Duarte.”

Silence, again. What did he mean by that? You averted your gaze from him and looked outside, not wanting to dignify him with an answer. Did he imply that you hid behind a mask, too? That would be preposterous. With you, what you saw was what you got. Sure, you were reserved, but you didn’t hide.

…did you?

“Bravo 7-1 comin’ in hot.” 

 A bullet went through the skull of one of the mooks. Then the other one dropped dead, and then the last one. All dead before they could even react. Johnny was here.

“Fuckin’ finally,” Riley groaned, standing up just as Johnny entered the ruined lab. He took a good look at the bodies that littered the floor along with the debris and broken glass, then smirked once he saw you behind the glass.

“Long time no see,” Johnny said from the other side of the pane.

“Hurry up and get us out of here, Soap,” you urged him, arms crossed.

“You’re welcome, Sweets, I am also very glad to see you,” he retorted.

“Johnny,” Riley warned, his hulking frame next to yours. His tone sent shivers down your spine. Fucking hell. “Get us out. Now.”

Johnny straightened up. “On it, LT.”

While Johnny disappeared behind the door to clear the debris, Riley turned around and gave you a look. You pictured a smug grin under the skull mask, and it made your blood boil.

“So he listens to you. Do you want an award?” You spat. “Want to undermine by authority while at it?”

“Our authority, Duarte. Don’t forget it.”

You sneer. “Ah, so now you decide to be a feminist. Got it.”

His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer to you. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.”

The door opened before things could escalate. Your heads turned toward Johnny, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “Have I interrupted something?”

“No.” You proceeded to grab your rifle and head past Johnny and into the lab, angrily leaving Riley behind.

Why on earth were you so quick to anger? Why couldn’t you just go with the flow more often? Why did you have to make things complicated? It seemed that every time you and Riley reached a semi-good place, your stupid, self-sabotaging brain forced you back into hostile territory. You hated it.

Although Riley wasn’t without his faults, you knew that perhaps you’d been harsher than he deserved. He wasn’t to blame for you hitting your head last night—it had been an accident, after all, but your temper needed a scapegoat, and who better than Riley?

Maybe Laswell was right. You needed to book a session with her wife ASAP.

“When we got here there was already little sarin to begin with,” you explained to Johnny as the two left the control room. “Only a few test tubes’ worth.”

“They loaded it into a crate while we were stuck, and left,” Riley continued, eyes trained on your form. You tried your best to ignore it, to focus on Johnny, but his gaze was too intense. Your gazes clashed briefly. What was he thinking?

Johnny nodded. “Then they must be near the loading bay or any of the warehouses.”

“If they haven’t left already,” you reasoned.

“Victor 1-1 in the blind. Does someone copy?” Alejandro’s voice came through the comm, sounding almost desperate. The three of you froze, eyes widening like saucers. “Facing the remaining hostiles at the shipping bay. Valeria is here, I repeat, Valeria is here. I need reinforcements now!”

“Shit,” you muttered. Immediately the three of you sprinted towards the exit.

“Victor 1-1, this is Bravo 0-7, we’re OTW. Hang in there,” Riley barked as the three of you ran through the hallways.

You ran as fast as you could, managing to reach the loading bay nearly two minutes later. It was pure chaos. Bullets flew past your head as you scurried and hit behind a column. How Alejandro managed to hold his own for this long was beyond you.

“Took you long enough!” Alejandro yelled from a few metres away, hiding behind a crate and reloading his rifle.

“We got stuck!” Riley countered, shooting down two cartel guards with stunning accuracy and getting behind cover. Just a few paces behind, Johnny covered the lot of you.

“Cartel managed to load a truck, but I blew the tyres. We can’t let them escape!” Alejandro explained. “Whatever you do, we need Valeria alive!”

“Permission to injure?” You asked, aiming for one guy’s chest. The idiot wasn’t wearing a vest. Pathetic.

“Non-fatal,” Alejandro yelled back.

You smirked. “Roger.” There was an opening for you to move forth and gain a bit of ground, so you snuck past and ducked behind a crate a couple of feet ahead, closer to Riley.

After gunning down two more men, you caught a glimpse of her. Longer hair and armed to the teeth. The last time you saw Valeria Garza you were tied to a chair in that old prison in Las Almas, Mexico, and she’d branded a knuckle duster to punch information out of you. You weren’t particularly vindictive, but you were going to enjoy busting one of her kneecaps.

You took a deep breath and aimed at the woman. Bring her down and we can leave this fucking country. She ducked, so you shot one of the men near her instead. You had to be practical about this. A bullet whirled past you. Too close. You hid again.

Another deep breath. You took aim once more, but Valeria was nowhere to be seen. Where did she go? Fucking bitch, I swear I’ll find you.

There she was, at least two meters to the left. You aimed again and-

Pain.

You bit back a scream. White-hot pain burned your right bicep. You hid behind the crate again, kneeling on the floor as your toes curled inside your boots and heat flared through your body. 

“Fuck,” you groaned, scalding tears falling freely down your face, nose runny. You couldn’t even grip your rifle properly now, your hand too weak to hold it, so you set it down on the concrete. Fucking hell, just what I needed now.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

More bullets whizzed past you. A quick glance around told you that the others were handling it for now, but it wouldn’t be long until things got out of hand. You inspected the damage. Part of your long sleeve shirt had burned away, along with a bit of skin. It was just a graze—good. Grazes could heal. The wound, however, burned like a bitch, like an angry red hot rod was placed directly onto the skin. A thin stream of blood ran down your arm and dripped onto the concrete. You needed to stop the bleeding, no matter how minimal. You had a job to do.

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He heard your moans of pain.

Past the guns and the yelling, he could hear your voice clear as day, just a few metres to his left. Nothing came on the comm, so he hid back behind the crate and watched how you inspected your arm, how droplets of blood stained the grey concrete. You were injured. Grazed, most likely.

He watched you swallow the pain and sob through it, before taking a few calming breaths and angrily wiping the tears away with your left hand. You huffed, examined your wound again, then grabbed your rifle, and got back up again and aimed.

Holy shit, he thought. What the fuck were you doing? You were injured. Did you have a death wish? Was that it?

“Something’s wrong with Sweets!” Said Alejandro through the comm as he sneaked past him, getting closer to the trucks. So far, he’d succeeded in blowing up most of the tyres.

“Got grazed, but I’m fine,” you croaked through the comm, ruthlessly shooting down a man close to Valeria. “These guys are not backing down, keep going.”

True to word, no matter how many men you’d gunned down, there still appeared to be enough to pose a threat, doubling down on the shots taken. In the background, Valeria yelled something unintelligible, probably in Spanish, earning an angry retort from Alejandro.

But Simon’s gaze was focused on you.

You winced with every shot, but you took it nonetheless, taking down two more men.

“Sweets,” Simon yelled through the comm. “Stay down. It’s too much.”

You ducked again and glared at Simon from your spot. “Exactly why I should keep going.”

“You will lose your arm if you keep going.”

“Better than losing Valeria.”

“I’m fucking telling you to stand down, that’s an order.”

Quite stubbornly, you stood back up again and aimed. “You like to pull the authority card when it suits you, but you forget I don’t take orders from you.”

“Duarte,” Simon warned, “be serious for once in your fucking life and listen to me.”

You shot down one more guy, but your face contorted in pain as you held the rifle with your injured arm. Simon sighed. You were going to be the death of him. Why were you so complicated? Why did you have to contradict him even at the cost of your own well-being? Did you hate him so? You must’ve.

He rolled his eyes. Focus, Simon. There was a task at hand. If you wanted your arm to fall off, then that was on you. He warned you, and it was your choice whether to listen or not.

He watched Johnny sneak past, gaining more territory along with Alejandro. The cartel’s numbers were dwindling, though they were still gravely outnumbered. How were they even going to get out of this one?

As he aimed and shot another mook, he heard you hiss again, and then a voice in the back of his head yelled at him to just go get you, otherwise, you’d get properly shot, and that would be a problem.

Get her get her get her get her get her-

“Fucking hell,” Simon muttered to himself, grabbing his rifle and ducking from crate to crate until he reached your position. “Duarte!” He warned. You were too busy aiming and shooting with your bad arm that you didn’t notice Simon approaching. So he did the sensible thing and pulled you back down by your vest, making you fall back on your ass.

“Ow! What the fuck-”

“I fuckin’ told you to stand down!” He yelled, still holding the back of your vest.

You protested with a shove, but Simon was undeterred, holding you still. “The fuck are you doing! They’re going to escape!”

“You’re not listenin’ to me!” He hissed, now grabbing you by the collar and pulling you dangerously closer to his masked face. “You’re no use to us dead, Michaela. Stand. Down.”

That shut you up. He sought defiance in your puffy, red eyes but, thankfully, found none. It seemed you got his message loud and clear. Instead of letting you go immediately, however, he looked for your injury. “You alright?”

“I’m fine. Go,” you nodded reluctantly, and Simon finally let you go. He got up and defended from there, not quite letting you out of his sight. He already had too much on his plate to deal with you being a baby.

Johnny and Alejandro were closer to the trucks than ever. As far as he saw, most of them had busted tyres, but the cartel’s soldiers still outnumbered them. He got into position and began to shoot, taking down three more men in quick succession. Valeria fought tooth and nail, yelling at her men to double down on them.

“Ghost! Watch our backs!” Alejandro yelled through the comms.

“Rog!” He yelled back, keeping an eye on both men as they ventured further into the field and ducked behind more crates. He shot another soldier, gunning others down as soon as they popped up.

Then he heard you groan. He briefly looked down to see you struggling to tie an impromptu tourniquet around your arm to stop the bleeding. Your hand was shaking, and the more you tugged on the tourniquet the more you winced. Simon shook his head and kept on covering Soap and Alejandro. You could do this on your own.

“Fucking shit,” you hissed, wiggling next to Simon, then moaning in pain once more. He looked down and saw you angrily wipe the tears off your face once more and take a deep, calming breath.

She’s going to be the death of me, he thought, before sighing and kneeling back down. “Give me that.”

You stilled, watching in shock as Simon swatted your hand away and quickly tied the tourniquet without thinking, securing it tightly to prevent more blood from escaping. “There,” he said when he was done. “All good?”

In the background, Simon could hear the faint hum of an engine, but his eyes were set on yours. Tears kept rolling down your face, but you held it high, as if unwilling to let him see beyond the tears that fell. Always defiant.

“All good,” you answered softly, the words reaching a place within Simon he didn’t know existed. How could you build him up and tear him down with just your tone? Your eyes softened with gratitude, even if you didn’t say it outright.

“Valeria’s escaping! Don’t let her get away!”

Alejandro’s voice cut through the comms and alerted the two of you. A black pickup truck, much louder this time, sped through the shipping bay, transporting at least four crates full of sarin, and with Valeria in the shotgun seat.

Frantically, Simon stood up and aimed at the truck, shooting after it but missing when it took a hard left. Alejandro and Soap gunned after it as well, but by now the damage had been done. Valeria had escaped with some of the sarin, and as long as she was still out there, then the buyer could receive at least some of what they paid for.

“No!” Alejandro yelled. “¡Pinche pendeja hija de puta!” Motherfucking bitch!

Simon helped you up, careful not to hurt your arm any further. This failure was going to weigh heavy on everyone, especially Alejandro. 

It’s my fault, Simon thought. Had I not bent down to help her, we might’ve still had a shot. But then again, would I have lived with myself if Mick’s injury got worse? This is not alright. I’m getting too distracted.

As the sun hung high in the clear, cloudless sky, Simon watched Alejandro kick a random crate and scream toward the heavens in defeat.

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crossposted on AO3.