readingthingy

[readingthingy]

see you when the wrath comes | ch. 46 - a light among the darkness

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x OC ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 4.2k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: none!! just fluff!!! ↣ playlist: sweet night - v // nothing else matters - metallic // flightless bird, american mouth - iron & wine // you are in love - taylor swift previous // masterlist // next

↳ simon holds your hand.

I wonder if you are too good to be true, and if it would be alright if I pulled you closer? — Sweet Night, V

The team huddled together in front of Price’s rugged laptop, eyes glued to the congressional hearing on the screen, inside the ULF’s war room a day later. Farah had to scramble back into her office to get some old, mid-00’s speakers because of the ruckus going on outside. Price’s laptop had somehow taken a beating over the past few weeks, and while the screen worked fine, albeit slightly cracked, the speakers were all but useless. 

You sat on a chair near the table, Simon’s gloved hand heavy and warm on your shoulder as he stood behind you, squeezing every once in a while. Herschel Shepherd graced the screen, his uniform decked out in medals and pins, answering the Congressman’s questions.

Lie after fucking lie, you thought, rolling your eyes whenever your former (or current? At this point, you didn’t know) boss opened his mouth. Price sat to your left, jaw clenched so tight it might as well have been wired shut. He’d been sporting a sour mood since you met with him yesterday night. That joint stint with the Shadow Company wasn’t a failure by any means, but Price didn’t exactly deem it a success after Shepherd refused to confirm Makarov’s death. You couldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t rest until he saw Makarov’s corpse with his very eyes. Probably kick it for good measure.

Pretty much everyone in the team thought the same thing.

You arrived at the base last night, after taking a well-deserved nap in Nikolai’s office. Both he and Johnny couldn’t meet your eyes after Johnny caught you making out with Simon in the bathroom, and you did your best to make both men feel as uncomfortable as possible in return. Simon only glared at them. No one talked about it, but you could feel the mix of shame and mischief permeating the air.

Simon curled into his sleeping bag next to you, mask back on, but for once looking pleased. He gently nudged you awake hours later, his eyes wide open and alert, so much so you wondered if he’d even slept at all, but he looked rested regardless. Calm. He’d been lying on his side for a bit, just looking at your sleeping form.

“You look cute when you sleep,” he’d almost whispered. To you, it was jarring to hear him say such a thing, but nonetheless welcome. You’d have to get used to seeing this new side of him now. “Your cheeks…” He pinched them, then gave a low chuckle. “Cute.”

Dear god, is he smiling under the mask? You thought.

After gathering your stuff, and taking Kyle and John’s luggage, Nikolai dropped you off at the base and promptly “fucked off” (his words, not yours) with a promise to meet up later for some drinks “when this whole shitshow was over and Makarov was six feet under”. Not much happened since then. You met with the others and had a debrief, then had one of the best dinners ever, courtesy of the ULF’s catering. Kate had sent word that Graves was en route to the States since he’d been summoned to appear at Shepherd’s hearing. Kyle told you over dinner how their exchange at the airstrip had been tense.

“Bloody Yankee Doodle cunt,” was all he said, digging into his dolma. “If I see him one more time I will put a bullet in his head.”

“Violent much?”

“Ask Johnny what he thinks about Graves and you’ll think I’m a saint.”

You were only glad you’d never met the man in person.

Simon’s hand squeezed your shoulder again, bringing you back into reality. You glanced at the shape of his knuckles pressing into the fabric and then looked up at him. He squeezed again—twice. You smiled, then turned back to Price’s laptop. So far you hadn’t told anyone outside Johnny and Nikolai that you’d made up, but frankly it seemed like it was old news already. Nobody dared say anything, but now instead of uncomfortable, tense stares, you only got raised eyebrows from the others. At least you weren’t getting any shit from them. For that, you were grateful.

With things between you smoothed out, Simon went back to his taciturn demeanor, only slightly less dry. He wasn’t affectionate in public, far from it, but you didn’t mind. However, that didn’t stop him from keeping a hand on you whenever he could. On your knee while sitting together, on your shoulder right now, or even pushing your hair behind your ear whenever he saw a strand falling out of place. It was quiet, like him, but so full of meaning, of things he hadn’t said but didn’t need to. He still spoke to you in that firm, almost cold tone of his that you’d gotten used to, but there was no malice, no annoyance behind it. Only softness.

Who knew that Simon Riley was such a gentle giant?

You had to admit you liked it. A lot. He was so different from your previous relationships and yet, nothing has felt as natural as him quietly existing beside you. So you patted his shoulder whenever you passed him by, held his hand on the helo, massaged his neck if no one was watching. Neither of you knew where this might lead, but at least you were on equal footing, and you were taking it one day at a time for now. That was all you needed.

“...We owe a debt of gratitude to our Task Force and to the ULF for our success against Vladimir Makarov and his private army,” Shepherd spoke confidently into the mic. His praise did nothing to stop the dread churning in your stomach.

The congressman leading the hearing spoke. “Much has been said about the ULF. Are Farah Karim and her soldiers a terror organization?”

“No. Farah Karim is and always has been an ally to the United States and our Western partners in the region.”

The audience murmured in response. You glanced aside and noticed Farah, who sat on Price’s left, rolling her eyes and sighing.

“How did Commander Karim obtain American armaments?”

“Yeah, how did she?” Kyle mocked, standing behind Farah, his arms crossed, face contorted into a scowl. You suppressed a snort.

Shepherd spoke, stone-faced. “For nearly a decade, I sent weapons to Commander Karim to support her missions against Al-Qatala and Russian incursions into Urzikstan.”

“Were those shipments legal?” The congressman asked.

“No,” Shepherd said. “In order to save lives, I commissioned illegal shipments with funds I approved myself.”

The audience murmured once again in shock. No one inside the war room moved. Rather, you heard at least two grunts and one scoff.

“Quiet... Quiet, please…” The congressman appeased, forcing the crowd into silence. Once the murmurs died down he spoke again. “General Shepherd, in October of 2022, did you authorize Shadow Company to fire on a task force under your command in Las Almas, Mexico?”

You heard Johnny sigh. “Here we go.”

“No, I did not,” he replied.

“Bastard,” Simon muttered.

“Bloody liar is what he is,” Kyle seethed. John didn’t speak, rather taking a deep breath and clenching his jaw so much you swore you heard his teeth grinding. Within the audience you could make out Laswell sitting in the second row, eyeing both Shepherd and Graves with contempt.

The Congressman turned to the latter, sitting to Shepherd’s right, just a couple of feet away. “Mr. Graves, were you given orders to use lethal force against TF-141?”

The camera panned to him, sharply dressed, not a hair out of place. He stared confidently at the congresspeople. “Yes, I was.”

The audience murmured loudly.

“Quiet. Quiet in this chamber! Who gave you those orders?”

“General Herschel Shepherd,” Graves answered naturally.

“Did you act on those orders, Mr. Graves?”

Graves took a dramatic pause before answering. “No... Absolutely not, sir.”

The blatant lie left you and Farah with your mouths agape. Simon’s grip on your shoulder tightened slightly before he sighed. On camera, Shepherd glanced murderously at Graves as the audience erupted into loud complaints. The congressman urged them into silence, but the damage had been done.

“Fuck me,” Kyle said, amused. “They stabbed each other in the back.”

“Still saving their own skins,” Johnny commented.

“Every man for himself,” you mused.

Farah stood up from her chair, resolute. “That's the difference between us... and them.” She set two photographs on the table, Shepherd and Makarov’s faces. It was personal now, for everyone involved, and none of you would rest until these men paid for their actions.

“We gonna let this stand, Boss?” Simon asked. 

Price finally unclenched his jaw. “Best way to end a war... is to win it.”

You and Johnny nodded in agreement. Farah turned to Price and extended her hand. Price grasped it, standing up as well. Everyone followed suit.

“No prisoners,” she said.

“Good hunting, Commander,” Price said, shaking her hand firmly.

“You too, Captain.”

With that said, the two exchanged a short hug.

“We’ll meet again when this is over,” Price said to her with the stern affection of a strict father, then cleared his throat once they separated and shut his laptop. “Right. Everyone say their goodbyes. We’re leaving.”

Price left the room for a bit—you assumed it was to prep the journey home. Johnny and Kyle approached Farah to hug her goodbye as well, you and Simon awkwardly stood by, waiting for their time to be over. Once they were done, she turned to you, all placid smiles and a thirst for blood in her eyes despite the dark circles below them.

“So,” she began.

“So,” you said. “No way I can cop your cooks?”

She fought back a grin and shook her head.

You sighed dramatically. “I swear every time I eat gruel back in England—”

“We don’t eat gruel, Mick,” Simon interjected from behind you.

“I will be cursing your name, Farah Karim,” you smiled playfully.

She snorted, mirroring the warmth in your smile. “Noted.”

For a brief moment you wondered how things would’ve been if you only had more time. Farah clearly had more history with the others—she shared a certain familiarity with Kyle and Price, and to an extent, Johnny and Simon, that you were privy to. If only you’d managed to get to know her better, then maybe your interactions wouldn’t be reduced to you joking about food.

She pulled you into a hug nonetheless, which you welcomed gladly. Alex’s words rang in your head. She was indeed a force to be reckoned with. You could see why everyone liked her, why he loved her more than anything. You only wished the two could get the peace they deserved.

“Send Alex my regards, okay?” You murmured.

“Will do,” she said after separating. She finished with a small pat on your shoulder. “Take care, Mick.”

With that, you turned back to join Kyle and Johnny’s conversation feet away, but not before squeezing Simon’s bicep.

Farah quirked an eyebrow as she looked at Simon. Of course she saw that, he thought, watching the smirk blooming on her lips.

He sighed. “Long story.”

She crossed her arms. “Hope it’s a good one.”

Simon blinked in response.

“Hmm,” Farah squinted curiously.

“We’re not fighting anymore,” Simon relented.

She nodded, seeing right through him. He wasn’t sure if he liked that. “I gather.”

“We, uhh… set a few things straight.”

“And?”

“We’re okay.”

Farah frowned. “That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?” He replied. “We’re taking it slow.”

She nodded again. “Hmmhmm, I see. Alex will be pleased.”

Simon stiffed. “What?”

She shrugged casually. “We had a bet going on.”

Simon wanted to die. “Who won?” He actually didn’t want to know, but his tongue acted faster than his brain.

“He won.”

“What… was the bet about?” Don’t ask any more questions, you stupid bastard.

“He bet that you wouldn’t jump into something straight away. I bet against it,” she replied simply.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

She shrugged again. “It’s alright. We didn't bet any money. We don't gamble here.”

He scrunched his eyebrows. “What did you bet?”

“Chocolates.”

“Seriously?”

“They’re hard to come by,” she explained.

He nodded, glancing around the war room to find you talking to Johnny and Garrick. “If it makes you feel better, I'll coerce Mick into an actual bet with money.”

She snorted. “Good luck with that.”

The war room door opened, and Price strolled in. “Alright, let's prep for exfil... We're going home.”

Simon and Farah exchanged some final looks. “Good luck, Ghost,” she said, offering her hand. He shook it, glad she didn’t pressure him into an awkward hug. Physical touch was one thing he still wasn’t completely used to, unless it came to you. He didn’t know why it was so natural for him to touch you constantly, but there it was.

“Good luck, Commander,” he replied, hoping she’d get to see him smiling through the mask. That she’d see the warmth in his eyes. She was one of the finest soldiers he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting and deserved all of his respect. She smiled back.

Minutes later, the team walked towards the airstrip and boarded the jet that would take you back to the base in Hereford. For now, you’d get to rest. How long would that resting period last? No clue, but he welcomed the respite, however brief. Everyone needed it after weeks with little to no sleep.

He sat next to you and across from Johnny. You checked his seatbelt once he fastened it, and he gave you a look. Really? he thought at first, but then realised you probably still thought of the helo crash, and how he had forgotten to fasten his seatbelt because he’d been too busy trying to talk some sense into you. So he stopped himself and allowed you to check, but not before he checked yours, too.

Two paranoid soldiers in a relationship. What a sight.

Once you were both satisfied, you relaxed, not one word shared between you. It’s like you could communicate without speaking. For a moment, it surprised him, but Simon knew this wasn’t a new thing. No, this went back months. Perhaps back to the day you met—how you could say a million things with just one look, how your staring contests were like sparring matches contained into a simple stare. The chemistry had always been there. This was just a new facet he’d have to get used to.

While the others were too busy in their own conversations as the jet took off, Simon removed his gloves, flexing his hand against the cool air, and laced his fingers with yours without a second thought, glad that he was allowed to touch you now. He looked down at your intertwined hands, microanalysing every inch of your skin—the gracefulness of your fingers, the callouses that you’d smoothed over with exfoliators and creams, the chipped nude nail polish from a manicure you’d gotten weeks ago and it still remained. So different from his hands, rough and dry, uncared for. Should he start filing his nails? Using hand cream, like Kyle?

Simon scoffed internally. He didn’t know why he was suddenly worried about something so stupid as dry hands.

Because she’s holding them, his conscience said. And it might be jarring to think that she may like them, all dry and scarred. She’s seen you three times without the mask, but would she like what she sees underneath your clothes?

Simon shoved that thought away. It was futile, trying to talk himself out of thinking you wouldn’t want him. Why did you like him anyway? So far all you’d seen from him are his forearms and his face. And even then, he wasn’t sure how a guy like him was able to pull you.

You were so out of his fucking league. In all honesty, you probably deserved a guy like Kyle. A guy who cared for his body like a temple and was more open with his feelings. A guy more like you, who liked using expensive creams and had a thing for stationery and the finer things. Simon wasn’t like that. He was raw and blunt and jagged in places. His skin was coarse and dry and scarred all over, his body was mangled and brutal. Yours, though not without its fair share of battle trophies, was smooth and soft and smelled nice all the time.

Fucking hell, how is this going to work?

He blinked a few times to get himself out of it, his vision unblurring. He’d been staring at his boots the whole time, but a couple of squeezes from your hand caught his attention.

“You okay?” He asked, like he’d just not gone down a rabbit hole about whether or not you found him attractive. I need to stop doing that. She likes me. She said so. That’s what matters.

You nodded, a soft smile adorning your face. God, you looked so pretty when you smiled…

“Yup. Your wound okay? Did you…?”

“Pomade?” He asked softly. He’d applied some more this morning. The wound was still fresh, and no doubt Price would force him into medical to get it properly checked. “Yes. I’m alright, love.”

You smiled wider, pleased, then leaned back into your seat. “Okay. That’s good to know.”

Simon looked down at your joint hands and got more comfortable in his seat. This would be a long flight—close to seven hours.

He leaned his head back and sighed, but then his eyes landed on Johnny, who smirked in his direction. He could almost hear his friend’s accent.

Look at tha’, he’d say teasingly, wiggling his bushy eyebrows.

Simon only glared at him and discreetly gave him the middle finger. Johnny cackled in return.

Two hours into the flight, you began to ask each other questions. Seeing as you had nothing to do, and you weren’t tired enough for sleeping, conversation became the weapon against boredom. Talking to you was nicer than he thought. That teasing edge never quite left you even after you smoothed things over, and Simon was grateful for it. You were far funnier when you weren’t actively trying to bully him.

“What’s your favourite colour?” He asked, mentally cataloguing every single fact you threw his way like it was sacred knowledge. Stationery fan, loves watching cheesy romcoms and stuffing her face in ice cream—Oreo is her favourite flavour, her childhood bedroom at her parents’ home is intact, has a younger sister who’s in college, loves Thai food.

“Pink,” you said immediately. Of course it is. Should’ve seen it coming. “Yours?”

“Contrary to popular belief, not black,” he said, and you lifted an eyebrow. “It’s green.”

“Wow,” you grinned. “Very Cosmo and Wanda.”

Simon squinted. “Who?”

You frowned. “You never watched the Fairly Oddparents?”

“Fuck is tha’?”

You gasped. “Oh my god, you are old.”

“Love…”

“You’re telling me you seriously never watched one of the best animated shows ever? It came out in 2001!”

“Love, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You dismissed him with a wave. “Agh, never mind. Favourite film?”

“Easy. The Godfather.”

You gave him an unimpressed look. “Seriously?

“It’s the greatest film of all time,” he answered earnestly.

You scoffed, arms crossed. “That is such a guy answer.”

He frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

You shook your head, still in mock disbelief. “It’s so typical of guys to say that. D’you know how many of guys in my old squad claimed that this was their favourite film? Nearly all of them.”

“Well, it’s… It’s a really good film,” he said, unable to find the words to correctly express how much he loved it. He was right. It is the greatest film of all time.

You, however, raised an eyebrow again. “Pick something else.”

Simon huffed, dodging your request. “What’s your favourite film? Since you’re such a critic.”

“Ratatouille.”

Simon blinked. “Really?”

You held your head high. “It’s Pixar’s masterpiece.”

“It’s a kids’ film.”

“You have no taste for real cinema, and it worries me.”

The next few hours went on like that, flicking between bickering and getting to know each other better. Simon enjoyed it quite a lot, more so because you kept holding his hand throughout most of it. Maybe ops from now on won’t be so hard if she’s there holding my hand on every flight, he thought.

At one point, your eyelids began to sag, and in between yawns and more jabs directed his way, you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder, hand laced with his. He studied your peaceful face, the way your cheek squished against his bicep, and he felt at peace for a moment. Just knowing that you wanted him as much as he wanted you brought him relief, even if he didn’t exactly know where you stood just yet. You’d come to that at some point, he assumed. For now, he would enjoy the moment while it lasted.

It didn’t last very long.

“Would you look at tha’,” Johnny smirked from his seat on the other side of the aisle. “What a sight.”

Simon sighed. Not this again. “Eat shit, mate.”

“Your threats do not sway me.”

Kyle suppressed a laugh from his spot next to Johnny. “Glad to see you lot finally sorted it out.”

“Agreed,” Price said, a few seats away. He’d been taking a nap for the majority of the flight, boonie hat tilted down, but now he appeared fully invigorated. “You’re lucky you didn’t get an intervention like Mick.”

Simon froze. “You… staged an intervention for her?”

Johnny crossed his arms and shuffled in his seat, getting more comfortable. “Ye were next in line, LT. Thank god ye saw the light before we could knock some sense into ye.”

Simon leaned his head back and sighed. He wondered how your intervention went. Did they sit you down and force you to hear them out? Did they corner you somewhere? What did they even say? He’d have to ask you about it at some point.

“So what now?” Price asked, looking at Simon’s bare hand wrapped around yours, how he absentmindedly rubbed your knuckles with his thumb.

“She’s asleep,” he deadpanned.

“Not that, mate,” Kyle snorted. “You two dating now or what?”

“Cannae be datin’ if they haven’t been on any dates,” Johnny pointed out. “LT’s got ta woo her.”

“Alright,” Kyle acquiesced with a roll of his eyes. “So are you now in a relationship?”

“I… don’t know?” Simon answered honestly.

Kyle frowned. “W-What? What do you mean by ‘I don’t know’?”

“Exactly what I just said,” he replied.

“Oh, he does know,” Johnny teased. “Caught those two snogging in Nikolai’s—”

“Johnny,” Simon warned. Kyle and Price’s heads whipped in Johnny’s direction as if he’d just dropped a nuclear bomb.

“Do tell, Sergeant,” Price leaned closer. Since when is Price so nosy? God, he’s worse than Johnny.

“One word,” Simon squinted.

Johnny only smirked. “Ye gonna risk waking Micky?”

Simon leaned his head back again, staring at the ceiling as if imploring a higher being to stop this madness. Of course, he’d drop dead before disturbing your sleep. He wasn’t a savage.

“I hate you,” he grumbled, checking your face and then shooting daggers Johnny’s way.

The others only cackled quietly.

“They look adorable, don’t they?” John murmured hours later. The jet had already reached British airspace, and it was a matter of time before they landed. Barely an hour after Johnny’s relentless teasing, John witnessed Simon Riley’s eyelids grow heavy until he drifted off to sleep, a feat he’d only seen four times in the time he’d known the man. His hand never once released yours, even in sleep.

He was glad—joyful, even—that you finally worked it out, whatever it was that you chose to do. The soldier side of him only hoped that this wouldn’t lead to complications from now on, but he fully trusted you to keep yourselves accountable. He counted on your professionalism from now on.

The friend side of him? Elated. Fuck yeah. Simon’s finally scored himself a pretty bird, and one that understood what this life was like, one that had baggage, like him. He could see this working out in the long term. You two deserved each other, truly. He’d never seen Simon acting so warm to anyone else, and so outwardly, too. It seemed that you brought out that side of him.

“They do look good together,” Kyle replied, voice equally soft. Johnny had fallen asleep as well.

John leaned down to grab his rucksack, opening the small front pocket to retrieve his phone, the screen cracked in different corners—he’d have to fix it soon.

“Sir?” Kyle asked.

“Should preserve the moment, eh?” He said, opening the camera and taking one, two, three quick-fire shots of Simon’s head resting against yours, hands tightly laced. “Looks like a painting.” John opened WhatsApp, not giving a flying fuck. “I’m setting it as the groupchat photo.”

Kyle snorted. “They’re not gonna like it.”

But he didn’t open the group chat. He didn’t have the reception to set it. Instead, he opened his chat with Kate Laswell and sent her the picture, hoping she’d receive it when they landed in Hereford.

JP [sent an attachment]: Some light among the darkness…

crossposted on AO3.

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[readingthingy]

loser!simon who can’t even last a make out sesh 💦💦💦

your fingers splay, dipping into the soft divots of his collarbones before they’re steadying at his shoulders. the tip of your nose bends, breaths hot, heavy, suffocating the two of you as your teeth clash in a brutal kiss.

you’re tongue licks across the span of his, the pretty, pink muscle falling slack to your torment as you caress and suck. it’s lewd the noises that resonate from the slick kiss, and it has simon fuckin reeling.

his mind deepens into a trance of fogginess, fighting to keep up with the way your lips make quick work of his. he’s gasping and moaning, groaning like he’s in some sort of pain, exhausting at his vocal cords. though he is in a struggle, cock strained tight beneath his jeans, and with every rock of your hips he’s leaking into his boxers. making a damn mess of himself.

his hands fall, grabbing at the doughy, thick fat of your ass. and he’s suddenly wrenching you up almost, forcing your spine to arch up just to let his fingers slip, he’s reaching over you, letting the rough pads grab at your plush pussy, feeling the sweet sweet, puffy outline through your thin shorts.

you gasp, letting your own fingers grab at his cheeks, forcing his lips off you, you tilt his head back. you wait, watching as his blonde lashes flutter, honey eyes meeting yours. his jaw sits dropped in your palm, hot breath panting at your pretty face as he smiles lazily, unashamed of his wandering hands.

you return the quirk, leaning over him slowly to let a glistening drip of spit fall. and his eyes drop, tongue unfolding before its landing hot in the center. and he groans, eager to swallow before he’s grabbing at you in a rushed mess, kissing you messy, desperately, clinging to you tight.

“easy, baby,” you breathe into his mouth, grabbing at his throat as you push him further into couch, reminding him of his place. his hand gathers the hair at the base of your skull, fisting it tight as his chest heaves before sucking in a guttural gasp.

you can feel his hips jut, his back pull into a shuddering arch. his thighs shake gently beneath you, tongue flexing before it falls lax, jaw dropped in heaving whimpers, working himself up and through his own release.

his free hand is tight in the conjunction of your hip, thumb digging tight as he just barely rolls at your hips, settling you down against his raised hips. you’re sure you can feel the way his cock milks, twitching beneath his jeans, a stuffy overstimulating mess gathering beneath the thick material.

and when his body jerks one last time before going limp you’re all teeth, giggling as you pull yourself off his lips, relaxing back to coil a soft smirk. “that’s not what i meant when i said easy, simon.”

[readingthingy]

simon’s the type of guy who keeps your picture in his vest pocket, hidden behind a spare mag. the type of guy who keeps your hair tie looped around his wrist like it’s tactical gear. the type to take your hand in every grocery store, calloused hands careful not to crush yours. simon’s the type of guy who fucks you facedown into the mattress, hand on the back of your neck, whispering mine like a prayer. the type of guy who won’t let you ride him without holding your hips steady, “you’ll take what I give you, yeah?” the type who keeps your moans on loop in his head when he’s deployed, jerking off to the memory of how you begged him to slow down. the type of guy who won’t stop until your moaning his name like it’s the only word you know. simon’s the type of guy who ruins you with his hands, then holds you like he built you from scratch.

[readingthingy]

Me personally I find a man getting hard at like the lightest of touches really hot. I also like pathetic men. Like, Ghost getting a boner in public because you kissed his cheek. Or Soap having to excuse himself because you hugged him. Or Gaz already halfway to finishing because he saw you in your underwear before showering. Or Price’s jeans getting tight because you called him a good boy.

that’s just me though idk

[readingthingy]

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (5)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

“You don’t think, do you?” Simon snapped the second the door shut behind him, not even looking at you as he yanked the keys off the hook with more force than necessary. “Just barrel into shit like you always do, no backup, no plan, no common fucking sense—”

“Oh, fuck you,” you cut in immediately, turning on your heel before he could even drop the act. “Don’t start this like I’m some rookie out there, I knew what I was doing.”

“Did you?” he barked, rounding on you, and now his eyes were lit up with that same furious gleam they had in the office, except now there was no one to interrupt, no kiss to cover it up, no fake smiles or fake names, just the two of you and all that heat with nowhere to go. “’Cause all I saw was you playing spy like it was a fucking game. In his office. With his shit sitting out. With him walking down the hall.”

“Yeah, and who covered my ass?” you shot back, gesturing between you. “Oh right, you did. So clearly it wasn’t that dumb if you were right there with me.”

“That’s not the point,” he ground out, dragging both hands through his hair now, pacing two tight steps before turning again. “The point is we’ve been here less than two weeks and you’ve already got Delaney giving us the side-eye like we’re hiding something.”

“We are hiding something, Simon,” you snapped, voice raising now. “That’s the whole fucking op. The only difference is now we might actually be close to something instead of sipping lemonade, while we wait for him to trip over his own guilt.”

His mouth opened, closed and then he finally exploded with, “You don’t get to decide when we make a move. That’s not your call. That’s not your job.”

“I’m not your fucking sidekick,” you snapped, stepping in closer now, pulse beating hard at your temples, because it wasn’t just about what happened in that office anymore, it was everything, the days of smiling, the dinners, the way you’d folded yourself small to fit this cover and still felt like you were always wrong. “We’re partners, remember? Equal footing? Or is that only when I agree with you?”

“You wanna talk about partners?” he shot back, his voice rough, like he didn’t even want to yell but couldn’t stop himself. “Then maybe act like one instead of pulling solo stunts and dragging us both into a shitstorm we weren’t ready for.”

You threw your hands up. “I was ready. You just don’t like that you weren’t the one calling the shot.”

That landed like a slap.

You saw it in the flicker of his expression, the way he flinched without moving, the way his arms dropped to his sides.

His voice was lower when he spoke again, but no less angry. “That’s what you think this is about? That I’m pissed because you made a move without me?” His head tilted just slightly, like he couldn’t believe the words out of your mouth. “I’m pissed because you nearly got us out. Because if I hadn’t walked in when I did, he wouldn’t have just found you poking through his desk—he would've found you alone, and we wouldn’t be arguing right now, we’d be packing bags and praying we made it out withot a scratch.”

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood, but you didn’t back down, didn’t drop your gaze. “I didn’t need saving.”

“That wasn’t saving,” he said through clenched teeth. “That was covering. There’s a difference.”

He was still by the door, fists curled loose at his sides like he didn’t trust his own hands, and you were halfway across the room, arms crossed over your chest so tight it hurt, your throat thick with things you couldn’t say without starting another war.

“You really think this is gonna work if we keep lying to each other?” you asked, voice lower now, too tired to keep shouting. “You think we can keep playing house if we don’t trust what the other one’s gonna do when shit hits the fan?”

Still nothing.

And that was the part that hurt the most. Not the yelling, not the accusation.

You ran a hand down your face and shook your head, turning away before he could see the look on your face. “I’m going to bed.”

You didn’t wait for him to answer, didn’t expect him to. You just walked down the hall, walking away from the night, from the fight, from the damn dress you still hadn’t changed out of.

The bedroom door shut softly behind you.

You sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on your knees, heart still kicking hard in your chest, and you didn’t know if you were more pissed off at him or yourself.

You just knew the line between what was fake and what was real had cracked a bit.

And it didn’t feel like either of you knew how to close it again.

The morning light filtered in through the cracked blinds, casting uneven stripes across the kitchen floor, but it didn’t soften anytihng between you and Simon.

You stood on opposite sides of the kitchen island, the distance between you feeling wider than the room itself, stretched thin by the last night’s argument that neither of you really wanted to revisit but couldn’t shake off.

“You’re an idiot.” His words dropped flat.

Your hands froze around the mug, the warmth from the tea seeping into your skin but doing nothing to calm the sudden tightness in your throat. You met his eyes, searching for some hint of a joke, something to soften the blow, but all you found was frustration burning there.

“Wow,” you said. “That’s helpful.”

He took a step forward, the muscles in his jaw twitching with a fight barely held back. You could feel the heat radiating from him even across the kitchen, the way his eyes locked onto yours, like he was trying to make you understand something too complicated for words.

“You made it harder,” he said, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. “We had a plan, and you just ran in headfirst, knocking over every piece on the board.”

You shook your head, heart pounding like a drum in your chest, anger flaring through your veins and lighting up your insides. “Maybe if you weren’t so damn cautious all the time, I wouldn’t have to be reckless just to make a move. We’re stuck waiting for Delaney to screw up again, but it’s been weeks, and nothing.”

His eyes narrowed, a hard glint flashing in them. “Reckless gets people killed. You want to play the hero? Fine. But don’t come whining to me when you’re in over your head.”

You slammed your mug down on the counter, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. “I’m not whining. I’m doing what needs to be done. If you want to sit around waiting for someone else to make a mistake, be my guest.”

Simon’s breath hitched, his whole body tense like he was ready to snap. “You act like it’s that easy. Like we’re just missing a damn clue, and if you’d just stop pushing, we’d have it all figured out.”

“You think I don’t want this to work? To get answers?” Your voice cracked with frustration, emotions bubbling up so fast you could barely contain them all. “I’m tired of playing the waiting game, tired of feeling like I’m losing time and control.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to keep us alive. You pushing like this, it’s a damn risk, and I can’t watch you throw it all away.”

The kitchen felt smaller now, walls closing in as the weight of the fight settled deep between you. You both breathed hard, the tension making your muscles ache.

“I’m not the one throwing it away,” you said, softer now, but no less fierce. “We’re both in this. You think I don’t want to tear this place apart and find what’s hidden there? I’m right there with you.”

Simon’s jaw clenched again, his gaze steady and tired. “Then trust me. Not every fight has to be fought on the front lines.”

You bit your lip, the burn of tears you refused to let fall making your vision blur just a little. “Fine. We play their game. For now.”

He nodded, slow and reluctant. “For now.”

Later, outside, the morning was already hot. You walked side by side through the parking lot to the grocery store.

The grocery store was bright and artificial, as all of them usually are, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. The smell hit you first, the mix of fresh produce, bread baking in the back, and something chemical.

You pushed the cart down the aisle, things already planned in your head, but feeling strange and pointless in this moment. You tried to focus on the shelves, on the colors of the boxes, the neatly stacked cans, the rows of cereal, but your mind kept slipping back to the tension between you and Simon.

Simon walked just behind you, quiet, watching everything. His eyes flicked around the store, calculating and scanning like he always did. You felt his gaze on you more than once and caught him watching your hands grip the cart, the way you hesitated before picking something off the shelf.

And then, from nowhere, Price appeared.

He stepped out between the aisles, voice low but urgent enough to pull you both out of the routine of shopping. “Delaney’s putting cameras in your house. Right now.”

The words hit you like a cold splash, and your fingers tightened so hard on the cart you thought you’d bruise your palms. You could almost hear your heartbeat thrumming in your ears, drowning out the quiet chatter of other shoppers.

Simon stopped moving, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful, eyes dark and sharp. He looked at you like you’d just been punched, but you could tell the anger wasn’t just at you, it was at the situation, at the whole damn mess you’d found yourselves in.

Price didn’t wait for a response. He kept talking, “Living room, kitchen, maybe even the bedroom. Cameras everywhere. They’re watching you.”

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breath, feeling the weight of the news settle heavy in your chest. Simon’s hand brushed against your arm briefly, a quick touch, almost accidental, but enough to remind you he was there.

Then, without looking away from you, he said, bitter and cold, “See? This is your fault.”

Your breath caught, ready to lash back, but before you could say anything, Price cut in, voice sharp. “Don’t screw this up. We’re close, real close. You mess this up, and it’s over.”

You glanced at Simon, whose jaw twitched, eyes dark and stormy. The quiet hum of the store suddenly felt too loud, too exposed, like every aisle was a stage and you were the actors caught in a fucking play you couldn’t rewrite.

You took a deep breath and pushed the cart forward again, toward the checkout. The impossible balancing act of pretending to be something you weren’t was starting to gnaw at the edges now.

You paid. You bagged the groceries. Neither of you said a word on the way back to the car.

And then… you just sat there.

The engine stayed off. The bags stayed untouched in the trunk. The parking lot slowly emptied around you as the sky changed colors, bright afternoon bleeding into that low golden haze of evening. Still, neither of you moved.

You glanced sideways at Simon, daring him to say something first. When he didn’t, you leaned toward him with a grin that was half smug and half ‘you’re screwed now.’

“Just so you know,” you said, voice low and a little dangerous, “I’m gonna be all up in your personal space. Like, every damn minute. I know you hate that. And honestly? I’m gonna enjoy every second of it.”

Simon rolled his eyes hard. “Great. That’s exactly what I need. More of you breathing down my neck.”

“Oh, I’m just warming up,” you said, leaning back with a satisfied smirk. “Morning kisses before I brush my teeth, sitting on your lap while you try to watch football, hugging you so tight you can’t move when you’re trying to work.”

He groaned, rubbing his temples. “You’re trying to ruin my life.”

“Not trying. I am ruining your life. And honestly, it’s about time someone did.”

Simon shook his head at your comment. “I swear, you get off on this shit.”

“Maybe I do,” you shrugged. “But you’re the one who said we have to act like a real couple. I’m just making sure you don’t forget it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m playing the part without wanting to gouge my eyes out.”

You gave him a pointed look. “Oh, I’m going to make your life a living hell. This? This is my side mission right now. Every annoying, clingy, impossible second, all for you.”

Simon groaned again, louder this time, and just shook his head, like he was already mentally preparing for the nightmare you promised.

And somehow, despite everything, you knew neither of you was going anywhere.

You leaned in, voice low and steady. “Welcome to hell, Mr. Riley.”

When you arrived back home, the front door clicked shut behind you, and you both stood there for a second, stiff and awkward, just like mannequins frozen in place.

Simon shifted, loosening his stance, then cleared his throat and said, “I’ll take the bags.”

You shook your head quickly, already reaching for the grocery bags. “No, I’ll put them away. You want to rest for a bit?”

He smiled too perfectly smooth, with the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do you need help, love?”

You flinched slightly at the word, the nickname crawling under your skin like a bad itch. Internally, you winced, but outwardly you just said, “No need. Go rest.”

He nodded, eyes flicking toward the couch, then settling there as he sank down, leaving you alone with the groceries and the silence.

You moved through the kitchen methodically, unpacking bags slowly. Your mind, however, was anything but calm. You scanned the kitchen, tracing invisible lines where the cameras might be tucked in, probably one near the ceiling corner by the window, another disguised in the smoke detector, maybe one hidden behind a small picture frame by the doorway. You made mental notes, calculating angles, deciding where you might make your move.

The thought of those ever-watchful eyes sent a familiar spark of anger flickering through you. You could almost hear Simon’s warning echo in your head—Don’t blow it. Don’t push too hard. Not yet.

But fuck that. You were already plotting your own little side mission in your head: make Simon’s life hell just a little bit, keep the heat turned up under this fake marriage until the whole thing burned.

You balanced a carton of almond milk on the counter and caught Simon’s voice behind you, warm and sweet, “I’m gonna help you with dinner, yeah?”

You turned, holding up a bag of fresh spinach like a weapon. “I want to make that kale and quinoa salad for dinner. You know, your favorite.”

You didn’t have to look at him to know his face was frozen in a fake smile, all politeness and a hint of patience that didn’t fool you for a second.

Simon said, “Sure thing, love. I’ll help you.”

But you both knew it was a lie.

Because you knew he hated that salad. The bitter kale, the quinoa, it was torture, not comfort food. And you were planning on savoring every bite of his forced “yum” as you fed him something he couldn’t stand.

Simon, meanwhile, was already plotting how to get on your nerves back—maybe by “accidentally” knocking over the dressing or ruining your laundry maybe...

Dinner had been uneventful—decent enough to pass for something normal.

You were curled up in the corner of the couch, one leg tucked under you, a book open on your lap that you weren’t really reading. You flipped the pages every few minutes, pretending to stay focused, but your brain wasn’t keeping up. You could hear the low hum of the TV across the room, some documentary Simon had put on without even asking if you cared. He was sprawled out, arms folded, ankle propped on his knee, like this was actually relaxing.

Like there weren’t cameras watching every blink and breath.

You tried not to think about the fact that you could feel his presence even without looking at him. The sound of him shifting, the occasional quiet laugh under his breath when the narrator said something stupid, the way he ran a hand down his face when he was tired.

And maybe the smallest, dumbest part of you liked how quiet it was. How peaceful it felt, in a totally fake and deeply inconvenient way.

You blinked, jaw cracking with a yawn before you could stop it.

Across the room, Simon turned his head slightly. “Aww,” he said, voice low and teasing, “is my baby tired?”

You froze for half a second. Not outwardly, not enough for the cameras. But inside? You were screaming.

Still, you smiled, soft and sweet like someone who wasn’t actively plotting a slow and painful revenge. “Mhm,” you said, stretching your arms over your head like this was normal. “Think I’ll head to bed.”

Simon nodded without looking away from the TV. “Alright. I’ll join you in a bit.”

You kept the smile pasted on your face, pushed yourself off the couch with a little hum, and grabbed your book as if you weren’t spiraling inside.

The second you stepped into the bedroom, the grin dropped immediately.

Is my baby tired? You could still hear it echoing, haunting you.

He had the nerve. The absolute nerve.

You changed in a blur, tossing on a soft T-shirt and sliding under the covers like you weren’t about to fake-sleep next to the man who said my baby without choking.

The room was dark and quiet, and your heart was still pounding for all the wrong reasons.

You weren’t sure if it was rage or something worse.

Ten minutes passed, maybe more.

You heard the TV shut off, heard the creak of the floorboards, and the low sound of a door closing, a drawer opening, before you could hear soft footsteps down the hall.

Then the door pushed open, and your breath caught without meaning to.

You stayed still.

Simon stepped in quietly, not saying anything, and you listened to the small sounds of him moving, his shirt rustling as he pulled it off, the weight of him settling on the other side of the bed.

And that should’ve been it. But it wasn’t.

Because a few moments later, just as you were sure he’d roll over and leave you alone, his arm slid around your waist slowly.

And then he pulled you in.

Your breath hitched before you could stop it.

He was warm behind you, one leg brushing yours under the blanket like it was nothing. His hand rested flat on your stomach, fingers splayed just enough to make your brain completely short-circuit.

What the hell was this?

What were you supposed to do with this?

You weren’t supposed to like it. You didn’t like it.

But the back of your neck was burning, and your heart had skipped once, twice, like it was trying to climb out of your ribs.

Get it together, you told yourself, staring into the dark.

Then Simon’s voice, low and soft right behind your ear: “Good night, sweetheart.”

You swallowed, forcing your mouth to work. “Good night, hubby.”

You said it with a little grin, even if no one could see it.

You both laid there after that.

Neither of you moved.

And neither of you mentioned how, for once, it didn’t feel so fake.

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[readingthingy]

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (4)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

Friday evening creeps up quicker than either of you wants it to. The whole day has been dragging slowly, the way days in the suburbs do when you’re used to missions that make your heart beat too fast and end with a gun or a hospital visit or both.

The house is clean enough. The fake fridge calendar has just enough scribbled appointments to make it look lived in. And Michelle’s message has been sitting on the burner phone since noon,

dinner invite at seven, can’t wait to see you both again!

You’re leaning against the kitchen counter, stirring your cup of tea and staring out the back window, even though nothing is interesting out there except that same white fence and the neighbor’s lawn that still hasn’t grown back properly.

Simon’s at the sink, rinsing something off, and he doesn’t look over when he says, “So we’re going to dinner.”

You roll your eyes. “Was that ever in question?”

“No,” he says, shaking his hands off and grabbing a towel, “but let’s just go over and not do anything stupid.”

You snort. “Define stupid.”

He finally glances at you, slow and already annoyed. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“I’m just saying,” you mutter, pushing away from the counter and stepping into the middle of the kitchen, “it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick look around. Bathroom cabinet, maybe an office if there’s one. I’m not talking about setting off alarms, just keeping my eyes open.”

“No,” he says flatly. “Not yet.”

You raise a brow. “You scared?”

“Cautious,” he corrects, tossing the towel onto the counter. “There’s a difference between reckless and smart, and I’m not about to blow this whole thing over your need to snoop through someone’s sock drawer.”

You cross your arms. “So what, we’re just gonna sit there, smile, nod, eat lasagna and play house while Delaney keeps hiding whatever the hell he’s hiding?”

“For now,” he says, and the way he says it makes your jaw twitch. “That’s the assignment. Blend in, be normal, married, and boring as hell. And don’t raise suspicion.”

You exhale sharply. “We’re already in. We’ve got access. If we don’t start pushing now, we’ll miss the window.”

Simon steps closer, still calm, still in that annoying controlled tone that only makes you want to argue more. “If you start pushing now, you’re gonna get the window slammed in your face. You think he’s not watching us? You think Michelle hasn’t been reporting back everything we say?”

“She likes me,” you mutter.

“She likes the version of you that bakes and waves back and pretends not to hate her taste in flowers,” he says. “You go digging around their house and it’s over. He’ll vanish again.”

You grit your teeth, your arms crossed tighter. “So we do nothing.”

“We do this smart,” he says. “We watch, build trust, and when the time’s right, then we move. Not before.”

You stare at him for a long second, because you know he’s not wrong, but the burn in your chest says you still hate it. Sitting on your hands, playing polite. You’re good at smiling, but you’re better at getting answers, and you can feel them just on the edge of reach.

He sighs, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “You wanna get in that house? Then don’t act suspicious tonight. Don’t push, just play the part.”

You lean back against the fridge, arms still crossed. “Fine.”

There’s a pause.

“You gonna wear something normal?” he asks.

You narrow your eyes. “What, you mean like a dress?”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t hurt. We’re supposed to be boring.”

You grin without smiling. “I’ll borrow one of Michelle’s aprons.”

Simon snorts under his breath and turns away to grab his mug.

You glance at the clock. Two hours until dinner. Two hours to remind yourself not to punch your charming fake neighbor in the teeth. Two hours to try and look like someone you’ve never been, standing next to a man who’s pretending to be your husband.

You push away from the fridge and head for the bedroom without another word, already planning your outfit and calculating the route through the hallway in case an opportunity does present itself.

You’ll play nice for now.

But you’re not walking into that house blind.

You weren’t trying to make a thing of it. It was just a dress. One that had been folded into the bottom of your bag because you figured you might need it for something like this, something neighborly, where looking decent enough would mean fewer questions.

So you put it on. It fit better than you remembered, snug around the waist and soft at the shoulders, and you swiped a bit of mascara on, maybe some color on your cheeks, just enough to stop looking like you’d been arguing with Simon for two days straight.

You didn’t do anything to your hair except run your fingers through it, and you didn’t wear perfume, and you told yourself it was only a dress and not some sort of statement. It was just the assignment. Just showing up, playing the role, not raising suspicions.

Still, when you stepped out of the bedroom and walked down the hallway, pulling at the sleeve a little because suddenly it felt too bare, you were already bracing yourself. Not for anything in particular. Just for whatever Simon would say, or wouldn’t say. You weren’t expecting anything.

He was standing near the window, already dressed and ready. Button-down shirt rolled to the elbows, dark slacks, clean shoes, and that watch he always wore. He wasn’t facing you when you came in, but he heard your steps, so he turned just a bit to look.

And then he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you.

Really looked.

Not the usual half-annoyed glance he always gave you when you walked into a room or started talking too fast or said something he didn’t agree with. Not the blank look he gave strangers. It was something that made you feel suddenly too warm at the collar and too aware of the way the room had gone quiet.

You shifted a little, waiting for him to speak, but he didn’t, not right away.

So you cleared your throat and raised an eyebrow. “What? Is something wrong with it?”

That snapped him out of it. He shook his head, slowly, still looking at you. “No. It’s just—” His mouth pressed into a line for a second, then relaxed. “You look really nice.”

It wasn’t sarcastic, nor a joke. He said it so plainly that it threw you completely off. Not because of the words themselves, but because they were so... normal, as if he didn’t even mean to say them out loud and had already moved past them in his head.

You looked down for a second, just to get your face under control. “Right. Thanks.”

You moved to grab the keys off the hook near the door, suddenly unsure of what to do with your hands, trying to focus on anything instead of the fact that Simon Riley had just said you looked nice, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When you glanced back at him, he was still watching you, but this time it was different. There was something thoughtful in the way his eyes lingered on your face, and it made you feel strange.

“You ready to go?” you asked, voice steadier than you expected it to be.

He nodded, grabbing the keys from you. “Yeah. Let’s just get through this without burning down the Delaneys’ house.”

You rolled your eyes. “No promises. If there’s a chance to sneak into an office or check a drawer, I’m taking it.”

He turned his head as you opened the door, that familiar scowl starting to settle across his features. “You said you’d be careful.”

“I am careful,” you said, stepping out onto the porch. “You’re just uptight.”

He followed you out, locking the door behind him. “And you’re reckless.”

“Which is why we make such a great couple,” you muttered, walking a little ahead now, trying to hide the stupid way your heart was still going faster than it should have been.

Behind you, he caught up with longer strides, staying close but not saying anything else. He didn’t touch you, didn’t make another comment about the dress or the way your voice had gone a bit breathy back there, and you were grateful for that, because you weren’t sure what you would’ve said if he did.

You just kept walking together, shoulder to shoulder, toward the neighbor’s house, already slipping back into the rhythm of the lie. But this time, it felt a little harder to separate it all, what was fake, what was real, what was creeping in under your skin without permission.

And the worst part was, you weren’t even sure you wanted to push it back out.

The Delaneys’ backyard looked exactly the way you expected it to. String lights stretched out over the patio in neat little rows, warm and yellow and soft, casting everything in that golden-hour glow even though the sun was already gone. There were two tables set up near the fence, one stacked with food, the other with plates, napkins, and forks.

A few neighbors were scattered across the space, drinks in hand, chatting in those overly friendly tones. There was music, too, something low, so it didn’t interrupt conversation.

You followed Simon down the short path along the side of the house, trying not to look like you were analyzing every single person in the yard, even though that’s exactly what you were doing. You could already see Michelle near the grill, laughing with someone you didn’t recognize, and Mark was a few feet away, beer in hand, talking to an older couple who looked like they’d lived in the neighborhood forever.

Simon reached the edge of the patio first, paused long enough for you to catch up, then leaned toward you just a bit and muttered under his breath, “Just be normal.”

You glanced up at him. “You’re saying that to me?”

He didn’t answer, just gave you a look before stepping forward, raising his hand slightly in a vague wave as Michelle spotted you.

“There you are!” she said, beaming, already weaving through the small crowd toward you. She had on a sundress with a sunflower print and those same ridiculous sandals from the garden the other day, and she smelled like something sweet. “We were starting to think you weren’t coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you said with a polite smile, stepping in to return the quick hug she offered.

Simon nodded beside you. “Thanks for having us.”

“Oh please,” Michelle waved him off, already linking her arm loosely through yours and tugging you toward the drink table. “We’ve been looking forward to this all week. It’s been so long since we had new faces on the block who weren’t, you know, weird.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

She grinned. “We had a couple move in two summers ago who never spoke to anyone and apparently lived with six cats. No one ever actually saw the cats, but we all knew they were in there. The place reeked. Anyway, they moved out after three months. Left a mattress on the lawn.”

You blinked. “That’s... tragic.”

Michelle handed you a plastic cup with something fizzy and pink. “You two are a breath of fresh air in comparison.”

You took a small sip, more out of politeness than anything, and tried not to look over your shoulder at Simon, who had already gotten roped into a conversation with Mark.

You stayed with Michelle for another couple of minutes, nodding along to her enthusiastic updates about who grew the best tomatoes last summer and how the Johnsons were trying to sell their car again for double what it was worth, and then she pulled you back over toward the patio, gesturing for you to rejoin your husband.

Mark turned toward you as you approached, tall and easygoing, his smile the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So you’re the couple that’s been making the street look better,” he said, offering his hand.

You shook it, firm and polite. “Thanks for inviting us.”

“Michelle insisted,” he said, glancing over at her with a smile that felt a little too smooth. “But I’m glad she did. Always nice to get a feel for who’s living next door.”

Simon let his hand brush against yours briefly before stepping half a step closer, like it wasn’t a big deal, and he wasn’t subtly closing the distance between you and Mark without making it obvious. You didn’t comment on it.

Mark looked between the two of you, the smile still in place. “So what brought you here? Big city too loud for you?”

You shrugged. “Something like that. We were just ready for a change. We figured this was a good spot to start something new.”

Mark nodded slowly. “It’s quiet, mostly. Michelle makes sure it stays that way.”

Michelle rolled her eyes. “I just keep people from letting their kids scream at seven a.m.”

“Public service,” you said, smiling into your cup.

Someone called Michelle’s name from across the yard, and she excused herself with a little wave, already halfway into the crowd again.

Mark stayed, taking a slow sip of his beer. “You both seem like you’ve been together a while.”

You glanced at Simon briefly, saw the way his jaw shifted slightly, like he wasn’t sure how to respond, so you jumped in first.

“Met a few years back. It wasn’t exactly smooth at first, but it stuck.”

Mark raised an eyebrow, amused. “One of those rocky starts?”

Simon let out a short breath. “Bit of that. Bit of stubbornness on both ends.”

“Fair enough,” Mark said, raising his glass slightly before turning to rejoin the other couple he’d been talking to earlier. “Well, enjoy the party. Try the potato salad. It’s not terrible this year.”

When he walked off, you finally let out a slow breath and turned to Simon. “What the hell was that?”

He shook his head, already scanning the yard again. “He’s watching. Definitely the type who smiles while he’s sizing you up.”

You nodded, shifting a little closer so no one would overhear. “Michelle’s friendly but not stupid. We have to be careful.”

“We’re doing fine,” Simon said, low and calm.

“You didn’t say much.”

“I didn’t need to. You were doing enough for both of us.”

You almost elbowed him, but someone walked by with a tray of tiny desserts, and you forced a polite smile instead.

“Let’s just survive the night,” you muttered, already dreading the second round of conversations you’d have to endure. “We’ll talk about it when we’re home.”

Simon’s eyes lingered on you for a second longer, something passing between you before he finally nodded. “Yeah. Later.”

And just like that, you were back in character, smiling, sipping, nodding. Playing the part. Keeping up the story, while trying not to fall too far into it.

An hour later, the drinks were flowing, the music had softened into some kind of chill background noise, and most of the neighbors had gathered in loose little circles, swapping boring stories and pretending they weren’t already thinking about when it’d be acceptable to leave.

You’d been nursing the same drink for an hour, half-listening to some guy talk about his job, and Simon was a few feet away, arms crossed loosely, saying very little, which fit him just fine.

Michelle had vanished inside a while ago, probably refilling something, and Mark was busy laughing loudly at whatever story someone was pretending to tell.

You gave it another few minutes, let your gaze drift casually toward the house, and then made the call.

“Back in a sec,” you said softly to no one in particular, your eyes already tracking the back door.

You didn’t wait for Simon to follow. You didn’t look over your shoulder. Just slipped inside with a quick wave at Michelle, who was in the kitchen pouring wine and humming to herself, and said, “Bathroom,” as you passed, pointing vaguely down the hall.

“Second door on the left,” she called out, cheerfully.

You nodded, smiled, and then walked right past it.

The hallway creaked under your steps, a little too loud in the quiet of the house. You paused at the end, cracked open one door and found a closet, cracked the next and found what you were looking for.

The office.

It was too neat. The type that made you immediately suspicious. Books lined the shelves, spines all facing out, too perfect, honestly. The desk was spotless except for a lamp, a closed laptop, a small leather notebook, and a tray with two pens and one very out-of-place flash drive.

You stepped inside, shut the door quietly behind you, and crossed the room, scanning everything with fast, trained eyes. You didn’t know what you were looking for exactly, but you’d know it when you saw it.

You slid the notebook open first, filled with notes on shipments, numbers, scribbles, nothing concrete, but it wasn’t nothing either.

You flipped another page.

Behind you, the door clicked open.

Your entire body tensed before you even turned, because you already knew who it was.

Simon stepped inside and shut the door again, not loudly, but not gently either. His jaw was tight, shoulders rigid, eyes locked on you in that hard, disappointed way that made your stomach twist.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed, voice low, moving toward you fast enough that you backed off the desk instinctively.

“Looking,” you snapped. “We’re not here to sip wine and play nice forever—”

“You’re trying to get caught.”

You stepped around him, hands still slightly raised like you weren’t done yet. “No, I’m trying to do something useful before this whole thing turns into another month of waiting for him to fuck up.”

“This isn’t the plan.”

You turned on him. “Plans change.”

He exhaled hard, jaw clenching again. “You think I don’t want to know what’s going on in this house? You think I haven’t wanted to tear this place apart since the second we walked in?”

“Then why the hell aren’t you helping?” you bit out.

“Because I want us to last longer than a fucking week in this op,” he snapped, stepping in closer now. “Because this is how people disappear. You poke around too early, he gets wind of it, we’re done.”

You didn’t move.

You just stared at him, chest rising and falling, adrenaline making your skin hot.

“I don’t care,” you said, not even trying to lie.

“Well, I do,” he fired back. “So you’re gonna leave. Right now.”

You didn’t answer.

You just stood there, heat crawling up your neck, hands clenched, and everything in you screaming to keep going, keep pushing, because you were so damn sure you were close to something.

“Now,” Simon repeated, voice low.

And for a second, you couldn’t tell if you wanted to hit him or not.

Simon’s eyes were still locked on yours, his chest rising slowly, and for a second, you thought maybe he’d walk away, maybe he’d grab your arm and drag you out, maybe this would end with a whispered warning and a slammed door.

But then you heard it.

Footsteps.

Heavy footsteps are getting closer to you. The hallway floor creaked, sending a cold jolt straight through your veins.

You barely had time to twist your head toward the sound before Simon was moving towards you, without hesitation. One hand shot up, gripping your jaw with a possessive strength that made your breath hitch. The other slammed against your waist, yanking you hard enough that your back slammed against the edge of the desk.

And then his lips were on yours.

Not soft, nor hesitant, but hard and sharp, like he was trying to shove every insult, every grudge, every wordless argument you’d ever thrown at each other into this single kiss.

You staggered under the force of it, your hands flying up to press against his chest, steadying yourself as your heart pounded so loudly you were sure it echoed off the walls.

Your first screaming instinct was to shove him away, to put as much distance between you as possible. But your body betrayed you, leaving you frozen, caught in the storm of something dark and complicated and dangerous.

His hand stayed firm on your jaw, tilting your face like he knew exactly how to navigate the chaos, as if this wasn’t the first time.

And then—

The door creaked.

You flinched, breath catching.

Simon didn’t.

The kiss slowed, softened just enough to look like something real, something that could be mistaken for affection. His lips pulled away just enough to barely brush yours as the footsteps stopped right behind you.

“Oh,” Mark said, voice clipped and way too casual. “Didn’t realize this room was… occupied.”

Simon turned his head slightly, still too close, still keeping you half-sat on the desk like he had every right to be there. “Sorry,” he said, calm and breathless, his hand slipping from your face to your back, both of you trying to collect yourselves. “She said she wanted to sneak away for a minute. I didn’t think anyone’d be in here.”

You blinked hard, heart still racing, your lips still tingling, but you found your voice just enough to add, “We didn’t mean to intrude. Really.”

Mark smiled, but his eyes were sharp. “This is my office.”

“Right,” Simon said, nodding, stepping back just enough to help you off the desk without making it weird. “Won’t happen again.”

Mark didn’t answer at first. He just stared for a second longer, then gave a short, polite chuckle that didn’t sound all that amused. “No harm done,” he said finally. “But I’ll have to ask you to leave the room. Don’t want anything… getting knocked over.”

“Of course,” you said quickly, smoothing your dress with hands that were still shaking just a little.

Simon gave a tight nod. “Sorry about that.”

You both slipped past him, back into the hallway, and you didn’t even dare breathe until the office door clicked shut behind you.

You were halfway to the patio again before either of you spoke.

“Think he bought it?” you asked under your breath, not looking at Simon.

“No,” he said, voice low. “He didn’t.”

You glanced over at him finally and caught the edge of it, the stiffness in his jaw, the way his hand twitched once at his side before he shoved it into his pocket, the way he scanned the backyard with too much focus.

You both stepped outside again, just in time to catch Mark rejoining Michelle by the grill, his mouth tight.

“He’s suspicious,” you muttered, sticking close to Simon as you weaved through the other guests.

“I know,” he said. “And now we’ve got a bigger problem.”

You looked up at him, lips still slightly parted, mind still spinning. “Which is?”

He glanced at you, just once, jaw tense. “Don’t think I’ll kiss you again without a damn good reason.”

You didn’t have time to reply.

Michelle waved you over, her smile bright, and just like that, the moment was over.

But your heart was still pounding.

And Simon didn’t look any calmer than you.

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover @dollfwn @ravenduskabyss @soltwent @saik-k @skzthinker @strawberrygato @shaldaar @n-ae-vis @karagd13-blog

[readingthingy]

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (3)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

The third day somehow felt worse than the first one, and you weren’t even sure why, because nothing had technically gone wrong, no one was dead, no alarms had gone off, and you hadn’t blown your cover, but it was just off.

Maybe you’d had too much caffeine without enough food again, or maybe it was just the constant state of pretending that had already started making your skin itch.

You’d been out, walking around the neighborhood just to get your eyes on some of the other houses and see who was out at what time and whether anyone watched you a little too closely when you passed by, and the second you got back inside and kicked the door shut with your foot, you heard something. A thump. Not loud, but enough to make your head snap up and your hand go right to the small of your back like it was second nature.

There was another sound, softer this time, like someone muttering under their breath, and you didn’t call out, didn’t announce your presence at all because you were already halfway down the hall, steps light, your movements controlled, and every muscle on alert.

And then you hit the doorway, pushed it open, and stopped.

Simon was crouched down on the floor in the guest room, in his black undershirt, both hands full of wires, and some kind of small tool kit open beside him on the carpet.

He looked weirdly calm about the whole thing, like this was something he did on his day off, and there wasn’t anything strange about crouching half-naked under a desk surrounded by cable and surveillance equipment and muttering to himself about signal strength.

His shirt was slung over the back of the chair, and his undershirt clung to his back in a way that made it really hard not to notice just how solid his shoulders were and how his arms looked a little too good for someone you supposedly hated.

He didn’t turn around. “You watching or helping?”

You blinked. “Jesus, how the hell did you know I was there?”

“Door creaks,” he said, still messing with the wires. “And I recognized your walk.”

You stood there for another second, just watching him because your brain hadn’t quite caught up to what you were seeing, and you couldn’t decide if this felt domestic or deeply unsettling, and maybe it was both. “What are you doing?”

“Signal from the camera out back’s cutting in and out,” he muttered, twisting something. “I’m moving the receiver closer to this end. Less interference.”

You stepped into the room, arms crossed. “You couldn’t wait for tech?”

“They’re not living here with us.” He said it like it was obvious, like you were the slow one. “If something goes wrong mid-op, I don’t want to be waiting on someone else to fix it.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked around, at the wires, tthe way he’d labeled everything with tiny pieces of tape like he’d done this a hundred times, and then you sighed and crouched down beside him because arguing was pointless and he clearly wasn’t going to stop.

“Give me that screwdriver.”

He handed it over without even looking, and your fingers brushed his, just for a second, just long enough to feel how warm his hand was and how steady he held the handle even though you were the one taking it. You looked away fast, told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just a stupid moment in a stupid fake house on a fake mission and none of this mattered.

“You’re weirdly good at this,” you muttered, screwing something into the bracket and checking the cable length.

“I’m good at a lot of things,” he said in a flat tone, but it made your stomach flip.

He shifted beside you to reach for another wire and you could feel how close he was even without looking. His knee bumped your shoulder, just for a second, and neither of you said anything about it.

“Used to fix radios,” he said after a moment, voice lower now, more offhand like he hadn’t meant to say it. “Before the army. Sometimes after, too.”

You turned your head slightly. “Before the mask, huh?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t deny it either. Just kept working, his shoulders looking tight.

You finished what you were doing and stood up, brushing your hands off on your thighs. “Alright, congratulations. You’ve officially passed your little suburban dad test.”

Simon stood up too, slower, and when he looked at you, there was something weird in his expression. Not annoyed, not exactly smug, but something unreadable that made your chest tighten.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

You just stared at him. “Okay, no. You don’t get to say that with a straight face.”

He didn’t even flinch. “Practicing.”

And then he was walking past you, completely unfazed, picking up his shirt off the chair and tossing the screwdriver back into the kit without a second thought, and you just stood there, not moving, still holding that little electric drill like you’d forgotten what it was for.

You hated this mission. You hated this house. You hated that you were supposed to be married to a man who didn’t smile unless he was making fun of you and who somehow still had the audacity to smell good after sweating through surveillance wiring in an undershirt.

You hated that it was starting to feel normal.

You headed into the kitchen a little after noon, still sore from dragging around the bedroom furniture that neither of you wanted to deal with this morning, but you did it anyway, partly because it had to look lived in and partly because doing something with your hands felt better than just sitting there thinking about everything that could go wrong with this assignment.

The light was soft through the curtains, enough that your eyes squinted a little when you stepped through the doorway and spotted him already in there, standing near the counter again with one hand wrapped around a mug and the other resting on the edge of the sink like he’d been there for a while but couldn’t figure out what to do with himself.

He looked at you when you walked in, only for a second, just enough to register you were there, then turned back to whatever the hell he was pretending to stare at through the window.

You didn’t say anything right away, didn’t need to. The morning had been weirdly easy, no arguing, no snide comments, no fights over drawer space or whose socks ended up on the wrong side of the closet. And somehow, even though you were both exhausted and annoyed, there was something easier about working together in silence than trying to talk through it.

You filled the kettle, set it on the burner, leaned against the other side of the counter across from him, your arms crossed.

“I saw her again,” you said after a while, not really expecting a response, but needing to say it anyway. “On my walk earlier.”

Simon glanced over but didn’t interrupt, just took a sip from his mug and waited.

“She was in the yard again, trimming that stupid hedge like it’s the only thing keeping the house standing. She waved. Asked how we were settling in.”

“I told her you snore,” you added, watching him from the corner of your eye.

His mouth twitched, just barely. “You’re the one who hogs the bathroom.”

You raised your mug in mock cheers once the water finished boiling, filled it, and stayed put near the sink.

“We need to figure out what the next step is,” you said, more serious now. “They’re testing us. She’s watching. Asking questions she already knows the answers to just to see if we slip.”

Simon nodded once. “We stay the course. Play nice and be boring.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And if they invite us over?”

“We go.”

You stared at him for a second. “So that’s the plan? Say yes to everything, keep playing house, hope something slips eventually?”

“It’s the only way we stay close,” he said, setting his mug down. “We can’t pressure them. If we’re too guarded, they’ll freeze. If we’re too open, they’ll dig. It’s a balance.”

You crossed your arms tighter, not convinced. “It’s a risk.”

“It’s the job.”

You didn’t answer right away because you didn’t want to agree and you didn’t want to argue either, but the more you thought about it, the more the tension started to crawl back under your skin, just the way it always did around him, slow and sharp and impossible to ignore.

“He’s hiding something serious,” you said after a minute. “This isn’t some minor smuggling operation. He’s planning something and we’re in here folding laundry and smiling through the fucking window.”

“And what do you want to do?” he asked, voice steady, but heavier now. “Kick down the door? Drag them in and ask politely for the evidence?”

“I want to do something,” you snapped, not yelling, but close. “Anything other than standing here pretending I care about her stupid fucking hedge clippers.”

Simon stepped in closer, mug forgotten now, his whole posture shifting. “You think I don’t want the same thing?”

“I think you’re too used to waiting,” you shot back. “You’re used to sitting still and watching, but that’s not gonna cut it this time.”

“We’re not making the timeline,” he said, sharper now. “We’re not in charge. We’re just here to gather what we can without getting fucked.”

You turned away, every muscle in your back screaming to move because standing still this long while your chest kept tightening wasn’t helping, and all of this, the stupid kitchen and the neat little lies you had to keep memorizing every day, it was all making your head pound worse than anything you’d signed up for.

Simon watched you for another second, then exhaled hard and said, quieter, “We need to cool off.”

You didn’t answer, still facing the window.

“There’s a gym nearby,” he added. “Empty during the day. We’ll spar.”

You turned to face him again. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

He nodded once. “Better than tearing the house apart.”

You stared at him, still tense, still trying to decide if getting into a ring with him while you were this worked up was smart or completely insane, but then again, maybe that was the point.

You set your mug down, grabbed your jacket off the hook, and muttered, “Fine. But I’m not holding back.”

Simon already had the keys in hand. “Didn’t think you would.”

And maybe it wasn’t the most responsible decision in the world, but getting your hands on him, even under the rules of sparring, sounded a hell of a lot better than standing around pretending you were happy in a house that didn’t even feel real.

The gym was empty, just like he said it would be. The place smelled like sweat and whatever cleaner they used to keep the mats from sticking together.

Simon walked ahead without a word, already pulling off his jacket, already stripping everything down to bare essentials—training pants, tight black shirt, hand wraps pulled from his duffel and unrolled without a second glance in your direction.

You followed, slower, not because you were hesitant, but because your brain was already catching up to what your body had agreed to twenty minutes ago, and now it was trying to decide whether this was actually a good idea or just another disaster waiting to happen.

You both stepped into the sparring area at the same time, no need for a warm-up or a rundown of rules because you already knew each other’s limits, you’d seen the way he moved, the way he held back when he had to and didn’t when he didn’t feel like it, and he knew you weren’t the type to let someone win just to keep the peace. The mats were cold through your socks, the air sharp on your skin, and for a moment the space between you was quiet, like neither of you was sure how to start.

Then he nodded once and said, “You ready?”

You tightened your wrap one more time. “You sure you want this?”

He didn’t smile or nod, just stepped into position.

That was answer enough.

The first few strikes were easy, just getting a feel for each other again, like testing the weight of a knife before you throw it, but there was already something in the way he moved that made your breath hitch, something about the way his footwork cut off your angle, too fast the way his elbow came up just enough to make you block harder than you had to.

You moved around him in a slow circle, palms up, breathing even, letting your body fall into that rhythm you hadn’t felt since the last time you got into a real fight, and even then, it wasn’t personal.

This was.

“Left’s slow,” he muttered, ducking under your jab.

“Eyes are lazy,” you shot back, sweeping your leg low just to test his footing.

He caught it.

Held it.

Dropped it.

You reset.

And then it shifted, all at once, no real warning, just a flash of movement and then his fist was close, too close, brushing your side before you twisted out of range and came back in with a hit to his shoulder, harder than necessary, and he took it without flinching. That was when your heartbeat spiked. Not because of pain, not because you were losing, but because he wasn’t fighting to win, he was fighting to burn it off, same as you.

You landed a clean hit to his ribs and he grunted, low, not in pain but in surprise, and for the first time since walking into the place, his expression cracked just enough to show it—something sharp in his eyes, something almost feral just sitting there under the surface, waiting.

“You holding back?” you asked, stepping back two paces, breathing heavy.

He shook his head. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Then he came in harder.

And you matched it.

Hits started landing more often, not dangerous, nor reckless, but real. His hand on your hip for balance, your forearm against his throat when he got too close, the two of you crashing into each other more than you were hitting, hands locked, breath tangled, bodies shifting around each other like it wasn’t about winning anymore. It was about proximity, control, dominance, and tension. It was about everything you couldn’t say at the house, everything you couldn’t show through smiles and small talk and waving across the fucking hedge.

You shoved him back.

He grabbed your wrist and twisted until you had to drop your stance or lose your balance, and when he let go, you didn’t step back, you didn’t move, you just stood there chest-to-chest with him, breath fanned across his collarbone, jaw tight, and shoulders burning.

He looked down at you, face unreadable, and you didn’t flinch, you didn’t speak.

The room went quiet again except for the sound of both your breathing.

And then he took a step back.

“We done?” he asked, voice rough now, not from the fight but from holding something back.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

You both stood there for a second longer, neither of you moving, neither of you breaking the stare.

Then you turned first, pulled your wrap loose, dropped it onto the mat, and walked off without saying anything else, because you couldn’t, not without doing something you’d regret.

And behind you, you heard him let out one long breath that he’d been holding the whole time.

You left the gym without saying much.

Both of you were still breathing a little too hard, and that weird ache was settling in that wasn’t really from the sparring but from something else, something neither of you knew how to name. You’d hit each other, pushed, thrown, blocked, tried to get it all out, and sure, it helped a bit; you weren’t vibrating with irritation anymore, but it also didn’t solve anything because now the silence felt more confusing.

The air outside was cooler than you expected when you stepped out, and the street was quiet, most of the neighborhood already tucked in, curtains drawn, porch lights glowing soft and sleepy.

You walked next to each other without thinking about it. Neither of you had looked at the other since leaving the mats, but you could feel it, his presence, the heat still clinging to his skin, the way his hand twitched every now and then, probably resisting the urge to flex it out.

“You fight dirty,” you said eventually.

Simon didn’t look at you, just kept walking. “You talk too much in the middle of a fight.”

You huffed out a tired breath. “Keeps me focused.”

“Keeps you distracted.”

You turned your head just slightly, enough to catch the edge of his expression under the streetlight. “You calling me sloppy?”

“No,” he said, and this time he did glance your way, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “You’re sharp. Just don’t know when to quit.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just kept walking, feet moving across the pavement without thinking about it, the house still a few blocks away, not far but not close enough for comfort. You could still taste the adrenaline in your mouth, still feel the sweat cooling on your back, and for a second, you thought maybe if you stayed out here long enough, the tightness in your chest would ease up.

“We’re not doing this right,” you said finally.

He didn’t pretend not to know what you meant.

“No,” he said again, softer this time. “We’re not.”

You stopped walking when you reached the corner where the sidewalk opened up to a small grassy slope that overlooked part of the street. It wasn’t much, just a patch of grass and a bench some city planner had probably installed for old people to rest on during their walks, but it worked, so you dropped down onto it without waiting for him, elbows resting on your knees, staring out at nothing.

Simon sat beside you a second later, his breath still a little uneven.

You stayed like that for a minute or two.

“This thing we’re doing,” you said quietly, “this whole married couple cover… we’re not exactly selling it, I think.”

“We’re selling it fine to the neighbors.”

“Maybe. But inside the house? It feels like we’re gonna kill each other.”

Simon didn’t move. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, but it came out more tired than amused.

“I don’t hate you, you know,” you said, eyes still forward. “I mean, you get on my nerves, and you’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met, but I don’t hate you.”

He didn’t respond at first. Then—“I know.”

You turned to look at him. “You don’t hate me either.”

It wasn’t a question.

He didn’t say anything.

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

You sat there for a while longer, not speaking, just letting it sit between you, the fact that there was something underneath all the tension and sharpness, something you hadn’t figured out yet and probably wouldn’t be able to for a long time. But it was there.

Of course, that’s when the universe decided to fuck with you.

“Evening!”

You both turned at the same time, just in time to see Michelle and Mark approaching from the other side of the street, Michelle in her usual slightly-too-cheerful stride, Mark walking behind her with the tired posture.

“There you two are,” Michelle beamed, already close enough that the fake smile was necessary. “We were just coming back from dinner and I told Mark, I swear I saw you walking this way.”

You straightened on the bench and pasted on the practiced polite smile, the one you’d been using since day one. “Hey, Michelle. It’s a nice evening for a walk.”

“Isn’t it?” she chirped, and then turned to the man beside her. “This is my husband, Mark.”

Mark stuck out a hand toward Simon first. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard good things.”

Simon stood and took the handshake, his voice smooth. “Likewise.”

Michelle turned to you. “I was telling him how sweet you two are. Always together. It’s refreshing, honestly.”

You opened your mouth, not sure what to say that wouldn’t sound painfully rehearsed, but Simon cut in before you could.

“She’s the one who keeps us on track,” he said, glancing at you, voice steady and calm. “Don’t know how I’d manage without her, honestly.”

Your mouth went dry.

You forced yourself to smile and nod like that was a totally normal thing for him to say and not the first vaguely tender thing he’d uttered about you since this mission started. Michelle was practically glowing.

“That’s so lovely,” she sighed. “You can just tell when two people have that kind of connection.”

You smiled harder, cheeks starting to ache. “Yeah. We’re lucky.”

Mark gave a polite nod, clearly more reserved than his wife, and checked his watch. “We should let them get home. Long day, I’m sure.”

“Yes, of course,” Michelle said, already linking her arm through his. “Don’t forget the neighborhood thing is still happening Friday. I’ll text you again.”

You nodded quickly. “Looking forward to it.”

They finally turned and headed off, chatting between themselves, and as soon as they were out of earshot, you turned to Simon.

“What the hell was that?”

He didn’t look at you. “Just playing the part.”

You stared at him for a second too long, heart still doing something stupid in your chest, then stood up and started walking again.

“Next time, warn me before you go all husband-of-the-year,” you muttered.

Simon fell into step beside you, voice low but too damn smug to ignore. “Didn’t think I had to.”

You didn’t respond after that, and just kept walking.

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover @dollfwn @ravenduskabyss @soltwent @saik-k @skzthinker @strawberrygato @shaldaar @n-ae-vis @karagd13-blog @danzer8705 @chompwoman @cr0wbrz @imjustheretofightforlove @stillinraccooncity @meowshiki @mangost33nlover

[readingthingy]

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (2)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

The tour of the house didn’t take long.

It wasn’t small, but it wasn’t big either. Just enough space to feel like you were supposed to settle in and make memories or whatever. three steps from the living room to the kitchen, two turns down the hallway to the bedrooms, and every corner filled with furniture that was too clean, and obviously picked out by some intern in the intel department who probably googled something like suburban interior vibes and called it a day.

Simon didn’t say much as he moved through it all. Just kept walking, glancing at things without really looking at them, making mental notes in that calculating way of his that already made your skin itch.

You followed a few feet behind, arms crossed, your eyes moving over the fake decor and the perfectly placed picture frames. There were slippers by the door, matching robes hanging in the bathroom, and a half-finished crossword puzzle open on the coffee table.

The bedrooms were down the hall, one on each side, both similar in size, both painted the same soft gray that was supposed to feel relaxing but just made everything feel colder.

You stopped in the doorway of the master, watching as Simon stepped inside and glanced around like he was scanning for cameras, even though they’d already been told there weren’t any. King-sized bed, two nightstands, dresser, closet. Nothing fancy.

He turned slightly when he noticed you hadn’t followed him in.

You stayed where you were. “So. Sleeping arrangements.”

He blinked once. “Yeah.”

You crossed your arms tighter. “I don’t care where you sleep, but we should keep both our stuff in here. Just in case.”

He didn’t ask what you meant. You both knew.

If Delaney or his wife decided to pop by, if someone got curious, if anyone snooped, they’d expect to see signs of a shared life. Two people in one room, with clothes mixed in the closet. Toothbrushes side by side. Little things that mattered more than anyone wanted to admit.

Simon looked around again, then nodded once.

“Fine. I’ll take the other room.”

You stepped into the master now, walking past him toward the closet, opening it up just to see how much space you were working with. “Don’t spread out over there. If it looks too lived-in, it’ll raise questions.”

“Wasn’t planning to decorate,” he muttered, setting his duffel down on the end of the bed.

You didn’t look at him as you pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. “And leave your boots in here, the nice ones.”

You placed a few shirts in the drawer and closed it again.

“This is already hell,” you said, almost under your breath.

Simon didn’t turn around. “You picked the job.”

“No,” you corrected, grabbing your toothbrush from your bag and heading toward the bathroom, “I picked intelligence work. Not a fake marriage with a man who hates me.”

“Guess we’re both suffering, then,” he called after you.

You left the bathroom door open, letting the sound of your toothbrush hitting the cup echo a little louder than it needed to. The floor creaked behind you, and you didn’t turn when he passed by the door, heading toward the second bedroom at the end of the hall with his bag slung over one shoulder.

No goodnight. No see you later.

Just footsteps and silence and a house that already felt too full.

-

You couldn’t sleep.

You weren’t even trying, really. You were just lying there in the dark with the covers bunched around your legs and the bedroom ceiling somewhere above you, waiting for your brain to settle and knowing it wouldn’t. The bed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it didn’t feel like yours, nothing in the house did, and the whole thing was already starting to crawl under your skin in a way you couldn’t shake.

Eventually, you gave up and made your way down the hall, bare feet quiet against the floor, already expecting to find him awake. And of course, you were right.

Simon was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a mug in front of him, shoulders relaxed but not at ease, like he wasn’t tired enough to sleep but too on edge to do anything else. The lights were off except for the dim one above the sink, and the kettle was still warm when you touched it, so he hadn’t been there long.

You grabbed your own mug and poured the rest of the water, not saying anything as you sat across from him. The table was small, and you were close enough to feel how tense the silence between you was. You hadn’t spoken much since unpacking, just a few short sentences about where things should go, and nothing else.

For a while, it stayed like that. The occasional shift of your mug on the table, the faint creak of the house settling.

“We’re not just watching him,” you said eventually, voice low, more to break the tension than anything else. “We’re testing how far he’s willing to go. If he’s connected to anything serious, we’ll know within the first week.”

Simon gave a small nod. “He’s careful. But not perfect.”

“He won’t trust us overnight,” you said. “But his wife might.”

He looked at you then, enough to make sure you knew he was listening.

“She’s the one who waves from the window. She’s the one who makes cookies. If anyone’s gonna bring us into their little circle, it’s her.”

“She’ll like you,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure?”

“You’re good at smiling when you’re lying.”

You blinked. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“It’s supposed to be useful.”

You leaned back a little in your chair, mug still in your hands, fingers warm around the ceramic. “If we’re doing this, you need to try a little too. You can’t just stand around looking bored and hope no one notices. We’re supposed to be married, not roommates who barely speak.”

He didn’t argue. But he didn’t agree either.

“You don’t have to flirt or be charming,” you added. “Just... try not to look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

He gave a slow shrug, like the request didn’t faze him but also didn’t promise anything.

“I’m not doing all the talking,” you said. “I’m not carrying this whole thing while you grunt your way through conversations and hope no one finds it weird.”

Simon looked at you, quiet for a second too long. “I’ll do what I need to do.”

You nodded, jaw tightening just a little, not out of anger but because you already knew how this would go.

“We need to get the story straight,” you said after a second, softer now. “How we met. How long we’ve been together. Where we lived before this.”

“Met at a hardware store.” he said immediately, like he’d already memorized it.

You blinked. “That’s the story you want to go with? A hardware store?”

He didn’t even flinch. “Simple and easy to remember.”

“Right,” you muttered, setting your mug down, “nothing says romantic origin story like locking eyes over a box of screws.”

Simon stared at you flatly. “Would you rather say a pub? That’s where people go to meet strangers and cheat on their wives.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Okay, hardware store it is.”

He nodded once. “You were buying paint. I was getting drill bits. We argued over who was next in line.”

You stared at him for a second, mostly because it sounded too rehearsed and annoyingly plausible. “Fine. How long were we dating before we got married?”

“Eighteen months.”

“That feels fast.”

“We’re in love.”

You snorted under your breath and leaned forward on your elbows. “Right. Completely head over heels, we hold hands when we walk.”

“Too much,” he said immediately.

“What, the hands?”

He gave you a pointed look. “You and I don’t hold hands.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You and I aren’t actually married.”

“Exactly.”

After a second, he leaned back in his chair again, arms crossed. “We’ll keep it simple.”

You nodded once. “Fine. No over-the-top affection. But enough that they don’t think we’re sleeping in separate beds.”

He didn’t answer that. Just held your stare for a second longer before finally picking up his mug again.

You leaned back too, quieter now, staring at the wood grain on the table. “You snore?”

“No.”

“You better not be lying.”

“I don’t lie,” he said, taking a slow sip.

You rolled your eyes and stood up, stretching your shoulders, already dreading the morning. “We’re gonna suck at this.”

Simon didn’t look at you. “Yeah. This’ll be a disaster.”

-

You didn’t think waking up in that house would be worse than falling asleep in it, but somehow, it was.

The bed was too warm, the light that slipped in through the blinds was blinding despite the overcast sky outside, and for a good five seconds, you forgot where you were when you opened your eyes and stared up at the ceiling.

It was the smell that grounded you, eventually, fresh paint, and the faint, sharp scent of whatever cleaning solution had been used to make the house feel "ready." None of it smelled familiar. None of it smelled like home.

By the time you got up and shuffled into the kitchen, Simon was already there, fully dressed and half through making tea, of course. He didn’t look at you when you walked in, just stepped slightly to the side to make room as you passed behind him and reached for your mug in the cabinet.

You filled your mug and leaned back against the counter, watching him stir his tea without looking rushed, already settled into his annoying little routine like he belonged here.

“You slept?” you asked, not because you cared, but because it felt too awkward not to say anything.

“A bit,” he said, still facing the kettle.

You nodded once and took a sip from your mug. It wasn’t good, but it was warm.

“Need to check the cameras later,” you said. “I want to make sure the angles catch the street without being too obvious.”

Simon finally looked at you. “I’ll handle that.”

You gave a small shrug. “Fine. I’ll go through the cover stories again. Just in case she asks anything weird.”

He didn’t respond. Just raised his mug to his mouth and took a slow drink like there was nothing urgent about any of this. You resisted the urge to tell him to blink more like a human being, but it was too early and not worth the effort.

It was only when you turned slightly toward the window that you saw her in the garden next door, watering the row of flowers that lined the little white fence separating your yards. Blonde hair up in a loose ponytail, sandals on despite the cool weather, a ridiculous pink watering can in one hand, and a little smile on her face.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath.

Simon followed your gaze, then moved a little closer to the window. “Michelle.”

“Yep.”

Neither of you moved at first. Just stood there, two half-awake soldiers in a borrowed kitchen, staring through the glass. And then she looked up and waved.

You waved back automatically, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Get your shoes.”

Simon didn’t argue. Just set his mug down and turned toward the door, already reaching for the loafers they’d picked out for him to wear.

You followed a second later, slipping into the backyard with a polite smile already fixed on your face and dread curled tight in your stomach. The grass was too green. The fence was too perfect. And Michelle? She was already walking toward you like she’d been waiting for this.

“Hi there!” Michelle called out as you stepped into the yard, watering can hanging loosely from one hand.

“Morning,” you said with a polite smile, stopping just short of the fence. Simon stayed close beside you, silently.

“You two must be the new couple next door!” she said, beaming. “I was going to wait until a more reasonable hour, but then I saw you through the window and I thought, well, why not?”

“I’m glad you did,” you said, offering a quick smile as you stepped closer to the fence. You gave her your names, and she nodded, still smiling as if you’d already passed some kind of invisible test.

“I’m Michelle. My husband, Mark, would’ve come to say hello too, but he had to run out early this morning. Some work thing, as usual. But he’ll be back later this afternoon. He’ll be thrilled to meet you both.”

Simon nodded once. “Nice to meet you.”

His voice was low, even, and just friendly enough. You resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

Michelle leaned a little over the fence, gesturing toward the row of neat houses across the street. “We’re actually planning a little get-together later this week, just a casual thing in our backyard. Food, music, drinks, you know. We usually invite the neighbors a couple of times a year, and it’d be the perfect chance to welcome you in properly.”

You smiled like you hadn’t already guessed that was coming. “That sounds lovely.”

“A lot of people will be there,” she continued. “Just so you’re not surprised. It’s a little tradition now. The Johnsons next door bring this awful potato salad but no one tells them because they’re sweet. And the couple two houses down, Emma and James, they’ve been having marriage issues for the past five years, but always show up like they’re on their honeymoon. Honestly, it’s more entertaining than anything on Netflix.”

You let out a polite laugh, more from the ridiculous amount of information than anything else.

“I’ll text you the details,” she added. “It’s nothing formal, and don’t worry, we always end up with too much food, so no pressure to bring anything.”

Simon nodded again. “We’ll be there.”

You glanced at him, surprised he answered before you could, but Michelle didn’t seem to notice.

She checked her watch. “I better head in before the dog gets into the cereal again. But I’m really glad I caught you both. It’s so nice to finally have new faces on the block.”

“We’re happy to be here,” you said, and didn’t even flinch at the lie.

Michelle smiled again, gave one final wave, and turned back toward her house, already humming something to herself as she disappeared through the side door.

The second it closed, you let your shoulders drop and glanced at Simon. “Look at us. Already the picture of suburban bliss.”

Simon didn’t blink. “You smiled too much.”

“You didn’t smile enough.”

He gave you a blank look. “I said more than you thought I would.”

You huffed out a breath, starting back toward the house. “Yeah, and it’s already terrifying.”

He followed a step behind, hands in his pockets, voice low as the door shut behind you.

“This week’s gonna be hell.”

You turned to him, reaching for your mug again with a small smirk. “Better get used to smiling, sweetheart.”

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover @dollfwn

[readingthingy]

Corruption kink with boyfriend Simon Riley, part 9 (nsfw)

part 8

“Si?” you ask one day as you’re spooning with him on the bed. His heavy arm draped around you, breathing heavy, he’s half asleep.

“Mm?” he hums sleepily.

“Si, you said your…You said you could be in me, the other day,” you say quietly, hesitantly. “How, exactly, does that work?”

Oh, he’s wide awake now.

He sits up a bit so he can look down at your face. “You don’t know how sex works?”

“I have…an idea. But not the specifics,” you say, avoiding his gaze. And he can see the way you’re starting to blush. “I just don’t understand how your…How all of it can fit in me.”

“Just like my fingers, baby. Your pussy just stretches more,” he explains, gently caressing down your arm.

“But how? It’s so big.”

He chuckles softly. “It fits, baby. With preparation and care, it fits.”

You scrunch up your nose, still obviously confused.

“Why the question, hon?” he asks, kissing your shoulder.

“I wanna try it some day. But I just…I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

Simon inhales deeply, sharply. Jesus. You can’t just say things like that, it affects him.

He ignores the stirring in his pants as he says, “You ever watched porn, girl?”

You glance at him and shake your head.

“You wanna watch with me? So you can understand how sex works?”

It takes little to convince you. You nod, soft eyes full of trust and intrigue.

That’s how you end up sitting between Simon’s legs, your back against his chest as he sits against the headboard. On the TV, a porn video is playing. Nothing too produced, Simon purposely chose an amateur video so it would be as natural as it could get.

You’re only half-watching, though, because Simon’s got his fingers touching your clit, working you up as he whispers in your ear.

“Watch, baby. Look how the girl’s pussy stretches. See? Yours will do that too.”

Your eyes are wide, your breathing is heavy. Occasionally, you whine or mewl, and Simon kisses your shoulder, your neck, your cheek to calm you.

“The guy is going too hard, but I’ll be more gentle with you, baby. I’ll treat you right,” he assures, his focus not on the video, but on the thought of being in you. God, how it drives him crazy.

“My cock will fit right in here,” he says, slipping a finger into you. “It’ll fill you up to the brim, baby. And you’ll feel good. I promise, it won’t hurt. I’ll make sure it doesn’t.” And then he’s fucking you with his fingers, the video forgotten.

Between understanding what it is that Simon wants to do with you, his fingers in you, and the words he spills into your ear, you come, squealing, body shaking.

Simon helps you ride out your high, holds you close as he kisses the side of your face. When your breathing turns to normal, you spin to face him. “Si?”

“Yeah?”

“I wanna do that with you,” you say. “Now. I’m ready now.”

And Simon’s heart almost stops. “Baby. Baby, we’ve got all the time in the world. Are you sure?”

You nod. “I’m sure. I’m ready now, and I want it now.”

He studies your gaze, your expression, your eyes, and sees the determination, not a hint of doubt.

“Alright, baby. Lie down for me. I’m going to treat you like the goddess you are.”

---

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---

Ghost masterlist

[readingthingy]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: sexual harassment, posessive/protective Doctor Riley

"Are you the primary for crib A?"

“Yes.” The new resident scans the length of your body, and smiles. Except it’s not friendly or kind, it’s pointed and almost predatory.

“We need to get an art stick and then I want to start the Furosemide Doctor Riley and I talked about earlier.” Okay…

“Okay. Once the order is in I’ll-”

“I’m giving it to you now.” Your eyebrow raises. The protocol up here is very clear. Verbal orders may fly in the ED, but not in the NICU, and for good reason. You can do an arterial stick fine, but you’re not starting a new med without an order.

“I know but you’ll still need to put it in before I start it.” His upper lips curls and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. Here we go.

“The last time I checked,” he looks at your badge, locates your name, and smirks, “Daisy, you’re a nurse, and I’m a doctor. It’s your job to do what I tell you to do.” This dude better be joking.

“I understand my job perfectly fine,” you mimic him, looking at his badge and slowly dragging your eyes back to his, “Doctor Beckert, which means you’ll still need to put an order in before I start the medication.” Please god let this not be his speciality. If it is, being stuck with him for years is going to suck.

Residents like this give the rest of them a bad reputation. They're more likely to be nice, excited, and eager, fresh and ready to learn. Med students and residents always excite you, they reignite the why that sometimes gets lost, but some of them carry a chip on their shoulder and it makes them mean. Entitled, like this one. He sighs, and something unnerving flashes in his eyes as he leans in. Something worrisome.

“Be a good girl Daisy, and get the medication, okay? By the time you get around to it, the order will be in. How does that sound?” You grit your teeth. You can’t afford a complaint from a provider, so you swallow your tongue and nod.

“Okay.”

“I’m scared.” The little girl grips the mask in her fingers so tight her knuckles are white.

The OR is in a dance around you. Lights, camera, action. They’re all taking their well known places, performing their well known duties.

You’re not even supposed to be in here. Doctor Riley is not even supposed to be in here, but the patient on the table, sweet little four year old Sophia, has a very specific heart defect leftover from her being born at twenty nine weeks, and Doctor Riley is the only one who has experience repairing them on this side of the country.

He’s standing at the table, talking to Doctor Beckert, and Doctor MacTavish is being you, checking dosages and pumps and everything else, stopping to give you a look. You don’t need to be an OR nurse to interpret it. It’s time to go to sleep.

“You know, I know a little girl who had a surgery just like this.” Okay it’s a lie. Not quite like this but you’re going with it.

“You do?” You pull the mask from her surprisingly strong grip and smile.

“Yeah. You know what she told me after it was over?”

“What?”

“That she had the best day ever because she got to eat all the ice cream she wanted, and the nurses let her watch her favorite movies that night.” Sophia’s eyes go wide with wonder.

“Wow. Will I get to do that?” Your vision turns fuzzy for a second and you see Riley on the table, small and fragile. You shake it loose. Focus.

“You will. But only if you go to sleep. Do you think you can do that?” Her apprehension is mostly gone now, soothed.

“I want chocolate ice cream.” She insists, little brows coming together in determination.

“Okay.” You squeeze her arm encouragingly, and then hand her the mask, keeping your palm over it to guide her. “Deep breaths for me, okay? And then I’ll see you afterwards.” She holds out her pinkie.

“Pinkie promise?” You loop it through yours and nod.

“Pinkie promise.” She goes down after that without issue, and when you stand and turn back to the room, Doctor Riley is watching you. In his scrub cap and mask, only his eyes are visible, and they bear down on you with enormous pressure, that gentle-tender thing in them from the other day framed by barely there blonde flecked eyelashes. It's confusing, it's frightening, it's chipping away at you and making your needs weak. You swallow.

“All good?” He never drops his gaze from yours, even with the flurry of activity spinning in a circle around him.

“All good.” You whisper, but somehow, it’s loud.

You’re circulating.

And sweating.

Thank god the OR scrubs are dark blue because you’d have stains right now. Plus the cap is tied so tight to your head, too tight probably, and it’s giving you a bit of a headache.

Of all the things in the unit you’ve learned or are still learning, the OR is the biggest, but you’re doing okay. You might be stressed on the inside, but you’ve got the room under control.

It helps that Doctor Riley is a meticulous pro. He never drops anything. He never questions anything. He’s methodical, and you’re learning to anticipate his needs pretty well, like the lap pads. You notice they’re getting low and grab a refill, replacing them silently and sliding back to your space without a word. No one even notices... which is the problem when Doctor Beckert looks up at you and asks for them. You incline your head to where the refreshed stack is, but he misses the cue.

“Are you deaf?” Your mouth drops open behind your mask.

“They’re right-”

“I asked you for more lap pads.” Oh my god this fucking guy. Doctor Riley’s head shoots up.

“Is there a problem?” He looks at his resident and follows his line of sight to where you’re standing, flustered and taken aback. For a split second, a nanosecond, his brow wrinkles before smoothing back to normal, his attention going right back to where he has a small child’s chest open, her beating heart under his instruments. “Doctor Beckert?”

“I asked Daisy for more lap pads.” You know he’s sneering at you, you can see it beneath his mask, and your tongue turns to sandpaper. It won’t matter that you’ve already provided them, it won’t matter than they’re sitting right there. All that will matter is that he’s an MD and you’re a nurse and you’re pissing him off, and there will be consequences.

“Daisy? Lap pads?” Doctor Riley asks, clearly not realizing either, which you don't fault him for.

“I-” You lose your words. Something about you is breaking. You’re not yourself. There are chinks in your armor you've never seen before. Doctor Riley is chipping away at your foundation, your control, and you hate it.

No one else says anything. They know the drill, they see the ticking time bomb that is this resident.

“Daisy.” He says sharply. He’s maintaining focus on his work, not bothering to look, which of course, is the correct action. Doctor Beckert snorts.

“I think your nurse is defective.” Doctor MacTavish inhales sharply, and his stool creaks beneath shifting weight.

“Daisy!” Doctor Riley barks this time, and you suppress your flinch. The OR is so silent you could hear a pin drop.

“They’re right there.” You whisper, staring at them. He finally looks, finally, and his chest expands with a deep breath.

“Have they been here the whole time?” You nod. You don’t say anything. You can’t. “Doctor Beckert,” he says slowly, returning to his work, “next time, let’s actually take a second to look at what we’re asking for before insulting one of my nurses. She’s clearly paying attention. I’d like you to too.” Doctor MacTavish chuckles, and the OR breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

You’d be relieved too, if the next thing that happened wasn’t Doctor Beckert scowling at you, his eyes holding a promise.

He makes good on that promise.

On top of putting his orders in one at a time, he’s been asking you to do things like find him a pen, or get him a coffee. He's made comments about your ass more than once. He locked you in a supply closet. He criticizes you at every turn, so much so your coworkers have started to notice, and Key is frequently frowning at you.

She probably thinks you’re a fuck up now too.

Being treated like a waitress, the comments about your ass and tits, even being locked in the supply closet... they're not the worst things. The worst thing is the stuff he says to you when no one else is around, when he corners you in a hallway, or ends up alone with you in the break room. He brushes up against you, he calls you a slut and whore, whispers things in your ear like maybe sucking dick is all that you’re good for. You've told him to fuck off, to stop, but it does nothing.

But you let it go. Let it roll off your back. You aren’t going to let this asshole get the best of you, trip you up.

You have it handled. You have it under control.

“Daisy.” Doctor Riley calls down the hall, and you tense, turning towards the sound of his voice. “My office.” You’re fucked. You’re fired. You’re getting sent back to the ED. You’re losing this pay raise. Key intercepts your death march.

“It’s going to be okay.” She looks sad, and she probably is. She put so much work into you, tried so hard.

“What?”

“Just tell the truth, alright?” About what? You give her some kind of numb response, and then you walk the plank.

“Is there an issue with Doctor Beckert?” Shit. He probably complained about you, reported you for something. You don’t know what to say, so you lie.

“No, there’s not. Or at least I don’t think there is?” Doctor Riley is half sitting on the front of his desk again, legs stretched out, his thighs straining in his scrub pants with his arms across his chest.

“Did he not lock you in a storage closet?” Your mask slips with surprise. You didn’t think anyone knew about that.

“I think it was an accident.” You need to sell it, assure him.

“How long has this been going on?” His voice is icy, frozen to the core, and you don’t know what to do. You don’t see a way out of this.

“How long has what been going on?” His jaw flexes. It’s one of his signals, a warning that tells you his patience is growing thin.

“The harassment, Daisy. How long has he been harassing you?” It’s going to be okay, Key’s voice floats in your head, just tell the truth alright? You had it backwards. He didn’t report you at all, she reported him. “Keona says she thinks she overheard him talking about your body, and Isa says she saw him touch you. Is that true?” Your blood ignites in shame, your mouth falling out of sync with your brain, and you can’t catch up. “Is that true, Daisy?”

“He’s… he’s said some things, but…”

“But?”

“I need this job.” You blurt, and his head snaps back like you’ve struck him.

“Excuse me?”

“I need this job. I took it for the pay raise, and I know I’ve been underperforming. I didn’t want to… make waves. I can handle him. He’s not my first asshole resident.” He’s quiet for a long time. Long enough you start to squirm, study the carpet until the rich, rough cadence of his voice fills the room.

“I don’t know how it is on other floors, but in my unit, I don’t accept anyone being harassed for any reason. It doesn’t matter if you’re a resident, a nurse, or a bloody scrub tech. That’s not how it works here.”

“Okay.” You whisper.

“But I guess that doesn’t matter to you, since you can handle him. You have it all under control, right?” It's like he's cast a line under your skin, hooked some vulnerable piece and is starting to reel it towards him, coax it to the surface. You nod and he stands. An alarm blares in the back of your mind and suddenly it’s hot in here, too hot, and he’s too close to you, taking all the air in the room. “And you don’t need help, do you Daisy? It doesn't matter that he's called you a slut, because you're fine.” You nod again, on autopilot. You're in control. You're fine.

“I don’t need help.” You, agree but it feels wrong, and your voice should be steel, but it wavers. Just enough to be there, surprising you.

“You can handle him. You can handle someone touching you," like a switch has been flipped, his gaze turn murderous, dark with anger and your heart pounds. "After you've said no. After you've told them to stop, because you don't need help." You’re on that ledge again, the small flicker of need in your heart growing a little bit bigger, a little bit bolder, begging you to let go. He's in your head, like a hunter familiar with his prey he senses it, striking and sinking his teeth into your soft flesh. “Did you think I would let someone do that to you? That I would let someone say those things to you? That I would let him touch you?" You can taste his mouthful of rage in the air. It’s shocking. Confusing. Makes you dizzy as he stands directly in front of you, sterile soap and freshly peeled orange surrounding you, going to your head. You have to hold onto the chair to keep from losing your balance, tipping from one side or the other.

You can't breathe. This weight will crush you.

“I'm going to fix this Daisy," He's all around you and there's no escape. Not here. "But I want you to admit to yourself that you need it, that you need help with this.” You hang your head in shame. It’s more than just admitting it. It’s a white flag, it’s defeat. You’re not strong, you can’t do it, you don’t have things under control. You’re failing. Riley, yourself, Tess and Liam. Everyone. Everything.

Slow, methodical fingers fold over yours, the heat in his skin forcing your grip on the back of the chair to loosen as his thumb rubs careful, encouraging circles into your skin. This isn't cold or clinical, this is not the surgeon you've known. This is the paradox, an illogical side of a coin that you somehow always knew existed.

“Tell me what you need Daisy.” The breath you’ve subconsciously been holding leaks from your lungs, and you tip your head back, searching for a lifeline, only to find him.

And in that moment, that one fluke of a moment, that one this is never happening again moment, you acquiesce. You fall.

“I need help.”

You open your email when you get to work the next day to find a unit wide message reminding everyone about harassment policies for the hospital and the NICU specifically.

Below that, is a personnel announcement.

Doctor Beckert has been fired-

and that small flicker in your heart turns into a flame. 

[readingthingy]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: none

Riley is pouting.

She wriggles in her seat, hands on her hips, nose turned up in the air. “I don’t like carrots.”

“Okay well, that’s too bad because they’re part of your dinner.” You don’t have the finesse of a parent. You’re not a mother, there’s no natural instinct, and there’s certainly not a guidebook.

But you’re trying, even if it’s not enough. It’s all you can do, try for her, do it for her.

“I don’t want them.” You sigh.

“Riley, please. Come on, you have to eat vegetables.”

“Says who?” This girl is going to be the end of you.

“Says me, okay? I’m in charge.” You always thought ‘you’re not getting up from this table until you’re done x y or z’ was stupid, but now, it’s making a lot of sense. She scowls at the carrots, but spears one with a fork. “I cooked them in brown sugar, they can’t be that bad.” Even if they were good, she wouldn’t admit it now, but after the first few bites, she eventually finishes all but one straggler.

“Can we watch a movie before bed?” You shake your head and try to cut off the guilt that’s already building from having to deny her.

“You have time for a shower and maybe a few pages of your book.”

“Why?!” She stomps her feet and you pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Riley, we went riding after school, and that takes up those extra two hours you have between dinner and bed. Right?” She huffs. Crosses her arms and then-

“You’re mean.” She doesn’t understand and you don’t hold it against her, but it still stings.

“I know,” you sigh, defeated. “Now up you go.”

You don’t wish your dead sister and her husband ill will, but sometimes, you do curse them for very good reasons.

One those reasons is the fact that they sunk Tess’s earnings into buying a horse farm with too much land, used all of their savings to help finance building a house from scratch and a new barn and now…

You’re paying a mortgage you can’t keep up with.

You stare at your phone, the open banking app. You wait to stress out over money after Riley goes to bed as a rule. She’s a kid, she’s been through enough, she doesn’t need more… anything. Stress, worry, fear. That’s for you to handle, and at the end of every month, when the payment is due, you feel like a ticking time bomb. Checking your accounts obsessively, adding up numbers again and again, going to sleep and waking up thinking about it.

It’s exhausting, but what are you supposed to do?

Sorry Riley, we have to sell the house you grew up in, all the horses, and your mom’s legacy. Let’s go live in a two bedroom apartment?

Yeah, no.

“Daisy?”

“What?” Ava is blinking at you from across the table and Olivia is frowning.

“We asked you what you thought? About the new job?”

“Oh. Sorry I wasn’t paying attention.” Too busy doing math. “It’s fine. I’m getting used to it. It was a steep learning curve at first, you know? The babies are so little.” They exchange a look. “What?”

“Have you talked to Doctor Riley?”

“I mean, yeah? He’s basically in charge of the unit, so…”

“No. Have you talked to him.” Ava emphasizes, and you sigh.

“No. I haven’t figured out a way to bring it up, and he only recently stopped laying into me all the time. It’s not like I planned this I… I’m trying to figure it out.” Olivia nods thoughtfully, and points her fork at you.

“Maybe you should let it slip during pillow talk.”

“What?!” Ava’s eyes go as round as the moon, and Olivia snickers.

“Doctor Riley has a thing for Daisy.”

“No he doesn’t, she’s full of shit, and lower your voice, Liv. Jesus.” Gossip spreads like wildfire in a hospital. She shrugs.

“He stares at her all the time-”

“He’s just intense-”

“And she saw him naked-”

“Just without a shirt on-”

“Oh my god.” Ava laughs. “You like him.”

“No, I do not.”

“Uh huh. Look at you. You’re getting flustered and you never get flustered.” She’s cackling now, head tipped back, and you have an urge to punch her in the throat. “I don’t blame you. The older man thing is hot.”

“Oh my god, it’s not an older man thing and I-”

“It would be okay, you know.” Olivia interrupts quietly, “if you did. What happened-”

“Well I don’t so it doesn’t matter.” Her focus shifts, attention turning towards something behind you, and the tension in your spine releases.

“Paul Revere.” She coughs into her hand, and as you freeze, Ava perks up.

“It’s just dad and Doctor MacTavish.” Ava has called John dad since he dressed her down in a hallway one time and punctuated his lecture with ‘I’m not mad at you Ava, I’m disappointed.’ She waves. “Hi dad!” He shakes his head from across the cafeteria, mirth shining in his blue eyes, and she sighs.

“I don’t care what you say. The older man thing is hot.”

“Excuse me?” The woman startles at the sound of your voice. “Can I help you?”

“Oh I’m Samantha.” Okay? And what the fuck are you doing at Ellie’s crib? And why is your hand in there?

“Is there something I can help you with Samantha? Take your hand out of the crib, please.” You edge closer. She’s right at the rail, looking down at Ellie, your patient, your baby for all intents and purposes, with a small, sad smile on her face. Panic flares in your blood.

“How is she doing?” She does remove her hand, thank god, because if she hadn’t you don’t know what you would have done. Twisted her fingers until they broke, maybe.

“Who are you?” She blinks, and you look her over, checking for a visitor pass or an ID badge of any kind. When you don’t see one, your hackles raise even higher. “This is a secure floor, how did you get in here? And where is your mask?”

“Oh I’m her aunt. Her dad let me in.” You look around for the father, Seth, to find he’s nowhere in sight. There’s no way for you to verify this woman is who she says she is, and this is your baby. You’re not taking any chances.

“Okay. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Her laugh is quiet and awkward as she gives you a weird look.

“I’m staying here until he gets back. He asked me to.” Your stomach ties itself into a knot. This woman could be anyone, she could be sick, she could be a baby-napper for all you know. She hasn’t been checked in, she doesn’t know any of the protocols. She could touch something. Pull something. Disconnect something. She had her god damn hand in the crib, and who knows if she washed it or what she was doing.

“That’s fine, but you’re not wearing any identification and you haven’t checked in so you’re not supposed to be in here.” It’s a struggle to keep your voice even keeled, and you have to press your nails into your palm to keep your hand from shaking.

“This is my niece,” she snaps, “I can be here if I want to be.”

“No actually,” you reach past her towards the wall and slam one of the buttons. “You cannot.” She goes from irritated to angry when security appears at the sliding glass doors but before your shoulders can drop from their position beneath your ears, you see him. Your ghost. Doctor Riley.

He’s a step behind Henry, a scowl already pulling at his lips. Great.

“What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is I was trying to tell this woman I’m Ellie’s aunt, but she freaked out and got aggressive with me.” Anger licks up your spine.

“I’m not some woman, I’m her nurse. I’m responsible for her, and this woman is not supposed to be in here.” Your heart rate is climbing. You don’t know why this situation is digging under your skin, but it’s escalating, you’re escalating. “She hasn’t been checked in, she has no ID and says Ellie’s dad let her in. She doesn’t have a mask and she hasn’t been screened for upper respiratory or fever, and she had her hand in the crib. She could have been touching her without washing her hands, she could have been touching her lines or…” you trail off. Isa is watching from her patient’s crib across the room with a thumbs up, and Key is at her side, smiling. Proudly. You take a deep breath. “She needs to leave. Now.” Your pulse is pounding under your jaw like you’ve just run a marathon. You look to Henry for back up, and he’s swift with it.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but Daisy is right. You can’t be in here.” Her eyebrows shoot into her forehead.

“This is ridiculous. I’m family!” She’s still ranting as he ushers her out, yelling about getting you fired, but it feels inconsequential. Your responsibility is to Ellie, not some stranger who claims to be family. You don’t care.

But you are shaking.

“Daisy.” Doctor Riley’s voice is that gentle tone, the one that’s smoothed out around the edges and endlessly patient. “Take a breath.”

“I’m sorry, I-”

“Take a breath.” You suck in a short burst, but he shakes his head. “Slowly.” He takes stock of Ellie’s monitors before looking down at where she sleeps. “You have nothing to apologize for. Your patient is vulnerable and cannot advocate for or protect herself, so she needs you to do it for her. It’s your job to take care of her and that’s what you did.” You nod, horrified at the lump starting to grow in your throat. What is happening to you? Where is your control? Your chest rattles with an exhale, and his eyes find yours. “You kept her safe.” Riley flashes through your mind. Safe. Healthy. Happy. The lump in the back of your throat grows bigger, and you look away immediately. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” You croak. One syllable, because you’re afraid your voice might break on two.

You take a breath. You hold it. The world disappears for a moment as your lungs start to burn and you refocus, repair these cracks, this loss of control, and when you reemerge, when you release your air, everything is fine again. Normal.

Except Doctor Riley is studying you, and after a deep breath of his own, he frowns and walks away.

[readingthingy]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: withdrawal of care and death of an infant in NICU setting

Tess was a rodeo queen.

She could answer “what do you do for a living?” with “I’m a professional barrel racer.”  She had the ribbons and the trophies and the money to prove it.

It’s where the farm came from, all the earnings. She and Liam had big dreams, a legacy, a plan. They had it all, and you had travel nursing contracts, vacations to the BVI, and long nights you only remember half of. Every time you came home, worked a few months in the ED here before skipping out again, she had a new title, a new sponsorship, or a new project. And there was pressure. So much of it.

“If you come home for good you can stay in the house with us. Blue misses you.” The swing’s metal chain creaks as you push off with the toe of your boot. Life is so different here. It’s slower. Sweeter. Dustier. Still, it’s hard to look at everything you grew up with and say you want it back.

“I’m too young to settle down.”

“We’re ten months apart!” You snicker, and she chucks one of the strawberries from the bowl at you. “You could build a house on the land if you wanted.”

“Yeah, with all my house building money?” Build a house. It sounds so… domestic.

“Maybe if you stopped taking vacations everywhere you’d have something left over.”

“So sorry I’m living my life.” It’s a dig and you both know what you mean, but she’ll still bite.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You don’t mean to hurt her. You don’t like hurting her, but she expects something from you, something you can’t give. At least not right now.

“You didn’t leave Tess. You stayed here, bought land thirty minutes from where we grew up. I mean, you did it better for sure. You’re barrel racing like you always dreamed but… I didn’t want it. You can’t fault me for that.” She wipes her hands across her thighs as she stands, smears strawberry seeds across her jeans and shakes her head. Conversation over.

“Let me know when you’re ready to grow up.” You let it go. It’s not worth the fight.

“You’re not going to win you know.” She pauses in the door way, and flashes you that know it all smile over her shoulder.

“Don’t I always though?”

Jokes on you. She won in the end.

“Thanks so much, I really appreciate it. Anything I can do to return the favor, I’ve got you.”

“Do you have pictures?” Isa gives you a kind smile. Her interest warms you, and you nod, pulling your phone out to scroll through the too many photos of Riley you took this morning at her first day of school, smiling big with a missing front tooth. “She’s precious.”

“Yeah. She’s something. First day of third grade, crazy.” Keona slows in front of you with Doctor Riley right behind her, and there’s a confused wrinkle marring her brow.

“I didn’t know you had a kid. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh I… it didn’t come up I guess.” Lie. There were so many times you could have brought Riley up, but you dodged or ignored each one. You glance up and what a surprise… Doctor Riley is staring at you, studying like he’s picking you apart in his brain. Key looks genuinely hurt though and guilt twists your heart. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been a little stressed and so focused on learning.” She nods, and you think she’s going to push it but you’re saved by an alarm, all of you taking off at the sound.

Saved was the wrong sentiment.

You weren’t saved from a conversation by this, this moment. This moment is hell.

“She’ll breathe on her own for a little while after we take the tube out, and you can hold her.” Doctor Riley tells the parents softly. Ryan and Alexa. They’ve been here for weeks, watching Rosie fade while holding out hope. So much hope. You’re devastated for them.

“Do you want to sit down?” You’ve already turned off all the sounds, anything that beeps or dings or blares, and disconnected all the leads, the lines. The only thing left is the vent.

“How long will she… how long will it be?” Ryan’s voice is broken. Shattered.

“We can’t know. Not long.” Doctor Riley looks to you, to where you’re waiting to flip the power, and then he’ll pull the tube. “Are you ready?”

“No.” Alexa sobs, shaking in the rocking chair she’s been sitting in since they got here, but Ryan nods, gives the go ahead.

“Okay.” You do it fast, as fast as you can. It’s like ripping off a bandaid, and you don’t want them to see it, don’t want them to remember the sound of the machine powering down. Doctor Riley frees her from the tube and gently lifts her to pass her to Ryan, cradling her head, supporting her neck and her little body, all of her so small in his arms, so fragile.

“Thank you Daisy.” He’s giving you permission to bolt, but you stand stuck to the floor. It feels wrong to run, it feels like you’re bailing on them, on Rosie.

So you don’t.

You pull her blanket out of the crib and tuck it around where she’s now resting in Alexa’s arms. It’s hand knit by Rosie’s grandmother, pink and yellow, little elephants artfully woven across the bottom, and once you’re done, you turn on the soft lamp behind the chair, angling so it’s not harsh but still enough they can see every little detail of their daughter’s face. So they can memorize her, every little wisp of her hair, the curve of her nose, each tiny delicate eyelash.

And then you leave.

You don’t run from the room. You keep your spine straight, chin lifted. You don’t stop at the nurses station, where Isa and Key are waiting to comfort you as they promised they would be. You don’t stop at the break room, or the bathroom or the empty call rooms. You keep walking, down the end of the hall until you reach the double doors and burst through them into the sun.

You breathe as deep as you can, and hold it. You hold it until you can’t anymore, and then do it again. And again. You try to burn them from your mind, Alexa’s face, Rosie’s weak little cry, but it’s no use. You hate this place. You hate it. You hold your breath again, this time longer, long enough until you start to feel like you might die. It’s better, it’s worse, so you do it again. You’re holding your breath against burning lungs when the doors bang open.

“Daisy.” He’s never said your name like that before. It’s not harsh or acidic or impatient. It’s the opposite. You hate that too.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” It’s said on the exhale released from your sternum, an explosive rush of air punching free from your mouth.

“Take as long as you need.” You don’t answer because you’re too busy patching up the cracks, focusing on breathing in and holding it again, controlling it. You block him out, which is why you don’t realize right away that he’s now standing in front of you, close enough you can see the stitching on the sleeve of his scrubs. “These moments are hard. It’s okay if it affects you, it should affect you. It’s okay to let it out.” You keep your eyes fixed on his chest. Focused.

“I know.” The control is unwavering. Unrelenting. You are a machine. And for good measure, you offer a succinct nod and smile. See? I’m fine.

“There’s no shame in-”

“I know, Doctor Riley. Thank you.” You cut him off, dismiss him. Or try to.

“Daisy.” This fucking man. Something about him is trying to shred your control. Make you weak.

“I’m fine.”

“Let’s go inside.” A minuscule flicker of need ignites in your soul. It begs you to listen, to trust, let the control slip, let go, just for a second. You close your eyes and dangle over the abyss.

If you fell, would someone catch you?

Would he?

It’s a sweet dream, a lovely fantasy. But not for you.

“I’m due for my break actually, so I’m probably going to go down to the cafeteria. Can you let Key know?”

“Daisy,” he murmurs, wraps your name in velvet. “Look at me.” You do it in defiance, to get him off your back. You don’t even know why he’s out here in the first place. What does he care? He hates you. You take a breath, hold it, and meet his eyes, surprised when you don’t see the usual anger or irritation. There’s something else in them instead, something tender and understanding, concerned. “You took great care of Rosie and her parents. They-” No.

“Doctor Riley. I’m on my break. It’s my personal time. If we need to speak about work, we can do it once I’m back.”  The muscle in his cheek flutters as the masseter flexes. The average PSI of the human jaw is around one hundred and twenty. His must be triple that.

“If that’s what you want.” The words are cold. Back to baseline, squashing that tiny blossom of need.

Good.

“That’s what I want.”

[readingthingy]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: none just prickly Simon

“What the fuck is this?”

You glance at the photo. It’s your patient from yesterday in his crib, except there’s a teddy bear stuffed against one of the rails, next to his face. Fuck. 

“I don’t know. That wasn’t there when I left. I would have removed it.” His eyes drill into you, fire blazing in them, hot enough you’re sure it will burn you to a crisp. 

“Do we need to go over the SOP for toys in cribs?” 

“No.” You bite out, looking over his shoulder to focus on the wall. It’s not that parents do it intentionally, they just don’t know. They don’t think about the fact that soft toys, plush toys, can carry bacteria since they can’t be wiped down. You can’t fault someone for wanting their child to have something of comfort. “It must have happened after I left, like I said.” 

“Well it didn’t.” You want to push back. You want to tell him again, that it didn’t happen on your watch. That you’re not stupid or careless or not paying attention like he so clearly thinks, but you don’t. You know how it will go. 

“I’m sorry.” His jaw clenches, lip curling like you disgust him. 

“You’re sorry.” The air is being sucked from this room, the walls trying to go with it, closing in on all sides. “Keona seems to think you’re doing an excellent job, but I’m starting to think she’s just covering for you.” The accolade he gave you last week fades into oblivion, panic taking its place. You can’t lose this job. You can’t. 

“It’s a transition. I’m learning as fast as I can.” Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. He rises from his chair, coming around his desk to lean against it, thick legs stretched out towards where you’re standing, arms crossed over his chest. It could be considered a casual stance, but on him it’s anything but. He lords over you, terrifying and dominant, ready to pick you apart. 

“You need to figure out if this is the place for you before I do.” 

“It is. I can do it.” You rush out, desperate to reassure him. It’s a crack, a very small one, and you scramble to stuff it up, plaster over it to reinforce the wall it’s trying to crumble. “I can do it.”

“I guess we’ll find out.” 

You stare at the fancy lotion for too long. 

Before, you would have chucked it in your cart no problem. Twice even, one for home and one for your work locker. 

But now, your entire existence is built around a budget that’s calculated down to the dime. 

And that budget really does not have wiggle room for a twenty dollar bottle of lotion. 

Still- 

You toss it in your cart. A mistake. An irresponsible indulgence. Something you absolutely should not purchase, but the girl buried so far beneath who she is now, the one who was once reckless and wild and free, she wants that lotion. She wants it bad. She wants a relief, a reprieve, a little treat for the hell that this week has been. 

You really, really wish you hadn’t listened to her. 

“Wait… what?” 

“Sorry, the tag was incorrect.” You stare at the bag of cherries unbelieving. They were the last thing on the belt, bringing your total to a whopping one hundred and forty dollars. Forty dollars over the budget that was already twenty dollars over. 

“Okay.” Thank god for small miracles, there’s no one in line behind you to watch your shame unfold like a car crash in slow motion. 

“Do you still want them?” You do. Riley loves them. She asked for them specifically. She eats them raw from a bowl until her fingers are stained. She feeds them to the mares even though you tell her a million times not to. 

“I mean… you’re saying this bag of cherries is twenty dollars?” The clerk’s smile is sad. 

“They are twenty one dollars and fourteen cents.” The lights in the grocery store suddenly seem too bright, and the noise, the beeping and the intercom and the chattering is too loud. Too much. It’s all too much. Everything. This weight will crush you. Your vision tunnels until there’s nothing else, just you and this cashier and your stupidity. “Miss? Do you still want them?” 

“Yes, sorry. I want them.” She rings them up, total flashing on the reader in front of you. You sigh as you tap your card- 

and then freeze when it makes that dreaded sound. 

The “you’re a fucking idiot if you think you’re buying this bottle of lotion” sound. The clerk is looking at you with sympathy now. Camaraderie. 

“Maybe it was a bad read. Try again?” She tries keeps her voice down, bless her, but she’s also older than dirt so it doesn’t do much. You try your card again against your better judgement. Same noise. Same sinking feeling. You must have made an error somewhere, screwed up the math. 

“Do you have another card dear?” You swallow and shake your head. 

“No, I don’t. I’ll… can we take the lotion off?” This is your fault. Your self indulgence, the little devil sitting on your shoulder who told you to pick that stupid bottle of lotion up and put it in your cart. 

You’re not that girl anymore. You’re Riley’s, and you’re sure as shit not picking it over her cherries. Lesson learned.

“Take the lotion off?” She repeats, you’re assuming to make sure she got it right before she starts pressing buttons on the screen, and you nod. Force a smile. It’s fake but they’re the best shields. “Do you want to run back and grab a cheaper one?” Insult to injury. 

“No, I’m okay, thanks.” Your tunnel vision finally widens when the new total pops up, and your chest loosens with relief. 

For a second. 

Until you see Doctor Riley. Standing in the other line just over your cashier’s shoulder. 

Staring at you, head just barely cocked in consideration. 

Oh my fucking god. 

You lock eyes and freeze, a deer in headlights, a woman tied to the tracks. It lasts for a second and then you look away, silently praying for a tornado to come by and rip the roof off this place, carry you off. 

No such luck. 

Instead, you go through the mortifying motions of loading your cart up with the bags, casually tracking him from the corner of your eye. He finishes before you, thank god, and you stall at the end of the checkout lines until he’s fully out of sight, beelining to the truck lest you get caught in some awful, awkward small talk or worse, more eye contact. 

Great. 

“The British are coming.” 

It’s the long standing joke. Started spreading after they got here, though Doctor MacTavish apparently throws a fit over it, considering he’s not British at all. 

They all showed up together too, an already forged unit, strong alliance to one another that stretches across the hospital. There’s history there, a lot of it, but you worked with John for a while and he was pretty tight lipped. No one ever pushed him, but you and others can’t deny the curiosity. There’s nothing a hospital loves more than gossip. 

“Where?” You still eat with the ED. There’s always at least someone on break at the same time as you, and you indulge in the comfort of your friends. It’s not that you dislike anyone in the NICU, you don’t. They’re all lovely, it’s just the team in the ED knows you. They supported you when you stumbled, when you fell, when you went through hell and came out on the other side. They knew you before, and those precious pieces are long gone. The ED is your last tether to the girl who wants to buy lotion, who rode recklessly and screwed around. 

Olivia jerks her head towards the double doors on the other side of the cafeteria. 

You hope for Price. Instead, you get Garrick and your walking nightmare. “Fuck.” 

“God he’s so hot.” You bristle. It comes out of nowhere, strikes you like lightning until you look over and realize she’s staring at Doctor Garrick and not Doctor Riley. The reaction is nonsensical, and instead of trying to diagnose it, you move on. The two of you reach the end of the line, and Clara behind the counter gives you a big, genuine smile. 

“Hey honey. How’s that baby?” 

“Not a baby anymore, that’s for sure.” She asks this every time. It’s sweet. “How are your grandkids?” 

“Oh you know. Terrors.” You snort. 

“I know your pain.” You wait for Olivia, who clears her throat when she makes it back to your side. 

“Is it just me or… is Doctor Riley staring at you?”  Heat floods your cheeks. 

“It’s not just you. He does that.” You don’t look. The embarrassment from the last time you saw him, the grocery store fiasco this weekend, is still stagnant in your brain, taking up way too much space. She raises an eyebrow. 

“I’ve never seen someone so scary, and hot at the same time. It’s like the fear makes it better.” You swallow that feeling again, and nod. 

“I saw him without a shirt on like two weeks ago.” She squeaks. Just the memory of the bulk of him, the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, the well carried layer of fat on his belly covered in hair makes your stomach swoop. 

“You what?!” 

“Yeah I had to wake him up. Needed him at bedside. He’s... huge. Built like a bear, I bet he could take one. And he has a full sleeve.” She gives you a look, and you give her one back. Mischief and malice. “Don’t.” 

“I’m just saying… how long has it been for you? Since before Riley?” 

“Olivia, come on. You know I don’t have time. And even if I did, you’d never catch me sleeping with a provider. Especially him. He’s a dick, and he hates me.” It’s not like you have anything against it, you don’t. You don’t judge. It’s just not for you. There are happy endings sure, but they’re rare, and it’s not worth the headache. Olivia however, is an equal opportunity employer. She sniffs. 

“Don’t knock it until you try it.” 

“I won’t be trying it.” 

You could cry. 

You could. 

You haven’t done it so long and it would be well within your right today, though you won’t. Even if you wanted to, your automatic response is to hold your tears back no matter what, no matter how, and this is no different. 

You spot Mabel on the hill right away. She’s the only one who strays from the pasture when the gate gets loose, always taking off towards the highest point on the property, probably so she can look down on her kingdom. 

It doesn’t help that she hates Blue, your horse, and as soon as you get close, she bares her teeth. 

“We know, we know. You’re in charge. Come on lady.” You reach for her halter, but she side steps away from you, jerking backwards. “Mabel. Stop.” You squeeze Blue with your thighs, urging her forward, closer, and reach again, snagging your fingers into the side of the halter. She tries to pull away again, but you hold her firm. She won’t follow Blue back because following any other horse or even human is beneath her, but if she realizes you’re not going to be giving up, she’ll high tail it back to the barn. You’ve got a good grip, now you just need to wait until she gets the picture. You lift your face to the pink streaked sky. “You know, it would have been a lot easier on me if you hadn’t spoiled the shit out of her.” You chastise the clouds and give them a dirty look. “It’s like I’m still getting bullied by you through your god damn horse.” Mabel snorts, and you glare at her. “Don’t start with me. You’re worth tens of thousands of dollars. I could have sold you.” It’s an empty threat. You’d rather lay down and be trampled. 

She decides she’s had enough and pulls ahead, intention clear, and trots off towards the barn. 

For a minute, a brief, hazy minute, she’s not alone. 

Your sister is there, turned around in the saddle, laughing and telling you to hurry up. The sunset is painting her in a rainbow of pink and coral and orange, glowing on her face, saddle squeaking under her pregnant belly. Mabel’s gait is smooth, smoother than it’s ever been, like it has been for months, since she started to show. You’re convinced she knows, instinctively. One mother to another. 

“Come on crazy Daisy.” She moves Mabel into a canter, and you grit your teeth. 

“Tess,” you’re about to tell her for the seventeenth time that she’s supposed to be taking it easy, but she cuts you off. 

“I’m fine. Hurry up. I’m hungry and Liam is making mac and cheese.” She looks over her shoulder one last time, smile bright, so bright it could blind you, a nearly perfect mirror of your own, and you roll your eyes. 

“You’re the worst.” She laughs. 

“But you love me.” 

The minute passes. It slips through your fingers and you swallow, once, twice, three times. 

You could cry. 

You could. 

But you can’t. You have a little girl back at the house who doesn’t need her aunt fucking crying every time shit gets hard or sad or both. You have a responsibility, and that responsibility depends on you to be strong, to be in control, to take care of her and make sure she’s safe, healthy, happy. 

So you are. 

And that’s all there is to it. 

[readingthingy]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: none except a prickly Simon

“Did he answer you?”

“No.” You glance at the open chat window again, just to be sure. “It’s only been five minutes though?”

“This can’t wait, these little suckers can turn on a dime so fast.” She sighs, and then motions down the hall. “You’ll have to wake him up. He’s in call room two.” It’s eight am, but according to everyone on the floor, he’s been here since twenty hundred yesterday, and had a midnight case that had him in the OR until six.

Meaning he just went to bed.

Fuck.

“Maybe you should go… he doesn’t really like me much.” An understatement.

“Uh uh. This is your patient, you face the wrath.” Another nurse peeks around her monitor at the station.

“You’re cruel Key.” She shrugs.

“She’ll have to do it eventually.” She looks at the chart again, and chews on her lip. “He’ll want to look at her before he puts anything in, and once he realizes what’s going on he won’t be mad. Hurry up.” Your shoulders slump in defeat.

“Fine.”

You’ve been on the unit for two weeks.

In that time, you’ve verbally interacted with Doctor Riley a whole three times.

Once, in the OR.

“Have you ever circulated before?”

“Daisy is shadowing me.” Key assures him, omitting the part where you indeed, have never circulated. There aren’t many things you haven’t done at this point in your career, but circulating is one of them. It’s a mix of counting things a million times and directing all the traffic in the OR. You’re not inept. You don’t doubt your ability to learn new things, but you’d be lying if you said it’s not intimidating.

Especially when he looks at you over his mask, gaze cold and laser focused.

“Have you ever circulated before Daisy?” He repeats himself. Key sighs like she’s ready for the day to be over already, and you shake your head.

“No.” Anger flashes in his eyes, and he glares at her.

“Fucking hell. My OR is not the place to learn how to circulate, Keona.”

“Well, you do the most cases, Doctor Riley. She has to learn sometime.” There’s a razor in her voice, softened by a syrupy lilt, and he gives her another withering look before directing his attention back to you.

“Don’t touch anything.”

Once, in the hallway.

“Daisy!” He barks at your back and you instinctively freeze, shoulders shooting up beneath your ears before you manage to turn and face him.

“Y-yes?”

“You have Maverick? Crib B?” Your palms instinctively start sweating. Nothing is wrong. You were literally just in there and he was stable. Cute. Sleeping. He’s stable. Nothing is wrong. Right?

“Yeah- yes. He’s mine.” He scrutinizes you like he’s searching for something, ever present frown affixed to his lips.

“Why is his bili light still on?” Oh no. Did you leave it on?

“What?” He stares at you like you’re the dumbest person he’s ever met. And who knows, maybe you are.

“Do I need to repeat myself?”

“Sorry ah, no. It shouldn’t be on. I thought…”

“You thought?” You’re used to getting kicked around. Surgeons have god complexes, residents think they’re so far ahead of where they truly are, attendings love to pick you apart if they’re having a bad day. Not all of them, but enough that there is a reputation, and when you’re new, you get run over. When you’re seasoned, you learn to navigate it.

But Doctor Riley coming down on you is completely different, and shame curdles in your stomach at the idea of making a mistake.

“You’re telling me you don’t know if that light is on or off?”

“I-”

“I know you’re used to a floor where you can do the bare minimum to keep your patients alive until they get transferred, but the NICU requires a bit more attention to detail. Do you think you can do that?” Your throat goes dry, and you stare at him, words evaporating as he repeats himself, slowly. “Do… you… think… you… can…. do... that?” Jesus Christ.

“I thought I turned it off.” He steps closer. Close enough you can smell his dial soap and the barely there whiff of aftershave. Close enough he blots out the light on the ceiling. He tsks.

“Do you think you can do that Daisy?”

“Yes.” You whisper, closing your eyes. He hates you. He hates you and it’s so much worse than just some run of the mill asshole provider who’s got it out for you. So much more. “Yes I can do that. I- I’ll go check on him right now.” He nods, and then doesn’t even spare you a glance as he strides down the hall, swearing under his breath.

And then once in the parking garage.

“Wait!” You sprint to the elevator, breathless as you jump through the quickly closing door-

and right into the chest of Doctor Riley.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch, only grabs you by the upper arms to keep you from toppling over.

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” He drops his hands as soon as you’re steady, but doesn’t step away.

“It’s alright.” He’s studying you. Again. Always. You noticed him doing it the other day on the floor, watching you over the head of his resident, a bug under a microscope that he’s going crush. “You have straw on your sweatshirt.”

“What?”

“Straw.” He says it slowly, like you’re hard of hearing. “On your clothes.” His gaze flicks to the collar of your sweater, where indeed, a souvenir from the barn is clinging to the fabric. Jesus.

“Ah, oops. Thanks.” The elevator lurches to a stop on the next floor of the garage, and when it opens, Doctor Price is standing on the other side. He immediately smiles, corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Daisy.” He doesn’t even say hi to Doctor Riley, just slips inside and leans against the wall. “How is it in baby-land?” Doctor Riley glares at him, one of his ‘I am thinking about ending your life’ glares that you’ve been on the receiving end too many times, and Price chuckles.

“Uh, it’s good Doctor Price.”

“Daze, please. I’ve asked you a million times to call me John.”

“Sorry, old habits die hard.” You manage a nervous laugh.

“You takin’ care of my girl Simon?” Awkward silence descends over the three of you, and your heart thumps around in your chest like a drum. Doctor Price- John, raises an eyebrow.

“Seems like you’ve coddled her enough already.” Doctor Riley grunts. Your face burns, and you stare straight ahead, begging the doors to open and release you. From your peripheral, you can see John’s facial expression change, but you stay facing forward, drowning in your embarrassment, your shame.

“Arsehole.” John growls. The doors pick a miraculous moment to slide wide and you dart through them, Doctor’s Riley response lost as you disappear around a corner.

“Doctor Riley?” You knock a little louder, mentally crossing your fingers he’ll answer and you won’t actually have to open the door. “Um… Doctor Riley? Are you in there?”

Nothing.

Shit.

Cool metal gives under the pressure of your fingers on the handle, and you call for him through the crack of the door. “Doctor Riley?”

Silence.

Double shit.

You cross the threshold, two steps inside. “Doctor Riley?”

There’s a sharp, startled inhale, and then the grit of his voice is drifting through the darkness. “What?”

“Uh, it’s… I tried messaging you but you didn’t answer. It’s the Anderson baby, she’s bradycardic and I don’t know, her muscle tone is off, I think -”

“What?” He’s alert, immediately. The mattress creaks and then he’s flicking the light on, appearing in front of you like a ghost-

without a shirt on.

You try to look away. You do. But his chest is right in front of you, his chest with golden brown hair, hair that travels down his sternum to his belly and continues to disappear into his pants. There's muscle beneath the weight on him, and it all sits well. Perfectly. And the tattoo, the 360 sleeve stretching from should to wrist is the icing on the cake of this paradox of a giant.

Brilliant man who loves little babies, who’s skill for saving their lives is known far and wide, who looks like he could fell a tree with one swing of an axe, who saved your Riley’s life-

and who without a doubt, hates you.

You can’t look away, so you do the next best thing. You slam your eyes shut. “Um I’ll just… I’ll wait outside.” You turn, eyes still closed, and smack your face into the metal door frame so hard your orbital bone sings. You bite your lip to swallow the cursed yell that tries to burst free.

“You alright?”

“Yep.” Your lie is high pitched, and you duck around the door to wait out of sight.

When it clicks shut behind him, he turns to face you. Studying again. Scrutinizing, this time with a hand clenched at his side. “Sure you’re alright?”

“Yes.” You’re not going to let him catch you being weak. Not for a single second. His lips down into a frown, and he shakes his head.

“Let’s go.”

Baby Anderson is tough. Probably tougher than you’ll ever be. She goes to surgery not ten minutes after Doctor Riley is at her crib, and then comes out like a champ, stable after a valve repair.

The relief makes your knees weak. It’s what carries you to the end of the day, all the way through your shift up until you’re walking across the parking garage, broken backpack hanging off your shoulder, oblivious to everything around you.

Then you hear him.

“Daisy.” You whirl. He’s standing there, a step behind you, arms crossed. “I’ve been calling your name.”

“Oh I… I was distracted.” You look away because it sounds so pathetic and you’re sure he’s sneering at you. “Sorry.” He’s quiet for a beat, and you study your shoes. They’re old and worn down. You really need new ones. Everyone on the unit has those new sneakers, the popular ones they all swear by, the ones that look like a dream. Lots of cushioning. You fantasize for a second about somehow making it work out to where you could afford a pair, but the fantasy fades away in the face of reality. You can’t even afford feed for the horses this week.

“Good catch today.” You blink. Who’s he talking to?

“What?” There’s a very long, very deep inhale, and then the rumble of his voice.

“I said, good catch today, with the Anderson baby. She would have tanked without you.”

“Oh, I didn’t do much.” You laugh it off. Because why is this man who despises you all of the sudden saying you did something right?

“You correlated the bradycardia with the muscle tone. That’s enough.”

“Right.” He’s not wrong, but you’re surprised all the same. “Um, thanks.” You finally glance up at him, and to no one’s surprise, he’s studying you again.

“Have a good night.” You momentarily forget yourself. Who? You have a good night? Your manners come back after a beat, and you manage  a strained, polite smile.

“You too Doctor Riley.”

[readingthingy]

Like Real People Do masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: none

“We’re going to miss you kid.”

You could place the familiar British accent with your eyes closed, and you smile at the man in scrubs leaning against the door of the break room, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m not dying, Doctor Price. Everyone is being so dramatic, I’m only moving four floors up. I’ll still be around.” You sling the only intact strap of your backpack over your shoulder and sigh. “Who knows. Maybe I’ll hate it and end up coming back.” It’s unlikely. You’re getting a raise with this transfer, one you desperately need, and panic bubbles up in the back of your throat when you consider what would happen without the pay bump. You’re struck with the memory of Riley’s face last week, the disappointed pout tugging at her lips when you told her she couldn’t get a new backpack this year during back to school shopping, the way she frowned and turned sullen when you refused her the fancy pencil case that all of her friends are getting. It twists your stomach until you shove it aside.

“They’re lucky to have you.” Price’s eyes soften. The unit is tight knit. It’s not a nurse-resident-attending-administrative battle down here. The ED functions like a human body. All parts and pieces moving together as one to achieve a single goal: keeping these patients alive until you can get them upstairs. These are your people, coworkers turned friends turned family. You never imagined you’d be cleaning out your locker to leave the ED, but your life has changed a lot in the last few years, and you can’t afford to be selfish. “If you need anything, you let me know.”

“Thanks.” You swallow the lump in your throat. You’ve already said your goodbyes, had your cake, wrapped your arms around everyone for a hug, all that is left is this single act. Badge out of the ED for the last time. It’s terrifying, and you know he can see it on your face, because he places a hand on your shoulder with a firm squeeze.

“You’ll be alright. This is a good thing for you, for your family. I know it'll be hard, considering, but you’re going to be amazing. We all know it.” Your hands fist at your side as you cling to your control, beat back the tears trying to force their way forward. “And don’t let Simon give you any shit.” Simon?

Oh.

Doctor Riley.

He’s respected, revered, and notoriously private. Head of the department, he’s widely known as one of the best neonatal surgeons in the field, and the NICU here has one of the highest survival rates in the country.

Of course you already know all this from personal experience, but no one knows that. At least, no one in the unit.

Especially him.

You force a smile for Price’s benefit, and he sighs. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

Riley’s at that age where her mouth never stops moving.

During the car ride home, she regals you with a full recap of her day, down to what her best friends ate for lunch at camp (Lexi had peanut butter banana sandwiches, Aya had tamagoyaki, and Alice had leftover pizza that a counselor heated up for her. Lucky.) By the time dinner is over and her shower is done, she’s moved onto her big plans for weekend (riding, riding and more riding, followed by a rematch in Monopoly, and maybe some s’mores. She has your whole life planned out as well as her own.) She runs out of words by the time she’s in bed, but the last three are always the same.

Love you Daisy.

The nurse assigned to babysit you for the next month (at least) is Keona. She goes by Key, and tells you her name means god’s gift, though she insists it means satan’s spawn.

You’re thinking it’s more like god’s gift, based on the way she floats like an angel around the unit.

“You’ll be fine. Just follow me for a bit, do what I do, and then you’ll be good on your own. We’re a level four, so the ratio is usually one to one, two to one if you’ve got one that’s super stable.” You’ve never worked a floor that has a one nurse to one patient ratio, but you expected it here. She badges through a set of doors, and you follow dutifully behind her, marking room numbers and placards, trying to memorize the lay of the land. “This is the best worst job in the world, and it’s a little bit of everything… including psych,” she gives you a look, before mouthing “parents.” Your stomach twists.

“I’m sure.”

“You worked float pool for a bit, right?” Float pool is literally what it sounds like. There’s a group of nurses that cover scheduling gaps in all the departments. Some love it, some hate it. You were on the fence.

“Yeah I took some time off a bit ago for some family stuff and worked prn as a float.” If she has questions, she keeps them to herself, which is a relief.

“Cool. Like I said, I’ve heard good things so I don’t doubt you’ll be fine. If you can get to a point where you’re comfortable and happy here, you’ll never want to leave. Trust me.” The two of you round the corner to the nurse’s station, where a very tall, very broad man in scrubs is tapping away on a tablet. “Doctor Riley.” He glances up, and the world turns technicolor.

This is not a man, this is a mountain. An impenetrable force of granite and slate towering over you with crystalline blue eyes that narrow in on your face with a question roiling inside them. He has a strong jaw, a strong stance, and hands the size of your head, so big you cannot fathom how he performs surgery on such small organs. You never, ever seen OR scrubs look right on someone either. They’re usually big and baggy, gaping somewhere or another, but on him… they’re perfect.

Just looking at him makes you dizzy.

You shouldn’t be so affected. You didn’t think you would be so affected, but your pulse is pounding in your ears so loud you’re sure someone can hear it, and your blood pressure is sinking like a stone to the bottom of the ocean, trying to take you with it.

His brow furrows. He frowns.

“This is Daisy. She’s new. Transferred up from the ED.”

“Daisy.” The hair on the back of your neck rises at the sound of your name on his lips. He’s got a British accent like Price, except it’s strange, different, and in the depths of your memory you recall something being said about how they go way back. You extend your hand in a polite greeting. He scowls, and ignores the gesture altogether. “You can’t wear perfume in here.” What? It’s standard that body spray or perfume is not allowed around more vulnerable patient populations… and you’re not wearing any. You blink and drop your hand as your cheeks burn.

“I’m not wearing perfume?” His expression darkens with disapproval, and you feel like a bug on the floor, waiting to be squished.

“Then you’ll need more mild or unscented soap.” He glances over your shoulder, already moving on. “Excuse me.” Key cringes and shoots you a sympathetic look.

“Okay so… he’s a bit abrasive. He’s not super friendly but we give him a pass because he’s the actual best. In the world.” You shrug, and hope you sell the indifference.

“I think all surgeons are more akin to cactus than they are to teddy bears, aren’t they?” She laughs.

“He’s a bit of both. Wait until you see him holding a baby, you’ll forget all about the cactus part.” Your breath hitches.

“Right.”

That night, it storms.

Lightning strikes in the distance again and again, throwing up a chorus of thunder that rattles the house, playing out behind the echo of pouring rain.

A tiny voice warbles from your door.

“Daisy?” You should have gone and got her when it started up, but sometimes she sleeps through them. Sometimes.

“Come here ladybug.” You haul her into your side, tucking your body pillow behind her so she’s surrounded. She feels too small in the span of the king bed, like she could lost in the sea of blankets and pillows. She never caught up to her classmates, and even though she’s smart as a whip, a strong wind could knock her over, and she still needs a booster seat.

“I hate the storms.” Her whisper brushes against your collarbone, and you rub her back.

“I know, it’s okay. This one is moving pretty quick.” The psychologist says she doesn’t remember, that she was too young, but you know she’s wrong. Riley’s instinctual fear of thunderstorms is more than a child’s nervous disposition. It’s ingrained trauma rearing its head, trying to drag her back to the worst night of her life, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t fix it. You can’t turn back time.

"Are the horses in? Mabel doesn't like the storms." The lump in your throat tries to stick before you force it down.

"They're in. Don't worry." She yawns and snuggles closer.

"'kay." You hold her as tight as she will allow as the storm rolls away, your own grip slackening with sleep, dreams and nightmares merging into one and playing out behind your eyes.

Riley half dead in a hospital bed-

and Doctor Riley holding his tiny namesake’s hand.

[readingthingy]

mdni (18+) simon riley, who's never been one to know what love truly is until he experiences the little things.

the spray from the showerhead was warm and grounding, just the way simon liked it.

the two of you never quite had the time to shower together due to the sheer clashes in your daily schedules, though tonight was the one night in a very long time where there was an opening. nothing inherently sexual besides your naked figures standing next to one another. it was intimate. tender.

once your bodies had soaked up enough water, simon paused to reach for his shampoo. you were quick to stop him, uttering a simple "wait, let me" before taking the bottle yourself, flicking the cap open, and squeezing a glob onto the palm of your other hand.

he's stunned for just a moment, feet cemented to the acrylic floor of your tub, his puppy-like, spruce eyes following every movement of your hands—watching as they reach for his soiled, dirty blonde locks.

his beat of his heart came to a stop for just a moment when your fingertips scraped over his scalp, dragging back and forth to scrub the suds into his hair. it was something so simple, yet so refreshing, that his body instinctively leaned closer to yours, absorbing the warmth of your body heat alongside the spray of water.

something about your caress was so gentle, careful, loving—that it brought an unfamiliar pressure behind his eyes. it was a feeling so foreign that he hadn't recognized it, nor felt it for years. never during his enlistment. never in his childhood. but now, with you.

he loved you, he really did, and that had brought tears to his waterlines.

you held simon closely, allowing him to drop his forehead to your shoulder, letting the waning mix of suds and water trickle down his body when his scalp shifts under the spray. a small sniffle—tiny, minuscule—sounds from his nostrils while you wash off what was left in his hair.

"th-thank you, dearie. love ya lots, y'know tha’?"

a chuckle from your end. "love you too, si. always do."

and he knew, he knew, you really meant it. a true, honest affirmation that brought the very first tear to fall.

[readingthingy]

Uh for reasons the guys stop by gazs flat as a surprise for his birthday, knowing he wouldnt have anyone to celebrate with, right?

Kyle seems calm, pleasantly surprised as he chats with his team at the kitchen bar. They brought gifts and a cake, though its a bit early for any of that yet. Kyle is in the middle of telling the guys about some new recipes hes been learning when there's shuffling down the hall and he stops mid-sentance.

Before Kyle can react, youre strutting into the kitchen with a sleepy yawn, eyes covered while you rub them. You've got one of kyles old shirts and boxers on, but the thing that really gets the guys is the sheer number of marks on you. Hickeys, bite marks, Johnny swears he sees some deep scratches.

You still haven't noticed them, turning to rummage through the cabinets with your back turned to the guys. "Fuck, kyle. We've got to either invest in a gag or some morphine," you grumble, reaching up for ibuprofen on the top shelf.

As you reach up, ur shirt rides up to reveal fresh handprint bruises encircling your hip bones. "I swear you actually took a chunk out of my thigh last night!" Swallowing two pills, you finally turn around and- "Holy shit!"

You duck back out of the room to make urself decent, face burning the whole way. Kyle looks mortified, he swore you never woke up this early. Meanwhile price is shocked he never knew about you, ghost is debating how to get you morphine, and soap quietly offers to show gaz his favorite store for gags.