#TRAUMA UPON SIMON | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

soapybutt17 · 2 days

Text

The Ex and Why's

Summary: No one knows much about Simon’s life aside from what was listed on his files. The family that had died a tragic death, the trauma that came with his actions, and the rank that made him what he was today. No one had realized that behind the balaclava wearing man from Manchester was a man that once had a heart and signed divorced papers he had constantly regretted signing all those years ago.. Character: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Ex Wife!Reader. John Price. Kate Laswell. Johnny "Soap" MacTavish. Kyle "Gaz" Garrick Word Count: 9,787 Chapter Warnings: Angst with Happy Ending. Miscommunication. Mention of Minor Character Deaths. Mention of Divorce. Life threatening Injuries. Mention of Simon's tragic past and trauma. Not edited (sorry!) AN: I can now sleep in peace. If you enjoyed it why not visit my mini celebration and post your own requests I can write just like this.

Masterlist || Request are Open || 500 Followers Celebration

When you had learned about this new job, one thing you had so gotten used to doing was letting Simon know about it. But not this time, something about letting him back into your life wasn’t something you should do anymore. You were no longer married to him by your own choice and no one else’s. So you know it was time to wear your big girl pants now and stopped letting him know about it.

You no longer had any reason to give your ex-husband any updates about your life. A more selfish reason was how you just wanted to start a new life, away from him and away from anything that was related to him.

“Ms. Riley?”

You turned smiling at the man that would now be your new boss. You learned his name to be John Price, a Captain.

Being married to a man like Simon Riley once upon a time, you know some thing or two about what goes on inside of a military base. Even when he hasn’t talked much about it with you during your relationship or if he even gone as far as mention your existence to the people he had once worked with. You chalked it up to overprotectiveness and fear that they would get to you, and some night thing that he was simply embarrassed about you. Maybe it’s another reason why you had opted out of telling him about this new job of yours.

“Captain Price, it’s good to finally meet you.” You firmly shook the man’s hand. A good first impression was the best thing for you to do if it meant making sure you work for the man for the foreseeable future.

“Likewise, Laswell as spoke great things about you and I’m hoping to be able to experience it firsthand.”

You nodded with a smile. Working for Kate’s wife for nearly a few years beforehand, you had appreciated the suggestion for this new role as a secretary for the Captain ever since your divorce. She had understood you needed this change in pace in your life and this was much of a welcome change.

“I do hope it’s all good things.” You quipped right back earning a deep resonating chuckle from the older man.

“Well I think now that introductions as over and done with, let me show you to my office. I do hope you’re up for dealing with a handful of documents for me on your first day.”

“More than happy to.” You beamed following the man, his larger hand holding onto the small of your back as you began your journey into the heart of the base.

All throughout the walk, he was giving your directions to where most things were. You were warned how some men could be rowdy at time and he was more than happy to help in the off chance that any of his men would give you problems.

All you could do was smile, not wanting him to know that you were more than well equipped to punch or kick anyone that would get too handsy with you. One of the perks of having an ex-husband working for the military.

He continued on with how things go around in the base. Schedules for meal time and the curfew in the event that you would be staying in the base overnight. He had also showed you to where your new room would be located in.

“You would be a few rooms away from my own as well as the Lieutenant and Sergeants that I trust most. In the event that I’m unavailable, they will be more than willing to lend you a hand if you need it.”

You nodded before you finally arrived in his office. Opening the door for you, you were greeted with a spacious office. Even in the chaos of the military base, the man’s office was pristine, a few knick knacks and photos that littered his walls, as well as a bookshelf that housed an array of military strategies books. But the most alarming thing about his office was the other table that housed stack upon stacks of folders, papers practically spilling out from each and every single one of them.

“I may or may not have underestimated the help I truly need in this situation.” The Captain said sheepishly as you began opening the folders and gasped that most of them weren’t even ordered correctly even with the page numbers printed on them.

“I think I can manage this.” You blinked hoping you didn’t bite more than you could chew in this moment.

For the next few hours, your time was spent removing staplers upon staplers from the papers for each and every single one of the folders while you were inquiring to John the calls you would be fielding for him from now on and how he would want you to deal with it.

You had learned so much about the man in the few hours being in the same room as him. He was a man that wanted to ensure the safety of the world, even if it meant bloodying his hands up a little just to make sure of it. It showed with some of the missions reports that you may or may not have accidentally read too much into. You’ve also learned how much he hated talking to upper ranking officials if not needed, he was a man that hated authority yet he was working in the field that he was in right now from the way his comments about letting calls from upper ranks go to voice mail if possible.

“Will there be anything or anyone that I should be worried about for now?” You inquired making sure that you did not stir anyone in the wrong way if possible.

“I’m sure Laswell has told you enough to understand our work. Some men are more scarred than sane and if possible, I want you to make sure that you do not give anyone the wrong impression if possible.”

You know what he was implying and with your own experience you know far too well that getting yourself involved with another man in uniform would lead into.

“I’ve done my fair share, Captain. I don’t think that would be much of a problem with me.” You reassured him.

“Laswell told me you were divorced.” He began, huh, who would have thought the man would be the gossiping type.

“It’s been a few years,” You shrugged attention solely on rearranging the files at hand. “It took months before my ex-husband signed the papers, I wanted to think it was because he was deployed but I knew otherwise.” You muttered.

When you had made the decision to finally break things off with Simon, it was like pulling teeth with the man and his near avoidance about the discussion or where you would be sending the divorce papers. You had enough of it, leaving the home you once shared instead with everything you owned and left nothing more of you than the divorce papers alongside the wedding ring and engagement ring he had given you all those years ago.

“He was military too?”

“Something like that.” You nodded not wanting to think too much about the man. Even after everything, you still worried about you giving the man too much information in the event that he works for the opposing side if the chance may have it.

“Well his lost is my gain.” He snorts turning his attention back to the freshly arranged folders courtesy of you that were now ready for his signature. “No offense.”

“None taken, Captain.”

Eventually the man had excused himself for a meeting and had instructed you that no one would be allowed inside aside from him. He had also reminded you about lunch which you could head on out first or you could join him once his meeting was done. You’ve decided it would be best to join him for lunch for now, just to get a feeling of anyone that you would get into contact with on your first day.

With a quick goodbye, you were left on your own and you all but groaned at the folders still stacked up and yet to be touched. It truly made you wonder how the man could be so good in his job yet be so horrible with his paperwork. You will never understand.

Your eyes fixated for a moment on one of the pictures on the wall. It was your boss with three individuals. A blue eyed man with a horrible cut Mohawk but the biggest beaming smile on his face, his arm wrapped around a much younger man with darker skin but a bright eyes that twinkled with happiness for whatever was going on when the photo was taken. But amongst the camaraderie and enjoyment was a man in a skull balaclava mask that had such an empty but somehow familiar eyes, the man stuck out like a sore thumb even with the Captain’s hand resting on the taller man’s shoulder and beaming smile and a cigar between his lips. It was an odd mix of people but it was like family—it made you miss Simon for a moment before your attention got right back to the paperworks.

You can’t think of him now. Not anymore.

After the events of Las Almas, Simon Riley had truly fought the urge to call you, to tell you how much you mean the world to him and how he was now more than willing to give you the compromise you had always longed from him. But a part of him, the bigger and much darker part of him had refused, slamming his own phone onto the wall in the sheer anger of everything that had occurred in the moment. You had made your choice because of his own action and he would be cruel to take that away from you.

“Heard Cap had a new Secretary, old man’s gonna finally keep his paperworks in check now.” Soap had ruining Simon’s sulking in the cafeteria.

It’s been a grueling few days. With new recruits he was forced to deal with in the morning and nightmares that you no longer could vanish for him at night. His life was nothing more than misery personified and he has no one else to blame but himself.

“Can’t say I’m surprise. Laswell probably set it up for him.” Simon muttered being more than within earshot when he heard both Laswell and Price arguing about the man’s need for necessary help with files. It was Laswell’s decision above anything else, it’s just a matter of time if the secretary would actually last with how everything goes around here in the base.

“Still, hope we’ll have a new bonnie around. Getting sick and tired of seeing Bampots all around.”

Simon didn’t even had the energy to question the man’s slangs, his attention solely back on his cup of tea and lunch—how horrible it was compared to your cup and cooking, but he never truly appreciated it until it was gone. His tea was too bitter even with the sugar and cream he added and the food that didn’t have the special kick compared to your own cooking. Even years after the divorce he was still so miserable without you in his life.

“Steamin Jesus.”

Simon could practically hear Soap melt from where he sat in front of him, his eyes directed at whoever was behind Simon. His curiosity got the better of him and his head turned and he was welcomed with the last person he would have ever believed to be walking besides one John Price.

“Yer lookin’ a bit peely wally.” Soap pointed out breaking Simon from his trance.

“English, MacTavish.”

“You look a lil’ pale, Lt. Like you’ve seen a fucking ghost.”

Simon could have at this point. As you walked besides Price towards the table he sat in. He noticed how unaware you were even at the sight of him only for him to realize that you had never seen him with his mask on, or in anything that has to do with his line of work—until now.

“Right, I think it’s time to introduce this lovely lass.” Price cleared his throat but he should have known by now that both Simon and Soap’s attention were already on them both. “This is Y/N Riley, my new secretary.”

Simon’s brows rose at that little tidbit. You still had his last name. He understood to a degree why you did so—your family that you had long cut off from your life after what they had done to you, but after everything that had happened between the two of you he wouldn’t have expect you to choose the lesser of two evils—being his last name.

“Riley? She a sister or wife to you, Lt?” Soap’s quick remark earned him a glare from Simon before his attention was back to you, how your brows furrowed before your eyes finally widen in realization.

“Purely coincidence.” Simon muttered.

“This is Sgt. Johnny “Soap” MacTavish and Lt. Simon “Ghost” Riley.” Price introduced almost realizing at this point the similarity of the last name you both shared in this moment.

“Nice to meet you two.” You smiled, quickly to compose yourself and shaking both men’s hand.

Even with the glove Simon wore, he could still feel the all too familiar electric shock of your touch against his own. He looked at you how easy your eyes dilated at his touch. It scared him still how you had so much of an effect on him even after the years apart from each other.

As you and Price excused yourselves to get lunch, it left Simon wondering if this was the world finally punishing him for everything he has done in his cruel life. Give him the very thing he had wanted the most only to pull it away at every instance.

“Bloody fucking hell.”

It’s been two weeks since you’ve began your new job as Captain John Price’s secretary. Two weeks since you had tried and succeeded in making sure you had avoided the man known in the base as Ghost—or to you, simply known as Simon Riley, your ex-husband. Every single instance that you were both placed in the same room (mostly in Price’s office), you both acted like you didn’t know each other, it was hard knowing just how close the man was after so long of a separation from each other.

But as much of an avoidance you’ve made for the Lieutenant, the same could not be said for the two Sergeants that had been dead set in making themselves both your companion while in the base but as well as your guard dogs from the ballsy few that would dare ask you out on a date. You appreciated the effort as much as it was not needed knowing it earned a dangerous glare from your ex in the process.

“Looks like you’re right at home.”

You jerked your head up from the files you were arranging at the voice of an all too familiar woman. A smile rested on your face at the sight of one Kate Laswell, your former boss’ wife.

“Kate.” You smiled an exhausted sigh escaping your lips at the sight of the woman. Both her and her wife had been the pair that knew what you had been through since your divorce and she was one of the two people that saw behind the façade you had decided to show the world.

“How are you holding up?” She inquired.

“Doing better.” You assured her. “Just a slight problem but nothing I can’t deal with now.”

“Oh no. Is your ex-husband bothering you again? I told you to just say the name and I’ll find some dirt on him in a heartbeat.”

You chuckled, knowing how that would be close to impossible with the man’s stand and rank in the Taskforce.

“Simon Riley.” You said instead and watched the way her eyes widen upon realization.

“Why did I not put two and two together?” She snorted realizing the small misjudgment on her part. “Does John know?”

You shook your head. You didn’t know how, but in the weeks of working at the base, you had been successful enough not to let the small detail spill. It was for both of your sakes and you feared that if you told the man, you would be fired and not him, not that you would want him to choose between the two of you.

“It would be a shame if John couldn’t keep you working for him because of your past with Ghost. I’m actually able to see his files being sent to me on time for once and he’s less stress in this past week for once.”

You blushed, knowing that that was a compliment, something that was rarely spoken by one Kate Laswell in the years of working for her wife.

“I genuinely don’t want to go either.” You spoke honestly. “Even with the situation.”

“Will you keep the information to yourself for now?” She inquired. “What does Ghost think of this?”

“I haven’t talk to him since I’ve gotten here.” You spoke honestly. “And I think it would be better if don’t talk to him about it either.”

“Talk to who about?”

Both of you had jerked your head towards the owner of the voice and it was Price with your husband, Soap, and Gaz in tow. You looked panicked at Kate hoping she could help you out this predicament with the man in the very room with them.

“My wife’s been asking how she’s been holding up since the divorce and if she’s gotten around to talking to her ex.” Kate brushed off and you wanted to face palm yourself, not the answer you were hoping for her to give.

“Wait you were married?” Gaz piped in with surprise.

“Was.” You corrected, eyes glancing towards Simon for a moment before turning your attention right back to the younger man. “But it’s nothing to worry about, you know how Kate’s wife is.” You tried your best to reassure everyone.

“Well that bloke lost something good that’s for sure.” Soap quipped right back with a flirty wink. You’ve learned this was the default with the man. “Right Lt?”

Both you and Kate found yourself looking at the man and it somehow clicked to him that you both were now more than aware of the currently predicament that fell before you and without another word left the office, slamming the door behind him.

To this very day, Simon still can’t understand why he had signed those papers. Why didn’t he just talk with you and made a compromise. Instead he became an asshole that avoided any forms of communications with you until he was left with no other choice but divorce papers waiting for him at home and every single trace of you no longer in the home you two once shared.

In the deepest depths of his bedside drawer was the divorce papers that officially separated him from you, the two ring boxes that housed his wedding ring and the engagement ring he had bought for you. Around his neck, alongside his Dog tag was your wedding ring—the same wedding ring you had left on top of the coffee table of your home, with the divorce papers right under it.

It was his fears that finally came to life and he truly didn’t know why his body automatically signed without even reaching out to you first. To this day, in the years that has passed he still wonder what his life and relationship could be if he fought for your marriage.

Would he still be married to you right now? Would the two of you finally have the family you had always wanted? Maybe by now your first kid would have been three, he had always dreamed of having a daughter. A darling little girl that was a spitting image of you, a daughter he would protect with his life over and over again.

That could have been his life, but he was far too stupid for his own good. He was too much of a bastard that ruins everything good that comes into his life. He pays the price every single night he comes home to his apartment—empty and lacked the warmth that only you could ever give to someone like him.

He made his bed and he was sleeping in tears because of it.

“There he is, good you’ve got your arse here, LT.”

Another one of the mistakes he seems to be making in his life was joining the rest of the team in the pub and realizing that you have come to join them this time around.

Bloody fucking hell you were as beautiful as the first day he had ever laid eyes on you. There was the twinkle in your eyes he had once thought he had diminished as you continued on with whatever conversation you were having with Gaz with Price listening on. You had on your favorite red crepe dress that slightly showed some cleavage but not enough to be indecent, with your favorite locket that he had brought for you while you were still dating, and the first ever expensive Cartier watch you had brought for yourself (which Simon would have more than willingly bought for you if you allowed it) while saving up your checks.

Fate was nothing but a cruel sick man for giving this sight of you in front of him and never allowing him the taste he always craved. A gift that wasn’t his to accept—anymore.

“You know how traffic is, Johnny.” He muttered finding himself sitting beside the man and in the process finding himself sitting right in front of you in the process.

“Bullshit,” Soap snorted. “Stopped by a bonnie we didn’t know about?”

Simon glanced towards you, the momentary hurt that passed through your eyes before you continued on with your conversation with Gaz, now hearing you were both talking about your Uni days and how you found yourself involved with working for Laswell’s wife all those years ago.

“Don’t have the time nor the energy for another headache in my life.” He spoke realizing that it was the wrong thing to say with you in front of him. He could have said it if you were not here, but not in your presence, it diminishes every single thing he had ever had with you.

It wasn’t what he meant but he couldn’t truly take it back.

“I can second that.” You spoke finally meeting his eyes this time. An unrecognizable look in your eyes as you stared right at him. “And this is coming from someone that’s already made a mistake of ever getting married to a man in the military.”

This has opened the floodgate for everyone in the table to question you about your apparent divorce. He had no one else to blame for this than himself. He listened in now as you continued on answering questions about your relationship with him and the eventual divorce, but made sure it was vague enough not to have fingers pointed at him.

“So, you loved the man more than life itself and all that, why divorce?” Soap had asked the million dollar question.

“It’s gets tiresome to love someone that doesn’t want to help himself.” You spoke honestly. “Year of trying to understand him, only to push shoved away over and over again, it hurts and it gets tiresome. I just had to go before the love turns to hate.”

In the years since the divorce, there was never closure between the two of you. The forms of communications that you both had were mostly about him being deployed again or of you and your plans of moving around or changing careers. Never did either of you had the much needed closure that you both deserved—until now, not directed at him.

“If any of you ever attempt getting involved with a guy or girl make sure you’re serious about the relationship a hundred percent, not fifty, not seventy-five, not even fucking ninety. Because that small fraction you’re not giving them might be the very reason why everything falls apart.”

Simon finds himself blinking at the words that now escaped your lips. The downright resentment that still lingered in your tongue even after everything that had occurred between the two of you. He shouldn’t have signed those fucking divorce papers.

Marriage Counseling, they should have had marriage counselling like you had begged from him all those years ago.

He stood, excusing himself to order the next round of drinks. He doesn’t have it in him anymore to listen to your words cutting him to the very core.

One of the biggest mistake about accepting Price’s offer of going out with the rest of the team for a quick drink was forgetting your non-existing alcohol tolerance. As the drink was now swimming through your blood stream, your lips become looser and there were few moments were you had almost spilled the fact that your ex-husband just happens to be sitting in front of you in the table you shared with the rest of 141.

“You sure you’ll be alright to head home on your own?” Your boss has inquired the moment it was announced the pub was closing up for the early morning.

You nodded with a smile, but the warmth that you were certain painted your skin and the dazed eyes, you were all too sure that it would be a big mistake for you to do. Go knows how dangerous it would be for a drunk like you to head home all on your own.

“I’ll take her home.” Simon announced and before you could protest, John had nodded agreeing that it would be the best thing to do and you couldn’t protest or show even a smidge of irritation as you were given a death glare by your ex-husband.

“Thank you for letting me join you guys.” You spoke towards your boss, the giggly duo of Soap and Gaz. “I’ll text once I get home.” You promised them following Simon out of the pub.

You took a deep breath as the cool morning air sobered you up for a moment as you waited for the man with his car. Frowning when you realized the man didn’t have his car with him but rather his death machine known as his motorcycle.

“Here.” He muttered practically shoving an all too familiar helmet towards you.

Like quick work, you had put on the helmet, ensuring to adjust the strap before the man does. You were still unprepared to be in close proximity with the man but here you were.

Watching him pull down the foot peg, he turned to you waiting for you to ride him—ride his motorcycle. With a deep breath you rode behind him, the skirt riding up your legs and he was quick to pull it down for your own decency before revving the engine on.

“Hold on tight.” He ordered and your body was on autopilot as you wrapped your arms around his waist as he sped off.

You know it was the alcohol but you find yourself smelling him, the all too familiar smell of his musk and cologne—the same cologne you had given him when he told you were promoted to Lieutenant. Your head rested on his back, cheek squished against the expansion of his back, feeling the way his back tense at your touch as it had the same effect for you feeling his warmth all over again.

“Where?” He questioned you as the bike halted at the stoplight.

You slurred your words, but you did your best to tell him directions to where your apartment was. Your sober self would have slapped you at the back of the head for letting Simon know about your whereabouts, knowing it wasn’t something he needed to know anymore.

For a moment as the winds blew against your cheeks, you were brought back to the memories of your time together. How you feared his driving and his bike more than anything else in the world but every single time he made sure you were at your safest with him, always did even in this moment.

You remembered the dates you would both have at night when he was at his most sleepless. By the park, your arms wrapped around him as his head rested on your shoulders. How you had carried so much of his nightmare even when you truly knew nothing but what he would let you know which wasn’t much and would only be in the instance that you would have accidentally heard during his nightmares.

You remembered how tired you were as much as you loved him, how much he had meant the world to you in that very moment but slowly but surely it wasn’t the same anymore. You felt the resentment before the anger for everything he wasn’t willing to give you. You gave him everything thing but he could barely give you anything in return.

“We’re here.” Simon announced, pulling away from him you turned and he was right. You were back in your apartment and you didn’t realize how fast time has flown since as you were deep in your thoughts.

Hopping down the bike with the man helping you, you turned to him and your mouth moved before you could stop yourself.

“Want to head inside—for coffee at least as a thank you?”

“I think coffee and a conversation would be the best thing for the both of us to do at this point in time, Love.”

You felt your pulse quicken as everything single thing you had talked about in the pub was coming back to bite you in the ass. Simon has his ulterior motive after all for wanting to escort you back home.

All you did was nod, heading to the door with the man following closely behind. You felt your hands shaking but you had succeeded in keying the door open. Opening the door for him, you walked further inside, opening the lights and toeing off the flats you had on.

You placed your wallet and keys on the coffee table and found yourself sitting on the couch waiting for the man to follow you.

You heard Simon close the door, the sound of the lock being turned and the sound of his leather jacket had you worried for what was to come.

“I fucking take you seriously with the bloody helmet still on your head.” He pointed out as he stood right in front of you, unclasping the helmet from your head and for the first time in a long time, you saw him up close and the way the darkness of his eye bags was the most prominent about him—it had gotten so much worse than when you were still married. Was it because of you?

“Sorry.” You mumbled as you watched him place the helmet on top of the coffee table alongside most of your things.

“Where’s the kitchen?”

You pointed towards you left and the man had made himself at him. The sound of cupboard being opened and the all too familiar muttering of horrible instant coffee you always wanted was heard. You wanted to let out a giggle but the sudden fear of the reality of your decision brought back something you never thought you would ever relive.

You sigh elbows digging onto your thighs, as your slumped your face into your hands. Why did you offer to have him here? Why did you accept the offer of him taking you back home? Why did you accept Kate’s offer of working for John? Why did you decide to divorce Simon?

In your own mini-panic attack, the smell of vanilla latte had you pulling away from your hands and you saw the cup of coffee already in the table and Simon was already sitting in front of you, without the surgical mask and without the figurative mask he was wearing at the base.

“Why are you doing this to me?” He questioned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of all the places you could work why the base?”

“It’s not like I knew you were working for Price.” You snort. “It was Kate that suggested I work there—a new environment for me after everything that happened.”

Kate had called it her own version of exposure therapy. You truly appreciated her help even after knowing your ex-husband was working there in the same vicinity as you.

“You could have left?”

You snort. Aside from everything that came with the military, the money was too good to leave—but that was not something you would want to discuss with Simon knowing his intent to still provide for you even with the ink on the divorce papers were still drying.

“Why would I? You and I have nothing between us.” You spoke, knife sharp as his own words of calling you a headache to him.

“What you said to the team is that the real reason why you filed for divorce?”

All you could do was nod.

“You could have talk to me that you weren’t happy anymore we could have made it work.”

“No you won’t, Si.” You shook your head, arms crossed against your chest, you feared the words that would be thrown between the two of you now especially at your state. “I would have made it work.”

“What do you want me to do then? What could I have done then? You say one thing but mean something else?”

“Because every single time I wanted you to open up to me, you closed yourself up even more!” You spat right at him now. “Do you know how hard it was for me to bare myself to you about the shit in my life and in my family only to be reciprocated with how your family was fucked up but not an explanation for it?”

“That’s none of your business.” His voice grows dark, it was a sensitive topic.

“Then why were we even married if it wasn’t my business?” Your voice growing louder now, exasperated by this conversation. “What was the use of our vows if you would keep the smallest things a secret from me?”

“It’s not fucking small!” He screamed right back at you and you instinctively flinched at his voice then. Why was he being so cruel to you now?

“When I married you, I accepted you for who you are, I accepted that you can’t truly tell me what your missions were about or about whatever details about your deployment were. But even just something, anything that would make me believe that I was something more than a whore you could fuck and a maid that would take care of the house and cook you fucking food would have been appreciated.”

“You were my wife, wasn’t that enough?”

“No it was not, Simon.” You spat. “You never made me feel like I was truly your wife when you shut yourself down after coming home to me. You weren’t the same man that I had accidentally spilled coffee on when we first met.”

“If you knew me for the things I’ve been through you wouldn’t look at me the same way.”

“And how would you know that?” You questioned him. “How could you think for me when you don’t even know what I would think of you after everything we’ve been through?”

“You want to know the truth?”

“Yes. Maybe that way I can finally move on from anything that has to do with you.”

You know that was the wrong thing to say as the man cracked his neck and began to talk. About his life, about the abuse he had to endure at the hands of his father. He began to talk about the new beginning of his life when his father died and everyone tried their best to recover. He told you of his mother that he loved more than anything else at that point, of his brother, of his sister-in-law, and of his young nephew Joseph.

He told you about how he was finally at peace with the trauma of his life back then before things gotten to hell and back. He told you of the man named Roba, he told you of the abuse he had to once again go through at the hands of Roba’s men, physically, mentally, and sexually. He told you why he hated confined spaced after being buried alive in a coffin with a man named Vernon, a rotten corpse that he had to use the jaw of to escape death.

He told you of the death of his family, of Marcus Washington killing his family. Killing his mother, his brother, his sister-in-law, and his nephew that didn’t deserve being involved in anything the mission was about. He told you how he had to burn the bodies of what was left of his family and his identity in the process. You learned then why he was called Ghost and what it had meant for him and his past that continued to haunt him.

You were left stunned, unable to form words about everything that has happened to your husband. But it was the fact that now everything about him made sense. All the little things about his personality of why he was the man that sat in front of you today. It all made sense and it scared you that he was right. How you truly didn’t know what to say or what to feel now that you’ve learned of his past that he tried so hard to hide from you.

“Happy?”

“Don’t be cruel, Simon.” You whispered now, the tears were slowly forming from your eyes now, you wanted to cry for him, to mourn the family that he had lost and for adding yourself into the pain he was now enduring.

“Cruel?” He laughed, no humor in his words, malice was more evident. “What’s cruel is you still using my last name and airing out our dirty laundry to the men I work with instead of talking to me first.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” You shook your head, stung by his words. He was right but you weren’t going to admit it right now. A small ounce of pride still clawing its way out of you. “And you know why I still used your last name.”

It was your family. You wanted to erase was little traces of your family remained. Even in the divorce, you always had it in mind to remain a Riley. It was better than having to be the ghost of your former self all over again.

He stood now, knowing it was all he needed to know. He walked away but somehow a lingering thought had you opening your lips all over again.

“Why didn’t you fight for me, Si? Why did you sign the papers back then if you truly didn’t want to break up?”

“Because no matter how much I loved and needed you in my life, I will always choose your happiness before my own.” He answered, opening the door and leaving.

The sound of his bike echoing as you were left to mourn the closure of your relationship with the man that had meant the world to you. With all the regret finally coming full force you were left knowing that you had broken the man more than he already was and there was no turning back from it anymore.

It’s been well over a year now since you have been hired as Captain John Price’s secretary. Things were slowly but surely getting better for you and your career. Since the day you had talked with Simon, you wouldn’t say things between the two of you were getting better but you were civil with each other. You’ve interacted with him a few times, especially when it came to paper works but nothing more was said between the two of you.

Even with Price’s rule of not getting yourself involved with anyone in the team, it was becoming a mission for both Gaz and Soap to set you up with people on the base. Doctors or medics were somehow their number one target for you, but every single time, you find yourself relenting to just one date but never pushing for something more.

After knowing the truth about your ex, you didn’t have the heart to be so cruel to him more than you already were working in the base as him. Your free time away from base were spent with hobbies you had while still being married to Simon, baking and journaling, it was relief to be able to do it now with a new light was shed to the events of your marriage failing. You’ve also come to accept the offer of Kate’s wife’s therapist. It was a big help to be able to talk to someone else about everything you’ve been through.

You’ve learned to accept that you had your own mistake in the failure of your marriage just as much as Simon did. But your therapist has also come to mention that you needed to begin your own journey of healing from the what ifs of it, and live in the aftermath as painful as it was for you now.

“That dangerous?” You found yourself fearing for the worse at the conversation you were having with your boss as he explained to you the vague details of the upcoming mission him and the rest of the Task Force had for today.

With the chaos of prepping and planning, your boss was constantly on his feet and you were following him every step away for most of it to field calls and handle most of the paperworks to be sent out to sign and shipped to the higher ups. But to know a glimpse of what was happening and how your ex-husband would be involved in all of this worried you more than you would like to admit.

“It is what it is, if it meant a safer and better world, we would do it over and over again.” He explained.

“Just be careful, I still want to keep my job and I can’t if you’re dead, Boss.” You teased.

“Laswell can still be able to deal with you if I’m gone.” He retorted right back earning a quick laugh from you.

One thing that you had gotten so used to was his humor and how you had showcased your own as time went by working for the man. You appreciated him for being one of the two best bosses you had ever had in your career.

“Shouldn’t you be preparing for the mission?” You quipped right back.

“I should.” He chuckled standing right up in his full height. “Can you go check on the boys for me while I do?”

You could have refused, but a small part of you wanted to check up on Simon. Standing up, you had made your round, first stopping by Soap’s room to check up on him and notify him about the mission. Soap being the man that he was already suggesting you another man in the base beforehand.

“How about Micah? Pretty bloke that just joined the Medic team.” He began shoving the rest of his things into his duffle bag.

“Johnny, for the last time, I’m not into those pretty type you think I’m into.” You tried to indulge him in the conversation for now knowing it would ease him from the mission.

“What is your type so me and Gaz could actually find someone for you?” He pouted.

“Tall, blonde, dark and broody and with a heavy Manchester-accent.” You indulged him with description of the only man you actually loved.

“Why the fuck are you describing Ghost?” He snorts. “You got a thing for him? I thought you swore off anyone from the military?”

“Never said it was Ghost, Johnny.” You quipped right back. You hugged him and have him wrap his arms around you right back. “Be careful for me will you, I can’t live my life here in the base knowing you or Gaz aren’t here trying to set me up with anyone and everyone in the base including the married ones.”

“Hey we didn’t know Wilson was married.” He protested as he pulled away to look at you in offense.

“At this point I’ve already had dinner with half of the base, let’s keep it to a minimum when you get back. I might show you my ex so you can have an idea of what my type is.”

“Deal.” He grinned kissing you on top of the head before leaving to head to the meeting room.

You next stop was Gaz which wasn’t much of a journey with how close his room was to Soap’s. Knocking inside, you were immediately welcomed into the arms of Gaz. Unlike Soap that had been fixated with setting you up with someone in the base, Gaz was more focused on the next get together you could go to after the mission.

“I think me and Soap could convince Price to have a weekend in his vacation house in Cornwall.”

You nodded knowing it wouldn’t take much to convince Price if it meant helping the rest of the team with de-stressing and ensuring everyone has recovered mentally from the mission. But it also meant that you would be in charge of cooking knowing you and Price were the only ones that knew how to cook and you wanted your boss to actually have time to recover himself in the process.

“As long as you help me with grocery and prepping then you got a deal.” You winked pulling away from him with a smile already excited to bake them your famous apple pie they constantly beg you to make for them since the first time making it for them.

“Deal.” He grinned kissing you on the cheeks and just like Soap, finding himself heading out with his bag already at hand.

It now meant you had one last person you needed to stop by before the mission prep. You took your time somehow rehearsing what you could probably say to the man for his upcoming mission. You had your worry and you knew this was a dangerous mission.

Knocking on his door, you heard the gruff response from the other side of the door.

“Simon?” You called and immediately heard the door being unlocked.

You were faced with him wearing his skull balaclava mask. This was the side of him that you never gotten used to see but it was a part of him that you could never truly erase from him.

“What’s wrong?” He asked you allowing you to walk inside.

“Price told me to notify you about heading out for the mission.” You explained. “And I just—I just wanted to ask you to be careful on the mission.”

“Always.” He nodded.

A moment of silence has passed between the two of you before you were reminded of your therapist’s words. There was nothing wrong if you extended an olive branch to the man after everything was out in the open.

“After the mission, I would love to have you join us in Price’s cabin in Cornwall for a quick vacation too.” You added. “I know you’re busy with whatever you need to do to distress after a mission, but I would think it would be good to you if you joined. I can opts this one out if you’re more comfortable with that.”

“I’d go.” He nodded. “But I want you to join along and I want you to make me that lovely cheesecake you always make for me after I come home from deployment.”

You smiled knowing that it was always the same, a way to a man’s heart is always through his stomach.

“Anything else you want?” You asked wanting to give in to his all too simple request.

“And I want us to at least be friends, you’re part of the team now and they care for you and it wouldn’t do anyone good for us to act like we can’t stand each other.”

You nodded, heart aching a little at what he wanted. Friends. That was all he wanted and you would gladly compromise this time for him if that was what makes him truly happy.

“Friends.” You smiled, taking a hesitant step towards him for a hug but stopped mid movement as he pulled you right into his arms. The all too familiar warmth that consumed him.

“I wished things would have been different between the two of us.” He whispered kissing the top of your head. “I’d give you the world when I couldn’t give you myself fully.”

You closed your eyes wrapping your arms around his broad back.

“I wished I was strong enough for the two of us.” You whispered the tears slowly forming your eyes. “I wished I stayed a little longer for the two of us.”

“I never stopped loving you, Love. We might not be married anymore but you will be the only woman I will ever love truly with all my life and with all my soul.”

“You too, Si.” You whispered looking up at him allowing the tears to flow freely from your eyes now. “After everything that had happened between us, I will always love you.”

It was the middle of the night when you heard the familiar ringtone of your old phone. The same phone that only Simon knew the number to. You blinked away the sleep as you pulled the phone right out of the bedside table.

An unfamiliar number took you by surprise and for a moment you wanted to not answer it thinking it might be a telemarketer—but something had pushed you to press the answer button and hear whoever was on the other line.

“Hello?” You whispered clearing your throat.

“Mrs. Riley?” The familiar voice of John had you tensing. You found yourself sitting up from the bed as he began to introduce himself and why he had called.

“What happened to Simon?” You questioned checking your bedside clock to see what time it was.

It was just past midnight, three weeks since they had left for their mission and this was the first time you had gotten any contact to any one of them.

“As of right now, we are not sure if he would make it through the night. If you want we could have you someone fetch you to see him.”

You felt your world still at the news. Just when things were finally moving into the right direction between you and Simon.

“I’ll be there as soon as possible.” You assured hanging up and changing into some sweatshirt and sweatpants.

The travel to the now familiar base was a daze to you as you drove. You weren’t much of a religious person, but your lips did not stop moving as you prayed. You prayed that your husband would be alright, you bargained that you would make things right with him if it meant he would stay.

“Don’t leave me, Simon.” You whispered over and over again until you arrived to the base.

You had ignored most of the surprise that the soldier on duty had shown at your sudden appearance—the fact that you were in just your ratty clothes was also something you chose to ignore as you made a beeline to where the infirmary was.

Huddled in front of the door was your boss, John, Soap, and Gaz. Each and every single one of them injured in their own way—mostly superficial from the bandages that plastered all over their beaten faces.

“John.” You called having three heads turning to you in question. “How is he?” You questioned as the tears begin to fall from your eyes at the reality of the situation coming to crush you. “How is my husband?”

The realization washed over all of them, of the secret you and Simon had hidden from everyone. The weight was too much as you were wrapped in the arms of the family you had found yourself becoming a part of.

“Will he be alright?” You pleaded, holding onto John’s vest. “Please tell me he will be alright.” You begged falling to your knees in front of him.

“The doctors are doing their best, Love.” John reassured kneeling in front of you, wrapping you into his arms as you continued to sob. “But Simon took most of the impact from the explosion.”

The reality scared you so much. You tried you best to remember the last interaction you had with Simon, the hug, the promise of a new beginning, and everything else in between. It all came crashing down to this very point.

There was a very big chance that you will finally lose Simon and it scared you so much more than anything in this world. You couldn’t lose him, not like this, not when there was so much left between the two of you to make up for.

“He can’t leave me, John.” You whimpered. “He promised me he wouldn’t leave me like this.” You screamed at the top of your lungs.

You were made aware of the vows you had made to each other when you got married at the court house. Of how he had promised to the best of his abilities that he wouldn’t die in the line of duty before he could have the chance to retire. He promised you a family, he promised you the world, and he promised you your happiness. He was your family, he was your world, and he was your happiness that you realize only when it was too late.

For the next few weeks, the world around you had become blur. You were now much of a permanent fixture of the Taskforce’s base. Morning and the afternoon was spent still working for Price, especially with the piling number of paperworks the mission had caused and your nights were spent in the infirmary, watching over Simon that has yet to awake from his slumber.

When the doctors had given you the green light that you can see him—it took you hours before you did. Even after John, Soap, and Gaz had finished with their own visit, it took so much of what little strength you had to finally see him in his state.

Broken bones, laceration, head trauma, blood loss and amongst the other injuries that the doctors has informed you should have killed him but he was still alive even in his current state. He still had fight in him, he was still fighting to keep alive.

“I’ve come to realize that post-mission Price was a whole different breed of a grump, more than he usually is.” You began talking to your still unconscious ex.

The doctor had told you about him being able to hear your voice and you took the opportunity to talk his ear off with him unable to give his usual sarcastic comments or grunts as response. There were days you told him about your day at work, days where you told him about what you had been doing since you left your home and tried and failed to move on from him, and there were days where you apologized to him, regretting the divorce and everything else that been the reason for the demise of your marriage.

“I think since the divorce I’ve realized a lot of shit about us.” You sighed leaning against the uncomfortable plastic chair. “If you wake up, I’ll try to do my best to convince you to take me back.” You mused arms crossed against your chest. “I know you don’t have as much of a happy memory after what happened to your family, but when you wake up, I want to make sure we make as much happy memories as we could together, I want you to tell me about what your Ma was like, what kind of brother Tommy was like, and how adorable Joseph was, I want all of that and more with you.”

You wiped away the tears that have yet to fall, you didn’t want to cry. You thought that you didn’t have any more tears to shed. The gravity of almost losing Simon was the wakeup call you needed and now it was nothing more than a waiting game until he wakes up.

“I fucking can’t be your friend, Si.” You admit. “I can’t be happy with just being your friend. I want you to be my husband again, Si. After almost losing you I know I can’t live knowing we haven’t fixed our relationship. I’ll do anything and everything to make it up to you, all the pain and hurt I’ve caused you.”

“Anything?”

You almost jumped from where you sat at the sight of the man whose eyes were now focused on you.

“Simon?”

“Am I just high or did you say what you did?”

“What?”

“That you would make up for everything?” He muttered groggily.

“I did.” You nodded blinking in disbelief that he was here, awake. Alive.

“Then marry me. Let me make it right this time, Love. I promise I’ll make it work, I’ll do my best to make you happy the way that you deserve.”

“Yes.” You answered almost immediately, finding yourself giggling about how ridiculous his second proposal was with his current state—but you didn’t want it any other way.

He requested for you to take his dog tag around his neck off and only then did you notice that your wedding ring enclosed around his necklace. Even with the years that passed, he still had it with him. The very same ring you two had brought together before you had headed to the courthouse for your marriage.

“Can I add another stipulation?” He held onto your free hand.

“Anything.” You smiled rubbing your hand against the callousness of his hand. “Anything to make it work, Si.”

“No more blind dates from the Sergeants.”

“They could never hold a candle to you, Simon.” You giggled leaning in for a kiss, the weight that rested on your shoulders slowly easing away.

You were home, you were back in the arms of Simon after all was said and done.

363 notes · View notes

celenawrites · 5 months

Text

John Price is a natural leader.

Always taking the lead on the field and off duty. Always confident, self-assured in his abilities to guide himself and others through difficult situations with ease.

He's always so worried about his team - slipping in some antihistamines in Gaz's pockets whenever his dust allergies kick in and make his sneezes ring out on base at ungodly hours, making sure Johnny doesn't end up recklessly in another communal mess 'fight'', and checking up on Simon after a rough mission drains all life out of his blue eyes, leaving him dull and mute from the trauma of surviving another war.

He never forgets to wish his teammates birthday, always tries his best to push them to take extra leaves so they can visit family and rest after an arduous mission, and even indulges in their frivolous past times, if only to make time pass by easier.

He always remembers to send Kate and her wife flowers as a 'thank you' for hosting him for dinner, never forgets to call Laswell and congratulate her on successful jobs, and makes sure to send the finest bottle of wine for letting some of his 'rebellious actions' go under the radar.

So when he finally comes down with the seasonal flu, you take it upon yourself to reciprocate the generosity he graces everyone with - not letting the man leave the warm, soft bed as you tend to every need of his throughout the day.

"Sweetheart, get back to bed. I'll be fine", John tells you but his stuffy nose makes his voice sound more nasally than usual.

You tut at him, recalling his high temperature, "I cannot laze around while you're suffering and need me, John. Now let me take care of you, and put the cold compress on."

"Yes ma'am."

You run around, from room to room - arranging things and making sure to check in on your dear fiance to make sure he's not in pain while you prepare some home remedies for him.

A herbal mixture you make him drink for his sore throat, which Price downs with a small wince; changing his cold compress with a new one so he can rest comfortably. Turning down the lights so that his eyes don't smart anymore, and he can actually take a nap around noon while you work on lunch - chicken noodle soup and warm porridge that can warm him up from inside and are easy on the stomach - recalling every little trick your Mum did whenever you got sick.

And when you finally come back in the room to find John sleeping, you take a moment to breathe calmly as you slowly admire him. His flushed cheeks, freshly-trimmed mutton chops, his freckle on his nose and how his nose scrunches up while he's deep in his sleep, and how oddly comforting it is - to have him in your home, to see him resting after months of separation and knowing that he possibly hasn't slept this peacefully in ages.

"Take a picture, darling. It'll last ya longer", calls out a raspy voice, followed by a dry chuckle.

Felling your ears warm up at being caught by the very object of your attention, you promptly deflect, "Oh, shut it, you big dork. Lunch's ready, if you'd like to have it."

"With you?" John asks rhetorically, with a small fond smile on his face.

"Always."

#john price x reader #captain john price #captain john price x reader #call of duty #john price x you #price x you #call of duty fluff #cod x reader #cod fluff #cod headcanons #captain price x reader #price x y/n #price x reader #char.price #celena.writes

459 notes · View notes

ahqkas · 5 months

Text

husband!simon with a baby (fem!wife!reader)

husband!simon will became more emotionally guarded. he struggles with his emotions, experiencing the mixture of feelings from joy to anxiety. the announcement of your pregnancy can also act like a trigger to his trauma with his own childhood, reminding him of the pain he went through due to his father’s behavior. the fear of repeating the history is very present in his head, and he will beat himself up if he shows any negative emotions towards you during the pregnancy. he swears he won’t become like him (his father) and that the baby will be shown nothing else but love and adoration since the day of birth, he’ll make sure if that

husband!simon who, despite the nervousness and anxiety he feels, is deeply concerned for your well-being and the child’s health during labor. he wants you both to be okay and if something happened to either of you, or god forbid to both of you, he would have a hard time living with himself. it’s difficult to say if he would be physically present during the birth, he wants to be with you but he doesn’t know if his job would allow that during the moment. if luck’s on his side and he has the chance to witness the birth of his, your baby, it helps to build a stronger connection between you as a family

husband!simon whose eyes become a bit teary at the sight of you cradling the small baby to your chest, dark irises watching you two and imprinting the picture into his mind so he can relive the moment whenever he feels like it. he’s just so happy you both are okay and his eyes soften when you bring the baby girl towards him, his arms reaching out to take her into his embrace. she’s so fuckin’ small in his hands, so delicate and sweet looking, he swears he’ll bring her nothing but love and happiness. the pride and joy he feels in the depth of his chest is the best feeling in the whole world and your tired yet loving eyes remind him how much he appreciates the chance he was given on another family (this time, he will make it right)

the baby works her charm on husband!simon to melt his cold heart and it works every single time. for example:

༉‧₊˚. FIRST SMILE !

in the cozy living room of a small house, simon was sitting cross legged with the baby leaning against his firm chest on a soft blanket, surrounded by an array of colorful toys and childrens’ books to pass the time as another day neared to its end. the father was showing his daughter pictures of animals as you cooked dinner in the kitchen, leaving them to form a bond on their own. an illustration of a german shepherd was present on the page in front of them as simon pointed at the dog, his eyes shifting between the book and his baby girl to see if he was boring her but her wide eyes were full of curiosity. “look at that, sweetheart. that’s a german shepherd, they’re known for their loyalty and courage.”

the baby’s gaze, intense and unwavering, was fixed on the dog. simon half expected for her to whine in displeasure, to show him she was intimidated by the picture but to his surprise, a tiny hand reached out and traced the image with fingers in excitement of learning something new. the little girl turned in his lap to look at his face and the sight of his daughter’s heartwarming smile was enough to send simon into a trance. her eyes were sparkling with delight and his own were wide, full of surprise. for all he knew, that was her first smile ever and she gave it to him, a person he thought his daughter would never smile at.

“did you just -“ his heart skipped a beat upon hearing a chorus of giggles escaping her as she tried to cover her mouth with both of her hands, but from the way her kind eyes and chubby cheeks were moving, simon knew she was still grinning at him.

why would she be smiling in his presence? what was the reason? he was still insecure about his parental skills and the new position of a father. but as the realization sinked in that his daughter was indeed smiling at him, a wave of feelings washed over him and the man found himself softly smiling back at her.

he didn’t hesitate to scoop the smiling baby up into his arms, determined to hear her little giggles as she grinned upon the gesture, feeling joyful to be in daddy’s hold. it was a magical and heart-melting moment for simon, seeing the big smile for the first time and a thought flashed in his mind. he wanted his girl to smile as much as possible from now and nothing would take his wish away.

despite his size, his footsteps were quiet as he approached you in the kitchen with your daughter in his arms, his hold on her protective and gentle. you could sense he radiated pure happiness the moment he leaned against the kitchen counter next to you with the giggling baby on his hip as you assisted the bubbling pot with soup. “she gave me her very first smile, lovey.” “c’mon, show that pretty smile to mommy now, sunshine.”

the fear of not receiving one of those smiles was real to him, he knew he didn’t look like he was a welcoming figure and his intimidating demeanor could cause troubles in her point of view to the little girl. yet here he was, with the meaningful moment forever carved into his mind.

simon cherishes the moment deeply in his heart and whenever he’s feeling low, a single sight of your daughter’s smile can make his day better without struggles.

༉‧₊˚. FIRST BATH !

simon was standing by the slowly filling bathtub, his puzzled expression shifting between the various baby bath products in front of him. he looked so confused, this obviously wasn’t his territory but he requested that this time it would be him who gave your daughter a bath and you agreed without any hesitation. you were watching him with a gentle smile as you undressed your daughter, who seemed to be giggling and cooing mess as if she sensed her father’s unease and wanted to help him in calming down.

his dark irises were looking for your approval as he checked the water for right temperature and at your nod, he took the little girl into his own arms, lowering her into the bathtub with shaky hands. despite the slight trembling in his muscles, he kept a secure hold on the baby to not drop her.

you were watching the scene unfold with a fond smile, noticing the way he carefully cradled your daughter’s head in his big palms, his intentions cautious and gentle. you can clearly see the determination to do it right in his eyes and you kneel down next to him, resting your arms at the edge of the bathtub while you gave guided him through the steps of washing the baby’s tiny body.

your husband felt himself relaxing after few minutes into the bath time, his feelings shifting from one of skepticism to a mix of wonder and surprise. he was afraid he might have hurt the little girl but now when he overcame his fears, the way your daughter’s eyes lit up at the splashing water around her and her tiny fingers were touching the bubbles to pop them, a small smile grazed his lips at the sight while a gentle warmth enveloped his insides. when the bath came to an end and he wrapped the baby in a fluffy towel, he couldn’t help but chuckle as she kicked her feet and giggled freely. in that moment, simon realized that even though he might be a heartless soldier, he’s also a loving father who broke the cycle and is capable of tenderness.

when you reached out to offer help with getting your daughter dressed, he shook his head with a newfound confidence in his actions as he started to dress her up. a cozy onesie was embracing your daughter’s body soon as she rested on her father’s chest, and simon knew there was nothing he should be afraid of involving your daughter as long as he had you by his side to provide him with support.

906 notes · View notes

cordeliawhohung · 15 days

Text

Soft Spot - Part 3

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader - part thirteen of "soft spot"

taglist | playlist | dissection links

you're so used to the teeth that they don't even hurt anymore

warnings: childhood trauma, mentions of past abuse, mentions of past torture, threats and unkind language

wc: 4.4k

Some part of you always knew you’d see him again, but you never imagined it would be like that.

In your pitiful daydreams, you always envisioned things would be darker; scarier, even. You’d find him again in some dim corner where he would trap you and would lurk and stare until he was ready to pounce. In the version of yourself in your daydreams, you were stronger. You knew exactly what to say, how to convey how you felt, but most importantly, he would pay. He would pay for every single transgression he wrought upon you and your mother. You would never have to see him again. But it was wrong. You weren’t supposed to run into him there. Not on a perfect day like that.

It would have been a perfect day.

The warmth of the sun on your skin, the laughter of everyone around you; you had every right to enjoy that day. To bask in the beauty of the trees with their singing, fluttering leaves, and to soak up the fragrance of tulips and freshly trimmed grass. But behind it all, there was always something lurking. A second layer you hadn’t yet exposed. The rotting carcass of a bird nestled by the trunk of a tree. Musty hot car exhaust from the street on the other side of the park. A man too angry for his own good and his daughter petrified on the bench.

The smell of cigarettes.

Your eyes had no choice but to stay glued onto the man in front of you. So many years had gone by, and though his age caught up to him, that unbridled rage that festered within him was painfully distinct. It was his eyes, it always was. You could see every thought and intention that came to fruition in his thoughts, and though he smiled, you knew none of it was good. It alerted some primal instinct in the back of your mind that screamed at you to run, to fight. All you could do was place your hands on your stomach and hope Simon would return soon.

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” The words flew out of your mouth of their own volition, like some sort of ghost had taken control of your body and given you the strength to say them.

Your father snorted as he took a step closer to you, and you had no choice but to watch him sink down into the seat next to you. His movements were slow, frail even. There was something wrong with him, as if he rotted from the inside out. Perhaps all his wrongdoings had finally caught up with him, and you took an odd sort of comfort in the thought he looked too sick to properly hurt anyone other than himself.

“Haven’t seen each other in years and you have nothing to say? Bullshit.” He coughed. It sounded wet, and you could make out the sticky sounds of it clinging in the back of his throat. “Though, the last time we talked you didn’t have anything to say to me but a threat.”

He was right. A threat. A promise. Maybe both. Whatever it was, you had meant every word of it at the time when you said you would kill him if he ever hit you again. That felt like forever ago. Some other lifetime. Really, you were surprised he even remembered it at all. No, of course he remembered it. He would always remember the worst parts of you; the parts of you he could twist and use against you.

“I still mean it,” you said.

It was an empty promise. You knew that, and he knew that too.

“Sure thing, darling,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ll do a whole lot of damage in… this state.”

No surprise bloomed in your chest at his comment, but disgust did. Having to see that vile man again was already bad enough, but seeing him while you were pregnant was a different form of degradation. It felt violating to be perceived in such a disgusting way, especially by the man who fathered you. Him seeing your mother pregnant hadn’t pulled on his heartstrings to save her from the terrible fate of his fury, and it certainly wouldn’t save you.

“So, who’s the dad? Some rich American? Surprised to see you back here after you ran off to play school girl in the States,” he sneered.

“You don’t have the right to ask that,” you snapped.

“Don’t I?” he challenged. “You’re my daughter.”

“I’m nothing of yours.”

A heavy sigh left your father’s lips as he adjusted his position on the bench. You hadn’t moved an inch since he approached you, and even your son seemed to know well enough to stay dormant inside of you.

“You always have to be difficult,” your father huffed.

“What the fuck do you want?” you bit. Intense eyes landed on the pathetic figure next to you, and you found your hands balling into fists in your lap. “We haven't spoken for years, and you think it’s okay to just stroll up to me in the damn park for a conversation?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said with a glare. “Remember, you were the one who cut contact with me, not the other way around, darling.”

“Because you are a piece of shit, and you know it,” you retorted. “You’ve never been useful for a goddamn thing in your entire life. You beat my mother, beat me, and then left her to die when she got sick like she was a fucking toy you were tired of playing with. All that shit and you think you have any right to talk to me? To approach me and act like nothing happened?”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, girl,” your father warned. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re knocked up, you don’t get to speak to me like that.”

You weren’t sure what made your body move the way it did, but suddenly you were on your feet with your back facing him. Everything happened of its own accord. The way your feet moved along the pavement. How your heart thundered in your chest so violently you swore it would break your ribs. A sense of self preservation consumed your body and its senses as it did its best to get you away from the threat of your father. You were in no shape to fight, and you couldn’t afford to freeze, so you took flight.

But you had never been very good at getting away.

The brutal cycle of getting caught continued in the same way it always had; with a hand around your wrist. Your father’s grip was just as unforgiving as Bukin’s had been, and the same as Eric before him. Just like all the other times, you turned to face the aggressor with a bewildered glare on your face, incapable of holding back neither your fear nor your anger.

“How long do you think you can keep running? Huh? Before your legs stop working? Before someone breaks them?” he asked, his tone all but demanding an answer from you.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Truly?” you questioned.

“I’m your fuckin’ father,” he retorted.

Hot breath fanned across your face and you could almost taste the rancid tobacco leftover in his lungs. It was enough to make your stomach turn, and with the anxiety pooling in your stomach you nearly puked, but you held strong as you wiggled your wrist out of his grasp.

“You are nothing to me. Not my father, not my family; nothing,” you spat. “I know you’ve got it in that thick skull of yours that you have some odd ownership over me because you fathered me, but that’s where our relationship ends. Do you understand me? I’ve lived my life fine without you. I’ll continue without you. I’ll have this kid that you’ll see no part of. I’ll get the life I always deserved while you die, alone and unloved, and nobody will fucking miss you at all.”

A heavy silence weighed on your shoulders as you watched your father’s face morph in front of you. He was always an angry man, but his true nature was something your nightmares could never quite capture. They could never paint the twitch of his lips or the flexing of his jaw, or the way his fingers buzzed with anticipation. Your fuzzy childhood memories paled in comparison to the real, unbridled enjoyment your father experienced when instilling fear and pain in someone.

Maybe that’s why you never learned. Not because violence wasn’t a good teacher, but because you could never remember just how bad it hurt. Not until you were there in the maw of the beast.

Whatever you thought was there lurking in your father’s features vanished faster than it had formed. Your father’s eyes scanned every inch of your scowl and you watched them light up with something sinister and wicked the moment they landed on the corner of your lip. A grin replaced the anger on his face as he took in the sight of that unsightly scar that still plagued the corner of your lips even after all those years, and you almost flinched. As his quiet and sour chuckle sounded, you knew exactly what he thought. He hadn’t given you that scar, which meant you had never truly escaped trouble as much as you wanted to pretend you did.

But you did. You climbed away from that life, fought tooth and nail just to live without violence, and you made it. Each night you were able to go to bed in the arms of a man who had never once caused you harm. In the mornings you would wake up to fresh air and a chaste kiss before you ever even slithered out from underneath the covers. The only bruises that tainted your skin were ones caused by unseen table corners, not the fists of an angry man.

Yet you knew he would never believe you. Abusers always had to come out victorious, even if that meant dipping their mind into their own delusions. You would sooner turn to dust and bone before your words would ever reach him, and he seemed to hold himself with pride over that fact.

He chuckled again, louder that time, and looked down at the ground for a short moment as he shook his head. His eyes landed on you again with humor before he shrugged. “Keep telling yourself that, darling.”

A large hand settled on your stomach as you felt a looming presence gently pull you away from the monster of your childhood. You didn’t even have to look up at the figure to know it was Simon; you knew him by touch alone. Your body did not untense at all even with him there, and the distilled anger was palpable on your husband. Dark eyes glared at your father, who hardly bothered to look Simon up and down.

All it would take would be one word. Something to anger your father, to get him to lose his judgment, to get him to lunge. A vile, dormant anger inside of you wanted to. Wanted to goad your father into attacking just to watch what Simon would do. You’d seen what he was capable of. Watched him break a beast’s arm and stomp on it just to feel the bone crunch under his boot. It was so easy for him to pull that trigger and end the life of a man simply for calling you darling. If only he knew half the things your father had said to you.

How much would he have to bleed to make it feel better? How many bones would have to break? Would it ever be enough? Could more violence ever satiate the need for revenge that stowed itself away inside of you? Did that make you just like your father? Did you even care? No, it would never be enough. There was no penance he could offer you that wouldn’t just turn your stomach sour.

He would get his turn. One day. If you were lucky, you would never even hear of it.

“I never want to see or hear from you again. I mean it,” you said as your eyes locked on him.

Your father’s eyes flickered up to Simon, where he finally seemed to understand the weight of the situation. He was old; a stupid drunk with nothing to fight with but a decayed body and rotten core — something Simon could shatter in an instant. Perhaps he finally realized he didn’t have as much power over his little girl like he thought he did, or maybe his self preservation instincts kicked in, but your father finally took a step back with a shrug.

“Whatever you want,” he said.

It wasn’t until you were halfway back to the car that you realized Simon tried to grab your attention. Your name fell from his lips hushed and even, yet no matter how hard he tried it was impossible for him to mask the worry it was drenched with. His pace was slow compared to usual, but then again it wasn’t like you could move as fast as you would have liked. You wanted to run — run to the edge of the world and never look back, yet you were so painfully present on earth.

“Sweetheart, slow down,” Simon said, trying to calm you.

“I’m fine.”

Those were the first words you were able to choke out, and you hadn’t realized how tight your throat felt until you said them. Still, you continued to push ahead, chest heaving with anxiety as you got closer to Simon’s car. All you wanted to do was go home. It seemed that’s all you ever wanted to do.

“Who was that?” Simon then asked, still trying to pull answers from you.

“Your father-in-law.”

There was no need for further explanation. Simon was well aware of the horrors you had to fight when you were a kid. A storm swirled in your mind so violently even he could feel the raging wind, and rather than try and fruitlessly fight it off, he chose to weather the storm with you instead.

The ride home was a blur with your thoughts so full to the brim yet simultaneously empty. Numb. It had been a long while since you had felt that way, and it didn’t wane until Simon unlocked the door to the flat where you pitifully shuffled over to the couch. Boo beat Simon to your side, and he instantly attempted to climb up on top of your stomach as if it were a perch and not where your child rested inside of you. You wanted to smile at him, but all you could manage was a quivering bottom lip.

“Sweetheart,” Simon tried again as you pushed your overly zealous cat off your lap. “Talk to me.”

Instead of sinking into the cushion next to you, he crouched on the floor where his hands quickly found yours. Every nerve in your body felt fried, too hot for you to exist properly. It traversed up your body in painful waves until the pressure built up so much behind your eyes you swore they would burst from your skull.

“I hate him,” you said, voice trembling. “I hate him so much. It’s been years and- and he shows up now? When everything is good? Wh- When I’m like this?”

You paused for a moment as the rush of hormones nearly suffocated you. Eyes overflowed with tears as you sniffled back the snot that started to run in your nose. You wanted to take your hands out of Simon’s in order to rub at your eyes, but his thumb running along your knuckles was too comforting for you to deprive yourself of that feeling.

“And I want him to pay. For everything. For all the years of bullshit he put mum and I through. But it feels so far out of reach because no matter what it’s not good enough. I just hate feeling like this, so fucking useless.”

Simon’s hands moved up from your hands, across your arms, along your shoulders, and all the way up until he cupped your cheeks in his hands. Everything felt heavy, yet he held your head high as he shifted closer to you.

“I know it’s hard. It’s never easy running into monsters like him,” he said. “But he’s never gonna see you again. Never layin’ a fuckin’ hand on you either.”

“It’s not that, it’s just… he makes me feel like a kid and I hate it,” you said in a near whisper.

“I know,” Simon shushed as he moved up to sit on the couch next to you. His arms wrapped around your body as he drew you as close to his chest as your body could comfortably contort. His warmth was all consuming, settling your frayed nerves as his hand traced along your waist. “I know.”

His chin rested on the top of your head while you did your best to calm your breathing into something more manageable. That simple action — breathing — had already grown to be so difficult those days with the extra weight on your diaphragm, but the crushing feeling of being reduced into nothing but a scared little girl again was unbearable.

“Family is bullshit, anyway,” Simon suddenly chirped. “Don’t have to keep anyone around that you don’t want. Could just be me and you, if you want. You, me, and our boy.”

Our boy. Those words had your tears falling harder than they did before. Having a child wouldn’t fix all your problems, and you were very much aware of that fact. Children weren’t supposed to be the glue that mended old wounds, like so many people wished they would be. Yet still, an odd sort of excitement flickered at the thought that you could one day erase it all. Erase all the parts of your life, and replace it with something truly worth living for.

Like Simon.

Like your son.

The prospect of no longer being your father’s daughter was an exciting one. Maybe your unfortunate conversation with him had been the universe’s way of getting you to say goodbye, though you could have very well done without one. Either way, none of it mattered. It was done. You would have a child to fuss over before long, and you didn’t need thoughts of a sour old man ruining that joy.

You didn’t even think of your father that night as you and Simon settled in for bed. There was too much love to enjoy in the warmth of his arms as he held you close to his chest that there was no room for anything else. Simon’s hands roamed your stomach, as they often did those days, where they settled at the top of your abdomen as if waiting for a good kick. For a moment, everything was still as Boo curled up against your legs with a quiet purr, and a smile curled your lips as you felt Simon’s lips press against the back of your neck.

Except, no matter how good things got, you always seemed to end up back in that basement. Some days it was difficult to tell if you left a piece of yourself there, or if a piece of it had clung to you even after so many years. Either way, it didn’t change the fact you stood in that room with its pale lilac walls that were still just as empty and bare as the first day you woke up in that cursed place.

However, several items were missing from their usual spot in that room. There was no door to the bathroom in which you spent so many hours hiding in, or the bed with the quilt you had spent half a day bleeding into. In fact, an entire wall had all but vanished, giving you the perfect view of the ocean with its salty waves. A comforting freshness lingered in the air rather than the rotten scent of iron, and for the first time in years, you didn’t feel scared.

“He’s so handsome.”

An old rocking chair creaked in the center of the room as your mother sat rocking a bundle of blankets in her arms. The back of her head faced you as her attention was soaked up by something else, something new, and your wavering feet shuffled closer to her.

“Who?” you asked, attempting to peer over her shoulder.

“My grandson,” she replied with a chuckle.

Impatient eyes peered over your mothers shoulder as you tried to steal a glance at the baby boy, yet no matter what angle you tried to get, his face always seemed to be obscured by the blanket. He was so quiet, so much so that the waves crashing on the shore just beyond that missing wall drowned out each quiet whine and sigh.

“He looks so much like you,” your mother cooed. “Good thing, too. I was worried he’d get Simon’s nose.”

You laughed, and it was strange. You never thought you’d be laughing in that basement.

“Simon’s got a fine nose,” you defended.

“Oh, I’m sure he does. Underneath all the scar tissue, anyway,” your mother teased.

Your laughter sounded in harmonious unison as she finally looked away from your son and up at you. Her eyes shined brighter than any other time you could remember in your dreams. She looked so real it was almost like you could reach out and hug her again like you used to when you were a kid.

“Can I see him?” you asked.

“Not yet. Just let me have this for a moment. You’ll see him soon enough,” she replied.

She paused as her bottom lip began to tremble.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered.

“What for?” you asked.

“Everything.”

There was no need to ask for further explanation; it was written in her face. Despite everything that had happened to you throughout your life, there was the indomitable will to survive, even if that just meant more suffering. After so many years, your suffering finally bore fruit. You no longer had to go to sleep wondering if you’d wake up to shattered porcelain on the floor. Unlike her, you had escaped.

That’s all she had ever wanted for you — for someone to take care of you.

Your mother’s attention wandered back to the missing wall in front of her, and your gaze followed. Fluffy clouds billowed along the horizon, and seagulls danced in the sky together while they sang to one another. That ocean was brighter than you had remembered it, like the sun had finally peeked through the clouds.

“I think it’s time for you to go home,” she said.

“Home?” you repeated.

She nodded. “You don’t need to keep coming here anymore.”

She was right. You were tired of that basement. Tired of the memories that haunted you from time to time. They would always be with you in some way, but you couldn’t wait to drown them with new memories. Better memories.

There was no need for a goodbye, as you had said them years ago to that wretched place. Instead, your feet trudged forward until carpet turned into grass. Cold wind moved freely around your body as it beckoned you closer to the crashing waves on the sandy shore. When your feet got close enough to the water that it nearly kissed your toes, you turned around only to find the house, and its terrible basement, had vanished.

That was the last time you ever looked back.

Searing hot pain ripped through your body when you woke up. It rippled all throughout your abdomen in a wave so vicious it took your breath away. Boo, who had been by your feet when you had fallen asleep, pawed at your face as he purred and bashed his head against yours. The pain left you nearly incapacitated for a moment until the wave eventually waned, and it was only then that you were able to slowly push yourself up so that you sat with your legs over the side of the bed.

Sticky sweat clung to your body with little remorse for your comfort, and you tried your best to calm your racing heart with a steady breath. In some poor attempt to assist you, Boo pawed at your aching stomach with an annoyed meow. You gently pushed him away, only for him to whine. Simon grunted, half awake yet still irked by the creature’s impressively loud demands for attention.

Simon didn’t fully wake up until a second wave of pain hit you, and you were unable to hold back the squeaky wince that it forced out of you. The bed shook as Simon’s hulking frame tore the blankets off of his body and scooted so that he sat next to you. His hand rested firmly against your back, yet he almost retracted when he felt your muscles tense and nearly tear with the strength of your contractions. Had it not been for the little human in your womb blocking your way, you were certain you would’ve been doubled over in pain.

“Talk to me, sweetheart. What do you need?” Simon urged.

It was impossible to get any words out with the intensity of it all, and for a moment the only thing you could do was pant sharply as you tried to keep yourself from hyperventilating. You leaned your head to the side where it rested on Simon’s shoulder while your teeth nearly shattered as your jaw clenched. Eventually, the pain diminished once more, allowing your brain to clear just long enough to form a proper thought.

“He’s coming,” you panted. Your hand reached up to wipe the sweat from your upper lip, and your entire body shuddered with a sigh. “Fuck, we gotta- gotta go.”

“Okay, yeah,” Simon said.

He slipped off of the bed to stand in front of you, hands quickly capturing yours in his. His voice was calm and even, and not even his grip trembled as he helped you to your feet. Simon was always strong. Never one to show when he was nervous. But even then, you swore you could feel his racing heart pulse in his fingertips.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #f!reader #soft spot

183 notes · View notes

lunarw0rks · 10 months

Text

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY | M.L

‧˚₊ find all my other works here! // have a request?

FICS/SERIES

Through The Ashes (28.6k) ⋙ MASTERLIST

➳ You've been given an offer to join the 141 Task Force. Upon taking it, you find yourself ensnared with the mysterious masked man who won't take his eyes off you. (Simon"Ghost"Riley!FemReader)

Old Bones (45.4k) ⋙ MASTERLIST

➳ After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does. (BodyguardGhost!FemReader)

MINI-SERIES

Torn ⋙ MASTERLIST

➳ You're Philip Graves' secret lover, and it's complicated, to say the least. When your new 141 ally, Simon Riley, catches your eye, you're forced to make a decision. (PhilipGraves/Ghost!FemReader)

DRABBLES

Bad Dreams | Pt.2

➳ When you suffer a nightmare that then turns into a panic attack, Ghost comforts you. (SimonRiley!GNReader)

Sparring | Pt.2 (18+)

➳ During a sparring session with Ghost, you end up on top of him, and he struggles to hide his amusement. (SimonRiley!FemReader)

In Your Arms

➳ You feel swallowed by depression, but Simon saves you just in time. (SimonRiley!GNReader)

Manhandling (18+)

➳ Ghost manhandles you. (SimonRiley!FemReader)

What You Paid For (18+)

➳ Simon had no shame indulging in escorts, especially ones who make an effort to flirt with him. Only problem? You're not an escort. (SimonRiley!FemReader)

Too Old For You | Part Two

➳ You've been crushing on him for a while now, even going as far as taking a stab for him. But it isn't enough for him to notice you; you're too young, too nice for someone like him. (SimonRiley!FemReader)

Poise

➳ Simon Riley was a complicated man, to say the least. His past, his trauma, combined into a fear of it rubbing off on you. You assure him it hasn't. (SimonRiley!GNReader)

First-Time With Simon (18+) | Part Two (18+) | Part Three (18+)

➳ Taking your relationship to the next level with Simon, but without regrets or haste. (SimonRiley!GNReader)

Neighbor!Simon

➳ Self-explanatory title.

Safe-Word (18+)

➳ You use the safe word for the first time. (SimonRiley!GNReader)

A Helping Hand (18+)

➳ You help Simon get off. (SimonRiley!Asexual!FemReader)

Need (18+)

➳ Simon needs you, no matter what. (SimonRiley!AFAB)

The Lieutenant's In Love

➳ When the 141 find out Simon isn't single. (SimonRiley!GNReader)

Simon, The Service Dom (18+)

➳ Self-explanatory title. (SimonRiley!GNReader)

Scar Insecurity (18+)

➳ Some spicy comfort. (SimonRiley!FemReader)

Making Simon Laugh

➳ Self-explanatory title. (SimonRiley!GNReader)

Cuddling w/ Simon

➳ Self-explanatory title. (SimonRiley!GNReader)

Right Person, Right Time

➳ Confessions & comfort. (SimonRiley!GNReader)

Do You Remember?

➳ Estranged best friends turned co-workers. (SimonRiley!FemReader)

The Terrible, Awful Thing

HEADCANONS

Plus-Sized S/O

NSFW Twitter Vid (18+) // Headcanons

ALPHABETS/MISC.

Hurt/Comfort Alphabet

NSFW Alphabet

Things That Make His Heart Flutter (ASK GAME)

#mw2 #mw2 fanfic #simon riley #ghost mw2 #task force 141 #simon riley x reader #simon riley smut #simon riley masterlist

947 notes · View notes

phramboise · 2 months

Text

— collector:: simon“ghost”rileyxfemale!reader

Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you? Find nourishment in the very sight of you? You think so. But would you see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?

tags and warnings: 18+, therapist!reader, patient!riley, mentions of names of psychiatric drugs, disorders, self-destructive behaviours and many other labels that are in the nature of therapy, talk of trauma, persuasion, sexual fantasies, kissing; drugging, kidnapping, nudism, Stockholm syndrome, self-pleasuring (f), vaginal fingering, female receiving oral, semi-public sex, vague ending. More like your obsessive situationship kidnapping you. italics are therapy entries, scribbled notes of the therapist written in her POV; the rest is in third POV. In no way this is praising or normalising any behaviour written -read at your own risk, drugging and kidnapping are not consensual.

wordcount: 3k

;;

When Mr. Riley first crossed your gaze, it wasn't amid your session. Across the road, he stood, and there was no mistaking the man. Here near the thicket, scarcely a few people wear long sleeves on summer fierce, and even fewer have masks on. Until you stop making a mental prognosis even for a person who is not your client and come back from your tea break -or until the end of your shift if you don’t notice- he lingers around, waits at the bus stop, though not seeming to wait for a bus for countless have come and gone, in the hours long.

Another man is what you see, he might be any passerby on the street, and perhaps he is. Mr. Riley embodies one of those afflictions, less unique than he imagines, of those pathologies you've encountered before. When you extend your hand to greet him in your office, he offers no response, nor does he ask of you to address him more sincere. Mr. Riley he remains. He's one who knows himself, aware of his inner discord, though its depths remain veiled. From afar, his black eyes turn warm summer, amber in the sunlit pane, his presence yields little beyond the his file's mundane strain. He avoids talking of his past, and names elude the characters as he tells little pieces of his life. No period of self-destructive history, no suicide attempts. No addiction on gambling, alcohol. No signs of wrist cutting, nor drug injections -seems you misinterpreted his clothing choices. Many hospitalisations, all classified military field papers, one particular on teenage period, one he speaks not about.

Mr. Riley's visits to the office seem to transcend the usual reasons of any other patient, not for seeking counsel or solace; they harbour an enigma you can't quite decode. He adamantly requests your final session on Friday evenings, as if bound by some unseen rhythm of his own. There's no poignant trauma he didn't untangle of himself, no platitude of life's hardships to impart upon him. He has already navigated life's currents, seemingly with ease. There's no sign that he needs a therapist to grasp the stark realities, to know life's not to see through rose-tinted veil.

He is a patient who possesses a profound understanding of himself, sparing you the tire of the week's closing session. There's no need for medical interventions, no requirements for Risperidone, Prozac, or Paxil, nor any hint of sedatives to dull his senses. At times, his answers are so astute that the roles between therapist and client seem to blur. In the dynamic of your therapeutic alliance, there is no predetermined mould, because Mr. Riley doesn't adopt them.

Not a traditional pathology, Mr. Riley is one where not the patient being ready for the therapy, but the therapy being not ready for the patient, one who needs of you to be creative and bold to unravel himself. Of no technique, no book nor rule. So, you suggest roleplay -no voice recorders, not a notepad to write down occasionally. Less practical and even less theoretical. You even offer to do it on the skirt of the small lake behind the office as not to create social desirability. -Not that he bothers of it.

He accepts.

Now, neither of you are what your roles are defined to be, you are no therapist, nor he is a client. He’s not a diagnosis, a test to report, a scale. Not an alienation, not a compulsive or antisocial disorder. Only Mr. Riley.

When you ask him about his first memory he recalls, you realise you must play the maternal figure in this intricate play. When you settle on the bench overlooking the pond, he approaches from behind, enfolding your shoulders before walking to your front, resting his head to your lap. He does not know much about gods; but he thinks that the water is a way of semblance, his soul’s double winks off the reflection, whispers in your voice as you offer solace. “Sometimes” you begin, stroking gently the blond locks that nestle on your lap, “one must mourn to heal.”

He rises on his knees, clinging to your body as you caress his neck, crying to your chest as your cloth is now pulled down with the weight of him resting on you. …Like a baby, his resistance just melts away.

Mr. Riley requests that from now on the therapies take place in the backyard of the building, and since this change of nature contributes to the therapeutic alliance more than the office setting did, and now that he is sure of you enough to remove his mask, and since now when he looks at you he sees you, you acquiesce.

Mr. Riley is touch deprived, he has not yet spoke about his father, but he revealed in our role play therapies that his mother passed when he was only a child - his deprivation leads to a relentless need for contact, that is, after he started to trust me. He shook my hand today, and came with only a mask that covers half his face, which he later took off also. I feel for much further developments with Mr. Riley, which is heartening.

He's by your step as you step around the garden, his presence a silent echo of your every move. His arm wraps around your shoulder as you sit next to one another on the bench. With each sensual step, he surrenders morsels of his shadow, weaving them into your shared space. And when he bids the invitation to walk hand in hand along the water's edge, you accept. Not a drug-treatable depression, rather, it's a serenity born from the tumult of excess violence and the rusty imprints of roads taken, reflected in his eyes. A familiarity in his demeanour, a wash of embrace as if he unravels yourself to you.

Mr. Riley abandons the sessions for a while, it takes a lot of strength to pretend to other clients that you are interested in their problems. When you start to wait in your office on Fridays, even though your last session is available, an empty slot, and when you do this for weeks on end, you realise that this bond is a two-way street, nothing professional. For him, you are a person who will listen, for you-

Someone to listen.

;;

When he does return, the birds are flying south. You find yourself consumed by a gnawing unease of thinking that his routine apathy is back again. Once more, -you prayed so- he seats you into the sanctuary of the bench amidst the garden, yet his eyes no longer linger upon yours with their former intensity. When he pushes you into the water with the strength of one arm, you freeze for a moment, and when he pulls you back in before you soak in the reedy river, he catches you unaware and kisses you harder than you dreamt possible.

One thing you cannot deny, is how his demanding yet sensual kiss is turning you on, leaving not one bit of your responsibility, your authority as the therapist as his hand moves over your legs, circling beneath the curve of your hips. Dipping his hand between your warm thighs, you let his firm touch venture between, supple skin heating cold fingers. His other hand gropes a fistful of your slinking skirt, and you wrap his scent around your loins as he falls to his knees again before the bench. Before you.

Never in all your career you thought you’d be getting into this, to abuse someone who is to solace in the first place, even the thought of it appalled you. Now the thought tightens his fingers on your hips, his tongue rubs idly against your clit in unrushed fashion, he slowly feasts you out.

Mr. Riley will no longer attend our therapy sessions – I said to him that our sessions are not helping him, gave him another therapist’s card, hopefully his condition will move for the better. My efforts were useless I’m afraid.

It’s what you wrote down the day after, but you don’t recall him agreeing.

;;

Three Fridays it takes when he suddenly reappears, he intercepts you locking the door of your office. Adorned with the very mask he tells you he came back to get the other one from you, he’s clad beneath a hoodie, zipper drawn all the way to conceal more than just his torso, hood over his head. You’re not sure what to answer, in a vague indecision, with the haunting realisation that his condition remains as unchanged as ever. Perhaps you should have heeded the warning signs, reconsidered the nature of your occupation, and resisted the temptation to immerse yourself so deeply in his plight— perhaps you shouldn’t have given of yourself to something that won’t heal for the better.

He's your shadow down the corridor, a silent loom trailing behind you as you make your way back to your office. You let out the breath you've been holding as you pick up the pace and create a few steps of distance until you reach your door. Yet, even within the confines of your own space, his presence looms large, casting a pall of uncertainty over your every thought.

In your room, he follows, his silence heavy in the air. As you retrieve his mask from the drawer, he catches your wrist as you turn.

One word leaves your mouth, he’s on you again. Pressing your back against your desk, one hand winding tight around your arm as the other tips your chin up for you to meet his height as he looms over you. The caress of his lips draw tingling heat to your cheek, your lips, your neck. You feel his body against yours deeply as he clines closer, hand on your jaw tight as he tries his way in with his tongue, both hands cupping your head to his, leaving nowhere to lean but him.

His mouth feeds something inside yours, a smooth little dragée that leaves a ragged earthy taste each second you refuse to swallow down, his mouth is on yours to keep it on your tongue, raw liquorice and a sickly sweet taste in your pharynx, your nose tightens in its taste as you try to pry away with a doleful cry — he only pulls away as he feels it down your throat with his thumb, the other wipes the tear on your cheek as he pushes his forehead against yours, cooing it’s okay as you shudder in trepidation.

You leave the room, try to cough it out your mouth.

A hit behind your neck is enough to knock you out.

;;

The sound of spinning tires piercing a howling like a restless banshee against the asphalt wakes you, worn leather feels eerie against your back as you sink into its contours, laid sprawled on the backseat in a short slip gown you don’t own yourself that pools around your hip as the car you’re in hurtles towards the undying disquiet. Cool leather surrounds you, as if offering a hug from the owner on the driver’s seat. The sight outside is a blurred panorama of shifting shadows of a transient night and neon lights racing by in dragging lines before your surly hand moves to feel the ache nestled behind your nape. His gaze grazes your body through the rearview mirror. Deliberately slow is his hand resting over the open window as he drops the stub of his cigarette down, he pulls his mask down before dividing the cold night air mixing with the smoke through the misty window. You don’t know where this road leads, where he’s taking you. Of what he forced into your mouth or when he wore this negligee on you.

Gentle engine lulls you, to some elusive and ephemeral warmth, starts below your stomach, sprouts where you fear it. You were right when you thought, neither of you are what your roles are defined to be. Now he’s to lead, and you’re to follow this fleeting respite of surreal blend. Something in your blood that gets you warm, or it’s the adrenaline of this unknown place. Only Mr. Riley and you. You’re scared, you’re intoxicated. You enjoy it.

You turn your head to his side, wind blows your hair, trails over, snakes through your legs as your hands move to pull the skirt down to cover your hips, holding the satin tight between your thighs. Your own skirt is gone. So are your sheer tights, so is your underwear – he must’ve taken them off before he carried you in his car.

The sultry heat pulsates between your thighs, a yawning chasm that stirs an ache inside. Though, there’s no trace of wetness that already paints your groin, only the searing fire deep within. Your insides burn but you don't feel any strain anywhere except the pain in your neck. You still smell like your own perfume, untouched, without an intrusion of cigarette smoke on his fingertips or the weight of his hands grabbing your skin. Not a single mark marrs your flesh, not even the faintest imprint that dry, rough fingertips as they graze on supple skin. He seems to only changed you in silk, a whisper-soft fabric that clung to you, only piece that’s shielding you from the cool grace of the air. As your fingers brush over the tender swell of your breasts, a shiver dances down your spine. The satin wrapped fabric weaves you into a life that is not meant to hurt, and with each breath, a soft moan threatens its way out your parted lips, a melody of surrender to the lethargy that he trapped you in. You now have a few ideas about the pill he gave you.

Leather smells varnish, aroma intertwining with the haze of his cigarette smoke that hangs in the air. His masculine presence stands as a silent challenge to your frailty. With a delicate touch, you place your hands on your kneecaps, the tip of your tongue running over your teeth as your knuckles leave the skirt of your dress, not holding it over yourself anymore. He must’ve done the same, you imagine his fingers tracing a similar path, grazing against your inner thighs as he lowers your panties, taking them off. Grounded by a thick, scorched, labdanum base, a dark and brooding charred wood and burnt sap, floods through you as the air carries his cologne to you, your nose picks up whatever it is that gets your body wanting more, you caress yourself.

Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you? Find nourishment in the very sight of you? You think so. But would you see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?

You wish you fingers were to be rougher, thicker and that your fingertips would smell of tobacco. Of something grainy and rugged instead of this slipping silk between your legs for you to rub against. Did he made you sit on his leg as he clad you in this dress that leaves none to imagination, had he rubbed you against his trousers as he put you down?

Your breathing gets heavier, he changes the hand that steers the wheel, now the car decelerates to keep it in control, now slow enough, a person on a sidewalk would have a flash of image if they were to be as the car glides by- you know you’d do this even if there were no tinted films on the windows- you search for his gaze over the rear mirror, laden with unspoken want. You clench around nothing, mutter words of no meaning, but he knows. You whine deeper breaths, and they soon turn to lilting whimpers.

You think about him feeding you the pill with his tongue - does he feel as you do right now? You wriggle your hips, let a moan to get yourself going, his eyelids flutter close before yours do slowly. He’s watching you; did he watch you when he stripped you naked? How long was he watching you? Your heart races with the writhing pulse between your legs as you rub your arm along your nipple, your hand moves to your core, brushing against your clit as you move your fingers against your lips, the breeze of the interior now seeping on the slick you play with your fingertips. The car sways a little out the road as you cry out a louder whimper, pebbles rolling under the tires, vibrating the seats, adding you on.

Some part of you wants him to pull the car to the side, come to join you, grab you by the ankle and yank you out the car, do whatever he wants to you against the asphalt. Some part likes this piercing gaze through the reflection, of him biting the insides of his cheek as he groans lowly and shifts himself on his seat. From the little frame of the mirror, his free hand is out your sight, but you hear it. Hear his belt loosening as the metal hits the strap. You hum as you increase the pressure, circling your much thinner finger around your hole before sliding in, clenching around them as you slide the latter finger.

If he were to tell you to call him by his name before, you’d moan it. Now, all that leaves your mouth is loud and lewd sounds as the saliva clicks against your tongue, synching slow with the in-and-out of your motion, trying to reach your g-spot with the tips of your fingers.

This won’t last long, are you sure if this is what you want?

Open your eyes, where are you going? Did you even ask? Pill wears off slow in time, fear stings beneath arousal’s guise, your slick skin sticks to your hair, to the now warm and wet cushion under you. Everyone seems to be asleep but you two, as he takes you into the unknowns of the lovers. Your fingers demand release, rubbing and rubbing hastened than your breath, ill imagery fills goosebumps on its way down to your spine, in texture of his icy fingers. Your teeth sentinels at your lips, hard against skin, against the impulse to speak his name— a bare boundary to still not cross on your book. Maybe you could’ve stopped it if you wanted, but you’re not the one driving. Truest valour lies not in defiance, but in surrender. So you do, let it all out.

It's a hushed stillness of something trembling under, the radio scratches before it turns a sepia-tone song spilling cadence, a gentle sway as you massage and pull your soaked legs to your chest, laying on your side as the road keeps hurling forward to an endless terrain.

#cod simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #cod ghost #cod mwii #call of duty #cod x reader #summary off Hannibal #now that I have this out it’s time for another looooooooooongv time again

197 notes · View notes

callofdudes · 6 months

Text

Don't go there.

Summary: When you and your friends take a summer trip out to the woods you are unaware of just what you've disturbed from it's slumber deep inside.

Cw: Serial Killer Simon, gore, blood, wounds, angst, death, childhood trauma. Mention of dissociation, abuse. Dark themes, animal death, Simon has a bit of a psychotic obsession over you in the end.

Word count: 6.8K+

A/N: Please don't let this flop, I spent way too much time staying up and writing this. So I do apologize for my dry-eye editing mistakes. I didn't want to super edit it all but I worked so hard on this. I was tempted to make the end kinky, but he just really, really likes chasing. Italics means a flashback/something in the past.

"How much longer until we get there??" You asked, looking out the window of the car, seeing the long road of trees. Stretching out for miles deep into the unknown where shadows lingered.

"Shouldn't be much longer." Your friend, Adam replied, checking the gas level in the truck.

You had stopped at a gas station nearly an hour ago. You had been going down this road for almost half an hour with nothing to see for miles.

Two of your other friends sat in the back, distracted by their boredom. You look in the rearview mirror, seeing them making out.

Crystal and Peter couldn't get off each other for five minutes... You had to be in the car with them. Why couldn't you have been with the others following in the car behind you?

You sigh softly in exhaustion, fixing your headphones again.

You all had taken up the opportunity for a summer job out at a camp for the extra money. Having just gotten out of school, you were looking for somewhere to start fresh, away from your parents' clings. And this felt right.

"Hey, looks like we've got something," Adam points out.

You look up, clicking off your phone to see the road split off. An old sign at the crossroads directs you down another road.

"That's the camp's name." You sit up, your whole body feeling relief that you are almost there.

"Thank goodness."

You looked at the backseat, leaning over to gently hit Peter. "Hey, stop it, there are others in the car you two."

"Sorry y/n."

Hah, you knew they weren't. At least you'd be at the camp soon...

🩸🔪💀🔪🩸

You arrived at the camp, pulling up on the road to the large cabins just across from a lake spanning out into the thick forest grove.

You got out, stretching your limbs. Hands high above your head, yawning and working your legs.

"Finally."

You grabbed your bags from the car, meeting up with your other two friends Phillip and Stacy, pulling up in the car behind you.

"Geez, I'd have to make that trip every summer." Phillip fixed his hat, slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder.

"Well, hopefully, the drive back won't be as painful." You playfully glared at Peter and Crystal, taking your bags up the walk to the cabin lodge.

The warm late afternoon sun came through the trees, the breeze blowing softly across the open land. Seeing some of the other campers and counsellors wandering about.

The main office was where you met up with the head counsellor. He smiled upon seeing you. "Y/n, glad you made it."

"Thanks, it was quite the trip."

"Well, we're glad to have you here. Sign your name, and we'll get you all the keys to your cabins."

You nod, write down your name on the paper, and then take the cabin key from him, "Thanks!"

He nods, setting up your friends as well.

Taking your bags, you head down to your cabin. You walk through the main grounds, across the road and over to the thick backwooded area. You paused, looking out into the woods.

The trees were growing and darkening as you looked in, hiding the other side from what lay there.

You shook it off, heading to the cabin and unlocking it. You were sharing your room with Adam, two beds set up and a window at the back of the cabin wall as well.

"Not bad..." You muttered.

As you and Adam start to unpack, you couldn't help but feel a little excited about spending the summer here. The camp was beautiful, with its lake and surrounded by lush forest. It was going to be the perfect escape from the stress of school and family drama.

As you were unpacking, you noticed that Adam had left the cabin without saying anything. You shrugged, thinking he had gone to explore as well.

After organizing your clothes and items in the drawers, you grab your sunglasses and head out to explore the camp. The sun was setting, casting a beautiful golden hue on the entire area. You walked towards the lake, admiring the serene beauty of the water.

As you sit on the dock, dipping your feet in the water, you feel off. Feeling that weird sense that someone was watching you.

You looked out across the lake, attempting to spot anyone, but the forest looked all the same. You were startled a little when you heard footsteps approaching. You look up to see Adam walking towards you, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Hey there," he says, sitting beside you on the dock. "Enjoying the view?"

You roll your eyes but can't help but laugh at his antics. "Yeah, it's beautiful."

"Well, I was talking with some others and we're setting up dinner for everyone, then it's swimsuit time~"

You scoffed, shoving him away. "We're to relax, not stick our pieces in random places."

"Oh, say you," He grinned, but you just shrugged him off.

"Meet you at the cabin then?"

You hummed in agreement, and Adam left you alone to join some of the others. You looked back out at the lake, sighing before getting up and following after him.

As you walk back towards the main grounds, you can't shake off the feeling of being watched. The shadows of the trees seemed to elongate and twist, as though they were reaching out to grab you. You shivered, feeling as though you were being watched by something lurking in the forest.

But you shook it off, reassuring yourself that it was just your imagination running wild in unfamiliar territory. You arrive at the campfire just as dinner is being served, the smell of grilled meat and vegetables making your mouth water. You grab a plate and sit down next to Philip, who was chatting animatedly with one of the other counsellors.

You laughed at the funny stories and jokes that were shared, feeling yourself relaxed for the first time in a long while.

But as the night wore on, the atmosphere changed. You noticed the people around you becoming louder, more intoxicated. The crude jokes turned into innuendos and the flirting became more aggressive.

Your typical night with a bunch of people barely older than the drinking age and taking it to their advantage to flirt with any young mind like themselves.

After dinner, you all head back to your cabins to change into your swimsuits. You grab your towel and head towards the lake, joining the others who are already swimming and playing around in the water. You dip your toes into the cool water and shiver slightly, but soon adjust to the temperature and join in the fun.

As you were swimming around, you suddenly felt someone grab your waist from behind. You gasp and turn around to see Adam, grinning cheekily at you. "Gotcha."

You continued to splash around in the water as the sunset. Across the dock, dark eyes stared into the stirring waters. Watching from behind the darkness of the tree line Peter and Crystal made out against one of the firm dock legs. Others laugh and touch too closely to not be called flirtatious.

Their laughter stung his ears. The sounds of shrill joy twisting his stomach in a way that made him angry. One more year where he'd have to do all the dirty work. Where these kids would have to learn.

He'd hear their screams and see the looks of horror on their faces. That's what he wanted.

He moved back into the shadows, slinking down the old house of a family doomed from the start...

🩸🔪💀🔪🩸

"Simon! Get your ass down here right now you little shit!!"

"Hang on." The young boy looked in the mirror, whining as he fiddled with his belt, desperately pulling it and looping it back through. Shaky hands working hard when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

His father angrily pushed through the bathroom door, grabbing his wrist. "I said get over here. You're going to make us late again and I don't want your excuses."

Simon wriggled, whining again as he was pulled down the stairs.

His older brother sat with his bags on the couch, chuckling. "Hah, look who got caught with his pants down again." He smirked.

"Shut up Tommy!" Simon retorted, his father yanking him forward and slapping him across the face.

"He's right. Now you shut your mouth."

Simon looked over at his mother who remained quiet as the boys' father led them to the door, getting them into the car.

"If I hear any shit from your counsellors' I'm going to be through with you. You understand me!?"

Simon looked out the window, watching the trees blur by in a mess of green as they drove. He saw his brother look over at him and smirk.

"Don't be a pussy, Simon. You're going to love it."

Simon shook his head and looked away, thinking about all the wonderful things he could be doing if his brother was the one going away to camp.

Simon couldn't help but feel the knot of worry in his stomach. He wasn't looking forward to the summer camp, but his father threatened him with more than was needed to scare the young guy.

"Simon. Simon! What the fuck are you whining about?" His brother punched his arm, and Simon looked over at him.

"Nothing."

"Don't try to lie to me. I can hear it in your fucking voice."

"I'm just nervous is all."

"Yeah, about that..." Tommy laughed, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a small tin. "I got you something to take the edge off."

Simon looked at him, eyes wide. "What the fuck is that?" He asked, Tommy, grinning and popping open the lid, a snake popping out and making Simon jump.

"Tommy, stop!!"

Tommy laughed, tucking the fake snake away.

🩸🔪💀🔪🩸

The stairs of the old house creaked. He took it to the bathroom where the mirror took in his frame, eyes showing out from behind the skull mask he wore. Something he'd taken on after his brother's death.

He bent down, opening the sink drawer doors and grabbing his set of knives and his hatchet. Tracing his gloved fingers over the sharp edge, a twist of evil excitement stirred inside him.

Another year of spilling blood. All for himself.

You were back at your cabin at the end of the night, slipping into a sweater as the chill of the summer air set through the interior.

"What's up, y/n?" Adam asked as he noticed you staring out the window for the hundredth time.

"I don't know, I just have this weird feeling like we're being watched." You turn from the window to face him.

Adam let out a chuckle. "Don't tell me you believe in all those ghost stories they tell around the campfire?"

"No, it's not that. It's just a feeling. Nothing more." You tried to brush it off, but you were unconvinced.

"Yeah, but it can be fun to believe you know? Peace of mind." He offered his hand, and you took it.

Adam pulled you outside, and the two of you walked to the cabins beside yours.

"Do you believe in ghosts or spirits?" You asked, feeling a little braver around him.

"Not really. I've seen some crazy shit and it's hard to believe there's more out there. But why not? I'll believe anything if it's from you."

"You're uncontrollable."

"I know." He grinned but then stopped in his tracks. "Wait, hold up. What was that?"

You stop, cocking your head to the side to listen. "I don't hear anything."

"Shh. Listen."

You sit there for a tense moment, scanning the dark tree line, fists clenching in your pockets.

You listened closer, and what you heard was a heavy thumping from one of the cabins. You both seemed to exhale softly upon realizing it wasn't anything to be scared of.

"Whatever, I'm going to the bathroom." You kept walking, heading down the path to the bathrooms. Heading inside and flicking on the small light, locking the door.

Adam smirked, hearing you as you left down the path. He's been trying to get into your pants for months. And yet you brushed him off every time. He partly hoped that this time around, the summer camp and the alcohol will loosen you, literally.

He waits around for you to be done, looking out down toward the dock and the cool waters. Hearing footsteps behind him, he chuckled. "That was quick." He turned, facing someone who definitely wasn't you.

His eyes widened, looking up at the imposing figure.

The mask bore holes into his skin, the darkness hiding the grotesque glint in his eyes.

"Woah man, easy." Adam backed up, but it did little to save him as the large man's hand clasped tightly around his throat, his hatchet slashing into his abdomen.

He had to die first.

Adam's eyes went wide. He attempted to scream, heels digging into the dirt as the blade retracted from his stomach and he was dragged across the open grounds. Blood splattered from the torn skin and clothes onto the rocks and dirt. Dragged back into the woods, trying to scream or scramble for anything to help him.

"Help!" His words were mumbled and barely made it out as he was dragged back into the darkness behind the cabins. Thrust into a tree, the knife sinking back into his flesh. Adam choked, blood spilling from his mouth as the knife carved up through him. Blood splattered into the dirt and leaves.

His eyes stared upward; his face twisted in fright as the man began to brutal him with the knife. The blade tore into his flesh, slicing open as the man took his time to toy with the young man.

Adam's struggles weakened by the minute. Until the knife dug into his throat, and life escaped his body.

He dropped Adam, flicking the blood from his knife and tucked it back into his vest.

The man turned back to the cabin, the sound of footsteps approaching.

Adam was left slumped on the ground, blood oozing from his wounds.

The man slipped back behind the cabin, his hand grasping the hilt of his knife as he listened intently for your return.

You were coming out of the bathrooms, heading back to your cabin when you noticed Adam wasn't around. "Adam?" You looked around, watching the darkness. When you heard nothing, you shrugged. He probably just headed back to the cabin then. So, with that you headed back, but when you returned, still no Adam.

"Alright then."

You left the cabin door unlocked, just in case he'd take a while to get back. Setting up your bed and crawling in, flicking out your lamp. You lay in the darkness, snuggling into the bed and closing your eyes.

You listened to the sounds of the cricket outside and the occasional small rustle of a critter along the wilderness edge. Your breathing slows, exhaling softly as you feel yourself slipping away into sleep.

Footsteps crunch against the pebbled ground. You aren't entirely sure how long you've been asleep when you feel your eyelids fluttering open again. Not moving when you hear the heavy footfalls coming up the side of the cabin. They come around the front of the cabin, stopping at the door.

Silence.

"Adam?" You finally whisper, shifting a little in your bed, squinting into the darkness.

Still silent.

You sat up slowly, looking out the window to see if the coast was clear. You couldn't see anything. You listened for a few moments more, and when you still didn't hear anything, you laid back down.

You watched the door, your heart picking up in pace slightly. The door handle of the cabin finally twists. Your heart leaps as the door opens with an ominous creak.

The steps follow into the cabin, and in the moonlight, you can clearly see that the figure is not Adam.

Your heart spasms in your chest. Your body goes into freeze mode. You try to keep your breathing low in the darkness. The figure shifts its weight slightly, and you feel a pair of eyes on you. Whatever or whoever it was said nothing.

Boots moving across the cabin floor. You close your eyes, feeling fear overtake you when the person reaches your bedside. The glint of the moonlight revealed the sharp hatchet, yet your eyes were closed. Unaware of just what danger you were in.

The figure leans over, warm breath fanning from the mask, leaning down near your cheek, the blade caressing over the skin of your shoulder. You can't stop your whimper, feeling another hot puff of air against your skin, the tip of the blade digging into your shoulder.

You flinch, gasping. The figure stops, the blade drawing away from your skin. Your eyes finally open, wide with fear.

The figure is looming over you, and you can't make out their features in the dark, but the knife glints in the moonlight.

"Please." You whimpered. "I won't tell anyone, I promise."

"Shhh..." The figure shushed, bringing the knife down slowly, trailing the cold metal across your exposed stomach.

Your bottom lip quivers, shying away, whimpering. "Please- Please I won't-" Your voice dies out with another small whimper as he toys with you. Your body is a nervous wreck.

The blade drags across your skin, slowly sinking into your flesh. Your body throbbing in pain, your eyes so wide that they sting.

You try to look down to see the blade, but the figure moves away, and your eyes follow the figure. You see the glint of the moonlight upon the blade as it comes into view. Your body is trembling violently, your skin stained with a light coating of sweat.

You're going to die. You're fully prepared for whatever is happening to end you.

"Oh, Crystal, come on!" You hear Peter's voice in the darkness. The thick silence pierced like shards of glass. Their breathing pauses, blade stilling against your skin.

"No! I told you not to look!" Crystal hollered back. You could hear her coming closer, walking down toward the docks probably.

The figure leans away from you. You feel your heart throbbing inside your chest. The blade leaves your skin, boots heavily walking back across the floorboards. You remain there, hearing the stride stop, eyes back on you. Then the door creaks shut, and the steps are moving away.

You exhale shakily, opening your eyes, half expecting him to still be there.

You thought he was going to kill you. And then it hit you. Crystal... He must have been going after one of them. You were about to rush out of bed on adrenaline, but the fear immediately had you lying back down. You couldn't move, pulling your blankets back up.

🩸🔪💀🔪🩸

It was morning when you got up, finding Adam not at the cabin. You were surprised. You thought he'd come back eventually, but it seems he'd disappeared. You tried to clear your head. Getting dressed and stepping outside to brush your teeth. You looked around, trying to see any signs of what had happened last night. But it seemed all was still. You spat into the dirt, shrugging on your camp sweater and headed over to the main cabin.

There you saw everyone, Peter sitting alone and looking a little bummed out. "Hey." You walked over, getting his attention. "Hey... sleep ok?"

"Yeah, you? Heard a scuffle last night."

Peter sighed, looking into his half-full cup of iced tea. "Found some old photos in a bag she brought with her... Her and her ex."

You cringed a little, but nodded, hearing him out.

"She stormed off and didn't come back last night."

"She did seem the type to be dramatic." You shrugged but gave him a side hug. "Look, it'll be alright. I'm sure she'll come back, and you can sort this out."

Breakfast was passed around and you slowly got to thinking about Crystal. She had no ride back unless she were to take Adam's car or Phil's truck... And where was Adam? Oh well... She was probably off brooding about how she would have to come back and apologize. She was always a tad dramatic for your type.

But the day shifted on, afternoon setting and you all headed to get changed into your swimsuits.

Grabbing your towel you headed outside to meet up with Phil who was chatting up one of the other male counsellors. He had that sly look in his eyes. You patted his arm, motioning him to go get it somewhere else and you headed for the dock.

Some others were already talking and breaking out the kayaks to take on the lake.

You once again sat down, dipping your toes into the water. You looked down into the water, noticing it seemed slightly darker than you remember. Playing it off to be the sunlight and you continued to gently swish your toes through.

One of the girls waved off as she pushed her kayak out into the lake. Rowing out a small bit enough that she comfortably floated along. Until her paddle hit something in the water, rippling up the lake.

You raised an eyebrow, looking down, noticing a chain tied to the leg of the dock. That hadn't been there the other day. The girl seemed to come to the same conclusion, pulling on the chain, something scraping along the bottom floor of the lake bed.

She grunted, pulling a little harder, one of the guys swimming out to steady the kayak.

You all watched as she pulled the chain up, struggling with it until finally. She screamed. You were startled, immediately pulling your feet out of the water. The girl dropped the chain and started desperately attempting to get out of the water and out of the kayak. There wasn't any mistaking her blonde hair, Crystal's body tied by the neck around the chain, her body gutted and hollowed so she'd sink.

You were horrified. Everyone was horrified. Peter and Phillip grab the chain and tug it, dragging her back to shore. They pulled her body onto the dock, seeing her lifeless eyes. The chain digging into her throat, stomach and chest completely hollowed out, her rib cage sticking up like fangs from her peeling, mutilated skin.

You backed up, hitting Phillip's arms. Covering your mouth as you saw what it was. Someone had murdered Crystal. And he was in your cabin last night. You hadn't imagined it.

Someone was hunting you...

"What do we do??" Phillip asked.

"We call the police!" Stacy cried.

"No! They'll shut us down. We'll be responsible."

"What if he comes after the rest of us?"

Your heart pounded a million miles an hour. What were you going to do!?

Some of the boys simply pushed her body back into the water. Vouching that they should just keep a lookout for anything that comes up. They wanted to make the rescue that it was probably just animals. Yeah, because animals were the ones to skillfully skin the organs and carve out around the sharp bone of her ribcage.

But no one could convince them otherwise, so you let it go. It still terrifies you, keeping an eye out as you walk the grounds. Every noise around you sounds like aggression.

🩸🔪💀🔪🩸

Dark eyes watched from the cabin door as Crystal stalked across the camp. Muttering angrily to herself, pulling her shirt fully on, and heading for the docks to get some fresh air. He watched her head down, footsteps following after her once she was far enough away.

The twisted sense of hunting prey filled his mind. Smelling the blood before it was spilt and the delicious scream he'd tear from her lungs.

She sat on the dock, huddled against the small sloshes of the lake against the dock legs. Staring out into the starry night. Footfalls make her brow wrinkle. "Peter, I told you to leave me alone."

He stared down at her, his hatchet glinting in the light, hand tightening on the blade in anticipation. He could almost get off to it. Grabbing her by the throat, hearing her gasp and choke, feet scraping against the wood of the dock. She tried to scream, grabbing his forearm, and looking up at him.

He stared down at her, eyes glimmering with excitement as he watched her thrash. A predator toying with its prey. She squirmed desperately, attempting to kick or bite her way out. Her nails dug into his forearm, drawing a light trickle of blood from his skin.

He frowned, gripping the hatchet and piercing it up through her back, the blade squelching through organs and blood, spilling across the dock and flicking into the cool water.

Her face was frozen in an endless scream, bloodletting out across the wood, falling limp after a moment.

He dropped her body, walked back up the dock and grabbed one of the boat chains from the grass. Unthreading it from the post, he came back over. He tied the chain around her throat, making sure it stayed.

The blade tore into her stomach and gutted her before picking up her organless body and throwing her into the lake. Blood seeps into the water like a bleeding-out animal. Like she'd just been mauled by a shark and was left as scraps.

Seeing blood flood and bubble along her flesh as she sank down to the bottom, the current moving her slightly, throat tugging on the chain that kept her secure to the dock.

He flicked out his blade, looking down at his forearm, wiping the blood from the scratches away. And he left silently.

🩸🔪💀🔪🩸

Simon stood at the edge of the tree line. His brother sneered from the porch, watching him investigate the noise that had rustled the bushes. He stood there, looking down at the small fox, blood splattered across the leaves, stomach torn open, caught in the barbed wire fence of the property and ultimately caught by whatever it had been running from.

Simon reached out to touch it but quickly pulled away and backed up. He walked back over to the porch, nose scrunching when he smelled the putrid smell of cigarette smoke from his brother.

"Go tell Dad, he'll want someone to pick the guts out of the fence." He sneers.

Simon kept his head down, heading inside where his father was muttering away angrily about his mother again, another bottle in his hand. Drinking it back while he went on and on over the phone.

Simon hesitantly went over to him, standing there patiently and waiting. His father noticed him and frowned angrily. "What do you want, boy!?"

Simon gulped, finding his voice. "There's a fox in the fence..."

"Is it dead?"

Simon nodded. "It's dead."

His father huffed, chugging back more alcohol. "Get the tools and go clean it then. You know what to do."

Simon felt his stomach twist painfully, digging under the sink in the kitchen to grab the gloves and cleaner, heading back outside onto the porch.

As he worked to remove the fox from the fence, Simon couldn't help but think about how much death he had been exposed to lately.

He finished cleaning the fence, but his mind was elsewhere.

As he buries the fox gently, Simon can't help but feel the weight of the world on his shoulders. He knows that there are cruel people out there who are capable of senseless violence, and it makes him angry. He wants to do something, to make a difference, but he doesn't know how.

As he walked back towards the house, he heard his father's voice. "You know, Simon, you can't be a sissy your whole life. You gotta learn to face things head-on. That's what real men do."

Simon felt his blood boil with anger. His father had no idea what he had gone through, the trauma he had endured. And yet, he was still expected to be a "man". He was only twelve by that point.

🩸🔪💀🔪🩸

You sat around the fire with a blanket over your shoulders. The warm afternoon was rather quiet as you all attempted to get over what you'd seen earlier. Why the hell were you sitting here instead of calling the cops? Someone was murdered and you just had to be stuck with the people worried about the camp's reputation.

The boys continued to work, trying to forget about the corpse in the lake and the ramifications that would come with it. The girls all sat in the cabin, trying to distract the younger campers from the grim day.

Phillips came over, handing you a flask of scotch. "Drink this. It'll help."

You took it from him, looking away. "Why'd she have to die?"

"I don't know."

"Where's Peter?"

"He's outside, making s'mores with the other kids."

You nodded, taking a sip of the liquor. It warmed you up and you sighed in relief.

Phillips sat down beside you, looking like his mind was miles away. "You seen that prick, Adam?"

You shake your head. "Nope. Disappeared last night hasn't come back." Saying it out loud really solidifies it for you and Phil. Looking at each other, simultaneously coming to one conclusion.

He was probably dead too...

"We need to get the fuck out of here. We can take his car, leave and go get help."

You agreed, nodding your head. "Yeah, yeah. We should leave now."

Phil wasn't gonna fight it. He may like to do his own thing but the idea of getting killed wasn't on his MO. Not this pretty boy face, no, no.

So, you packed back up, Phil convincing Stacy to go back with you. With your bags, you loaded into Phil's truck. Some of the counsellors seemed a little upset at the idea of you leaving so early. Or going to the cops at all.

But you weren't going to sit there and wait to be next.

Within another hour or so you were all packed up and getting in the truck. Phil pulled you out of the road, clicking his tongue as he turned the truck around.

You stared out the window, looking at the trees and the stretch of empty road as if they were watching back. Mocking you, laughing.

It was silent for a large portion of the drive, your foot tapping along the car.

"What of the others?" Stacy asked from the backseat. "Their fault for being stupid. Although that one counsellor was pretty cute..."

You remain quiet, watching the road as you drive. Tires picking up down the road. You looked down at your phone, distracting yourself with one of your games, Phil eventually filling the silence with the sound of the radio.

The thick tension in the air was palpable through the drive.

There was a thunk under the truck. You looked up, eyes widening as Phil brought the truck to a stop.

"What was that?" You looked out the side mirror but couldn't see anything.

"It's probably some dumb rocks." Phil takes off his seatbelt and opens the door. "Phil-" You reached out for him, and he shrugged it off. "I'm just gonna check it."

He left the door open, heading back around the truck, seeing something lying in the road. A clump of fur stuck on the tread of his tire, a fox in the road.

Phil approached it, looking around. "Geez... talk about dumb." He mutters, spitting into the dirt and scuffing his shoe. Looked like there wasn't any damage done to his truck though. That's what mattered.

He bent down to look at the fox again, hearing footsteps. Just as he looked up the sharp glint of a blade glared into his eyes. His heart lurched, backing up as the blade retracted, swinging again.

Phil gasped, continuing to dodge and trying to move, the large skull-masked figure intending to strike good with the hatchet.

You heard the scrape and thunk when the blade hit the side of the truck, seeing the large figure.

"Phil!" You cried, Stacy getting out of the car before you could stop her.

Your eyes widened, seeing the figure. He dwarfed both Stacy and Phil.

How did he get out here!?

The figure turns towards Stacy, raising the hatchet. She screams, but before he can strike, Phil tackles the figure from behind, knocking him down onto the ground.

You quickly get out of the car, running towards them. "Phil, are you okay?!"

"I'm alright, but we need to get out of here!" Phil grabs your arm, pulling you back to the truck.

The figure stands up, body looming in the dim light. You get a good look at him now. He was wearing a skull mask, with the rest of his face hidden in shadow. He was wearing a black jacket with a hood, and black gloves. You couldn't see anything else.

He starts coming towards you, but Phil quickly gets back into the truck, starting its engine. You all drive away quickly, leaving the figure behind.

You're breathing heavily, heart pounding as you look out the back window. The figure is standing in the same spot, watching as you drive away.

"We're getting the police..." You whisper, unable to take your eyes off the man as he gets smaller in the mirror.

"Agreed," Phil says, continuing down the open road.

Ghost lifts his mask, putting a lit cigarette between his scarred lips, exhaling smoke out into the open road. Turning back toward the camp. He'd gone too far anyway, back to his stomping grounds.

He takes another drag of smoke, dropping the cigarette and shoving his heel into it.

🩸🔪💀🔪🩸

Tommy smeared the dirt with his shoe, exhaling the last of the smoke from his lungs, spitting into the freshly shuffled dirt.

Simon watched him, holding the shotgun his father had shoved in his arms. "Tommy-"

"Shut it. You'll scare 'em off." He looks around, scanning the forest grounds, into the darker parts of the trees and across the bushes.

"They always run back to where they think they're safe." Tommy picks up a rock and throws it at the lake. Birds stir in the water, flicking and scattering, some rushing back toward the trees.

Simon gulps, raising the shotgun, and aiming upward at one of the birds. He shot, missing the thing by a mile.

Tommy scoffs, shaking his head. "You're not gonna hit anything like that, kid."

Simon lowers the gun, feeling embarrassed. He had never shot a gun before, let alone at a moving target. "Sorry, I-I didn't mean to-"

Simon can feel his cheeks flushing. He hates it when Tommy treats him like a little kid. But he knows better than to argue. Tommy's been doing this for years, and Simon's only been brought into this recently.

"What are we even doing out here?" Simon asks, shifting the gun in his hands.

Tommy turns to him, squinting in the sunlight. "We're hunting, Simon. Hunting for something that's been bothering the camp for too damn long."

🩸🔪💀🔪🩸

A couple days later you and the others returned. It was only you and Phil this time, along with a couple officers and a K9 unit. You'd been nervous about returning for the entire time up until finally going back.

Getting there you open the door, looking around. The camp was quiet, the trees still, bushes bristling as the breeze flowed steadily.

Some officers looked around, the K9 sniffing along the ground as you headed into the camp.

It was completely dead. Abandoned beer cans, a filled pool, and Kayaks still down at the beach unchained.

You latched onto Phil nervously as you followed the officers. Searching everywhere. The main office was empty, and cabins were abandoned. You gulped, the officers scratching their heads, but you knew it was too late. He had gotten to them.

"And what did you say he looked like again?"

"Tall- over six feet, skull mask, wore all black?"

The officer nodded, looking around. The K9's ears perked up, staring into the bushes. Barking into the darkness.

Your insides tensed up, watching the officer with the K9 move forward, others readying their guns in case.

You were shaking and your knees felt weak. the officer moved the K9 forward, waving it further in.

The K9 stopped, barking as it tugged on its leash. The officer stepped forward, pointing his gun into the woods.

The noise quieted, and the dog calmed down. The officer sighed, walking back over. "It's a deer. Want us to keep searching?"

You look around, sighing. "No, nobody's here. Nobody was here."

"Alright, well, we're going to be here for a while still. You can head back to town, we'll keep searching." The officer shrugged. You pocketed your hands, heading back to the car with Phil.

You get into the passenger seat; Phil leans forward and turns on the radio. You look in the rearview mirror and your body freezes. You look back, going cold in horror, a silent scream building in your throat. The hatchet reached up between the seats, grabbing Phil and choking him.

You attempt to tear the man off but he's too strong, blood slashing through Phil's throat as he angrily fights.

You finally manage to scream, getting the door open quickly getting out of the truck, your heart hammering in your chest. The figure turned towards you, his mask hiding any emotion he may have felt. You couldn't make out any details in the darkness, but you could tell that he was tall, muscular, and had a menacing aura about him.

Your feet carry you, thudding across the ground, the back door of the car opening and heavier footsteps following.

You try to call for help, bloody glove wrapping around your mouth, pulling you back, back pressed to the strong chest of a bloody killer.

You wanted to thrash but thought better, remaining still. His hand tightened over your mouth, leaning in so his warm breath fanned over your face. You whimpered, feeling weak, shaking as the edge of his weapon grazed your stomach. Tracing up your sternum, across your chest. Edge of the blade nipping your clothes.

You breathe in heavily through your nose, hands clasping on his forearm, wriggling around.

He enjoyed it. Seeing the pure fear in your eyes, watching you struggle and shake.

Your eyes water, looking into the bushes, knowing the officers were just right there...

He leaned closer to you, whispering into your ear, "Now, now." He was right up against your ear, breath hot and damp.

You try to kick him in the knee, but he's too strong. He grabs your leg, squeezing, bruising as he pulls it up, causing you to fall to your knees.

He moans in your ear, lips pulling into a smirk against the shell of your ear.

You gag, struggling, hearing the heavy thunk of his hatchet against the ground.

His hands were big enough to cover your face. One wrapped around your throat, the other on your mouth, thumb and fingers digging into the meat of your cheeks, squeezing.

Your hands scrambled against his arm, nails digging into his flesh as you desperately tried to claw him away.

There's barking and a sharp whine of the K9. You struggle, attempting to wriggle away as you hear the officers yelling. There's another loud bark, claws digging into the ground, the man letting you go.

You don't have a moment to think longer, taking off down the old road. The canine returns to Simon's side, a tussle of fur in her mouth, and he gives her the signal to wait. He smirks under the mask, watching you run as fast as you can. His stomach twisted in excitement. He couldn't wait to watch your blood spill…

He wants to watch the anguish before the pain. He wants to see your insides. Do they look as good as you do? He swings the blade wiping some of the blood off, running it along the white truck stopped along the road.

Tears fill your eyes, your heart pounding. Your legs shake as you run with everything you have in you. He could have just killed you, but you couldn’t give up. You had to get out. You had to run. You had to survive. This twisted game of cat and mouse, feeling the cats claws ready to sink into your tail and drag you back for a meal.

For now, you were prey, and he was predator.

(Please do let me know what you thought if you read this. I worked hard and haven't a true slasher fic before. I tried my best and want to give you guys more of this.)

401 notes · View notes

peachesofteal · 11 months

Text

Alone / Chapter 3

Part of the Sassy series. Chapter 3/3.

Simon Riley/female reader 9.1k words - AO3 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Praise kink. Size difference/kink. Blood and violence. PTSD. Trauma. Panic attacks, night terrors, catatonia, relationship issues, emotional hurt/comfort. Medical stuff. Angst. Mentions of having a uterus/children. Soft dad Simon Riley. Simon is a great dad, that's all. Soap is a good uncle. John Price. Simon is living in a nightmare.

If you’re living in a nightmare, then Simon is living in hell.

It plagues his every waking second, invades his consciousness when he’s finally able to get to sleep, envelopes his reality at work, at home, everywhere. Anywhere. The sun has permanently set and there is only darkness now, only the bad, only the evil left, his existence devoid of your golden rays, his life bereft of your warmth on his face.

It is easy to feel like a ghost. On the days he doesn't have Theo, or he's not on an op, he struggles to keep himself functioning, struggles to make sense of his day to day. The violence helps, when he's with the 141, the familiar feeling of executing, of hunting grounding him in a reality that doesn't seem so far fetched, doesn't seem so outlandish. When he's home, Soap helps by calling and texting incessantly, and Price consistently drops by, inviting him for dinner or asking him to look something over. Everyone makes an effort, to make sure he's not forgotten, to make sure he knows they care.

This hell, this nightmare, feels oddly similar to being buried alive. It feels comparable to being trapped beneath the ground, dying, slowly, the air around him casually evaporating with every breath he dares to draw. It feels like when the earth tried to pulled him back under, when the clay tried to trap itself inside his lungs, clogging the passages of his alveoli, dirt mixing with blood mixing with saliva, caking itself in his throat and into his very conscious.

It only feels different, feels less like hell and more like his old life, when he’s with Theo.

Sometimes, he pretends that it is still his old life. That he’s just out with Theo at the park, and when they get home, you’re going to be there. Or, he and Theo are out for “guy’s night”, as you used to call it, at the restaurant down the street, and you’re out somewhere else with Price’s wife, for a monthly happy hour that will undoubtedly bleed into dinner, and end with the two of you on the couch watching some god awful tv show until Price comes to collect her. He pretends when he’s grocery shopping that he’s checking off your list, each section sequenced to reflect the supermarket’s organization, something you always did to help make it easier for him, to get him in and out as quickly as possible, because you knew how he felt about large places with lots of bodies and too many obstacles. He pretends that the house that he rented is actually his home, pretends it the house down the street, the one that you live in, the one that you two of you bought together. He pretends that the bed is empty because you’re just working late again, up with tired eyes in front of your laptop, your brain computing and processing lines upon lines of numbers and formulas of things he doesn’t understand.

All of these things, they happened before.

Before you were plucked from a springtime walk, Theo left crying in the pram on a sidewalk while you were injected with something that rendered you unconscious until you woke in a concrete room halfway across the world.

Before the phone call. Before the video.

Before the rescue. Before the massacre. Before he snapped. Before his rage, the path of bodies left in his wake, before Soap had to pull him off a corpse that he had pummeled to death. Before he cut off the hands of every single person who had touched you. Before the sound of the men begging for their lives lived in his head, before the intensive, four times a week therapy sessions that had to last hours long just to get him back to baseline. Just to get him back to a point where he could take care of Theo, take care of you.

Before the hospital and the damage from the infection and the complications from the injury to your lung.

Before the catatonia and the night terrors and the panic attacks that left you confused and alone inside your own head.

Before the rot invaded his home. Before its sticky, tentacled ropes of poison spread across the walls. Before it cast its sickly shadow across your face.

Before, when you still called yourself his wife. When still wore your ring. When you still told him you loved him.

Before he failed.

Before you left him.

Before.

“I hate them.” Your sullen voice crackles through the phone, muffled and distorted. It’s the best reception he’s gotten in eight days, and you still sound like you’re a million miles away and underwater at the same time. He swallows the disappointment.

“They can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, they’re bad, Si. They’re all helicopter moms. Prissy and obnoxious. One of them won’t even let their kid use the slide because she’s scared about some kind of toxic lining on it. I don’t know. Why did you bring your kid to a playgroup if they’re not allowed to play?” You huff, and he’s glad you’re not on a video call right now, because he’s smiling, his eyes are closed and he’s imagining you pacing in the kitchen, waving something around in your hand for added effect, tops of your thighs peeking out from under the hem of a too big t shirt. He knows if you caught him grinning when you’re all cross, there’d be hell to pay.

“Is Theo havin’ fun?”

“Eh. Yeah. He’s bigger than all the other ones his age so he kind of gets to do what he wants.” He chuckles at that, foolish pride blooming across his cheeks, and he can practically hear you rolling your eyes through the phone. “Still struggling with the concept of sharing.” You add, and he nods to himself. It's not a surprise to either of you, and sharing has been a work in progress at home.

“He’d learn how to share a lot faster if he had a sibling.” He offers, and you laugh on the other end before abruptly going silent, like you’re holding onto to a secret. “Sass?”

“I did it.” You breathe.

“You did what?”

“I did, what we discussed. Last month, just before you left. I went to the doctor and… she took it out.” He sits straight up, boots scuffing along the dirty safehouse floor.

“You got your IUD out?” His bones rattle in his body, eyes wide while he waits for you to confirm it.

“Yeah, Si. I… I’m ready. I want to start trying when you get home.”

“Are you sure? I thought you said-“

“I am. And I know… what I said. But I talked to my doctor, and she helped lessen some of my anxiety about it. I had an ultrasound to look at my uterus and she thinks the chances are good. I… feel good about it.” He pads the silicone ring with his thumb while he takes long, deep breaths to steady himself. “So, I guess, you better hurry and get home so we can start trying because it takes two, ya know?” You laugh again, but he hears the wet sound in the back of your throat, the thick, syrupy sound of your tears, and his heart clenches in his chest.

“I-“

The timer on his watch goes off. It’s loud enough that you can hear it, and you sigh.

“Gotta cut the line?” you volunteer, and he grunts out a yes even though he wants to stay on it for hours more, telling you how much he loves you, how excited he is, how he can’t wait to give you another baby. “Be safe, okay?”

“Always. I love you. I’ll see you real soon.”

“I love you too.” He presses the end call button and tucks the phone away in his pocket, leaning his head against the wood paneling of the door. Another baby, you wanted to have another baby.

He’s still grinning like a complete fool when he comes down the stairs to where Johnny and Kyle are hunched over a tiny aluminum table, shoving some sort of MRE down their throats. When Gaz spots him, his brow furrows, and he half hollers with a mouth full of food to Johnny.

“What’s got ‘im in such a good mood?”

The hallways in the medical office building are beige, a shade lighter than the darker beige carpet, which complements the brown chairs of the waiting room. It used the bother him, the blandness, but now he supposes he’s grateful for it. It’s less distracting. Less obtrusive. It lets him think, which is exactly what he’s doing, thinking, about you, about Theo, when he pulls the big walnut colored door open and spots you curled in on yourself in a waiting room chair.

He’s surprised to see you here before him. He’s surprised you even showed up if he’s being honest. He knows how you feel about therapy in general, and with the way the last couple’s session went, he’s shocked you’re willing to give it another go.

It burns just the smallest amount of joy in his gut.

Don’t. Don’t get your hopes up.

“Hi.” You croak.

“Hey, Sass.” Your face is guarded as you nod up at him, everything in your expression haunted and hesitant, the emptiness he knows you’re carrying around inside of you spilling out through your features as plain as day. He can’t stand it. “Sleep okay? Have a good late-night chat with Soap?” He probes and you scowl back at him, fire sparking behind your eyes while he fights the urge to smile. There’s my girl. He doesn’t mean to goad you, doesn’t want to anger or upset you, but he’ll take what he can get.

Besides, he already knows you must have in fact, slept better than usual, because you didn’t call Johnny. And he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night to the half a ring-hang up that you’ve started doing in these past few weeks, something that’s developed since the day the two of you watched Moana with Theo, and you fell asleep next to him on the couch after your panic attack. The day that felt like a dream, when Theo asked to go for a walk to the playground, and you shyly asked if he wanted to come along. The day that he’s been replaying over and over in his mind, the day that felt like progress, that felt like something more than this nightmare he’s been living inside.

He’s about to ask how Theo was for you this morning when the office door opens, and Dr. C is smiling at the two of you from the other side.

“Hi guys, come on in. I just need to grab a tea.” He motions for you to go first, and you falter in your steps before you’re brushing past him, your fingertips grazing the hand that lays lax at his side.

This time, he doesn’t hide his smile.

“How is she?” His pacing comes to an abrupt halt when his therapist, Dr. C comes out through the door, a tablet in her hand, lines of her face nearly impossible to read. She motions to a set of chairs, the uncomfortable ones that line the hall, and then takes a seat opposite of him.

“The staff psychologist here wants to release her to an assisted living facility until she shows improvement.”

“No.”

“Mr. Riley, I-“

“No. She can’t go to one of those places. She can’t.”

“They have places that specialize in care for cases like your wife. It’s not like sending her to a nursing home.”

“I don’t care. She needs to come home, with us. Theo needs her. I need her. Once… once she gets home, she’ll do better.” Dr. C sighs.

“She’s catatonic, Simon. She’ll need her PICC line for nutrition and medications, another IV for fluids. She’ll need someone to bathe her, turn her, do her wound care, things you’re not prepared to do.”

“The fuck ‘m not.” He doesn’t know how to do an IV, sure. But he can do everything else. And he knows he can hire a nurse or someone to do the other things, the medications, the tubes, the wound cleanings. “I’m not sending her away.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“It’s not happening. She’s coming home. With me.”

“Johnny took Theo to the park today. Bug tripped comin’ off the slide and nearly cut his chin open. He’s okay, just a deep scratch but it scared him. Johnny said he cried for you the whole way home.” He strokes the pad of his thumb across your cheek, watching your eyes for movement from where they stare, straight ahead, out the master bedroom window. You’re curled on your side, knees tucked up to protect your abdomen, hands clenched under the mountain of pillows.

It's been so, so long since he’s heard your voice. So long since he’s seen you smile, or laugh, or even engaged in a single word that’s being spoken to you.

He feels like he’s losing you. Like you’re slipping away from him, drowning right in front of him.

It feels like Theo is losing his mom.

It feels like he’s losing his mind.

Sometimes, he wants to scream at you. Wants to grip you by your jaw and turn your face towards his and force a reaction from you. Wants to pull the tube that’s feeding you free from your chest and force you to eat on your own. Wants to beg and plead and cry at your feet, wants to shake you until you have no choice but to tell him to stop.

Dr C. has told him again and again that it will take time. That you’re healing, your mind and your body is processing an unfathomable trauma, and that what’s happening to you, this catatonia, is the way your brain is helping protect itself.

So, he tries to remember you, like before. He clings to his memories. The videos on his phone. The live photos that feel like stolen snippets from someone else’s life. He carries it all with him, every day. He shows you the photo and videos on a slideshow every night in hopes something will bright light to your lifeless eyes. He rubs your back and holds your hand, tries to comb through your hair as gently as he can, waters the plant that sits on the windowsill. He does Theo's bedtime routine in here now, reads his stories aloud to the two of you, Theo always curled up against him while you lay unmoving beside him. He reads from the stack of books that you have sitting next to your side of the bed, the collection of them that you were working through before you were taken. He massages ointment into your scars, press the pads of his thumbs into the arch of your feet like he did when you were pregnant, lays awake beside you and speaks aimlessly about nothing. He presses his lips gently to your cheek, your forehead, your mouth. Anything, everything he can do to try to bring you back.

Nothing works. The bed feels like a grave. The house feels like a mausoleum. The only life left inside of either of you is your son.

He sits there next to you until he hears the front door, the sound of Johnny bringing Theo back after their adventure out for takeaway forcing him to pull your blanket up under your chin, tucking you in gently until he’s satisfied it’s to your liking.

“I’ll be back up, after dinner, okay? I’ll bring Theo in to say goodnight.”

“So, how have things been?” Simon likes Dr C, a revelation that he’s grown comfortable with in the past year or so. She is easy to talk to. She does not flinch away from the gruesome details of either of your lives. It helps that she specializes in PTSD and war related trauma therapy as well, of course, but she offers him warmth, and understanding in his sessions. He feels comfortable with her. He feels so comfortable with her, that when you were in desperate need of help, he thought of her first. He feels comfortable knowing that you’re seeing her for therapy and that you’re receiving the same kind of care and patience that he has. He knows Dr C is good at her job, and it brings him comfort, in a strange way, to know that someone who has helped him, is helping you, and the two of you now, together.

“Mrs. Riley?” she tries to encourage you, and you meet her with a half hearted nod and a shrug.

“Okay, I guess.” She looks at him next, the same question bouncing around the room.

“We spent some time together, three weeks ago. Watched a bit of a movie with Theo, and then we all took a walk. Went to the park, even.” Your hands flex and tighten where they sit in your lap, shoulders high and tight.

“That’s great, I’m sure Theo was very excited. How do you feel it went?” He stays quiet, giving you time to talk if you decide that’s what you want. You don’t, and it doesn’t surprise him. Start slow. Nice and easy.

“It went better than the last time we uh, tried a family activity.” He provides when you stay tight lipped, and you immediately cringe, guilt snapping across his skin. Could’ve phrased that better. He wants to grab your hand, stroke his thumb across your knuckles and press his lips to your pulse point all while telling you it wasn’t your fault. Wants to tell you he loves you, that nothing that has happened, has been your fault, even though he knows your own mind is eating you alive with the idea. He can see it all now, the stuff in your head. The awful, hellish landscape that has become your mind. He wants to take it away. Wishes he could scoop it out of your brain, pull away every piece of dark and infectious rot that plagues you, separate it from your nervous system like he's a surgeon. He can't. He's tried.

Dr C. allows the room to fall silent for a moment, as is her custom, before moving on. She does it for you, more than anyone. Gives you time to prepare, to switch gears. It also gives you an opportunity to speak, if you choose to.

You don’t, usually.

“We’re at the six-month mark this week.” His heart stops in his chest. No. “We did agree, that after six months, we would evaluate where we are and potentially discuss how you’re both feeling about the separation. Do you think that’s something you might be open to exploring, Mrs. Riley?” He watches your throat bob with a swallow, your gaze shifting from its absent state to something hopeless, something worried.

“It’s not the right time.” He rushes out to ease whatever it is that’s causing you turmoil. The therapist nods at him, acknowledging his words, but keeps her eyes on you.

“Mrs. Riley?” He holds his breath while you look down at your lap, eyes searching for something on your skin, some kind of an answer he hopes you won’t find. The room is dead silent while you slowly lift your neck, head turning so your eyes find his. Just like a hundred times before.

Your voice is soft, angelic when you finally speak.

“Yes. I would open to talking about it.”

The scream is hard to distinguish. In the dark, it could just be a part of his ever-present nightmares, just another piece of his mind twisting his memories and his reality together to form a special kind of hell. It’s hard to tell at three in the morning, but he’s sure he’s awake in his own bed, your body twisting and turning beside him, terror pouring from your lips while you sweat against the sheets. His pulse thunders in his ears, the broken cries coming from you echoing throughout the room and stopping his heart.

He rolls onto you immediately, trapping your kicking legs beneath his, a hand coming up to cradle your face and tapping your cheekbone with the pad of his index finger, a gentler way of trying to pull you out, a method that has had varied success in the past.

“Come on, sweet girl. Wake up for me.” Your mouth presses into the pillow and you scream, your body shaking in his hold, face wet with tears. “Shhh. It’s alright. You’re alright, you’re safe.” You’re terrified, and he can’t soothe you, can’t wake you to bring you into reality, the desperation he feels compounding when your wet cheek presses into his palm. You thrash, arms swinging, and he tries to hold you steady while your voice crests with a sob that shifts in a shriek next to his ear. “Sass! Please. I’m here, I’m right here.” His voice breaks, raspy and raw, but nothing reaches you, nothing matters. You’re not here, you’re still there. In that room with the concrete floor that’s stained with your blood. Your hand moves again, this time making contact and digging into his face, his flesh parting beneath the fine edge of your nails, blood pooling underneath them when he pushes your arm away, pinning it down by your side while you cry. He’s helpless, trapped in this hell alongside of you, drowning beneath the current of your nightmare while you free fall through your terror, unconscious and unable to be woken. He can’t even feel the sting of his cheek, can’t feel the small wounds that are leaking blood down his skin, none of it registers. All he can do is hold you, talk to you as calmly as he can while you sob, your voice eventually falling into soft whimpers as you slowly settle.

“Daddy?” Theo’s little voice calls from the door, where he’s standing wide eyed and terrified and Simon curses while you shiver in his arms.

“It’s okay, bug. Go back to your bed.” Theo shakes his head no, unable to look away. He looks so scared and Simon’s heart shatters inside his chest, something he thought wasn’t even possible anymore.

“Mum?” Theo cries, face scrunched up, hands clutching his blanket to his chest. Your cries are muffled now, and although you’re still shaking, he can’t leave Theo in the doorway, watching you like this.

Simon pulls the blankets back up over your body, tucking you in as tightly as he can manage and then scoops Theo up, carrying him down the hall while he shushes him, running his fingers through his hair while he cries.

“Shhh. She’s alright, Mum’s alright. She’s just havin’ a bad dream. Just like we do sometimes, yeah?” Simon coos while Theo sniffles, his face resting on Simon’s shoulder, blanket tucked between their bodies. “C’mere, let’s lay down.” He lays Theo on his kid’s sized bed, curling his own body around him, most of Simon’s legs hanging off the end. Theo holds onto to him so tight that it feels like he’s trying to burrow himself in Simon’s body, to hide there from his own fears and nightmares, and he rubs his back soothingly until Theo is blissfully asleep, safe in the arms of his dad.

He clips your nails short the next morning. You stare out the window and say nothing.

There’s a lot of noise in Simon’s head.

He can see your mouth moving, can see Dr. C’s mouth moving, but he can hardly hear either of you, your voices drowned out by the white noise-static sound that’s cutting through his brain, slicing down into his flesh, past his sternum to where his heart beats slowly.

“I don’t want a divorce.” The words ricochet between his ears, and he feels like he’s been doused with cold water, the shock of your words startling him from his stupor as he blinks stupidly at you. You don’t want a divorce. Joy, pure, unaltered, endless joy fills him until he’s nearly smiling, his cautionary behavior going out the window with your admission. You don’t want a divorce. Your voice is heavy with the weight of everything you’re feeling, and it feels sick to feel how he does right now when there are tears spilling over your waterline and down your face. “B-but I don’t know if I can be… how we were. I don’t know if I know how. Or… if I deserve…” you trail off, and he closes his eyes against the sinking feeling in his stomach. You don’t say anything else after that, lip tucked between your teeth, brow creased like you’re concentrating. The therapist says your name, twice, to try to bring you back, and then when you finally make eye contact, she continues on.

“Do you see a path, in your mind? A path forward, for your marriage?”

“I do-don’t know… I don’t know what it would look like.” Dr C. let’s the room go quiet again, and he’s surprised when you lift your gaze to his once more, your eyes seeking something in his. He’s not sure what it is, doesn’t know what to give you in this moment, which is a foreign concept, considering he used to be able to anticipate your moods and moves, your decisions and your ideas. The two of you used to know each other like the back of your hands and now… sometimes it feels like he’s in love with a stranger.

“I have an idea.” Dr C. says and you straight a little, looking at her with a somewhat grim expression. “Have you considered going on a date?”

“A date?” you blurt, and he tenses.

“Without Theo. Just the two of you, somewhere you both feel comfortable. Leave your expectations at home and take the time to talk to one another, one on one. Reconnect.” You’re going to say no. There’s no way you’ll go for this. You gnaw on your lip for a minute while your fingers play idly in your lap. He braces himself for the rejection, for you to say it’s too much, too soon, that you’re not ready, you can’t do it. All of these things, he would not blame you for.

All of these things, make him grateful he doesn’t have Theo tonight, and that he’s got a fresh bottle of bourbon on his kitchen table.

“Okay, well. I guess we can call Price and see if they want to babysit?” He turns to look at you, dumbfounded, mouth slack with shock while you give him the most nervous, the most hesitant smile. It blinds him, momentarily confusing him, like it’s a trick. Like it’s all wrong, and you’re going to change your mind, or something else is going to happen and derail this. It’s also, all right. You, smiling at him, looking like you actually might want to… spend time with him, see him without it having to be the usual Theo pass off. Like you might still want this, want him.

Dr C. clears her throat expectantly, and he stumbles to get his words out, to catch up.

“Yeah, Sass. Let’s… set it up.”

“Mum better?” Theo’s little fingers fold over his board book, eager smile on his face as he tips his head back to squint at Simon. He’s heard you, in the bedroom earlier, arguing with the nurse that comes every morning. It was quite a surprise for her when she got here, to see you sitting up in bed, eyes blinking and brow furrowed, Simon helping you rotate your wrists that have grown stiff and sore. “Pa’cakes fa Mum?” Simon smiles. Sweet lad.

“Yes, we can make Mum pancakes. She can’t really eat a lot but I’m sure she’d love to have breakfast with you.” He rubs his chest absentmindedly, stroking over a particular raised bump of skin, a scar from an op years ago. You had been running your fingers over it, this morning when he woke up, shocked to feel you turned into him, tucked up against his chest, your hand tracing light touches over his skin. Your voice had been rough, scratchy from lack of use, and you complained that every muscle in your neck and back ached, along with you joints.

He said you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

You told him you loved him.

And then Theo woke up.

It’s a messy process, making pancakes with his son. Theo likes to do everything himself, including pouring the milk and cracking the eggs into the bowl. You usually handle it with such grace, such patience, giving Theo the time he needs to explore the mechanisms of it, feel out what interests him and explain every step to him. Simon tries to embody that part of you, he does, but it’s not as easy as you make it look. Especially when Theo cracks three eggs on the floor.

“Uh oh!” he yells, and Simon closes his eyes, breathing through his nose until his chest is thoroughly expanded. He wants to be upstairs, with you. Wants more than the two hours he got at dawn before Theo woke up and then nurse came over, wants to hurry it up so they both can be up there, sitting with you, him and Theo. “Sorry, Daddy.” Theo’s sad voice brings him back to the now, and he snaps his eyes open to see his disappointed little face, eyes worried as he looks at the batter bowl.

“It’s alright, bug. Accidents happen. Let’s try again, yeah?”

Forty minutes later, Simon’s finally got a stack of pancakes on a plate, him and Theo sitting on the bed next to you, and a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s cutting them one by one into little pieces, and then handing you the fork so you can help Theo.

“Don’ need ‘elp mum!” Theo exclaims, wrapping a paw around your fingers and pushing the fork into his mouth, chewing with a smile. You laugh and lean over to kiss his head.

“Where did my baby go? I swear just last week you were saying your first word.” It’s meant to be sweet, to be a throw back to when Theo was actually a baby, but it settles like lead in the bottom of Simon’s stomach, and when he glances up at you, you’re wearing a faraway look, thinking about something he cannot name.

Five days after the joint therapy session, Simon is standing in your living room trying not to feel completely dumbfounded. Or terrified. Or elated.

Or anything. He’s trying not to feel anything at all, because if he does, then it will mean something, it will matter, and it will possess the ability to ruin him. If he lets himself feel it, the hope, the happiness, it will make it all that much worse at the end, when this doesn’t work. When it’s too much for you.

He had even called you later that night, after the session, to make sure that this was something you actually wanted to do, that you hadn’t felt pressured into it by being in a room with him and the therapist. When you had doubled down, he hid his surprise as best he could, and reassured you that he also wanted to go when you asked him in a small, hesitant voice if he thought maybe, it wasn’t such a good idea.

“Can I have a kiss?” you ask Theo as you bend down, the curve of your ass displayed in the black cocktail dress you chose to wear. The dress, that had him gaping like a fish when you came down the stairs, the dress that highlighted the ins and outs of your body that he used to be so bloody familiar with. Theo wraps his arms around your neck as tight as he can, little face happy and excited with the prospect of spending all night with Price and his wife, who will assuredly allow him to eat all the cotton candy flavored ice cream he wants and put him to bed late. They’re taking him to theirs, something they’ve done in the past (albeit for far less joyous reasons) which works better for everyone. That way, they can sleep in their own bed instead of your guest bed or his couch, and Theo doesn’t have to be woken in the middle of the night to be carried home.

Price’s wife ruffles Theo’s hair as you hand her his little backpack. Simon pretends not to notice the way John tracks her movements, the way he catalogues everything she does with Theo. He pretends not to the see the brief flicker of something across his face, the flicker of wanting that shadows his blue eyes before they clear again. It’s not Simon’s place, to know these things. To notice them.

Instead, Simon bends to scoop Theo into his arms, giving him a big hug and breathing in the smell of his baby shampoo before placing back on his feet gently, his little boy grinning up at him with a face full of love that twists his heart sharply.

“Thanks again.” You smile at her, and she nods while John takes the backpack, and she takes Theo’s hand in hers. “You know the drill.” You shrug and she laughs softly before agreeing.

“We do! We’re going to have a lot of fun, huh Theo?” Theo nods excitedly and you manage to give him another kiss on the cheek before straightening.

“Alright, well. One of us will grab him, in the morning. I’ll text you.” You’re looking at her funny, something different in your eyes, something he’s not sure how to interpret. It’s odd, but it passes in a blink, and then she pulls you into her arms, whispering something in your ear that he cannot hear. You answer her softly, a quieted hum of words, before stepping away and giving the final nod to Price.

“Alright, honey. You two ready?” John’s hand presses to the small of her back, a reassuring and guiding touch, and then they’re all out the door, Theo holding both of their hands while they make the trek two blocks away to their own house. You watch them until they’ve faded from sight, and then turn around with your hands on your hips, a nervous expression that probably mirrors his, on your face. The hardwood beneath his feet feels like fucking sand.

“Well… should we?”

“You don’t get it! You’re not listening to me!”

“There is no one in your life, on this planet, who understands the way you’re feeling more than I do.” He tries to explain it, tries to reason with you. Tries to make you see that he gets it, that he knows how it feels. You won’t listen, you don’t budge. You only take a step backwards, hand outstretched against his chest as a warning.

“No you don’t! You didn’t die, Simon. You came back.”

“So did you.”

“No, I didn’t. I… I was fucked up before and you know it. Whatever was left was taken. I didn’t fight hard enough. I didn’t survive. It wasn’t enough.” Your voice is high, reedy, and a warning bell goes off in the back of his mind, the memory of your panic attack from last week fresh in his memory. You still have the stitches in your hand from the bathroom mirror glass, and he winces when you make a fist and thump it against your thigh.

“Hey, hey. It's okay. You’re getting-“

“Stop!” you cry out. The haunted expression on your face looks all wrong, and he knows you’re sinking farther and farther into your own head, going somewhere he cannot reach you. “You fought and won, you survived. I was too weak. I c-couldn’t… I tried. But I failed.” You let out a gut-wrenching sob, arms wrapped tight around yourself. “I wanted to die! I gave up. You had to fucking save me, Simon.”

“Sass-“ He tries to reach for you, tries to pull you into his arms, into his body where he can protect you, but you jerk away.

“Don’t touch me. I can’t… I don’t know what to do.” Your eyes are glassy, chest heaving while you struggle to breathe, fingers dug into your own scalp for dear life. “I don’t… I can’t do this.” You’re gasping now, trembling, eyes wide and panicked, and he steps closer, brushing his fingers along your forearm back and forth until you’re softening to him, slumping forward into his chest.

“It’s alright. You’re safe. You’re here, Theo’s here, I’m here. You’re not alone. There’s nothing to fear.” He says it over and over into your hair, lips just above your ear while he eases you to the floor, your fingers tight in his shirt, tears wetting the fabric. “I’ve got you.” He soothes, and your body folds up into his easily, his arm going around your back to hold you firm while he rocks the two of you in the dark of the bedroom until your gasping breaths turn to quiet sobs, and you fall asleep against his chest.

He takes you to the Italian restaurant. It’s the one he took you to after the two of you bought the house, when you first moved over here. It’s dark, and secluded, and only has two entrances/exits, both of which he can see from the table in the back. Most people consider the candlelit, barely lit atmosphere romantic, and it is, but for the two of you, it serves a different purpose. It allows you to relax. It allows him to remove his mask.

Tonight, it allows you to feel comfortable in a dress that clearly displays more skin than he’s seen you show in eight months. The darkness swallows your scars, drifts around you in an inky black cloud, envelopes your shoulders like a blanket. The candlelight flickers across your face, and he watches you sip your wine, putting the glass down and picking it back up again and again, before either of you have even ordered dinner.

“You look beautiful.” He offers it gently, tentatively, unsure of where to start, where to take this. A gift has been dumped in his lap, a priceless, perfect, beautiful gift and now he doesn’t know what to do with it. His heart wants to rip the band-aid off, tear the wrapping paper free, uncaring if he makes a mess or crinkles the paper, but his mind knows better. His mind knows he has to take it crease by crease, ribbon by ribbon, ensuring each fold unfurls correctly, ensuring each edge comes easily.

“Thank you… you look pretty good yourself.” Your lips curl into a little half smile over the rim of your glass and he can’t help but return it, indulgently sinking into every word you say, every glance you give him. He feels intoxicated, drunk on you, flying high from the way you’re looking at him, like you still know him, like you still love him.

“So.” You play with the fork on the table, turning it from back to front repeatedly and he beats back the urge to reach for your hand and still you, to try to calm your nerves. It's me, Sass. It's just me. I'm right here.

“So.” He parrots back, and your fingers wave in the air like you’re trying to conjure something. A safe topic of conversation maybe, or another glass of wine, since yours is now nearly empty. The candle sputters and then steadies, illuminating the expression of worry that’s etched into your face, and it spurs him forward, pushes him into momentum until he’s laying his forearm across the table, palm up, waiting, hoping.

He holds his breath.

You stare at him without saying a word for a long time, the restaurant and its patrons moving around you, the world continuing to turn while his oxygen depletes, and he holds himself as still as a statue. You stare, and you stare until-

Your hand lands in his, perfectly curled along the inside of his fingers, thumb pressed to the curve of his wrist, and you blink furiously at your lap.

When you lift your head, there are tears in your eyes, fat, wet tears that fall down your cheeks when you open your mouth.

“I miss you.”

“You don’t understand.”

“THEN TELL ME!” your mouth drops open in shock and shame licks up his spine, horror icing through his body inch by inch as he stumbles to apologize. “I’m sorry, Sass. I’m sorry, I… I don’t mean to yell, I.." The words trail off when he comes up empty. He has no excuse.

It’s been a long, long time since he’s raised his voice when speaking with you. The memory of the last time, the aftermath of the op where you intentionally disobeyed him and put yourself at risk feels a million miles away right now, and just like yesterday all at once.

Except now, it’s not him running away from you.

It’s you that’s running away from him.

Dinner flies. It feels like a dream, a soft, fragrant dream that he can smell and taste, something tangible, touchable. Something real. You order another glass of wine, and he orders a pour of bourbon, and then another. It lubricates the two of you, easing your tongues and pushing you into conversations that feel safe. You talk about Theo, and Johnny, and Price and his wife. The two of you go back and forth about the finer details of an op you’ve always been fond of arguing about.

His eyes don’t leave your face the entire time. He tries to decode your expressions, your posture, your body language, all through the meal and then after the check is paid. He watches you as he leads you out of the restaurant onto the street, clocks your steps as you turn in a circle on the sidewalk, a sly, hopeful look reflecting on your face when you step closer and say,

“Walk with me?”

It’s a long walk from the restaurant to the street where your respective houses sit, but he doesn’t mind. By the time the two of you are crawling to a stop in front of his door, you’ve got your hand in his, your arm pressed to his side, and he can feel the heat of your skin through his jacket. You’re quiet until you’re turning towards him on the front step, his sanity being held together in this moment with some tape and glue, and you step closer into his orbit, fingers lightly holding the front zipper of his jacket, head tilted back, face turned up towards his. You're the sun, you're the sun, you're the fucking sun and you’re not wearing your armor, there’s no vacant expression on your face, no layer of fear or sadness or anger. You look… like his wife in this moment. You look like Theo’s mom, his partner, his bomb tech, his sweet girl.

You look like you’re still his. You’re looking at him like he’s still yours.

Your lips part, and he leans into you, mouth hovering above yours, just out of reach for so many reasons. He shouldn’t do this. It’s too fast. You’ll pull back. You’ll slip away. This is too risky, it’s too much, it’s too fast, you’re not thinking clear-

“Si.” You pull at him. “Kiss me.” He’s powerless to the command, or request, or whatever the bloody hell it is. It doesn’t matter, because he’s pressing his mouth to yours in less than a second, the searing heat of your tongue pushing into his mouth sending a cool shock down his spine and lighting every muscle in his body on fire.

Home. He’s home.

When he opens the front door, he doesn’t hear anything. No kid’s television shows, no sounds of you or Theo. No happy little boy running to greet him. No sign of you on the couch, no sound of you in the back or in the kitchen.

He finds you in the bedroom, alone.

“Where is Theo?”

“He’s at the Price’s.” your voice is hollow. Empty, like your facial expression. Haunted, like your eyes. The quiet of the house makes him wary. Something prickles along his skin, raising the hair on the back of his neck.

“Why?”

“I wanted to talk and I… didn’t think he should be here.”

“Talk about what?” It’s a grunt, a gruff question that he levels nonchalantly while he waits for you to speak as he strips off his boots and sits down on the bed. He doesn't ask you anything further, doesn't push for elaboration. He doesn't want to. Can't bring himself to hurry whatever it is along, uneasiness snaking up his spine while he observes your uncomfortable posture.

“What do you see? When you look at me?” you ask, and he frowns.

“I see… you, sweet girl. Theo’s mom. My person, my wife.” You don’t respond, you just continue to stare at your feet, so he says your name, your real name, as softly as he can manage, hoping to pull your attention.

“Your person is broken.”

“No, she’s not.”

“She’s a nightmare.”

“Stop.” His tone cuts through the air and you jerk, your eyes finding his, the despondence behind them enough to make his head spin.

“I should have died there.” You croak. “I should have died, Si. It would have been better than this. You could have buried me, moved on.” Nausea sweeps him. He feels ill, like he did when he found you in that room, like he did when he loaded you onto the heli barely alive. He takes a deep breath to steady himself before speaking again.

“This… this will get better, Sass. You’re still healing, physically, mentally… it doesn’t happen overnight. It takes time.” He tries to pull your hand into his lap, but you wrench it away, standing up from the bed.

“It’s not that easy.” You pace back and forth, and he wants so badly to stop you, to hold you and tell you everything will be alright. That he understands how you feel, and he promises you’ll feel better, one day. Even if it feels like it might never be true. His skin itches beneath his clothes.

“I know it’s not. I know that it feels impossible right now and-“

“No.” You cut him off.

“No?”

“No, you don’t know. You’re not hearing me! You haven’t been listening to me at all.” You whirl on him. “I’m not like you Simon! I’m not… I don’t deserve you, or Theo, or anything. I don’t-“

“That’s enough. I can’t listen to this anymore.” He snaps, rising to full height. His temper breaks, his own sadness and anxiety burning together to form something else, something desperate, something afraid. It's not what he meant to say, not what he meant at all. He wants to tell you again, that it's not true. That you do deserve him, and your son, and good things. That you aren't weak, or pathetic, or dirty. He meant to tell you that he doesn't want you to say these things, these awful things about yourself anymore because speaking them out loud just makes them feel all the more true to you. It comes out wrong, all wrong and too sharp, too harsh and you step backwards, pulling the bedroom door wide before he can stop you.

Your voice is a shattered chime when you whisper to him over your shoulder.

“Your wife is broken, Simon. She’s gone.”

You’re tangled in one another. He barely gets the door locked before he’s lifting you by the thighs and pressing you against the wall as gently as he can manage, his cock hard for you beneath the thin cotton of his briefs, your hips rocking forward against him while your head leans back to expose your throat.

“Sass.” I love you. It almost spills from his lips, but he holds it back at the last moment, groaning into your skin instead, and you whine his name back to him, fingers flying over the buttons of his shirt, your hands pressing to his stomach while he rucks the bottom of your dress up past your hips. It’s not gentle, it’s not sweet. It’s frenzied, and frantic, and spurred on by the way your hands push and pull at him, your mouth desperately seeking his, your nails digging into his scalp as you press yourself against his cock.

“Please.” You whimper, and how can he possibly deny you anything? He cannot. He would never. You reach beneath the waistband of his pants and grip him, hand stroking up and down his length, thumb pressing across where he’s dripping with pre-come.

“Bloody hell.” You’re squirming where he holds you up on the wall, his fingers pulling your thong to the side and stroking through where you’re soaked for him, circling your clit with quick touches until your thigh muscles are tensing around his waist. His size compared to yours is glaringly obvious in this position, your legs spread so wide before him, the mass of his body overtop yours like you're pinned beneath a mountain. He loves it. Always has.

“Fuck, Simon. Please.” You beg again, your hips flexing, seeking friction, his hand spread across your rib cage to hold you steady while he unzips his pants and lowers you down the wall a fraction, just to the right height, just so he can-

Your breath hitches when he pushes inside of you, head tipped back, eyes clenched shut with your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Christ." he hisses between clenched teeth. You whimper, the noise something off key and he stills, cradling your face with his palms and lowering his mouth to yours again. "I know." He soothes you. "You're taking me so well, sweet girl." You’re so tight, so warm and wet and perfect for him it makes his head spin, makes his knees feel like they might collapse. You relax around him, softening and he praises you, nipping your bottom lip while he grinds his body against yours. "There you go. Good girl." He fucks you deeper, harder and harder until he's sure he could be hurting you, burning to bury himself as far as he can, burrow himself beneath your skin so you're never without him again.

His. His girl. His wife. His love. His home.

You’re home. You’re home. You’re home.

He feels the swell of emotion rise inside of him, the sum of all his feelings, all his pain, all his hope coming together until he’s fucking crying, pressing his face into your neck to hide his tears.

“I love you.” he chokes, lips grazing along salt dotted skin, and you whimper something in response, something that sounds like I love you too, except slurred together, mushed between moans while he thrusts up into your cunt over and over.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

He pulls you along with him towards your orgasm, his fingers working your clit expertly, the muscle memory searing the two of you together until you’re both gasping, shaking messes, bodies spent from explosive endings that were too much, too soon, when all he wanted was to be notched inside of you forever, fit within you perfectly, like it always was before.

You go languid in his arms, the sheen of your sweat glossing across your chest and up your neck, the corners of your lips upturned while you pant. He says nothing, just holds you there, stares down at you, stroking a thumb across your cheekbone gently, like you’re a thing made of glass, fragile and precious, the most valuable thing his arms have ever held.

As the seconds tick by, your smile shifts, fades like the setting sun, and your eyes change from half lidded to alert while your mouth tilts, the smile slipping away into a frown and then… into an o of surprise.

“Oh my god.” You clasp your hand over your lips and unwrap yourself from around him, standing on your own two feet. “Oh.” You whisper it now, an adject expression of dismay on your face, and he holds his hands up, palms out, to try to contain you where you stand against the wall, like you’re a frightened animal he’s trying to catch.

“Sass.” He levels, keeping his voice even and steady, but you ignore him, stumbling to the couch where his black hoodie is sitting. You pull it over your head with trembling hands, your head shaking back and forth while it falls to your mid-thigh.

“This… I’m… I didn’t mean… I wasn’t-“ You cringe, your hand going to side of your face to cover your ear, like you’re hearing something that’s too loud, and horror washes through him.

“It’s alright. You’re safe.” He tries to calm you but it’s fruitless, your eyes are wide and frantic, and they’re darting between where he stands and the front door.

“This… I d-don’t… this was wrong.” The word smarts across his face like he’s been slapped. Wrong? “I… I meant t-to go slow to… not…” He gets within arm’s reach of you before you’re moving away, stepping backwards on hesitant feet, hands clenched together like you’re holding onto yourself for dear life.

“Sass, listen to me. I-“

“I ca-can’t.” You’re panicked now, breaths coming in staggered gasps, and he wants so badly to hold you, keep you close to him, reassure you, promise you that everything’s okay.

He tries to move closer to you, to reach out to you but you’re already running away. Already moving towards the door on unsteady legs, clips of words spewing from your mouth that don’t make any sense. His vision doubles, then triples, and the world feels out of sync, off balance while air rapidly leaves his lungs and his brain feels like it's being split apart. No no no. Please don't go. Please. He can't breathe. He can't move. He can't do anything but watch his nightmares play out in real life, watch as you hold your head in your hands and slam your eyes shut like you too, are feeling what he's feeling. Please don't go. He's a child again, a small, frightened boy, screaming and crying and begging aloud to no one, pleading with someone to save him, to make it all stop.

You reach for the door handle and he cannot bring himself to move. He's frozen in time, frozen to the floor, the gleam of his wedding ring mocking his heart and his hope while you tremble, your legs unsteady beneath you, his come leaking out from your body as you abandon him, run from him, leave him. Again.

When the door clicks shut, he falls against the wall and succumbs to the first panic attack he's had since Theo was born, slumped over in his living room, empty handed and alone.

#sassy series #peaches writes #simon x sass #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x you #simon riley x female reader #cod mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost x reader #mw2 #mw2 fanfic #cod mwii

600 notes · View notes