C.D.

He may think they’re slow and stupid, but you’ve personally witnessed just how fast they can move when they’ve picked up a trail of blood. Perturbed, you’ve just sucked in a breath to argue, when you witness him shoot a quick glance at you over his shoulder, with a tiny smile tugging at his mouth.

Prick. Baiting you as usual. 

“Enjoy your fucking piss,” you call after him, and mentally add, hope you get your dick bitten off. 

He doesn’t even attempt to get out of eyesight, just puts his back to you and unzips in front of the nearest tree. Of course he makes you listen to the disgusting spatter of urine on the forest floor. Of course he’s that kind of person.  

Averting your eyes, you attempt to gather yourself together and take stock of your various aches and itches. Specifically, you need to check how your new boots held up to the journey overnight. They were remarkably comfortable, so if you’re lucky, you made a smart swap the other day. 

Gratified to find them perfectly intact, your eyes wander further up your body, and your shriek of horror bursts out so abruptly, it makes birds take flight from the trees.

“Fuck, what is it?” Gaz demands, whipping around and yanking at his zipper.

“What is this?” you half scream, half choke at him, clawing your coat off.

The concern on his face quickly drops away to boredom, once he realizes the source of your distress. “A fucking winter coat, that you won’t survive without.”

Throwing the horrible thing onto the ledge past your feet, you jam your hand into the dark crevice of rock and close your fist around a decently sized stone. “That. Is. Nick’s.”

“Got no use for it now. It’s not got any blood on it, if that’s what you’re–”

The impact of a well-placed rock thudding against his shoulder cuts him off real fast, as he’s knocked back a startled step. 

Blazing, furious eyes lock on yours, but you simply don’t have it in yourself to give a fuck. Quickly you grab a bunch of smaller rocks as backup, and sit there breathing fast, silently daring him to come after you. It’ll only take a second for your hand to whip around again and pellet him with pain. 

“That is not,” you growl through your teeth, “what I’m fucking worried about.”

He knows you have the high ground. He hasn’t moved a step towards you since you threw the rock, hasn’t looked anywhere but your face. You’re in the superior position, but you have a limited supply of rocks. Meanwhile his weapons are all up here with you, but you doubt you could get your hands on any of them before he found a way to settle the score. 

“Last will and testament,” he finally says, jerking his chin towards the crumpled brown coat. “Gave it to you. Told me so.”

The rocks in your hand shift around, as you grind them together in fury. “Did he, Gaz? Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

“Said it was the least he could do for being such a disgusting sicko, wanking over you every chance he got.”

“Unlike you,” you sneer, your voice dripping with hatred. 

“Fucking hell. You finished tossing your toys out the pram? We’ve got to get going.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”

He belatedly does up the button on his pants. “You really think you’re in a position to be going off on your own?”

“I’ll take my chances with the biters.”

“You won’t last the week,” he assures you evenly, hands on his hips.

The week. This is your last day not bleeding, and then you’ll be cramping and vulnerable, and you need someone to watch your back. Someone to find water, set up shelter, tend to your wounds. It’s slow, cruel suicide to have your period alone in the woods. You just can’t burn the bridge just yet. 

“I don’t want to wear that coat,” you finally admit, relinquishing your handful of pebbles back into the dirt. 

Your eyes drop to his face again, soft this time. Communicating how scared you feel, how innocent and helpless you are. It’s just one thing, your precious little blinky eyes tell him. Come on, Gaz, can’t you give in on this one thing? 

His face turns cold at your attempted manipulation, shifting his shoulder as if it hurts. “Go piss, woman.”

---------------------------------------

It’s like that for the rest of the morning. You don’t talk, and he doesn’t talk. You just ignore your half damp clothes, and trod on for hours. 

The food is nice. Without Doran’s usual rations, and with a burning hatred of Gaz, you quite happily munch away at a decent chunk of what you brought. That’s what puts you in good spirits. That, and stopping to brush your teeth. Clean teeth and a full belly is really all it takes sometimes. 

Until you start to actually pay attention.

“Why are we going north?” you demand suddenly, feet stumbling to a halt. 

“Because that’s the fastest way to get somewhere cold,” Gaz replies over his shoulder, not bothering to stop and explain. 

“Are you… kidding?”

You stare slack-jawed at Gaz’s retreating back, mentally scrambling to comprehend how many hours you just lost, going for so long in the opposite direction of where you’re supposed to be headed. 

It’ll take two days to make up for it. Two days on your period, when extra walking might be the difference between life and death, especially if it means skirting around the bloody camp. 

And Gaz won’t stop walking. 

“Why the fuck would you want to go north for the winter?” you ask, having to run to catch up to him. 

“Biters are made of flesh. What do you think happens to them when it drops below freezing?”

You scowl at the ground as you walk, considering. “They… freeze?”

“Safest place to be is up north. We’re just lucky the weather’s changing.”

Lucky, yeah, right. Switching the threat of biters for the inevitability of losing all your fingers to frostbite sounds fucking genius. 

You’re going to have to get away from him, or change his mind. There are no sanctuary cities in the north, so he’s leading you away to certain death, on some insane theory about frozen corpses. And every step you take in the wrong direction is a step away from the safety Doran was always so sure about. 

Gaz stops suddenly, forcing you to come to a halt as well so you won’t smack into his pack. 

“What?” you whisper, peering around his body. 

“Marsh lands.”

Gaz tests the ground in front of him, his boot sinking a few centimeters into the damp grass. 

Great. Wet feet.

“Walk in my footprints,” he mutters, beginning to trudge through the squelching mass of underbrush. 

You wrinkle your nose in distaste. “What? Why?”

But he’s already begun the trek, not sparing you a backwards glance as he makes his way through the swampy land. 

“I don’t think we should get our feet wet,” you call over at him irritatedly.

“You won’t.”

Somehow, he’s right. Most of the time he weaves around and manages to find the high ground as you go, and the only things you have to worry about are his stupidly long strides, and the occasionally strong suck of mud on your boots. 

It’s exhausting.

In no time, your thighs are burning with the strain. The only options you have are to press on, or to beg him for a break, and both of them seem so impossible that you just get more and more upset at the situation. 

Long step after long step, you dutifully plop your feet down in his stupid footprints, and the uneven land continues to run your energy to the ground. 

Shluck, shluck, shluck.

“Gaz,” you huff finally, stopping to rest your hands on your hips. “Stop taking such big steps.”

He doesn’t stop. The prick keeps going at the same relentless pace, bow notched in his hand and scanning the trees for movement. 

So fuck him.

You start walking at your own pace, well outside of his impossible footsteps. 

And like a total piece of shit, he hears your change in stride and turns to glare at you. 

You give him the same look right back, imagining plunging that arrow straight into his chest with your bare hands. 

“I need you to stay in my footsteps.”

“Why?” 

He glances pointedly down at your independent footprints. “Because you walk like a woman.”

“I don’t think anybody will care if they think a biter is following you.” The idea of Gaz being pursued by the undead is so comforting, you can’t help but smile coldly to yourself. 

“I said you walk like a woman, not a biter.”

“And I, actually, don’t give a fuck.”

Your breath catches as you watch his eyes narrow and a muscle in his jaw tick up and down. It’s not fear that’s rushing through you, it’s relief. It’s so nice to be able to cuss someone out for once. Someone who deserves it, more than anyone else you’ve ever met out here. You can say what you want, because it really doesn’t matter if he likes you or not — you’re fucked regardless. 

Gaz silently secures the bow over his shoulder, and takes a step towards you. It’s an effort to hold your ground without flinching.

“Are you hoping to be carried?” he asks sarcastically, but with a real threat of something worse, laced into the words.

You open your mouth to retort back something just as ridiculous, but then you think better of it, in a flash of divine inspiration. 

“Yes. Carry me, I’m tired.”

The bluff is set up so perfectly, because you both know there’s no way he can walk with you in his arms for more than a minute. He was banking on your aversion to touching him, and your pride, but he doesn’t know you, and he guessed wrong.

Gaz stares at you, and you look steadily back at him, raising your eyebrow in challenge.

He doesn’t say anything. Just steps up to your body, leans down, and scoops your thigh up onto his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” you shriek, finding yourself suddenly half upside down, with his arm wedged between your legs, and one of your sleeves secured tightly in his hand. 

He shuffles your weight across his shoulders with a grunt. “Fireman’s carry. It’s the most efficient way to carry a fallen comrade. Or in this case, an insubordinate one.”

“I’m not being insubordinate, because you are not in charge of me.”

The earth rises and falls uncomfortably with every step he takes, jarring your bones and churning your stomach. 

“I admit,” he drawls, “not having you scheming of ways to kill me behind my back is a nice change, even if you are heavier than you look.”

Prick, prick, prick. 

There has to be something you can do. Some way to get back at him. In your anger, you scan the side of his pack for a weapon. There are only empty loops and a few carabiners visible, and the swaying handle of the ax that’s secured on the far side.

The ax. 

You’ve only got one hand free, but he can’t see what you’re doing with the other one. Every step he takes shifts your body slightly, and you swing your arm around to reach for the handle.

Sway. Sway. Sway.

Each time, it’s a hair away from your fingertips. Even when you start to strain, and risk Gaz guessing your plans, you can’t get a hold of it. You merely get the tease of the textured rubber handle brushing your fingers before it’s gone again. 

Step. Step. Step.

It’s infuriating to be so close to a weapon, and so helpless to reach it. Your attempts grow fewer and farther between, and you’re forced to content yourself with simply planning the murder in your own mind. You run it through so many times, you can practically hear the crunch of bones, the gush of blood while Gaz’s vile life drains away to nothing. 

Sway. Reach. Step. Step. 

Surely he’ll be losing his breath soon. He’s got to be hiding the exertion of carrying you out of pure spite, moderating his huffs of air to conceal what a toll it’s taking on him. You’re reduced to watching his ass shift and move with every step he takes, and only because it’s right below your face. 

He doesn’t even stink, this close to his armpit. Prick. 

Step. Step. 

Freeze.

Your name gets muttered suddenly, urgently.

“What?” you whisper back.

“Get me the ax,” he breathes, so quietly.

“Why?”

“Get me the fucking ax.”

“I can’t reach it.”

“Try.”

You glare helplessly at his ass. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the last hour?”

“…Fuck.”

Next Part

You kept your distance the entire time, watching those damn taillights. Every turn he took made your pulse skip a beat. Out of the neighborhood. Past the town line. Roads got darker and less maintained. Streetlights turned to nothing but trees crowding both sides. You should’ve turned back. This was stupid, adn you didn’t even bring anything with you. Just your phone on silent and your brain on fire.

But you kept going. Grip locked on the wheel, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Every instinct told you this wasn’t just a late-night drive. There was a purpose in the way he moved. The way he never stopped to check anything, never slowed like he was thinking—he knew exactly where he was headed.

And that made it worse.

You killed your headlights as he pulled off the road, heart jackhammering. You went a little farther down before turning off and pulling behind a cluster of trees. It wasn’t a perfect cover, but it was enough. His car was parked up ahead, tucked beside what looked like a worn path that cut into the trees. He got out alone, locked the car, and started walking.

You waited until he disappeared into the dark before getting out quietly.

The path was narrow, overgrown, and your shoes crunched softly against the dirt and old leaves. You kept low, ducking where branches stretched too far down, trying not to breathe too loudly. Every sound felt too sharp—your own footsteps, your pulse, the slight rustle of wind through the trees.

It took maybe ten minutes, but it felt longer. And then you saw it.

The building was old, almost swallowed by the woods around it. Cement walls cracked and chipped, the roof half-collapsed on one side, windows busted out like someone had taken a bat to them years ago and no one cared to fix it. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was abandoned.

But light spilled from the inside, just a single bulb, hanging crooked from a wire. Someone had been here recently.

You crouched low, circling around the side until you found a broken window not too far off the ground. Quietly, slowly, you rose up just enough to peer inside.

Mark was in the center of the room, but not alone.

Three other men stood around him. One leaned against a crate, arms crossed. Another was checking something on a clipboard. The third had a phone out, typing fast, then looked up like he was waiting for instructions.

You couldn’t hear everything, not clearly, but some words drifted out through the shattered glass.

“…shipment’s delayed till Tuesday.”

“Security’s tighter now.”

“…can’t risk another fuck-up.”

Mark’s voice was lower than the others.

“Get it done by the end of the week,” he said. “No excuses this time. We’re not getting another window.”

You barely blinked. Barely breathed.

Shipment? Delays? Security?

You squinted through the busted glass, leaning in just a little more, trying to make sense of it all. Your hands were starting to ache from gripping the windowsill so hard, but you didn’t dare let go. Not yet.

One of the men—the one with the clipboard—motioned to a table in the corner. You hadn’t noticed it at first, half in shadow, but now the movement drew your eye. A laptop was already set up on it, humming low. The guy with the phone walked over and sat down in front of it, and started tapping something.

And then Mark reached into his jacket.

You froze.

For a second, you thought he was going for a weapon, and your whole body tensed, ready to bolt or duck or whatever instinct screamed first, but instead, he pulled out something small and silver.

The USB.

You knew it. You fucking knew it.

Your pulse spiked, mouth dry.

He said something, too low for you to hear, and handed it over to the guy at the laptop. The man plugged it in, then started typing again, faster this time. You couldn’t see the screen from your angle. Couldn’t tell if he was uploading something or downloading or maybe just unlocking it. But your gut twisted either way.

You ducked back down below the window, heart still racing, chest too tight. You didn’t need to hear more. You didn’t want to. Not if it meant getting caught.

But now there were more questions than answers spinning around your head, burning through your nerves.

What the hell was on that USB?

And who the fuck were these people?

You didn’t know.

But you were gonna find out.

You stayed low as the conversation inside started to die down. The guy at the laptop unplugged the USB and handed it back to Mark, who slipped it right back into his jacket, and then they started moving.

You crouched deeper into the shadows, heart pounding in your throat, as the door creaked open from the inside and they stepped out one by one.

Mark led them, still calm as ever. Either he was cocky or he didn’t think anyone would be crazy enough to follow him out here.

You didn’t even breathe until their footsteps faded down the path. You counted a full minute in your head before you stood up.

Still, you waited another beat before you circled around to the main entrance, just in case someone came back. Your hands were shaking as you pushed open the heavy door.

The inside looked even worse up close. Water damage streaked the walls, the ceiling sagged in a few spots, and the floor creaked under your steps, no matter how careful you were. There was nothing on the table except some old tape residue, like they never intended to leave anything behind.

You checked anyway.

Opened drawers. Looked behind crates. Lifted the tablecloth that was half-pinned under the metal legs. Nothing.

You kept searching. The walls, the corners, and the table again.

It didn’t make sense.

Why go through all that trouble to meet up in a place like this, to use the USB here instead of at home, unless they were trying to make sure it couldn’t be traced?

You took one last look at the table and cursed under your breath.

Nothing.

You turned toward the door, ready to leave before someone came back—before the bad idea you were neck-deep in became something worse.

And then—

BANG.

A door slammed open so hard it rattled the walls.

You froze.

The air shifted. Tensed.

Boots. Heavy ones. Close. Fast.

And then there he was.

Filling the doorway like a storm about to break, eyes locked on you and nothing else. His jaw clenched tight, shoulders drawn like he was holding himself back from saying something that’d explode the entire fucking room.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t say a word.

Because there was no need to.

You were caught.

And he was pissed.

Simon was pissed.

His voice cracked through the silence.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!”

You flinched, actually flinched, because he never yelled like that. Never looked at you like that. His eyes weren’t just angry—they were betrayed.

“I—Simon, just—listen—”

“No. No, you don’t get to do that.” He took a step forward, jaw locked. “You don’t get to sneak out in the middle of the night, alone, without telling me, and then try to spin it with some excuse.”

“I wasn’t sneaking—”

“You left the house without a goddamn word. Without backup. Without anything!”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. You didn’t even know where to start.

He raked both hands through his hair, turned away like he couldn’t even look at you for a second, then spun back around just as fast. “What were you thinking? You have any idea what could’ve happened to you?”

“I was careful—”

“Oh, yeah?” His voice went sharp, mocking. “Following a bunch of armed men into a fucking building? That’s your idea of careful?”

“I didn’t go in until after they left!”

“That’s not the goddamn point!”

You snapped then. “Then what is the point, Simon? That I didn’t sit back and wait for you to hold my hand through everything? That I trusted my own gut for once and followed it?”

He looked at you like you’d lost your mind. “This isn’t about trust. It’s about not getting yourself fucking killed.”

“I’m not a child—”

“No, but you're acting like one!”

You stepped toward him, eyes burning. “You don’t get to decide what I do. You don’t get to keep me in the dark and expect me to stay quiet just because.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t blink.

Just stared at you like he wanted to shake you, or hold you, or both.

“I installed a tracker,” he snapped. “On your phone. After what happened in his house, just in case. And the second I saw you were gone—”

He stopped.

You stared.

“You what?”

His jaw clenched again. “I was worried. And I was right to be. Because look where the fuck we are right now.”

You swallowed hard. Your chest was tight, your hands were shaking again, but for a whole different reason now.

“So what?” you asked quietly. “You can put trackers on my phone, follow me when it suits you, huh?”

He stared at you, something wild flickering behind his eyes.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said, low and harsh. “You think I was mad because I didn’t know where you were? I was mad because I thought I’d lost you.”

The silence stretched.

Then snapped.

He crossed the space between you in two strides, grabbed your face with both hands, and kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him from coming undone completely.

Not soft, nor careful. Just pure, desperate heat.

You didn’t hesitate, didn’t think. You kissed him back just as hard. Because it was too late for explanations. Too late for reason.

But not too late for this.

You shoved at his chest.

“You’re a controlling asshole,” you spat, breath hot between you.

His grip on your waist tightened. “And you’re a reckless little shit who doesn’t know when to stop.”

“Fuck you,” you hissed.

“I’m trying to.”

And then his mouth crashed against yours again, teeth and heat, hands already yanking at your shirt like he was sick of arguing but not nearly done being angry. You kissed him back just as hard, biting his lip like you were still mad—because you were. You were furious.

Furious that he found you.

Furious that he followed you.

Furious that you wanted him so badly you couldn’t think straight.

You shoved him back against a pillar, fingers fumbling with his belt. “You’re a fucking bastard,” you muttered, tugging his pants down just enough, not caring if it was rough or rushed.

“And you love it.”

You didn’t answer.

You dragged your nails down his back instead, yanking your own shirt over your head, and his hands were already on you again, bruising, possessive. He kissed you like he wanted to win the fight with his mouth, trying to wipe out every word you’d said that cut too deep. You moaned into it, even while you glared at him.

“I hate you,” you whispered against his lips.

“Good,” he growled. “Hate me harder.”

His hand slid between your legs without ceremony, without asking. You were already soaked and he knew it.

You gasped, tried to grab at his wrist, but he was faster, rougher, dragging you right to the edge with just two fingers and a hard press of his palm.

“This what you wanted?” he breathed into your neck. “Snooping around? Getting caught? You like the danger that much?”

You turned your head just enough to glare at him. “I like shutting you the fuck up.”

“Then shut me up.”

And you did.

You kissed him again, angry and hot and messy, while you reached down between you to line him up, because talking was useless now. Words had nothing left. All that was left was this: rage and heat and teeth, both of you still whispering “I hate you” in between gasps and curses as he pushed into you, hard and fast, and your nails raked down his arms, and he didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t even try to make it gentle.

Because it wasn’t.

It wasn’t about soft.

It was about you left and you lied and you scared me and you’re mine and I hate how good you feel inside me.

It was about control and losing it.

About trust and breaking it.

And needing each other anyway.

Your back hit the cold wall with a dull thud, and he didn’t wait, just grabbed your thigh, hiked it up, and slammed into you so deep it knocked the breath right out of your chest.

You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You—” thrust “don’t—” thrust “ever—” thrust “fucking do this again.”

Each word hit harder than the last, punctuated by the way his hips snapped forward like he was trying to bury the anger deeper, like he wanted you to feel every syllable.

“I should leave you here,” he growled against your throat, teeth scraping skin. “Should make you walk home for pulling this shit.”

“You wouldn’t,” you bit out, breath caught on a moan.

He slammed into you again, rough and mean and so deep your legs shook.

“No?” thrust “You sure?” thrust “Wanna test me again?”

You gripped the back of his neck. “You tracked me,” you hissed, voice trembling. “You fucking tracked me like I’m—”

“Mine.”

Your head fell back against the wall, a breathless curse tumbling out of you.

“I hate you,” you whispered, even as your hips rolled up to meet his again.

“I know,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours, eyes burning into yours like he wanted to fight and fuck you into the floor all at once. “Say it again.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Good,” he growled. “Then take it.”

“You could’ve been fucking killed,” he continued, dragging his mouth along your jaw, one hand gripping your hip so tight it’d bruise by morning. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

You couldn’t answer, not with the way he drove into you again, harder this time, deeper, like he wanted to make you feel every ounce of the fury in him.

He grabbed your face, held it firm, forced you to look at him. “Answer me.”

“I—I needed to know,” you gasped. “You weren’t doing anything, you were just—”

“Wrong fucking move,” he growled, cutting you off with a thrust that made your head hit the wall again.

Then softer, like it slipped out before he could stop it: “You scare the shit outta me.”

His forehead dropped to yours again, his breathing ragged. You moaned his name, half a cry, half a breath, and his grip tightened.

“I hate how much I need you,” you whispered.

“Then hate me, baby,” he said, voice wrecked and low, dragging his lips down your throat. “Hate me while I make you cum.”

His hand slid between you, rough fingers finding where you were soaked for him, rubbing hard and fast while he kept fucking you against the wall, hips unrelenting. You clawed at his back, teeth biting down into his shoulder as your body trembled under the weight of it all—fear, anger, need, everything crashing into you at once.

And he felt it, felt you getting close, felt the way your walls fluttered around him, and his mouth pressed to your ear again, tone changing, tender and breathless:

“C’mon, love,” he whispered, “let go for me. That’s it. I’ve got you.”

You broke with a cry, legs shaking, eyes squeezed shut as you came so hard your whole body locked up. And he kept going, fucking you through it, chasing his own release now, breath punching out of him with every thrust.

“Fuck,” he growled, “fuck—you feel so—”

His hips stuttered, pace growing wild, desperate, and then he was right there with you, moaning into your neck, spilling inside you with one last, brutal thrust that made you both gasp.

Silence hung heavy in the air after that. Just the heat of his body pinning you to the wall, his arms still wrapped around you like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Then, quietly, he muttered against your skin:

“You’re never pulling shit like that again.”

...

The inside of your car was quiet.

Just the tick of the cooling engine and your fingers clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles white. You could still feel him. His hands, his breath, his voice. Your thighs ached. Your chest ached more.

Simon sat in the passenger seat, breathing slowly, looking out through the windshield.

You didn’t dare look at him. Your heart hadn’t slowed down yet, and your mouth was too dry to speak even if you wanted to.

And then, he sighed. That deep, tired kind of sigh that felt like it scraped out from somewhere inside his ribs.

“We’ll talk about this back home,” he said.

He opened the door before you could say anything, stepped out into the dark, and walked off toward the car he came in, and didn’t look back.

You stared after him for a second.

And then you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

Hands shaking, you finally put the key in the ignition.

The road back was silent. Just the occasional tap of rain on the windshield and the screaming echo in your head that wouldn't shut up.

What the fuck just happened?

What was that?

What was that?

Your brain couldn’t settle on a single thought for longer than a second. Just flashes of him slamming the door open, of the look on his face, of the way your body reacted like it didn’t care that he was angry, of the way his voice had gone soft for half a second before he kissed you like he hated you.

You swallowed hard and hit the blinker at the next turn.

You didn’t know what you were going home to.

But you were going home to him.

And that alone made your stomach twist.

You pulled into the driveway, the engine’s hum fading as you both stepped out of the car. The walk to the front door felt endless, every creak underfoot louder than it should be.

Simon was ahead, keys in hand, and before you could even reach for the handle, he was already in front of you. Just like that, blocking your way, his eyes sharp and alert.

Then—

A sudden crack shattered the silence. A gunshot.

Your heart stopped.

Simon’s body jerked, and he crumpled to the ground without a sound.

Before you could react, a heavy blow slammed into the side of your head, and everything went black.

You pulled the blanket up to your chin and stared at the ceiling. God, you actually felt disappointed that he wasn’t there.

What the hell was happening to you?

Maybe it was the routine. Maybe it was the constant act. Maybe you’d gotten so used to pretending that your brain was starting to blur the lines without your permission. Yeah. That had to be it. There was no other logical explanation for why you were lying here like some sappy idiot, feeling weirdly... empty, just because he wasn’t in bed with you this morning.

You scoffed softly and turned onto your back, the sheets rustling around you. You weren’t going to let this mean anything. It didn’t, and it couldn’t.

Still, your eyes flicked toward the bedroom door like maybe he’d come back.

And that stupid part of your brain you refused to acknowledge? Yeah. It was disappointed again when he didn’t.

Eventually, you dragged yourself out of bed, trying to shake off whatever strange weight had settled in your chest. You didn’t need this. You weren’t going to make it a thing. You were just tired. Or maybe you were just annoyed that the bed was cold. That was all.

Your feet hit the floor with a soft thud, and you slipped out of the room quietly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you padded down the hall. The faint clatter of cutlery and the low hiss of something on the stove reached your ears, and you paused just long enough to let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

He was in the kitchen.

Of course he was.

You rounded the corner, and sure enough, there he was, standing at the stove in one of his t-shirts, hair slightly messy, barefoot, moving around the kitchen.

He looked up when he noticed you, but he didn’t say anything right away. Just gave you a short nod, like a silent good morning, then went back to flipping whatever was in the pan. His face was neutral, maybe even a little tired, but there was something... off. His usual cocky smirk wasn’t there. His posture wasn’t as loose.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

You moved toward the table, glancing around the kitchen. The counter was clean, the coffee already brewed, and two plates were already set, one at each end of the table.

“You cooked?” you asked, voice a little more hesitant than intended.

Simon only hummed in response, still not looking at you. “Figured it was my turn.”

Right. That wasn’t suspicious at all.

You sat down and watched him bring the plates over, setting yours down in front of you without a word before grabbing his coffee and taking the seat across. The food smelled good, but neither of you touched it at first.

The silence stretched on as you both eventually started eating. No teasing, no offhanded comments, not even a sarcastic nickname thrown your way. Just the clink of cutlery against plates and the occasional sip of coffee.

You hated how weird it felt. How distant.

You kept glancing at him between bites, trying to read the expression on his face, but he wasn’t giving anything away. Maybe he didn’t sleep well. Maybe something happened, or maybe he was feeling the same way you had this morning and didn’t know what to do about it either.

You picked at your food, chewing slowly, waiting for him to break the silence.

He did, eventually, pushing his plate back slightly and clearing his throat.

“We should go get groceries after this,” he said, not looking up.

You blinked at him. “Groceries?”

“Yeah. We’re outta a bunch of stuff. Milk, bread, and that weird yogurt you like.”

You stared at him for a second, surprised by how normal his tone was, how casual he sounded despite the weird cloud hanging over both of you.

You took a slow sip of your coffee. “Okay. After breakfast.”

He nodded, still not quite meeting your eyes. You both went back to eating in silence, but the tension didn’t go away.

After breakfast, the two of you moved around the house without saying much, going through the motions of getting ready. You grabbed your bag, Simon pocketed the keys, and soon you were stepping out into the daylight, still pretending you hadn’t noticed how quiet he was, still pretending you weren’t thinking about that weird moment in bed, or the awkward air that had followed you into the kitchen.

But just as you were locking the door behind you, a voice called out.

“Well, look who decided to leave the house.”

You turned toward it, your stomach tightening on instinct, and there they were.

Mark and Michelle, standing at the edge of their driveway with matching smiles and casual coffees in hand, like they hadn’t just dropped off the face of the Earth for the past few days.

“Oh my God, hi!” you said, putting on your brightest, most effortless grin. You stepped forward like you were thrilled to see them, like you hadn’t spent the last week wondering what the hell they were up to.

“We were starting to think you two had disappeared,” Michelle laughed, waving as she walked over. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah, we’ve just been—” you paused, glancing at Simon, who offered a polite nod but said nothing, “—you know, busy. Settling in.”

“Well, glad to see you’re still alive,” Mark said with a smirk.

Simon didn’t say a word, but you felt his eyes flick toward you, like he knew something was coming. Because you were looking at Michelle a little too kindly, and your smile was a little too sugary.

There was a pause. Just a few seconds of pleasantries. And then you went in for the kill.

“You two should come over for dinner tonight.”

Michelle blinked. “Oh?”

You smiled wider. “Yeah! We haven’t had a proper sit-down with you yet. Feels weird, being neighbors and all.”

Simon shifted beside you, his whole body tensing.

“Seven-ish?” you added sweetly. “Nothing fancy. We’d love to have you.”

Michelle exchanged a glance with Mark, and he gave a shrug and a nod. “Sure, sounds great. We’ll bring wine?”

“Perfect,” you said, already turning back toward your car. “See you then!”

As soon as they were out of earshot, Simon turned to you slowly, his jaw already clenched.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“What?” you said, blinking up at him with faux innocence.

He stared at you, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “Dinner? With them? Are you out of your mind?”

“It’s not weird. Normal neighbors do dinner.”

He leaned in close. “You just invited two people who are spying on us into our house.”

You ignored the jab and started walking toward the car. “Exactly,” you called over your shoulder, “Besides, we might learn something useful. You never know.”

Simon muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like you’re gonna be the death of me, but he followed you anyway, keys in hand, jaw clenched tight.

And you? You just smiled to yourself.

Because for once, you had the upper hand.

The market was crowded, a mess of carts and screaming toddlers and squeaky wheels. You and Simon had already done two laps pretending to care about gluten-free pasta when he finally reached for a jar of overpriced tomato sauce.

You were about to make a comment about how he probably couldn’t even spell “basil” when a familiar voice slid in from behind like it belonged there.

“Fancy seeing the newlyweds out and about.”

You turned, already tensing before you saw him.

Price.

Wearing a cap pulled low and sunglasses that did absolutely nothing to disguise him. Subtle as always...

Simon didn’t even look surprised. “Just restocking the love nest.”

You had to resist the urge to jab him in the ribs with your elbow. Instead, you gave Price a polite smile.

“We invited the neighbors for dinner,” you said, turning back to the shelf, still deciding between two different pasta shapes.

Price blinked. “Tonight?”

Simon nodded. “Haven’t seen them in days. Figured we should act neighborly before they get suspicious.”

“That was smart,” Price said, though his tone made it sound like he was annoyed you beat him to it. “We’ll move tonight. While they’re distracted, we’ll get someone inside.”

You checked the aisle, still no one nearby, then casually added, “There’s a USB on his desk. I saw it when I was… pretending to get lost on the way to the bathroom.”

Price raised an eyebrow.

“Could be nothing, or could be everything we need.”

Price grunted his approval. “We’ll find out soon.”

He stepped back, clearly ready to vanish again into the crowd, but gave you both a last look. “Keep the act tonight. We’ll handle the rest.”

Simon grabbed a random box of crackers and tossed them in the cart. “Always do.”

-

The table was set, the food was warm, and the wine had already been poured. On the surface, everything looked perfect. Too perfect, honestly.

You stood at the counter, adjusting the way the napkins were folded, just to give your hands something to do. You weren’t nervous. Not really. Just... keyed up. Like something was about to go wrong and your body already knew it.

Simon had just finished plating the last dish when the knock came at the door. You shot him a look. He gave you a tight, unreadable smile. And then it began.

“Mark! Michelle! Come in,” you greeted with a brightness that felt fake on your tongue but looked flawless on your face.

Michelle stepped in with a big smile and a bottle of wine. “We brought something for the hosts,” she said, handing it to Simon with a wink that you did not enjoy. Not even a little.

Simon took the bottle. “Thanks, Michelle. Looks fancy.”

“Oh, it is,” she purred, brushing past him a little too closely. Mark followed behind with a nod in your direction. His eyes swept the house with a little too much interest for your liking, lingering just a second too long on the hallway near Simon’s office. You made a mental note.

“Everything smells incredible,” Mark said as you led them to the table. “You’ve really settled into this place fast.”

You laughed, not too loud. “Well, we had to make it feel like home, right? Especially with all the unpacking we did this week.” You shot Simon a warning glance under your lashes, and to his credit, he caught it.

“Yeah,” he said, sliding a dish to the center of the table. “Nothing says home like arguing over where the mugs should go.”

Michelle giggled. “Domestic bliss already?”

You forced a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of anything less.”

Dinner started off harmless with light conversation about the weather and work.

Mark asked about your job. Michelle asked if you were planning to decorate more. You answered them all, every word rehearsed and smooth, but your brain didn’t stop working. Every sentence was a calculation. Every look had weight, especially when Simon set a hand on your thigh under the table, and you nearly jumped.

You turned to him with a practiced softness, eyes warm, lips in a smile.

“More wine, darling?” you asked.

He didn’t move his hand. “Please, sweetheart.”

You could’ve stabbed him with a fork and slept like a baby.

Michelle was watching. You saw it. And so you leaned in, poured his glass too full, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His jaw clenched ever so slightly.

“So,” Mark said, cutting into his food. “We’ve been meaning to ask... what made you choose this neighborhood?”

You blinked. “Oh, it just felt right. Close to everything, as well.”

Simon didn’t miss a beat. “And what about you, Mark?” he asked, cutting into his chicken. “What do you do again? I don’t think we ever asked.”

There was a pause, barely a second, but enough to notice it.

Mark’s knife scraped against his plate. “Consulting,” he said, just a little too quickly. “Bit of everything. Mostly financial, boring stuff, really.”

Simon hummed. “Sounds important.”

Mark shrugged. “Pays the bills.”

You exchanged a glance with Simon, just for a moment. Something tight pulled behind his eyes, and you didn’t have to ask, you knew he was filing that reaction away.

By the end, the dishes were half-empty, the candles had burned low, and you were smiling so hard your jaw ached. You got up to clear the plates, and Simon followed.

In the kitchen, out of earshot but still within view, he leaned down and murmured, “They're sniffing around.”

You nodded, stacking plates. “Michelle wants to play nice. Mark’s just nosy.”

“Price better find something soon,” he muttered.

You slid a dish into the sink, eyes on the hallway. “He will. Just keep smiling.”

Simon leaned in closer. “You're good at that.”

You turned your head, lips brushing his cheek. “You too.”

And then you both walked back out into the dining room like a picture-perfect couple.

After dinner, you and Simon moved through the motions of cleaning up the kitchen like a well-rehearsed routine. He washed, you dried; he wiped the counters, you put away the leftovers. The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, and neither of you wanted to break it.

Simon ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “I’m tired. I think I’m gonna head to bed.”

You nodded, keeping your voice steady even though a knot was tightening in your stomach. “Alright. I’ll be up in a sec.”

Without waiting for more, he grabbed his glass, gave you a quick look that was somewhere between exhaustion and something else you couldn’t read, then disappeared up the stairs.

You stood there alone, the soft hum of the dishwasher filling the silence. When it clicked off, you reached for your phone. A message had popped up on Simon’s burner from Price. They hadn’t found anything. No USB. No hidden files. Nothing.

Your stomach sank. You couldn’t shake the image of that little USB sitting on Mark’s table during dinner. And now? It was gone. Why? Where had it disappeared to so quickly? Everything was starting to feel too calculated, too staged. The way Mark and Michelle had acted tonight, like they were watching, waiting for the right moment.

You leaned against the counter, trying to piece it all together, but your thoughts kept circling the same question: What was really on that USB?

Just as you were about to shake off the restless feeling and head upstairs, movement caught your eye through the window.

Mark.

He was slipping quietly out of his own house, the shadows swallowing him as he moved down the driveway. It was late, later than you expected anyone to still be out. You blinked, heart pounding just a little harder.

Something about the whole situation screamed at you. Mark is leaving now, after dinner. It had to mean something.

Without a second thought, you grabbed your keys from the counter. You hesitated for the briefest moment—should you tell Simon? But no. This was something you had to do alone. He was already asleep upstairs, and you couldn’t risk him stopping you or making him worry.

You opened the front door slowly, stepping outside into the cool night air.

Mark had already gotten into his car and was pulling away when you slipped into your own. You started the engine, your fingers tightening around the steering wheel as you followed him down the street. The night was still and quiet, but your mind was racing, every second ticking by heavier than the last.

As the taillights disappeared around the corner, you followed.

No turning back now.

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

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

“No,” he says flatly. “Not yet.”

You raise a brow. “You scared?”

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

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

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

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

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

“She likes me,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a pause.

“You gonna wear something normal?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll play nice for now.

But you’re not walking into that house blind.

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

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

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

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

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

And then he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you.

Really looked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

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

You blinked. “That’s... tragic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t say much.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The office.

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

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

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

You flipped another page.

Behind you, the door clicked open.

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

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

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

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

“You’re trying to get caught.”

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

“This isn’t the plan.”

You turned on him. “Plans change.”

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

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

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

You didn’t move.

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

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

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

You didn’t answer.

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

“Now,” Simon repeated, voice low.

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

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

But then you heard it.

Footsteps.

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

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

And then his lips were on yours.

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

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

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

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

And then—

The door creaked.

You flinched, breath catching.

Simon didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t have time to reply.

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

But your heart was still pounding.

And Simon didn’t look any calmer than you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After dinner, Simon was nowhere to be seen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wasn’t wearing the mask.

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

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

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

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

Silence. Awkward stares. Where to start?

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

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

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

“Why are you smoking now, then?”

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

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

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

“No shit,” he replied.

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

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

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

“About?” He asked sharply.

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

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

“Simon—”

“Now you call me Simon?” He scoffed.

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

“Look, I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinked. “That's it? Seriously?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you it was complicated!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“George,” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed bitterly. “Oh, fuck off—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“N-No, I—”

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

“Please, just—”

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

“I can’t focus either!” You retorted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you going to run away now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you won’t be the last.”

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

He responded with a hum and a nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love?”

He smiled softly. “Love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wheels up in 20!”

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

“Si—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

crossposted on AO3.

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

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

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

None of this was helping you keep your cool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I have some of that?”

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

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

“You know me.”

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

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

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

Shit. Not her, too.

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

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

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

“Then be quick with it.”

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

“Micky…”

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

“Uh-huh…” She crossed her arms.

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

“What kind of things?”

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

“And?”

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

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

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

“George or Simon?”

You swallowed thickly. “Both.”

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

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

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

“W-Well, not really—”

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

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

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

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

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

“Micky…”

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

“I wasn’t going to.”

You sighed. “Good.”

“I was going to insult you instead.”

“What?”

“You are fucking dumb.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not crying into the snacks—”

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

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

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

You groaned. “What now?”

“Cap said it was important.”

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

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

Your pace slowed. “Nope.”

Kyle grabbed your arm. “Nope what?”

“Nope, I see where this is going.”

“Mick—”

“Nope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And we still don’t—”

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

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

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

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

Your eyes widened. “You what?”

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

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

“Excuse me?” 

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

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

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

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

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

It frightened you more than it should’ve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Johnny raised a brow.

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

“So then what was it?” Kyle asked.

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

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

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

“George,” Kyle said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…The bastard,” Johnny muttered.

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

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

“I saw that happen,” he muttered.

“You did?”

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

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

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

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

“Then make him,” Johnny said.

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

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

You almost smiled at that. Almost.

A soft beep went off from Price’s watch.

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

You nodded, exhaling long and deep.

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

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

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

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

The floor did look quite enticing.

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

Why did he have to feel so much?

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

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

Why did everything have to be so fucking complicated?

Why couldn’t you just fucking want him back?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was going to be difficult.

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

“Give me your hand.”

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

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

There it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Milena just shrugged. “Wealth opens doors.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Suisse National Bank…” He heard Laswell muse.

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

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

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

“It will be…”

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

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

You smirked. “Jackpot.”

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

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

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

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

“Give him your print,” Simon urged.

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

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

“One more push and we got her…”

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

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

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

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

But time was running short.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t budge.

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

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

“Good chat,” Simon deadpanned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simon briefly wished yours were closer to his instead.

No. She doesn’t like you. Remember.

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

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

Fucking hell.

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

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

It twisted Simon’s guts.

He wanted to kiss you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you let me through?”

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

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

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

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

This was the end.

crossposted on AO3.

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

You were falling.

Falling. Falling. Falling. Falling.

Down. Down. Down. Down.

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

This was the end.

There was no escaping this.

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

Everything went white. Then blue. Then black.

You couldn’t move.

Darkness.

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

Saltwater.

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

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

The cockpit.

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

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

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

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

Simon was gone, too.

Fuck.

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

“Simon!” You yelled, fear creeping in.

No response.

Only thunder.

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

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

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

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

No trace of Simon.

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

But there was no response.

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

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

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

It was like a graveyard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then—

A flash of white. Hard bone. A skull.

Simon.

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

No no no please please please—

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

He’s gone. He’s dead. You killed him.

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

Nothing.

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

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

You killed him.

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

Get to the shore NOW.

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

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

No. No. It couldn’t be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. No. No. Not now. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hands trembled.

He still wasn’t responding.

Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer.

You killed him.

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

Nononononononononononononononononononononononono—

This couldn’t be happening.

Killer.

He couldn’t be dead.

You fucking killed him.

He couldn’t be fucking dead.

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

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

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

Killer. Killer. Killer.

You acted on impulse. Instinct. Inertia.

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

Your stomach dropped. The world shifted around you.

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

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

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

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

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

George’s lifeless eyes stared at you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Wake up.”

Your voice broke into a scream.

“WAKE UP!”

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

“WAKE THE FUCK UP!”

Simon jolted awake.

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

He was breathing.

He was alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

crossposted on AO3.

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You really messed up everything — Ful Stop, Radiohead

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

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

Simon felt lightheaded.

What the hell did just happen?

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

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

Gone.

Escaped his grasp once again.

No explanation given.

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

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

Did he do something wrong?

Was he at fault?

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

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

Was it too soon?

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

She wanted this.

Did she?

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

She wanted me. She wants me.

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

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

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

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

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

Simon couldn’t sleep after that.

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

He had been so close to making things right.

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

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

Since when did Simon Riley had feelings?

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

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

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

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

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

Right now, it wasn’t letting him sleep.

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

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

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

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

His phone rang.

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

Kate Laswell.

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

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

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

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

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

That wasn’t possible.

That wasn’t fucking possible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He moved on instinct.

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no time for this, he thought.

“It’s Makarov,” Simon clarified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ll handle it,” Simon muttered.

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

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

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

Simon went rigid.

Fuck.

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

“Ye haven’t,” Johnny guessed.

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

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

Simon blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One step forward, three steps back.

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

Coward. Coward. Coward.

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

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

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

Good, he thought.

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

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “No.”

“Me neither.”

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

“Again with that?”

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

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

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

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

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

“It is to me.”

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

You sighed. “Let’s go.”

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

“Tell me you don’t want me.”

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

“I—”

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

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

Then—

“I can’t.”

His heart stopped.

“You can’t what?”

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

“I can’t want you.”

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

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

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

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

Then you turned around and walked up the ramp.

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

And it fucking hurt.

crossposted on AO3.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kyle snorted. “Baseless claims, really.”

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

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

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

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

Your brows furrowed. When he put it like that… 

“He said all those things?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oi,” he smirked. “Ain’t everything?”

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

He shrugged. “Soap’s still here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t deserve a friend like him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With Price gone, Simon was in charge.

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

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

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

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

Outside, though? That was different. 

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

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

So, you continued your quiet little dance.

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

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

Still, you felt him everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until the door swung open behind you.

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

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

“Mick.”

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

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

“We need to talk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong with Johnny?”

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

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

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

“Michaela,” he warned.

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

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

Oh, so that’s how it is?

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

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

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

He stared hard at you. “And?”

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

He sighed. “For fuck’s sake, Mick.”

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

“I was drunk,” he defended quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

Now you were less than a foot apart.

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

You eyed him defiantly. “Is it?”

“You’re afraid,” he said.

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

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

He’s right.

He knows.

He sees right through you.

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

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

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

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

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

“And you are in denial.”

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

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

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

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

One step forward. One step back.

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

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

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

“Never said I was,” he replied.

“Then why—”

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

Your back hit the edge of the dryer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His admission made you blush harder.

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s when your lips finally met.

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

He just kissed you.

Too short.

You wanted more.

You shouldn’t have wanted more.

You should’ve bolted out of there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shook your head.

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

Stop this.

“Don’t,” you whispered back.

His breath hitched. “Don’t what?”

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

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

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

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

So eager, so quickly.

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

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

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

He smirked against your lips but obeyed. For now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you whispered.

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

A whole conversation transpired in that stare.

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

Please, yours replied.

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

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

He kneeled.

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

His tongue felt like magic.

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

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

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

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

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

He was jerking off.

He was fucking getting off on this.

He got off on eating you out.

Jesus Christ.

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

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

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

“Look at me, Michaela.”

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

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

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

You did as told. For him, you did.

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

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

Too much, too much, too much.

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

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

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

That was all it took.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck did you just do?

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

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

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

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

This must be an ethics code violation in some way.

You let yourself go.

Fickle bitch.

Everyone will know about this. Everybody will find out.

Command will find out you did this.

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

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

You were spiralling.

This is so not right.

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

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

Simon is going to die in your arms.

Whore. Sinner. You should be ashamed of yourself.

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

You won’t be able to save him.

You don’t deserve him.

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

You don’t deserve him.

You don’t deserve love.

Killer. Traitor. Useless.

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

You’re going to kill him.

You deserve to be alone.

Weak.

You can’t have him.

Your hands shook as you pulled out the final towel.

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

You needed to get out of there.

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

You needed to get out of there now.

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

You’re going to kill him.

You’re going to be the death of him.

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

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

But he did, sadly. He always fucking noticed.

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

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

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

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

When you made it to your room, you dropped the basket on the floor, and leaned against the door, finally breaking down into sobs, as the image of Simon bleeding out on the field tormented you over and over and over.

crossposted on AO3.

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I don’t know what to do when she makes me mad — Vermillion pt. 2, Slipknot

Simon was a cunt.

No sugarcoating. No beating around the bush. Simon is, was, and has always been a Class A cunt. He thought he had it figured out by now. He thought he knew his limits.

There were no limits, apparently, for his stupidity.

He didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did. Hell, he shouldn't have opened his mouth in the first place, but he did. He just couldn't help himself, with all your snapping and foul mood.

The way your eyes widened in panic at the pub was imprinted in his brain, taunting him constantly for fucking up yet once more. Guilt wracked his whole body for the following week, exacerbated by the fact that you were clearly avoiding him. But how could you not? Simon had exposed your fantasies to the whole team, hell, perhaps the entire fucking pub. He’d seriously overstepped this time.

He had to make it right somehow.

As soon as they’d made it back to the barracks that night, Simon drunkenly attempted to barge into your room. Didn’t even think—just moved, let instinct guide him, let that overwhelming, twisting feeling in his gut drag him to your door like some pathetic moth to a flame.

But before he could even reach the handle, he was yanked back by Price, an iron grip locking around his arm. Then Garrick stepped in, hand pressed firm to Simon’s chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“Y’don’t understand,” he’d said, words slurring as his body swayed, vision swimming. He’d forgotten just how many pints he’d had. “I fucked up.”

“Did you? Didn’t realise, mate,” Garrick snapped, the hand on his chest keeping him steady. Johnny was holding Simon by the shoulders to prevent him from collapsing. “She doesn't want to see you. You’ve done enough damage already.”

“Come on, mate,” Johnny said, adjusting his grip when Simon stumbled. “Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

But Simon wasn’t listening. His mind was on you.

Your face—your expression after he said those words, how you looked at him like he’d stripped you bare in front of everyone. Like he’d betrayed you. You couldn’t even look at him after that.

A lump lodged itself in his throat.

“I just…” Simon blinked sluggishly, shaking his head, swaying slightly as nausea coiled in his stomach. His hands clenched into fists. “I—I need to talk to her.”

Garrick’s expression darkened.

“Kyle,” Price warned.

But Garrick didn’t back down.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Garrick’s voice was flat, frustration barely concealed. “You humiliated her.” His eyes bored into Simon’s, expression taut with something dangerous. “You made her feel small. You think she wants to hear whatever the fuck you have to say right now?”

Simon’s stomach curled. A flicker of something tight and suffocating clawed at his ribs, winding up his throat.

“I—”

The words died in his mouth. His head swam. His throat burned. And then, suddenly—

His body lurched. His stomach flipped.

Johnny barely had time to react before Simon wrenched himself away, staggering down the hall in a mess of stumbling limbs and muttered curses, one hand clamping over his mouth as he ran toward the nearest bathroom.

He barely made it in time.

Collapsing to his knees, he gripped the rim of the toilet, heaving up every last bit of alcohol until his throat was raw and his stomach ached.

His mind spun.

Distantly, he could hear someone outside—Johnny, probably—muttering something, voice too muffled to make out. He didn’t care. Instead, he braced himself over the toilet, head pressed against the cool porcelain, breathing heavy.

His chest ached.

Absolutely fucking great, Simon. Great job. Now she hates you. She won't even look at you. She's disgusted by you. She won’t let you explain. Won’t let you fix it. Won’t let you in. You've driven her away once again.

The following week was fucking excruciating, to say the least. You pretended he didn’t exist. Didn’t spare him a glance. Didn’t acknowledge him in the hallways. During drills, you were composed, movements sharp and precise, but you may as well have been a fucking ghost to him. You brushed past him without a word. Without so much as a look.

And now Garrick had fucking snatched you away to London for the weekend. Of course he had.

Didn’t fucking bother to look behind you as the door closed.

Simon watched you climb into his car. Watched as he opened and closed the door for you. Watched you two speed away from him.

Simon didn’t know whether he preferred your cold indifference or not having you around at all.

But one thing was sure—you were on your way back now. Maybe Simon could finally pull you aside and explain himself. Put this behind you. Make sure you understood. Maybe.

He wore himself out at the gym today, channelling all his stress into every punch, every kick. The punching bag almost gave out, too.

Sticky with sweat, Simon had barely taken two steps toward his room when a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder. Before he could react, another grabbed his arm, and suddenly, he was being dragged back toward the living room.

“What the fuck—”

He was forcibly sat down on the couch. Johnny and Price stood over him like two executioners preparing to pass judgment.

“Gaz called,” Price said, arms crossed. “ETA is one hour. Need you on your best behaviour.”

Simon stared, bewildered, between Price, who looked fed up, and Johnny, who appeared way too excited. Frankly, he wasn’t sure which was worse.

“I just need to apologise, I know,” Simon sighed.

“Aye, since all ye do is open yer mouth and piss her off,” Johnny began.

He rolled his eyes. “I do not—”

“If it were me,” Johnny continued, “ye’d need more than just a wee apology.”

Simon’s jaw tensed. “She always fuckin’ runs away without giving me a chance to explain.”

This was not easy. At all. Especially not with Price here. Johnny, he could talk to more frankly, but Price? He respected the man, he really did, and he knew he had the best intentions, but stupid crushes weren’t exactly the Captain’s forte.

Simon didn’t appreciate being cornered like this.

“We done here?” He snapped, standing up.

A hand on his chest. A firm shove.

“You are not going anywhere,” Price said.

Simon glared. Price stared right back, unimpressed, like he was dealing with an insubordinate recruit instead of a fully grown man. Johnny was practically vibrating with suppressed amusement.

Silence.

Then: “Do you like Mick?”

Simon’s stomach dropped. His pulse spiked. His fingers twitched. Something in his brain short-circuited.

“Seriously?” His voice came out strained, like the words were being wrung out of him.

Price shrugged, unfazed. “I mean, everyone can tell.”

“Aye,” Soap nodded.

Simon sent him a death glare.

“But I need to hear it directly from you,” Price continued, scratching his beard with the casualness of someone discussing the weather. “Because this is getting out of hand.”

Simon’s face heated up under the mask, no doubt as red as a tomato. How fucking embarrassing, he thought. Can’t escape this, can’t I?

Johnny only stared at him expectantly, arms crossed. “Well?”

Simon scanned the two men. “Is this… is this an intervention?”

“What else would it be, ye bastard?” Johnny shot back.

Simon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “For fuck’s sake.”

Price exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “Just answer the damn question.”

“Christ—”

“Well?” Johnny pressed, grinning. “What’s the verdict, LT? Ye wanna fuck her, marry her, or run her over with a truck?”

“Johnny.”

“Look, mate, I’m just tryin’ to make sense of the situation—”

“None of those options,” Simon gritted out.

“Right,” Johnny said, rolling his eyes. “Because you, Simon fucking Riley, are definitely the picture of emotional indifference when it comes to Mick.”

Simon inhaled deeply through his nose, then exhaled.

Price levelled him with a stare. “Are you actually gonna answer, or are you just gonna sit there and glare at us all night?”

Silence.

“…I don’t know.”

Johnny snorted. “Bollocks.”

Simon clenched his jaw. “I don’t.”

“You do,” Price said. “You just don’t wanna admit it.”

His head throbbed. He was this close to getting up and walking out, but somehow he knew that wouldn’t work.

“Alright,” Johnny said, leaning forward. “Let’s take a different approach, then. What exactly did ye hear through the wall?”

Simon stiffened. His stomach flipped.

Johnny grinned. “Ah. There it is.”

Price sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Soap.”

“What? I’m just sayin’, it was clearly somethin’—”

Again, Simon felt his skin flare up. Getting cornered like this was enough humiliation already. Now he was getting questioned?

“I shouldn’t have said that, I know,” Simon acknowledged painstakingly. Shit, if he felt like he was put on the spot just in front of them, he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must’ve felt like for you.

Bastard, bastard, bastard.

“But you did,” Johnny said. “Now spill.”

“Soap,” Price said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t.”

Johnny visibly deflated. 

Price sighed and looked at Simon. “Look,” he began, “I don’t care if you two fuck or not. Just fix this, for fuck’s sake. I want what’s best for the team and, right now, your constant fights are negatively affecting the team’s dynamic, and we can’t have that. You two might be professionals and put your differences aside on the field, but that is not a guarantee that your personal grievances will endanger us in the future.”

Simon wanted to look away in shame. He stayed quiet.

“It’s my fault, too, for letting it get this far,” Price said. “I should’ve done this months ago. But this ends now. You are going to fix it. I don’t care how.”

Silence.

A muscle feathered in Simon’s jaw. He exhaled sharply, hands braced against his knees. Then, finally, he spoke.

“She’s been driving me insane for months.” His voice was clipped, every word strained as if it physically pained him to admit it. “Since the first time we sparred—no, way before that. Since she fucking arrived. I don’t know how to deal with her.”

Johnny and Price both went dead silent.

Simon rubbed a hand down his face, his entire body tense. “She gets under my fucking skin. Every time I see her, I can’t think straight. She acts like I’m the problem, but then she’s the one watching me, lingering, standing too fucking close—” His teeth ground together. “And then the gym thing happened.”

Johnny and Price exchanged a look.

“The gym thing?” Johnny asked, slow and suspicious.

Simon’s jaw locked. He wasn’t going to explain it in detail, for fuck’s sake. The worst thing he could do right now was to admit he almost came in his pants just from touching you.

“She—” He huffed, looking at a very interested Soap. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It absolutely matters.”

Simon rolled his shoulders back, unwilling to be dragged into that conversation. “And then she runs away whenever I try to talk to her. It’s fucking maddening.” His voice tightened. “But then she does things—little things. Looks at me a certain way. Lingers. Gets so fucking close sometimes I swear she does it on purpose. But the second I get close, she shuts me out. Like I’m some threat.”

“…And the moaning?” Johnny prompted, barely restraining his grin.

Simon sent him the nastiest glare imaginable.

“I should punch you in the face.”

Johnny cackled, and even Price let out a tired exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Simon sighed heavily, leaning forward, forearms braced against his knees. “I don’t know what to do with her,” he admitted with a defeated sigh.

Johnny bit the inside of his cheek, nodding. “To be fair, me neither.”

Price let out a slow, exasperated breath, rubbing his temples like he was resisting the urge to bash both their heads together.

Before any of them could say anything more, the front door opened. A burst of cool evening air rushed in, and then, you and Garrick stepped inside.

Simon froze.

You stood in the doorway, eyes puffy and deep set, skin slightly pale from fatigue. Your expression was unreadable—guarded in a way that made Simon’s stomach twist.

Garrick scanned the room, brows subtly raising as he took in the scene before him, standing awkwardly at the threshold. “Uhh, hi?”

Simon barely heard him. His attention was on you.

You stood there for a moment, eyes flicking between the three men before finally settling on Simon. Something tightened in his chest.

“I’m… going to my room,” you said, voice raspy and raw, suddenly avoiding Simon’s gaze. You sniffled. Had you been crying on the way here? “Need to sleep.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Price nod. You quickly brushed past everyone and made your way to the hallway. Automatically, Simon followed you, the need to talk to you greater than anything else at the moment.

“Mick,” he called after you. “Can we talk?”

However, before Simon could reach the hallway, Garrick spoke.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Simon stopped in his tracks. Your bedroom door clicked shut quickly. Again, you’d evaded his grasp. He took a long, deep breath, then turned back.

“Why don’t you fuck off, Garrick? This is none of your business.”

Garrick cocked an eyebrow and finally set foot inside the flat. “I think it is very much my business,” he said arrogantly. “That’s my Lieutenant that you’re trying to harass into a conversation she doesn’t want.”

“Oh, your Lieutenant?” Simon snapped, blood boiling in his veins. This was the last fucking straw with the boy. “I see. You want to fuck her? That what it is?”

Price sighed. “Simon, don’t—”

Johnny groaned. “Why don’t we all calm down—”

But Garrick was having none of it. “See, unlike you, I actually give a fuck about her wellbeing. I don’t think with my cock.”

Simon’s right eyelid twitched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Garrick stepped forward.

Price groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“It means,” Garrick said, voice low, “that if you actually cared about her, you’d leave her the fuck alone.”

“And who the fuck are you to know what she needs?”

Garrick sneered, closer than ever. “I’m her fuckin’ friend, you wanker.”

Simon’s hands balled into fists. The air was thick—charged with tension, with something primal, something ugly. The second Garrick’s jaw ticked, Simon knew he was about to take a swing—

A soft creak cut through the tension. The sound of a door opening.

All four of them froze.

Simon turned his head—and there you were. Standing just down the hall, door open, holding a water bottle. Your face was blank. Expression unreadable.

Simon’s throat tightened. “Mick—”

You didn’t look at any of them. You simply exhaled quietly and walked toward the kitchen.

Garrick gripped Simon’s shoulder, voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t say anything. You’ll only make it worse.”

Simon’s fingers twitched again. He watched as you filled your water bottle, moving through the kitchen with slow, tired movements. When you finished, you didn’t spare them a glance. You left the kitchen, walking right past them, disappearing back into your room, locking the door behind you.

Simon swallowed thickly. A heavy silence followed.

Johnny sighed, rubbing his hands down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Price exhaled. “We’re never fixing this, are we?”

Simon just stood there, watching the hallway, a deep ache spreading across his chest.

Johnny took a slow drag of his cigarette.

It had been a while since he last smoked. He tried not to make a habit of it—Simon had slowly been influencing him to stop smoking altogether—but sometimes he just needed a fucking drag to take the edge off.

Crickets chirped in the distance, hidden beneath the bushes and trees that adorned the barrack’s driveway. Most residents of their building were already asleep, except for Kyle, Price, and him, who haunted the quiet street like spectres.

Kyle took a drag of his own cig. Like him, Kyle was an occasional smoker, though he’d been taking smoke breaks more often than not these days.

“Mick ain’t ready,” he said, puffs of smoke leaving his mouth. “She’s been through a lot.”

“Did she tell you somethin’?” Price asked, balancing on the balls of his feet. Johnny hadn’t seen his Captain so restless in a while.

Kyle nodded, then looked down at the pavement while trying to gather his thoughts. “She, uhh… She told me things about her past. Her time with the SEALs.”

Johnny urged him on. “Well?”

Kyle sighed, then took another drag. “S’ classified.”

Johnny and Price groaned in unison.

“You’re truly not good at this, Kyle,” Price said, scratching his forehead.

“Listen,” he began, “I already broke my promise to keep quiet about the gym thing. This is personal. Deeply fucking personal. I won’t betray her trust like that. Anyway, that information is only contextual. What I can tell you about it is that Mick has lost people before, and that is the reason why she is so afraid to talk to Simon.”

“But she likes him, yes?” Price asked.

“Yes,” Kyle said. “Took a while to get her to admit it, but yes.”

“I’ll be fucked,” Johnny muttered. “So not only do they both like each other, but they’re also idiots about it.”

Kyle shrugged. “S’ complicated.”

“You tell me,” Price said, throwing his used cigarette butt into the pavement and smothering it with his shoe.

“She cried in my arms back in London,” Kyle said. “Fully broke down. I’m worried about her. S’ not lookin’ pretty.”

Johnny pursed his lips. “Well, what are we supposed ta do ‘bout Simon, then?”

“Wish I knew,” Price admitted. “If what Kyle says is true, then we can’t force them to talk.”

Kyle nodded in agreement. “I don’t think she’s ready.”

“But Simon is driving us all insane,” Johnny argued. “It’s been a week. He wants ta apologise but the lass won’t let ‘im. He’s right about her avoiding him. I get why he’s mad.”

“Yeah, but how could she not? She’s overwhelmed,” Kyle reasoned.

Johnny crossed his arms. “At some point she has to get over it, as harsh as it sounds.”

Price stood between the two Sergeants. Johnny could picture the gears turning in his head. Never in a million years could any of them imagine being stuck in a situation such as this one. For once in their career they were openly discussing feelings, and it wasn’t just about team dynamics. Johnny liked this new development, seeing the more introspective sides of his mates. It was long overdue.

“I’ll talk to her,” Price said. “Maybe she’ll listen to me.”

“She’s a stubborn thing,” Kyle reminded him.

Price grinned. “But I’m her Captain.”

The three chuckled slightly, but the late-night silence was soon disturbed by Price’s phone ringing.

“Sorry,” he said, fishing his phone out of his pocket, “better take this. It’s Laswell.”

As Price stepped away into the street to take the call, Johnny looked at Kyle and continued smoking.

“Hurts to see them both like this,” Johnny admitted.

Kyle hummed in agreement. “They’re both trapped in prisons of their own making. I just hope they find it in themselves to break free.”

“Aye,” Johnny said, watching Price’s body tense during the call. Whatever information Laswell was relaying couldn’t be good. “Let’s hope.”

crossposted on AO3.

taglist: @joufrance @callsign-denmark @lostintro @readingthingy @maskfan25 @theonottsblog @ficcharsimp @defronix @sarcasticwalrus0 @nina-from-317 @w0ede @jamesrifftapes @simons-missus @ofthesouthernislesjohn @dumbledoom @kittykatgorl @lolo1821 @aikojwhpa

This is the sound of me hitting bottom — Smiling, Alanis Morissette

You hadn’t moved from your spot by the window all morning.

His flat was lovely—an inheritance from his favourite uncle who passed away childless. Lots of the furniture had been his, with some new appliances and bookshelves bought by Kyle in recent years, slowly mixing the old with the new. It was timeless.

And it had a very comfortable windowsill which you’d been hogging since 10 AM.

Kyle had tried his damnedest to distract you, to get you to see the sights. He paraded you around Central London the entire day, but despite his best efforts, you still felt hollow inside.

The street below was quiet, almost calm. Every once in a while, a car would pass by, but it was mostly people out and about, enjoying the sunshine, walking their dogs, joking around with friends and family. A stark contrast to the cloudy static in your mind.

You kept tapping the rim of your porcelain mug with your nail. Despite sitting still, you were restless. Thoughts circled you menacingly. You dared not revisit them, nor touch any of them. You let them come and go, as you often did when anxiety took hold of you. But this time it wasn’t working. They were pushing you. Prodding. Taunting.

Why did Simon have to open his mouth?

Just a week after that fatidic night, things weren’t looking good at all. Not for anyone. Not for Simon. Especially not for you. After that Sunday, you spent the entire week finding every possible excuse to avoid even looking at Simon. You couldn’t hide your shame, disdain, and anger, and you were sure if that man opened his mouth in your direction, you were either going to flee, or scream at him. 

Your dreams were getting worse, too. Your subconscious tortured you with images of what could’ve been—Simon knocking on your door, late at night, after listening to your moans through the wall, and finishing the job himself. Fucking you senseless. You swore you could even feel his weight on top of you.

In truth, you were mortified he even heard it at all. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was your fault, in the end, for giving in. This mess wouldn’t have happened if you’d stuck to your vows in the first place. 

And then he had the gall to say it out loud?

Granted, he was drunk. People did stupid things while drunk. But that still wasn’t an excuse. Now the rest of the team knew you rubbed one out to the thought of him. Now you were left exposed. Weak. Vulnerable.

You heard Kyle humming to himself in the kitchen, making lunch for both of you. You could smell the basil from here.

In his defense, he hadn’t uttered a single word about what Simon said. Instead, bartered with Price to get you two the weekend off, and whisked you away to London as soon as your shifts were done on Friday.

You had to give him credit. He tried his best to cheer you up, taking you to the Tate and to the typical touristy sites, taking pictures of you with his old camera, and even taking you out for lunch with his parents. His mom was a wonderful lady, and his dad looked exactly like him, personality and all. Carbon copies.

For a moment, you’d forgotten about Simon’s existence, but the nagging feeling at the pit of your stomach returned with force after you made your way back to his flat.

You wondered, while looking wistfully out the window, why you couldn’t like Kyle romantically instead of Simon. He seemed like the better option. Smooth, attentive, good listener, handsome, open, kind. The perfect man. Simon was raw punishment, frayed nerves, and lust that threatened to consume you whole. The longer you let your feelings for Simon sit, the more they felt like a curse.

Kyle didn’t push you after the argument. Instead, he let you cry and cry and cry in his car until your tears had dried and your head pounded, and then bid you goodnight in front of your room with some paracetamol. 

You tried to sleep the anger away, but you were too restless, and at some point in the night, between fading states of consciousness, you heard a commotion outside your bedroom door. Raised voices. Anger. You couldn’t make out what was said, for sleep overtook you right then. Kyle never talked about what happened.

“Doll,” Kyle said, gently grabbing your shoulder to not startle you. “Lunch’s ready.”

The table was already set—Kyle had made pesto spaghetti with some grilled salmon—and just then you realized how long you’d truly been sitting there, contemplating (or more like brooding).

You ate in silence. Your movements were slow. Heavy. Sluggish. Kyle didn’t ask you shit about Simon, and while you appreciated that he gave you your space, you couldn’t help but feel like you were slowly drowning in a puddle of your own making. This was eating you alive.

After lunch, you sat on the floor of his living room, playing Go Fish. There was still some time left before you had to return to base at 4 pm, and you still hadn’t packed your stuff, but Kyle insisted on distracting you yet again.

“I wish I could stay here a bit longer,” you confessed after drawing a card from the pile.

“Not ready to go back to base?” Kyle asked, studying his own deck of cards.

You shook your head.

“Do you have any eights?” He asked.

Again, you shook your head. “Go fish.”

While Kyle grabbed a card, your phone vibrated on the coffee table. You leaned closer to inspect. A text from Johnny.

Johnny: hey bon when are u coming back home??? LT is driving us insane with his moping

Home. 

Johnny said home. Were the barracks home? You’d never thought of it that way. Should you? The barracks were just dorms. A place to sleep. It was your base. Home was in Miami with Mom and Dad and your sisters. Home was your old room, untouched, just the way you left it at 18. Home was the safety of George’s arms around you. But that home didn’t exist anymore, did it?

A knot formed in your throat.

After Johnny, a text from Simon followed immediately. Another one, amidst the hundreds he’d sent throughout the week, and just like the others, left unopened.

Riley: Mick, I’m sorry.

You debated opening it. You really did. But in the end, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You couldn’t. Honestly, you didn’t know what was worse: ignoring him, or acknowledging him.

“Mick,” Kyle said. “What’s wrong?”

It was your turn again. You’d gotten distracted.

You locked your phone and set it face-down on the table, straightening up. “Soap’s asking when we’re coming back.”

Kyle sighed and grabbed his phone. “I’ll let him know we’ll be there for dinner.”

You nodded, and the living room fell into silence as he typed. You couldn’t bear this any longer. This silence. Walking on eggshells just to avoid upsetting you further.

“Thank you.” Your voice was small, but in the silence of his living room, it sounded clear. Anything to fill the silence. “For bringing me here. For everything.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, setting his phone down. “To be fair, I was getting rather annoyed in there. You and I deserved a break.”

“It’s my fault,” you said shamefully.

Kyle scoffed. “No, it’s not, Mick. Simon’s just got his head up his arse.”

“He was telling the truth, you know? About me.”

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

You looked down at your deck of cards, still in hand. “That I… well. He heard me. Through the wall.”

Kyle sighed and clenched his jaw. “Whether it was the truth or not, he shouldn’t have said that.” He paused for a moment, debating whether to continue. “I told him, y’know? After you’d gone to sleep, they arrived hours later, and Simon went straight to knock on your door, but Price stopped him. I almost knocked his teeth out.”

Your eyes widened. So that was what happened outside your bedroom when you were trying to sleep. You wondered exactly what Kyle and Price told Simon, how Kyle had probably clenched his fists and bit his tongue, dying to sucker punch his CO, but forced to hold back.

Still… 

“He was trying to apologise?”

He gave you a look. “Were you going to forgive him?”

Your fingers trembled slightly, and you put your cards down on the table. “I… don’t know.”

“Are you going to forgive him?”

“I don’t know, Kyle,” you snapped now, voice firm. “Are you?”

He raised his hands in defeat. “This ain’t my problem to solve, doll.”

“Sorry,” you sighed. “I shouldn’t—” Your voice broke, and the knot in your throat tightened. Another sigh. You hid your face in your hands. “I’m sorry.” You took deep breaths to steady yourself. All this crying was getting tiring. “He’s so fucking frustrating.”

Kyle rested his head back on the edge of the couch. “Okay, so tell him that.”

You rubbed your eyes and wiped the tears away. “You think I haven’t?”

“I’m just saying,” he began. “Just saying you two need to talk. It’s only a matter of time before Price stages an intervention, because this,” he waved his hands around, “is getting out of hand.”

It’s your fault, your conscience told you. The team is falling apart and it’s all because of you. You’re useless. You’re a distraction. You’re a liability. They don’t want you.

You shook your head. “I don’t think I’m capable of talking to him. Not right now, at least.”

“If not now, then when, Mick?” Kyle snapped. “When you’ve finally worked out that you like him?”

You scoffed. “I don’t—”

“Don’t what? You don’t like him? Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

“Kyle—”

“Look, doll. You know I care about you, alright? A lot. I'm saying this as your friend: you need to get your head out of your ass. You like him. Admit it.”

Silence.

You bit your lip. It was slightly cold inside his flat, and you shivered. But this time Kyle offered no consolation. No. He was staring you down with the resignation of a father scolding his troubled teen. For the first time, Kyle was being a hardass, and you knew perfectly that you deserved it.

“It scares me,” you finally admitted. It was time to. You had to tell him. Your hands flew to your tags, fiddling with the metal, thumb running over George’s name. You had the grooves and indents committed to memory.

Kyle’s brows scrunched in confusion, but he didn’t speak.

You kept going. “I… I’ve been here before. In this position. I know what it’s like to like someone on your team. I swore to myself I wouldn’t make that same mistake again.”

Now Kyle looked utterly confused. This was new to him. “You… what?”

You held each other’s gaze for a moment. Your throat tightened again. Tears welled up in your eyes, but this time you didn’t wipe them away.

“During my rookie year with the SEALs, I became close with my CO. He saw me in ways other people didn't. He was safe. He didn’t judge me like my team mates, and… it was friendly at first, but…”

His face fell. “You fell in love with him.”

“And he fell for me, too.” You smiled forlornly. “We tried to fight it at first. He was my captain, after all, but… it was too much. We couldn’t handle it. So we started seeing each other in secret.”

As you talked, Kyle watched you—a mix between horror, understanding, and curiosity.

“Nobody knew. Ever. We were very good at keeping it hidden. We went on like that for several years. My mates thought I was just the teacher’s pet, basically. At least that thought kept them at bay.”  Tears rolled down your cheeks freely. Apart from the Laswells and your family, this was the first time you’d ever opened up about George. Not even Price knew about this. “We had a dream, y’know? Getting married. Having kids. A house with a fence and lots of pets. The whole thing. He even proposed to me during a mission. It was a stupid thing to do, but he did it anyway.”

Kyle was astounded. “Mick…”

You swallowed thickly. “He… He was killed in action weeks after proposing to me.” The knot in your throat got tighter. “We were on a mission in Central Africa. Hostage rescue. We managed to get them all safe, but I got shot before exfil. George covered me while the others disposed of the hostiles. He didn’t see the guys behind us.”

Kyle paled.

“They shot him sixteen times,” your voice broke, but you kept your composure. “I was on the floor, bleeding out, useless, watching him get shot. He bled out in my arms and I couldn't even talk from the pain. He died looking at me.”

Your lip quievered. It was getting harder and harder to speak. “My team mates never looked at me the same. They already didn’t like me very much, whereas they loved George to death. In their eyes, had I not been a stupid bitch and gotten shot, George would still be alive.”

Kyle starred at you in horror. “Mick…”

“I can’t like simon,” your breath was shaky. “If-if I do—”

“Don’t say that.”

“—I will kill him. I'm going to kill him, Kyle. He's going to die and it will be my fault. That's how these things end. It’s fuckin’ useless.” You choked out a sob. “What I want doesn’t matter.”

“You don’t know that, Mick.”

You shook your head. “I do. I've lived through it. And it almost fucking killed me. I can’t go through that again.” Scalding hot tears spilled down your cheeks as you cried. “I can't. I can't go back to that. I don't think I can handle… my heart getting broken again.”

Your body shook with the force of your sobs. This was it. You were finally letting it all out, after months, years of shutting everyone out. Kyle just scooted closer and put an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer until your head rested on his chest. He didn’t say anything. He just let you bawl your eyes out.

“God, and he’s so…” You stammered, frustration knotting your throat. “S-So infuriating. It’s like he wants to humiliate me sometimes.”

“I'm sure that’s not his actual intention,” he said gently. “You know he’s not good with words. Or thoughts.”

“I hated him so much at first, I really did,” you said, weeping into his grey cotton shirt. “I don’t even know when this started. But I want it to end. Now.”

“You can’t just do that, doll,” he said, his voice a low hum reverberating through his firm chest. 

A choked sob wracked through you, frustration spilling out in thick, uneven gasps. “I’ve tried. I have tried so fucking hard, Kyle.”

You cried for a while—about Simon, about how much of a bastard he was, about how he never said anything but his actions always felt like a confession. You cried about the way he watched you, the way he lingered in doorways, the way his voice always softened when he said your name. Kyle listened to it all without judging.

And then, between sniffles and bitter laughs, you whispered, “George saw me as I was.” A shaky exhale. “But Simon… he sees through me.”

Kyle went still.

Your voice cracked. “It terrifies me.”

After your sobs had subsided somewhat, Kyle finally said: “It’s worse if you repress it.”

You shook your head. “It’s worse if I let it happen.”

“Is it, really?” He said, letting the question hang in the air before continuing. “And don’t talk to me about fraternisation. Don’t think about that. It’s a non-issue. Think. Would it be that bad if something happened between the two of you?”

You sniffled, throat raw and eyes puffy. “I don’t think I wanna find out, Kyle. I just want to be at peace.”

His hand twitched over your shoulder. You knew he wanted to say more, but bit his tongue. It was no use. Instead, he pulled you into a warm hug, and let your breathing even out.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said.

On the coffee table, your phone kept vibrating every now and then. You knew who it was. You didn’t bother to check.

crossposted on AO3.

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Hennessy and a lot of bad decisions - Bad Decisions, Bad Omens

Kyle wasn’t a fan of bonding time.

Not that he was antisocial (he wasn’t Simon), nor did he hate his team mates (he, in fact, actually liked them). No. It was the awkwardness that bonding time thrust upon him. The sheer torture of it all.

It was because you and Simon always managed to ruin the night for everyone with your bloody bickering.

He still remembered the dip incident almost two months ago. How Simon essentially stormed off after you’d sprayed him. That was one of the milder cases. During your earlier months Johnny and him had to physically restrain you to stop an all-out brawl when playing Uno.

Kyle had the feeling this time was no different—if you took away the fact that you and Simon were crazy for each other and were two seconds away from imploding.

No big deal. Nope.

Emotionally constipated cunts.

He knocked on your door at 4 PM. Price had called for official bonding time outside the base. It was a Sunday, so they were allowed to go into town for some R&R, and that included participating in a pub quiz (Price’s words).

So not only was his plan lame as fuck, he was forced to follow through as well.

Couldn’t it just have been a movie night? That would’ve been much easier. Sit you two together, force you to share a bowl of popcorn and a blanket, put on a racy movie, and give you some wine. Let nature take its course. Not this convoluted mess.

You opened the door and let him in, leaving it wide open. You were “airing out the room”. The windows were open, too. The citric, lemony scent of floor cleaner wafted through the air.

“Busy mornin’?” He asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame.

“Bled through my sheets and had to wash ‘em,” you said casually and sighed, plopping on the edge of the bed. “Figured I’d deep clean the entire room while at it, but now I have these stupid cramps beatin’ the hell out of me.”

He nodded. “Need paracetamol?”

You shook your head. God, he could see how deep your dark circles were. He’d never seen you so drained. 

“Already had two, but thanks.”

You sighed again, and patted the space next to you. Kyle took the invitation and sat down on the bed as you tied your boots.

“What’s wrong, doll?” He asked softly. “And don’t say your period. I know it’s more than that.”

“I just had a rough night, that’s all,” you said, but Kyle could see through the lie. It was definitely more than just a rough night. “Too tired to go out, anyway. But I guess it the Captain insists…”

See? Even she don’t wanna go. Fuckin’ pointless, this is.

It was Soap’s plan, actually, and a terrible one at that. But Price had the authority to execute it. Both men were so invested in getting you and Simon to fuck that they’d forgotten that, right now, it was the last thing you needed.

“Would’ve been better off playin’ Uno. We haven’t had a game night in weeks,” he said. 

“And then have Price wipe the floor with us again?” You scoffed. “No thanks.”

Kyle laughed, and silence fell. Not awkward, no. Silences with you were never awkward. Tense, maybe. But never awkward. He never felt like he had to fill the silence when around you. It was something he enjoyed about your friendship. 

He looked around your room, the small trinkets you’d collected over the years, your pink sheets, your lamps and fairy lights. It was hard to even imagine that this room belonged to a black ops soldier and not to a normal girl, but that’s who you were at heart, warm and soft and girly, despite the roughness of your exterior.

“You, uhh, alright with what happened yesterday?”

Your eyebrows scrunched. “What do you mean?”

“The cookies… Simon… Nothin’ happened?”

“No. Nothing happened. The cookies just… I got distracted.”

Kyle grinned. “Right. Simon distracted you.”

“Yeah—no! I-I mean…” You pinched the bridge of your nose. Kyle suppressed a chuckle. “Fuck’s sake.”

“You know you can just tell me, doll. You ain’t gotta carry it all by yourself.”

Your hands rubbed slow circles over your thighs, like you were soothing yourself, eyes trained on the floor. “Well, I don’t wanna burden anyone with it, Kyle.”

“It’s not a burden.” He placed a hand on your shoulder and squeezed affectionately. “You are not a burden.”

You nodded, then bit your lip and continued to lace your other boot in silence. Then:

“We almost kissed.”

Kyle blinked, confused. “Didn’t that happen at the gym?”

You shook your head, done with the boot, and straightened up. “We didn’t kiss at the gym. He never took off his mask.”

Now that surprised him. “You still don’t know what he looks like?”

You snorted. “Funny that, right?”

He bit his tongue. Tell you that he’d seen Simon unmasked a couple of times. That he had Simon’s face burned into his brain. But he refrained. That wouldn’t have been fair to you, would it?

“So what now?” He pivoted. “What happened in the kitchen?”

“The cookies happened.”

“Ah.”

“And then I got pissed at him and told him to fuck off.”

Kyle winced. “That’s… not nice.”

You shrugged. “Wasn’t tryin’ to be. I don’t… wanna talk about it.”

“One last question.”

You sighed. “Kyle—”

“Mick,” he interrupted. “One last question. Please.”

He had to gauge how ready you were. He has to make sure you were doing okay. What the others were planning… it had a huge chance of ending terribly. And because he knew who he was dealing with, he had to make sure he’d be right by your side to inevitably calm you down.

“Okay,” you relented. “No promises.”

He nodded. “Had you not been interrupted… would you have kissed him back?”

Your eyes widened at the question, and you pondered for a second. “I… plead the fifth.”

Kyle snorted. “We’re not in America, doll.”

You shrugged. “I plead the fifth regardless.”

She’s impossible. “Mick…”

“I said no promises.”

“I’m going to take that as a ‘yes’.”

You turned to him. “Take that as an ‘I am absolutely terrified of answering’.”

Kyle smirked. That was answer enough for him. “So yes.”

You sighed. “My god, I can’t with you.”

Tiny chuckles left your bodies. From an outside perspective, seeing you so in denial of your own feelings was, in truth, a bit hilarious. But as your friend, his heart ached whenever you avoided his questions or his advice. He could tell how deeply conflicted you were, how the slightest interaction with Simon put you in distress.

“Nobody knows about this, right?”

Oh, Jesus.

“Eh, well, I wouldn’t say—”

“Kyle.” You regarded him sternly, but panic briefly overtook your vision. “Nobody can know.”

Kyle chuckled nervously. “Not to bum you out, but you two ain’t exactly subtle.”

Your face fell. “I’m working on that.”

He gave you a look, but spoke softly for your sake. “On what? Sucking Simon’s face off?”

“On making sure that ‘us two’ doesn’t exist. You know fraternisation rules are fucking strict in here. We could lose our jobs.”

Kyle shook his head. “Price wouldn’t allow that and you know it.”

“I can’t take any risks. My position in both the States and the UK is precarious as it is.”

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I’m an american female soldier working in an international task force, Kyle. I fuck up, I get sent home.”

“Well, so do the rest of us. And I don’t think Laswell would leave you jobless for kissing Simon.”

“Simon is my superior officer,” you argued.

“You’re both lieutenants.”

“He has seniority. He's older. Even if the roles were reversed or we were the same age it would still count as fraternisation and I-”

You stopped in your tracks, eyes glued to the door. Kyle turned around to catch Simon passing by, almost like a shadow, eyes burning into you, noting how close you were sitting together. Had he been listening to your conversation all this time?

He caught the way your fingers tensed against the fabric of your jeans.

“I shouldn’t even be telling you this,” you whispered, shaking your head. 

“Yes, you should,” he reasoned. “We’re friends. I care about you.”

“I am your superior office, Kyle. We’re not in high school.”

He frowned. “Ah, so now, you’re going to play the authority card?”

“Yes,” you said sternly. “I think everyone here forgets that we have a hierarchy for a reason.”

Price’s voice resonated across the hall, urging everyone to leave immediately. You stood up with a sigh and grabbed your leather jacket from the coat rack next to your door.

Kyle didn’t buy a single thing you said.

“Come on, let’s go,” you beckoned, a bit too sharp.

Kyle stood up as well. “You know this conversation isn’t over.”

You glared at him. “It is. We don’t have to speak about it ever again. I’m not planning on pursuing anything. It was just a heat of the moment thing.”

Keep telling yourself that, he thought. “Sure.”

He didn’t have the energy to argue with you anymore. He’d need the rest to deal with the inevitable fallout of whatever happened tonight.

The pub was loud, but not unbearable. Top 40 hits blared through the speakers, but it was low enough that he could hear himself without issue. He always hated that about certain pubs—or worse, clubs. Screaming over the music? Absolute fucking nightmare. That’s why he always preferred house parties growing up.

The place wasn’t a complete shithole—Price had taste, after all. The drinks were solid, better than last time’s pub. Depending on tonight’s outcome, he’d make a point of returning here on future occasions.

Getting here was… a travesty.

They’d agreed to take their cars this time. Price had no desire to drink, wanting to keep his eyes and ears peeled for the occasion. He was almost treating it like an actual mission.

You had shared a placidly quiet ride with Price, enjoying his music selection like you were just two normal people, not soldiers trained to kill. According to you, he had great taste.

And Kyle?

Kyle had been forced to drive Simon and Johnny

Johnny at least was good company. His music taste was passable at best. But Simon? The tosser stunk the backseats with his sulking, silent and vaguely pissed off about something. Kyle had half a mind to ask what crawled up his arse, but he already knew.

You.

Whatever you’d said in your room had done something, because Simon had been acting like he was properly pissed off the entire way here.

Now you sat in your chosen booth, sandwiched between Simon and the wall, because of course Johnny and Price did their damnedest to ensure you two sat together. Of course. It was all according to plan.

Kyle’s brow twitched as he saw Simon down his first pint of the night. Jesus. It had only been twenty minutes since you arrived, and you’d barely had your first sip. Johnny wasn’t even halfway his.

“Alright, folks,” the quiz master announced through the mic, just a couple of tables away from them. “In a few minutes I’ll be handing you sheets and pens to start the quiz. Remember that it’s groups of max four people. Extra ten points for the most creative name.”

Kyle barely had time to register the rules before Price let out a deeply unbothered shrug and—without hesitation—said, “Oh well, look, we’re already split. Soap and Gaz, on me. Simon and Mick, you play as a team.”

He saw it coming from a mile away. Though Kyle had been privy to Johnny and Price’s planning session, he’d dissociated through most of it out of guilt. Manipulative bastards.

Simon looked indifferent. You, however, looked ready to commit war crimes. 

After a painful second, you just inhaled sharply and clenched your jaw, and then took another sip of your beer. “Got it.”

Before either of you could make a move, Price not-so-gently guided you towards the adjacent table. Big enough for just two people. “Can’t have you muppets lookin’ at our answers”

Reluctantly, you grabbed your drink and switched tables, while Simon approached the bar to get his second pint.

Kyle switched to the other side of the booth, sighing. This was going to be a long night.

The quiz master passed by, handing you two sheets per team, and one pen. Johnny immediately took ownership of it, writing down the team’s name without consulting. Kyle didn’t care. Instead, he glanced at Price who, without missing a beat, kicked him under the table.

Kyle hissed. “What the fuck?”

“Don’t lose sight of ‘em,” he muttered, sipping his Coke like nothing happened.

He glanced aside. You and Simon were engrossed in your phones, ignoring each other’s presence. So far, so great. 

Kyle’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Price gave him a knowing look. “Nonsense. Teamwork makes the dream work.”

“That’s not—”

“They work well together,” Johnny piped up, resting his chin on his fist. “You just have to force ‘em a bit.”

Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing too well that you were like two seconds away from breaking. “Bonding time always ends in disaster.”

Price scoffed. “That’s not true.”

Kyle gave him a pointed look. “Remember Uno?”

Price conveniently pretended not to hear that.

Across the table, Johnny smirked, ever the instigator. “Do ye, or do ye not, want them to be together?”

Kyle let out a slow breath. “Not at the expense of their peace of mind.”

Price frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

Kyle hesitated. He wanted to say it. That you weren’t just avoiding Simon for no reason. That this wasn’t just sexual tension—you were standing at the edge of something that neither of you knew how to handle.

That you were genuinely struggling with whatever the hell this was.

“I think Mick—”

Before he could finish, the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers. “Alright, let’s get started! First round, history.”

Johnny leaned back, grinning like a menace. Finally.

Kyle glanced at the name written on their answer sheet. Johnny had named their team ‘Quiz in My Pants’.

Kyle groaned. This night was already a disaster.

Round One: History

You held the pen. More like strangled it. Kyle supervised carefully. The bickering was low-key at first, more like quiet sniping than an outright war. You both clearly didn’t want to be here.

By the fifth question, Simon was finishing his second pint.

“D’you reckon this is working?” He asked, not able to make out what you were saying.

Johnny, who’d been busy scribbling out the answer, replied. “Just ye wait. Same as last time. She’ll drink too much, and he’ll carry her out of here, and they’ll be smitten, and that’ll be that.”

Kyle looked at Simon fiddling with his glass, itching to go and order a third pint.

“At this rate, I think we’ll be the ones carrying him out.”

Price just waved him off. “Son, he just needs some liquid courage. He’ll be fine.”

Kyle begged to fucking differ.

Round Two: Geopolitics

This was where things started to unravel. The bickering got louder. Kyle could actually make out the words now, and it was getting heated.

“You’re wrong. The British Empire didn’t extend to Vietnam,” you said, writing down the answer.

Simon gulped down a generous amount of beer. “Britain has territories everywhere. Sun never setd on the British Empire. Know that?”

You squinted, annoyed. “I have a political science degree, don’t talk to me about geopolitics, man.”

“You went to college?”

“You didn’t?”

Kyle winced. Christ. The shift in your voice was subtle, but dangerous. You had such a short temper, and Simon knew how to push your buttons just as well as you pushed his.

“I didn't know Mick had a college degree,” Johnny mumbled.

Kyle sighed, arms crossed. “Most of us have degrees, mate. Didn’t you do chemistry?”

Price sipped his drink, totally unfazed. “Never went to uni. I just enlisted. You?”

Kyle shrugged. “Software engineering.”

The round continued, but so did Mick and Simon’s petty war.

Kyle gromaced. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Price’s attention remained on the quiz master. “Shush.”

Round Three: Name the Animal

This is when things got loud. For some reason, you and Simon were passionate about animals.

“I’m tellin’ you that’s a fuckin’ sea otter,” you hissed.

“Are you daft?” Simon snapped, equally exasperated. His speech had begun to slur a little, considering he was halfway down his third pint.

He’s proper drunk now. Great.

“I know what my eyes are seein’.”

He scoffed and shook his head. He was being more expressive than usual. Perhaps it was the alcohol. “Gimme that paper,” he said, snatching it out of your hands. “I watch animal documentaries. I know my otters.”

He held up his hand expectantly, waiting for you to hand him the pen.

“Fine,” you groaned, slamming the pen onto the table. Hard “If we lose, that’s on you.”

Round Four: Pop Culture

Simon was fucking lost on this one, staring blankly at the questions displayed on the giant projector. So much so Kyle had to hold back a laugh. He’d reluctantly handed you the paper back, letting you answer all the questions effortlessly.

Except for question seven.

“Wait, no, that’s Robbie fucking Williams, Mick. What the actual fuck?”

You squinted. “Who?”

“Robbie. Williams.”

You shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

Simon looked personally insulted. “Are you shitting me? He’s one of the most well-known singers ever. Man’s everywhere.”

You rolled your eyes. “Nobody in the States knows who he is.”

“How American of you.”

The quiz had reached its midpoint, and all teams exchanged papers to grade. You excused yourself to the bathroom meanwhile.

Price took it upon himself to grade yours. Kyle glanced at the name: M&S. 

“That’s clever,” he mused. “In a corporate kind of way.”

“Aye, they could use a little sweetness in their life, no?” Johnny joked.

“Should’ve named ours Sainsbury’s or something,” Kyle continued. “Not Jizz in my Pants or whatever the fuck.”

“It’s Quiz in my Pants, and I was trying ta be funny.”

Price finished grading, and exchanged papers with Simon just as you returned.

“So? How did we do?” Johnny asked.

Price scratched his beard, looking at their sheet. “29 out of 40.”

Kyle nodded. “Not bad.”

Johnny scoffed. “Not bad? That’s pathetic! How are we supposed to win first place if we keep fucking up? What’s their score anyway?”

Price sighed. “37 out of 40.”

Kyle’s eyes widened.

Johnny chuckled. “Tellin’ ye. They work great together.”

Kyle looked at Simon, who was now on his fifth pint of the night.

Your glass? Still half full.

Kyle sighed. “Yeah. Real great.”

Round Five: Science

It began with a single question.

And devolved into pure chaos.

“That’s not true,” you said. “The moon doesn’t actually have a dark side.”

“Yeah, it fuckin’ does.”

“It doesn’t. It’s tidally locked to the Earth, so the same side always faces us, but it’s still illuminated by the sun,” you explained.

Simon rolled his eyes. “It’s called the dark side for a reason.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Yeah, because of Darth Vader, you idiot.”

Kyle, trying to prevent violence, chimed in from his table. “You’re both right, technically—”

Simon glared at him. “Shut the fuck up, Garrick.”

Round Six: Relationships and Sex

This was it. This was the kicker. You sat stiffly across each other when the announcer named the category, staring at each other uncomfortably. Not even Price could plan a situation such as this.

A storm was forming, and it was only a matter of time before it went out of control. This, Kyle knew for sure.

The first three questions were tame. Easy. You wrote down the answers, blushing slightly, and Kyle didn’t have to do any mental gymnastics to know why. Simon just stared at your hand, analysed your handwriting, too uncomfortable to bother speaking. At this point Kyle had lost count of how many pints Simon had gone through.

“Couldn’t have planned this better, I tell you,” Price said, smugly munching on the chips Johnny had ordered.

Kyle muttered. “You just want them to humiliate themselves.”

“We’re trying to get them to see the light on their own accord,” he explained unapologetically. “Just a little push—”

The quiz master interrupted Price’s question with their own.

“What percentage of people admit to having sex dreams about a coworker?”

You audibly choked on your beer.

Kyle’s entire table whipped their heads toward you.

You coughed, wiping your mouth, before slowly turning toward them, eyes flashing pure, unfiltered murder.

Kyle blinked, utterly confused. What the fuck was that?

You, however, tried to regain your composure, tapping the pen against the table as you scanned the multiple choices on the projector. “W-What do think? I think it’s B. But C also sounds plausible.”

Simon shrugged, his voice dripping with a previously unseen drunken confidence. “Pff, I don’t know. You didn’t seem to have any trouble dreamin’ about me.”

You froze mid-writing. Kyle snapped his head up so fast his neck actually cracked. Johnny and Price immediately perked up like bloodhounds catching a scent.

Your face went as white as the sheet in your hands. “What?”

Simon, too drunk to realise he just casually dropped a nuclear fucking bomb, took another sip of his beer. “You know. The walls are thin.”

Kyle couldn’t believe this. He briefly glanced at Johnny, who seemed as flabbergasted as him. Price shot him a look that screamed ‘what the actual fuck is going on?’.

You stared at him, motionless. The rest of the pub kept buzzing about like nothing had happened. The quiz master moved onto the next question, but none of you heard it. Your tables were dead fucking silent.

“What. The hell. Are you talking about,” you said, gripping the pen a little too tightly.

And then Simon set his pint down, just a little too sure of himself. “Come on, Mick. I could hear you moaning my name last night. D’you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Kyle’s stomach dropped. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.

He heard Price set his drink down. “Good grief.”

This was it. You were about to crash out. He could already see it. He fucking knew this wasn’t going to end well. He warned Price this would happen. But did anyone listen to him?

The whole table exchanged panicked looks. This was not how it was supposed to go. Simon wasn’t supposed to open his fucking mouth.

He was one more stupid comment away from decking his CO in the face.

You sat there, face pale, no doubt going into shock, gripping the pen so hard until your knuckles turned white.

You shook your head once. “I can’t,” you said, voice shaky as you pushed back your chair. “I can’t do this.”

Simon, blinking, sobered up slightly. His expression shifted—panic, confusion, realisation, regret. So much regret. As if shocked that those words had left his mouth.

“Shit, I—” He began.

“I need air.”

“Mick—”

“Save it.”

Kyle was already up, moving before you broke completely. He’d been there for you before, he’d be here now. “Come on,” he murmured, guiding you away.

Outside, the night air was crisp and cold. The second you stepped out, you took a deep breath, like you’d been deprived of oxygen, and stumbled against the nearest wall, hands in your hair, gripping, pulling.

She’s imploding. She’s crumbling completely. My god, what do I do?

“Hey, hey, doll,” he muttered, standing close but trying not to suffocate you. He’d lived through enough panic attacks in his life to know how to handle them. You needed space, yes, but you also needed support. Guidance. “Breathe for me, okay?”

You shook your head violently. “I can’t do this. I can’t. I need to get out of here.”

He nodded. “That’s fine, we’ll take my car—”

“No, you’re not getting it.” You turned to him, fear and desperation settled in your eyes. “I need to get away. I need to not see him.”

Kyle’s stomach twisted. You were spiraling hard. Panicking. Falling apart at the seams.

He hesitated before rubbing your back. You didn’t pull away. Good. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, trying to sound as soothing as possible. “Count to ten with me, yeah?”

You shook your head again. “Take me to London.”

Kyle stilled. “...What?”

“I-I need a break, Kyle,” your voice broke. “I need to get the fuck out of here. I’m going insane. Please.”

His heart sank. He’d never seen you so raw, so vulnerable. Part of him wanted to say yes. Whisk you away to his flat in London and keep you safe and happy. He wanted to tell you that everything would be fine, that you would get out of this. That you weren’t trapped. What else could he fucking do?

But before he could answer, the door to the pub slammed open, and out stumbled Simon, tailed by Johnny and Price, who were doing their best to keep him upright and begging him to stay the fuck still.

“Yer only going ta make this worse,” Johnny whispered harshly.

Under his touch, he felt you tense again. You straightened up, steeling yourself.

Simon halted a few paces away, looking utterly fucking wrecked, even through the mask.

“Mick, I—”

“Don’t fucking talk to me,” you spat.

Simon edged closer. “Just listen—”

“I told you to shut the fuck up.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

You walked up to him and jabbed him in the chest, anger rolling off you in waves. “I don’t wanna fuckin’ hear it.”

Kyle immediately caught you by the shoulders before you could do some damage. Price stepped in between you, while Johnny pulled Simon back. The last thing you needed was a physical fight. And a drunken one, at that.

“Hey, how about we all calm the fuck down?”

You ignored him, breathing hard, eyes shooting daggers at Simon. “You had no right to say that.”

Simon’s words slurred, he was losing his balance. Just how many pints had this man drunk?

“I’m tellin’ you I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re NOT!” You yelled, voice cracking. “You’re not one bit sorry. Had to open your mouth, didn’t you?”

You broke free from Kyle’s grip, walking over to Simon. “Can’t you just fucking let me breathe for a second?” 

Before anyone could react, you shoved Simon back. 

Johnny gasped. “Whoa, whoa!”

Price’s eyes widened. “Mick!”

Kyle grabbed you instantly, pulling you toward him. “Hey—”

Your body was trembling, whether from anger or panic, he didn’t know. But he knew he had to get you out of here as soon as possible. You were hyperventilating again.

Everyone went still. Silent. Simon didn’t fall from the shove, but he stumbled back a few paces. He took it all without a sound, completely stunned.

He didn’t wait for approval. “We’re going now,” he announced.

He shot Price a look, who nodded. He began to pull you in direction of his car, but Simon tried to follow. Kyle gritted his teeth. Releasing you and stopping Simon with a hand on his chest, keeping his own anger in check.

“I think you’ve done enough, mate,” he seethed.

Simon clenched his jaw, his bloodshot eyes looking past Kyle’s shoulder, straight to you, then back at him.

“I need to apologise,” he responded gruffly, looking ready to fight Kyle right then and there.

He would’ve done it. Gladly. He didn’t care that Simon was taller, or stronger. He was fed up with this whole situation, and Simon’s complete lack of sense.

Why you liked Simon was beyond him.

Kyle stood still, unrelenting. “Si. You’re my mate, and you know that,” he began, clenching his free fist. “But if you take another step, I will fucking deck you.”

The two men held their gazes for a whole moment, before Simon finally stepped back, dragged by Johnny and Price, who tried their best to stabilise him.

Kyle finally sighed. Crisis averted. He grabbed your hand tightly, and led you towards his car. 

The walk was silent. Shocked. Stunned.

The helped you in, held your hand all the way, then climbed onto the drivers seat. The moment the doors closed, your lips quivered, and you finally broke down in tears.

crossposted on AO3.

taglist: @joufrance @callsign-denmark @lostintro @readingthingy @maskfan25 @theonottsblog @ficcharsimp @defronix @sarcasticwalrus0 @nina-from-317 @w0ede @jamesrifftapes @simons-missus @ofthesouthernislesjohn @dumbledoom @kittykatgorl @lolo1821

What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you — Wicked Game, Chris Isaak

The night was thick, heavy, suffocating.

Sleep had evaded you for hours, slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you chased it. You had done everything—tossed and turned, scrubbed yourself raw in the shower, let cool water drip down your feverish skin, lit a jasmine-scented candle, played the kind of music that was supposed to lull you into oblivion. Nothing worked.

But at some point, exhaustion took over. Your limbs went slack. Your breathing slowed. Rest, at last.

And then he appeared.

Like clockwork, Simon barged into your subconsciousness like he belonged there. This time, though, it wasn’t tense, nor frantic or desperate. There was no hard fucking, no clawing at his back, no filthy words mumbled to the shell of your ear.

This time, Simon kissed you.

You were in the kitchen, like earlier this morning, and he was kissing you deeply. Properly. Lips slotted against yours like a puzzle piece. He cupped your face, tilting your chin up as his lips moved against yours, slow and purposeful. Your fingers fisted his shirt, clutching the cotton like a lifeline, afraid that if you let go, he would disappear.

Then the kiss deepened. He slid his tongue into your mouth as he hoisted you onto the kitchen counter, stepping in between your legs to pull you in closer. His mouth ghosted over your jaw, then nipped at the column of your neck possessively.

His fingers dipped underneath your shirt, gently tracing random patterns on your back, inciting gooseflesh. Then came his voice, heavy and quiet, like a confession.

“What are you doing to me?”

Your stomach clenched, pulse pounding in your chest. This was different. This was new. Every dream before had been feverish, frantic, animalistic—a haze of sweat and heat and desperation. But this? This was slower. This was intimate.

And that terrified you more than anything.

You reached for his mask, fingers curling around the fabric, peeling it away. You needed to see him. But his face blurred. Hazy and indistinct, like a forgotten memory. A shadow. A ghost.

Frustration curled in your chest, but Simon didn’t let you dwell on it. He captured your lips again, firmer this time, with a bit more force, a little more teeth. His hands slid lower. His fingers gripped tighter. His tongue teased yours, and you—

You woke up.

The room was pitch black, but the heat in your body burned bright. You tore the blanket off, kicking it aside, lungs straining for air. Your skin was damp, slick with sweat, your pyjamas clinging uncomfortably to your overheated body.

Your cunt ached, sticky and wet between your thighs, begging for something. Anything. Scraps of attention. Something to hold on to.

And suddenly you were angry. Not at Simon, nor the dream. No, you were angry at yourself.

How could one almost-kiss reduce you to a trembling, burning, aching mess? How dare you get horny over Simon’s perfect lips ghosting atop yours?

Ruined. You’re fucking ruined. He’s ruined you, and you don’t even know what he looks like. Pathetic bitch.

Your nails dug into the sheets. Your hips shifted. The heat was unbearable, and the fabric sticking to your body only overwhelmed you further, so you peeled your clothes off, threw them somewhere on the floor, and stared at the ceiling in frustration. Hopefully, if you stayed still, sleep would come to you again.

Your pussy throbbed again, reminding you of its neglect. You needed release now, or else you were going to truly go insane.

But you’re not just horny, aren’t you? Your mind said. You like him. You want him. You need him.

And what if you touched yourself now, just to get it over with? Would that suffice? Would that erase the carnal need in you? Would that finally exorcise Simon from your system?

Maybe that’s what you really needed. An orgasm. Release. Climax. It had been, what, five years since you last had sex? Since you’d ever been touched? Hell, you couldn’t remember the last time you were aroused by anything. Your libido had pretty much died when you fell into depression after George’s death. You got used to a sexless existence. You embraced the detachment it brought your mind. It allowed you to think clearly.

You’d spent so long ignoring your body’s pleas that now sexual arousal felt alien to you. Your mind couldn’t comprehend what your body begged for. You were at war with yourself.

But what if, this time, rather than fight it, you let go? Just this once?

Orgasms are like food, fuel to the body. Maybe that’s just what your body needed. Fuel. To keep going. Maybe that would make you stop torturing yourself. All you needed was a good self-love session.

A chill ran down your body. You shivered and pulled the blanket back up, then buried your face on the pillow, exhaustion weighing your eyelids down. Every day was more tiring than the last, and you weren’t sure how much longer you were going to go on like this. You just wanted this to be over, to be free from your own feelings. You’d rather continue feeling numb than deal with the mess that was Simon. 

He represented everything you worked hard to distance yourself from. Every aspect of a man that you vowed never to touch again. Hard-lined, no-nonsense, extremely competent, serious, in control, and, most importantly, your superior officer.

If you allowed this… whatever this was, to go on, things would only end up badly. You knew it from experience. You had to kill the problem at the root.

So no, you weren’t going to masturbate. Fuck that. Fuck him. You weren’t about to succumb to your pussy’s whims. You had autonomy over yourself. You could think with your brain, not your clit. Things were going to be okay. You were going to be okay.

As sleep washed over you again, you briefly considered taking another cold shower, but you were too exhausted to even lift a finger.

In your second dream, you were back at the gym.

You were on top, grinding against the bulge in his sweatpants. Kyle was nowhere to be seen. It was just you and Simon dry humping in the mats like a pair of horny dogs. His clothed cock, big as it was, wasn’t enough, just rubbing against your clothed pussy. No, you needed him inside. You needed him to fill the void in your cunt and your heart. To fill you up completely.

He pulled his mask up to his nose, revealing his sharp jawline, and kissed your neck as he met his thrusts with yours. You caressed the hairs at his nape, throwing your head back to give him more room to worship. He licked your sweat, bit whatever parts he could reach, marking you as his.

Pleasure shot down to your cunt, and you pushed harder against him, earning a soft “Fuck” from him. More, more, more, more. Please just fuck me now, I can’t handle this.

His lips found yours, eager and desperate, as he flipped you over, tongue deeply exploring the crevices of your mouth. Now in control, he thrust into your clothed cunt, a low grunt rumbling in his chest. He took his mask off, and again you were met with the same blurry haze from before. But he gave you no respite, for he pinned your wrists to the mat with just one large hand, and you didn’t fight him. You didn’t dare. You wanted this. You wanted his weight on top of you. You wanted him to suffocate you.

“God, what are you doing to me, Mick?” Simon repeated as his free hand slid down your body. “You’re makin’ it hard f’ me to concentrate.”

Your eyes met just as his hand cupped your sex over your tight, wet shorts. A tiny gasp escaped your mouth.

“Hard to concentrate thinkin’ about your pretty cunt.”

You jolted awake, clutching your chest, as your heart raced a thousand miles per hour. 

No no no no no no no not again, not a-fucking-gain, not again. Why, why, why?

You sat up, kicking the covers off once more, your skin clammy and feverishly sweaty. It had felt so real, the weight of him, his fingers, his breath on your face, his tongue tangled with yours. His lips. Dear god.

You couldn’t go on like this. You needed him badly. But you couldn’t, wouldn’t, have him. Not in good conscience.

You squeezed your thighs in desperation, a wanton whimper escaping your mouth. You wanted to cry from the frustration. Please, just something. I need something. I need him. Give me something. 

Your left hand cupped your breast, heavy and perked up, fingers rolling and pinching your nipple, while your right hand caressed your stomach, then your hips, as you awkwardly shuffled on the bed. All those places that Simon had touched in your dream with those thick, calloused fingers—you touched them with the same need, the same utter desperation.

Releasing your breast, you favoured your neck this time, head thrown back to give you some space. You squeezed it just so, hips undulating, chasing the ghost of a hand that was never there.

“Please,” you whimpered in a tortured voice, interrupted by ragged breaths.

In your mind, the mattress below you dipped. He lay next to you, hand on your neck, squeezing ever so slightly, keeping you in place, his soft lips on your mouth, where they belonged. His other hand gently caressed your skin, helping you settle, calming you. 

“What are you doing to me?” You whispered, thighs still pressed together to make the throb go away. It wasn’t working.

His hand reached your thighs. “Nothing you wouldn’t want me to do.”

He kissed your temple, then squeezed your neck for good measure. “Open up, love. C’mon.”

Your legs parted with slight hesitation. Your hand—his hand—slid down to cup your sex. The room was scorching hot, and your pussy felt even hotter. Hot and wet and slippery. You whimpered.

“Good girl,” Simon whispered in your delirium. His fingers—your fingers, you couldn’t really tell—parted your lips, then rubbed small, tentative circles on your clit, tearing a small moan from your throat. God, you were so sensitive, so pent up, that your body shivered.

Pleasure shot up your spine as you continued, increasing the speed, pretending that Simon whispered filthy things in your ear in his gruff voice. It was almost like he was there.

He kissed your temple again. “Mine,” he said. “All mine.”

Your cunt clenched around thin air. Your hips bucked up, and you felt lighter than usual. Lighter and emptier. You needed that extra weight on top of you. Needed to be filled. You needed him on top of you, filling you up, stretching you out with his cock. You’d felt it, back at the gym. The monstrous bulge in his sweatpants. It made you salivate. You rubbed harder, pads pressing your clit, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t Simon.

So you plunged two fingers deep inside of you, as far as the length of your fingers allowed, but again, it wasn’t enough. It felt good, regardless, pretending that he had this control over you.

You squeezed your neck hard enough to hurt, but not enough to stop the airflow, while your fingers curled inside you with vigor. Wet sounds echoed across the room.

“Fuck,” you moaned, tears welling up in your eyes. “Fuck me, please. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

The Simon in your fantasy kept fucking you with his fingers, lips pressed to your temple. “Say my name, love. Say it.”

“S-Simon,” you whimpered, back arching off the bed. Scalding hot tears spilt down your face, staining the pillows below. You choked yourself harder, nails leaving small indents in the skin.

“Tell me what you need, love,” he whispered gently, contrasting the calculated precision of his—your—movements.

“I need you, p-please, Simon.” Your voice wavered, a knot in your throat mangling your words. 

“What do you want?”

Say it, your conscience told you. You know you want it. You know you want him. Say it.

“I want your cock inside me.”

You felt his lips curl into a smile, kissing your temple once more before slotting himself between your thighs, and sliding his thick, hard cock into you, replacing his fingers. You fucked yourself harder at the thought, fingers curling, palm grinding against your clit, chasing that final push over the edge. Juices dripped out of your hole and into the sheets below. You didn’t even want to think of doing the laundry tomorrow.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.” Your hips moved in tandem with your fingers, catching as much friction as you could. You choked yourself harder as you envisioned him fucking you thoroughly. 

He was everywhere. In your mind, in your eyes, in your skin, in your heart. You couldn’t erase him if you tried. You didn’t want to. You wanted him here, next to you, over you, under you, inside you. He was all you could think of. All you could breathe.

His name rolled off your lips like a prayer. For a brief moment, you wondered why you never said it before, because it tasted so good on your tongue.

“Suck a good girl, taking my cock like this,” Simon said. You could almost picture his tattoo sleeve on the hand squeezing your neck. Your pussy clenched around your fingers. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”

A knot formed in your throat again. “Y-yes.”

“You’re mine.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I’m yours.”

In your vision, he wrapped your legs around his torso, pushing his weight onto you, pushing himself deeper in you. All you could see were his deep brown eyes, half-lidded and fucked out like at the gym.

“Say my name,” he commanded.

“Simon.” You obeyed, the tension in your lower belly rising. You were so close now. So close to the finish line, to freeing yourself from these shackles.

“Louder.”

More tears flowed, hot enough to burn and sting your eyes. “F-fuck, Simon!”

Your entire body shook, as your moans grew louder. Though you tried your best to keep it quiet, it was as if your body was possessed by something otherworldly. You no longer had any control over your actions. All that mattered was your pleasure. All that mattered was crossing the finish line.

The Simon in your mind groaned with satisfaction, kissing you roughly as he pounded his thick cock into you, and that image became your undoing. Your legs trembled as you said his name one final time in a choked-out sob, as your orgasm finally crashed into you with force. Waves after waves of pleasure ripped out of your body, leaving you breathless and rendering you immobile.

After it was done, you released your neck, slid your fingers out, and lay on our bed, looking at the ceiling, absolutely spent. Filthy. Sweaty. Sticky. Tears still flowed down your face as your breathing evened out.

For a moment you thought you’d find some respite after this. And fuck, it felt good to finally act on your impulses for once, to finally feel pleasure after five years of numbness. For a moment, you thought doing this would make you feel better.

In all honesty, you’d never felt worse than how you felt right now.

A tiny sob left your mouth, as the knot on your throat tightened. This did not make it any better. Stupid bitch. Did you think that rubbing one out would help? You’re fucked. Absolutely fucked.

You curled up into a ball, trying desperately to catch your breath, but failing. As you sobbed into the pillow, your thoughts spiralled.

Weak. You’re weak. Stupid. You lost your composure again. Dirty whore. You lost control. 

How many times can you fail until you realise that you’re utterly fucked? 

This will bite you in the ass later. 

You’re forgetting George. You’re forgetting what happened to him. Traitor. Betrayer. Have you no dignity?

Price will find out. Command will find out. You’ll get fired. This will end badly. You are going to kill him.

Control yourself.

Whore.

Whore.

Whore.

Weak.

Weak.

You don’t deserve him.

You don’t deserve happiness.

You don’t deserve Simon.

You don’t deserve love.

You don’t deserve anything.

This is your punishment. He is your punishment.

Simon had been tossing and turning in the dark for the better part of the night. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest—this was a nightly occurrence for him. He mostly got three hours of sleep per night. Four on good days. 

Damn his insomnia.

Perhaps he should’ve listened to you when you told him to take melatonin pills.

You.

You. You. You. You.

He’d been replaying this afternoon’s events over and over in his head. He’d almost had you this time. For fuck’s sake. He’d only managed to get a taste of your lips before John fucking Mactavish, the bastard, cockblocked him.

It seemed that every time he tried to make a move, every time he tried to get close to you, the world conspired against him.

He was getting tired of these constant interruptions.

And now you were pissed at him again. This time for something he didn’t even do!

Way to go, Simon. You bastard. You always seem to find a way to fuck it up, don’t you, Simon? Simon? Simon.

“S-Simon.”

Huh?

His eyes shot open. What the fuck was that?

“Fuck.”

The sound was muffled. Tiny. Desperate. Coming from the other side of the wall. His wall. His bedroom wall. The wall right next to his bed. The wall that separated your room from his. The wall that, surely, was right next to your bed, too.

Was he imagining things? Surely it couldn’t be. You never said his name. No matter how much he tried to get you to say it. It was the one line you wouldn’t cross.

But that’s when he heard it. Clear as day.

A moan.

Small and soft and fucked out, coming from the other side of the wall. His cock twitched in his boxers. He knew the walls were thin. Paper thin. He’d heard you countless times laughing at something while on calls with, presumably, your family. He’d heard you play music on your speakers, or watch movies on your laptop. He never minded. You always kept it at a low volume, even though he could clearly hear it. Nothing that some noise-cancelling headphones couldn’t fix.

But not this. Never this.

You moaned again.

“I need you, p-please, Simon.”

Oh.

Fuck.

The world shifted around him.

Blood rushed to his cock, swelling immediately.

“I want your cock inside me.”

You were masturbating.

To the thought of him.

You were calling his name.

His fucking name.

No Riley. No Ghost. Simon.

And you were fucking moaning it. Fucking yourself to the thought of it.

Your beds were against the wall. Your beds shared a wall. You’d been so close to him all this time. Less than a metre away. So close, yet so far. You had been sleeping next to each other all this time without knowing.

And less than a metre away, you were masturbating while thinking of him.

Lord help him.

He sat upright, hand flying to palm his dick through his underwear. It was already hard. Less than thirty seconds and he was stiff as hell. You whimpered. His cock twitched again.

Simon scooted closer to the wall, and rested his back against it, angling his head to hear you better. His jaw clenched. This was wrong. So wrong, on so many levels. 

Pervert. Filthy animal. Weak.

He wondered briefly what you were doing. If your fingers rubbed your swollen, sensitive clit, or if they were deep inside of you, going in and out, juices dripping out of your pussy. God what he’d give to lick it all up, make you come the right way, worship you the right way, taste you properly.

You’re a fucking pervert. This is why she runs away from you. You scare her.

But if he scared you, then why were you moaning his name?

He fished his cock out of his boxers, swollen and angry and desperate. Just as fucking desperate as your moans. Ever-increasing in volume. God, you sounded so fucking wrecked. He couldn’t even begin to think of the things running through your head.

How did you picture him, when you didn’t know his face at all?

Did you picture his hands?

Did you think of what happened at the gym?

Because he did. All the time. He replayed the memory over and over. Fantasised about it until his dick was raw. Came over and over to the thought of you stuffed full of his cock on the training mats. He hoped you thought about it too.

“I’m yours.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. No fucking way you just said that.

Simon stroked himself hard and fast. There was no time to play around with his racing thoughts. He wanted to catch every whimper, every cry, every sound that came from your pretty lips. Burn it into his brain.

You were his. You finally admitted it. And he was yours. Irrevocably, terrifyingly, obscenely, completely yours. From the ends of his hair to the soles of his feet. All yours.

If only you knew.

You repeated his name over and over. All tiny cries and whimpers and stuttered words made Simon fuck himself faster, grip his cock harder. God, he was embarrassingly close.

He came in two minutes.

Just as you cried out his name one final time, Simon bit his fist to prevent any sound from coming out. But he wanted to moan your name just as bad, show you how much he wanted you, kiss you when he came.

Thick spurts of semen coated his hand as he sat there, staring off at the distance as his head, his heart, and his cock throbbed in tandem. He was tired of these games. You fucking wanted him. Then why did you hesitate? What pulled you back? Was it because of the fraternisation rules? He could work that out. He didn’t care.

Just as long as he had you, he’d be fine.

He just wanted you—point blank. Fuck his self-control. Fuck everything else. You wanted him too. That was all he needed. The rest could be solved once you got there.

He just needed you to admit it to his face.

crossposted on AO3.

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Promise one day you will hate me, but right now just ride it out — Hit Me Where It Hurts, Caroline Polacheck & Chino Moreno

You went back to the gym the next Saturday. The PT had advised you to wait it out a bit more as you had just ditched the crutches, but you felt ready. You were ready. After many insistent, and admittedly pathetic, whiny attempts, she relented and gave you the green light. But only on the condition that you wouldn’t push yourself. 

Fine. You could do without weights for a couple of weeks. 

To the machines you went. There was no time to waste.

At this hour of the night the gym was mostly empty. Most soldiers went into town on Saturdays, drowning their sorrows with cheap pints from any of the pubs in Hereford’s city centre. Hell, that was you a week ago. But tonight it was just you, at least two more soldiers, and the machines.

Good. 

You didn’t need people around to witness you uncomfortably shuffle from machine to machine, sticking with the lowest settings. Your leg still ached if you moved too fast, or if you rested on it for too long, but thankfully the therapy had worked its wonders. You wouldn’t be here had the PT not cleared you for physical activity. You might’ve been stubborn, but you weren’t stupid. Now you were back on your own, and damn, it felt good to be here, to finally move after nearly a month of sitting on your ass.

You’d texted Kyle to come meet you at the mats for a soft sparring session, but the man had yet to show up. Said he was running late or whatever. No biggie. You needed to warm up anyway.

First thing you noticed, walking past the weights section, was that Simon Riley was haunting the space, his back turned to you, curling a pair of dumbbells with practised ease. His back muscles rippled under the sweat-stained fabric of his grey shirt. Tonight he showed a bit of skin. The whole forearm, shiny with sweat. Perhaps it was the late hour. Perhaps he was just hot. British summers were weird, and these old buildings often lacked proper ventilation.

You swallowed heavily as you passed him by. This was no time to ogle. You half-expected him to turn your way and nod in acknowledgement. He didn’t. No nods, no words. Nada. Zero. 

Weird.

Still, you felt the burn of his piercing gaze in the back of your head after you passed him without a word. You didn’t dare turn back. It was no use. Not like you were expecting any sort of enthusiasm on his part, but ever since you came back from the pub, since you let him hold you in the back of the car, since you agreed to keep it cool, Riley had been… off.

Not like he’d reverted back to his rude ways, but his attitude was different. He ignored your presence now. Whenever you stepped into the room, he somehow found an excuse to leave. In the mornings, before the team left for training, he was the first to wake and the first to leave the flat. He was gone for most of the day. He ate at odd hours. And then he was the first to head back to bed. 

The first day you thought it was just a fluke. The second day, was a mere coincidence. On the third day, you suspected something fishy was going on.

Weren’t you supposed to be on good terms now? Did you do something to piss him off? Did you make him uncomfortable when you sat on his lap? The thought of it made your stomach churn.

Oh god, that must’ve been it, wasn’t it? You sat on his lap and said weird things while drunk and it made him uncomfortable and now he wasn’t able to look you in the eye. Shit.

Fine. If he was going to ignore you, then two could play that game.

You reached the row of ellipticals and, after locating your favourite, stretched slightly. The real warm-up would begin after this. You climbed onto the elliptical.

Just a few metres ahead, Riley stepped onto the treadmill, facing you.

You paid him no mind, tapping the screen and choosing a low resistance, then began pedalling. 

Minutes passed.

You focused on your steps, on the beat thumping in your ears, matching the pace. Your playlist was filled with cunty pop music that helped you keep a perfect stride. 

One, two, one, two. 

You stared ahead, gaze lost in the white paint of the walls, ignoring the fact that Riley was in your line of sight.

Don’t look at him.

You looked at him.

Damn you.

He had been staring at you the whole time.

You locked eyes. He didn’t look away.

Riley increased his speed, lengthening his strides. His pecs bounced with every step.

So it’s going to be like that, huh?

You gripped the handles tighter, never breaking eye contact. Who the hell did he think he was? Did he think he could just incite another staring contest as if he hadn’t been actively ignoring you this past week? Like you could just go back to… whatever weird thing was going on between you? Like it didn’t matter?

You increased the resistance and pace. Your thigh screamed in protest, but you ignored it. You were many things, but a weak bitch was not one of them. If somebody here was going to relent, it was going to be him.

Minutes pass.

Riley kept increasing the speed until he broke into a full-on sprint, never taking his eyes off you. Your thigh, on the other hand, kept protesting each time you increased the resistance, but you powered through well until the end of your workout half an hour later.

Your legs trembled when you dismounted the elliptical, sweat dripping down your back and chest, coating you in a thin, wet sheet. Riley looked no better, his grey t-shirt drenched in sweat. You wondered briefly if that damned mask ever suffocated him. A part of you pettily wished it did.

You grabbed your water bottle and walked towards the sparring mats with a huff, feet heavily stomping the ground just to keep your knees from giving out. If Kyle didn’t arrive soon you were going to strangle him…

The door to the combat area shut behind you and the lights flickered on. It was a large, open space, empty, and eerie this late at night. Last time you were here you sparred with Price and Riley, just before everything had gone to shit. You remembered storming off after knocking the wind out of Riley, letting your anger get the better of you. Even now you didn’t regret knocking him down a peg. At least he admitted he deserved that slap. 

You collapsed on the mat and sighed. After ditching the crutches you had insisted on going on long walks to keep you busy and active, but perhaps in your stubbornness, you had pushed too far this time. You glanced at the wound on your thigh—the stitches had already been removed, and only an angry pink scar remained. It would take long until it fully healed, but you didn’t care. You were alive. That was blessing enough.

As you settled into your long-practised deep stretching routine, muscle memory guiding you all the way through, the doors to the training area opened and closed. You expected Kyle to announce his arrival, but the hairs standing on the back of your neck and the overall silence told you enough.

“Everything all right?” Riley spoke several metres away. You heard the clink of his heavy metallic water bottle on the floor, and then footsteps behind you. His voice carried a casual tone that wouldn’t have surprised you last Saturday but now felt odd. Did he think he could just go back to normal after avoiding you all week?

You exhaled slowly, sitting upright and craning your neck to look up at him. “Yeah. Why?”

He crossed his arms. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

You scoffed. “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t gotten the green light, y’know.”

He cocked his head to the side. Bored. Unimpressed. Unreadable. “Just makin’ sure.”

You shook your head. “You sound like Price.”

“That supposed to be an insult?”

“Depends,” you grinned, tilting your head, “you growing a moustache anytime soon?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shifting his weight.

Well, that’s something.

You leaned forward, legs stretched out on the mat, loosening up your hamstrings. “You know,” you began, the weight of his gaze upon you, “about us never sparring again… I kinda regret saying that.”

He shifted slightly. “Still think you can beat me?”

“I technically did.”

“You slapped me in the face and left me standing there.”

You smirked. “Well, you already know why that happened, don’t you?”

He hummed in acknowledgement, absentmindedly rubbing his cheek. You wondered if he still felt the sting of the slap. Your hand tingled just from the memory.

“So you wanna give it a go now that you don’t technically hate my guts?” He said after a moment.

You sighed. “I don’t hate you, Riley.” 

Silence. 

“You frustrate me sometimes,” you admitted. “There’s a difference.”

He nodded, savouring your words for a moment. “Good to know,” he said, walking over to you and casually offering you a hand. “You sure you want to do this?”

You considered it for a moment. Kyle was nowhere to be seen, and you had a lot of pent-up energy that needed release. Riley didn’t seem fazed by your proposal either, so you took his hand. He pulled you up wordlessly, and your chest collided with his hard torso. Too close. Too warm. You almost forgot how to swallow.

“It’s just sparring,” you said, taking a step back, and unlacing your hands. Let’s just ignore that. “We don’t have to get all violent.”

He snorted, unfazed. “That’s the whole fuckin’ point.”

You rolled your eyes. “Aish, you know what I mean. Get in position.”

He gave you a once-over. “No gloves?”

“No gloves.”

He rolled his shoulders and sighed. “Fine. Have it your way. Don’t whine if I hit you too hard.”

You smirked, circling Riley like a predator. “Don’t hold back, then.”

He mimicked your movements, eyes locked onto yours. Reading you. Assessing you. Your leg protested with every step, but you stubbornly ignored it. It was only a matter of time before you got deployed again—you had to get used to the pain as quickly as possible now that you were cleared for action.

Without warning, he lunged.

You barely dodged his first strike, body twisting as you pivoted fast, but not as fast as him. Your fist swung in retaliation. He blocked it swiftly before countering with his own calculated attack, which you barely managed to parry.

He’s stronger. Always stronger, always faster, always better, always one step ahead. You have to be better. You have to be faster. You have to be smarter.

You stepped into his space for a takedown, but he didn’t let you get that far. Be smarter. Be quicker. You used his weight against him, dodging blows with fluidity, slipping through his defences just enough to keep yourself in the game.

It was a dance.

“That all you got?” You huffed, dodging one more strike. So far, none of you had managed to land a single blow on the other, always scurrying away, dodging and parrying. If he were someone else, you’d be proud of yourself for holding them off for so long. Not with him. You couldn’t explain it, but something deep inside you wanted to beat him at his own game. Last time was a fluke and he knew it. You got angry and it turned into an argument.

No, you had to beat him fair and square for it to truly mean something.

Something in the back of your mind, however, told you this was different. That this was no normal fight. There was a grace in his movements that hadn’t been there the last time. Was he holding back? No. Impossible. Riley doesn’t hold back. Does he?

The smirk under his mask was unmistakable. Sweat dripped from his brow, shining under the fluorescent lights of the gym. “Not even close.”

Thrill and adrenaline zipped through your spine. You were enjoying this. More than you wanted to admit.

Then, without warning, Riley swept your legs from beneath with a swift kick. You hit the mat with a soft thud, the wind knocked out of you. 

Motherfucker. Bastard. Asshole—

“You alright?” He asked, crouching beside you, offering you a hand. Again, so casual of him, considering he’d spent the entirety of this week ignoring you. Avoiding you. Why, why, why did he have to be like this, so full of contradictions? How could he ignore you and act as if nothing had happened?

You sat up, still panting, and took his hand. “Never better.”

Then, you pulled him down, using the momentum to roll you over until his back hit the mat. You quickly moved to pin his hands away, but he was faster. A split second later, you were the one beneath him, his weight pressing you down. His hands pinned your wrists to the mat on either side of your head. You could feel his hot breath, muffled as it was through the mask.

Your noses almost touched.

Too much. Too close. Too warm. 

You squirmed.

The banter had died down, giving way to a tension so thick it gripped you by the throat. Riley was on top of you, and if anyone were to walk in, they’d find you in a very compromising position.

Your heart pounded against your ribcage, breaths slowing down to calm your racing heart. They almost matched Riley’s.

He was looking at you differently.

The usual sharpness of his gaze was gone. Dulled, perhaps. Replaced by something different. Something darker. Something you should not want.

But you wanted it anyway.

You swallowed hard. “You plannin’ on movin’?”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes crinkling. Oh god, he was smirking. “Why? You in a hurry?”

Fuck.

His voice was low, rich and deep. Right there, in the empty gym, his Manchester accent rolled heavier off his tongue, sending a chill down your spine.

“Enjoying this, then?” You asked.

He answered with a low hum, still holding your wrists tightly, still pressing against you. “Very much so, yes.”

After a second or two, you did the only thing that made sense. Despite the tight grip on your wrists, Riley wasn’t expecting you to actually flip him over—you took him by surprise. Just a quick movement, a shift of weight, and he was under you. His eyes widened as you pinned his hands to the mat just as he did, straddling his hips.

He chuckled breathlessly. “Clever girl.”

Your lips curled into a timid smile, heat creeping up your cheeks. “Shut up.”

“Enjoying this?” He shot back at you.

“Makin’ you suffer? Greatly.”

You shifted your weight, pressing even harder against him until you heard his breath hitch just a tiny bit. He squirmed, but you held on, pushing him down into the mat. You could feel all of him like this.

“Y’not movin’, then?”

You smirked. “Yield.”

“Fuck off.”

“Admit I bested you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ain’t doin’ such a thing.”

“Then I’m stayin’ right fuckin’ here.”

“Flippin’ me over don’t mean y’won.”

“And pinnin’ me to the ground doesn’t mean you won, either.”

Silence.

“You’re a sore loser, Mick.”

“And you’re a stubborn prick, Riley,” you shot back.

His gaze darkened, eyelids dropping slightly. Your throat tightened as much as your wrists did. “Y’know I could shove you off if I wanted.”

“Oh, yeah? Must be comfy, then. Me sittin’ on you,” you teased, wriggling slightly just to fuck with him.

“...It is.”

Your brows furrowed. All this teasing made you forget that, indeed, you could feel all of him like this. His warmth, his taut muscles, his breath, his strong arms, all of him. You shifted your hips again, and Riley’s breath hitched again, enough for you to register. 

The moment it dawned on you, it hit you like a ton of bricks. A small gasp left your parted lips.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

You opened your mouth to speak, but words didn’t come out. You stilled, face going beet red. Riley, for once, did the same. Neither of you spoke. Both of you understood that words escaped you right now. What were you even supposed to say in a situation like this?

He was hard as a rock beneath you. Only his sweatpants and your shorts separated your skin, but that wasn’t enough to hide the monstrosity that was Simon Riley’s hard cock. No wonder his breath hitched with every minuscule movement of your hips.

Your head swam with thoughts. Terrible thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. What would people say if they found you like this, practically riding your fellow Lieutenant in the sparring mats?

Riley’s fingers twitched. You gripped his wrists tighter. His eyes fell on your parted lips, and you saw his jaw move under the mask. His chest rose and fell shakily.

You barely realized you were moving until your hips shifted. Riley inhaled sharply. Your pulse skyrocketed. You did it again. He let you.

A deep, wrecked noise left his throat. His hands balled into fists. For the first time in years, your pussy throbbed with want.

Oh, fuck.

Your eyes locked again as you let out a shaky breath. Nothing else existed. Not this damned gym, not the sparring mats, nothing. Just him.

You let go of his wrists, sitting up straighter. His hands immediately found purchase on your bare thighs, encountering only gooseflesh. He squeezed, then slowly slid them up until he held your hips and pulled you harder against him as if that could even be possible.

He pushed up, grinding his hips against you—meeting your movements. You could feel every inch of him like this, pressing against your aching cunt. A soft whimper left your lips. He pushed harder.

Riley then sat up slowly, keeping you close, until there was no space at all between you, sweaty chests pressed flush against each other. You rode him harder as his hands kneaded your ass like dough. The clothed tip of his nose bumped against yours, his hot breath fanning your face.

You barely even noticed your own hands wandering under his grey cotton shirt, skimming his toned back muscles, pads pressing against warm skin. He let out an utterly fucked out moan. Your pussy clenched around thin air. Too good, too fucking good.

If you kept humping him like this you were going to explode.

You dragged your nails down his back slowly and deliberately, feeling the muscles tense under your touch. When you reached his lower back, you abandoned it in favour of his shoulders, nails digging through the thin layer just enough—a sharp, delicious sting that had him hissing and pulling you even closer.

As if in a trance, you stared deep into each other’s eyes, mouths so close and yet so far. Without thinking, your fingers wandered, slipping beneath the back of his balaclava, the fabric old and worn and so very him. You caressed the nape of his neck until your fingers touched his hair—soft and short-cropped—tangling themselves in it, nails scraping slightly against his scalp. You felt him shudder.

The moan that tore through his throat was nothing short of sinful.

Fuck me, you thought, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

A rough, calloused hand cupped your face, thumb swiping your bottom lip. You rode him harder, eyes rolling back in pleasure as you felt yourself getting closer. You threw your head back. You could come like this—untouched, grinding against him like a horny teenager. How would it feel to have him fully crumble beneath you? Have him come undone like this?

Your bare neck was an invitation. He took it, nuzzling his face against your neck and taking a long, shaky inhale you in deeply. 

He let out the most fucked out moan you’d heard in your life.

“Fuck’s sake, Mick,” he groaned, nipping at your neck through his mask. You pulled his hair slightly, ripping another moan from him.

“Kiss me,” you finally whimpered, fingers reaching the front edge of the mask, eager to pull it up, to slide your tongue into his mouth. God, it had been a while since you last kissed someone. You had to feel his lips on yours. You wanted him to consume you.

Unbeknownst to you, the door to the sparring mats creaked open.

“Hey, sorry I’m late, I— oh shit. Um, fuck, sorry. I-I haven’t seen anything—”

You froze.

Kyle.

You’d completely forgotten he was coming.

The heat drained from your face, replaced with horrible shivering panic. 

What the fuck were you doing?

Your stomach dropped. Riley still had his hands on your ass, yours were still inside his mask. You quickly withdrew them, sobering quickly. Kyle raised his hands in surrender, backing out of the gym as quickly as he’d entered.

You had to leave right fucking now.

Just what the hell were you thinking? Fucked around and found out.

“Mick,” you heard Riley say, bringing you back to reality. Your breathing quickened, pulse racing as dread settled in. 

“No,” you shook your head, scrambling off him, never mind the wet patch that stained his crotch now. Your body trembled, the weight of your actions closing in on you.

Riley sat on the mat, watching you in shock.

“I-I,” you stuttered, barely able to look at him as you stood up, “I shouldn’t—”

“Mick,” he pleaded, standing quickly, the tent in his pants now deflated.

Shame on you. Weak fucking bitch. You never learn.

“I have to go,” your voice cracked, a lump forming in your throat, eyes brimming with tears. Leave before he sees you cry. Don’t show weakness. You’ve let him in too deep already. Don’t let him see you like this. He can’t see you like this.

He reached out to you. “Please don’t—”

You stepped back as if he were made of hot iron. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

And then you ran away.

crossposted on AO3.

taglist: @joufrance @callsign-denmark @lostintro @readingthingy @maskfan25 @theonottsblog @ficcharsimp @defronix

Heaven has forsaken the masturbator — Perverts, Ethel Cain

Remnants of your perfume still lingered in his hoodie by the time Simon woke up the following morning. He nuzzled the piece of fabric with his nose pretending it was your skin, inhaling deeply, lips parting in hopes of a kiss that never came. You weren’t there—never were. Simon’s mind conjured your presence like an oasis in a desert, leaving him parched, frustrated, and with a raging erection.

He went to bed last night with a semi, thinking that if he just slept it would go away and stop torturing him, but no. Perhaps he should’ve just thrown the hoodie into the laundry basket instead. Stop feeding his delusions. Because that’s what they were: delusions.

Simon stared at the ceiling, trying in vain to push those thoughts of you away—the warmth of your body in his lap, the softness of your cheek against his mask, the allure of your voice in his ear.

It wasn’t just about how you looked. You were stunning, yes, body built like an Amazon warrior, hardened by war, scarred and toned and curved in the right places. It drove him fucking mad just thinking about it. But it wasn’t just that. 

It was how you were. Hard and unyielding and raw. You were stubborn, sharp-tongued and frustratingly independent. Never took shit from anyone, least of all him. And yet, despite that tough exterior, there was a calm softness buried beneath, something he’d only seen glimpses of. How neat you were, your love for the colour pink, your scent, the way you looked after the others, your laugh—he’d been forced to witness it from the sidelines, for that softness was never for him.

You never let him close enough to feel it, and perhaps that’s what truly gnawed at him the most. He wanted to unearth it, peel back the layers of sarcasm, anger and pain until he could see all of you. Hold you. Keep you for himself, no one else. Make you his.

Fuck.

His cock pulsed against his boxers, clouding his thoughts, refusing to be ignored. Simon reached down, tugged it lazily over the fabric, bit his lower lip as the thought of you consumed him. What he’d give to feel your pretty hands on him. Would they feel as rough as his calloused palm, worn after years of handling weapons? Would they feel softer? Or would he prefer your mouth, warm and velvety, taking him all in, worshipping his co—

No.

Simon let go of himself, dragging a hand down his face. He could not do this. If he gave in now, it’d mean Johnny was right. That he liked you more than he was willing to admit. More than was safe. And he couldn’t afford to lose control like that. Not with you.

Some lines weren’t meant to be crossed.

He stirred. Yawned. Judging by the cloudy sky outside the opened curtains it was probably mid-morning. He sat up, hoodie still in his hands, dumbfounded. It had been a while since he’d been able to fall asleep so quickly. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or just exhaustion from the past few weeks. Either way, he welcomed it. God knows his body needed rest.

He pushed himself off the bed, discarded the hoodie into the laundry bin, as if keeping it out of sight would help him. It was useless. Your mysterious new perfume had embedded itself into his very soul anyway, ready to torture him at any point.

An ice-cold shower would to the trick, he supposed. It always worked to wake him up. Perhaps letting his hard cock shrivel under the temperature would give him the respite he needed.

It didn’t help much, either. The water was freezing, and his cock deflated, thankfully, but it did nothing to stop his thoughts from circling back to you. To the way your skin glowed under the amber light of the pub, to your fuzzy, sugary cocktails, to your legs wrapping around him when he carried you and you admitted that he was comfortable like it was nothing. How could you say that and not expect Simon’s resolve to shatter?

This has to stop. Once and for all.

When he stepped out of the shower, his body was chilled but his mind still wasn’t clear. He dressed quickly, tugged on his running shoes, and stepped outside for a jog.

The cloudy sky matched his racing mind. Aided by heavy rock music on his headphones, his sneakers stomped on the pavement until he reached his preferred hiking trail just on the outskirts of the base. He’d often run into other soldiers in their morning jog, but most were still slacking off at this hour on Sundays. Thankfully, he had the trail to himself and his thoughts. Thoughts that refused to settle.

With every twist and turn his mind went back to you. You were every-fucking-where; your voice, your laugh, the way you carried yourself like an uncontained storm, your rage and the swing of your fists during training, how you refused to back down in your staring contests, always eager to make him break before you did. You had wormed yourself into every crevice of his mind, sinking your claws deep into him and refusing to let go, all without trying.

It fucking terrified him, how easily he bent for you. How easy you could bring him to his knees, if only you’d ask.

Simon pushed himself harder, running until his lungs burned, until the loud boom of the bass ruptured his ear drums, until his feet bled. You were becoming a distraction—a liability. Worse of all, you were his fucking teammate—he couldn’t risk his job because of a stupid fucking crush.

Grow the hell up, Simon, he thought.

He was going to exorcise the idea of you out of his mind one way or another. Even if it killed him.

Simon returned from his run a little before noon drenched in sweat and ten times more frustrated than when he left. The run did little to cast you off his mind. If anything, it only made it worse. He shouldn’t have worn headphones. The music provided a nice background for him to imagine filthy things. Like you bent over his desk, for example.

His muscles ached and his chest heaved and nothing he could say or do would wash away the image of you bathed in the morning sun, lazily allowing him to bury himself inside of you—

Done for. I am done for.

By the time he reached the flat, his mood had soured. Never in his life had he felt this ugly mix of frustration, longing, and horniness. He couldn’t even remember the last time he was horny. His irritation had compounded into a slow-simmering rage, though whether directed at you or the world, he could not say.

He paused before entering the living space, a sparsely furnished but cosy open space containing the couches and dining area, and caught sight of several grocery bags sitting on the dining table. Garrick and Johnny sat there, chatting over the half-unpacked bags.

“Morning, LT,” Johnny smiled as Simon gruffly toed off his running shoes at the entrance. “How’s the hangover treatin’ ye?”

He didn’t respond. Garrick took one long look at Simon’s dishevelled state and smirked. “Rough morning?”

“You could say so,” he said, bending over to grab his shoes.

“You look like you’re ready to punch a wall,” Garrick pointed out. “Careful not to pop a vein.”

Simon walked over to the pair. “What were you two yappin’ about?”

“Groceries,” Johnny said, gesturing to the contents half unpacked, “and Micky.”

That caught Simon’s attention. He glanced wearily around the room, careful not to give too much away. “What about her?”

“Poor girl’s got a hangover from hell,” Kyle said with a chuckle. “Woke her up an hour ago, and she nearly bit my head off. Said she’d run out of soap and craved some chocolate, so I grabbed her some.” He gestured to the table, where several bars of chocolate and four packs of Dove soap sat neatly next to a loaf of bread and a box of cereal.

So Garrick can enter her room now? Is that what it is?

Johnny smirked. “You could deliver ‘em to her, y’know. Be her knight in shinnin’ armour and all.”

Simon glared at Johnny, though the idea seemed quite enticing—entering your private space, seeing you all groggy and adorably sleepy…

Get a grip, Simon.

Garrick, oblivious to Simon’s inner turmoil, grabbed his water bottle and stood up. “Well, I’m off to the gym. If any of you knuckleheads see Micky let her know her stuff’s on the dinner table, yeah?”

Both men nodded, and with that, Garrick headed off. The door clicked shut, leaving Simon and Johnny alone.

“Y’gonna stand there sulkin’, or are you gonna tell me what’s crawled up yer arse this mornin’?” Johnny asked, crossing his arms.

“Not sulkin’,” Simon muttered, grabbing the seat Garrick vacated, leaving his shoes on the floor.

Johnny raised a brow, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “Saw ye and Micky gettin’ cosy in the car last night.”

Simon stiffened, his jaw tightening. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Johnny laughed. “Oh, c’mon, mate. She was on yer lap like a bloody cat. Even fell asleep on ye.”

“She was drunk,” Simon said flatly. “Didn’t mean anything.”

“Sure, sure.” Johnny didn’t look convinced. “Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

Before Simon could snap back, the door to Price’s room creaked open, and the captain shuffled out, rubbing his eyes. His hair was tousled, his shirt rumpled, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Morning,” Price grumbled, a glass of water in hand. “Please tell me you’ve got paracetamol in one of those bags.”

“Gaz got some,” Johnny said, gesturing to the table.

Price rifled through the bags, pulled out a packet of paracetamol, and downed two pills with the water. He glanced at Simon, who was trying to will away the heat creeping up his neck.

“You alright, Simon?” Price asked, raising a brow.

“Fine,” Simon said quickly.

“Good,” Price said, smirking faintly. “Though I’d keep an eye on Micky if I were you. She might need some lookin’ after today.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Simon muttered, avoiding Johnny’s knowing grin. Was everybody trying to piss him off today?

Price left for his room with a nod, leaving Simon alone with Johnny again.

“Don’t say a word,” Simon warned, pointing a finger at him.

Johnny raised his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it, LT.” He stood up, gathered the rest of the bags and headed towards the kitchen to unpack, leaving behind your stuff and Garrick’s pack of paracetamol.

Simon stood up as well, grabbing his shoes. He took one good look at the soap. Dove bars. Were those the same ones you used in Azerbaijan? His hand closed around the box before he could stop himself, brought it up to his nose and inhaled.

Fuck.

Indeed it was. Soapy and clean and soft and very much like you, layered under your cherry blossom splash and your new mystery perfume. He closed his eyes, and imagined you freshly out of the shower with a towel wrapped around your body, hair wet and still dripping onto the tiles, smelling like absolute heaven.

What the hell was he doing?

He put it down with a sigh. Was this how women felt when they were ovulating? What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he get you out of his head?

It all came back to your stupid scent. Made him think things he wouldn’t dare speak aloud. Drove him fucking insane. You and your perfumes.

And your body and your lips and your hair and the sway of your hips.

Fucking hell.

He took another look at your stack of things, hand twitching to grab the soap bar again, but he squashed the idea. Those were your things. Some lines aren’t mean to be crossed. 

But Garrick had bought them for you, hadn’t he?

Your head pounded. Too much alcohol. Way too much alcohol. What were you thinking? You weren’t 19 anymore. This wasn’t a college frat house party. You were 31, for fuck’s sake, your body wasn’t up for this tomfoolery nowadays.

You stirred on the bed, groaning as the throbbing in your skull increased the more you moved. Your mouth was as dry as sandpaper, making it hard to swallow what little saliva you had left. Goddamn whiskey. Goddamn tequila. Goddamn Johnny for suggesting the themed rounds.

Slowly, reluctantly, you rolled onto your back, hand lazily draping over your face to block out the light. The events of the previous night filtered into your memory, piecing themselves together like fragments of a hazy dream. The drinks. The laughter. Dancing with Kyle.

And Riley.

You groaned louder, this time from mortification rather than physical pain. Now you remembered everything—how you’d sat on his lap in the car, warm and giddy and buzzed from the drinks, his large hands steadying your hips like they belonged there. How you’d fallen asleep on him, head against his chest, lulled by his masculine, musky scent and the subtle rise and fall of his breath.

Worse than that, you remembered how he’d looked at you the whole night, like you were some mystery waiting to be solved, taking up all of his attention. You knew that stare. You’d seen it on missions—calculating, curious, determined, but there was something extra in there you couldn’t quite place.

You couldn’t bring yourself to admit that you liked it.

You winced, rolling onto your side and curling into a ball, as if the thought could be physically expelled. You couldn’t afford to like it. Couldn’t afford to like him. Not like that. Not when everything between you had been built on sharp barbs and silent tension. Not when he was Simon fucking Riley—impossible, untouchable, and likely indifferent to you in any meaningful way.

Long ago you’d promised yourself there wouldn’t be anybody else. You intended to hold onto that promise.

Still, the memory of his hands on your hips lingered, searing itself into your brain despite your best efforts to ignore it. There had been something deliberate in the way he’d touched you—firm but careful, like he didn’t trust himself to let go too soon or hold on too tight. And you’d allowed it. You’d welcomed it.

“Shit,” you muttered, rubbing your eyes and wincing. Even the act made your head throb.

You lay there for a couple more minutes, thoughts spiralling, before you couldn’t bear the dryness in your throat anymore. You reached over to your nightstand, hand brushing past your dog tags, sitting in their ceramic bowl you’d brought over from home, and grabbed your phone. You wore those things almost every day, either under or over your clothes. It was the only thing you had left to remind you of George.

With a deep breath, you unlocked your phone, squinting at the brightness. Twenty-something messages from the team group chat, including the pictures taken yesterday at the pub, and those two incriminating pics of Riley holding you. Bastards, you thought, making a note to enact revenge on Kyle and Johnny.

A message from the former caught your attention. Received half an hour ago.

Kyle: hey doll, your stuff’s on the dinner table. bought some painkillers as well. got you chocolate too. stay hydrated please xx

You smiled faintly, heart softened by the gesture. Over the past few months, Kyle had become your confidant within the team, so much so you’d call him your closest friend. He always did these little things for you, making sure you were okay, and checking up on you, all without asking for anything in return. 

You: thank u babes. owe u one.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you threw on an oversized hoodie over your pyjama top and shorts. Your head kept pounding as you shuffled out of the room, but the promise of chocolate and a hot shower was enough to keep you moving.

The smell of coffee wafted faintly from the kitchen as you approached the dining table. Sure enough, there sat your chocolate bars and soap, neatly placed alongside the pack of painkillers and some hay fever tablets. But something was off.

You counted the packs of soap.

Three.

Your brow furrowed. You distinctly remembered asking for four.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, standing there with your hands on your hips. You glanced around the flat suspiciously, as if expecting Johnny to jump out from behind the couch with a shit-eating grin.

“That fucking thief,” you grumbled, picking up the three packs and turning them over in your hands. Dove, of course. The usual. You remembered Johnny complaining about running out of his own soap a few days ago. “Bet he’s the one who took it.”

It wasn’t about the soap, really. Three packs were still plenty. But the principle of it—that smug bastard thinking he could just take your stuff—was enough to make your blood boil.

You grabbed your stuff and marched back to your room. You weren’t about to give John MacTavish the satisfaction of a fight. Not in your sorry state. There were bigger problems to tend to, like the fact that Riley had turned your resolve into goo just by sweet-talking you into accepting his help, and not only did you like the idea of him carrying you around, you wanted him to do it again.

What was wrong with you? Why couldn’t your body follow your brain for once? You were supposed to sort of tolerate the guy, not sport a crush on the idiot. You hadn’t even seen his face properly, if you didn’t count the bathroom incident.

Shutting the door, you wondered what would’ve happened if Riley’s hands had wandered further south, before shaking your head. No. This couldn’t end well. Falling for a teammate never bode well, and you knew that from experience. This would only end in heartbreak for you once again.

And you swore to yourself you’d die before having your heart broken a second time.

She’s going to hang you for this.

Simon stood in his bathroom, in his boxers, eyeing the little carton box of Dove soap that he’d set on the granite counter. A fucking bar of soap will be the death of me, he thought, crossing his arms. You’re a fucking creep and a pervert. This is why she doesn’t like you. You’re an asshole.

Why the hell did he have to steal your soap bar?

Guilt gnawed at his gut. This was wrong. He shouldn’t have done this. Between taking a whiff of your toiletries in Azerbaijan and this it was clear that his crush on you was becoming a nuisance. How was he supposed to do his job properly when his mind short-circuited over something as trivial as your soap?

But it’s not just soap, his mind countered, it’s her. It’s everything she represents.

He considered putting it back on the pile. It had only been less than an hour. You were probably still holed up in your room. If he got dressed quick enough he’d be able to sneak into the living area and place it back where it belonged, and nobody would know it even happened.

His phone vibrated.

The screen lit up. Your profile picture popped up on the screen along with your message to the team group chat.

Mick Duarte: @johnmactavish wankstain

Mick Duarte: i know u stole my soap. is that why they call you soap???

John MacTavish: bon wtf are u on????

Simon’s heart pounded, gaze darting between his phone screen and the damned soap pack, cold sweat dripping down his back. Now he definitely couldn’t go and put it back where it was. If he did, you’d know it was him. If he did, he’d be admitting to far more than just having a crush on you. And not only would you know. Everyone on the team would know.

He couldn’t have that.

Bloody hell, what have I done?

The phone kept vibrating, surely you and Johnny had started bickering in the chat, but Simon paid no attention to it, his head spiraling with the possible consequences of his actions. So what if he had stolen a soap bar? Was that the end of the world? No. Did it diminish his self-respect a little? Perhaps. 

If you found out it would surely cause an argument. You might not talk to him for days. Simon could play the stupid card and pretend he didn’t know the soap was yours and that he’d been running low on it as well. Own up to it, but partially. Yes. That seemed the best course of action, given the circumstances.

He ran a hand through his face and sighed. Might as well get in the shower and use it, right? He was running low on soap, so it wasn’t truly a lie.

You weren’t going to find out either way.

Right?

He stripped off his boxers and dumped them in the laundry basket, then popped the bar out of the box, ripped the carton to shreds, and threw it in the bin. Less evidence of his crimes.

The water was cold, perhaps colder than this morning. Despite braving it, like usual, the temperature didn’t feel right for his overheated body, bordering on uncomfortable. He grabbed the handle and turned up the temperature until it was lukewarm, almost bordering on hot. There. Much better. He sighed, enjoying the warmth. He wasn’t one for warm or hot showers. The point of it was to wash up as quickly as possible. Warm water invited the mind to wander, and that was the last thing he needed…

…but he had to admit it felt kind of nice to indulge.

Steam rose out of the shower stall as he shut off the water and grabbed his shampoo bottle. Even though he’d showered this morning, a gnawing feeling remained in his chest that he wasn’t clean enough, exacerbated by his strenuous run an hour ago. Best thing he could do was to wash all the filth off, physically and mentally.

His mind was still reeling by the time he rinsed off the shampoo.

When he reached out to grab the soap bar, his hand hesitated briefly, but he grabbed it nonetheless. Cherry blossoms, that mystery perfume, and now this. God, it smelled so much like you. Clean and pretty and shapely and full of rage and deadly and so fucking beautiful he wanted to eat you. Have you sit on his lap all day like last night, so he could bury his face on your neck and inhale your very being and kiss you senseless. Then slide his hands inside your shirt and play with your full, gorgeous tits—having you squirm on top of him as he pinched and twisted your nipples.

He began to lather soap on his chest as his thoughts wandered, breath coming out ragged and shaky as his hand morphed into yours, touching him, caressing him.

Fuck, he was hard again. Painfully so. But no, he couldn’t touch himself. Wouldn’t touch himself. He had to stay in control. He’d caved in so many times now. This was the one line he couldn’t cross.

Simon jacked off, of course. He’d read that frequent sexual activity was good for the body. So, like anything else in his life, he turned it into a routine. Once a week was more than enough for him. A quick, porn-enhanced session before sleeping on Fridays. Over and done in five minutes, maybe seven. His dick had come to expect it, even. Looked forward to it. Pulsed within his trousers when it knew it was time.

He got horny, yes, but he’d never really craved anything the way he craved you. He wasn’t blind. He could acknowledge when a woman was hot. He could watch porn and it would turn him on and it could make him come without issue.

But desire?

When was the last time Simon had desired anything?

Give in, give in, give in, give in, give in.

He would sneak his hands under your gym shorts, the ones you liked to wear when lifting weights, the tight ones that showed your thick arse and made Simon dizzy every fucking time he saw you in them. Those ones. He’d take them off slowly after playing with your tits, undressing you until nothing remained, until you were naked on top of him. Then he’d pry your legs open and slide his fingers into your wet, warm cunt. Oh, he’d fuck you with his fingers until you forgot your own name, make you come over and over and over and fuck he needed to come right now or else he’d explode.

He grabbed his cock, rigid and thick, and gave it a few tugs, gripping the soap bar with his other hand, enveloped in your scent. He pressed his forehead against the cool tile, his shaky breath fogging up the shower stall, small whimpers escaping his mouth as he slid his hand up and down his shaft, aided by slick pre-come and your creamy soap, squeezing slightly at the tip, just as he liked. His eyes screwed shut in desperation.

“Mick…” He moaned, mind reeling, thinking about all the ways he’d love to fuck you.

He thrust into his hand, wishing it were yours for a change, wishing you were here with him, right now, so he could kiss you, worship you like you deserved, so he could lift you up in his arms and fuck you against the shower wall, have your nails dig into his back and scratch him.

But in his mind you were still in his lap, riding him, foreheads pressed together as his hands urged you on, kneading your perfect ass. Perhaps in his bed. Perhaps in the rec room or in the car or in the living room. Or perhaps in your bed, surrounded by your pink fuzzy things and your blankets and your cosy lavender-scented candles he’d seen you buy while grocery shopping. In his mind you stared right into his soul, no longer quarrelling but moaning his name instead. His name. He’d never heard you utter his name, not once.

In his mind, it was all that came out of your mouth.

“Mick…” He whimpered, fucking himself faster, pathetically calling out for something he’d never have. He was close now, he could feel the tension brewing. In his mind your velvety walls squeezed him, urged him to fill you up with his come. Claim you. Make you his.

Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine.

He braced himself, balls tightening. Your ghost kissed his cheek, ground against him, bit the shell of his ear, moaning for him. You were about to come, too. Such a good girl you were. Coming just for him. Only for him. His girl. His. His Mick.

“Come for me, Simon.”

Just the thought of you whimpering his name was enough to tip him over. Simon came hard, harder than he ever did, convulsing against the shower wall, mouth open agape as if to scream, but no sound making it out. He continued to stroke himself, riding the wave of his orgasm as he shot his load into the tiles in thick spurts, imagining you taking it all like the good girl you were. His good girl.

“Fuck,” he croaked out, releasing his cock once he was done, chest still heaving. He pushed himself off the wall and stared at the mess he made—thick globs of semen coating the shower wall—and at the soap bar still in his hand, horrified at what he’d just done.

He really was a fickle bastard, wasn’t he? Just this morning he tried to act all high and mighty, swearing up and down that he wouldn’t do it, he wouldn’t cross this line, and look at where that got him.

Selfish cunt.

He was completely and utterly fucked. There was no salvation for him. No coming back from this. He wanted you. Badly. But you were his teammate, for fuck’s sake! And there was no guarantee that you wanted him back. Hell, for all he knew, you still somewhat despised him.

This was uncharted territory. Never in his life had Simon Riley felt something remotely close to this twisted, all-encompassing desire that settled in his gut.

You were going to be the death of him.

Tired, he turned on the shower once again, setting the temperature back to cold, letting the water wash away the evidence of his sin.

crossposted on AO3.

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