la douleur exquise

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You hated when people looked at you after they looked at Simon.

Because it always happened in that order.

Their eyes would land on him first— broad shoulders stuffed into dark clothes, that permanently tired stare, the kind of presence that made rooms quiet without him even trying — and then they’d shift to you.

And every single time, you swore you saw the same flicker of confusion.

Them?

It made your sick.

The apartment had gone unbearably quiet after he yelled.

Not the comfortable kind of silence either. Not the kind Simon liked after long missions where the world finally stopped demanding things from him.

This silence was wrong.

You stood by the stove with your back turned, shoulders tense, blinking rapidly like if you just tried hard enough the tears would disappear before he saw them.

Too late.

Simon stared at you like he’d just watched himself pull a trigger he couldn’t take back. His chest rose once. Heavy.

“...Fuck.”

The word came out under his breath, barely audible.

You wiped quickly at your face. “It’s okay.”, you whispered , hurt and embarrassment blooming in your chest.

It wasn’t okay.

And Simon knew it immediately because your voice did that tiny shaky thing it only did when you were trying very hard not to cry.

He felt sick.

The kind where the person you love looks hurt because of you.

Simon took one cautious step forward. Then another.

“Love.”

You shook your head without turning around.

That hurt more than the tears.

Usually when he came home, you gravitated toward him automatically. Hands on his chest, arms around his waist. Soft little smiles like he was something worth waiting for.

Now you were standing as far away from him as the kitchen allowed.

Because he yelled.

Because he came home carrying all his anger and dropped it right at your feet.

His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”, you mumbled, trying to smoothen your voice.

“Stand there acting like you deserve that.”

You finally turned a little at that, eyes glossy. “Simon-”

“No.” He scrubbed a hand down his face harshly. “No, don’t excuse it.”

You went silent. He looked wrecked now. More wrecked than when he first walked in.

Rainwater still clung to his jacket. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but guilt sat on him even heavier.

“I came home to you,” he said, voice rough. “Warm flat, food on the stove, you waiting for me.” He laughed once bitterly at himself. “And first thing I do is bark at you like some miserable prick.”

Your lips parted slightly.

Simon looked away, jaw flexing.

“Spent two bloody weeks thinking about getting back to you.” His voice got quieter. “Then I walk through that door and make you cry inside five minutes.”

The tears you were trying to stop spilled over again.

The second he saw them, he looked genuinely devastated.

Not angry. Not frustrated.

Devastated.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

He crossed the room immediately then stopped himself halfway, hesitating.

Simon Riley, who would walk through gunfire without blinking, suddenly looking uncertain about whether he was allowed to touch his own wife.

“You don’t have to comfort me,” you whispered.

That nearly broke him, his eyes shut briefly.

“Christ.”

He finally stepped closer carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. His hands settled lightly on your arms, almost tentative.

“I’m sorry love,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Ever.”

You looked down, vision blurring, “I know you’re tired.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I wasn’t trying to annoy you-”,you huffed ,choking slightly on the tears.

“I know.” His voice cracked slightly then steadied. “I know you weren’t.”

The guilt in his expression got worse somehow.

“You were taking care of me,” he murmured. “That’s all you were doing.”

You tried to look away again but Simon gently caught your chin before you could.

“Look at me.”

You did. Big mistake.

The second he saw how hard you’d been trying not to cry, his entire face softened into something painfully guilty.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”, he murmured ,gently cupping your face.

“You never yell at me.”, you sniffled.

That one hit directly to the ribs.

Simon actually flinched.

His thumb brushed carefully under your eye, wiping away a tear with absurd gentleness for a man built like a concrete wall with emotional constipation.

“I swear to you,” he said quietly, “the second it came outta my mouth, I wanted to take it back.”

You could hear how honest it was.

Simon wasn’t good at pretty apologies. He wasn’t poetic, wasn’t smooth. But guilt made him painfully sincere.

“I hate that you looked at me like that,” he admitted softly.

“Like what?”

“Like you were trying to figure out if I was angry with you.”

His voice nearly disappeared on the last part. Because that was the thing eating him alive now. The fact that for even one second, you’d looked at him uncertainly instead of safely.

Simon pulled you against him suddenly, firm and desperate, burying his face into your h.air.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly against your temple. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You felt the way he held you tighter after every apology, like he was trying to physically make up for it.

“I missed you,” he admitted in a low murmur. “Missed you so bad it felt wrong sleeping without you there.” His arms tightened. “Then I come home and act like that.”

Your hands slowly curled into his shirt. Simon exhaled shakily at the feeling.

“There she is,” he whispered, relief and guilt tangled together. “Thought I fucked this up properly for a second.” he mumbled ,inhaling the scent of your hair.

“You didn’t.”

“Nearly did.”

And judging by the way he kept pressing little apologetic kisses into your hair like a man trying to repent for his crimes against domestic peace, he was going to spend the rest of the night making absolutely sure you knew he regretted it.

18+ mdni simon riley is a horrible lay, everyone says.

that’s what you’ve heard around base, from men and women alike. he’s too fucking big, apparently, fucks like the mean bastard that he is. hurts. apparently, he’s so cold he doesn’t even care for his partner. and apparently, every time anyone’s tried to sleep with him, they’ve always stormed out of his room, pissed off at him because his room is a hellhole. 

apparently. it’s all word of mouth, but you believe it. 

but after the end of the month drinks at the local spoons, you can barely get simon off you, he’s pawing at you with his big hands. the two of you split a cider in two, and he looks at you with his big brown eyes, “y- you’re really fucking hot.” he blurts out, kissing your nose with chapped lips.

his face is red, blushing deeply as you try your best to not flush the same. “and johnny told me you can’t ever think about the pretty lass on floor 3 with the filing cabinet, but guess what, i can.” he kisses you on the side of your head this time, and you’re enjoying his affections.

it’s only back in his room on base that he fumbles with his belt, before he looks at you again, “s-sorry, it’s just, i don’t really get to spend the night with pretty women like you-“

you want to hide your face in his pillows, his room is really fucking nice. he has plants, actual plants growing from gaz, sketch drawings from johnny, photographs of him and the captain. 

his cock is huge, hard and leaking, slapping against his stomach, but he still looks at you with his sweet brown eyes, “love, it’s okay if it’s too big…” he sounds dejected already, but you just shake your head, it’s nowhere near as big what the word around base was. 

“it’s fine simon-“ you whisper, licking your lips and placing kitten licks on his length, feeling the taste of him coat your tongue. 

“no no no-“ he shakes his head, pulling away before his hands touch your wet panties, “fuck, you’re so wet love.” 

and then he dives in, tugging them off, before licking at your cunt with a sloppy tongue, he doesn’t have a technique down but whatever the fuck he’s doing it’s good, your legs are shaking as his tongue dips inside you.

“gotta make sure it’s good for you-“ okay, what the fuck was anyone talking about?

he slides into you with ease, and thrusts into you? his hands above your head, his eyes still looking at you. “you’re very fuckin’… mmmph… hot.” he says, with a grin on his scarred face that would look terrifying if it wasn’t for the way his brown eyes shone with sweetness.  

it wasn’t long before his cock twitches inside of you, and his eyes roll back, “oh fuck love, right there— fuck!” he was filling you deep, his cum thick in your stomach. 

“love?” he asks, whimpering, his head on your chest, “love, did you find it good?” he’s desperate for your fucking approval. 

you kiss his head, his soft curls growing out of army regs.

“yes darling.” fuck the word of mouth, did anyone even try this with him?

“th-thank you dove-“ he pants, his cock deep inside you as you keep stroking his hair, feeling his breath even out. 

doesn’t mean to get attached to you, but it happens anyway. quietly. gradually. like something inevitable. one day you’re just “someone in the unit,” and the next, you’re the only voice he listens for in the comms.

who pretends he’s unaffected, but the moment you go radio silent for even a second too long, his entire body locks up. he’ll bark orders, keep moving, stay sharp but inside, it’s all static and worst-case scenarios.

who never shows his face, not fully… but lets you see pieces of him no one else gets. the edge of his jaw when he lifts the mask to drink. the faintest ghost of a smile when you say something dumb.

who remembers everything about you. the way you take your tea. the exact tone your voice drops to when you’re tired. the difference between your real laugh and the one you use around others.

who stands just a little closer to you than necessary. not touching, never that obvious, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, grounding, steady.

who calls you by your name in private, not your callsign. low and rough, like it actually means something. like you mean something.

who gets protective in a way that isn’t loud amd isn’t possessive just…absolute. if you’re in danger, he’s already moving before anyone else has processed what’s happening.

who will patch you up himself, even if you insist you’re fine. silent, focused, hands surprisingly gentle for someone who’s spent so long breaking things.

who doesn’t do affection the normal way. no grand gestures. no soft confessions. but he’ll sit beside you in silence after a mission, shoulder brushing yours, and that’s his version of everything.

who, one night when it’s just the two of you, finally says: “you’re safe with me.” and it’s not a promise he makes lightly.

who doesn’t say “i love you.” not at first. maybe not ever in the way people expect but you’ll hear it in every stay close, every i’ve got you, bird , but every moment he chooses you — again and again.

© BITTERSWEETLYBLUE , do not copy, translate or edit my work as your own nor feed it into anything for your amusement.

Your cat was a one-person cat. She hated people, except for you. Many have tried charming your stone-hearted princess, none have succeeded.

Until Simon. Sort of.

He’d never make you choose between him and your cat, but would appreciate if she stopped yowling and swatting at him just for walking in her general direction.

When you move in together, he can’t even do things in his own home without being criticized.

“Why’re mad?”

“Meow.”

“I’m putting this away.”

“Meow.”

“I live here too, you know.”

“Hissss.”

“You’re right. You’re always right.”

For someone who allegedly hates him, your cat follows Simon around everywhere, with her tail straight up in the air, too.

And she’ll complain about her own proximity to her spare human your boyfriend every chance she gets.

You’d be mindlessly staring at Man Uni and the cat would voluntarily lay on Simon’s half-asleep form. Then yowl.

“…The fuck I’d do to you?”

And she’d refuse to move.

“Get off. I don’t want you on me.”

“She’s comfy!”

“You just want to yell at me, don’t you, y’ little—“

Swat.

Simon’s wide eyed at her audacity.

Nevertheless, Simon accepts defeat, and sinks further into the couch.

“I’m sick o’ your shit, Ganondorf.”

“Meow.”

Nevertheless, it’s obvious Simon adores the cat. He senses a kindred spirit. Yeah, he knows, he tells her as he scratches her behind her neck. She allows him. He doesn’t quite like people either. Well, besides your mum, of course. He talks to your cat like she’s a grown adult person.

“Why’re mad now?”

“Meow.”

“Your mum’s in the bath. You can wait five more minutes with me, yeah?”

“Meow.”

“Y’ don’t wanna be in there with mummy.”

“Meow.”

It wasn’t until a night off with the team in some sweaty, sticky bar that he runs into you. As much as he tries to ignore the girl on a shitty date who keeps pushing the man’s hands off her ass and fake laughing at his boring jokes, it grates at him for reasons he can quite grasp. Later, he’ll catch the tail end of a screaming match outside the bar. One that has your date storming off, and you sinking onto the grimy concrete in your nicest outfit. He’ll watch from the shadows, flicking the ash off a cigarette before finally saying, “Want me to kill him for ya?” and when your eyes shoot up to the stranger in disbelief he tacks on, “free of charge.”

He almost can’t make it out through your laughter, wet with lingering tears. “oh my god, please, don’t.” you chuckle, “i wouldn’t last a day in prison.” between the burning on his arm, exactly where those dreaded words are, and the way the air feels like it’s been punched straight from his lungs, simon can’t muster up a reply fast enough.

You, on the other hand, have a smile slowly forming as you rub your own burning mark. “Do you know how worried my parents were when they saw what this said? They put me in preemptive therapy and everything. Thought I’d end up in a gang or something.” The man reaches a hand out, offering to help you stand. “You’re not are you? In a gang I mean?”

Another puff of smoke leaves his lips in what you think might have been the beginning of a laugh. “No, military. Close enough, though.”

Dusting yourself off, you sneak a closer look at the shadowed stranger. your soulmate, a voice inside flutters with childish glee. “Well damn, there go all my mob wife aspirations.”

He sighs, and steps closer to you, just within the light of a flickering street lamp. Now, you can make out his features. Scars cover every inch of exposed skin, twisting and mangling what might have once been a fair face. Under your gaze, he waits cautiously, “Sorry to disappoint.” A double meaning you catch immediately.

That's what Simon believed, that's why he hid it with his mask, it isn't a simple insecurity, it's something deep and ugly that's been rotting in his heart for years until it became an alter-ego.

Even after all his years, even if it was barely, he still felt it.

The shame and embarrassment, how he's saved children's life and they ran away crying thanks to his mask, how people would look at him like he was the problem and more than once he just wanted to dissapear.

More than once he tried to disappear.

So when you looked up at him, grateful for him saving your dog's life, hugging him, blushing, asking him if he had anything to do for the weekend.

"What? What do you mean? You don't disgust me!, how can someone feel scared of a sweet man like you, I don't really understand how people can act like that"

You looked genuinely clueless at why he pulled you back, saying such a pretty thing like you shouldn't be close to a broken, big man like him, and that's what made the walls on his heart crumble.

He was stunned, flushed, behind the mask his eyes were wide at your honest opinion and baffled expression, searching for any sign of mockery, the one's he's seen in his whole life and when he didn't find anything, just a pure, loving heart, he became a big giant softie.

That was the first time he met you, so that's why twelve years later, in his big house, his two pretty daughters sleeping in their own rooms upstairs, you on his lap with one of his shirts on you, hair messy, two marriage rings glinting on your fingers and the one he gave you when you gave birth to his first daughter, peppering his mask less face with kisses until he blushed like a schoolboy.

"Oh love you're blushing" you cooed sweetly at his shy smile, he simply squeezed your waist lovingly, whispering a soft.

"Thank you love, really, for being part of my life, my wife, the mother of my daughters, you're my hero"

He looked at you with such awestruck eyes all you could do was blush, giggle and kiss his lips, tilting your head.

she was in her first year of middle school but it seemed like it was hell for her. her friends left her and she felt lonely.

she jumped into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist as she hid in her father's neck. he felt like security.

simon held her tightly, his eyes meeting yours with concern. his hands patted her back softly as she sobbed into his neck.

you watched them with a soft expression.

when you were pregnant simon was terrified of becoming a parent. he freaked out everyday of your pregnancy, even after you had her.

but his worried faded when she started growing up. she loved him more than anything in the world. she was a daddys girl through and through.

growing up in an aggressive and abusive household has made simon avoid anything that can resemble even a disagreement. it's frustrating at times. you'll try to talk to him about serious topics and he'll immediately shut you down or go quiet because he fears it'll draw out a screaming match because that's what usually happened between his parents.

he knows you better than himself, so when your mood is the slightest bit sour he immediately notices. except, he doesn't ask you what's wrong.

instead, this behemoth of a man literally begins to cower. he goes dead quiet. not even his usual softspokeness, not a single word. simon becomes clumsy and tries to take up less space around you. he even fumbles with his fingers and watches you with those whale eyes a dog gives you when it's uncomfortable. he does all of this, while refusing to leave your side.

he doesn't prod, doesn't ask. he think's it'll agitate you more if he bothers you and hopes that by showing his devotion by staying at your side through whatever is going through your mind and is affecting you that it'll persuade you to have mercy on him and forgive him—even if he did nothing at all and you're not mad at him.

it's almost insane. he's more scared of the possibility of you being mad at him than an actual bullet. sometimes it makes things worse because you wouldn't even be mad at him and he'll refuse to engage with you from sheer nervousness.

You should be his dream, really, you two go at it for hours with no strings attached. Except everytime you hop up from his bed before he’s even gotten the chance to lay down next to you with his cum still in your cunt an ugly feeling settles in his chest.

When you moan another man’s name during sex and you think it’s funny laughing out an apology, but all he sees is red. Thinking of another man when he’s got his cock buried to the hilt in his your cunt.

When you ask him if the two of you can start using condoms because you’re sleeping with other men and he swears he draws blood from how harshly he digs his fingers into his palm.

When you see him at the bar with his arm around another girl and you just smile and give him a thumbs up like you’re happy he’s taking another girl home, but he almost knocks the guy out he sees you with.

It'd be that one where you wrap your arms around yourself and he lifts you up from behind. Feels like every vertebra in your spine just disconnected from each other. Lets out a cascade of the most hellacious sound ever, one that he only really hears after an action with the intent to kill.

"Bloody fuckin' hell." A split moment of fear that he's just paralyzed you, immediately starts lowering you to the ground. Like, all the way laying you on the ground. Still has his arms clamped around you as if to hold you together. But the noise you let out is far from the agonized sound his mind expects.

"Ho-ly shit," you groan in nothing but pure relief.

"You a'right?" He's still not letting you go. Just in case.

"I can actually breathe now, Si."

"Well. So long as I didn't break ya."

But that was alright. You knew what he was like. You would scream it from the roof tops and he would never have to answer. Eventually he'd believe you.

It was years. Years of soft kisses and holding hands. Whispering your love to him and never expecting a reply. You knew he loved you in the way he acted, you could survive not hearing it.

And then he said it. One night curled around your back, nose tucked in the back of your neck. So quiet you almost missed it.

"I love you..."

You couldn't just be subtle, couldn't just let it slide. You had to spin around and face him, taking in his surprised expression. Gorgeous dark eyes wide, face flushed bright red.

"I love you too." Said firmly. Making sure there was no room for argument.

Simon didn't know why he waited so long. The smile you gave him was better than any drug.

Now he said it all the time.

Hugging you in the kitchen and mumbling it into your hair. Leaning back just to see that love struck grin. Shifting closer in a meeting and whispering it in your ear so he could watch you struggle to contain the pure joy.

He'd be watching you through his scope on a mission. Heart so full he couldn't help but smile.

"Bravo 7-1 making contact with Tango 2. You read me?"

He watched you pause by the safety of an abandoned building.

"Affirmative, sir. There a problem?"

His grin spread wider below the mask, keeping a close eye on your expression.

"Love you, soldier."

Your expression lit up. Grinning uncontrollably as you scanned the hills surrounding you to try and find his position. You didn't, he was completely invisible."

"Say again, sir."

"I love you."

You blew a kiss to your mysterious man somewhere in the distance.

the man from manchester first began crushing on you just by a mere interaction. you didnt even do anything extraordinary, the two of you met in a meeting room, John Price introducing you to the rest of the team, and amid your introductions with the all five men, you made brief eye contact with them all, including ghost.

during that brief moment of eye contact, lasting no more than three seconds— when your own shiny and curious eyes met his dead ones— simon quite literally felt like an arrow shot through his heart. to simon, you unintentionally imprinted on him.

from then on, the rest of the men have noticed a theme between the two of you.

whenever you walk into a room, ghost's hard-to-get-attention is suddenly fixated onto you. he goes quiet, quieter than usual, and stiffens up entirely. the man sometimes even shushes others when you are talking with a harsh glare or a sharp "shh" that is too quiet for you to notice but loud enough for others to hear.

in social events, the man follows you like a puppy. youre always wondering why men dont approach you anymore and youve yet to figure that maybe its because theres this 6'4" 250 lbs man looming behind you like a menance, but his eyes are quite literally shiny and alive just by being around you.

the best of all is the bold caring side of him that hes eager to share with you. whether itd be him insisting that he be the one to carry you when youre injured amid a mission. its him who takes all the heavy lifting and just looks at you with a deadpan stare when you complain.

its him who drives you late at night home when you suddenly want to leave the bar, its him who always answers your call at the wildest hours when you need someone to pick you up from whatever trouble you got yourself in. its him who listens intently to you yap off about your niche interests and concerns, and its even him when youre upset and crying and want a hug even though he hates physical contact.

and if someone dares to slander your name? well, if they are a man, simon just gets to add the guy to his list of people he scares out the country.

so if its clear simon adores you with every might of his being, then why hasnt he asked you out? even soap is scratching his head.

His team, except Captain Price, was shocked to learn that Ghost was married. He casually mentioned it once, on a ride back to England. Something about how the missus was going to fuss over his fatigues being all ripped.

Shock sustained in the helicopter. No one talked for a few minutes. First, Ghost had a wife. The emotional constipated man had a wife. The silent shadow had a woman back home. Second, Ghost had a wife who knew his life. This was against the accord they all signed to not reveal anything about their military lives and what they were doing. So, why did Ghost went against those terms?

Because you had been part of a similar unit, long ago. Except, your own Task Force had been ambushed. You and Ghost were the only survivors, taken away, tortured. They slashed your face, burnt it with acids. Ghost? They locked him ten feet under the ground with the corpses of his own friends.

When you both got away from this hell, and you were honourably discharged, Ghost had come to see you. Made you his proposal. You accepted.

Was it love? No. It was companionship. It was Ghost seeing your face, your trauma and couldn’t comprehend how you would survive alone. And he couldn’t survive without you. Two same sides of the same coin. You needed each other to live, to be alive, to feel alive hell.

So, you took care of the small cottage home you both purchased. You knew how to make his tea. He knew how to cook your favourite meal. You mended his fatigues while chastising him by reminding how the government funding was declining. He left notes around the house to make sure you drink water and take your medication. You begrudgingly agreed to take in the military dog that failed his exam. He begrudgingly have to leave you all the space in the bed.

His team, except Captain Price, was shocked to learn that Ghost was married. He casually mentioned it once, on a ride back to England. Something about how the missus was going to fuss over his fatigues being all ripped.

Shock sustained in the helicopter. No one talked for a few minutes. First, Ghost had a wife. The emotional constipated man had a wife. The silent shadow had a woman back home. Second, Ghost had a wife who knew his life. This was against the accord they all signed to not reveal anything about their military lives and what they were doing. So, why did Ghost went against those terms?

Because you had been part of a similar unit, long ago. Except, your own Task Force had been ambushed. You and Ghost were the only survivors, taken away, tortured. They slashed your face, burnt it with acids. Ghost? They locked him ten feet under the ground with the corpses of his own friends.

When you both got away from this hell, and you were honourably discharged, Ghost had come to see you. Made you his proposal. You accepted.

Was it love? No. It was companionship. It was Ghost seeing your face, your trauma and couldn’t comprehend how you would survive alone. And he couldn’t survive without you. Two same sides of the same coin. You needed each other to live, to be alive, to feel alive hell.

So, you took care of the small cottage home you both purchased. You knew how to make his tea. He knew how to cook your favourite meal. You mended his fatigues while chastising him by reminding how the government funding was declining. He left notes around the house to make sure you drink water and take your medication. You begrudgingly agreed to take in the military dog that failed his exam. He begrudgingly have to leave you all the space in the bed.