🌙

MASTERLIST

JOHN PRICE: ☾ how souls catch fire

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY: ☾ away on the breeze ☾ turn your ghost into mine

KYLE 'GAZ' GARRICK: ☾ smokey eyes, are you feeling good?

JOHHNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH: ☾ pour the dirt into our bed

ALEJANDRO VARGAS: ☾ beat the pulse into your shoes

PHILLIP GRAVES: ☾ kill my indulgences

GROUP HEADCANONS: ☾ poisoned tongue ☾ wish i didn't care

TAGS

both were agonizing in their own ways. both BURNED with something that hurt too good to admit. both demanded your attention, but as always, john eventually won the fight for it. the tiny little scrapes and bumps caused by the old wood of his desk had started to numb when the tears came. john’s fingers pushing into your cunt acted as a sort of balm. you couldn’t feel anything but him.

his broad shoulders had kept your legs spread for far too long at this point, so they eventually began to ache too. they tremble and quake around john’s shoulders. you know he feels it, and thinks it’s because of his tongue and fingers.

he’s not far from the truth.

and just as soon as john’s eyes shoot up, you’re throwing your head back. eyes squeezing shut, shuddering breath disguised behind a moan, hoping to just cum on his mouth and he doesn’t have to know he caused the tears that seem to burn your eyes. he’s kept you on the edge for so long, it wouldn’t be hard to simply focus on his tongue and let go.

there’s a burn behind your eyelids. more tears form when his fingers curl and his tongue flicks a certain way.

“john,” you breathe out, ending his name with a pant. “it’s… i-”

“look at me, love.”

it was an order. plain and clear. your head snaps up immediately, finding his half-illuminated eyes in the lowlight of his office. dark hair looking raven black, eyes blown up to match - but even then, you see them LIGHT up with amusement. even in shitty lighting, john catches the glimmer of tears. right on the edge of falling down your pretty cheeks - you probably don’t even notice. it only makes him harder.

he laughs in a low rumble. “so fucking pretty, aren’tcha?”

you nod; panting, writhing, crying.

john leans his head in closer, pushing in his fingers as far as they’ll go. “pretty girl gonna cum for me? all sweet and tight around my fingers? keep watching me, love - gonna cum now? yeah, go right ahead, dove. you more than DESERVE it.”

the orgasm hits like a truck when john grinds his tongue against your clit. just before your eyes squeeze shut again, a tear finally breaks free and glides down your cheek - warm and flushed from a climax that he’s sure someone must’ve heard.

john has always promised he’d never make you cry, but this is a damn good exception.

☾

KYLE 'GAZ' GARRICK

… sees you cry and dotes.

gaz has always gone on and on about how much he wants to keep you separate from his work. to leave all the roughness behind when he’s with you. it was never really a problem until tonight - sweet and gentle and slow to a fault. 

too sweet. too gentle. too slow. 

kyle is careful to keep a STEADY pace - a careful rock of his hips, lightly grinding against yours when he’s pressed in deep, making you feel each and every inch of him before gradually pulling out to do when same thing over again. and you know he doesn’t do things without an express purpose - after extending your orgasm a few times, it’s safe to say that your safety isn’t the top priority for once.

he hasn’t gone much faster than this languid pace. selfishly listening to your stunted breaths and pained whimpers of his name. 

if you ask him to go faster, gaz slows down. if you beg for something harder, he smiles and kisses you and tells you to be patient. 

but what has all this patience gotten you? two incredibly drawn out orgasms that fucking ACHED when they hit and kyle stubbornly keeping his thrusts slow and torturous under his guise of being gentle. it’s all a little too much. too intense. your eyes squeeze shut, face nestled against kyle’s neck, hips shifting up when he buries his cock in to try and grind out another orgasm. 

unfortunately, gaz knows you. knows your movements and knows your sounds - the shortening of your breaths and desperate whimpers and choked moans and… sniffles?

his pulls his head up immediately, eyes narrowing in on the tears pricking the corners of your eyes. and gaz grins - he can’t help against it. his cock pulses when a finger comes up to brush a tear away before it has a chance to fall down your face.

“poor baby,” he coos. if you weren’t so wound up, you might’ve noticed how tight his voice sounds. “it’s alright. doing so well for me. gonna make you cum again, don’t you worry. just hang in there, yeah?” his words are breathed against your lips, and by some miracle, gaz picks up the pace. hips picking up speed, even rocking a little stronger and it isn’t until you heard the slap of skin do you truly realize how SOAKED he got you.

the initial tears were caused by kyle’s torturous pace. a new set follows the old when he finally fucks you properly. gaz doesn’t mind - he likes wiping them away.

☾

JOHNNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH

… sees you cry and teases.

“why’re you crying, bonnie? did you hurt your feelings or something?”

soap knows you won’t respond. not that you could.

the pace of his thrusts are too rough. too quick. too deep. using all his weight to slam into you again and again, not letting up for a moment. the worst part is, you know he has the stamina to keep going, even if you beg him to slow down. to let you breathe air that doesn’t taste like him.

your nails dig into the skin of soap’s chest as you shake your head. everything ached in a delicious way but it wasn’t your feelings that were hurt. soap moves his hand from his bruising grip on your hips to clasp around your jaw, shifting your head to look him straight on. he wants you looking at him, even through WATERY eyes. 

soap grunts as he shifts into a better position to fuck you in. his hair is mussed from your fingers. skin blotchy and flushed from exertion. he still grins at you. “then why’re you crying? want me to stop? is that it?”

“no!” you cry out - half a moan and half a shout.

a thoughtful hum vibrates against his ribs as soap’s fingers release your jaw, only to come up and wipe away a tear that leaked from the corner of your eye. “ahh, i get it, lass,” he breathes out, continuing his rough thrusts with a deep groan. “you’re cryin’ so pretty ‘cause you like getting fucked so good. am i right? my girl loves getting fucked ‘till she cries?”

you’re silent. eyes falling shut, mouth agape, head tilting back to ignore soap’s teases and just feel the addicting slide of his cock. he slows his thrusts only to grind against your pelvis and it’s such a massive difference in sensation that you nearly cum on the spot. it works to make you cry out his name.

“fuck- johnny!” and you do. so, so prettily.

☾

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY

… sees you cry and worries.

simon’s face still hurt - a spot right over his cheekbone, purple and swollen and it aches almost enough to make him forget about how sore the rest of his body is.

it’s easy enough to ignore. it’s not liquor or ibuprofen that dulls the pain. his old methods of healing after a rough mission seem useless in the wake of pressing you back on the couch. it’s the touch of your skin, the smell of your hair, the noises you make that really pull him back together. you’re careful not to tug at him too hard or touch any of his TENDER aches, even when he begs you to.

yeah. it’s easy for simon to forget how close he was to not be here fucking you.

his fingers dig into the armrest of the couch, forcing his throbbing body to move as fast as he wants it to. an impromptu fuck on the couch wasn’t exactly planned tonight - you went on and on about how much you wanted to take care of him. but you’ve been clinging to him all night. never letting him out of your sight. it was just a natural progression and simon sure as shit wasn’t complaining.

“fuck, lovie,” he groans out slowly. if you keep moving your hips like that, he’s not gonna last much longer.

and fuck, simon was so close, he could taste it. feel it building in the base of his spine and how tight his stomach gets and it all makes it a little easier to forgo his aches to simply drive into you again and again. your arms wrap around his torso, brushing against tender ribs - when simon hisses, he’s unsure if it’s the pain or the sudden tightness around his cock when you jolt. simon’s mind goes blank and he’s just so fucking close and…

you make a new noise. unfamiliar to the ones simon has memorized when he’s fucking you. his eyes are HAZY and unfocused when he looks at you, and he didn’t quite know what he expected to find. tears accompanied the sniffle he heard, and your hand comes up to wipe them away in haste.

simon’s hips freeze instantly. “hey, hey, hey. what’s wrong? you okay?”

fuck, did he do something wrong?

to his surprise, you scoff. smiling despite wet cheeks and red eyes and simon blames his impending orgasm for how slow he is to understand. “i’m okay,” you reassure him. when your fingers trail up his spine, simon can barely breathe. “i just love you so much. don’t be so RECKLESS next time, okay?”

your legs tighten their hold around his hips. pulling him closer even when simon wants to pull back and really make sure you’re okay. you don’t allow it, instead grinding up against him at the same pace he’d been fucking you in - still sniffling and wiping a tear away on his arm.

simon swears he’s never cum so hard in his life.

☾

ALEJANDRO VARGAS

… sees you cry and stares.

morning has always been alejandro’s favorite time of day.

pinkish gold sunlight coming in through the window promises a beautiful day that he’ll likely be too busy to truly enjoy but welcomes all the same. alejandro hears the bustle of traffic outside - your place isn’t nearly as nice as his, but it’s closer to base and he’s never been known to waste time with you. alejandro is just a little tempted to rip his gaze away from you to enjoy the sunrise coming over las almas.

but he doesn’t. he never does. you’re just too fucking pretty.

alejandro kills two birds with one stone. pulls you out of bed and leads you over to the window just as the sun paints the clouds a deep gold. it saturates your skin in such a perfect way where alejandro can’t help but to touch it. touch your face, your neck, your shoulders, your back, your stomach, and well, he knows your pussy would look fucking HEAVENLY under the light as well.

“pretty fucking girl,” alejandro groans out. he usually likes watching his cock sink inside of you, but there was something about the glow of your skin pressed against the window that makes him just stare at your face. his thrusts are slow and deep, and your breath fogs up the glass, and you keep tugging your shirt down when alejandro pushes it up because you’re the one who has to face your neighbors every day.

when you came along, he didn’t think there could ever be a more beautiful sight than when you first smiled at him.

you proved him wrong with just a few tears reflecting the sunrise.

alejandro could’ve came right then and there. his hips did a little stutter and he grunted when you let out a little whimper while squeezing your eyes shut and he just watched a tear glide over your cheek. he almost pulls you away from the window to flip you around. fully face him so the glass doesn’t GREEDILY soak up all your tears because he’s fucking you so firmly against it.

“al- alejan- fuck, i’m so…”

“i know, baby. keep looking at me. yeah, lemme see those eyes. fuck…”

he kisses you. has a hand tangled into your hair and twists your neck into a better angle and kisses you to taste the salt on your lips and it’s like a bomb went off. alejandro’s hips pick up their pace and you rock back against him and fog up the glass even more when you shudder on his cock.

he cums with your tears wiping off against his own cheeks and salt on his tongue.

☾

RUDOLFO PARRA

… is the one to cry.

“it’s okay, rudy. doing so good for me. i’m almost there, you don’t have to cry.”

was he crying? fuck, he was. rudy didn’t even notice until you smiled at him fondly, bringing a hand up to brush away a tear that broke past his lashes and threatened to fall down his face. 

rudy waits for the hot flash of embarrassment to hit him, but it never does. maybe it’s because this is you. but it's more likely because he’s so fucking close to cumming, he can’t focus on anything else but you. keeping his hands locked around your hips, strong enough to keep them moving back and forth even when you try to slow them down and draw out his orgasm. 

you hadn’t even notice rudy’s big, wet eyes until you attempted to slow down. keeping a more steady pace in his lap to give your thighs a rest, and yeah, to wind rudy up just a little. he works so hard. he DESERVES to get fucked out of his mind now and then.

maybe you went too far, though. when you try to stall your hips, his hands make sure they keep their pace. his own hips buck up off the bed to get even deeper.

“i know you wanna cum.” it’s difficult to keep your voice steady. to not devolve into harsh pants and groans like he has. “but not before me, okay? make me cum, rudy. fuck, make me cum…”

he huffs - such a large demand for someone so fucked-stupid. rudy is so smart, so capable, and so fucking useless right now that maybe it’s too much to ask of him. so to help him out, you pry his hand off your hip. bring it up to your mouth and slide the whole length of his thumb between your lips, letting it glide across your tongue.

rudy instantly gasps and his hips jolt up. you can feel his cock throb even harder inside of you.

but with his thumb coated in saliva, you bring his hand down to where you meet. rudy takes it from there - give him a task, point him in the right direction, and he’ll complete it. he rubs his thumb in tight, DESPERATE circles while his other hand keep your hips in a deep grinding pace until you cum all over him.

it was good. fucking fantastic. but not your favorite part.

rudy knows he’s finally allowed to cum, and he does. so achingly beautiful in the way his jaw drops open, saliva stringing between his teeth. eyes hazy and wet with damp cheeks and a pink nose and when he groans, his voice is hoarse and choked. 

eventually, when you fall against his chest, all you hear are rudy’s hard panting and his sniffles.

☾

PHILLIP GRAVES

… sees you cry and laughs.

graves can be a real asshole sometimes. sarcastic, arrogant, and you know him well enough to know that he kinda likes it. makes him feel larger than life. untouchable. now is no different.

“c’mon, hun. i wanna hear it. y’can’t cum until i hear you say it.”

your arms are thrown over your face, hiding the way your teeth grit together and your eyes screw shut and how your jaw hangs open to gasp for air whenever graves bullies his cock even deeper with each thrust. and to be honest, you barely heard what he said - it was all just white noise. still, you know what he wants. and you’re a little too PROUD to give in.

there’s silence. graves scoffs and you feel him lean forward to grip your arms in his hands. being ripped away from your face reveals a little tremble of your lips, tiny red splotches on your cheeks, and tears lining your eyes. 

graves laughs as if it isn’t his fault. torturing you and playing with you. resetting the goalpost of what you need to do to cum.

the laugh is deep and GENUINE - the kind you’re treated with in the middle of the night away from his shadows, saved especially for you. the grin that accompanies it isn’t bad either. but the laugh is like a slap to the face (something graves might’ve inflicted if his hands were free - after all, you haven’t said your safe word.)

“my poor baby.” he says it so condescendingly. with a quirk of his brow and tilt of his head. as if he and his cock hadn’t caused the tears. “bet it’s gettin’ painful, huh? bet a good orgasm will make you feel right as rain.”

you slowly nod because god, you need to cum.

so graves hums, still wearing a smirk as he shifts on his knees. you whimper under the movement, spine arching, eyes solely focused on him. “then you gotta ask permission, right? c’mon, hun. sound off for me. i know you can do it,” he encourages while his fingers trail slowly down your body. going straight where you needed him the most.

normally, if you weren’t so wound up, you might’ve gotten smart with him. but as extra initiative, graves bends his spine a little. pushing his cock in just a little deeper and plainly getting off on how you gasp and your eyes finally push out hot, wet tears. 

this has gone on for too long. everything from your pussy down is throbbing.

“shadow 0-1…”

“hearin’ you loud and clear, baby.”

“simon?” you called out, hoping your voice seemed nonchalant. your eyes darted up and down the hall in case anybody showed up. still empty. nobody but simon would know. “is it done?”

carefully, you creep out from behind the vending machine. the door to your room was left ajar, and though you could see a tiny sliver of your carpet bathed in sunlight, there was no sign of simon or the intruder. your hand anxiously wrings itself, but you fought the urge to return to your hiding spot.

but why wasn’t he responding?

“fuck, fuck, fuck…” you breathe out once reaching the door. ears strain for a noise of any kind, but there’s just SILENCE. and so, with little choice, your boot comes out to nudge the door the rest of the way open. it slowly swings with a dull squeak - one that simon has been meaning to fix but never has.

it's the squeak that tells simon that you’ve finally found the guts to come back. he’s crouched by your dresser, back to you, head twisting halfway to glance back through the corner of his eye. “called me over for this?” he questions. and you expect to find a tinge of annoyance or frustration in his voice, but there was none. he sounds more amused than anything - you would’ve preferred if he was annoyed.

“is it done?” you repeat, bravely still standing in the doorway, on your toes to try and see over simon’s broad shoulders. 

he sighs lowly and stands. “yeah, it’s done. now get dressed before you miss training.”

a relieved grin spreads over your face as you step in, fully prepared to walk straight up to simon and press a kiss on his cheek. call him your hero because you know it’ll either fluster him or goad him into staying a little longer - it really all depended on what kind of mood he was in.

but as he turned, holding a cup upside down against a sheet of paper, you froze. even scrambled back to the doorway, fully prepared to slam the door shut as protection. “simon, what the fuck-”

“relax, it can’t get out. ‘m gonna throw it outside.”

“i wanted you to KILL the damn thing, not let it loose outside so it can find its way back in!” simon takes a few steps toward the door, not caring about your proximity. and in a desperate attempt to stay far away, you bolt back inside and to the opposite end of the room.

simon looks unimpressed. “stop being dramatic. it’s just a spider.”

he swings the cup in your direction. a fearful whimper comes up, and you suddenly wish you’d armed yourself before being chased out of your own room. “simon, i swear to god, you better keep that thing away from me.” and by the way he pauses, silent as a mouse, you could tell he’s contemplating whether or not to keep up the torture. to keep teasing you about the little spider trapped behind the cup - but simon isn’t a stupid man. and he’s seen how vengeful you can get after soap or gaz pulls some shit on you.

“alright, alright,” simon finally relents. a relieved breath comes out once he takes a step back toward the door. “wanna come with? to make sure he’s gone?”

“no, no, i trust you to get the job done.” as if you wanna see that freaky little fucker again. “just make sure to let him go far away from my room, okay?”

“yes, ma’am.”

the room seemed so much larger when simon left. he took up so much space that he always left a feeling of emptiness in his wake. it usually made you feel a little lonely, and yearn for the next time he would be here to fill his place again. but between him and the spider, perhaps you’ve had enough company for today.

just as he said, you quickly changed into training gear. and it wasn’t until you were laces up your shoes did you hear an URGENT knock on the door, followed by simon’s voice calling your name. “i’m almost ready!” you answer him, not bothering to come and open the door.

he opens it anyway. the squeak is barely there from how quickly it swings open. that’s enough to draw your attention away from your shoes, and you notice instantly that simon’s eyes are roaming around your room - cup and paper at the ready. the look in his eyes is eerily similar to how he looks when an op goes sideways. “don’t panic,” simon says, tone flat and steady.

it only puts you more on edge. “simon…”

“i think the fucker must’ve escaped when you came in. was the only time i didn’t have eyes on ‘im. might still be in here, but since he’s scared, you probably won’t see-”

sneaker half-tied, in the middle of simon’s sentence, you jump up and sprint out of your room. maybe tonight you can have a good laugh at the fact a spider managed to make you clear a room quicker than bullets. but for now, it’s back behind the vending machine you go.

☾

IV.

adrenaline can be a blessing and a curse, depending on the situation. most times, it’s both.

like right now - there was little pain to inhibit your movements. a DULL throb at most to prove your opponent has gotten more than a few good hits in, but not blindingly painful enough to keep you on the ground. you felt the heat of swelling and the wetness of blood without the pain that came with it.

but just because you could keep getting up, doesn’t mean you should. the adrenaline, for all its benefits, seemed to be giving you some kind of delusions of grandeur. making you think you could kill this guy, even though doesn’t seem to be nearly as hurt as you are. like a little voice in your ear, telling you it’ll keep dulling the pain long enough for you to win this fight.

the voice usually sounded like simon. right now, it seemed to be scolding you more than encouraging you.

you stood. swung a fist. he blocks it and returns one of his own. it slams into your side. the air is knocked from your lungs. your head rushes out to slam into his nose. there’s a satisfying crunch, but it’s not enough. NOTHING ever seems like it’s enough to down him. a meaty hand grips your throat and throws you against the asphalt.

and like a cloud of vapor, the adrenaline bleeds away. every cut and bruise and swelled muscle rushes to scream in pain, but the only one you can really focus on is the hand on your neck. squeezing tight enough where you’re almost afraid he might rip muscle and break bone.

your feet start to kick. arms swinging out to try and hit him off. the man grunts, but doesn’t relent. “you fucking bitch,” are the only words you manage to hear through the pulsing blood in your ears.

maybe simon was right. you need more time in the training ring.

but just as the edges of your vision start to dance, the OPPRESSIVE weight on your neck is gone. your body instantly, instinctively, suck in the air it was deprived of - happily drowning in it by the way you cough and sputter. your arms and legs, numb and throbbing, push you away in anticipation of being attacked again.

it never comes. and once your lungs stop seizing, you can see why.

you’ve never really thought twice on why simon was called ghost. it always seemed to fit him perfectly and without doubt - a specter of a man, coming and going without a sound, not even allowing others to see his face.

for so long, you’ve seen him as simon rather than ghost. humanizing him in a way very few do. but right now, it’s like you’re getting a glimpse of how others see him. not the man who sneaks into your room at night with hushed whispers, or who drops everything to help get rid of a spider in your room, even though he thinks silly. simon had pulled your attacker off so easily. pinned him to the ground with a knee on his chest and further BREAKING his nose in the time it took you to gasp for air.

and now… jesus, now he won’t stop hitting him.

as the pulsing blood in your ears died away, you heard every crack of bone and squish of flesh. the man, who had been cursing you before, groaned unintelligibly after every strike of simon’s fist. mimicking your movements of desperately swinging his arms but failing to actually hit anything important. and simon, he didn’t make a sound. didn’t swear or yell or so much as grunt as he continued his attacks. on the surface, one might think it was a cold and detached beating, but you knew him better. simon was never so obvious in his rage.

still, this version of simon chilled you. in a way he’s never done before.

“simon…”

your voice was small - whether from pain or fear, it’s unclear. it didn’t need to be a shout. simon stops immediately, fist raised up for another strike but it’s never delivered. and now that he’s stopped, it’s easier to see him. to see the rapid falling and rising of his chest, and the way his other hand grips the coat of his victim. to see how he had a knife tucked into its sheath, never used.

you blink, and he’s suddenly over you - skull mask dirty from the mission, now dotted in a fresh splattering of blood. a sharp and UNEASY contrast from his eyes, which are soft. concerned. still hot in a way a campfire is - welcomed to chase away the cold, but dangerous if you got too close. “you okay?” simon asks. his voice is gruff, but unchanged.

somehow unchanged. even after beating a man to death.

when you don’t respond, he brings a hand up to your neck, where the first blotches of bruises have begun to bloom. he uses his unbloodied hand, yet you flinch away from it. as if it’s a hot branding iron. as if simon would ever use his hand on you like he did on someone who’d just hurt you.

his hand instantly pull back. “you’re alright,” he continues, thinking you’re probably just in shock. maybe you were, but your eyes fall to his STAINED hand. “c’mon, love. gotta get you outta here.”

simon wasn’t afforded the luxury of not being able to touch you when both his hands grip your arms and pull you up to your feet. once he gets you walking, it’s a little easier to come out of the fog. easier to remember the mission, especially as you walk further and further from the detour.

he still grips your arm tight, speaking about their next plans, captain price’s orders, a new target. important things you should be listening to.

your head twists around, and you catch sight of the broken body simon left behind just before he pulls you out of sight from it.

☾

III.

the cold should’ve chased you back inside long before now. before it had a chance to sting your eyes and numb your nose and stop making your breaths come out thick and white. price came out an hour ago to smoke, cursed the weather, and insisted you keep your watch from inside. but he didn’t force you - maybe he recognized that look on your face. knew you needed the silence of snow.

the world outside of the rickety cabin the team sheltered in was dark and still, the only light coming from the way the snow reflected the moon’s light. in any other circumstance, it’d be a beautiful sight. one you’d drag simon out of bed to see - he’d grumble and scowl but stay anyway to keep you warm.

he still would, if you asked him now. after today, it was made so abundantly CLEAR what exactly he’d do for you. how far he’d go for you. such knowledge felt a little too heavy to hold. too bright to focus on clearly, like trying to stare at the sun during an eclipse.

maybe that’s why you wanted to stay out here, preferring to watch a dark treeline than face the sun.

but much like the force of nature that it is, the sun will always rise. simon will always find his way back to you.

“aren’t you cold?”

his voice was rough and grated by sleep - and came so completely by surprise that it made you gasp in a lungful of frozen air. the adrenaline from the fight had faded long ago, but a soldier is never too far from feeling it again, CRASHING like a wave on a beach.

you swung around, fingers curled into a sore fist, aiming in the general direction of the voice. it was too dark to see even the stark white of the mask he wears, but in your head, he wore the face of your attacker. it faded between before and after. between healthy and scowling and bloody and fearful. when he caught your wrist, the hard grip of his hand was too similar. he was wearing gloves - the feel of his skin not even offering its usual comfort.

“hey! relax, it’s me. calm down. it’s just us.”

fearful instinct had you wrenching your arm back, and simon thankfully released it. but your heart still thumped painfully, skin erupting in goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold. you backed away from simon, leaning against the worn wooden fence of the front porch, and dug your nails into it.

for a few moments, simon was quiet. you felt his eyes on you, but couldn’t bear to meet them. because you know what he’s thinking. what he’s about to say. you want to stall it for as long as possible, but simon was still very much a force of nature. “not gonna bother asking if you’re okay,” he says. better that he didn’t. “you should go inside. get some rest. had a long day, love.”

“i’m not tired,” is your flat response. voice hoarse with disuse, weak with the ebbing of new adrenaline. and even as you say it, your body makes a liar out of you.

simon sighs and steps closer. the tilt of his head is outlined with moonlight. it’s always shocking how beautiful he can be without even showing his face. “something’s off, i know it is. you’ve been in fights before - plenty of ‘em. why’s this one so different?”

you scoff at his words, and for the first time in a while, your breath comes out white and thick. “you’re really asking me that? after today? simon, you beat a man to death. with your hands.”

even as you say it, you know how it sounds. how he’ll respond. you have to listen to it anyway.

“i kill men all the time.”

“yeah, but this… this was different.”

your eyes drop to the ground, as if in SHAME. ashamed of what, it was hard to tell. simon wasn’t heartless, but he was an efficient killer. to him, it was just part of his job. something he avoids if he can, but does if he must. you can’t see his eyes, but you know how they must look. “it wasn’t,” he says, like a fact. “he tried to kill you. almost did it, too. if you think i’d let anybody do that, you must not know me well, sweetheart.”

this time, you’re the one who’s silent. there’s more you want to say, but it’s impossible to find the words. how to fully describe how you feel - especially to simon, of all people. so, with little else to add, you just nod. your shoulders go slack, and maybe he’s right. you should get some rest.

you can’t even say so before he closes the distance. hands on your shoulders, pausing for a moment to look at your face, and pulls you against him in a tight, grounding hug. compared to the icy air that’s been your only companion these last few hours, simon’s heat was both intrusive and welcomed. his arms wrap around you, squeezing tight, and you barely think twice before hugging him back.

“i’m not sorry for saving you. i’d do it again, if i had to. ain’t pretty, but i would.” his hand runs up and down your back - meant to be a calming action, despite barely being able to feel it through your thick coat. still, his voice was doing more than enough to calm you. “still, i’m sorry.”

it’s unclear what he was apologizing for if not for beating a man to save you. the words still give a bit of closure. help the image of bloodied hands and flailing limbs ebb from your mind, tucked away to surely REEMERGE on another dark day.

but at least you know simon will be there when it does.

☾

II. 

“looks like you’ll be on the mend in no time! i’ll tell captain price we can’t have any more fun until you’re back in top shape.”

gaz, above all others, always had this special ability to lift your mood. swollen bruises hinder the smile he elicits, but it shines nonetheless. “like that’ll stop him.” your words don’t exactly match the smile you attempt to give gaz - and not just because the nurse tied your bandage just a little too tight. 

he picks up on it. steps closer to the cot, so he can speak and not be overheard by the nurses of the infirmary. “what’s bugging you?” he asks. “your injuries aren’t too bad. i doubt price will keep you benched for long.”

“it’s not price i’m worried about.”

his brows knit together, and then he blinks. you have to look away when gaz offers a sympathetic smile. “you saved his life. ghost might be a little CROSS for a few days, but at least he’s alive to even be upset. this could’ve ended a lot worse.”

gaz makes sense, of course. he usually does. but even his sensible words don’t lighten the weight on your chest - a weight that seems to grow when a shadow appears in the doorway of the infirmary. simon doesn’t spend too much time here. price has gotten on his ass about not going enough. so the fact that he showed up willingly doesn’t bode well.

“lieutenant,” gaz greets with a light tone. it was nice that he even attempted to keep simon in a better mood, but one glance up from the ground was enough to read his posture. tight and RIGID like a fist. like a held breath. the moments before a storm hits the shore.

“you’re dismissed, sergeant.” 

it’s hard not to flinch at simon’s order, as if were another blow to take. and for a brief moment, gaz hesitates. you watch him, half-hoping he finds an excuse to stay. but with nothing but a pitiful glance at you, he simply dips his head and makes for the door.

the stretch of silence, in reality, isn’t as long as it feels. a few seconds maybe, but it feels like minutes. buried under simon’s gaze, unable to breathe or move or speak. it makes you wonder when simon gained so much control over you - he would argue the opposite. tell you how wrapped around your finger he is and blame you for it before kissing you. 

“simon-”

“tell me why.”

you blink in confusion, and finally drag your eyes up to meet his. face hidden beneath his mask, it’s always his eyes that allow you a glimpse into how he’s feeling or what he’s thinking. but strangely, it’s easy to forget just who simon is. what he is. and you don’t find a single thing hiding in his gaze. “why what?”

“i know you’re not a fucking IDIOT, so that can’t be why you acted like one today.” his words still stung, even if they weren’t exactly an insult. again, your eyes drop - this time, out of shame. a weird sort of shame. one that you feel is unwarranted but forces its way in regardless.

“you were in trouble,” you start, “so i saved you.”

“i had it under control. you were ordered to fall back. you disobeyed. that’s all there is to it.”

in spite of his words, harsh and SHARP as a knife, you look up at him. spine straight, shoulders squared, much of your sheepish shame melting away under heat of anger. “you could’ve died, simon! was i just supposed to leave you behind? save myself?”

“yes!” he barks - and like an angry dog, he stalks forward. eyes narrowed, muscles tight, ready to lash out with teeth if you’d been literally anybody else on this planet. rarely, if ever, are you the subject of simon’s temper. you know he doesn’t intend to come off as frightening. not to you - never you. still, his presence is a looming shadow and you might as well be afraid of the dark. “you always save yourself, do you understand? if it comes down to me or you, it better fucking always be you.”

“simon, you’re asking me to not even try to ever save your life.” and dammit, tears start to pool in your eyes. prompted by fear and anger and exhaustion and worry and the implications of what simon is saying. you bring up a hand to wipe them away, knowing more will follow. “i- i can’t do that. not any more than you can.”

a harsh sigh rolls out of his lungs, and he thankfully steps away from the cot to pace beside it. his boots land heavily against the ground. he says nothing, but you can practically hear him say what he wants to say. anticipate hearing it. feel it hit you like a knife in the heart.

but he’s always finding ways to surprise you - as unpredictable as a storm.

“captain price asked my opinion of whether or not you need some time out of the field after your little stunt.” this time, simon’s words aren’t as loudly obvious of his anger - they’re hard and cold like winter ice. a way to detach his feelings. it still makes you whirl your head around to face him. “i suggested you should take some time off.”

“no, you didn’t.”

“i did.”

despite the deep, SHARP ache in your muscles, you spring off the cot. hands curling into fists, a harsh and breathy version of his name spouting out like steam. “you can’t just do that! i save your life - like you saved mine - and you want to punish me for it? that’s not fair!”

“i’m your lieutenant. i can make judgment calls when i see fit. orders exist for a reason - you can’t just ignore them when they’re inconvenient for you.”

“oh, fuck the orders, simon. you’re just being overprotective by keeping me from doing my fucking job. yeah, i got hurt. that doesn’t give you the right to bench me.”

the words tumble from your mouth, more heated and angry than you probably meant but everything ached and you were exhausted and this was the worst time to hear about this. simon didn’t respond at first - it was then when you remembered you were still in the infirmary. when you glance around, the nurses quickly avert their gazes away from the scene.

your face grows warm as simon steps closer. looming over you with his brows knitted together and a gaze that FREEZES the heat of embarrassment. it takes a willpower you didn’t know you possessed not to shrink under it. “get some rest. i don’t want to see you working for a week,” he states. another order he’s daring you to disobey, it seems.

the brush of his arm as he leaves might as well have been a shoulder check. it hurt almost as much.

☾

I.

five days had passed. a day ago, your muscles stopped aching. two days ago, soap took pity on you and snuck in some reports on their upcoming mission because you were so bored. three days ago, gaz tried to take your mind off things by taking you out to lunch, and was the only one making conversation. four days ago, price came around to see how you were doing and give some anecdotes about his own rocky experiences. five days ago was the last time you even saw simon.

which was along the lines of his orders, only you took it a step further, just so he couldn’t say you were disobeying him yet again: not seeing you at all.

usually five days would have you clawing at the walls to even catch a glance at simon across the room, but with your last conversation repeating in your head, it acted as a BALM to the ache of being away from him. a wake up call when you were alone in bed, thinking about how easily he can get you to sleep.

but simon-induced insomnia was definitely a drawback. midnight came and went without a wink of sleep for the third night in a row. so when a series of insistent knocks pounded on your door, it was almost a blessing. something to do and blame on for the lack of sleep.

stumbling through the dark, shivering slightly from the loss of a lukewarm bed, you make it to the door and swing it open. “hello?”

in your groggy mind, you’d predicted that maybe it was a drunken soap and gaz stopping by after a night of drinks. or more hopefully, price suddenly deciding to cut your leave time short under dire circumstances.

simon’s presence was itself like a ghost tonight. there and not there. he stood imposingly, and when you blinked, his body was looser. he said nothing for a few brief moments, and it made you wonder if you really were looking at him. 

but the weight of his hands on your shoulders was unmistakeable. and when he backed you into your room, you caught a hint of his scent, and it suddenly reminded you of all the times he’d come here late at night. quickly tugging him inside before anyone can see. this was similar but different. just slightly off, like the very first day summer turns to autumn.

you try to say his name, but it comes out more like a FEARFUL yelp. hands coming up to grasp his wrists, unsure of his intentions and past experiences with men much bigger than you only makes things more blurry.

it’s in his grip on your shoulders, harder and more desperate. it’s in the way he kicked the door shut behind him, not caring if others in the hall may hear. it’s in the way he backs you into the wall, hand coming up to protect your head but also crushing your body with his own.

“simon,” you gasp, but your misgivings are cut off when he crashes his lips against yours.

he’s only ever kissed you like this once before. after a mission gone HORRIBLY wrong, and he was blaming himself. you went to him, knowing he’d isolate and not allowing it. wanting to be there for him, and the only way you really could was to distract him from the knowledge of his own fuck up.

he doesn’t reply with words. just a short hum that thunders in his chest - with how close he holds you, it’s impossible not to feel it vibrate your own ribs. it isn’t until your hands are on his arms, gripping tightly, do you feel the cold dampness of rain that left its mark on him. how long has he been outside? why did he walk here in the middle of the night during a storm?

his muscles are hard and taut under your fingers. the temptation to simply feel them stretch and flex, letting simon have his way with you, was undeniably strong.

but you haven’t seen him in five days.

when you push him away, simon relents. but he doesn’t go too far. you taste his toothpaste on your tongue and realize he’s wearing an old t-shirt under his wet jacket - a failed attempt to sleep, it seems. you knew the feeling too well. 

“why are you here?” a bit of embarrassment rises at the sound of your own voice - it sounds too SOFT and pliable, especially against the silence of night and a distant roll of thunder. you meant it to be harder. simon deserved a bit of attitude. but… well, it’s been five days.

his thumb caress over a little spot on your shoulder. a flash of lightning reveals his expression - he wasn’t hiding. “to talk,” simon replies in a stony voice. 

the sound of it makes you shiver. it was hard and rough and reminded you a little too much of your last conversation. and with him looming over you, trapped between him and the wall, it was hard not to feel small again. to try and square up against a titan like simon, even if you feel the outline of his cock slowly begin to press against your stomach.

he leans in to kiss you again - another contradiction. but you keep him away, and your hands hold him back is like a leash on a dog. “i don’t know if we have anything to talk about.”

“i’m sorry, alright? i’m sorry. i’m…” he trails off with a sigh, head lowering as if to break eye contact. with the dark of night and his silence, it’s hard to gauge what he’s thinking. how he’s feeling. but you do know that simon rarely ever apologizes. not so outright, anyway. maybe a cup of tea exactly the way you like it after a little disagreement, or a kiss on the cheek if he annoyed you. never this.

he doesn’t try to kiss you again - when he leans back in, it’s to press his head against yours. “i love you. you know that, right?”

your hands grip his arms tighter. not to keep him away, but to stop him from leaving again. “yes,” you breathe out.

“if anything ever happens to you, and i could’ve stopped it…” another sigh comes out - HARSHER this time. as if the thought itself riles simon up. “maybe i was being overprotective, yeah? shouldn’t’ve gone that far. i told price earlier today that he outta include you on the next op. he agreed.”

“simon.” his name is a whisper. a morning mist. your hands finally drop from his arms, and he wastes no time in getting close again. large arms wrapping around your body - and even in the dead of night, his lips find yours with no hesitation. 

you expect the kiss to be rougher than it was. a kiss after so long apart from each other usually includes a graze of teeth or his tongue chasing yours. instead, it’s slower. gentle in a way that simon has learned to be. lips interlocking with yours as if holding your hand, and you don’t even notice you’re close to crying until he breaks it to breathe and your throat aches.

“‘m sorry.” his hands slide from your shoulders to curve around each cheek, as if he’s cradling something precious. but when lightning strikes again, it must’ve been much closer than last time - it completely lights up simon’s face for the briefest moment. and the way he’s watching you is opposite from how he talks and touches.

“i know.” tired of feeling his cold, damp coat, your hands push it aside to press against the hard, hot plane of his torso. simon lets out a shaky breath, which turns into a hitch when you greedily push the offensive old cotton of his shirt up to touch his skin - utterly untouched by the rain and it nearly BURNS you.

“‘m sorry.” he curls against you, face burying into your neck and hips grinding lightly against yours. he’s wearing jeans, but you’re wearing shorts - it’s plain as day how much he’s missed you. or more truthfully, how hard it makes him at the thought of making up for his asshole behavior with his tongue and hands and cock.

one of your legs is pushed up and out to make room for his hips - curling around his thigh and being utterly dependent on him and the wall to stay upright. “simon, please…”

“forgive me?”

beneath the rough GRATING of his voice - the way it gets when simon is so close to just ripping your clothes off and having you against the closest hard surface - you heard a tinge of amusement. teasing, as if he didn’t just apologize for the worst fight you’ve ever had and isn’t still on thin ice. 

in his favor, it’s hard to be angry with someone when they’re pushing their hand down the front of your shorts. waiting on your answer before sinking a finger in and stretching you out.

there’s no hesitation. you answer at the same time your hips buck forward, forcing simon to slide his fingers against your cunt. knowing he couldn’t stop once he realized how soaked you were. how you’d forgiven him the moment he darkened your doorstep and gave you a fright in the middle of the night.

“yes.”

☾

1. 

growing up, simon always associated fear with weakness. cowardice. a flaw in his character. it’s just a thing he left behind in his childhood next to his teddy bear. in spite what his reputation may say, he still feels the inklings of fear now and again. apprehension before a big mission. concern about his comrades. maybe some trepidation in the seconds before shit really hits the fan.

but the white hot horror that hit him when a building collapsed right on top of you? a TERROR so paralyzing, simon could barely scream your name, much less run to you?

that wasn’t something he had too much experience in.

it took soap shoving him from behind to get simon to move his legs. slam his boots against the dirt, calling out your name in a hollow hope he’d hear you call his back. not that he’d even hear it with the blood pulsing in his ears, still ringing from the explosion, soap and gaz both yelling your name alongside him.

simon reached the wreckage first - the dust and dirt floating in the air was still thick, and even through his mask, he tasted it. coughed on it. ignored it to start tearing back wood and stone and steel. where were you when the building got hit? on the edge, or right in the center? fuck, simon can’t even remember. he swore he saw you by the stairs, but you were still running, so maybe you were at the door by the time the walls started falling?

“fuck, fuck, fuck…” sand gritted between his teeth as he cursed. his glove had a hole in the palm and he’s pretty sure the splintered wood cut him there but he can’t feel it. not when simon keeps expecting to shove aside a rock and find your broken, battered body.

“lieutenant!”

he nearly snarled at gaz’s voice, not bothering to look up. “look over there! call rescue services - tell ‘em we need excavation teams!” simon threw a hand in the general direction of a pile of rubble.

bloody hell, he was right. he felt so fucking GUILTY recommending you off the op and he was right. simon’s suddenly wishing he’d just grown a fucking backbone against you for once. put his foot down and just faced the brunt of your anger because then you wouldn’t be trapped under debris in some god forsaken country.

“ghost, stop a second!”

you always told him how jealous you were of him. ‘things would be so much easier for me if i was as fearless as you.’

fuck, what would you say if you knew his hands were shaking so badly, he could barely grip pieces of debris? that his terror CHOKED him more than the smoke. that he couldn’t decide which frightened him more - finding you broken or not finding you at all.

“simon.”

again, he froze. a decade of war and fighting and blood, and simon has frozen twice in one day.

“hey, you okay?”

“yeah, i think i am.”

“anything broken?”

“other than the building?”

“yer real fuckin’ funny, lass. sure price’ll like that one when he finds out you almost got caught in all ‘at.”

when simon turns, he can’t even blame the smoke or his fucked up head for seeing you standing there, completely fine. leaning on gaz for what seems like a hurt foot, and taking soap’s canteen to wash down the smoke. but alive. smiling. turning and looking at him and motioning him over.

he’s silent as he stumbles back. boot slipping on loose debris here and there, but nothing that would stopped him from getting to you.

and once he’s close, you push off of gaz. knowing simon would catch you and hold you, and that’s what he fucking does. not truly believing you were okay until he felt you breathing against him. heard your voice right against his chest. “i’m okay, si. got out just in time. calm down.”

“i am calm.”

he wasn’t lying. he’s never lied to you. the flash of fear ran hot but burned out fast, already fading into a reassured calm - still as ash.

his eyes fall shut for a moment before you speak up again. "simon, don't be mad..."

he tenses up at your words, fingers suddenly clutching a little tighter. fuck, do you ever give him a break? "what's wrong?" simon asks, pulling back to really look at you. eyes scanning every inch, thinking maybe you were hurt more than he thought and wondering why he would be UPSET about it.

"i changed my mind." his eyes dart back up at your answer. "i want to take some time off."

new bruises were forming over old bruises on your face. but when you smiled, simon thought it was just about the best thing he's ever seen.