𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐠'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞

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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