Warnings: Institutional & social homophobia, murder, kidnapping, firearms, and cartel/organized crime environment.
Note: Features dark romance, morally grey themes, and a tragic atmosphere. Reader discretion is advised (+18).
This is part two and there will be a part three.
Part one
Valeria would be 27 now. Every year on her birthday, you buy a small chocolate cake and light a candle. No matter how hard you try, no matter how many people are in your life, she left a void that nothing can fill.
If only you had been braver, if only you hadn't run awayâŚ
If you had stayed, maybe she wouldn't have enlisted. There are many "what ifs," but "what if" doesn't exist.
Today you're back in the place you swore you'd never set foot in again.
Las Almas.
It's not the same place anymore. It's still a stupid, godforsaken town, only now the drug cartels seem to have taken over.
The streets are emptier, there are abandoned houses covered in graffiti with boarded-up windows, and armed men where children used to play soccer. They're the same children who played there, only now they have guns.
You're here because your father died.
Apparently, he took out a loan and was stupid enough not to pay it back. You don't mess with the narcos, and he thought he was so clever.
Your mother still can't look at you, this time for a different reason. She's resentful because you ran away ten years ago, and she still hasn't gotten over it. Your brothers barely speak to you; your mother filled their heads with lies about you, and you haven't seen your younger sister. No one will tell you where she is.
You notice it on the third day.
A man has been following you since you arrived; anxiety gnaws at your chest. He follows you to your mother's house, to the hotel where you're staying, to the restaurants you visit, and everywhere you go.
You're everywhere except your mother's house.
Everyone is walking behind the hearse in the sun. Your black clothes are only making you feel hotter. At the cemetery, you see a woman in the distance, dressed entirely in black, with short, shoulder-length hair, but you can't see her face; it's covered by a semi-transparent black cloth. There are two men beside her.
You don't know who she is. You simply place a bouquet of flowers your brothers forced you to buy on the gravestone and leave before anyone can stop you.
You walk past the woman, whose scent is familiar, a smell you'd recognize anywhere.
Not a random perfume you could buy at any store, something more specific. A scent that couldn't be recreated.
You don't turn around, you can't get your hopes up. Maybe it's just someone with a similar scent.
You can't help it.
You turn around, the woman has her back to you now, but you'll recognize that tattoo above her elbow anywhere. It's faded now, the ink looks old, as if it hasn't been touched up, but you know it.
After all, you did the design. In a chemistry class years ago, you played with your markers and drew a phoenix on Valeria's arm. The next day, and every day after, she wore long sleeves to hide it from the prefects.
"Valeria?"
Her name barely leaves your lips, but you lose sight of her as everyone starts pouring out of the cemetery. Even now, years later, society still keeps you away from her.
You never see her again. No matter how much you search, you start to believe it was a hallucination. As you said goodbye to your father at his funeral, your mind conjured up a vivid image of Valeria, her face covered because you don't know what she looked like as she aged.
At the same time, you know she was there; you smelled her.
You draw the phoenix from her tattoo in your notebooks, but it never looks right.
It's like you're chasing ghosts. It gets to the point where it keeps you up at night.
After another horrible night of insomnia, you look at the clock.
5 AM
Okay⌠sure.
You kick off the covers and get up to get dressed. If you weren't going to sleep, at least you could go for a run or see how much the town has changed since you left.
You walk for hours; the sun is at its brightest and highest point.
You head toward the mountains, where you and Valeria used to hide, where years ago you buried a wooden box with locks of her hair and photographs at the base of a tree.
âHey, muchacha. Where are you going, mija? It's really bad over there⌠the drug cartels took over that land a long time ago.â
You turn to see the man sitting on the sidewalk with a cooler next to him outside a grocery store. You're near the last houses in town before reaching the mountains.
âWhat?â
As you get closer, you realize it's Don Salome, an old friend of your grandfather. He doesn't recognize you. Why would he? You were too young when you ran away; that scared little girl is nothing anymore.
âDonât go there. They donât ask questions, they just shoot. DoĂąa Cristiâs son went there looking for work in the other town⌠they shot him. You should have seen what they did to him, the poor guy looked like a sieve.â
God. The violence really did grow like a poisonous ivyâŚ
âThanks for letting me know, sir. Iâm just⌠Iâm just going to walk. I donât want any trouble.â
âItâs not that. If they see you, theyâll think youâre in the army or something. Theyâll kill you.â
âOh, well, then Iâll go home. Thanks for letting me know, Uncle Salome.â
Heâs not your uncle, not really. But he was so close that it was practically as if he were.
As you walk away, you think you hear him whisper your name in surprise.
You don't return until later that night. In the early hours of the morning.
You only want your box, the box you two shared. There are no photos of Valeria, you don't have any; your little phone from those years didn't have a camera. At the town fair, there was a stall that took photos and turned them into keychains for twenty pesos.
You gave the man one hundred pesos; he gave you two photos and a keychain.
In the mountains, there are no lights, nothing but the moon to illuminate the way, and it's not enough.
You carry a small flashlight in addition to your phone. Your body remembers the path as if it were muscle memory; you remember it even though more than ten years have passed.
You haven't even gone halfway when you see it in the distance.
A beautiful house rises on the hill.
A beautiful house, but surrounded by armed men.
A hand grabs your bicep too tightly, dragging you closer to the armed men.
You struggle with whoever is grabbing you, obviously, but they're stronger and bigger than you.
Too fast, you end up with a sack over your head and everything goes black.
You hear people talking above your head, but you can't understand what they're saying.
Maybe you have tinnitus, or maybe the blood is rushing through your earsâyou don't know.
They move you from place to place until you don't know where you are, you can't see, you can't hear. They've deprived you of your senses.
âWhat are you doing, idiots?â
Valeria enters the interrogation room. GonzĂĄlez called her, saying her soul had disappeared, that he'd lost sight of her.
Later, Ayala called, saying they had a soldier or a voyeur in custodyâa woman.
It wasn't hard for her to put two and two together.
Her soul had always been very curious.
âMa'am, we found this woman wandering around; she had a camera.â
Valeria snatches the supposed camera from one of her men.
It's a square flashlight, and she realizes it's actually a purple power bank covered in stickers.
It looks feminine, almost childish, and the contrast between the dried blood under her fingernails and the pastel purple color is ridiculous.
She closes her eyes and counts to three. Sometimes she wondered why she kept recruiting idiots.
âWhere is she?â
âThis way, ma'am.â
She hears a couple of men celebrating behind her. Apparently, they're excited by the live executions and torture.
They're so bloodthirsty it's disgusting, but she can't get rid of them. The business is sustained by the people who keep it running.
When she arrives at the room where her beloved is, the first thing she notices is the bruise on her right bicep and the blood running from her slightly swollen nose.
"Who the hell hit her?"
Her beloved is injured and unconscious.
GonzĂĄlez enters the room behind Valeria.
"Ma'am, I'm so sorry, I⌠I was watching her from across the street at the hostel where she's staying. She must have left through the back doorâŚ"
Valeria doesn't want to hear his excuses; she's seeing red at the sight of her beloved like this.
She pulls the pistol from her waistband and fires near the man's head. The bullet grazed her ear, drawing blood, and left a hole in the wooden door.
GonzĂĄlez stops speaking, stops moving, even stops breathing.
She clenches her jaw. Then she lowers the gun.
âGet out of here before I change my mind. Everyone go. NOW!â
Her men, too terrified to stay, flee. They practically trample each other.
Firing inside a closed room was never a good idea. Valeria avoided it most of the time, but sometimes it was necessary.
The room now smelled of gunpowder, and her ears rang from the gunshot as she moved closer to her soul.
Each step she took in her direction brought her clarity; she could inhale her scent.
She smelled like home.
She knelt and swiftly untied her from the chair. Her beloved's body collapsed against her, offering no resistance.
She is so happy to be strong now, to be able to carry her without difficulty.
So many years in the army, longing and yearning to have her close, to protect her.
The gods heard her prayers.
Death heard her and gave her the greatest gift in the world.
Now she has her woman back, and she will die before they are separated.
Now she has the power to burn the entire town, as she wanted to do years ago, and she will not hesitate.
English is not my first language and I apologize if there are any mistakes.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Look, I'm still thinking about loser KĂśnig, and I'm writing the smut I wish to see in the world (afab reader, in this one, btw)
Loser KĂśnig who is shamefully obsessed with you. He wants to talk to you, he really does, but he's awkward, too big for his skin. Whenever you're around, his tongue is heavy and thick inside his mouth. Language gets jumbled, his shoulders hunch in, and he worries. God, how he worries. He's pent up enough the merest brush of your pinky against his sends him into a spiral, giddy images of you below him, sweaty and moaning his name, dancing in his mind's eye.
When he finally works up the nerve to introduce himself, you shake his hand, perfect lips forming the syllables of his name. He knows he's done for. The sound of his name in your mouth was so sweet it had him cumming in his pants like some pathetic teenager. He feels pathetic when he has to angle his hips away from you so you don't notice the slightly darker patch of fabric over his crotch.
Loser KĂśnig who gets off on the embarrassment of it all. He can't help his body's reaction to you, the dizzing rush of blood to his cock when you walk past, hips swaying and drawing his eyes down to your perfect ass. Your scent trails behing you, swirling in your wake. He wonders what kind of perfume you like, what would smell best mixed with the smell of his cum on your skin. He buys different perfumes to try, mixing drops of his favorites with the lotion he uses to jack off. It helps him pretend you're the one touching him. When he's finished and is laying on his back staring at the celing, shame floods in, the cycle restarts, and he's thinking about you again.
Loser KĂśnig who learns to edge himself. Rather than allowing himself the satisfaction of an easy orgasm, he slips on a silicone cock ring, the black of the ring stark against the blue-white of his thighs. He has one photo of you, a blurry thing he snapped surreptitiously across a crowded bar. You weren't looking at the camera, face half turned away as you laughed at something or someone next to you. You hadnât even known he was there, but he'd seen you. He always notices you.
He groans, left forefinger brushing across the pixels that mark your lips. It's a tender gesture completely at odds with the vicious way KĂśnig tugs at his cock, fighting off his impending orgasm. He needs to learn to last, has to figure out how to make it, make him, worth your while. If you ever let him find his way between your legs, he wants to make sure he can last. He knows he won't, but he'd like to try.
Loser KĂśnig who's so surprised when you do part your thighs for him that all he can do is stutter breathless "thank you"s as you line his tip up with your hole. He doesn't have the silicone cock ring, can't think of the mantras he memorized to help him last. All he can do is look down at the place where the two of you meet, his thumbs spreading your labia so he can get a better look at the way his cock disappears so easily inside you. It's so much better than anything he imagined. He was right though - he doesn't last. He makes it up to you by fucking you three more times and then licking you until you're screaming. You fall asleep in his arms, sleepy and exhausted from the sex, a drowsy little smile dancing around the corners of your mouth. Just like that introduction, KĂśnig knows he's done for. You've let him have a taste, and now you'll never be rid of him.
Simon Riley had never been good with women. He knew how to clear rooms, how to disappear, how to make threats stop breathing. But.. flirting, charming.. even talking to someone soft and smiling who brought him his lunch with a shy âhere you go, love.â was another battlefield entirely.
Then there was you.
New cafĂŠ on the corner, stuck between a florist and a bookstore. The first time he saw you, youâd laughed at something a customer said and your eyes lit up. Simonâs chest did something strange.. he started going every morning just to watch the way your hands moved, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were thinkingâŚ
He learned your schedule. Learned your likes, learned your habits.. learned the name of the useless boy who sometimes would be waiting for you after your shiftâthe one who never held the door, who barely looked up from his phone.
Simon decided that boy didnât deserve you. Didnât treat you the way you deserved.
But Simon would.
He planned for three weeks. Watched the cameras heâd installed along your usual route home, waited until your boyfriend was out of town. The cloth over your mouth was quick, clinicalâmilitary training made it efficient. No screams, no mess, just the soft weight of you in his arms as he carried you out to the waiting vehicle.
You woke up in his basement, except.. It didnât look like a basement.
The walls were painted a soft sage green youâd once mentioned was your favorite color. String lights hung in careful loops across the ceiling. A nice bed with the quilt heâd seen you admire in a shop window. Bookshelves heâd stocked with the authors and novels youâd sneak on your break to read. A small kitchenette with your favorite tea and snacks fully stocked. A locked door at the top of the stairs, of course, but the room itself smelled like vanilla and fresh paint.
Simon sat in the armchair across from the bed, mask off, watching you stir. His hands flexed on his kneesânervous, almost boyish.
âYouâre safe..â he said quietly when he noticed the fear when your eyes first fluttered open. âNo oneâs gonna hurt you here. Not him. Not anyone.â His voice was rough, unused to softness. âI know this ainât⌠normal. I ainât good at asking. But Iâll give you everything he never could. The world you deserve. You just⌠you gotta stay a while. Let me show you.â
He stood slowly, making sure to not scare you as he set a tray on the bedside tableâtea, the exact kind you liked, a blueberry muffin, and a small vase with a single daisy. His eyes were dark, hungry, but trying to be gentle.
âIâll be back in the morning. Doorâs locked, but thereâs a bell if you need anything. Iâm not a monster, love. I just⌠finally found something I want to keep.â
He turned the lights down, casting soft warmth across the room before pausing at the door.
âRest. Youâre home now.â
The lock clicked.
Upstairs, Simon leaned against the wall, heart hammering like it never had before.
Downstairs, the room waitedâpretty, quiet, inescapable. And somewhere in the middle of it, you, still blinking awake, trying to understand how the man who used to order flat whites had decided you were his to save.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
The concept of alone!ghost kidnapping reader to have as a pet...
You're a lone survivor in the apocalypse, group having been picked thin from well...everything. zombies are one thing but humans are another.
Maybe ghost thinks he recognizes you, some intern that used to work on base, or at least close enough. You're defenseless to this monster as he drags you further into the abandoned apartment complex he seemed to call home. He? It? You're not sure.
The days are long of it simply following you everywhere, he doesn't try to restrict your movement around his...territory? Happy to let you roam, watch you scavenge for food.
Nights are...worse.
The monster forces you into his den, a pile of clothes covered in old blood. Some items he holds often, a blue cap, a boonie hat. Sometimes it puts them on you, wraps you up in all three arms. Grumbles and Gurgles in your ear, not sleeping but playing at it.
The hand never strays lower that your waistband but...surely it won't stay like that.
What will you do then? ...would you run?
Some sick part of you feels...attached to the monster. Some part of you wants to see what would happen.
Alfred every weekend:
Alfred: Weekend Safety Brief
*points to Bruce* Don't add to the population
*points to Jason* Don't subtract from the population
*points to Cassandra and Steph* Stay out of the hospital, newspaper or jail
*points to Dick* Please don't end up in the papers
*points to Tim* If you do, make it an interesting headline
*points to everyone* don't end up in jail, and if you do, establish dominance quickly
neighbor!simon riley who can't say no to you asking him for help (and still does things without you having to).
pt.1
ever since asking simon for help on your car, it's like a floodgate has opened up. first you're asking him for help on your car, and the next thing you know, he's in your house every few days with a new repair you've roped him into. he doesn't talk much. actually, you haven't been able to get another word out of him since he was on his back, under your car.
you've tried, you really have, but the bastard won't give in. you think he's just closed offâin reality, simon's heart is beating a mile a minute, and his mind is repeating over and over again not to make himself a fool in front of his pretty neighbor.
so you figured that asked him to help around your house would do the trick, luring him into your space in order to open him up. it's not like you'd get around to these tasks yourself. they just weren't your area of expertise.
and for a decently new house, you sure had a lot to be repaired.
first, it was those squeaky hinges on some of your doors. now, in the beginning, you were still hesitant to wander over to his front door to get his help, but after his eagerness the first time, it gave you the confidence to return. simon was in your house faster than you were, already taking a guess as to which door it wasâsince he knew his way around from bringing in groceries and such. armed with a lubricant and a few other tools, he got to work. within a few minutes, they were good as new. you couldn't thank the man before he was out the door.
it was off-putting, but you were still determined. it was unlucky that the first thing you asked him to do took only a few minutes of his time, and even less for cleanup.
with every day that passed, you were grasping at straws. how could you get this man over here? your house was in perfect condition, and you barely saw the recluse of a man, as he remained in his house most of the time. save for the times he takes in your groceries or takes your bins out, you don't see him.
until you notice something odd.
coming home from workâthis time, your car light remains offâyou get out of your car and notice a bit of chopped grass that's been left behind. with furrowed brows, you took a moment to look at your lawn.
what are the chances that, after living here for a few months, the grass doesn't decide to grow?
yeah, none. the bastard has been doing it for you, and you never noticed. he never mentioned or made a big deal out of it, and somehow, it got missed on your motion activated doorbell cameras that has a perfect view of the lawn. even the hedges are trimmed.
so what do you do? take the opportunity to stop over to his doorstep, rapping your fist on his door until he opens. eyebrows raised, ready to take on the next task at your house, he steps out and shuts the door behind him. with a nod, he gestures you to lead the way.
except you don't have a repair for him. "have you been mowing my lawn?" the words spill from your lips before you have a chance to reign yourself in. the absurdity of the situation is making you loose-lipped.
his eyes widen, and you swear you see a faint blush on the pale skin behind his balaclava. he just nods, gaze softening as he stares down at you.
"thank you." you sputter out, in shock at his brazen admission. he just nods again, and you're at a loss for words. how do you keep his attention, keep his eyes on you? "well, I'm gonna need your help planting flowers."
planting flowers? that's all you could come up with? your face flushes with embarrassment, bracing yourself for his reaction. the man could easily say no because mowing the lawn and changing your lightbulb and fixing your squeaky door hinges is considered masculine. you could've insulted his masculinity by suggesting he plants flowers.
but he just stares at you some more. "let m'know when," and he shuts the door in your face.
but you turn around with the goofiest smile on your face and pump your fist with a soft "yes" before skipping back down the path and road towards your house just next door. little do you know, simon's face wears a smile just like yours as he watches the dorky display.
this has been in my head for a while now, just like a bunch of mini headcanons of Simon being the perfect boyfriend smushed into one fic
Simon who falls head over heels for reader. Except he is so fucking scared of messing it up, so scared heâll end up like his father and lose you. He has no clue how to be a good partner, no clue what he should and shouldn't do. He's been told over and over again by the sergeants how hard it is. His initial instinct is to ask Price for help, Price has been married for years. The problem is, you're nothing like Price's wife, you're not content to stay home all the time and you definitely wouldn't put up with all the shit that Price does. Not to mention Price and his wife have arguments fairly often, bad enough for Price to be sleeping on the couch or even worse when Price has to sleep on base. Simon hates the idea of arguing with you, he wants to do everything he can to be perfect and make you happy.Â
So what does Simon do, starts paying very, very close attention to you. He notices the love songs you listen to, the romance books you read, the sweet couple videos you watch. He notices it all, writes it down, and then spends all his free time looking into it. He listens to all the songs you listen to, both so he can learn what to do and so he knows your favorite songs. He watches the couple videos you watch, he makes an effort to do the small things they do. He reads all your favorite romance books, doesn't skip a single part, it's extra helpful when he reads the books you've highlighted, he can see exactly what you like. And when you noticed him reading one of your books âS-simon, do you know what that is?â you asked noting how far he was already into the book, he looked up at you sheepishly âyeah, you liked it right? Wanted to read it for yaâ you smiled going over to give him a kiss, you started giving him your books after you finished them for him to read too.Â
The number one thing Simon learned is that the small things matter most. He has a little calendar with all the important days marked, he even knows exactly how many days you guys have been together. He checks it regularly because he would hate to miss something important. He plans well in advance, somehow knows exactly what you want to do and what to get you, plus no matter what the event is, if something is happening he is getting you flowers. He almost always gets two bouquets, one of roses and one of your favorite flowers. And whenever they start to die he takes them and plucks the good ones to pressed flowers that he'll give to you later.
Every time before he leaves he makes a point to kiss you goodbye, in fact he refuses to leave if he can't give you his goodbye kiss and tell you he loves you. And every night as you guys are going to be he pulls you close and whispers âI love you, forever and everâ before kissing you, yes itâs a little cheesy but you fucking love it and it lessens your own worry. He even learns how to set automatic messages on his phone, after a lot of struggle, that way every night he still gets to tell you how much he loves you even when heâs on a mission. And the very few times you guys do argue, always about something small and stupid, Simon refuses to go to bed anger, heâll give you a break if you need but you guys need to talk it out before sleeping, he hates the idea of laying in a bed next to you unable to show you affection, and even worse he hates the idea of sleeping away from you. Simon will always apologize, he hates seeing you upset, and knowing heâs the reason makes him feel even worse, he always goes out of his way to apologize and make sure you know how much he loves you.
He loves loves loves to compliment you, multiple times a day. And not just basic things like complimenting your looks, he will be so dramatic as he calls you a goddess blessing his eyes and the ground before him, is absolutely not ashamed to worship the ground you walk on, and he makes a point to also compliment stuff you do, like your hobbies or achievement, itâs simple but he knows more than looks matter. You swear that man is in love with your lips with the amount he kisses you, if you're in arms reach heâs pulling you over and kissing you slowly, his touch is soft as he stares at you after the kiss. You can never trick him with little questions, you ask him if he would still love you as a worm or some other odd creatures, he doesn't even bat an eye as he says yes, and he means every word. You ask him some trick this or that question and he immediately picks an answer with the perfect reason, sometimes it's something you didn't even think about.Â
Simon goes a little old school, probably from all those old romance songs you like to listen to. He writes you letters, mostly when heâs away but he does it when heâs home too. He goes on and on about how much he loves you and what he would do to see you again, reminds you to stay safe and promises heâll be home soon. All the letters follow the same pattern, but you love it so much, it gets you through his deployments, you keep all of them, even the little pressed flowers he sends with them. When heâs home he does everything for you, opens your door, helps you put your shoes on, always puts your safety first, and he will and has carried you at your request, it's the middle of the night and you want ice cream? His shoes are already on. He loves doing all the small things because it makes you smile. And after every date once it's dark outside, he puts on some slow music and just dances with you. Nothing big or dramatic, just slow dancing and swaying. Sometimes you guys go outside and sometimes you guys stay inside but without fail he wants to dance with you.
Idk guys something about Simon being the perfect partner, yet no one taught him how but he wanted it so much he learned himself.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
smut !! p in v sex , public sex , degrading ( ish ) , 3rd party finding yall ! enjoy â <3
taking price and ghost fighting and running with it.
some stupid argument about john price not following rules in their little tuesday off base bar games blossoming into two weeks worth of high level pettiness.
snide remarks, shoulder shoving, hell the only time they even looked at each other these days was when they were on the mats. knuckles red and angry as they tore at one another. pride too solid to shake.
which is how you landed beneath simon.
wobbling cries muffled by the thick of his glove. baby doll tee pulled over your swaying tits and showing off a glistening sweaty back to him.
"s-si'! hunâ" you hiccup, words slurred beneath the fabric. back stinging with wicked pleasure as he bends you into a mean arch. he watches the fat of your ass ricket with every drive home of his hard pelvis.
"sh, lovie. can' let big man see us 'ere?" he grins, balaclava pulled over his nose. he licks a fat wet strip up your nape. groaning at the musky sent of sex that pours over the room. "fuckin, juusstt like tha',"
prices room.
atop prices desk.
without price.
he curves his hand around your right thigh, smacking harshly at the puffy skin of your ass. you squirm, nails digging into the wooden desk. moans only meeting his covering hand.
he dips his hand down to the slick cream mess between you two. stringy connections of cum pull taught each time he drags out all the way to his tip, just to shove all the way back in as he drags you backwards and shoves his hips forwards. you scream, eyes white as you claw at the hand around your jaw.
he gathers the slick, white ring around his cock creating gummy noises he isnt bothered to muffle.
simon also knows important papers lay just beneath your rocking body. he rubs at your clit messily, juices soppy. you keen, stomach throbbing with the buldge he bullies into you. you smack at his hand, tears brimming your tearline.
everything blurs hot for a second. the slamming of a door doesnt register past your clotted ears.
"wot the fucâ" price barges in. face hot with anger before his eyes slot to yours. he watches as shameful lust swirls in them before he flickers down to the wet connection between you and the lieutenant.
you whimper, would be more embarrassed if you hadnt fucked them both before.
simon plows into your feral, blunt covered nails digging into your cheek.
"gon' cum pretty girl? righ' on the old mans shite?" his fingers move from over your mouth to cupping your jaw firmly. moving your head to arch it back. eyes bearily finding him upside down.
he grins, eyes squinted in pure joy.
looking back up to price as he feels you tighten around him the most deliciously. browns burning with complete intention. youre lost, too worried about your impending explosion of a release to truly care as price watches you melt dumb.
he kisses your temple. feeling you muddle over.
babbles leave swollen lips and brows completely furrowed. "there! t-there, please si'! f-fucâ" with his mean pinch on your clit you choke on your moans, blanking as all crashes down on you.
nails dig into simons skin, blood prickling beneath. raspy screaming moan bouncing between both mens ears.
by the time you blink back to current reality, youre carefully laid over johns ruined desk. damp body smudging papers as they stick to your panting chest.
simon dutifully rubs your hips. smiling at john like the asshole he is.
do you think Ghost has a staring problem⢠or avoids eye contact like his life depends on it?
Ghost is fucking staring unblinking at everyone.
It genuinely does not registerâ˘ď¸ to him that people perceive him when he is not engaged in conversation with them. He's got what we have lovingly dubbed the "dead shark-eyed stare"
Which means he would absolutely fumble his first interaction with you. Staring at you dead-on for weeks, to the point everyone on base is sure you'll die soon.
Only for him to approach you one day, offer a chocolate bar from the gas station down the road, and say "yer cute. Here's my number." With a suspiciously stained sticky note offered to you.
âscientists donât want you knowâ is a phrase that always cracks me up because if you actually meet a scientist they will be shaking and crying like an overstimulated chihuahua with the need to let you know
đŹđŽđŚđŚđđŤđ˛; getting shot at apparently has its benefits, one of them being that you get to meet your future husband.
đđ°; hospital setting, descriptions of gunshot wounds, post surgery pain, swearing, military inaccuracies, reader and ghost are sarcastic asf, hurt/comfort, fluff, itâs 6k words long.
đ/đ§: so many of you loved my lieutenant!reader drabble and it motivated me to write the coupleâs first meet. A thank you for reaching 1.5k followers<3
Everything the doctor says reaches you through a thick, cottony haze. His voice drifts in and out like a radio station struggling through static, words slurring together into meaningless fragments of medical jargon you neither have the energy nor the patience to decipher. The anesthesia still clings to your veins, heavy and nauseating, making your thoughts sluggish and your temper dangerously short.
The room smells sharply of antiseptic, sterile enough to sting the inside of your nose. Somewhere nearby, a monitor beeps in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Footsteps echo faintly beyond the door. Metal clinks against metal. Every sound feels amplified, scraping against the inside of your skull.
Then the pain starts settling in.
At first it's distant, muted beneath the fading anesthesia. But slowly, steadily, it crawls up your thigh like fire spreading beneath your skin. Deep. Throbbing. Relentless. It coils around the muscle and bone until even breathing feels difficult. You suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, your fingers twitching weakly against the stiff hospital sheets.
âWe managed to save your leg and restore blood flow to the severed artery. That tourniquet saved your life, Lieutenant.â
You can finally make out enough of the doctor's words to understand him, though opening your eyes feels like dragging sandpaper across your skull. When you manage it anyway, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead stab into your vision so violently you immediately regret it. White. Endless white. It burns behind your eyes.
âYouâll be off active duty for several months,â the doctor continues, voice calm and practiced. âYouâll need physiotherapy. We can discuss the details of your recovery before discharge.â
His voice sounds farther away now, as though heâs standing at the end of a tunnel instead of beside your bed.
âOkay,â you rasp out, "thank you."
Even speaking hurts.
You try shifting your weight, desperate to find a position that doesnât feel like someone is driving nails through your leg, but the slightest movement sends a violent flare of pain through your thigh. Your entire body tenses instinctively. A strained groan escapes your throat before you can stop it.
The doctor offers you a sympathetic look, scribbles something onto the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, then finally leaves you alone.
Silence settles over the room or something close to silence. Machines continue humming softly around you. Somewhere outside, muffled voices drift down the hallway alongside the squeak of rubber soles against polished floors. The IV taped to your arm pulls unpleasantly every time you move your arm and your mouth tastes stale and metallic.
You should probably sleep, let the anesthetic finish wearing off, but even lifting a hand to rub at your burning eyes feels exhausting.
With a frustrated exhale, you give up trying to get comfortable. Nothing helps. The pain isn't worth the effort. Instead, you slowly roll your head from side to side against the pillow, trying to ease the stiffness lodged in your neck.
Thatâs when you notice the figure in the bed several meters away.
At first, your blurry vision struggles to make sense of him. Just a shape beneath dim hospital blankets. Broad shoulders. Dark clothes folded over the chair beside the bed. Then your focus sharpens enough to realize, the figure belongs to a man. Your brows knit together immediatelyâyou couldâve sworn the menâs and womenâs recovery rooms were separated.
As if sensing your stare, the man slowly turns his head toward you.
The movement is sluggish, clearly painful. His face comes into view little by little, littered with scars, rough around the edges and pale beneath the hospital lighting. Thereâs faint surprise in his eyes when he realizes youâre awake, quickly followed by visible confusion at the expression youâre giving him, like he's the reason you're stuck in that hospital bed.
Before he can tell you off for it, you speak first.
âWhy are you here?â
Your voice comes out rough and hoarse, stripped of its usual sharp authority.
âToo many casualties,â he says after a moment, his tone low and gravelly. âHospitalâs full. Had to stick you in a spare room.â
You blink slowly, processing his words through the lingering fog in your head, followed by a soft nod.
âOkay.â
And just like that, silence returns.
ââ*:ăť
You canât sleep, not even close.
The pain keeps gnawing at your leg, the mattress feels too stiff, the IV needle in your arm is irritating enough to make you want to rip it out entirely, the smell of disinfectant hangs thick in the air and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Every distant sound from the hallway drills into your skull.
But worse than all of it is the realization sitting heavy in your chest: You canât walkânot yet, at least.
A lieutenant reduced to lying helplessly in a hospital bed. Useless. The thought sours your mood almost instantly.
Eventually, the boredom outweighs your irritation.
You glance toward the man again. âWhat happened to you?â
He doesnât look at you this time.
âGot shot,â his answer is short, straight forward and his tone awfully flat. âUpper abdomen,â he adds a second later, followed by a quiet groan as he carefully shifts against the bed.
âOh, fuck,â you mutter weakly.
âYeah,â despite hisâstill flatâtone, thereâs dry humor buried underneath it. âDidnât hit anything vital, though.â
âLucky, I guess.â
âStill feels like shit.â
A breathy laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and to your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches upward into something resembling half a smile. The room feels a slightly less unbearable after that.
âWhatâs your rank?â you ask once the silence stretches too long again.
âLieutenant.â
That catches your attention immediately. You study him more carefully now, eyes tracing over the sharp lines of his profile. The broad frame, the military posture even while half-drugged and injured, the roughness in his voice.
âSAS?â you ask cautiously and he gives a small grunt of confirmation.
Weird. You know the faces of almost every lieutenant attached to the force. At the very least, you know their names, but his face doesnât ring any bells at all.
It takes a few moments before the realization clicks into place, making your eyes narrow slightly.
âYouâre Simon Riley?â
That finally gets a proper reaction out of him. His head turns toward you again, slower this time, and you catch the unmistakable flicker of surprise crossing his features. A tad of confusion and suspicion too.
How the hell did you figure that out?
âIâm pretty sure itâs you,â you continue, voice quieter now. âOnly lieutenant whose face Iâve never seen.â
For a moment, he just stares at you. âYes. Itâs me.â
Your brows lift in amusement despite the pain pulsing through your leg.
Well.
Thatâs one hell of a roommate assignment.
ââ*:ăť
The Simon 'Ghost' Riley is lying three beds away from you in hospital issued clothes that looked one size too small.
The name alone carried enough reputation to make most recruits stand straighter. Half the stories about him sounded fabricated, stitched together from barracks gossip and post-mission exaggerations. Cold as winter steel. Mean enough to scare grown men into silence. Efficient enough to make enemies disappear before they realized they were being hunted.
âYouâre staring,â he says flatly.
You blink, realizing you absolutely are. âJust making sure youâre real.â
His visible eye narrows slightly. âDisappointed?â
âA little,â you admit. âThought youâd be uglier.â A rough chuckle leaves him, it's low and brief, like the sound surprised even him.
âYou always this chatty?â he asks eventually.
His voice is rough with exhaustion, scraped raw around the edges like gravel dragged across concrete. The words come slower now, dulled by painkillers and fatigue, but thereâs still something dryly amused underneath them.
You shift slightly against the stiff hospital pillow, immediately regretting it when your thigh throbs in protest beneath the layers of bandages. The pain has gone from sharp to heavy now, deep and pulsing, like someone lodged molten metal into the bone and left it there to cool.
âJust heavily medicated, don't get used to it,â you mumble and he just grunts in response.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly above you, one of them flickering every few seconds in a way thatâs starting to feel personal. The air conditioner hums somewhere near the ceiling, pushing cold recycled air through the room that smells faintly of antiseptic, old coffee, and hospital linens washed a thousand times too many.
You slowly turn your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. He looks terrible. Not in an insulting wayâhe got shot, and he looks like it, which is absolutely normal. His skinâs paler than before beneath the harsh lighting, shadows sitting dark beneath his eyes. The bandaging visible above the collar of his shirt disappears beneath the fabric wrapping around his torso. One arm rests across his abdomen instinctively in a protective manner.
Somehow he still manages to look intimidating lying half-dead in a hospital bed. Honestly impressive. You can't imagine how much more intimidating he gets when he's on duty. You have to admit: the mask really matches his demeanor.
"You're staring. Again."
"I've got the Ghost laying a few meters away, I'd say it's understandable"
"I'd say it's rude."
âYou're the man people describe like some kind of cryptid in tactical gear talking to me. It is understandable.â
Simonâs brow furrows almost immediately.
âYou're dramatic.â
"Oh bollocks," you momentarily let you head drop to the side, your entire face visible to him, âyou've got quite the reputation.â
His lips crack into a faint smirk, "the mask helps."
"Definitely," you agree with him, âprobably terrorize recruits with it.â
"Efficiently so," that earns him a low chuckle from you.
You sink lower into the pillow with a tired exhale, letting your head rest fully against the mattress for the first time since waking up. The pain killers are finally settling in properly now, smoothing the jagged corners off everything around you. The painâs still there, buried beneath your skin and stitched into your leg, but it feels farther away. Manageable enough not to grit your teeth through every breath.
Your limbs feel strangely heavy, oddly warm, like gravity suddenly doubled. It's probably the medication making you groggy.
Ghost watches you from across the room for a moment before speaking again.
âYou look less murderous now.â
You crack one eye open toward him. âDonât worry,â you mumble sleepily. âStill judging your face.â
"Scars 're a turn off?" he raises his eyebrows.
"Quite the opposite" you respond, the words escaping your lips before your brain could process them.
"What if I told you my back's filled with 'em?"
"Don't tease me like that, lieutenant."
Then air leaves his nose sharply in something dangerously close to a laughânot a full one, though. He probably hasnât laughed properly since birth, but itâs there enough to count and you look absurdly pleased with yourself.
ââ*:ăť
Morning arrives without permission, not gently either.
Your eyes crack open reluctantly, every inch of your body still wrapped in that strange post-surgery heaviness where even existing feels physically expensive. Pale morning light bleeds weakly through the narrow hospital window, washing the room in cold blue-grey instead of the aggressive fluorescent white from yesterday, since the overhead lights are off.
The world feels quieter, softer around the edges. You're not used to this. Staying in bed after waking up, taking in the silence of the early morning. It feels odd. You try to enjoy the calmness of it all, until you do the mistake of moving your legs to get comfortable. Pain immediately shoots through your veins in your entire body, tensing up, a low groan escaping your lips, "fuck me."
"Mornin' to you too." the gruff voice of your roommate slices through the quiet morning.
His shirt hangs crooked across broad shoulders, his buzzcut already slightly overgrown from being stuck in bed for the last five days. The morning light catches against the rough edges of his scars, softening some and sharpening others. He looks less intimidating half-awake like this.
âGo back to sleep,â you groan, eyes shut tightly, waiting patiently for the pain to subside.
âTempting,â he mumbles, "should I call a nurse?"
"No. I'm fine."
"Doesn't look like it."
"Shut up."
The agonizing pain finally dies down and you feel like you can breath again.
"I hate this."
"Everyone does."
The room falls into a quieter silence afterwardânot awkward this time. Outside the window, rain taps softly against the glass in uneven rhythms. Somewhere farther down the hall, a nurse laughs at something muffled beyond your hearing.
âFirst time being benched?â he leans back carefully against the pillows, studying you for a moment with that same unreadable expression he seems to wear instead of normal human emotions. You don't glance toward him, it feels wrongâbeing this vulnerable, exposed. Instead you stare straight ahead at the ceiling tiling, "that obvious?â
âA bit.â
You exhale slowly through your nose. âI donât know how to sit still,â the honesty comes easier than expected. Maybe because neither of you has enough energy left to pretend much right now. "Feels wrong," you admit quietly.
Simon gives a faint hum of understanding. It's not out of pity for you, he knows exactly what you're feeling.
âYeah,â he says after a moment. âGets ugly in your head when you stop moving.â
The words settle heavily between you.
You look at him more carefully, past all the scars, the sharp edges of his features. You stare at the exhaustion carved into his eyes, the stiffness in every movement he makes, the instinctive way his hand still guards his side even while resting, like his brain refuses to believe he's safe. Now, Ghost feels less like a myth and more like a man held together by scar tissue and stubbornness.
"Any advice?" you ask, returning to lazily staring at the ceiling.
"Try not to kill yourself."
"Oh, okay," you exhale deeply, "you've got more pessimistic shit to say?"
"It's true."
"Who on this bloody earth gives that as a piece of advice?"
"I'm no motivational speaker." he defends himself.
"Could've fooled me," that makes him huff out another breath through his nose.
Hours pass strangely after that. Slow and syrup-thick beneath pain medication and rainstorms and terrible television neither of you actually watches, but the noise is a good enough distraction from your thoughts. Nurses drift in and out checking vitals. Time moves a lot differently when you're stuck in a hospital bed.
ââ*:ăť
 By the third day, you learn two things about Simon Riley.
Firstly, he wakes up violently alert, not like a soldier ready to fight the enemy, but more like a man trying to fight his life's demons away.
One second asleep, the next fully conscious like somebody flipped a switch inside him. Eyes sharp, his breathing steady and his hand already halfway toward the knife that isnât there before reality catches up.
The first time you witness it, a nurse accidentally drops a clipboard outside the door. The crack echoes down the hallway. It has Simon jolting upright instantly with a sharp inhale, every muscle in his body locking tight enough to snap steel cables, eyes darting wildly around the room for half a second before settling, before he realizes he's at the hospital and the tension drains in visible increments, even though his jaw remains tight.
You pretend not to notice. Mostly because the brief glimpse of genuine panic beneath all that control feels strangely private.
Secondly, he hates asking for help with almost pathological dedication.
You discover this around noon when he decides, for reasons known only to himself and whatever ancient curse fuels male stubbornness, that he can absolutely reach the cabinet across the room without assistance.
Despite being four days post-op with a bullet wound on his chest and the shit ton of painkillers.
You wake up from a light nap to find him standing. Debatable if that's even considered standing.
One hand grips the IV pole while the other braces hard against the wall, his shoulders tense. His face has gone concerningly pale with effort.
You stare at him for a long moment.
âRiley.â
âI got it.â
You shift slightly, as much as your wound will allow you, "Simon."
"Said I got it."
âYou look like one inconvenience away from meeting God.â
â'M fine.â
âI'll smash the IV poll on your head. Go sit down.â
His visible eye narrows immediately.
âThought ya leg didnât work.â
âTemporarily,â you shoot back. âUnlike your brain apparently.â
A dangerous silence follows.
Then, somehow, he takes another step.
Pain flashes across his face so quickly most people probably wouldnât catch it, but you do. His breathing shallows almost immediately afterward.
You sigh heavily.
âCongratulations,â you mutter sarcastically, "you're a fuckin' idiot."
âI was getting water.â
âThere is literally a button beside your bed to ask for help.â
âI can do it on my own.â
You blink at him.
"No, you can't. You got shot, for fuck's sake.â you say flatly. âYouâre allowed to ask for help, justâgo sit down.â
His mouth twitches faintly at that. Youâre strangely caring with him. Part of him likes it more than he wants to admit. Likes that his name, and whatever ugly reputation dragged itself all the way to your team, didnât make you flinch. Likes, embarrassingly enough, the way you called him a fucking idiot like it was the easiest thing in the world.
But thereâs another part of him that hates this. Hates that the first time he meets someone as pretty as you, heâs a complete bloody wreck who can barely stand on his own two feet. You got shot and still somehow look gorgeous. He got shot and looks half-dead.
Doesnât feel fair.
ââ*:ăť
The next morning is quiet, wrapped in rain and pale grey light.
The hospital room looks softer this early, less clinicalâsort off. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead remain switched off, leaving only the dim glow of dawn filtering through the wide window across the room. Rainwater slides slowly down the glass in uneven trails, blurring the city skyline into streaks of silver and charcoal. Somewhere far below, traffic hums faintly through wet streets. Tires hiss against pavement. A siren wails in the distance before fading back into the rain.
You wake slowly at first, trapped somewhere between sleep and consciousness while pain medication drags heavily through your veins. Everything feels warm and sluggish beneath the blankets. Your thoughts drift lazily in disconnected fragments. The scent of antiseptic lingers thick in the air, tangled with stale coffee from the nursesâ station and the faint metallic smell of rain pressing against the cracked window seal.
Then the pain hitsâone brutal pulse tears through your thigh hard enough to wrench a broken sound from your throat before your eyes are even fully open.
Breath vanishes from your lungs instantly.
Your body locks around the agony, muscles seizing beneath the blankets while another pulse crashes through your leg like a live wire buried beneath skin and bone. Heat spreads viciously through the injury, deep and swollen and unbearable, pressure building inside the muscle until it feels like the stitches themselves might split apart.
Your eyes snap open.
The ceiling above you blurs immediately.
âOh, fuckââ
The words barely make it out.
Your fingers twist violently into the sheets as instinct takes over, your body curling inward around the pain despite knowing movement only makes it worse. The bandages around your thigh suddenly feel too tight. Too hot. Every heartbeat sends another sickening throb through the damaged muscle, radiating upward into your hip and lower spine until even breathing becomes difficult.
Cold sweat prickles along the back of your neck.
Your stomach twists sharply.
Another pulse hits.
White flashes behind your eyes.
For one terrifying second you genuinely think you might pass out.
Across the room, you hear movement, it's fast, sharp.
Simon wakes instantly. The mattress creaks beneath sudden weight, sheets rustle violently. Thereâs the sound of bare feet against polished floor before his voice cuts through the haze surrounding your thoughts.
âWhat happened?â still rough with sleep, lower than usual, but alert immediately after.
You try answering himâyou really do, but the pain swells again before words can form properly and all that leaves you instead is a strained gasp that sounds humiliatingly fragile in the quiet room.
You hate thisâhow helpless it feels. You hate how one moment later your breathing is ragged and labored.
Youâve spent years training your body into something dependable, useful, strong enough to survive things other people wouldnât. And now you can barely breathe through pain without feeling like youâre falling apart at the seams.
The realization sits ugly and heavy in your chest.
Simon reaches your bedside, his hand clutching his abdomenâhe had his stitches removed yesterday so it doesn't hurt the same when he's walking anymore, makes it easier to get to you.
Tears are already burning unexpectedly behind your eyes, you turn your face sharply toward the wall before he can see them, but it's too late.
The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight as he braces one hand carefully against the bed rail. You can feel his presence before you properly look at him. Warmth cutting through the cold recycled hospital air. The faint scent of soap and antiseptic clinging to his skin. The uneven rhythm of his breathing, slightly tighter now from moving too quickly.
âHey,â he says quietly, the word lands softer than expected.
You squeeze your eyes shut harder. Another wave of pain tears through your thigh and suddenly your breathing stutters apart completely. A broken noise slips from your throat before you can swallow it down, your entire body tightening instinctively around the pain.
Then his hand settles against your shoulder, instinctively you grab it and squeezeâhard, maybe too hard.
The contact startles him, you feel it immediately in the way he stills afterward, like reaching for you happened before he consciously decided to do it, but the pain is too much to care right now.
His palm feels warm, solid, steady. The weight of it anchors you enough that your breathing slows by the smallest fraction.
Still, embarrassment crashes over you almost immediately after.
âDonât,â you mutter weakly, voice rough around the edges.
Simonâs brows knit slightly.
âWhot?â
âDon't look at me like this,â the words come quieter than intended, raw enough that you instantly regret saying them out loud.
For a moment the room falls silent except for rain tapping softly against the window and the low mechanical hum of hospital equipment surrounding you both. Simon doesnât answer immediately. His hand remains where it is, holding yours tightly, grounding you.
âHowâm I looking at you?â
You donât answer, mostly because you donât know how to explain it. He is looking at you like youâre something fragile and your pain matters, like seeing you hurt bothers him more than he expected it to.
Another pulse of pain rolls through your leg and your composure cracks completely this time. Your breathing shudders sharply. Tears blur your vision despite every effort to stop them.
Humiliation burns hot beneath your skin.
You lift a trembling hand to cover your face instinctively.
The movement is weak.
Exhausted.
Simon goes very still beside you, before you feel his hand slide slowly from your palm until his fingers close carefully around your other wrist instead. Not restraining, just holding on.
Your pulse jumps strangely beneath his fingertips.
âYou need a nurse,â he says quietly.
âNo.â
The refusal comes too fast, you hear it yourself immediately, it's not stubborn this time, but something else, something weaker, more fragile.
Outside the window, rainwater races down the glass in silver streams while distant thunder rolls softly somewhere across the city. The room feels dim and close around both of you now, wrapped in early morning shadows and the quiet rhythm of your uneven breathing.
Simon studies your face for a long moment. Thereâs exhaustion carved into every line of your expression this morning. Shadows are darker beneath your eyes. Healing bruises fading yellow along the edge of your jaw. Your shirt sticks to your sweaty skin, the shorts you're wearing visible since your thrashing pulled the thin blanket to the very end of your feet. Your bandages around the gunshot are clean, that's good, you didn't bust a stitch and you're not bleeding out. But that doesn't mean you're not tired, you look exhausted. Despite all the sharp edges he usually keeps wrapped tightly around himself, thereâs something openly unsettled in his eyes right now that wasnât there before. Because of you, of your exhaustion, your pain.
Another wave of pain rolls through your leg, though weaker now, dulled slightly by whatever medication still lingers in your bloodstream. You suck in a shaky breath through your teeth.
Simonâs grip tightens instinctively around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to steady, to let you know he is here.
Your eyes lift toward his without meaning to, your free hand searching for something to hold onto. He immediately notices and your fingers interlock with your grip so tight you obscure normal blood flow to his fingers. His attention moves over you carefully, tracking every flicker of pain that crosses your expression like heâs trying to memorize how to soften it. It unravels something within you more than the pain does.
Nobodyâs ever looked at you that way before. It has your chest tightening strangely.
His jaw shifts slightly, gaze flicking away toward the rain-streaked window, but his hand never leaves yours.
The silence stretches. It's not awkward or comfortable either, just fullâheavy with things neither of you knows how to say.
Eventually, when your breathing returns to a steady rhythm, he exhales quietly through his nose, the sound roughened by exhaustion.
âScared me for a moment,â the confession comes so softly you almost think you imagined it it has your breath catching unexpectedly.
He doesnât look at you after saying it. His eyes stay fixed somewhere toward the floor instead, expression unreadable again except for the faint tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. Like he regrets letting the words slip out at all, but they settle warm and aching beneath your ribs anyway.
You stare at him, "me too." Without thinking, your fingers shift slightly against his hand, squeezing it, not like before, it's soft now and he goes completely still beneath the slight movement of your fingers.
Most people wouldnât even notice it, but you do. You feel it in the way the muscles in his hand tighten faintly before relaxing again, careful and controlled like every instinct inside him is suddenly being held back by force. His thumb shifts once against your skin, absentminded almost, brushing lightly over your the back of your hand.
The contact sends something warm and disorienting through you.
Outside, rain continues slipping down the windows in silver trails, turning the early morning skyline into a blur of pale concrete and distant lights. Thunder rolls low across the city again, softer now, like the storm is beginning to drift farther away. The room smells faintly of rainwater sneaking through old window seals, tangled with antiseptic and the bitter scent of stale coffee lingering from somewhere down the hall.
The silence settles around you slowly, thick without becoming uncomfortable. It feels oddly fragile now, as though one wrong word might crack whatever this strange new thing between you has quietly become overnight.
Your breathing finally begins to steady beneath the pain.
Your leg still throbs viciously beneath the bandages, deep enough to make your stomach twist every few seconds, but the sharpest edge of it has dulled into something survivable again. The agony no longer owns your entire body, exhaustion starts creeping in behind it instead, heavy and slow and impossible to fight.
That doesn't go unnoticed by Simon.
His gaze flicks briefly toward your face again, studying you with that same quiet intensity thatâs become strangely familiar over the last few days. Youâre beginning to realize Simon Riley pays attention to everything when he cares enough toâtiny shifts in expression, changes in breathing, the way your fingers tense before pain hits harder.
It should feel invasive.
Instead it makes something low in your chest ache softly.
âYou should sleep,â he says eventually, voice roughened by exhaustion and something gentler buried beneath it.
The words settle into the dim room quietly.
You glance toward him properly for the first time since he crossed the room.
Up close like this, he looks exhausted in ways that go deeper than lack of sleep. The pale morning light softens the harsher angles of his face, catches silver against old scars and tired shadows beneath his eyes. His overgrown hair sits messily flattened from sleep, the collar of his shirt hangs unevenly near one shoulder, exposing the edge of white bandaging wrapped around his torso beneath.
He looks worn down. Human in a way Ghost never sounds in stories.
And suddenly you become sharply aware of the fact heâs still standing despite the pain he must be in himself. Your gaze drops instinctively toward the hand pressed unconsciously against his abdomen.
"You just got your stitches off. Go sit down," your tone is less demanding and more caring, it has Simonâs eyes flicking back toward you, one corner of his mouth twitching faintly upward. There it is, that tone he has grown quite fond of.
â'M fine.â
âGo lay down,â your tone is strict, matching at the slightest the one you use to bark orders.
"Said Iâm fine," he repeats dryly, before walking towards the room's far corner where a chair is discarded for visitors.
The scraping of the chair's legs against the floor stops you from asking what he's planning on doing. A moment later he is finally lowering himself carefully into the chair he dragged beside your bed instead of returning across the room. The movement is slow and controlled, tension tightening visibly across his shoulders as he settles back with obvious effort, a quiet breath slips through his nose afterward.
"Go lay down," you repeat, voice softer than before, the adrenaline from earlier completely wearing off by now.
"Negative."
"You're insufferable."
âHm.â
âYouâre injured.â you debate a second later.
âSoâre you.â
âYes, but Iâm clearly the more emotionally compelling patient.â
That finally earns you the smallest exhale of laughter. You hadnât realized how tense the air felt until that sound loosened it.
The rain outside begins falling harder again, tapping steadily against the windows now in soft rhythmic waves. Somewhere farther down the hallway, a nurse laughs quietly at something muffled beyond the walls before the sound disappears again beneath the hum of hospital machinery.
Your eyelids begin growing heavier.
Pain medication and exhaustion drag at you relentlessly now that the worst of the agony has passed. Still, you fight sleep instinctively. Partly because youâre afraid the pain will spike again the second you let your guard down. Mostly because Simon is still sitting beside you, and some selfish, odd part of you doesnât want him to leave yet.
Your fingers remain loosely tangled with his, but neither of you mentions it.
âYou donât have to stay over here,â you murmur eventually, voice quieter now from exhaustion.
Simon glances toward you.
âI know,â the answer comes immediately, but he chooses to stay, he wants to stay.
You stare at the rain for a long moment, watching droplets race one another down the glass while silence settles softly around the room again.
Your thoughts feel slow, heavy, dangerously honest around the edges. "I fucking hate this," you say quietly.
"You'll get used to it"
"That's what I'm afraid of," the confession hangs in the air.
"Everything about the job is scary."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"You took a bullet. You're still here tryin' to recover to get back out there. That's something to be fucking proud of."
"I can't even walk."
"You got shot on the damn leg, give yourself some time."
"Still sucks."
After a long moment, his voice breaks the quiet.
âI know.â
Just two words, but they land heavily.
Because suddenly you realize he truly does, not in a hypothetical or sympathetic way. He knows exactly what it feels like to wake up for the first time changed by pain and wonder if the person left afterward still fits inside their own skin.
Your eyes drift toward him again without meaning to. Heâs already looking at you, his gaze quietly present in the dim morning light while rain shadows move softly across the room around him.
And for one suspended moment the hospital, the pain, the machines humming softly around you bothâall of it disappears beneath the simple realization that neither of you feels quite as alone as you did a week ago.
Simonâs gaze drops briefly toward your joined hands then returns to your face.
Something unreadable flickers across his expression. It vanishes almost immediately beneath the familiar rough edges he wears like armor, but not before you catch it. That brief glimpse affects you far more than it should.
Simon shifts slightly in the chair beside you, exhaustion finally beginning to weigh visibly against him. His head tips back briefly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second too long before reopening again.
You study him quietly.
The tension still lingering around his mouth. The faint lines exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. The stubborn effort it clearly takes for him to stay awake despite his own injuries.
A strange tenderness catches you off guard.
âGo sleep,â you murmur softly.
One corner of his mouth twitches faintly again.
âBossy.â
âYou like it.â
ââ*:ăť
 Night settles slowly around the hospital room, quiet and blue at the edges.
The overhead lights are turned off, leaving only the soft amber glow from the hallway slipping through the cracked door and the far away muted city lights beyond the rain-streaked windows. Somewhere outside, water still drips steadily from rooftops and fire escapes after the storm, the sound faint beneath the distant hum of traffic moving through wet streets.
Everything feels softer after dark. The hospital itself seems to exhale. Voices lower into murmurs beyond the walls. Footsteps grow less frequent. Machines continue their endless quiet beeping around you both, but even that begins blending into the atmosphere after a while, becoming less noise and more heartbeat.
At some point after the nurses finish their evening rounds and repeatedly tell him to return to his bedâadvice that he doesn't follow, he shifts his chair closer to your bed, close enough that he can rest his arm on the mattress, you let him. You like it.
Instead he sits beside you now, fingers occasionally brushing lightly against your forearm whenever either of you moves.
Tiny accidents that neither of you acknowledge.
Your leg still aches relentlessly beneath the bandages, but the pain medication has dulled it into something distant enough to tolerate. Warm heaviness settles through your body instead, leaving your thoughts slow and dangerously unguarded around the edges.
Simon sits close enough now that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, that you notice details you probably shouldnât: The rough scar disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, the faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw by the end of the day, the way his hands flex unconsciously whenever pain pulls through his healing abdomenâfingers curling slightly against his knee before relaxing again.
The strong hands, scarred knuckles, they're careful too, he is a sniper after all.
âYouâre staring again,â he murmurs quietly beside you, voice roughened by exhaustion.
You glance toward his face and immediately regret it because heâs already watching you, head tipped slightly back against the wall. The dim lighting softens the harsher planes of his face, shadows settling deep beneath tired eyes. He looks unfairly good like this, worn down enough to seem real. Dangerous enough to still make your pulse trip every time he looks directly at you.
âYou make it difficult not to,â you answer before thinking better of it.
The words settle into the quiet room between you.
His gaze lingers on your face a moment too long before shifting downward briefly. Your mouth. Your throat. Then back up again.
A subtle movement.
Still enough to make warmth spread slowly through your chest.
âShould I be concerned ya flirt with the entire force like tha'?â he asks eventually.
Thereâs dry amusement in the question.
You study him for a second before answering.
âNo,â the honesty slips out easier than expected.
Simonâs expression changes almost imperceptibly afterward.
Not surprise exactly.
Just awareness.
The room feels smaller suddenly, neither of you looks away.
Your pulse feels loud in your own ears. You both let the silence settle, it doesn't feel awkward, or comfortable. Just something you've grown used to.
Several minutes pass before Simon glances toward you again, his gaze dropping briefly toward your leg before returning to your face.
âHow bad is it?â
âBetter now.â You answer without looking at him.
Something flickers behind his eye at thatârelief. It's real enough to affect you immediately.
No one should look that relieved over your comfort. No one should stay awake watching your breathing like it matters. But he does.
You look down briefly at your own hands twisted loosely in the blankets.
âYou stayed all day," the observation comes quieter than intended.
Simon leans his head back slightly against the wall again, âDidnât have anywhere else to be.â
He could have asked to have you transferred once a bed cleared. He could've left this room whenever he wanted. He could have disappeared back behind all those carefully built walls and sharp edges and distance, hide his face like he does with everyone. But he wanted you to see him like this, to stay next to you.
âYou know,â you murmur softly, âyouâre not nearly as cold as everyone says.â
Simonâs eyes drift toward you slowly, one corner of his mouth lifts faintly "Meds are doing their job."
"Oh?" you raise your brows, acting offended, "and here I thought I was special."
He rolls his eyes in response, still smirking faintly.
You let the silence linger again, it's somewhat comforting at this point. Charged with things you don't think you'll ever share with each other.
His eye drifts shut briefly before reopening again a second later, like he caught himself slipping. âYou should sleep,â you whisper.
Simon turns his head just enough to look at you properly. âEventually.â
You roll your eyes softly. âYouâre impossible.â
âIâve been told.â
Thereâs a quiet ease to it now, the kind that sneaks up on you without permission. Minutes pass by and you allow the quiet of the room to swallow you whole. Your gazes are fixed on anything but each other. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for something more interesting than the hospital ceiling, youâve been staring at for the past three days while Simonâs stare blankly on the floor, lips slightly pursed into a thin line, deep in thought.
The sound of the rain from outside and of your breathing fills the lack of words.
âWe should go out once weâre discharged.â
His words are so casual it takes your brain a full second to process them. âAre you asking me out?â
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. âThought I was being obvious.â
A soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it, warm and sleepy and a little disbelieving.
âYou know you'll have to put up with my limp, right?â you question a second later, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.
Matching your expression he also raises a brow at you, entirely unimpressed, ânot a problem.â
You smirk satisfied with his response, tilting you head softly at him, âDate sounds fun."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
â§ď˝Ľďž:Clark doesnât like being mad. Itâs a sore, annoying feeling that he carries with too much weight. He hates the fight. Hates how it paints over his thoughts for the rest of the week. And most of all, hates that you canât just see eye to eye and go back to everything being perfect.
â§ď˝Ľďž:He tracks you down after four days. You open your window to find Superman standing on the fire escape, rain pouring over him like a movie, his mouth in a thin line and face heavy with longing and regret. Youâd laugh if you werenât still mad at him. Youâd kick him out if you didnât miss him so much.
â§ď˝Ľďž:You talk it out. Clark always makes you talk it out. Itâs healthy, and ends the argument the fastest. Sometimes youâre childish and resist it, pushing back with stupid arguments and sneering about nothing. When you get like that, Clark pouts like a puppy. He backs up and hangs his head, mumbling about giving you space and always being here when you need him.
â§ď˝Ľďž:Itâs more infuriating than the fight itself. So annoyingly respectful and sweet. If he really loved you, he wouldnât make you forgive him so fast.
â§ď˝Ľďž:But he does really love you, and thatâs why you give in. Clark says sorry with his dumb little sweet smile, and you scowl and kiss him hard. He practically has a wagging tail, when he realizes the fight is over. And even if neither of you conceded, youâre still happy all the same. Youâre stronger than one fight. Clark loves you more than leaving over that.
â§ď˝Ľďž:Thereâs always the fun part, after. The part where Clark gets feral. Buries himself deep inside you, kissing all over your face while you come apart on his cock. He whispers about how much he missed you, missed this. How he needed you so bad, whining in your ear as you clench down on him, your pussy drooling with every possessively sweet word. He sucks on your neck and you keen, holding him close.
â§ď˝Ľďž:Itâs a religious experience, to have him curled over you and desperate. Youâre just as desperate yourself. Youâll never tell him. You like him like this too much.
â§ď˝Ľďž:Youâll fight again. And make up again. Either way, you have no doubt. Clark, in all his glory, is yours.
âŚClark Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on AO3!âŚ
âŚAuthor's Note: from this headcanon request. he's such a sweet boy i need himâŚ