#ghost car

(via A CAR BIZARRE - Pulp International)

Simon Riley x Reader

Summary : You try and try your best, still it's not good enough for your liutenant. What happens when he pushes you too far?

Warnings : ANGST, simon being mean, bullying, yelling, feelings of lonliness, sad y/n.

AN : I was half asleep and dreaming while writing this, I was adding tags with my eyes closed, because wth are these tags, ghost car? Simon rileyn? 😭

The training grounds were a stark landscape of mud and sweat, a battleground that I had only just begun to navigate. The air was thick with tension, filled with the sounds of grunts, shouts, and the rhythmic thuds of feet pounding against the ground

Each day felt like a test, a relentless march toward proving their worth. I wanted this—wanted to be part of something bigger, to prove I had what it took. But every day felt like a war against Ghost.

“Push harder!” Simon’s voice cut through the air like a whip crack, sending a jolt of anxiety through me. The Ghost stood with arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my heart race. “You call that running? I’ve seen snails with more ambition!”

With every training session, it became painfully clear that Simon’s expectations were sky-high. He was relentless, punishing mistakes with unforgiving criticisms that left no room for error. His gaze, cold and piercing, seemed to search for weaknesses, and I felt myself being scrutinized under his harsh glare. The others seemed to flow around him, taking his orders without hesitation, while I couldn't help but feel like I was constantly struggling to keep up, drowning under the pressure.

“Y/N, stop daydreaming and move!” Simon barked, his tone sharp enough to cut through the humidity of the summer air. I flinched at the command, the sting of embarrassment burning deep as I forced my legs to work faster. The rest of the recruits moved like well-oiled machines, their movements synchronized, while I just felt like an outsider in my own skin, flailing and failing.

“Not good enough!” Simon snapped, stepping closer, his voice low and icy. “You think this is a game? If you can’t handle this, you don’t belong here.” His words hung heavy in the air, making me feel small and insignificant.

My heart sank. I looked around at the other recruits, hoping for a glimmer of support, but instead only found pity and judgment in their eyes. Whispers floated through the group as they watched Ghost tear me down, their words sharp as knives.

“How does Y/N expect to survive out there?” one recruit muttered. “If she can’t even handle a few laps, she's dead weight.”

The laughter that followed felt like a physical blow, and I fought against the tide of humiliation that threatened to pull me under. Every taunt cut deeper than Simon’s criticisms, reinforcing the idea that I were a burden, that my presence was not wanted. My frustration boiled over, and it was in these moments that I began to question my worth.

“Y/N, focus!” Simon shouted, his voice rising with irritation. “You think this is a time to be weak?” The anger in his tone sent a chill through me, and I felt my resolve waver. “If you can’t push through this, you’re never going to make it.”

“I’m trying,” I replied, my voice trembling as I wiped sweat from my brow. “I’m really trying.” But the words felt empty, echoing against the wall of Simon’s expectations.

“Trying isn’t enough. You either do or you don’t,” he shot back, his gaze unwavering, as if he was looking right through me. “Get back to it!” I swallowed hard, pushing through the pain, but it felt like running a race against the wind—every effort met with an unseen force pushing back.

With each failure, I felt a part of myself eroding under the weight of Simon’s criticism. It was exhausting to try and prove myself, especially when every moment seemed to invite more ridicule. The other recruits began to treat me with disdain, echoing Simon’s harsh sentiments.

During breaks, they would huddle together, sharing laughter and camaraderie, while I sat apart, feeling the sting of my isolation. Whispers and sideways glances followed me like shadows, a constant reminder of my perceived inadequacies.

“I heard she couldn’t even keep up with the warm-ups,” one recruit scoffed, and the others chuckled in agreement. The laughter rang in my ears like a cruel melody.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the training ground, with it came a sense of longing—a desire to be seen, to be validated. I wanted Simon to acknowledge my efforts, to see past the mistakes and recognize my potential.

But every time I looked at Simon for support, I was met with indifference. In those moments, I craved even a hint of recognition, a word of encouragement that might lift the veil of despair shrouding my spirit. Instead, he remained aloof, his focus always on the next exercise, the next task. I felt invisible, an afterthought in a world that seemed to favor the strong and confident.

The cycle of training continued, each session more grueling than the last. As Simon’s criticisms rained down, I could feel my spirit begin to fracture. I pushed through the pain, forcing my body to move even when every muscle screamed for relief. The fear of failure loomed large in my mind, overshadowing any glimmer of hope.

One afternoon, during an especially intense session, I found myself in a state of sheer exhaustion. The sweat was dripping from my brow, mingling with the dirt caked on my skin. I had just finished a series of demanding drills, and my legs felt like lead. Simon stood before me, arms crossed, his expression a mask of disapproval.

“Y/N, what was that?” he demanded, his voice a low growl. “You call that effort? You’re wasting my time!”

The humiliation washed over me like a tidal wave. “I—I’m trying!” I protested, my voice barely above a whisper. But the words felt feeble, lost against the weight of Simon’s disappointment.

“Trying isn’t enough!” he barked. “You think this is a game? You’re here to learn, to become a soldier. If you can’t handle a little discomfort, maybe you don’t belong here.”

The words struck me like a physical blow, reverberating through my chest. I struggled to hold back tears, the pain of inadequacy consuming me. “I’m not weak,” I said, but even to my own ears, the declaration sounded hollow.

Simon stepped closer, invading my personal space, and I felt the urge to shrink back. “Weakness isn’t tolerated here. You either toughen up, or you’re out. Simple as that.”

His words were harsh, but it was the indifference that cut the deepest. It was clear to me that Simon wouldn’t bend, wouldn’t show a shred of compassion. The weight of his expectations hung heavy, a noose tightening around my neck. As I looked into Simon’s eyes, searching for any hint of understanding, I found only a cold resolve. In that moment, I realized I was fighting not only against Simon’s expectations but also against a growing sense of hopelessness that threatened to consume me.

The sessions dragged on, and each day felt like an uphill battle. I was trapped in a cycle of despair and determination, fighting against the tide of my own limitations while yearning for a glimmer of hope. I could feel the eyes of the other recruits on me, judging and laughing as Simon’s harsh words echoed in my mind. “You’re not good enough.”

As the days turned into weeks, the atmosphere among the recruits shifted. My struggles became the source of gossip, the training ground's unofficial entertainment. Whispers followed me like shadows, a constant reminder of my failures. “Did you see Y/N today?” one recruit would say, and the laughter that followed was sharp and cutting. I felt the weight of their gaze, the disdain that seemed to pour from them, and it was suffocating.

The laughter was infectious, and soon it spread like wildfire, fueled by Simon’s unwavering stance against me. The others began to mirror his sentiments, adopting his sharp tone and biting remarks. “You’re slowing us down, Y/N!” one would shout, echoing Simon’s criticisms, and I could feel the sting of betrayal in those words. What had once felt like camaraderie had twisted into cruelty, and I felt my heart sink further.

In those dark moments, I sought solace in the only thing I could control: my training. I pushed myself harder, hoping that if I worked enough, Ghost would finally notice my efforts. If I bled, if I hurt, if I endured—perhaps he would see me for who I am, not just a disappointment. But every time I thought I was making any progress Ghost's criticism would bring me crashing back down.

“More effort, Y/N! You’re not even trying!” he would shout, the disdain in his voice as sharp as the crack of a whip. Each time, it felt like a dagger to my heart, leaving a deep wound that never seemed to heal. I gritted my teeth and pushed through, running lap after lap, each footfall resonating with my determination. But as the days dragged on, the thrill of ambition began to fade, replaced by a gnawing sense of despair.

Despite my efforts, the other recruits continued to treat me with a mix of scorn and derision. They would mutter comments when I struggled during drills, their laughter ringing hollow. “Maybe Y/N should just give up,” one would quip, and the others would snicker in agreement. It became a routine, a cruel game that I found myself trapped in, and with each passing day, my confidence eroded further.

One afternoon, during a particularly grueling training session, I felt the familiar tightening in my chest, a prelude to the storm of emotions that always threatened to drown me. I braced myself for the inevitable onslaught.

“Y/N! You’re not even close to meeting the standard! I could throw a rock and it would outperform you!” His words were met with a chorus of laughter from the other recruits, and my face flushed with humiliation. The heat of my embarrassment was nearly unbearable, and for a moment, I felt completely exposed, as if the entire world was watching me fail.

“I’m trying!” I, for once, shouted back. The words bursting forth in a moment of desperation. “I’m doing my best!”

“Your best isn’t good enough! It’s time to toughen up!” Simon shot back, his gaze unyielding. “This isn’t a charity; this is a military training ground. If you can’t handle the pressure, you should be looking for a way out.”

The laughter that followed felt like salt in an open wound, and again my heart sank further. I turned away, fighting back tears of frustration. Every word Simon spoke echoed in my mind, reinforcing the idea that I was a failure, a disappointment. The cruel laughter of my fellow recruits followed me like a shadow, a constant reminder that I was alone in a sea of expectation.

After the session ended, I lingered behind, desperate to escape the judgmental stares and the mocking whispers that clung to me. I longed for validation, for a moment of recognition from Ghost—anything that might help me feel like I belonged.

But instead of finding solace, I found only silence. Simon brushed past me, his attention already shifting to the next task. The lack of acknowledgment felt like a dagger, and I fought against the tears that threatened to spill over. The loneliness was crushing, and with every passing day, I felt myself slipping further away from the person I had hoped to become.

Weeks turned into months, my spirit grew more fragile, battered by the weight of Simon’s expectations and the harsh judgments of the other recruits. I began to wonder if I was truly cut out for this life, questioning my ambition and my resolve. Simon’s relentless push only deepened my doubts, and the idea of being a soldier began to feel like a distant dream, one that was slipping further from my grasp.

In a moment of quiet desperation, I decided to confront Simon after a training session. I needed to hear his thoughts, to understand if there was any hope of redemption. As the other recruits began to disperse, I took a deep breath and approached him, my heart pounding in my chest.

“luitenant,” I began, my voice shaking slightly. “Can we talk?”

He turned to face them, his expression unreadable. “Make it quick, Y/N. I don’t have all day.”

I swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. “I know I’ve been struggling, and I’m trying my best to improve. But it feels like nothing I do is ever good enough for you. I just want to know if you think I can make it through this.”

Ghost's gaze hardened, and for a moment, I feared I had made a mistake. But instead of dismissing me outright, he seemed to actually consider my words. “You want to know if you can make it? The only person who can answer that is you. If you think you can, then you have to prove it. No one’s going to hand you anything in this life, especially not here.”

I felt a flicker of hope but quickly realized it was overshadowed by the reality of his words. I had grown accustomed to his harsh criticisms, but this felt like a challenge, an opportunity to reclaim my dignity. “I will prove it,” I replied, determination igniting within me. “I will show you that I can be strong.”

Simon nodded, a flicker of something—perhaps respect—crossing his face. “Then do it. Stop waiting for validation. Get out there and earn it.” With that, he turned away, leaving me standing there, feeling a strange mix of inspiration and despair.

As the days continued to unfold, I poured every ounce of energy into my training. I pushed myself to the brink, ignoring the pain that flared in my muscles. Each drill became a battle, and I fought with a ferocity I hadn’t known I possessed. Yet despite my efforts, the whispers and laughter of the other recruits echoed in my mind.

Even as I fought to prove myself, the negativity of my peers remained a heavy weight on my shoulders. Simon’s expectations loomed large, but it was the biting words of my fellow recruits that cut the deepest. Their taunts became a toxic backdrop to each training session.

“Why are you even trying, Y/N? You’ll never make it,” one would say, followed by a chorus of laughter that felt like daggers in my heart. Each jeer was a reminder of my isolation, a cruel reminder that I was fighting not only against Simon’s expectations but also against a tide of scorn that threatened to drown me.

I pressed on, fueled by a mixture of determination and desperation. I would not let the words of others define me, nor would I allow Simon’s disapproval to break my spirit. But the road ahead felt endless, littered with obstacles that seemed insurmountable.

In the depths of my struggles, I clung to the idea that perseverance would eventually yield results. If I could just push through the pain, the humiliation, the exhaustion—perhaps one day, I would emerge stronger. Perhaps one day, Simon would see me for who I truly am.

And so, I ran. I ran through the tears, through the laughter, through the doubts. Every step was a silent promise to myself—to rise above the negativity and become the soldier I had always dreamed of being.

As I pushed through the obstacles, I felt a flicker of determination ignite within me. I would not give up. Not now, not ever..

'I hold on to that and I think of the Volvo covered in algae and moss, and I wonder if this was the last thing it experienced before it became a haunt'