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Navigation
âş All of my works are strictly sfw
âş "+" implies a non-romantic pairing
Ao3
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male yandere drabbles
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Took the long road home
⢠Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader
⢠Length: Oneshot
⢠Synopsis: It had become too much, the radio silence, the fear, the constant unease, the late nights and cold dinners. Never knowing if your lover would return in a casket. So you leave, pack your life in a suitcase and a letter awaiting Simon. Perhaps you should've discussed that with him first.
⢠A/N: This started as manhandling practice. Now its 4.5k words.
⢠Follow up/concepts
Soap finds you first.Â
Or- to put it more accurately, Ghost allows him to approach you first.Â
For all that the masked man would protest, arms crossed with the heaviest eye roll youâve seen a man do- the two are attached to the hip. Courtesy of an energetic Scot who doesnât like to let go of something once heâs grabbed on and an Englishman who allows the rarity of a personalized slot inside his close circle when someone pesters him enough.Â
It was only natural then that you knew him too, being Simonâs ex girlfriend and all. (Not ex- the Ghost curled over your shoulder grunts, haunts you from the dark corners of your own mind, shaking his head ever so slightly. It wasnât a mutual decision.)
There hadnât been anything you couldâve done. Nothing short of some time machine to grab your past self by the arm as youâre exiting the gas station restroom, tug yourself away from the door and hastily point out the small window at the back. Itâs dirty, coated in filth likely older than yourself, and small, rectangular with clear warped glass. Youâre not certain if you could even fit yourself through, much less had no idea how to reach it in the first place, but it wouldâve been worth a shot.Â
But you donât. Canât. You (unfortunately) donât have the clairvoyance of the future, and you donât have a time machine, and if the government does then they wouldnât let you use it for such a mundane purpose.Â
You know it wouldnât have changed anything anyway. Something deep inside of you, like buried old instincts, knows your fate had been sealed long before youâd stepped foot into the inconspicuous bathroom, months before you even arrived to America, dating nearly half a year back to when you were still on European soil, teary eyed as you placed a sealed envelope on the countertop before you turned and left with your tail between your legs, wheeling out all your possessions you could fit in a suitcase by your side.Â
It had become too much, youâd admitted to your sister as you bounced her babbling baby on your knee, shoulders pulled tight and unable to meet her gaze. Her baby turned his head to stick his fingers in his mouth and regard you with bright blue eyes that made your chest clench. The radio silence on missions, the constant injuries, the abrupt calls. Half of the time you waited for Simon to call to apologize for missing yet another event due to a mission extending or abruptly setting off for another one, the other half of the time you waited for a call from his Captain to inform you of his passing.Â
Your sister had extended a hand, both metaphorically and physically, patting you on the shoulder as she allowed you peace in the sanctuary of her home. Had taken you in and allowed you the room clearly decorated as the nursery of the newborn, waving that it was no big deal and she âhad to look out for her younger sister.â
You hid in your sisterâs home from the relationship you ran from and allowed the warmth to seep into your bones, cradle the cracks of your broken heart.Â
Itâs everything you wished yours was. Brimming full of life, a babyâs screeching laughter echoing in your ears, a husband that would appear when she showed the slightest signs of exhaustion, plucking the baby boy from her arms with a kiss on her forehead, sending her off to bed or a shower or to eat while sheâd pout and reach again for her child.Â
You watched, grateful for the inclusion, with envy coiling in your chest.Â
Your sister and her husband made it look easy, effortless. The closest you could compare would be by staring longingly at the baby clothes in the shop windows while you and Simon went out, the latter slowed by your halt. Heâd lean in, murmur promises that youâd have âso many, until youâre sick of themâ once he retires. Youâd avert your eyes, swallow the âwhich comes first? Retirement or a casket?â behind your teeth and nod dutifully, continuing your pace.Â
But you canât stay forever. Not when your air mattress obscured the majority of the nursery floor (âItâs fine! I have the baby in a bassinet by the bed in the meantime, no need for a cribâ), not when your suitcase filled the closet (âTheyâre baby clothes! Theyâre tiny! They donât need all that spaceâ), and when you flutter uselessly in the dance your sister and her husband make, gathering the babyâs food and cooking dinner simultaneously. Thereâs enough work with a baby, enough stress and sleepless nights and trial and error. Despite how your sister smiles at the sight of you, her exhausted complexion bores a hole in your chest while her husband chances pinched glances at your intrusion. You canât be another burden on her, no matter how much she insists.Â
Simon may not have been around all of the time, he couldnât show his affection in the typical mannerisms, was always hesitant on skin contact outside of the fortitude of your home and faltered when things would begin to escalate to the bedroom. But his job had certainly paid the bills and provided the housing. It allowed you to accumulate a cushy amount of savings, never a need to splurge or use them.Â
You do now. A rental car is easy to find with the wonders of the Internet, something dependable, something hearty. You pack your belongings in the trunk, kiss your nephew on the head, hug your sister in a tearful goodbye, and drive.Â
Youâd always wanted to see New York, the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, the grandiose wonders the States had to offer. Itâs certainly a learning curve, to drive on the wrong side of the road, but you manage. The city smog nearly makes you hack out a lung, the countryside rolling hills extend farther than the end of the Earth. Itâs⌠nice. Itâs nice, you decide, meeting the slow sunrise deep in a camping site as the woods wake around you, seated cross legged on top of your car roof.Â
Of course, things canât remain that way forever. You were never quite so lucky.Â
It happens in Arizona, the desert rolling out further and further until it melts with the sky. You hadnât known a highway to be this long, this desolate before, nothing but the heat and the dunes to greet you, sparsely broken by shrubbery or a stray animal. You sag with a sigh of relief when a marker for a gas station breezes by you, pulling in without a second thought.Â
You wobble out, bones creaking and cracking. Groan as you stretch your legs for what must have been hours since your last stop. Youâll have to fill the tank to not worry of being left abandoned somewhere on the side of the road, miles from civilization. Need to find the nearest place that offers a bed to finally get some proper rest so your knees stop punishing you for sleeping in the backseat.Â
But first, business calls.Â
The breeze of chilly air is a welcome reprieve from the scorching rays of the sun as you push the gas stationâs convenience store door open. Itâs small inside, slightly sparse. But it has the necessities of what matters.Â
You pass by the only worker, an older teenager sitting bored at the cash register, more focused on his phone than your passing presence. Not that you care, your destination well within sight at the back of the shop. A small, dimly lit hallway, branching to the right, two doors and a floor in need of a deep clean greet you.Â
The restrooms. Bingo.Â
You push your sunglasses onto the top of your head as you swing the door open, chancing a glance at yourself when you pass by the only mirror. Your skin has a slight tan to it, courtesy of the constant traveling. American weather seems to prefer the sun more than the clouds of Britain back home. Though you supposed you canât attribute only your travels to it. You feel⌠lighter, no longer shackled to your home, always nearby in case Simon finally returns from his missions. Thereâs a slight glow to you and your smile comes easier.Â
You grin at your reflection and she returns it. You like it, you like the new you.Â
Of course, matters that take place in the washroom have no need to be spoken of and soon enough you find yourself washing your hands, reveling in the cold water. Several droplets slowly descend down your skin, threatening to soak the collar of your shirt after you splashed your face to keep from overheating.Â
A time machine wouldâve been good for now. But you donât have one, and you pull the bathroom door open without a care, without a speck of expectation of the figure that meets you on the other end.Â
âBonnie,â Johnny greets with an easy grin, a forearm braced against the doorway, leaning so he fills the space. You startle for a split second, a half step taken back, hackles raised to bolt. Before the tenseness eases out of your shoulders, your hands settling on your hips. âJohnny,â you greet in reply, lips curled at the edges in familiar affection. You withhold from reaching up to hug him automatically, not when you donât have the standing for that anymore.Â
âI didnât expect to see you again.â You cock your head, your smile growing wider. Truly, you had missed him and his aptitude to fill the space of Simonâs stoicism with unruly jokes. You hadnât had the chance to leave a final message for him as with your ex (too focused on running, too focused on making sure you didnât leave anything behind as your heart bled onto the letter neatly folded into an envelope), youâd regretted never fully receiving the closure.Â
âWhat are you doing so far out? Are you on a mission?â You question curiously, already expecting a vague reply. Simon practically never spoke of his work back when the two of you were together, much less now that you werenât privy to neither his nor his best mateâs personal life anymore.Â
âSomething like thatâ, the Scot replied, a trickle of something that you couldnât quite put your finger on slipping into his tone as his gaze slid to the side, down where the hallway curved into the convenience store.Â
An uncomfortable mass lodges itself in your chest, pressing against your throat. âIs..â, you swallow thickly, reaching up to awkwardly paw at the hair on the back of your nape, gaze chained to the floor as your shoulders hitch uncomfortably. Suddenly aware of his strange presence in the middle of nowhere, recalling Simonâs many mentions of the two of them being paired together for their fair share of missions. âIs Simon⌠with you?â
Johnnyâs gaze drifts back to you, pinning you to your place as you shift uncomfortably. He makes no move to answer. When the silence stretches into something taut and uncomfortable, you finally break it by clearing your throat, covering your mouth with your fist.Â
âI think itâs best I donât⌠we donât... really see each other.â You lamely excuse, wincing at the reminder of your heartless rejection, too much of a coward to do it to his face. But you know you would have crumpled, one crestfallen look and youâd be crying as you cradled his face and muttered apologies. And then what?Â
Your nervous shifting finally stills, feet planted firmly on the floor, a small stroke of anger lashing out. You continue to sit and wait for him years and years down the line? Until youâre nothing more than a doll who sits and nods and smiles when her husband finally looks at her? Always waiting until he turns the little wind up key on your back? You couldnât handle that.
âSimon wasnât happyâ, your gaze snaps up to Johnny, his arms folded over his chest as he leans against the doorway and watches you. He cocks his head, eyes fastened on you unnervingly. âCame hoâe from a difficult, dangerous mission and his Bonnie lass wasnâ there. Nothing but a note.â
The hair on the back of your neck stands on edge, needles jabbing into your spine, instincts screaming that you were cornered by a predator. Johnnyâs presence doesnât seem so kind and inviting anymore, a sharp glint in his eye as he watches you without blinking.Â
âI think-â your voice wavers and you will it to hold strong, pinching your shoulders to force yourself to straighten. âI think I need to go.â He doesnât stop you as you duck by him, nothing but his eyes following you, head shifting when you step around him.Â
Youâre tense the entire time, almost flighty, shifted to bolt the second he so much as twitches. He doesnât move a muscle, only his gaze following, arms still crossed over his chest.Â
You make it halfway down the hall on a speedy walk before you increase your pace, glancing behind you nervously. Johnny regards you with a self satisfied grin, still in the same position. Your hands grapple with the sunglasses atop your head, dropping them onto the bridge of your nose as you hone in on the only opening. Muscles bunched, ready to bolt once you break his line of sight. You cast one last glance back. A mistake that costs you.Â
You shift, turning without looking, increasing speed before you even straighten forwards. And slam into a wall of toned muscles and a rough, scratchy fabric. Your glasses jam into the bridge of your nose, tears beading at the edges of your eyes as you flinch backwards, cradling your nose and hunching over from the startling pain.Â
Did you break your nose?! It damn well feels like it!!
âLemme see it,â a familiar voice washes over you, large warm hands prodding at your chin and lifting it up from your cradle while you freeze, wide eyes fixated on whoâs before you. Heâs not wearing his signature skull mask, likely too notable, needed to be discreet. But heâs still coated in a balaclava that covers everything but his eyes from you; fixated on your nose as he tilts the glasses upward and swipes the red section.Â
You cringe and try to duck away instinctively- pain flaring from the gentle touch- but he holds your head firmly in place, tilting it upward for a better look.Â
âJust a bit bruised,â his voice rumbles out, his other palm drifting to cradle the back of your head. âIâll get you some ice for that.â
You swallow thickly, hands grasping at his thick forearms. âSimon...â your voice trails off, uncertain if itâs a plea, an apology, a question.Â
I miss you, Iâm sorry for leaving, what are you doing here?
Simonâs hands drift lower, curling over your arms and upper back as his head drops to your shoulder. He squeezes you tightly, a great big exhale flowing out of him. You canât do more than pat at his side, arms locked to your sides by his grip.Â
âMissed you.â Comes his rare, personal admittance, hardly loud enough for you to hear. âCame home and you wereâŚâ, his arms tighten, back tense again. âGone. I thought you were taken.â
âI wasnât.â You comfort, try to wiggle your arm from under his grip to comfort him but he only squeezes tighter. You opt to tilt your head against his, closing your eyes. âIâm all ok. I just⌠couldnât take it anymore, Si.âÂ
Simonâs next exhale comes out as a shudder and he squeezes tighter before seemingly realizing his strength and loosening his hold. Still not letting go, still trapped, but not suffocatingly so. âYou promise? Thereâs no one else here? No one took you?â He peels away from you, casting a suspicious glance around the both of you. As though he expects someone to leap out from the nearest door, an enemy hiding in the decrepit supply closet nearby.Â
You hum. âNo. I just.. decided to finally go travelling. Itâs been nice, fun. New York is so much more⌠busy than the photos show.â
You shift backwards slightly, tilt your head as you scrutinize Simon. âAre you here on a mission? Am I interfering?â You cast a backwards glance at Johnny for answers, who remains in the same position where youâd left him.Â
Simon gently turns you back into place until you face him again, looking up at him curiously. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear with a familiarity that makes your heart squeeze uncomfortably. âWhyâd you leave?â He ignores your question, hand shifting to cradle your cheek.
Itâs much too familiar for two exes but you allow yourself to lean into his touch, grip tightening on his arms while you briefly close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge in the slight moment. Distance has made the heart fonder, time has taken the memory of how large and warm Simon is, how softly he holds you despite his overwhelming size and strength. The small, bruised part of your heart still misses him, still yearns to fall back into his arms and let him take you home. Your more rational part snaps and hisses at her, is quick to remind you of cold dinners and long nights and red rimmed eyes that Simon never sees.Â
âI couldnât take it anymore,â you admit, turning your head slightly to nose at his wrist, lean more of your weight on him because you know heâll catch you. âYou were gone just- so much, so so much. I cried myself to sleep so many times, cried at dinners because you said youâd be there and you werenât.â Your eyelashes flutter open, settling on Simonâs face, expression hidden from you under the balaclava.
âI wanted a baby Simon, thatâs no place to raise a baby.â
The man opposite you is silent for a long, long moment, watching you with unreadable eyes. Before he leans in to draw you closer once again. His arm shifts to settle across your upper back, light but firm, unyielding. Like cradling a bird as you set it free, keeping it from flapping erratically and hurting itself. But you had been free. Had unlatched your little door and hopped out, soared through the endless blue sky with more freedom than you could imagine.Â
You allow the embrace to run past the small sand timer of socially-acceptable-length-of-time-for-a-hug as you curl your arms across his back, allow both of yourselves one last comfort, one last goodbye before you part ways. You doubt youâll see him again, Simon has too many places to be, too much to do. You were lucky to share a chapter of your lives together, but nowâs the time to tie it off with a nice little bow, separate on good terms.Â
You shift finally, try to pull away, arms dropping, a foot raised in preparation to step back. Simon does not move, does not release you. His grip tightens, hands fisting your clothes.
Something inside of you drops, human instinct that knows danger-danger-danger- before you can even name it.Â
âSimon.â Your voice comes out shakier than youâd like, tilted too nervously despite how youâd tried to control it. âWhat⌠are you doing here?âÂ
Simon greets you in silence, curled against your smaller form, suffocating your space. He doesnât answer you, long enough for your heart to begin pounding, long enough for you to wonder if youâd said anything at all or only imagined it.Â
Finally, he moves, pulling backwards, large, heavy hands drifting upwards to rest against your upper arms. Caging you, chaining you to the floor. âTaking you home.â He mutters, bright blue eyes honed in on yours.Â
Your heart leaps into your throat, scrabbles at the sides, threatens to fall right out of your mouth.Â
(Youâre not being set free, you realize with the sinking realization akin to cold water splashing over you. Youâre being returned to your cage.)
âNo.â You shake your head, try to tilt the edges of your mouth into a smile. Like Simon is a child being told he canât stay at the park forever, he has to come home for dinner now. âNo, Simon,â your trembling hands balling into fists in an attempt to quell them, hidden by your sides. âWeâre through. I left toâŚâ you pause, swallow and will the next words out of your mouth, despite how they shake and quiver in the oppressive heat of Arizonaâs air. âI left to find myself.â
Simon doesnât regard you with an answer, only his gaze shifting across your form, following your eyes despite how they jump from one area to another. You can only hear your shuddering gasps in the space between you two. Not even the rustle of Simonâs camouflaged jacket.Â
He tilts his head, nearly startles you with the motion as your gaze snaps back to him. The air around you holds its breathe, your own trapped in your chest as you wait for his response, unwilling to interrupt with even an exhale.Â
âWell thatâs too damn bad.â Simonâs eyes, despite the situation, crinkle upwards in that telltale way of his amusement, his rare moments of contentment and satisfaction. âI wasnât asking.â
The slight exhale of his breathe as he speaks through the mask nearly bowls you over, held upright only by his permanent hold on you. You blink, jagged edges of his speech rattling in your mind, repeating over and over, looping over each other.Â
I wasnât asking.
Iâm taking you home.
Wasnât asking.
Home. Iâm taking you home.
Wasnât-Â home-Â asking- home.
Home
White walls and the empty air of his presence, dinners left cold and baby clothes hanging on racks.
You startle, like a bird with a broken wing with one last fight left in it, desperate, fitfully. First ducking under, like your legs have lost all their will before you spring forwards.Â
Ghost doesnât so much as twitch nor blink. Holding you motionless when you try to buckle underneath his grip, try to squeeze out underneath. You claw at his arms, at his hands, lift a leg in a desperate bid for a lucky kick before a third hand drops on your shoulders, knocks you out of your focus and snaps your attention to the side so fast you nearly break your neck.
Soap had crept closer, between one moment and the next, unnoticed at all. His gaze fixated on Ghost as he squeezed your shoulder tighter, stills you in your desperate flailing. âNeed a hand?â He muses, gaze sliding down to you.Â
Like it was normal. Like you hadnât shared meals and drinks and stories and laughs. Like he hadnât proudly brought desserts from that one bakery you like when youâd call him over for some âproper homemade foodâ when the boys are back from a mission. Like Simon hadnât grumbled, pulling you into his chest to wrap around you like an octopus, that he couldâve gone to get you those too. Youâd whack him on the arm with a spoon, reminding him through a failed attempt to hold back a grin to not let the sauce burn.Â
Something heavy curls around your heart and yanks it to the pit of your stomach, down to your feet, and below the ground underneath you.Â
Ghost snorts easily in response, pulling you closer, the action jostling the otherâs hand from your shoulder. âIâve got this.âÂ
Soap returns it with an easy grin, glancing down at you where youâre plastered to Ghostâs chest now, smile stretching further. He ruffles your hair as he passes, your frozen form much too shocked to react more than a startled flinch, eyes squeezed shut as you brace yourself.Â
âItâs good tâ see you again,â he admits as he passes, before he turns out of view. You watch him go, mouth dry, the last dredges of hope that heâd help you sputtering out in your chest.Â
Youâre alone- youâre alone and no one knows where you are- wheres help- help help help-Â
âAlright, up we go, â Ghost mutters in that familiar, low tone, stooping to brace his shoulder to your midriff, sweeping you off your feet as he straightens to his full height with you slung over his shoulder. You startle into motion, shrieking, clawing and kicking as the steel band of one of his arms settles across your back, flattens you to him despite how you squirm. Your hands desperately claw for the utility belt always attached to his hip, flail for any corners or shelves to latch on as he begins walking off.Â
Ghost avoids nearing anything you can grab, passing through the store at a steady pace, as though he doesn't have an entire kidnapped ex-girlfriend slung over his shoulder. You shove yourself upwards against his back as he passes by the cash register, eyes desperately searching for the teenager from before to shriek for help, to call the police. Your chest clenches when it's empty, when Ghost presses open the door and there's not a single person in sight to watch you be dragged off.Â
You hardly catch sight of the large, idling vehicle stationed directly in front of the doors, not long enough to discern the make or the model or the damn license plate- before the back swings open. Ghost bends over with a grunt, lowering you into the gaping maw of the backseat as you scramble to slip underneath him, crawl over him, anything! please-. A second pair of hands catch you under the arms, dragging you the rest of the way inside as you kick and scream, a familiar large hand gently moving your flailing feet out of the way before the back door slams shut.Â
âEasy,â Soap mutters above you, dragging you upwards into his chest as you try to lurch for the closed door. You choke on a sob, vision blurring as you desperately try to latch onto the seats, two twin arms settling across your chest and stomach like a child cradling a stuffed toy, pulling you further backwards until you're slotted against him.
The driverâs door swings open, your head snaps over as Ghostâs large form settles behind the wheel. The car rocks as he shuts it with more force than necessary, turning to peer at you over the center console.Â
Your heart jumps into your throat, cheeks strewn with tears as you stare wide eyed at him, searching for- for what you don't know. A silent plea, a beg, that he'd come to his senses-Â anything!-Â He gives a hum as something in his shoulders finally loosens, turning back to face the front.Â
âLetâs go home, darling.â Ghost soothes, reaching upwards to adjust the rearview mirror until your eyes meet. Baby blue alongside, red rimmed, panicked ones. The car rumbles as he pulls out of the gas station, back onto the road youâd been traveling mere moments ago.Â
Outside the windows the dunes roll out, the road empty. Branches shake in the wake left behind the roaring vehicle, and the desert keeps its secrets.
A/N: It was only after I finished this fic that I realized I'd used the line "I wasn't asking" like in "Sharing is caring", though it does make sense from how close these two mates are
Moving on! *claps hands* The use of names or callsigns was- once again- very intentional in this fic! There is a world of difference from Simon and Johnny, your ex and his best friend, and the flip to Ghost and Soap, two trained military men in work mode.
Slash also hissed at Reader in our messages and would sell her out in a heartbeat lol I do hope that means I made a good effort to make both sides' actions understandable! Feel free to tell me your thoughts
(also thanks to her for help on the baby section- I am woefully lacking)
If I could edit/rewrite/add to âTook the long road homeâ, I think Iâd want to sprinkle in more moments of Simonâs impact on Reader while the two are apart.
Reader packing her bags with military precision, having done it before so many times for Simonâs bags so he can get some more rest in before he has to leave again.
Scanning the convenience store as she walks in, cataloging the people and quick exits (mightâve helped her have a better chance to get away at the end).
Hey did I ever tell you guys that a guy got into car crash after getting my number (everyone was fine, dw!!) so Iâm not allowed to date bc the grim reaper said so
Your knees shake, legs giving out from under you as you collapse on one of the hard, uncomfortable benches on the train. The Militsionerâs voice is still booming, pleading, searching when you drop your head into your hands, prop your elbows on your knees and try to force in a shaky breathe while your heart threatens to burst out of your chest.
In, hold- it breaks into a coughing fit, desperate panicked gasps- exhale, inhale- not too fast-
You raise your face from your hands, casting a weary, relieved look out the window as you watch his large form turn away, lower to press himself closer to the buildings nearby, a critical eye scoping every crack, every crevice, every alleyway as he peers in. Pleads for you to return in a booming voice, in velvet wrapped promises that heâll pardon you for good behavior, heâll lessen your sentence.
You slump back against the back of the seat, hands clutched together as you try to will them to stop shaking. Because you hadnât done anything. Because you didnât deserve a parole or a sentence at all! Shouldnât have ever wound up here in the first place, under critical eye of the law, hissed at for a crime you never committed.
You scrub your face, pulling sweat soaked locks from your face, hair wildly out of place from your desperate scramble and the cold sweat that had poured down your back, from the terror of being caught. The Militsioner had turned softer, kinder, when youâd gotten to know him, when youâd traded compliments and soft, casual, honest conversations. His critical eye had crinkled with a smile and you had seen his form curl inwards, closer to you on his palm, less tense. Shoulders drawn inward as though he were protecting you from the outside world.
But who would protect you from him? From the eye of the law that had befallen on you, a gravel knocked against wood and a finger pointed before you had even done anything? Who would protect you from being trapped in this town, herded backwards with a large palm and the trial that would follow? Everyone had seemed so certain you had committed the atrocity, and though you were an optimist at heart, you wondered if youâd even be allowed the choice of a lawyer to defend yourself.
The Militsioner has grown quiet, likely given up on his search of you, or perhaps so engrossed in it that he had shifted further away. Itâs what gives you the confidence to shift yourself lower, peer out the window, if only to cast a quiet, mental goodbye at his back.
And itâs what gives you a full view of his face, crouched nearby, eyes locked on your form.
[WIP continuation]
Your breathe hitches, instincts freezing you to your seat, wide eyes staring back. Because certainly he doesnât see you. Because certainly heâs only looking at the train. Because certainly that- as long as you do not so much as twitch- his gaze will pass over you and he will not notice. A speck in his vision, far too small to garner attention.
⌠oh you poor, poor thing, if you ever had such luck, you never wouldâve ended up here to begin with.
You hardly notice him shift before the train SCREECHES, metal shrieking in displeasure, jostling so abruptly that you slam into the window with a pained yelp, heart nearly exploding in your chest.
You scramble, knees slamming against the dirty, unforgiving metal floor, desperately shimmying under the seat, trying to curl yourself into the tight space. The train protests, groaning, the seat far too low because you are no child who clings to her motherâs leg and darts under her skirt.
The train is not your friend, the train cannot shelter you from the Militsioner, and the train does not help you. Helpless, you watch as the scenery outside the window shifts, feel weightlessness yanking your heart to your stomach as you and the entire contraption are lifted into the air.
Your knees shake, legs giving out from under you as you collapse on one of the hard, uncomfortable benches on the train. The Militsionerâs voice is still booming, pleading, searching when you drop your head into your hands, prop your elbows on your knees and try to force in a shaky breathe while your heart threatens to burst out of your chest.
In, hold- it breaks into a coughing fit, desperate panicked gasps- exhale, inhale- not too fast-
You raise your face from your hands, casting a weary, relieved look out the window as you watch his large form turn away, lower to press himself closer to the buildings nearby, a critical eye scoping every crack, every crevice, every alleyway as he peers in. Pleads for you to return in a booming voice, in velvet wrapped promises that heâll pardon you for good behavior, heâll lessen your sentence.
You slump back against the back of the seat, hands clutched together as you try to will them to stop shaking. Because you hadnât done anything. Because you didnât deserve a parole or a sentence at all! Shouldnât have ever wound up here in the first place, under critical eye of the law, hissed at for a crime you never committed.
You scrub your face, pulling sweat soaked locks from your face, hair wildly out of place from your desperate scramble and the cold sweat that had poured down your back, from the terror of being caught. The Militsioner had turned softer, kinder, when youâd gotten to know him, when youâd traded compliments and soft, casual, honest conversations. His critical eye had crinkled with a smile and you had seen his form curl inwards, closer to you on his palm, less tense. Shoulders drawn inward as though he were protecting you from the outside world.
But who would protect you from him? From the eye of the law that had befallen on you, a gravel knocked against wood and a finger pointed before you had even done anything? Who would protect you from being trapped in this town, herded backwards with a large palm and the trial that would follow? Everyone had seemed so certain you had committed the atrocity, and though you were an optimist at heart, you wondered if youâd even be allowed the choice of a lawyer to defend yourself.
The Militsioner has grown quiet, likely given up on his search of you, or perhaps so engrossed in it that he had shifted further away. Itâs what gives you the confidence to shift yourself lower, peer out the window, if only to cast a quiet, mental goodbye at his back.
And itâs what gives you a full view of his face, crouched nearby, eyes locked on your form.

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Took the long road home
⢠Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader
⢠Length: Oneshot
⢠Synopsis: It had become too much, the radio silence, the fear, the constant unease, the late nights and cold dinners. Never knowing if your lover would return in a casket. So you leave, pack your life in a suitcase and a letter awaiting Simon. Perhaps you should've discussed that with him first.
⢠A/N: This started as manhandling practice. Now its 4.5k words.
Soap finds you first.Â
Or- to put it more accurately, Ghost allows him to approach you first.Â
For all that the masked man would protest, arms crossed with the heaviest eye roll youâve seen a man do- the two are attached to the hip. Courtesy of an energetic Scot who doesnât like to let go of something once heâs grabbed on and an Englishman who allows the rarity of a personalized slot inside his close circle when someone pesters him enough.Â
It was only natural then that you knew him too, being Simonâs ex girlfriend and all. (Not ex- the Ghost curled over your shoulder grunts, haunts you from the dark corners of your own mind, shaking his head ever so slightly. It wasnât a mutual decision.)
There hadnât been anything you couldâve done. Nothing short of some time machine to grab your past self by the arm as youâre exiting the gas station restroom, tug yourself away from the door and hastily point out the small window at the back. Itâs dirty, coated in filth likely older than yourself, and small, rectangular with clear warped glass. Youâre not certain if you could even fit yourself through, much less had no idea how to reach it in the first place, but it wouldâve been worth a shot.Â
But you donât. Canât. You (unfortunately) donât have the clairvoyance of the future, and you donât have a time machine, and if the government does then they wouldnât let you use it for such a mundane purpose.Â
You know it wouldnât have changed anything anyway. Something deep inside of you, like buried old instincts, knows your fate had been sealed long before youâd stepped foot into the inconspicuous bathroom, months before you even arrived to America, dating nearly half a year back to when you were still on European soil, teary eyed as you placed a sealed envelope on the countertop before you turned and left with your tail between your legs, wheeling out all your possessions you could fit in a suitcase by your side.Â
It had become too much, youâd admitted to your sister as you bounced her babbling baby on your knee, shoulders pulled tight and unable to meet her gaze. Her baby turned his head to stick his fingers in his mouth and regard you with bright blue eyes that made your chest clench. The radio silence on missions, the constant injuries, the abrupt calls. Half of the time you waited for Simon to call to apologize for missing yet another event due to a mission extending or abruptly setting off for another one, the other half of the time you waited for a call from his Captain to inform you of his passing.Â
Your sister had extended a hand, both metaphorically and physically, patting you on the shoulder as she allowed you peace in the sanctuary of her home. Had taken you in and allowed you the room clearly decorated as the nursery of the newborn, waving that it was no big deal and she âhad to look out for her younger sister.â
You hid in your sisterâs home from the relationship you ran from and allowed the warmth to seep into your bones, cradle the cracks of your broken heart.Â
Itâs everything you wished yours was. Brimming full of life, a babyâs screeching laughter echoing in your ears, a husband that would appear when she showed the slightest signs of exhaustion, plucking the baby boy from her arms with a kiss on her forehead, sending her off to bed or a shower or to eat while sheâd pout and reach again for her child.Â
You watched, grateful for the inclusion, with envy coiling in your chest.Â
Your sister and her husband made it look easy, effortless. The closest you could compare would be by staring longingly at the baby clothes in the shop windows while you and Simon went out, the latter slowed by your halt. Heâd lean in, murmur promises that youâd have âso many, until youâre sick of themâ once he retires. Youâd avert your eyes, swallow the âwhich comes first? Retirement or a casket?â behind your teeth and nod dutifully, continuing your pace.Â
But you canât stay forever. Not when your air mattress obscured the majority of the nursery floor (âItâs fine! I have the baby in a bassinet by the bed in the meantime, no need for a cribâ), not when your suitcase filled the closet (âTheyâre baby clothes! Theyâre tiny! They donât need all that spaceâ), and when you flutter uselessly in the dance your sister and her husband make, gathering the babyâs food and cooking dinner simultaneously. Thereâs enough work with a baby, enough stress and sleepless nights and trial and error. Despite how your sister smiles at the sight of you, her exhausted complexion bores a hole in your chest while her husband chances pinched glances at your intrusion. You canât be another burden on her, no matter how much she insists.Â
Simon may not have been around all of the time, he couldnât show his affection in the typical mannerisms, was always hesitant on skin contact outside of the fortitude of your home and faltered when things would begin to escalate to the bedroom. But his job had certainly paid the bills and provided the housing. It allowed you to accumulate a cushy amount of savings, never a need to splurge or use them.Â
You do now. A rental car is easy to find with the wonders of the Internet, something dependable, something hearty. You pack your belongings in the trunk, kiss your nephew on the head, hug your sister in a tearful goodbye, and drive.Â
Youâd always wanted to see New York, the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, the grandiose wonders the States had to offer. Itâs certainly a learning curve, to drive on the wrong side of the road, but you manage. The city smog nearly makes you hack out a lung, the countryside rolling hills extend farther than the end of the Earth. Itâs⌠nice. Itâs nice, you decide, meeting the slow sunrise deep in a camping site as the woods wake around you, seated cross legged on top of your car roof.Â
Of course, things canât remain that way forever. You were never quite so lucky.Â
It happens in Arizona, the desert rolling out further and further until it melts with the sky. You hadnât known a highway to be this long, this desolate before, nothing but the heat and the dunes to greet you, sparsely broken by shrubbery or a stray animal. You sag with a sigh of relief when a marker for a gas station breezes by you, pulling in without a second thought.Â
You wobble out, bones creaking and cracking. Groan as you stretch your legs for what must have been hours since your last stop. Youâll have to fill the tank to not worry of being left abandoned somewhere on the side of the road, miles from civilization. Need to find the nearest place that offers a bed to finally get some proper rest so your knees stop punishing you for sleeping in the backseat.Â
But first, business calls.Â
The breeze of chilly air is a welcome reprieve from the scorching rays of the sun as you push the gas stationâs convenience store door open. Itâs small inside, slightly sparse. But it has the necessities of what matters.Â
You pass by the only worker, an older teenager sitting bored at the cash register, more focused on his phone than your passing presence. Not that you care, your destination well within sight at the back of the shop. A small, dimly lit hallway, branching to the right, two doors and a floor in need of a deep clean greet you.Â
The restrooms. Bingo.Â
You push your sunglasses onto the top of your head as you swing the door open, chancing a glance at yourself when you pass by the only mirror. Your skin has a slight tan to it, courtesy of the constant traveling. American weather seems to prefer the sun more than the clouds of Britain back home. Though you supposed you canât attribute only your travels to it. You feel⌠lighter, no longer shackled to your home, always nearby in case Simon finally returns from his missions. Thereâs a slight glow to you and your smile comes easier.Â
You grin at your reflection and she returns it. You like it, you like the new you.Â
Of course, matters that take place in the washroom have no need to be spoken of and soon enough you find yourself washing your hands, reveling in the cold water. Several droplets slowly descend down your skin, threatening to soak the collar of your shirt after you splashed your face to keep from overheating.Â
A time machine wouldâve been good for now. But you donât have one, and you pull the bathroom door open without a care, without a speck of expectation of the figure that meets you on the other end.Â
âBonnie,â Johnny greets with an easy grin, a forearm braced against the doorway, leaning so he fills the space. You startle for a split second, a half step taken back, hackles raised to bolt. Before the tenseness eases out of your shoulders, your hands settling on your hips. âJohnny,â you greet in reply, lips curled at the edges in familiar affection. You withhold from reaching up to hug him automatically, not when you donât have the standing for that anymore.Â
âI didnât expect to see you again.â You cock your head, your smile growing wider. Truly, you had missed him and his aptitude to fill the space of Simonâs stoicism with unruly jokes. You hadnât had the chance to leave a final message for him as with your ex (too focused on running, too focused on making sure you didnât leave anything behind as your heart bled onto the letter neatly folded into an envelope), youâd regretted never fully receiving the closure.Â
âWhat are you doing so far out? Are you on a mission?â You question curiously, already expecting a vague reply. Simon practically never spoke of his work back when the two of you were together, much less now that you werenât privy to neither his nor his best mateâs personal life anymore.Â
âSomething like thatâ, the Scot replied, a trickle of something that you couldnât quite put your finger on slipping into his tone as his gaze slid to the side, down where the hallway curved into the convenience store.Â
An uncomfortable mass lodges itself in your chest, pressing against your throat. âIs..â, you swallow thickly, reaching up to awkwardly paw at the hair on the back of your nape, gaze chained to the floor as your shoulders hitch uncomfortably. Suddenly aware of his strange presence in the middle of nowhere, recalling Simonâs many mentions of the two of them being paired together for their fair share of missions. âIs Simon⌠with you?â
Johnnyâs gaze drifts back to you, pinning you to your place as you shift uncomfortably. He makes no move to answer. When the silence stretches into something taut and uncomfortable, you finally break it by clearing your throat, covering your mouth with your fist.Â
âI think itâs best I donât⌠we donât... really see each other.â You lamely excuse, wincing at the reminder of your heartless rejection, too much of a coward to do it to his face. But you know you would have crumpled, one crestfallen look and youâd be crying as you cradled his face and muttered apologies. And then what?Â
Your nervous shifting finally stills, feet planted firmly on the floor, a small stroke of anger lashing out. You continue to sit and wait for him years and years down the line? Until youâre nothing more than a doll who sits and nods and smiles when her husband finally looks at her? Always waiting until he turns the little wind up key on your back? You couldnât handle that.
âSimon wasnât happyâ, your gaze snaps up to Johnny, his arms folded over his chest as he leans against the doorway and watches you. He cocks his head, eyes fastened on you unnervingly. âCame hoâe from a difficult, dangerous mission and his Bonnie lass wasnâ there. Nothing but a note.â
The hair on the back of your neck stands on edge, needles jabbing into your spine, instincts screaming that you were cornered by a predator. Johnnyâs presence doesnât seem so kind and inviting anymore, a sharp glint in his eye as he watches you without blinking.Â
âI think-â your voice wavers and you will it to hold strong, pinching your shoulders to force yourself to straighten. âI think I need to go.â He doesnât stop you as you duck by him, nothing but his eyes following you, head shifting when you step around him.Â
Youâre tense the entire time, almost flighty, shifted to bolt the second he so much as twitches. He doesnât move a muscle, only his gaze following, arms still crossed over his chest.Â
You make it halfway down the hall on a speedy walk before you increase your pace, glancing behind you nervously. Johnny regards you with a self satisfied grin, still in the same position. Your hands grapple with the sunglasses atop your head, dropping them onto the bridge of your nose as you hone in on the only opening. Muscles bunched, ready to bolt once you break his line of sight. You cast one last glance back. A mistake that costs you.Â
You shift, turning without looking, increasing speed before you even straighten forwards. And slam into a wall of toned muscles and a rough, scratchy fabric. Your glasses jam into the bridge of your nose, tears beading at the edges of your eyes as you flinch backwards, cradling your nose and hunching over from the startling pain.Â
Did you break your nose?! It damn well feels like it!!
âLemme see it,â a familiar voice washes over you, large warm hands prodding at your chin and lifting it up from your cradle while you freeze, wide eyes fixated on whoâs before you. Heâs not wearing his signature skull mask, likely too notable, needed to be discreet. But heâs still coated in a balaclava that covers everything but his eyes from you; fixated on your nose as he tilts the glasses upward and swipes the red section.Â
You cringe and try to duck away instinctively- pain flaring from the gentle touch- but he holds your head firmly in place, tilting it upward for a better look.Â
âJust a bit bruised,â his voice rumbles out, his other palm drifting to cradle the back of your head. âIâll get you some ice for that.â
You swallow thickly, hands grasping at his thick forearms. âSimon...â your voice trails off, uncertain if itâs a plea, an apology, a question.Â
I miss you, Iâm sorry for leaving, what are you doing here?
Simonâs hands drift lower, curling over your arms and upper back as his head drops to your shoulder. He squeezes you tightly, a great big exhale flowing out of him. You canât do more than pat at his side, arms locked to your sides by his grip.Â
âMissed you.â Comes his rare, personal admittance, hardly loud enough for you to hear. âCame home and you wereâŚâ, his arms tighten, back tense again. âGone. I thought you were taken.â
âI wasnât.â You comfort, try to wiggle your arm from under his grip to comfort him but he only squeezes tighter. You opt to tilt your head against his, closing your eyes. âIâm all ok. I just⌠couldnât take it anymore, Si.âÂ
Simonâs next exhale comes out as a shudder and he squeezes tighter before seemingly realizing his strength and loosening his hold. Still not letting go, still trapped, but not suffocatingly so. âYou promise? Thereâs no one else here? No one took you?â He peels away from you, casting a suspicious glance around the both of you. As though he expects someone to leap out from the nearest door, an enemy hiding in the decrepit supply closet nearby.Â
You hum. âNo. I just.. decided to finally go travelling. Itâs been nice, fun. New York is so much more⌠busy than the photos show.â
You shift backwards slightly, tilt your head as you scrutinize Simon. âAre you here on a mission? Am I interfering?â You cast a backwards glance at Johnny for answers, who remains in the same position where youâd left him.Â
Simon gently turns you back into place until you face him again, looking up at him curiously. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear with a familiarity that makes your heart squeeze uncomfortably. âWhyâd you leave?â He ignores your question, hand shifting to cradle your cheek.
Itâs much too familiar for two exes but you allow yourself to lean into his touch, grip tightening on his arms while you briefly close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge in the slight moment. Distance has made the heart fonder, time has taken the memory of how large and warm Simon is, how softly he holds you despite his overwhelming size and strength. The small, bruised part of your heart still misses him, still yearns to fall back into his arms and let him take you home. Your more rational part snaps and hisses at her, is quick to remind you of cold dinners and long nights and red rimmed eyes that Simon never sees.Â
âI couldnât take it anymore,â you admit, turning your head slightly to nose at his wrist, lean more of your weight on him because you know heâll catch you. âYou were gone just- so much, so so much. I cried myself to sleep so many times, cried at dinners because you said youâd be there and you werenât.â Your eyelashes flutter open, settling on Simonâs face, expression hidden from you under the balaclava.
âI wanted a baby Simon, thatâs no place to raise a baby.â
The man opposite you is silent for a long, long moment, watching you with unreadable eyes. Before he leans in to draw you closer once again. His arm shifts to settle across your upper back, light but firm, unyielding. Like cradling a bird as you set it free, keeping it from flapping erratically and hurting itself. But you had been free. Had unlatched your little door and hopped out, soared through the endless blue sky with more freedom than you could imagine.Â
You allow the embrace to run past the small sand timer of socially-acceptable-length-of-time-for-a-hug as you curl your arms across his back, allow both of yourselves one last comfort, one last goodbye before you part ways. You doubt youâll see him again, Simon has too many places to be, too much to do. You were lucky to share a chapter of your lives together, but nowâs the time to tie it off with a nice little bow, separate on good terms.Â
You shift finally, try to pull away, arms dropping, a foot raised in preparation to step back. Simon does not move, does not release you. His grip tightens, hands fisting your clothes.
Something inside of you drops, human instinct that knows danger-danger-danger- before you can even name it.Â
âSimon.â Your voice comes out shakier than youâd like, tilted too nervously despite how youâd tried to control it. âWhat⌠are you doing here?âÂ
Simon greets you in silence, curled against your smaller form, suffocating your space. He doesnât answer you, long enough for your heart to begin pounding, long enough for you to wonder if youâd said anything at all or only imagined it.Â
Finally, he moves, pulling backwards, large, heavy hands drifting upwards to rest against your upper arms. Caging you, chaining you to the floor. âTaking you home.â He mutters, bright blue eyes honed in on yours.Â
Your heart leaps into your throat, scrabbles at the sides, threatens to fall right out of your mouth.Â
(Youâre not being set free, you realize with the sinking realization akin to cold water splashing over you. Youâre being returned to your cage.)
âNo.â You shake your head, try to tilt the edges of your mouth into a smile. Like Simon is a child being told he canât stay at the park forever, he has to come home for dinner now. âNo, Simon,â your trembling hands balling into fists in an attempt to quell them, hidden by your sides. âWeâre through. I left toâŚâ you pause, swallow and will the next words out of your mouth, despite how they shake and quiver in the oppressive heat of Arizonaâs air. âI left to find myself.â
Simon doesnât regard you with an answer, only his gaze shifting across your form, following your eyes despite how they jump from one area to another. You can only hear your shuddering gasps in the space between you two. Not even the rustle of Simonâs camouflaged jacket.Â
He tilts his head, nearly startles you with the motion as your gaze snaps back to him. The air around you holds its breathe, your own trapped in your chest as you wait for his response, unwilling to interrupt with even an exhale.Â
âWell thatâs too damn bad.â Simonâs eyes, despite the situation, crinkle upwards in that telltale way of his amusement, his rare moments of contentment and satisfaction. âI wasnât asking.â
The slight exhale of his breathe as he speaks through the mask nearly bowls you over, held upright only by his permanent hold on you. You blink, jagged edges of his speech rattling in your mind, repeating over and over, looping over each other.Â
I wasnât asking.
Iâm taking you home.
Wasnât asking.
Home. Iâm taking you home.
Wasnât-Â home-Â asking- home.
Home
White walls and the empty air of his presence, dinners left cold and baby clothes hanging on racks.
You startle, like a bird with a broken wing with one last fight left in it, desperate, fitfully. First ducking under, like your legs have lost all their will before you spring forwards.Â
Ghost doesnât so much as twitch nor blink. Holding you motionless when you try to buckle underneath his grip, try to squeeze out underneath. You claw at his arms, at his hands, lift a leg in a desperate bid for a lucky kick before a third hand drops on your shoulders, knocks you out of your focus and snaps your attention to the side so fast you nearly break your neck.
Soap had crept closer, between one moment and the next, unnoticed at all. His gaze fixated on Ghost as he squeezed your shoulder tighter, stills you in your desperate flailing. âNeed a hand?â He muses, gaze sliding down to you.Â
Like it was normal. Like you hadnât shared meals and drinks and stories and laughs. Like he hadnât proudly brought desserts from that one bakery you like when youâd call him over for some âproper homemade foodâ when the boys are back from a mission. Like Simon hadnât grumbled, pulling you into his chest to wrap around you like an octopus, that he couldâve gone to get you those too. Youâd whack him on the arm with a spoon, reminding him through a failed attempt to hold back a grin to not let the sauce burn.Â
Something heavy curls around your heart and yanks it to the pit of your stomach, down to your feet, and below the ground underneath you.Â
Ghost snorts easily in response, pulling you closer, the action jostling the otherâs hand from your shoulder. âIâve got this.âÂ
Soap returns it with an easy grin, glancing down at you where youâre plastered to Ghostâs chest now, smile stretching further. He ruffles your hair as he passes, your frozen form much too shocked to react more than a startled flinch, eyes squeezed shut as you brace yourself.Â
âItâs good tâ see you again,â he admits as he passes, before he turns out of view. You watch him go, mouth dry, the last dredges of hope that heâd help you sputtering out in your chest.Â
Youâre alone- youâre alone and no one knows where you are- wheres help- help help help-Â
âAlright, up we go, â Ghost mutters in that familiar, low tone, stooping to brace his shoulder to your midriff, sweeping you off your feet as he straightens to his full height with you slung over his shoulder. You startle into motion, shrieking, clawing and kicking as the steel band of one of his arms settles across your back, flattens you to him despite how you squirm. Your hands desperately claw for the utility belt always attached to his hip, flail for any corners or shelves to latch on as he begins walking off.Â
Ghost avoids nearing anything you can grab, passing through the store at a steady pace, as though he doesn't have an entire kidnapped ex-girlfriend slung over his shoulder. You shove yourself upwards against his back as he passes by the cash register, eyes desperately searching for the teenager from before to shriek for help, to call the police. Your chest clenches when it's empty, when Ghost presses open the door and there's not a single person in sight to watch you be dragged off.Â
You hardly catch sight of the large, idling vehicle stationed directly in front of the doors, not long enough to discern the make or the model or the damn license plate- before the back swings open. Ghost bends over with a grunt, lowering you into the gaping maw of the backseat as you scramble to slip underneath him, crawl over him, anything! please-. A second pair of hands catch you under the arms, dragging you the rest of the way inside as you kick and scream, a familiar large hand gently moving your flailing feet out of the way before the back door slams shut.Â
âEasy,â Soap mutters above you, dragging you upwards into his chest as you try to lurch for the closed door. You choke on a sob, vision blurring as you desperately try to latch onto the seats, two twin arms settling across your chest and stomach like a child cradling a stuffed toy, pulling you further backwards until you're slotted against him.
The driverâs door swings open, your head snaps over as Ghostâs large form settles behind the wheel. The car rocks as he shuts it with more force than necessary, turning to peer at you over the center console.Â
Your heart jumps into your throat, cheeks strewn with tears as you stare wide eyed at him, searching for- for what you don't know. A silent plea, a beg, that he'd come to his senses-Â anything!-Â He gives a hum as something in his shoulders finally loosens, turning back to face the front.Â
âLetâs go home, darling.â Ghost soothes, reaching upwards to adjust the rearview mirror until your eyes meet. Baby blue alongside, red rimmed, panicked ones. The car rumbles as he pulls out of the gas station, back onto the road youâd been traveling mere moments ago.Â
Outside the windows the dunes roll out, the road empty. Branches shake in the wake left behind the roaring vehicle, and the desert keeps its secrets.
A/N: It was only after I finished this fic that I realized I'd used the line "I wasn't asking" like in "Sharing is caring", though it does make sense from how close these two mates are
Moving on! *claps hands* The use of names or callsigns was- once again- very intentional in this fic! There is a world of difference from Simon and Johnny, your ex and his best friend, and the flip to Ghost and Soap, two trained military men in work mode.
Slash also hissed at Reader in our messages and would sell her out in a heartbeat lol I do hope that means I made a good effort to make both sides' actions understandable! Feel free to tell me your thoughts
(also thanks to her for help on the baby section- I am woefully lacking)
Oh, those boys ticked me off. What do they think is gonna happen now? If she wasnât happy before she ainât gonna be now. Absolutely love your writing though!
Thank you so so much! 𼰠I absolutely love to hear your opinion on it too!! <3
Oh my gosh, the reception for "Took the long road home" was just so much more than I ever imagined or could've expected :) đđ thank you so so much to everyone who liked it and commented <3
In all honestly, I wrote it and "Sharing is caring" months ago, and it took me several more months to find the time and energy to post it (and that was only when I fell sick lol). By that point, I had reread it so many times and all I saw was the flaws in its individual threads instead of the piece as a whole. Genuinely the love people have shown for them has made me tear up more than once, thank you so so much <3
I do consider "Took the long road home" completed and don't have any plans at the moment for a part two for it. Though hopefully notes on the unseen scenes and after the ending could make up for it! :)
I shared the fic with Slash while it was still a draft and I love how both she and AliceLostInWonder99 point out the beginning lines starting with Soap instead of Ghost.
The horror Reader experiences when Simon finds her and takes her back home cannot even attempt to compare to his reaction when he comes home and finds her gone. Do you know how easy it is to fake a breakup letter?? Especially in his field of work??
Simon's first reaction is to assume that you've been kidnapped by someone trying to find his weaknesses and secrets. He's amassed many a people who'd love to kill him in the cruelest manner during his time in the service. To find out that you left willingly?? Without even a conversation, just a piece of paper?
It especially hurts when you consider that Simon isn't a man that falls in love easily, nor does he plan a family with just anyone. For him to do so with Reader, would mean they've been together long enough for her to know his routine and for him to likely share his traumatic family past.
(Though in defense of Reader-
"Reader choosing to go the cowardly route (and acknowledging it) of a letter and how easily sheâd fold makes me imagine sheâd tried to do a person to person break up several times already. Fueled by anger and pain when he misses yet another dinner or anniversary or plans she tried to make. But when he gets home, tired, exhausted, but oh so happy to see her, and tells that to her when he swoops her into a hug while his muscles ache and heâs still covered in dirt and gunpowder. Reader canât. Call it guilt, call it love, call it empathy. Her heart clenches and she hugs him back and she swallows the needles on her tongue until they scrape her throat and only whispers that sheâs happy to see him. Swallows the anger until it festers and boils under her skin and she just canât take it any longer")
Perhaps everything could have been avoided with clear communication from a far earlier time. But unfortunately, we're at a part far too late.
My favorite part of the fic was specifically the Simon vs Ghost and Johnny vs Soap distinguishing moment. When the switch flips and you're no longer dealing with your ex and his best mate, but instead two military men who have years of experience under their belt and honed reflexes.
After you get home? Well -
Oh my gosh I should post for you guys more often aaaaaaaahhh!! I canât put into words how blown away I was by how heartwarming the reception was!! <3!!
Took me falling sick to finally upload fics Iâve had done for months now lmao

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Took the long road home
⢠Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader
⢠Length: Oneshot
⢠Synopsis: It had become too much, the radio silence, the fear, the constant unease, the late nights and cold dinners. Never knowing if your lover would return in a casket. So you leave, pack your life in a suitcase and a letter awaiting Simon. Perhaps you should've discussed that with him first.
⢠A/N: This started as manhandling practice. Now its 4.5k words.
⢠Follow up/concepts
Soap finds you first.Â
Or- to put it more accurately, Ghost allows him to approach you first.Â
For all that the masked man would protest, arms crossed with the heaviest eye roll youâve seen a man do- the two are attached to the hip. Courtesy of an energetic Scot who doesnât like to let go of something once heâs grabbed on and an Englishman who allows the rarity of a personalized slot inside his close circle when someone pesters him enough.Â
It was only natural then that you knew him too, being Simonâs ex girlfriend and all. (Not ex- the Ghost curled over your shoulder grunts, haunts you from the dark corners of your own mind, shaking his head ever so slightly. It wasnât a mutual decision.)
There hadnât been anything you couldâve done. Nothing short of some time machine to grab your past self by the arm as youâre exiting the gas station restroom, tug yourself away from the door and hastily point out the small window at the back. Itâs dirty, coated in filth likely older than yourself, and small, rectangular with clear warped glass. Youâre not certain if you could even fit yourself through, much less had no idea how to reach it in the first place, but it wouldâve been worth a shot.Â
But you donât. Canât. You (unfortunately) donât have the clairvoyance of the future, and you donât have a time machine, and if the government does then they wouldnât let you use it for such a mundane purpose.Â
You know it wouldnât have changed anything anyway. Something deep inside of you, like buried old instincts, knows your fate had been sealed long before youâd stepped foot into the inconspicuous bathroom, months before you even arrived to America, dating nearly half a year back to when you were still on European soil, teary eyed as you placed a sealed envelope on the countertop before you turned and left with your tail between your legs, wheeling out all your possessions you could fit in a suitcase by your side.Â
It had become too much, youâd admitted to your sister as you bounced her babbling baby on your knee, shoulders pulled tight and unable to meet her gaze. Her baby turned his head to stick his fingers in his mouth and regard you with bright blue eyes that made your chest clench. The radio silence on missions, the constant injuries, the abrupt calls. Half of the time you waited for Simon to call to apologize for missing yet another event due to a mission extending or abruptly setting off for another one, the other half of the time you waited for a call from his Captain to inform you of his passing.Â
Your sister had extended a hand, both metaphorically and physically, patting you on the shoulder as she allowed you peace in the sanctuary of her home. Had taken you in and allowed you the room clearly decorated as the nursery of the newborn, waving that it was no big deal and she âhad to look out for her younger sister.â
You hid in your sisterâs home from the relationship you ran from and allowed the warmth to seep into your bones, cradle the cracks of your broken heart.Â
Itâs everything you wished yours was. Brimming full of life, a babyâs screeching laughter echoing in your ears, a husband that would appear when she showed the slightest signs of exhaustion, plucking the baby boy from her arms with a kiss on her forehead, sending her off to bed or a shower or to eat while sheâd pout and reach again for her child.Â
You watched, grateful for the inclusion, with envy coiling in your chest.Â
Your sister and her husband made it look easy, effortless. The closest you could compare would be by staring longingly at the baby clothes in the shop windows while you and Simon went out, the latter slowed by your halt. Heâd lean in, murmur promises that youâd have âso many, until youâre sick of themâ once he retires. Youâd avert your eyes, swallow the âwhich comes first? Retirement or a casket?â behind your teeth and nod dutifully, continuing your pace.Â
But you canât stay forever. Not when your air mattress obscured the majority of the nursery floor (âItâs fine! I have the baby in a bassinet by the bed in the meantime, no need for a cribâ), not when your suitcase filled the closet (âTheyâre baby clothes! Theyâre tiny! They donât need all that spaceâ), and when you flutter uselessly in the dance your sister and her husband make, gathering the babyâs food and cooking dinner simultaneously. Thereâs enough work with a baby, enough stress and sleepless nights and trial and error. Despite how your sister smiles at the sight of you, her exhausted complexion bores a hole in your chest while her husband chances pinched glances at your intrusion. You canât be another burden on her, no matter how much she insists.Â
Simon may not have been around all of the time, he couldnât show his affection in the typical mannerisms, was always hesitant on skin contact outside of the fortitude of your home and faltered when things would begin to escalate to the bedroom. But his job had certainly paid the bills and provided the housing. It allowed you to accumulate a cushy amount of savings, never a need to splurge or use them.Â
You do now. A rental car is easy to find with the wonders of the Internet, something dependable, something hearty. You pack your belongings in the trunk, kiss your nephew on the head, hug your sister in a tearful goodbye, and drive.Â
Youâd always wanted to see New York, the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, the grandiose wonders the States had to offer. Itâs certainly a learning curve, to drive on the wrong side of the road, but you manage. The city smog nearly makes you hack out a lung, the countryside rolling hills extend farther than the end of the Earth. Itâs⌠nice. Itâs nice, you decide, meeting the slow sunrise deep in a camping site as the woods wake around you, seated cross legged on top of your car roof.Â
Of course, things canât remain that way forever. You were never quite so lucky.Â
It happens in Arizona, the desert rolling out further and further until it melts with the sky. You hadnât known a highway to be this long, this desolate before, nothing but the heat and the dunes to greet you, sparsely broken by shrubbery or a stray animal. You sag with a sigh of relief when a marker for a gas station breezes by you, pulling in without a second thought.Â
You wobble out, bones creaking and cracking. Groan as you stretch your legs for what must have been hours since your last stop. Youâll have to fill the tank to not worry of being left abandoned somewhere on the side of the road, miles from civilization. Need to find the nearest place that offers a bed to finally get some proper rest so your knees stop punishing you for sleeping in the backseat.Â
But first, business calls.Â
The breeze of chilly air is a welcome reprieve from the scorching rays of the sun as you push the gas stationâs convenience store door open. Itâs small inside, slightly sparse. But it has the necessities of what matters.Â
You pass by the only worker, an older teenager sitting bored at the cash register, more focused on his phone than your passing presence. Not that you care, your destination well within sight at the back of the shop. A small, dimly lit hallway, branching to the right, two doors and a floor in need of a deep clean greet you.Â
The restrooms. Bingo.Â
You push your sunglasses onto the top of your head as you swing the door open, chancing a glance at yourself when you pass by the only mirror. Your skin has a slight tan to it, courtesy of the constant traveling. American weather seems to prefer the sun more than the clouds of Britain back home. Though you supposed you canât attribute only your travels to it. You feel⌠lighter, no longer shackled to your home, always nearby in case Simon finally returns from his missions. Thereâs a slight glow to you and your smile comes easier.Â
You grin at your reflection and she returns it. You like it, you like the new you.Â
Of course, matters that take place in the washroom have no need to be spoken of and soon enough you find yourself washing your hands, reveling in the cold water. Several droplets slowly descend down your skin, threatening to soak the collar of your shirt after you splashed your face to keep from overheating.Â
A time machine wouldâve been good for now. But you donât have one, and you pull the bathroom door open without a care, without a speck of expectation of the figure that meets you on the other end.Â
âBonnie,â Johnny greets with an easy grin, a forearm braced against the doorway, leaning so he fills the space. You startle for a split second, a half step taken back, hackles raised to bolt. Before the tenseness eases out of your shoulders, your hands settling on your hips. âJohnny,â you greet in reply, lips curled at the edges in familiar affection. You withhold from reaching up to hug him automatically, not when you donât have the standing for that anymore.Â
âI didnât expect to see you again.â You cock your head, your smile growing wider. Truly, you had missed him and his aptitude to fill the space of Simonâs stoicism with unruly jokes. You hadnât had the chance to leave a final message for him as with your ex (too focused on running, too focused on making sure you didnât leave anything behind as your heart bled onto the letter neatly folded into an envelope), youâd regretted never fully receiving the closure.Â
âWhat are you doing so far out? Are you on a mission?â You question curiously, already expecting a vague reply. Simon practically never spoke of his work back when the two of you were together, much less now that you werenât privy to neither his nor his best mateâs personal life anymore.Â
âSomething like thatâ, the Scot replied, a trickle of something that you couldnât quite put your finger on slipping into his tone as his gaze slid to the side, down where the hallway curved into the convenience store.Â
An uncomfortable mass lodges itself in your chest, pressing against your throat. âIs..â, you swallow thickly, reaching up to awkwardly paw at the hair on the back of your nape, gaze chained to the floor as your shoulders hitch uncomfortably. Suddenly aware of his strange presence in the middle of nowhere, recalling Simonâs many mentions of the two of them being paired together for their fair share of missions. âIs Simon⌠with you?â
Johnnyâs gaze drifts back to you, pinning you to your place as you shift uncomfortably. He makes no move to answer. When the silence stretches into something taut and uncomfortable, you finally break it by clearing your throat, covering your mouth with your fist.Â
âI think itâs best I donât⌠we donât... really see each other.â You lamely excuse, wincing at the reminder of your heartless rejection, too much of a coward to do it to his face. But you know you would have crumpled, one crestfallen look and youâd be crying as you cradled his face and muttered apologies. And then what?Â
Your nervous shifting finally stills, feet planted firmly on the floor, a small stroke of anger lashing out. You continue to sit and wait for him years and years down the line? Until youâre nothing more than a doll who sits and nods and smiles when her husband finally looks at her? Always waiting until he turns the little wind up key on your back? You couldnât handle that.
âSimon wasnât happyâ, your gaze snaps up to Johnny, his arms folded over his chest as he leans against the doorway and watches you. He cocks his head, eyes fastened on you unnervingly. âCame hoâe from a difficult, dangerous mission and his Bonnie lass wasnâ there. Nothing but a note.â
The hair on the back of your neck stands on edge, needles jabbing into your spine, instincts screaming that you were cornered by a predator. Johnnyâs presence doesnât seem so kind and inviting anymore, a sharp glint in his eye as he watches you without blinking.Â
âI think-â your voice wavers and you will it to hold strong, pinching your shoulders to force yourself to straighten. âI think I need to go.â He doesnât stop you as you duck by him, nothing but his eyes following you, head shifting when you step around him.Â
Youâre tense the entire time, almost flighty, shifted to bolt the second he so much as twitches. He doesnât move a muscle, only his gaze following, arms still crossed over his chest.Â
You make it halfway down the hall on a speedy walk before you increase your pace, glancing behind you nervously. Johnny regards you with a self satisfied grin, still in the same position. Your hands grapple with the sunglasses atop your head, dropping them onto the bridge of your nose as you hone in on the only opening. Muscles bunched, ready to bolt once you break his line of sight. You cast one last glance back. A mistake that costs you.Â
You shift, turning without looking, increasing speed before you even straighten forwards. And slam into a wall of toned muscles and a rough, scratchy fabric. Your glasses jam into the bridge of your nose, tears beading at the edges of your eyes as you flinch backwards, cradling your nose and hunching over from the startling pain.Â
Did you break your nose?! It damn well feels like it!!
âLemme see it,â a familiar voice washes over you, large warm hands prodding at your chin and lifting it up from your cradle while you freeze, wide eyes fixated on whoâs before you. Heâs not wearing his signature skull mask, likely too notable, needed to be discreet. But heâs still coated in a balaclava that covers everything but his eyes from you; fixated on your nose as he tilts the glasses upward and swipes the red section.Â
You cringe and try to duck away instinctively- pain flaring from the gentle touch- but he holds your head firmly in place, tilting it upward for a better look.Â
âJust a bit bruised,â his voice rumbles out, his other palm drifting to cradle the back of your head. âIâll get you some ice for that.â
You swallow thickly, hands grasping at his thick forearms. âSimon...â your voice trails off, uncertain if itâs a plea, an apology, a question.Â
I miss you, Iâm sorry for leaving, what are you doing here?
Simonâs hands drift lower, curling over your arms and upper back as his head drops to your shoulder. He squeezes you tightly, a great big exhale flowing out of him. You canât do more than pat at his side, arms locked to your sides by his grip.Â
âMissed you.â Comes his rare, personal admittance, hardly loud enough for you to hear. âCame home and you wereâŚâ, his arms tighten, back tense again. âGone. I thought you were taken.â
âI wasnât.â You comfort, try to wiggle your arm from under his grip to comfort him but he only squeezes tighter. You opt to tilt your head against his, closing your eyes. âIâm all ok. I just⌠couldnât take it anymore, Si.âÂ
Simonâs next exhale comes out as a shudder and he squeezes tighter before seemingly realizing his strength and loosening his hold. Still not letting go, still trapped, but not suffocatingly so. âYou promise? Thereâs no one else here? No one took you?â He peels away from you, casting a suspicious glance around the both of you. As though he expects someone to leap out from the nearest door, an enemy hiding in the decrepit supply closet nearby.Â
You hum. âNo. I just.. decided to finally go travelling. Itâs been nice, fun. New York is so much more⌠busy than the photos show.â
You shift backwards slightly, tilt your head as you scrutinize Simon. âAre you here on a mission? Am I interfering?â You cast a backwards glance at Johnny for answers, who remains in the same position where youâd left him.Â
Simon gently turns you back into place until you face him again, looking up at him curiously. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear with a familiarity that makes your heart squeeze uncomfortably. âWhyâd you leave?â He ignores your question, hand shifting to cradle your cheek.
Itâs much too familiar for two exes but you allow yourself to lean into his touch, grip tightening on his arms while you briefly close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge in the slight moment. Distance has made the heart fonder, time has taken the memory of how large and warm Simon is, how softly he holds you despite his overwhelming size and strength. The small, bruised part of your heart still misses him, still yearns to fall back into his arms and let him take you home. Your more rational part snaps and hisses at her, is quick to remind you of cold dinners and long nights and red rimmed eyes that Simon never sees.Â
âI couldnât take it anymore,â you admit, turning your head slightly to nose at his wrist, lean more of your weight on him because you know heâll catch you. âYou were gone just- so much, so so much. I cried myself to sleep so many times, cried at dinners because you said youâd be there and you werenât.â Your eyelashes flutter open, settling on Simonâs face, expression hidden from you under the balaclava.
âI wanted a baby Simon, thatâs no place to raise a baby.â
The man opposite you is silent for a long, long moment, watching you with unreadable eyes. Before he leans in to draw you closer once again. His arm shifts to settle across your upper back, light but firm, unyielding. Like cradling a bird as you set it free, keeping it from flapping erratically and hurting itself. But you had been free. Had unlatched your little door and hopped out, soared through the endless blue sky with more freedom than you could imagine.Â
You allow the embrace to run past the small sand timer of socially-acceptable-length-of-time-for-a-hug as you curl your arms across his back, allow both of yourselves one last comfort, one last goodbye before you part ways. You doubt youâll see him again, Simon has too many places to be, too much to do. You were lucky to share a chapter of your lives together, but nowâs the time to tie it off with a nice little bow, separate on good terms.Â
You shift finally, try to pull away, arms dropping, a foot raised in preparation to step back. Simon does not move, does not release you. His grip tightens, hands fisting your clothes.
Something inside of you drops, human instinct that knows danger-danger-danger- before you can even name it.Â
âSimon.â Your voice comes out shakier than youâd like, tilted too nervously despite how youâd tried to control it. âWhat⌠are you doing here?âÂ
Simon greets you in silence, curled against your smaller form, suffocating your space. He doesnât answer you, long enough for your heart to begin pounding, long enough for you to wonder if youâd said anything at all or only imagined it.Â
Finally, he moves, pulling backwards, large, heavy hands drifting upwards to rest against your upper arms. Caging you, chaining you to the floor. âTaking you home.â He mutters, bright blue eyes honed in on yours.Â
Your heart leaps into your throat, scrabbles at the sides, threatens to fall right out of your mouth.Â
(Youâre not being set free, you realize with the sinking realization akin to cold water splashing over you. Youâre being returned to your cage.)
âNo.â You shake your head, try to tilt the edges of your mouth into a smile. Like Simon is a child being told he canât stay at the park forever, he has to come home for dinner now. âNo, Simon,â your trembling hands balling into fists in an attempt to quell them, hidden by your sides. âWeâre through. I left toâŚâ you pause, swallow and will the next words out of your mouth, despite how they shake and quiver in the oppressive heat of Arizonaâs air. âI left to find myself.â
Simon doesnât regard you with an answer, only his gaze shifting across your form, following your eyes despite how they jump from one area to another. You can only hear your shuddering gasps in the space between you two. Not even the rustle of Simonâs camouflaged jacket.Â
He tilts his head, nearly startles you with the motion as your gaze snaps back to him. The air around you holds its breathe, your own trapped in your chest as you wait for his response, unwilling to interrupt with even an exhale.Â
âWell thatâs too damn bad.â Simonâs eyes, despite the situation, crinkle upwards in that telltale way of his amusement, his rare moments of contentment and satisfaction. âI wasnât asking.â
The slight exhale of his breathe as he speaks through the mask nearly bowls you over, held upright only by his permanent hold on you. You blink, jagged edges of his speech rattling in your mind, repeating over and over, looping over each other.Â
I wasnât asking.
Iâm taking you home.
Wasnât asking.
Home. Iâm taking you home.
Wasnât-Â home-Â asking- home.
Home
White walls and the empty air of his presence, dinners left cold and baby clothes hanging on racks.
You startle, like a bird with a broken wing with one last fight left in it, desperate, fitfully. First ducking under, like your legs have lost all their will before you spring forwards.Â
Ghost doesnât so much as twitch nor blink. Holding you motionless when you try to buckle underneath his grip, try to squeeze out underneath. You claw at his arms, at his hands, lift a leg in a desperate bid for a lucky kick before a third hand drops on your shoulders, knocks you out of your focus and snaps your attention to the side so fast you nearly break your neck.
Soap had crept closer, between one moment and the next, unnoticed at all. His gaze fixated on Ghost as he squeezed your shoulder tighter, stills you in your desperate flailing. âNeed a hand?â He muses, gaze sliding down to you.Â
Like it was normal. Like you hadnât shared meals and drinks and stories and laughs. Like he hadnât proudly brought desserts from that one bakery you like when youâd call him over for some âproper homemade foodâ when the boys are back from a mission. Like Simon hadnât grumbled, pulling you into his chest to wrap around you like an octopus, that he couldâve gone to get you those too. Youâd whack him on the arm with a spoon, reminding him through a failed attempt to hold back a grin to not let the sauce burn.Â
Something heavy curls around your heart and yanks it to the pit of your stomach, down to your feet, and below the ground underneath you.Â
Ghost snorts easily in response, pulling you closer, the action jostling the otherâs hand from your shoulder. âIâve got this.âÂ
Soap returns it with an easy grin, glancing down at you where youâre plastered to Ghostâs chest now, smile stretching further. He ruffles your hair as he passes, your frozen form much too shocked to react more than a startled flinch, eyes squeezed shut as you brace yourself.Â
âItâs good tâ see you again,â he admits as he passes, before he turns out of view. You watch him go, mouth dry, the last dredges of hope that heâd help you sputtering out in your chest.Â
Youâre alone- youâre alone and no one knows where you are- wheres help- help help help-Â
âAlright, up we go, â Ghost mutters in that familiar, low tone, stooping to brace his shoulder to your midriff, sweeping you off your feet as he straightens to his full height with you slung over his shoulder. You startle into motion, shrieking, clawing and kicking as the steel band of one of his arms settles across your back, flattens you to him despite how you squirm. Your hands desperately claw for the utility belt always attached to his hip, flail for any corners or shelves to latch on as he begins walking off.Â
Ghost avoids nearing anything you can grab, passing through the store at a steady pace, as though he doesn't have an entire kidnapped ex-girlfriend slung over his shoulder. You shove yourself upwards against his back as he passes by the cash register, eyes desperately searching for the teenager from before to shriek for help, to call the police. Your chest clenches when it's empty, when Ghost presses open the door and there's not a single person in sight to watch you be dragged off.Â
You hardly catch sight of the large, idling vehicle stationed directly in front of the doors, not long enough to discern the make or the model or the damn license plate- before the back swings open. Ghost bends over with a grunt, lowering you into the gaping maw of the backseat as you scramble to slip underneath him, crawl over him, anything! please-. A second pair of hands catch you under the arms, dragging you the rest of the way inside as you kick and scream, a familiar large hand gently moving your flailing feet out of the way before the back door slams shut.Â
âEasy,â Soap mutters above you, dragging you upwards into his chest as you try to lurch for the closed door. You choke on a sob, vision blurring as you desperately try to latch onto the seats, two twin arms settling across your chest and stomach like a child cradling a stuffed toy, pulling you further backwards until you're slotted against him.
The driverâs door swings open, your head snaps over as Ghostâs large form settles behind the wheel. The car rocks as he shuts it with more force than necessary, turning to peer at you over the center console.Â
Your heart jumps into your throat, cheeks strewn with tears as you stare wide eyed at him, searching for- for what you don't know. A silent plea, a beg, that he'd come to his senses-Â anything!-Â He gives a hum as something in his shoulders finally loosens, turning back to face the front.Â
âLetâs go home, darling.â Ghost soothes, reaching upwards to adjust the rearview mirror until your eyes meet. Baby blue alongside, red rimmed, panicked ones. The car rumbles as he pulls out of the gas station, back onto the road youâd been traveling mere moments ago.Â
Outside the windows the dunes roll out, the road empty. Branches shake in the wake left behind the roaring vehicle, and the desert keeps its secrets.
A/N: It was only after I finished this fic that I realized I'd used the line "I wasn't asking" like in "Sharing is caring", though it does make sense from how close these two mates are
Moving on! *claps hands* The use of names or callsigns was- once again- very intentional in this fic! There is a world of difference from Simon and Johnny, your ex and his best friend, and the flip to Ghost and Soap, two trained military men in work mode.
Slash also hissed at Reader in our messages and would sell her out in a heartbeat lol I do hope that means I made a good effort to make both sides' actions understandable! Feel free to tell me your thoughts
(also thanks to her for help on the baby section- I am woefully lacking)
Sharing is caring
⢠Pairing: John "Soap" Mactavish/Reader & Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader
⢠Length: Oneshot
⢠Synopsis: Your boyfriend's best friend doesnât like you, that youâre more than certain of. Soap isnât so convinced.
⢠A/N: Ghost is the definition of the meme: what do you mean ominously staring at someone from across the room isn't considered flirting?
You gape, mouth wide open and eyes fastened to your boyfriend lounging beside you on the couch, grinning far too gleefully for what heâd just said.Â
âJohnny,â you snap, irritation winding tight inside of you at his easy going expression. âAre you insane?â
âWhat?â He drawls, grin stretching further, his thumb drawing soothing circular motions on the back of your clasped hands. âI was just sayin.â
âNo!â The anger ebbs and flows, tips over the rim of the cup inside your chest. âDo you even hear yourself right now?!âÂ
You snatch your hand back harshly from his grip, cradling it to your chest as you glare at him. âI- you-â fury ties your tongue into knots, cages your words in your mouth. You settle for a deep glare instead, brows drawn low, briskly standing up as you round the side of the couch.Â
âWait wait wait-Â babe!-â A hand catches your wrist. You snap your head down to the sight of Johnny having hastily thrown himself over the length of the couch to grasp onto you, balancing on his knees on the cushions in a position you might have laughed at in any other scenario. âIâm serious! Heâs head over heels for ya!â
âStop.â You hiss through clenched teeth, trying to yank your arm back. âThis isnât funny, John.âÂ
A term you rarely use, booked only for moments when youâre especially furious at him. You donât know where he got the idea, if his teammates put him up to this or some stupid prank video he saw. But youâre not laughing, not entertained in the slightest.Â
âWhaddya say to me anâ Ghost sharing yah?â
Sharing? Ghost?
That man could hardly stand you. The memory of your first meeting is still lashed in your head like a wound that wonât heal, scabbed over with how you constantly pick at it. Youâd been nervous, smoothing your sweaty palms over your dress for the millionth time, checking every five seconds with Johnny that yes- yes you did look put together and he wasnât just saying it. Yes, Ghost was going to love meeting you and everything would go just fine.Â
Your weak knees had nearly given up on you the moment your boyfriend had perked up, waving someone over, and youâd followed his gaze. A behemoth of a man easily made his way to the both of you, each one of his strides double yours. The gear strapped to him would make you bowl over at just an attempt to hold it and the arsenal of weapons strapped to his broad figure certainly didnât help ease your nerves.Â
Youâd had to tilt your head back when heâd stopped several paces in front of you both, gaze flitting to Johnny first as he nodded his head in greeting, grunting something you couldnât make out. Then his eyes had fallen on you, pinning you to the ground; like a bug on a corkboard, a needle shoved through it, stilling it. It was hard to make out any expression over the mask pulled over his head, the skull pattern in the fabric not aiding in the matter.Â
When Johnny had finally finished introducing you, his words nearly lost in the roar of your own blood in your ears, you had nervously stepped forward. Had plastered on the best smile you could in your state and extended a hand out into the space between you two. A peace offering.Â
Bright, blue eyes stared down at you, the dust hung heavy in the air, spectating the moment, a tightness coiling in your chest tighter and tighter.Â
He refused to move.Â
When your hand hung alone in the air for several more seconds, the rejection spoken loud and clear, you hastily drew it back to yourself, nervously creeping backwards to plaster yourself to Johnnyâs side. Your boyfriend was speaking something, obviously animated on your behalf as his arm looped around your back and pressed yourself closer to him, the loud rumble of his voice vibrating through you. But any words were lost in the tsunami of your mind, anxiously curling your arms into a self soothing hug as you stared down at your toes.Â
Had you worn the wrong dress? Given the wrong impression? Johnny had mentioned so many times how close he and Ghost were. Was this an outright rejection? Had you offended him somehow? Would Johnny break up with you now since you didnât receive his best mateâs blessing?
Only Johnnyâs grasp on your arm as he turned and angrily stomped away broke you from the confines of your own mind, dragging under his chin as he murmured reassurances and peppered kisses to the top of your head. Youâd shuddered, clasped the front of his shirt with a tight fist, and allowed his words to chase the dredges of darkness from your mind, if only for the moment.Â
Despite your attempts, Ghost never eased up to you, seemed to put his foot down on the matter from the very get go and never changed his mind. To your relief, the issue didnât persist with the other members of Johnnyâs team. Captain Price would clap a hand on your shoulder when youâd visit, asking kindly of your health, your schedule, ensuring Johnny was treating you right.Â
Gaz was a welcome reprieve after the mess of a meeting with Ghost, greeting you with a bright grin and a tight hug, joking of âHow did he ever pull you??â and âNow I can finally get a break from his constant lovesick whining.â and âIf he ever hurts you, Iâll beat him up for you.âÂ
Youâd laughed good naturedly while Johnny dragged you away and protested on the last part, curling his arms around you in a backwards hug as he pouted. (âWhaddya mean I canât pull er!? I wouldnât be stupid enough ta break er heart after I finally got a chance!â)
It didnât matter what you did. Homebaked sweets youâd drop off in Priceâs office for the team, small restocks of their personal kitchen, herbal teas after Gaz complained about headaches and Price griped about muscle aches. Ghost never touched anything youâd brought (not in your presence anyway, though you very much doubted even outside of it). Heâd stand to the side, the personification of the grim reaper, eyes boring holes into you while the others would extend praises and appreciation that made you fidget nervously in your spot, red creeping up the back of your neck. Before Johnny would swoop in to plant a kiss against your cheek, drag you into his side with a heavy arm and brag about boyfriend rights to you.Â
Ghost never spoke to you and you got the message after youâd tried only once again, a small, pitiful box of lavender tea as an attempt at a peace treaty.Â
(Itâd come up during one of your late night conversations with Johnny, eyes weighed down by the sirenâs call of sleep, curled as close to him as you physically could within the bed. Your head had been planted on his bare chest, lulled by the steady thump of his heartbeat as he murmured above you. Youâre not certain what topic youâd been on for him to mention it, but youâd eagerly gripped the information with both hands and squirreled it away in the back of your mind when your eyes eventually drifted shut. (âLt doesnât do good wiâ sleep.â))
Lavender was good, you considered, a box of a well known brand gripped in your hand when youâd passed the tea aisle during a grocery run. Good for stress relief and sleep, youâd read online, the small print on the packaging boasting as such as well. Itâs what allowed you the courage to cautiously step in when youâd found him alone in the break room, padding closer until youâd presented the bright cardboard box on an extended palm.Â
Heâd stoically stared down at you, making no move to accept it until the judgmental silence had become too much for you. Until you meekly pointed to a cupboard and notified him in a strained voice that youâd leave it there for him. (In every following visit, you noticed the box never moved from its spot, abandoned within the cupboard. Youâd deflated, willed the pang in your chest away. Had repeated the self assurances that ânot everyone likes peaches, youâre a perfectly good peachâ and âmaybe he just doesnât like lavenderâ while you willfully ignored its burning presence. Youâd stopped trying after that.)
âThatâs a pity,â Johnny frowned, tilting his head ever so slightly. Despite his stature, the man has an uncanny ability of the biggest, saddest puppy eyes youâd ever seen on a man. In spite of the ebbs of anger that still linger in your chest, some of the tenseness in your shoulders loosened, turning to face him more.Â
It was alright. It was just a stupid joke, something Johnny said without thinking. Every couple has their arguments, the both of you were long overdue for yours. Nothing a good, healthy conversation on why it wasnât funny and you didnât appreciate it couldnât fix. Honestly you shouldâve slapped him at first for the stress he put you through.Â
âI wasnât asking.âÂ
The temperature in the room drops.Â
Your boyfriendâs eyes are narrowed into something more predatory, gleaming with self satisfaction. He grins without teeth but it feels like heâs baring fangs all the same. A predator who finally drops the innocent act, the reward latched between razor sharp teeth.Â
Thereâs no sound of the door opening, no creak of the floorboards. Simply between one moment and the next the air is filled with him. Like a ghost that drifts into the room, past the walls, and above the floor, freezes the air you try to breathe.Â
You stiffen, but donât turn, canât, your blood frozen, rigid mortis settling into your bones. Itâs overwhelming, itâs suffocating; heâs all around you, pressing in on every side.
Thereâs nowhere you can go, not when Johnnyâs grip on your wrist tightens, keeps you pressed to the arm of the couch. Not when a pair of arms extend from behind you, caging you against it, trapped between sturdy fabric and a warm wall.Â
Not when they occupy the air, their scent mingling into one as you shakily inhale and it settles like a weight on your chest, like your lungs canât expand.Â
Lavender, your mind clings to desperately as you feel Johnnyâs hands snaking higher up your arm and Ghostâs big head slowly lowering to hover atop your shoulder, his breathe raising goosebumps through the mask. His chin brushes your shoulder and it feels like a wolf thatâs finally lunged from the shelter of the trees, snaps its teeth round your neck and shakes you as it drags your bloody corpse into the dark reprieve.Â
Ghost smells like lavender.
A/N: Gee :) I wonder why Ghost smells like lavender :)
Moving on- the use of names or callsigns for the characters was very intentional in the fic, I hope that's easy to pick up on. I did also have a second part from Ghost's pov started but we'll see if it ever actually reaches completion (maybe I'll post it as a short drabble some day)
if you search a tag on someone's blog on the mobile app it will show you only a selection of posts in an inscrutably random order but if you go to a mobile browser and type [blog url].tumblr.com/tagged/[tag] you will get all posts on that blog with that tag in reverse chronological order. if you add /chrono behind it you get them in regular chronological order. naturally this works in desktop browsers too but i know many people are mobile only these days and the app's built in tag search is shit so this knowledge is vital to your survival
Finally watched TADC episode 7 (sincerely enjoyed it) and noted Kingerâs mention of âScratch, the first AbstractionâŚâ at the end of the episode.
Iâm not quite sure if it means anything- but as a programming tutor for kiddos, we oftentimes start them on a program called âScratchâ. Itâs a way to introduce programming concepts in a colorful, simple manner, with blocks that click together.
g/t squid game Au đâ¨
Could you tell us a bit more about this au and the main OC's ?
I had to scroll through 36hrs worth of DMs on Tumblr's shitty chat window just so I could find my original unhinged message to sparknotes --
So full disclosure again I have never watched even a minute of Squid Game, everything I know about it I've either learned from Tumblr or through pop culture osmosis. Also for naming sake I refer to the player as 222. I don't know if there's actually a canon player 222 and I don't care because this is MY rodeo and I get to pick which clowns go in the barrels.
It's a similar set up to the canon premise, but instead of "rich making the poor compete to the death for money/power because it's fun" it's "giants making tinies compete to the death for money/power because it's fun". Tinies are practically worse than second class citizens in this world and winning this game would grant them specialized protection and rights that they otherwise don't have.
222 is a tiny player. Cold and aloof, but not heartless, more like she prefers to keep to herself and ice out others to protect her own feelings. This is the last place you want to get attached to anyone in. And yet, by some stroke of bad luck, she's managed to attract the attention of one of the triangle guards that's stationed around the perimeter of the different courses.
Obviously, he can't directly interfere with games, can't even directly interact with her, but she starts to notice something whenever she catches him watching her during a game. He gives her hints, subtle little cues that would otherwise be missed. Nudges of his shoulder, a tilt of his head, a nod, a single shake -- things to direct her onto the correct path of a course, or when to stop before the timer actually calls, or shortcuts, or better hiding spots, or which option between 3 choices to pick.
She assumes he must have a bet or something on her. She's not a fan favorite or the audience darling, she's just another face in a steadily dwindling crowd. He's skewing her odds in his favor, or if nothing else is just making her his little pet project while he's on the clock, something to keep the boredom at bay. The reason doesn't matter at the end of the day, she's making it through puzzles much better than she was before, and it's not like he can help her through all of them. There's still plenty she's beating through her own luck and skill.
And then there comes the glass bridge challenge. A decent length of it has already been cleared by previous players now splattered at the bottom of the pit. Guards stand around the bottom to ensure all the tinies who fall meet their end on the concrete, you'd be surprised how many of them still twitch and crawl when their fall is broken by other bodies. 222 is watching him, seeing how he'll tap his fingers against his bicep from where his arms are folded to indicate which glass pane she should step on. One, two, two, one, two-- The next one, he taps two fingers, and dutifully, blindly, she moves to the pane on the second bridge. And it shatters. The fall is so quick that she barely has time to register the shock of it, only briefly wondering if she had misread his cue, until the wind is finally knocked out of her. But it's not her back hitting solid ground, not her skull cracking open, not her soul escaping her lungs. She only fell maybe a third of the full distance before being caught in the guard's extended hand, the only place under the bridge he would have been able to reach her. It was a calculated move. One that can't be taken back now as he pulls his arm (and by extension, her) closer to himself. She lost the game, therefore she's considered to be eliminated. Sure, she's still alive, but death is more so a consequence for most game endings, not necessarily a requirement. Which means he's free to do whatever he'd like with this little disqualified tiny in his possession. (: (: (:

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here's some 0 context g/t squid game art that @unnamed-blob and i have been brainrotting over for the last 2 days (i have never watched squid games)
Slash grabbed me by the ankles and dragged me into g/t so⌠here I am now
I donât know if Iâll ever quite get to fully writing it out but I would like everyone to know that I had a hurt/mild comfort Soap x enemy medic Reader fic idea and the immediate day after I started brainstorming titles my body sent me to the ER