back before simon was drafted and he was still working in some butcher around the outskirts of manchester, he remembers a little bakery a few blocks down from his shop. although never particularly crowded, he's noticed the older locals go by in the mornings for coffee, kids guided in by their parents after schools to get a snack. but he doesn't seem to lounge in the corner of that cafe for either of those reasons- instead, he finds himself fawning over the pretty baker.
and you're nice to him, too- always smiling when you see him around, voice so sweet when you're at the butchers to buy some meat for the pies, sneakily trying to slip him a discount whenever he goes to buy a sandwich- 'hospitality workers gotta stick together, right?' it's no wonder that he finds himself falling for you, a stupid puppy crush that he tries, and occasionally fails, to suppress. and sometimes, simon lets himself believe you like him too, with the way the blood rushes to your cheeks when you spot him across the shelves, with he notes how you nearly fumble a frothing pot of milk when caught staring at him. it's a little attempt of young love that he thinks will be smothered out as he gets older.
but now it is twenty years later, he is working with the sas, and he is meant to be dead. but simon finds himself strolling his hometown, genuinely surprised that he sees the cafe still up, that he sees you, still working behind the display cabinets. you're older now, more mature, but your smile is just as pretty as it was those years ago. and he sees that glimmer of recognition in your eyes, how your head perks up at the sight of his figure outside of the window.
ghost smothers his cigarette and bins it before walking through the doors. may as well pay the bird a visit.
cw: petplay?? dunno?, reader is called a ‘dog’ and treated like one, 18+,, suggestive ending. gender neutral,, Smoking (it’s price.) just thinking about gentle john who knows how to calm u down. ahh, also, lmk if there is any errors if u’d like. im terrible at proof reading my own work. much appreciated <3
sometimes we just need to be knelt between john’s thighs. heavy hand petting your hair while your head rests on his thick thighs. sigh.. his hand moves naturally, almost familiarly. Like one would pet a dog. A cigar in his other hand.
Making your mind fuzzy and soft. All you can smell is him. Rich, earthy, and of course, the tobacco. It’s placating, in a way. Knees burrowed in the rug beneath. Eyes half lidded as you focus on the sound of his breathing.
Scratches your scalp likes he’s rewarding you. For what? It doesn’t matter. It’s hard to comprehend anything else but him. Nuzzling your face into his clothed crotch only earns you a tut, followed by a “Patience, dog.” He’d drawl out with a gruff, short chuckle. His warm hand sliding down to gently squeeze the back of your neck. A light warning. It’s his call. You have to listen to him. Your captain.
There wasn't a day in your life that you weren't devoted to your pack, your team, and their well-being. You drove yourself half mad keeping their gear ready to go, even when you didn't have to. Adding more work on your shoulders than someone normally would have deemed necessary.
You know, one day they won’t need you anymore. You dwelled on that thought more than you will ever confess to anyone. This is what you assumed a beta is supposed to do. This is what you assumed a beta is supposed to be.
Picking up after them. Ignoring your needs, even if it means sacrificing hours of sleep to do it all. You ignored your sexual frustration because in your heart, they would rather bed an omega instead. You kept the last part to yourself.
No one needs the opinion of a disgusting beta, right?
No one needs you.
You placed their repaired, ironed, and pressed uniforms on the clothes rack. Turning to start on your own. As it is indeed quiet now throughout the house. The crickets chirping in the background outside. The cool breeze from the window in front of you and your sewing machine.
You thought about showering and sneaking out to the bar. While they’re loose themselves in the heat of passion. Who’s to say you needed their permission to find your release? You sighed and slipped on a jacket. You even removed your underwear for better access.
You slipped on a dress that happened to be a little too short and a little too revealing, skintight, body-con, something you were sure to get some kind of attention just by looking at you. More than enough for a few hours.
What you didn’t know is that Simon spotted you getting dressed in your bathroom; you didn’t think anyone else was still awake at this hour, did you?
As you were applying lipstick to your lips. A solid crimson, oxidised red with charcoal lip liner.
The exciting thought about being called or seen as ‘delicious’, ‘enticing’, ‘tempting’, ‘alluring’, ‘desirable’, and ‘delectable’.
At least desirable to fuck for a few hours tonight. Desirable for someone, right?
As you moved on to the black graphic eyeliner. You weren’t going to stick around if he was going to start talking about how you’re ‘family’, how you’re ‘not just any beta, you’re part of the team, our pack, task force 141’, or anything like that
As you moved on to the black graphic eyeliner. Thinking about what coat to put on that you have sewn recently.
feel free to flood my inbox with as many requests for them as you want, romantic, platonic, angst, fluff, smut. AUs are welcome too! you can ramble and yap all you want about an AU of yours you'd like me to write about: hybrid au? said and done. college au? i can certainly work with that! you can also request 'cod men in..' and request a compliation of small blurbs/drabbles of each of them reacting to the same situation with their reader!!
teen reader (platonic ofc), older reader, younger reader, milf reader, bring it on! whatever you've got, drop the ingredients on my kitchen and i'll cook up a five star gourmet menu for yall to enjoy<33
now writing for (even if not showcased in the photos added): könig, simon "ghost" riley, captain john price, john "soap" mactavish, keegan p. russ, frank woods, alex mason, alex keller and kyle "gaz" garrick
Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.
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TRIGGER WARNING: skin picking/dermatillomania.
[Please read while listening to this.]
Swan Lake wouldn't exist without its complexities. The intense pressure put on a prima ballerina to perform two entirely distinct roles with perfection. Odette, the graceful beauty, as pure as her white wing. Her softness, her vulnerability. The cursed, sorrow as her undercurrent. Odile, the Black Swan—everything Odette is not: sensual, cunning, sharp, and determined in her selfish way. The sinister doppelganger.
A tale of duality. It is this very aspect that makes it one of the most celebrated classics of all time.
The final chords of the coda sounded as you paused in your final pose, chest heaving in labored breaths. Beads of sweat dripped from your jawline to your neck before dyeing your gray leotard dark.
Henri's sharp clap echoes through the studio, snapping you to straighten your posture. You turn to him once more, hoping this time to see approval on his face. However, his forehead is still furrowed, lips are pressed thinly, remaining silent. His dissatisfaction is palpable as he gently shakes his head. You feel your chest tighten.
“Non, it is not Black Swan enough,” he said, waving his hands in the air to emphasize his point. “Where is the bite, the seduction? You dance her as you would Odette – too soft, too pure. We are talking about the evil twin here!”
Under his tone was impatience, a hint that his reins were starting to come loose. The pressure in the room had been building steadily over the past few weeks; everyone was nearing their breaking point. Only two weeks and a month until production week, and production week meant one week before the big day. The entire company was walking on eggshells. Your new problem of not being able to unlock the Black Swan had become a cherry bursting atop the weight of it all.
“Should we run through it again?” Jacob asked.
Henri’s scowl deepens. “Do you see the time? No use staying if you’ll only repeat the same error.”
Your stomach twists as Henri dismisses everyone with a sharp gesture. With heavy feet, you follow the others as they disperse to their belongings, preparing to leave the studio. But instead of closing your duffel bag, you follow your hesitation and move your feet in Henri's direction.
“Henri?” you interrupt his conversation with the coaches. He whirls to face you, and you continue: “Please, let me try again. I’ll try to do better—”
Henri stops you with a firm index finger. “No, I do not want to hear it again. There is nothing more to be done tonight, so just go.”
The dismissal he gives you stings like a slap, and you bite your tongue to keep the tears from forming in your eyes. Henri turns back to the conversation he abandoned, his back to you, indicating he doesn’t want to be interrupted again. You hang your head low, heading for your duffel bag and vacating the studio like the other dancers did.
Pushing the heavy door, the cold night wind penetrates your bones despite the coat. Just as you were about to follow your usual route to the subway, your gaze is drawn to the unusual sight of a silhouette in front. A lone figure stands by a dark car parked at the curb, back turned as he exhales smoke into the air. His tall, broad shoulders stir recognition in your head. Before you can think further, the name spills from your mouth slickly.
“Simon?”
At the sound, he turns, cigarette dangling between thick fingers. He locks his burning gaze on you. You watch as he takes another drag of the cigarette before tossing it to the ground and grinding it beneath his boot.
“Sent you a text, didn’t I?” His hoarse voice replies.
Hearing that, you quickly reach into your coat pocket, your fingers closing around the cool metal. You pull it out with trembling hands. The screen lights up, and sure enough, a notification appears: “Back in town.” One hour ago.
“God, I’m—I’m really sorry,” you wince. “I must’ve missed it during practice.”
Simon remained silent, his expression hidden behind his black medical mask, studying you intently for a moment. You said nothing, used to the prolonged stares by now.
Nodding to his waiting car, he said gruffly, "C'mon then, I'll give you a lift home."
At his invitation, your chest warmed as a smile spread across your tired face. You nodded, stepping into his car as Simon held the door open for you. He waited patiently as you slipped into the passenger seat.
The scent of leather mixed with the strong scent of tobacco surrounds you, so quintessentially Simon. Your eyes take in the crumpled receipts of groceries discarded carelessly in the empty cupholder and the faint scratches on the dashboard. In his rear view mirror, a skull charm dangling, and for some reason, you smile at it. It’s so Simon, but you wouldn’t guess he cared about such small details.
Simon enters on the driver’s side, filling the seat completely. As the engine rumbles to life, you try to lean back in the seat, dissolving that tension that’s been building since the practice started.
The car pulls away from the curb, along with the crackle of the radio.
The rain falls heavily outside as predicted, providing a soothing backdrop to the sound of the television hosting a rugby match. Both your coats are hung up, their presence creating a cozy and domestic atmosphere within the room.
Simon sits in the living room, basking in the glow of the television that occupies his attention, while you are busy taking care of your little business. Swapping your dark-stained jeans for looser pants, you approach him reluctantly, suddenly self-conscious. Your monthly flow has arrived, on the very day you would've least wanted it to. No doubt it's the stress that has thrown off your usually predictable schedule.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur an apology, feeling like you’ve let him down. Now that sex is off the table, you expect him to stand up to take his leave—unless he’s the type to indulge in such things.
“’S alright,” he said, turning his gaze to you. He put his hands on your hips, pulling you gently towards him.
Your anxiety slowly dissolved as you surrendered to his touch, your arms loosely curling around his neck. The soft glow of the television cast a gentle light on his face, dancing in his warm brown irises like a miniature reflection. He gazed at you, a mixture of intense focus and a newfound tenderness evident in his expression. However, the sudden roar of the crowd quickly captured his attention again, and his gaze shifted back to the ongoing match. You followed his gestures as he restlessly tapped his fingers against the ashtray. Three old cigarettes, one more ready to be added to the collection.
You slip from his grasp, and he trails your movements curiously as you kneel before him on the floor. He raises a blond eyebrow.
“What’re you doing, love?”
You spread your knees slowly and settles between his thighs, meeting his stare shyly. “I want to help you relax.”
“You don't have to,” he rasp.
However, the half-heartedness of his refusal is quickly exposed when your fingers graze against his thigh, causing his body to tense involuntarily. Simon silently watched your every move, his breath hitched in his throat as you slowly unzipped his pants, uncovering the sight of his gray boxers. From beneath, a prominent bulge was visible, straining against the fabric, thick cock begging to be released. So you did.
“Fuck, baby,” he grunts. The sound sends a jolt straight to your cunt.
You’d always known he was big—the unfailing fullness he’d always pushed into you whenever he was buried inside you was telling enough, but sitting here now, it seemed almost overwhelming. The heat radiating off him, his muscular thighs spreading wider, and the way his cock jutted out and up like it was seeking your attention. Pink, with the delicate blue of prominent veins running around it. You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. He was… different from this perspective, and a thrill of excitement mixed with nervousness coursed through your stomach.
Wrapping your fingers around his length, you couldn't miss how awkward it looked. But when you started to stroke it, Simon stiffened with a hiss.
Meeting your panicked gaze, he said, “Spit first, darling. Make it wet.”
Nodding in understanding, you feel your cheeks growing hotter at his instruction. Your saliva gathers beneath your tongue before you spit awkwardly on his pink tip. Simon watches as your pretty lips glisten in moisture—the sight makes his cock twitch impatiently. You run your fingers down his entire length, covering him in wetness. He follows your movements with heavy-lidded eyes; his body leans back relaxed—a sign that you’re doing a good job so far.
You look up, seeking another approval. “Like this?”
Simon acknowledged with a hum. “You can grip a bit harder, darling. And,”—he envelops your hand in his larger one to lead a demonstration—“move your fingers up and down.”
You wrap your fingers around him with slightly more pressure, following the motion he’s demonstrated. The feeling of his soft, silken skin stretched taut around your palm sends heat to your lower stomach. He lets out a groan when you sweep a thumb over his tip.
“That’s it, darling, you’re doing good.” His praise comes easily, encouraging you to do more.
Simon inhales sharply as your warm lips brush his sensitive head, pressing a small kiss and opening and closing experimentally around it. Fueled by your confidence, you lean in closer, then lick and dip the crown of his cock into your warm mouth. He groans, and you grow bolder—your tongue curling around his shape. His jittery hands aim for your hair to push himself further in, but he settles for your jaw instead, thumb rubbing circles on your skin.
Sliding your lips further down, you taste the bead of salt gathered heavy on his skin. The feeling of fullness in your mouth is foreign, yet in the unfamiliarity, you find the desire for more and more. You try to reach deeper, but when his tip hits the back of your throat, you start to cough, your eyes watering from his size triggering your gag reflex.
“Easy now.” He reminds you, gently gripping your chin.
You must be such a try-hard girl. His eyes soften, filling with a warm, chocolaty hue as he observes you, almost as if he feels a bit sorry for you. Your cheeks heat up, and you consider just stopping and leaving it to him to finish.
But you are desperate—guilty and desperate. Guilty for having him come over when you can't fully satisfy him. Desperate to give him something new, something that he has never experienced before, something that will set you apart from his past flings, lovers, and the exes he keeps close. Something that will make you irreplaceable, even if he tries to fill that role with ten future women. You are very guilty and desperate.
(Ways to make the unlovable, lovable.)
You relax your jaw and throat, taking him deeper but slower now. One hand strokes what your lips can’t accommodate, while the other grips his thigh for balance. He releases a low, guttural grunt as his hand grips your jaw more firmly, his fingers tracing a path up the back of your neck. Goosebumps spread across your body. Your cheeks hollowing as you suck on him, and the hand behind your neck is gripping tighter.
Simon’s chest rose and fell as gasps and moans escaped him. “That’s it, darling, fuck. You’ve got the right of it,” he mumbled, voice breathy and heavy.
You hum contentedly as his fingers card through your hair. Sliding your lips further, you try again to get more of him in, saliva leaking and dripping down your chin. As you take him deeper, your teeth graze along his sensitive flesh. He hisses, and you draw back immediately.
“Watch the teeth.” He says.
You nod, heart racing with embarrassment. “Right, sorry.”
Restarting, you take him into your mouth once more. Gently. You lean in even closer, your hair falling and veiling the sides of your face.
A gasp escaped you when you felt his fingers gather your strands and hold them away from your face. You looked up, meeting those dark brown eyes. A faint rosy color on his cheeks, and you were sure you weren’t much different. His lips fell open to release little pants and moans—evidence of the pleasure you were giving him, and fuck, if that didn’t send a tingling sensation to your aching core.
Lengthening your reach, you try again, carefully. He lets out a groan as his cock slides in further, feeling the head touch the tip of your throat. Saliva glistens on your chin as your eyes water.
“Fuck, love. Feels so good..”
You set a steady rhythm of slow, long bobs. Your tongue swirls around the shape of his tip, making Simon tighten his grip on your hair. He shuts his eyes, moans and grunts escaping his lips, blending with the sounds of the rugby match playing on television—fuck, you want to turn off the television, need to smash it with a baseball bat just to hear his beautiful voice, but your rational head says no.
Simon’s voice came out in a staccato as he got closer. He pushed your head up to accommodate his length, and your eyes widened. Tears streamed down your cheeks as your throat contracted. His calloused fingers clenched tightly around the back of your head, guiding you hastily to his pace. Your moans were muffled—his size filling the entire space in your mouth—and they ended up coming out as a faint hum.
The physical signs of the effects of your ministrations on him are becoming more pronounced. His breathing grew shallower, coming out in short pants. You feel the pressure building in his muscles, the trembling in his thighs. His cock begins to twitch inside your warm wetness.
“Darling…” His voice is hoarse, cracking with the last bit of control. Lifting his heavy lids, he meets your eyes, placing one hand on your cheek. “Love, fuck, I’m—I’m close.”
The series of pulses grows stronger, and before you can register, hot, thick ropes of seed sprayed into your mouth. You cough, your eyes burning. Though, his satisfied expression is clear even through the blurriness of your vision. The salty tang against your tongue is unfamiliar, but you willingly swallow it all, leaving no trace behind. You release him slowly, gazing up through wet lashes at his flushed face.
Simon leaned back on the couch, feeling the pleasure slowly drain from his system as the world came back into focus. He fixed his gaze on you, taking in the details of you: your clumped lashes, the slight mess of hair, and your dewy, swollen lips. Lowering his gaze, he noticed the mess staining his pants and chuckled.
“What a mess we’ve made, darling.” He joked as he fixed his pants.
A giggle escaped your sweet lips. Rising on shaky legs, you took your place on his thigh. He wrapped one strong arm around you to keep you balanced.
The rain has softened to a gentle patter on the window, the rugby match has ended, and the show has switched to a soap opera that you both end up ignoring. You watch him withdraw a cigarette pack from the side table, pulling and lighting one with practiced ease. The smoke curls up lazily, short-lived as it disappears again, leaving the scent of tobacco in the air.
Nestling closer, you stare into his heavy-lidded eyes. “Did I do alright?” you ask softly, almost in a whisper.
“More than alright. Think you’re a pro.” He says, and a smile tugs at the corners of your lips.
When you shift in his lap, he hisses softly. “Steady now.”
You frown, but the confusion is quickly replaced with a teasing smile when you realize what he means. Giggling, you shift again just to tease him, eliciting another hiss through his teeth. You feel his grip tighten around your back.
A hummingbird trapped in a cage—your heart throbbing in long-lived excitement, butterflies fluttering restlessly in your stomach. The desire to touch more, to have more. Lifting your arms, you hesitate for a moment before wrapping them around his neck, his nape warm and firm beneath yours.
Simon took another long drag, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment before releasing it. The cigarette dangling lazily between his digits, you plucked it gently from his hold.
Turning the slim white cylinder between your fingers, you examine it curiously. The ash at the tip ignites with a stroke of a small flame that spreads slowly. You glance at him, finding that he has already been staring at you questioningly.
You brought the cigarette to your own lips, clumsily holding it between your upper and lower lips, mimicking the way you had seen Simon do it. The weight and texture of the cigarette were foreign. You take your first drag, then cough at the unfamiliar burn. Hurriedly, Simon snatched it away from you, as if that single drag held more peril than years of his own addiction.
“These ain’t good for ya.” He scolded, face unimpressed.
“And it’s good for you?”
“S’not good for yer pretty little mouth.” He replied, taking another long pull. Exhaling slowly, he leaned his head back against the couch, spreading his thighs apart. “Ain’t nothing to reserve from this ugly mug.”
Your lips curved into a slight frown. "Don't say that."
“Just takin’ the piss, darling,” he says gently, then extinguishes his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray on the table. You watch him struggle to find a spot for the newest addition among the sea of his past stubs. “S’full.”
You glance at the overflowing contents, looking back at him while ignoring the burning sensation that crept up your neck. In truth, it had been full for weeks—four cigarette butts including the remnants of his last visit, which you had left untouched.
“I’ll, um, throw it out later,” you manage to say, voice faltering slightly as nerves take hold of you.
Simon says nothing; he just wraps both strong arms around you, enveloping your smaller form completely against the warmth of his body. Outside, the rain has come to a complete stop, leaving dew and droplets of water that settle on the window like transparent beads. You look at him, and he looks at you. Those smooth, warm swirls of deep coffee brown hold their gaze on you, acting as gravity and pulling you closer to him.
Your lungs feel like they are tied in knots, afraid to release the oxygen within, as if the air itself must be held captive to avoid tipping Simon off to the tingling nerves coursing through your body in this proximity. Your fingers itch with the desperate urge to touch him, to trace the lines and contours of his face—the slope of his nose, the planes of his cheeks, the firmness of his jaw, the alluring curve of his lips.
The nervousness drips with sulfuric acid—burning, creating a pit in your stomach. It slips easier than your morning coffee, than your worn pointe shoes on your feet. You want to kiss him, and against logic, you hope he thinks the same.
In a moment of impulse, you bridged the gap between you and Simon, pressing your lips upon his. He froze for a split second before returning your kiss. You felt his fingers beneath your ribs, securing you firmly in his lap. He swiped his tongue over yours. Rolling. Hooking.
The taste of tobacco and the lingering essence of his release mix together in a heady blend. It is messy, raw, yet you savor it just as if it were the sweetest honey. He places a hand under your jaw, leading to a deeper kiss as he tilts his head to access more of your space. Each touch of his seems to weave itself into your very soul, the drums of your heart forming an orchestra that taunts your greed for more—a recompense for the gnawing hunger that only Simon can alleviate.
Before you grow old and bitter, you yearn to be cradled like this. To betray your loneliness with a kiss, to have your being deciphered through his touch like an unspoken language. Often times, you hold the things you love in your mouth; now you find his name and the gentle curl of his tongue pressed within the sanctuary of your lips.
As you broke the kiss to catch your breath, your legs found their way between his waist, pressing your hips against his once again-hardened bulge. Simon's lips released a faint moan, and his hands slipped down to squeeze your ass through the fabric of your sweatpants. Your head was thrown back as you sighed, baring the long column of your neck to his kisses.
Simon's name escaped in a breathy cry, it felt like prayer and sin woven into one—heresy spoken with the silver tongue of an open heart.
Simon's embrace of you strengthens, his arms encircling your form closely, drawing you against the solid mass of his chest. The soft lighting casts a warm, dreamlike veil over your senses. A major-key melody courses through your ears, resonating in your eardrums and creating a pleasant hum. You hear the echoes of your own distant dream—that notion you once dared not even think of: love. Mother had condemned it as mere folly, something repulsive; but, held in his arms, your soul was made so full.
And you surrendered completely.
Pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, you lift a trembling hand to cup his cheek. The scruff of his stubble prickles your palm. You can't help but be caught off-guard by the striking contrast between his pale blonde lashes and his warm brown irises despite the familiarity you've shared over time.
“Stay,” you mutter. He furrows his brows, and before he can make excuses, you add, “please?”
Simon shift in his seat, trying to relax his posture. “Sure, if that’s what ya want.”
At his answer, you held back your smile. “In my bed this time. Not the couch.”
“Why?”
When the question comes out, he tries to keep his tone gruff and flat as usual. But, you detect the slight tilt that lifts the words that follow. You chuckle, shifting on his thigh. He squeezes your hips in response and sighs.
“Because the couch is uncomfortable.” You spoke in a singsong.
He huffed out a laugh. “Last time, this couch seemed good enough, if I remember right.”
You avert your eyes, fighting off a smile while looking for another excuse to convince him. Tracing idle patterns on his chest, you begin, “Well, after your... disappearance, I think you deserve finer things.”
Despite aiming for lightness, an oppressive weight settles upon your chest, as if attached to an anchor, pulling it down. The fact that he was absent from your world means he was in his world—a world that is crueler, bloodier than sprains and torn ligaments.
Lifting your gaze again, you ask in a hushed tone, “Another deployment?”
The absentminded patterns you etched upon his shirt come to a halt as Simon captures your finger, holding it still for a moment. He falls silent, his tongue seemingly paralyzed, and his vocal cords reluctant to make a sound.
“Yeah,” he answers even quieter.
After he confirms your fear, you feel your smile slip away, though you try to hide it. His secret military life is one you’ll never fully grow accustomed to, no matter how many times he comes back safe and sound.
Retracting your finger, the absence of warmth from his bigger ones feels foreign. You cross your arms in a subtle, self-soothing gesture. Preparing your question, the words come out even more fragile than intended: “Are you hurt anywhere?”
Simon’s hands fall to his sides, as if not daring to touch you for reasons unknown. It feels hollow, but it’s probably better this way. Being under his touch before his answer feels too much like bribery—him telling you to stop worrying, to stop questioning.
“Not even bumps or bruises.” He replies curtly, but with the conviction in them that you’re sure it’s not a lie.
"Okay." You said. Getting up from his lap, you then add, “I'll grab us some drinks.”
You walk into the kitchen, grabbing two glasses from the cabinet before filling them with ice. This is enough for now, you tell yourself. Another breath. This is enough for now. Glancing back towards the living room where Simon has resumed watching television, its flickering glow showcasing a late-night program. You look down at the two glasses, their rims now covered with condensation.
This is enough for now.
It was 8 a.m. or something when you stirred in your sleep and opened your eyes to the recognizable confines of your bedroom. Everything is meticulously tidy and unchanged—nothing out of place, nothing different. Yet, a nagging voice silently whispers that there should be. The other side of your bed remains empty—an expected sight. As you turn over, however, your gaze fixates on the second pillow and you notice a subtle identification where it was never there—evidence of a head resting there.
As wakefulness sets in, memories swim like restless aquatic organisms into your brain. Your eyes widen as you realize what’s missing. Simon was here the whole night.
Throwing off the covers, your feet meet the cold hardwood as you pad through silent rooms looking for him. But, the dim living space is as empty as your bed. There’s no sign of him moving to the couch or his tall, imposing figure in the kitchen. The bathroom is devoid of the scent of your shampoo that he possibly used because he “didn’t have much choice” like last time.
Simon is gone again.
Sinking onto the couch, disappointment washes over you in waves so thick you can hardly breathe. It was expected—it was always expected because it was Simon—yet the blow never softened, and your insistent heart didn’t know when to stop waiting. You press your shaking fingers to your lips, clinging to the fading ghost of his kiss. Last night felt so far away, like it was some kind of illusion you let yourself believe in for a brief moment.
Your mind spins chaotically as you peel away the dry skin on your lips. Last night, I thought… you think. Faintly, the scent of iron is caught by your nose, and you taste blood as nails find softer blesh beneath.
A click startsles you, pulling you back to reality, and you whip around to see the door swinging open slowly. Your body froze as Simon entered, completely unaware of the state you were in. He drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as if he'd run for miles. Or maybe he did.
He turns to you with a simple stare. "Thought you'd still be asleep."
Before you can stop yourself, your muttering slips out: "You’re still here."
Simon’s eyebrows creased in confusion. “I am,” was all he said.
Now, you realize how your words might have landed in his ears. He might have interpreted your disbelief as you thinking it was presumptuous of him to spend the night until morning, when in reality, you were relieved he hadn’t really left you again. Perhaps last night wasn’t that far away; it was real.
Risking looking up, you stammer out: “It's good, uh… where have you been then?”
“Just a quick jog around the block,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders.
Remembering something, he reaches into his pocket, fishing out a battered envelope before handing it to you. “Found this outside your door, looks like it's been there a while.”
“Oh,” you murmur, taking it hesitantly from his outstretched hand.
Only a few people know your address, and most of them communicate with you through phone or email. You've become somewhat lax about checking your mail and the doorway. Every time you return home from work, your mind habitually takes the quickest route straight inside. Thus, unexpected deliveries have a high chance of going unnoticed.
Tearing it open with care, another envelope peeks out from inside—this one thicker, made of finger parchment decorated with swirling ink. You pull it free, curiosity overtaking confusion. Breaking the wax seal, the heavy cardstock inside is exposed, with the edges embossed with gold-leaf lettering. You search for the sender's information and settle on a familiar name.
Your eyes lift to meet Simon’s waiting gaze. “It’s... it’s from my cousin.” You pause for a moment before continuing, “She’s getting married.”
Simon stands there, looking perplexed as he studies the wedding invitation clutched in your hand. His eyes return to you, unsure of how he should respond. “Well, congratulations, I s’pose.” He says.
Yet his voice failed to reach you, as if spoken from a distance, muffled beneath the strange ringing that filled your head. It was no sweet wedding bells chiming, just blaring alarm bells warning of danger close at hand. A wedding. Your cousin is getting married—she has found her happy ending and wants you to come celebrate at this friends and family reunion.
Heavily inspired by "Beautiful" - Eminem. The only reason I had this shit of an idea, ngl.
Trope: Traumatized x More traumatized
Tw: Abuse and neglect (past), drug and alcohol use (mentioned), self destructive behavior; self esteem issues and nightmares. Also, reader’s personality changes a lot bc I wrote it in a span of a few days lol
1.2k ish words
This one’s for the low self esteem
It was always hard for you. Not in the military, no, you were best there. But emotionally, mentally, you’re slowly killing yourself. Any superior that ever met you had always said the same thing “Self-Destructive”. A label you can’t escape.
Ever since a youngin you were fucked by the world. Your parents, a title that fits only per definition, were either abusive or neglectful. You learned that every attention is bad attention, that no attention is safe.
That’s why you have been always locked in your room, hoping for the pain to go away in all the ways. You tried alcohol, but the bitterness of waking up from blacking out is worse than the slow ache that spreads through your body that slowly numbs you.
Drugs have been the main go to before you joined the military, stealing most from your neglectful mother who never had the time for you but had for the drugs.
If not for that, you always have been a good kid. You were just not enough, because your high mom had expectations placed too high and your abusive father blew the thought of success away.
In the military you strived to just passively die. Not by doing it yourself, but by pure chaos that war is. Ghost has been the one you train under, which is a good thing. At least he won’t be disappointed that you didn’t meet the expectations.
You’re no rookie anymore, but not high in rank either. A corporal, good for your standard.
Today was another day for you. Waking up, routine, training, routine, training and sleep. This time you couldn’t sleep though.
You woke up, breathing heavily and sweating buckets. It was not rare for you to have nightmares, but this one was bad. Task force 141 has picked you for a mission and you hoped to do well. But fate repeated itself. “Why can’t you just be useful for once?!” “Have you ever thought of how big of a burden you are?!” “You should bleed out in a ditch and die!”
For some reason, you didn’t cry or sniffle. You swung legs over the bed edge and put on normal pants, which you had earlier discarded on the floor. Wandering around the base at 2 am isn’t the best thing, but not the worst. Your legs take you to the recreational room; dark, empty and devoid of life.
Oh wait, Ghost’s there. Correction: Dark and devoid of life. You had to do a double take to make sure Ghost was there and not a hallucination. He was, in fact, very real.
“Shouldn’t you be asleep, soldier?” He asked gruffly, tilting his head in the darkness of the room.
“I should be.” You admit but make no attempt to go back to your room. Instead you grabbed a nearby cup and made your way to a kettle. Tea, because the Brits only have tea. There is a silence as you make your tea, Earl Gray from your own personal stash.
Finally, you sit down diagonally from Ghost, letting out a stifled yawn. “L/N, why are you up?” The ice is broken by Ghost’s question, which he conveniently asked when you drank the tea.
You made the mistake of trying to answer while drinking. Of course, that is not the best idea. Ghost watches from his seat as you set the cup down and cough your lungs out. He has the audacity of raising an eyebrow!
After you got your bearings, you answered. “Couldn’t sleep, Lt.” it was a lie. Ghost saw right through it. You still had a sheen of sweat on your forehead after waking up from the nightmare.
“Stop lying, Corporal. You’re bad at it.” Ghost bluntly said. You hated him from being to figure you out.
It crashed on you that while you are able to keep lying to yourself, you can’t fool others.
“Fine, I had a nightmare, happy?” You grumbled, gripping the mug of tea in your hands. “I’m not a weakling who cannot handle a nightmare.” You said. But you’re not sure if that is true.
“What was the nightmare about?”
“Mind your business”
“You told me about the nightmare.”
“You asked!”
“The point still stands.”
Arguing with Ghost is always pointless, because he either has a point or you don’t dare to prove the man wrong.
“Fine! If you want to know, so be it.” You gave up, leaning back in the chair with a frown. “I’m tired of being a damn burden to everyone. All I do is try but it is not enough! I swear, if I could I’d just quit and go back home, if you can even call it that.” The words just flow out of your mouth, not always making sense. But you don’t make sense either.
“I don’t understand why I am even here! It’s just an escape anyway, why should I even do anything if I’m useless anyway. Why do people have to notice me! I don’t want attention. I don’t want anything, is it that hard to understand?! I don’t deserve it!”
You would say that if someone said such things or cried is a weakling, a pathetic excuse of a human. But that is hypocrisy right now. Tears somehow made their way in your eyes, flowing down your face. God why are you so weak?
[}————————————————————————{]
Ghost POV
It surprised me to see [y/n] cry. They are always so reliable and composed, but what do I know? God damn it, how am I supposed to comfort them? Am I even supposed to do it?
I am in no way qualified to do things like this.
A groan escaped my lips, but it was soft, mostly for me to hear. I should at least try.
“[L/n]-, no, [y/n], look at me.” I order with my usual tone. They listen, looking up at me with confused eyes, slowly streaming tears.
“If you are a burden, you’re not the biggest one.” I begin, trying to somehow reassure them. “There are different levels of being a burden. You can do things that oppose the goal and be detrimental. You can do nothing and be detrimental. And you can be stuck in your head too damn much.” It felt weird to try and reassure someone.
Isn’t it funny how fate made me witness this? It feels like looking into a mirror of my younger self, right when I met Price. Hell, it was like me not so long ago. I wonder what makes them say that, what they experienced. Hopefully nothing as bad like me. They deserve better.
[}————————————————————————{]
Lyrics that fit
[Pre-Chorus]
In my shoes, just to see
What it's like to be me
I'll be you, let's trade shoes
Just to see what it'd be like to
Feel your pain, you feel mine
Go inside each other's minds
Just to see what we find
Look at shit through each other's eyes
[Verse 2]
I think I'm startin' to lose my sense of humor
Everything's so tense and gloom
I almost feel like I gotta check the temperature
Of the room, just as soon as
I walk in, it's like all eyes on me
So I try to avoid any eye contact
'Cause if I do that, then it opens a door
For conversation, like I want that
I'm not lookin' for extra attention
I just wanna be just like you
Blend in with the rest of the room
Maybe just point me to the closest restroom
I don't need no fuckin' man servant
Tryna follow me around and wipe my ass
Laugh at every single joke I crack
And half of 'em ain't even funny, like, "Ha
Marshall, you're so funny, man
You should be a comedian, goddamn"
Unfortunately I am, I just hide behind the tears of a clown
Now….this aint my place so say anything but honestly….professor/student fics bother a ton fuck out of me. I dont read them but when curiosity gets the better of me I do, BIG ASS MISTAKE
Why does it bother me? Many times I dont see in what year Reader is, they can be in middleschool, highschool or college and when it is not specified it can even mean ADULT X UNDERAGE. WHAT THE FUCK,
NOW I KNOW ppl MOST PPL dont write it and thank god they dont but pls….if u are going to write that type of fic, pls….specify reader is in college at least. I hope u understand what I mean
