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What if...Ghost's wife is infertile. Just imagine how she initially feels every time she sees her friends maybe with a baby bump during baby showers and every time she buys a pregnancy test she finds out that it didn't work out.

Imagine Ghost, who sees his wife feeling bad every time he stands next to her, caresses her back and hugs her.

"S'okay sweetheart, you are the most important thing to me , I'm here. And then there's always adoption" he smile to her

Yes because for Ghost...or rather Simon she is the person who believed in him the most, who helped him understand what love is and to improve himself.

your weighted blanket (simon riley x f!reader)

part of this two lieutenants series but it’s standalone

—

“you know what i want?”

“wha’?”

“a weighted blanket.”

simon turned away from his bedroom desk to stare at you, his dark eyes squinting incredulously.

“what?! i think it’d help me sleep.”

“wha’ the fuck is a weighted blanket.”

you huffed a sigh. “it’s literally a weighted blanket simon. having weight pressing down on you helps you sleep, it’s scientifically proven.” you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms as you laid back on his bed.

turning off his desk lamp, he made his way to his bed. he joined you on top of the covers, giving you plenty of space. keeping it platonic. not that he wanted to, but that was another thing.

“can’t jus’ have some sop lay on you?” the words hurt coming out, but it was the only thing he could say. desperately looking for a sign that you were talking to someone as you were so tightlipped about your escapades until after they ended.

“i’m on a man break. they all suck.” no one measured up to the unending care simon gave you, even if he was just a friend. just a friend who lets you come into his room every night, talking yourself to sleep. just a friend who never forgets your favorite body wash or candle scent on supply runs.

“they don’t know how to treat a woman like you.” his words echoed in the dark, ideas of what they meant bouncing around in your brain. “a woman like me?” silence. “don’t be mean, si.”

fuck he was so stupid. needed to watch his tone better, like gaz was always telling him. “dove, jus’ meant a smart independent woman like yourself. yer lookin’ for a partner and they’re look for a mother or a fuck. or both.” your jaw dropped. “oh. thanks.” his words thickened the air. no one had ever talked about you like that, like you were something to be treasured, not kept. like he respected you.

“if you really need a weighted blanket i-“ “yeah?” you sounded too eager, but you didn’t care. you turned towards him, catching his eye in the gleam of the base lights outside his window. “could be yers. if you want. strictly platonic.” he scratched his head, looking away. embarrassed. “yeah, platonic. course, yeah. that’s fine. good, i mean.” you needed to get your act together and stop sounding like a teenager, but he just offered to be your blanket. surely that was more than platonic.

“now?”

“sure.”

you sat on his bed like a dead fish, arms at your sides. you were not about to initiate what surely would be the most awkward non-cuddle session in your life. simon pressed one large paw into the mattress, hauling his huge body up on one arm. he moved down farther on the bed, his head parallel to your ribs. then, with the uttermost care, he shifted on top of you, hovering. waiting. “you can lay on me si, it’s okay.” he released his hands slowly, the full force of his body laying on you. 250+ pounds of pure machine, a body honed from years in the military. a soldier, a sniper, a lieutenant, now at your mercy, body covering yours completely.

“not too weighted for you?” you giggled. an actual giggle from his fellow lieutenant. “no, si. not too weighted.” your hand instinctively went to his hair before you could stop yourself. “is this comfortable? you’re on my ribs.” he grunted. it actually hurt like a bitch, your bone pressing into him through layers of fat, but he was laying on you and therefore could not complain. “you can move up, i won’t mind.” well, if you were letting him. he wanted to make the most of this blanket situation, this type of intimacy so foreign to him.

simon scooted up your body and laid his head on your tits. built-in pillows, one might call them. you hand went to his hair again, slowly scratching his scalp. “this ok?” you never touched like this, had never touched him like something precious. he grunted, a yes in “ghost” as you liked to call it. you continued running your hand through his hair, surprised at the softness of his locks. his face was against your breast, and usually you’d be embarrassed, but lines had been crossed and all bets were off. his body was heavy, sure, but the weight of it was comforting. all you could think of was him, not the annoying recruit from this morning, not the bad dinner you had at the mess hall. only the smell of the base shampoo and his natural musk, something uniquely him but not gross.

all simon could hear was your heartbeat. it had quickened when he first laid down, but now it was slowing to a comforting beat. you were here, you were breathing. the gunfire and the smell of bombs in his head meant nothing as long as he had you like this, in his arms where no one could hurt you. he could feel your body relaxing, muscles losing the day’s tension and giving themselves over to sleep. as your breathing slowed and you moved to a lower, more comfortable position on his pillow, he knew time could stop and all that would matter was you, right here, with him.

--

You make a paper star for everyday Ghost is on deployment. With every star you make a wish that he make it home safe to you.

Ghost refuses to throw any of the stars away; even when the jar eventually fills up. For him these stars are a physical representation of your love. Something that he can see and hold onto. He even bought a small vial to put a few of them in for luck. Having a piece of your love in his hand also calms him down when the restless nights start to become to much.

Each deployment has a different star color/pattern as well. It allows him to see how much time you’ve spent apart, and how much he feels like he needs to make up for.

Simon didn’t like to hold you. He liked to be held.

At first, you didn’t understand why he’d turn his back to you in bed without saying anything. You thought you’d done something to him, or maybe he was in a bad mood. You couldn’t be any more wrong.

Simon Riley, an absolute brute of a soldier, was silently asking for you to be the big spoon. You nearly didn’t believe it when he finally brought it to your attention.

He was too embarrassed to ask you, so he’d resort to flipping on to his side and wait. And wait. Until he realized you didn’t catch the memo, even after many hopeless attempts.

In his mind, he thought being the big spoon would somehow convince you he wasn’t manly enough, as if his title in the service or his pure stature wasn’t proof enough of his masculinity.

To him, being held was a blanket of security. Where he’d always have to watch his back out on the field, both literally and metaphorically, he didn’t have to keep an eye out at all times with you. It was a chance for him to find solace in a person, and when he explained this to you, he was surprised to find you so willing.

And oh, when it happened, Simon nearly kicked himself for holding back on verbalizing it for so long.

The warmth of your arms when they wrapped around him from behind, your face buried between his shoulder blades, legs tangled in his, he thought that this was what inner peace felt like.

He was silly to think you’d ever be the one to judge him for what most deemed ‘unmasculine’. In all of his broad glory, he felt safe the moment you held him, like a child does when they feel a mother’s embrace except it was from someone he loved dearest to his heart.

And you? You found that being the big spoon was rather enjoyable when the man you’re holding was so damn comfortable to snuggle up to. It was a win-win for you both.

You just wished he wasn’t an idiot that left you wondering all those hopeless nights until the truth came out.

good things don't come easy (pt 2)

Gaz x f!reader Synopsis: You agree to be Kyle's plus one for his sister's wedding. Surely this won't complicate anything, right? Word count: 2.1k a/n: no real warnings. barely edited. alternating pov. more overbearing family and friends, fluff, fake dating, childhood friends to lovers. probable countless inaccuracies about living in the UK.

Masterlist | AO3 | Prev | Next

“Oh, look at you! The dress is stunning, let’s have a look.” Archie waves from across the town hall carpark, gesturing for you to twirl. You return the wave before making a show of it, letting her see all sides of the dark green outfit.

“Not as stunning as yours!”

“A given." She curtsies. "And little brothers levelled up. Finally.”

Kyle jogs up to your side and slings an arm around your shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Don't you have a wedding to get to?” He waits a beat before letting his hand slide to your waist. “This okay?” He whispers. You nod, of course it is. Absolutely nothing wrong with it, you're perfectly capable of being normal about all of this.

Archie opens her mouth, when a commotion inside the hall interrupts her. “Oh hell, one sec. Talk to you guys later.” She rushes indoors without another word.

“So far, so good?” You give him a hopeful look.

“No one suspects a thing. And you’re good?”

Hell no. This might be the worst/best decision of your life, but you weren’t backing out now. “Absolutely,” you lie. “Besides, it’s the least I can do in exchange for this.” You smooth your hands over the satin material.

He leans in and murmurs, “Well she’s right, you look stunning,” as he places your hand in the crook of his elbow.

“Shutup.” Now you’re flustered; one little comment has you grinning like a fool, while paradoxically hoping to be swallowed up by the earth. It's silly how natural it all feels; being with someone (even as a lie!) who doesn’t actively want to ruin your life? Does wonders for the self.

Inside, folks fall into easy conversation and you leave him to chat in order to hunt down the loo. Nature calls, but it also gives an excuse to avoid answering too many curious questions. The placards are somewhat helpful, leading you through a maze of halls like a damn treasure hunt, and you almost miss it except for the boisterous conversation beyond an unassuming door. You hesitate, curious over the animated chatter. It's less a linear chat, and more a bunch of lines said on top of each other.

“Kyle’s here. With a date.” Excited giggles fill the space.

“This I have to see.”

“A date, or a date?”

“Not sure.”

"Oh, I heard they're dating."

“Poor thing, wonder how long this one’ll last.”

A pit forms in your gut, and you’re not sure to be more offended for Kyle or yourself. At that moment, the door swings open and you’re frozen in place as a line of women turn to stare at you. Guests for the wedding, you assume. Doing last minute touch ups on hair and makeup.

“Er, sorry.”

“No worries, pick a stall love. Don’t mind us.”

Fine, fine, fine. Not like you’re going to think about them listening as you do your business. Made worse when not a single one of them talk. You wonder if they’ve put two and two together to figure out who you are. Suppose it’s just people enjoying a touch of gossip, nothing wrong with that. Still. Damn.

You’re quick to finish and wash your hands before mumbling a polite goodbye and ducking out.

“Think that’s her?” Nervous laughter erupts, followed by shushes and terse words of warning.

Best be safe and stick to Kyle's side for the rest of the night.

Vows were spoken, tears were shed, smiles offered, bouquets tossed. The reception is now in full swing.

“The worst is over.”

“Famous last words.” You mutter.

The two of you are dancing. Well, it started as something like a dance, now you’re swaying gently to the DJ's set. Nothing to it, friends helping friends, you think. Except his hand rests a little low on your waist and as you shift to outmaneuver other dancers, your bodies lean a little too close. When he bodily moves you out of the way from a happy drunk storming the dance floor, he might as well have shocked you with a live wire.

You’re just not used to friendly affection, you decide. That’s it. A little touch starved. After all, Kyle seems blissfully unaffected by it all. Just some overthinking.

“Thankfully, the couple over there is more interesting than us.” He grins.

Your face heats, but you smile at the brides. A crowd surrounds them, all scrambling to offer their well wishes.

“Speaking of, let me see if I can run interference.” He drifts across the dance floor, depositing you on the edge of it. “Archie’s gonna go squirrelly if Mr. Wilson keeps talking.”

You look around, gaining your bearings before sitting at a nearby empty table. Can’t help but groan as you sit down. After months of wearing sensible flats to your sensible office job, the heels are doing a number on your feet. Blisters are forming, which is a shame; you look good as hell in them. Just about to kick them off and rub your aching soles when you're joined by Nina.

The mother of your supposed... boyfriend. God, you can't even think it without getting all twisted up inside.

The plan was to stay at each other’s sides. That way, curious family and friends couldn’t corner one or the other. You glance over at him and he’s talking and laughing, fully wrapped up in the conversation with Archie and her wife.

“Don’t worry dear, I don’t bite.”

“Sorry.” You grip your hands together, hiding your nerves. “Worried about good impressions is all.”

She tsks. “You’re fine. Love seeing my boy having fun for once.”

Oh dear.

That statement earns the both a few stares from nearby tables - two women from earlier, the gossips in the loo. They seem suddenly and exceptionally interested in the conversation.

“You and Mr. Garrick raised a good one.” Offering the most neutral compliment you can string together.

The conversation sticks to pleasantries until it lulls, and the two of you watch the other dancers for a bit, the bright lights and colours, the good cheer, the casual affection offered between friends and family. It leaves a twinge in your stomach. Not quite as sharp as jealousy, but something more complicated than want. Nina’s attention returns and she leans closer, looking conspiratorial.

“Forgive my nosiness dear, but Ruth mentioned you’re having problems with your lease?”

You quickly run through conversations you’ve had, every idle complaint you’ve made. “Oh, it’s fine.” You wave her concerns away. “Theo can be overbearing, but I'll manage.”

She tsks again, this time displeased. “Should report him if he oversteps.”

You nod meekly. You would if it wasn’t all under the table. The space isn't suitable for tenants by any measure, but the cost of those cheaper fees is keeping mum. Besides, he's mostly a small nuisance.

“Now, have you seen Kyle’s new flat?”

You nod. Not in person, but a video call to explain a mess-up over the dress order turned into an impromptu tour of his new place. A shared living room and kitchen, a bedroom and an office, plus a full bathroom suite. Even had a bloody washer and dryer. Decoration and furnishings were sparse, he’s too busy to take care of it now. And you were green with envy. Your entire living space could fit in his bedroom. AND it was right on a direct bus route to your office. Oh, you were jealous.

“A delightful place to live.”

“Absolutely.” Your shoulders droop. “If only I could afford it.”

There’s a quick frown and furrowing of her brow, but you don’t have time to consider the reaction before Kyle returns to pull you back onto the dance floor.

No sense in dwelling on her mood while you’re swept up in the kindly arms of her son.

“Kyle.”

The tone tells him he’s in trouble well before he sees his mum. Layered thick with emotion and concern. Chiefly, disappointment. Worry. Hadn’t heard it this severe since he announced his decision to join the army.

The wedding went well, he thought. Not a single bothersome question about his relationship status. No one tried setting him up with their friend/neighbour/distant cousin. Except now he’s cornered in the coatroom with his mum, and she does not look pleased.

“Sweetheart, why are you letting her live with that awful man?”

“Sorry?” He’s put on his back foot, without a clue of what she's talking about.

“Bless her, Ruth would have her move in if she had the room. Which begs the question, what are your plans?”

Ah, Theo. Landlord. The man was a nosy git, it’s true. Unfortunately, not a crime.

He sputters, “We’ve only just started dating, yeah? And I don’t let her do anything. She’s a grown woman.”

“Yes, and she’s a good grown woman. Try and have this one stick around.”

The upside of this ruse has been a full month of conversations with family members blessedly free of lectures about settling down. The downside is this. Having to lie to his mum, especially when she’s so bloody excited about it. Of all partners he’s brought around, how is it that you’re the one she’s grown attached to?

He blames Aunt Ruth for all of this.

At this rate, it'd be easier to actually date.

An image of you looking at him in disappointment eats him up inside. The aching sadness in your eyes when deployment stretches on and on. When the task force takes up all his time. When he gets home too tired to pick up a phone. Can’t bear to see that in your eyes, and now that you’re back, he doesn’t want to lose you as a friend. 

“Yeah, mum. We’ll figure it out, don’t worry.”

“Good.”

It's late, or early (but before the sun), when Kyle accompanies you home, to which you’re eternally grateful. Both exhausted, a little tipsy, barely able to lift your feet as you crawl up the stairs to your room. As soon as you enter, you kick off your heels and fall belly first across your bed.

“I’ll get you tea in a bit.” You groan. That was the plan. A cuppa or two each to help sober up. Kyle sighs as he drops onto the lone loveseat. Doesn’t even bother to move the piles of laundry on it.

“Sounds wonderful.” Voice muffled through piles of freshly laundered clothes. Doesn’t take long for both of you to drift off into a blackout, drooling deep sleep.

Late night tea turns to breakfast, then to lunch tea. The two of you finally wake and sit bleary eyed at the table over a bitterly strong brew, and an egg and cheese sandwich. You're in shorts and a ratty jumper. Kyle is shirtless. He discovered the stain once you both woke up, piece of cake from last night, probably not salvageable. Still, the shirt was now down the hall, soaking in the bathroom sink. Also, a testament to how hungover you each were, that it didn’t fluster you quite nearly as much as expected. Instead, you put his beautifully toned chest, the dusting of dark chest hair, the matching scars across his right pectoral (sure to be a story there) to memory as you chew through the rest of your sandwich. Not thinking about his smile lines, his pretty brown eyes, the way they light up when he looks at you. You shove all that down and pretend to be unaffected. Just friends eating breakfast (lunch) after crashing all night in your teeny tiny, rented room.

“Think they bought it?” You say through a mouthful of food.

“Hm.” Kyle winces and closes his eyes while nursing the mug of tea. “Maybe a little too well.”

“That’s good, right?”

He exhales and rubs his cheek. “We’ll see.”

It's the next day, and you’re standing at the front door, flipping through junk mail piled up on the front table. Should’ve requested two days off, what with your brain still feeling too big for its skull. Having to endure a noisy bus ride sounds terrible, listening to your coworkers drone on and on sounds even worse.

Down the hall, the kitchen door creaks open, and Theo waits for you to look over before speaking. “Rent agreement is for one person only.”

“Good morning to you too.” You pick out a sheet of vouchers for a nearby supermarket’s grand opening.

“I don’t mean to be nosy, but I did make that quite clear.”

“The reception went late, and we crashed as soon as we got here. Nothing to get weird about.” This wasn't the first time he badgered you about visitors. Acting like you have a revolving door. This time, something snaps.

Theo scoffs. “No need for insults, I’m just saying if I do an inspection and find someone else’s-”

“An inspection? What - why? Also, who I invite over temporarily, mind you, is my business.”

He nods but keeps that infuriatingly condescending expression. The one that broadcasts he’s suffering through childish behaviour. “Was exaggerating, love.” Holds up his hands as if you’re the person needing to make peace. “Just a friendly reminder that rent goes up if your fella’s here too often.”

Anger bubbles up inside, the sheet of vouchers crumples in your fist, and as usual, the words you want to say get lodged in your throat. Perfectly pleased with himself, Theo retreats back to his side of the house before you can string together a single frustrated complaint.

You fight the urge to stomp back up the stairs and smash something. Nina was right; had to figure out who to make a complaint to about this. The whole notion is a gamble, you'd be out on the fucking street if it didn't go your way. It really wasn’t fair; you don’t complain, don’t ask for much – just some privacy. To be unbothered.

Hot tears sting your eyes, and your vision blurs as your work alarm chimes. Can’t afford to take another day. Best you could do right now is head to work and investigate your options there.

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What if you leave a lipstick print on his helmet just because at first. Like, casually. Maybe it started off when you used his bike mirror to touch up your lipstick and he was just there with his helmet on, so you kissed him on the helmet. He didn't wipe it off or anything. However, you added a new one every time the old one gets smudged or washed off until it becomes a habit.

Now, picture this...

You just got woken up from a nap by him, seeing him looking at you expectantly with a new helmet in one hand and your lipstick in the other and not saying anything.

I'll leave it at that.

absolutely beautiful writing, truly

Task Force 141 ; Call Me Mr Sandman

It grates at him, the way you slink out of bed at ungodly hours of the night to sit up alone in the living room so as not to disturb him. Little do you know that the cold sheets and vacancy of your side of the bed will always wake him. A plan is in order and he is eager to execute it and have you back in his arms to walk you hand in hand to the land of dreams.

{ flufff ; gn reader }

john price worries, and deeply so. insomnia is no stranger to him, he’s been around that very block a good number of times but in his line of work, sleep deprivation walks you straight into the coffin. he had to twart it and quickly and fucking hell, if he could just recall how. if he could just hand you the antidote and tuck you into the fold of his arm beneath the covers, it would be the Hail Mary. but he can’t and he doesn’t and so he takes up his mind’s attempt at the next best thing.

the white noise machine is obnoxious at first and you try to tell him what a waste of money it is considering you could just find the damn noise on YouTube and play it from the tv but he shushes you softly and asks you to just give it a try, little love, please? and you can’t deny him, it hurts to do so anyways when he’s doing so for your sake. for the dark rings surrounding your eyes. for the headache that has your head feeling hollowed out. for the snappish irritation that coats you like an oily bubble from days of exhaustion.

so you lay there, facing john and trying very hard to not mind the machine humming on your bedside table as you two talk softly with one another. it’s mindless chatter, talk of your earlier day and recounts of your days apart when he’s deployed and then just the silliness that wriggles beneath your skin as the hours dwindles on and you start to feel like a school child staying up way past their bedtime.

it’s inevitable. john’s eyes growing heavy as his words become more spaced out until his mumblings are entirely nonsensical and replaced by his snoring, head falling further on his pillow in your direction and you cannot help but smile. the poor man tries so desperately to fight his body clock in order to see you through to sleep but he cannot be blamed. you shuffle quietly closer and kiss at the corner of his mouth with a whisper good night before you’re turning over, already swinging your leg out to get out of bed. but that damned machine is immediately in your eyesight and the guilt sprouts from a seed in the pit of your stomach until it’s the size of a watermelon.

the poor man is trying, trying so hard to keep you in bed when you should be and here you are, ready to annul those efforts by simply reverting back to your usual habits. so you let out a sigh and retract your leg back under the covers and you glare at the machine for but a second before you’re turning over and nestling into john. your heart all but splinters at the way even unconsciously, his body responds to your warmth and touch, opening up his chest for you to crawl into and nestle there.

it’s not antidotal to your insomnia but it settles that restless energy in your head that speaks of you being a bother to him and his sleep. there’s a new set of eyes, opening up to the word, within you, head tilted back to look up at your significant other. you realise then that you are master of self implosion, unnecessary punishment to a cause beyond your control. and this very man, this man snoring away with his fingers splayed across your back, has been trying to steer you to that reflection in the mirror for a good while now. so you snuggle as close to him as possible and close your eyes. sleep may escape you but this love a breath away from you certainly won’t.

kyle garrick pads out of your shared bedroom in sock clad feet, two jumpers thrown across his forearm and sleep tucking itself away at the edges of his lashes. it’s the droopy look he gives you as he blinks slowly that causes the network of fissures spreading across the warmth of your body. a quick glance at the clock mounted above the kitchen’s arch tells you that it’s nearing 4am and everything within you sags. kyle comes to stand beside your head at the backrest of the couch, bending at the waist to kiss your temple and he murmurs in a soft voice, “let’s go for a drive.”

you protest adamantly, getting up to steer him back to bed with bracketing apologies to each of your protests, hands on his shoulders meant to shove him lovingly back. of course, kyle does not miss the opportunity to point out the irony, something about it just about bordering hypocrisy and you scowl up at him. you’re so utterly mistaken to think you’d win this argument, with kyle pulling you a step closer, laying imploring kisses to your lips and before you know it, he’s slipping the jumper over your head. it’s too tender, the cracks within have seeped out enough heat but the strong hands with slender fingers that tug the sleeves down and fix the collar of his jumper are molding molten gold into those very cracks.

he leads you down to the basement parking with your hand in his, thumb stroking at your skin in a slow and gentle movement that mimics the flow of a cradle rocking. you begin to ache as he opens the car door for you, only closing it after he kisses your cheek. you have bare seconds to yourself in the car as he crosses in front of it and your eyes track him as he does and your heart is stuck in a prayer of his name that doesn’t dull out even as he slips into the leather of the driver’s seat and starts the engine.

it’s quiet, the world. so much so that you almost flinch at the rumble of the engine and the shift of gears as your boyfriend pulls away, the nose of the car breaching reality in its amble to dawn. you’re tense for a good 9 minutes, back too straight and muscles tight as you take in the roads kyle leads the car down. you don’t even notice how on edge you are until his warm palm leaves the center console to find its perch on your thigh, fingers massaging at the muscle there. you hear the movements for the words they press into your skin. i’ve got you, it’s okay.

the tears slip down the side of your face silently and you are torn between brushing them away and calling kyle’s attention to the movement or leaning back and closing your eyes to their existence. you opt for the latter, a sigh breaks through your parted jaw and you let your head cradle into the headrest. you feels his eyes on you briefly, but the fight has left your body and you keep them closed. “stop trying to deal with it alone.” his reprimand is stern and still manages to feel like the stroke to your hair when he hugs you to his chest. so you turn your head in his direction and peer at him through wet lashes. there is a lot to say but you manage the most important of it,

“i love you.” he looks at you for as long as he deems safe before he turns back to the road ahead, the hand on your thigh flips over in a request. your own palm meets his and you curl your fingers with the last of your strength into him as you close your eyes again. the radio is off and you much prefer it, the quiet and warm atmosphere along with the drone of the vehicle is enough to settle your bones into the leather. the echo of your words finds you in the voice you prefer it in and smile softly at the insistence in it, the cadence meant to embed the meaning of the words into you viscerally.

it’s a little less than an hour of sleep that you manage, but you’re so thankful for it. you wake up in a neighboring town, so much green breaking in the bleary light of dawn it snatches at the breath halfway up your throat. you scramble up in your seat and peer around at the narrow road kyle is driving down between a number of hills. he smiles at you from the corner of his eye, says something about the sunrise and you feel that prayer in your heart become so fervent, that you swear you can hear it in the speakers of the car. it sings of your love, it sings of a fate you will twist the fabric of thread yourself to tie the two of you together if it came down to it.

john mactavish acts with sundown. there are candles lit around the bedroom, the curtains are drawn and the bed itself looks like your linen closet may have thrown up on it. “all to set the mood, hon”, he tells you with his hands on your shoulders as he steers you into the room after your shower. goodness, the man had even gone as far as picking out your favorite pair of pjs, fresh out of the dryer to make it that little mile more comfier. your heart is in knots of adoration and anticipation and you’d hate to tell him that your heart rate might act against his plans to have you at complete and utter ease. so you say nothing, falling into the cloud of blankets and pillows.

you’re watching him with wide eyes, smile excited as he shuffles through the three soft covers in his hand. there’s a furrow to his brows as he reads the titles to himself, repeating each of them as if they will whisper the secrets of their content to him if he calls on them long enough. you’re torn. between staying snuggled away in your personalized cloud and throwing yourself at your boyfriend to litter his face with the kisses that burn at your lips. you settle for a third option; waiting for him to choose his challenger and tuck himself against you so you can smother him in the love that bubbles from you like a shaken bottle of champagne.

johnny had been pouting at you all week, sitting across the breakfast table from you with sad puppy eyes that took two measly attempts from you the morning prior to get him to talk before he was whining at you. expressing the absolute heartache of walking up alone, your side of the bed, so unbearably cold and untouched. it was enough that you had gotten up from your chair to sit astride his lap, pulling his head to your chest as you cooed your apologies into his ear, kissing at his neck. the two of you had a good talk then, you finally explaining your fears of being a disturbance to his sleep if you stayed in bed and him smack at your buttocks in indignation.

johnny had come to a clear conviction that morning, and no one could say that the man had issues in execution. he had spent a good portion of the day putting his money where his mouth is, maneuvering by you with fast and determined steps, murmuring little excuse me’s and leaving quick kisses to your cheek with his arms full. there had been a better part of two hours where the bedroom door had been closed and you had been barred from entry. your boyfriend then returned to you as you sat on the couch with a shitty reality show to entertain you, standing at your feet and smiling down at you.

“where’ye keep those books of yours, baby?” that had been an adventure on its own, walking johnny through your trove, breaking down the genres and tropes and plot lines as he nodded and assessed the covers with a level of scrutiny that betrayed his line of thinking. you pushed to the balls of your feet and laid a kiss to his lips before you left him to his dissection. and from that, you spy three titles johnny had managed to narrow it down to.

he taps one against the flat of his palm twice and sets the other two aside before his eyes flick up at you and they’re bright and brilliant in that blue of them as they speak of his pride in all that he has arranged for this and having finally come to the crux of it as he crawls into bed beside you. johnny wriggles this way and that before those large arms are pulling you flush against his chest and he cracks open the book in his right hand while his left is laid against your stomach. he asks you softly if you’re comfortable and upon your nod, he announces the title and author.

the deep, gruff of his voice reads the story to you, and it’s not only in your ears, but against your cheek and hand, echoing into the marrow of your bones and fucking hell, this man could have chosen to read the terms and conditions you’re prone to ignore and accept anyway across the web and you’d still be entranced. maybe it’s the very abundant feelings you have for him, maybe it’s the accent and just sheer attraction to his voice, but your body is a stringed instrument that his intonations pluck at lovingly. johnny gets to chapter 4 as you start to feel the droop of your eyes, a heaviness that feels so nostalgic that you almost want the word to pause for you to indulge in it.

his voice grows distant, your attention the finicky flame of candle on a windy night and you want to thank him, want to love on him for this coaxing into dreamland and even more so, you want to grab him at the hand and pull him into your dreams because you are so very certain that your reality before these dozing moments will make any imagination of your subconscious so utterly bleak.

simon riley takes on a two birds, one stone approach to your frustrations. it’s so typical of him that you offer him a soft laugh when he finally divulges his plan to you, shaking your head against his bicep with loving amusement. teas. or more specifically, tea blending. he tells you, of which he has already stocked up for and done the needed research for. you do not doubt him for a second, because the man is meticulous to a fault. for goodness’ sake, simon has even completed a course on it.

you ask if you’re allowed to watch as he gets to work on setting up his station as the sun begins to sink and he pulls out the barstool for you in invitation. you’re easily transfixed at the sight of it all; your shared kitchen becoming a pop-up apothecary that is fronted by a behemoth of a man that dons a skull mask on his days of work. it’s enough to draw another titter out of you as you rest your chin on your hand. simon only arches an eyebrow at you briefly before he gets swept up in his work again.

the floral and herbal notes are a burst to your senses and it’s comical to watch simon measure out his determined dosages of each, the tea vials an unlikely sight in hands you are well and truly acquainted with. you ask soft questions, watch as he notes down his measurements for the chamomile, lavender and lemon peel, loops and run-on letters that only he will ever be able to decipher. he gets the kettle boiling only as he stirs through his dry blend and funnels it into the infuser and he briefly mentions to you the careful deliberation on his decided temperature for the tea.

he settled on 95°C, he tells you, the tea being a herbal one with the flourish of refreshing lemon. simon does not walk you through his decided measurements however, he shushes you and brushes a hand over your hair as he sets your favorite mug in front of you as the kettle clicks off and he allows it the allocated time to steep. your boyfriend folds himself down to lean his weight on the kitchen counter after having tidied up after himself, grunting at you to stay seated as it was his mess to see to. a generous phrasing, considering how steady those hands are, how particular he is about his work. now, he simply looks at you, slow blinks as he takes you in and you grow self-conscious at the way those dark eyes linger on the dark circles beneath your own and the wane of your cheeks.

you drop your gaze to the quartz of the countertop instead, forefinger tracing a vein of it in order to appear more casual than you feel. the silence presses upon the both of you with the weight of mist against your skin. clammy and all consuming and you wonder if you projected your insecurity so far into the atmosphere that it now rains down on the both of you in heavy contrast to the steam coming off of the tea kettle not even half a meter from the two of you. the smell hits you sharply, the earthy, floral notes of chamomile laces itself into the crisp and clean of lavender with a tail of twang from the lemon peel. you can’t deny that your muscles prickle as they begin to loosen at the second inhalation of the scent.

“a great deal of tea blending is scenting. it’s the first impression of your blend.” he tells you when he notes the subtle shift in your body, a twitch at the corner of his mouth as he straightens and grabs the kettle to fill both of your cups. it’s a very pale amber, like bleak sunlight just as the dawn cracks at the seam of the earth and you can’t help but smile at the irony of it. you wait for the last drop from the spout before you gather the mug into your palms and look up at simon, thank him as you stretch over to kiss at his cheekbone. when you pull away and fall back into your seat, he remains quiet for a while.

finally, he responds with “i miss you during the night. but i don’t blame you.” your frown is an automatic response to the clench of your breath, seized by your ribs at his words and you shutter against the warmth of his attempts. attempts to coax you back into your shared bed, to keep you there, at rest with him. you open a mouth to apologize to him, to offer words that had melded to the roof of your mouth for much too long. you don’t get to free them though, because simon drags the barstool beside you even closer so that his thighs bracket you and he can drape himself across you like a security blanket.

“no apologies. might as well just snatch unwarranted blame then.” the words are crass in the same way that they are affectionate. equal measures of both and purely a blend of simon. so you nod, you lean back into him and you finally take slow sips of your tea. it’s good and it engulfs your body in a serenity that you has no belief of it being capable of. you hum quietly in approval, slouching further into the strength of your boyfriend and mutter halfheartedly that your weight against him is a consequences of his own goodwill. he only clicks his tongue and drags your chair further into him.

you drink a second cup as the two of you migrate to the couch, simon stretched out for your comfort as you curl into him like a kitten discovering its mother’s milk for the first time. the pair of you don’t talk much, it’s an easy silence as he feathers your hair between his fingers and stares at the ceiling. it’s when your eyelids grow heavier in weight that you lift your head at him and request one last move. you barely get the words out before he’s sitting up with you still tucked into his chest. you’re under the covers and in his arms with a content sigh barely two minutes later and the cotton fluff of sleep almost has you delirious but just before it claims you, you manage to speak the words that burned the back of your teeth for hours,

“i missed you too.”

I want ghost to pin me down and use me like a - NO, I WANT A SIMON THAT CAN TREAT ME LIKE I'M THE ONLY PERSON WORTH COMING BACK HOME TO

I want a simon who can feel vulnerable for once in his life that after all the years of distrust, he can finally feel safe to tell us what's on his mind

I want a simon who feels so sure that we are the one he wants to be with for the rest of his life that he takes us to his family's grave site to introduce us as his fiance

I want a simon that after all the years of feeling like he couldn't let out a single tear, he can finally sob in our embrace

I want a simon who can smile so wide at seeing his own baby that he can finally feel as if his life has reached perfection

I want a simon who can smile with love and care at a picture of his wife and child together

I WANT THAT SIMON

Simon Riley as a father

-father!simonriley who returns home from deployment to his toddler son wanting nothing to do with him

Simon Riley doesn't just want a wife and kids. He wants to be a husband and father, so when your toddler starts to velcro himself to you Simon tries very hard not to take it personally. It was merely just a coincidence that your toddler developed this new obsession with you during Simon’s last deployment, but that doesn’t make him feel any less guilty. Your son is in a phase where he just wants to be under you twenty four seven, even having meltdowns in Simon’s arms some days when you have to leave home without him. It's endearing how he follows you around like a little duckling and gives you the sweetest little hugs and kisses just because, but the issue arises the more he starts giving Simon glares for even daring to try to join the two of you in hand holding or wedging his little footie covered body between the two of you in bed. Your son meets Simon with rejection just about any chance he gets no matter how many times you try to remind him to be kind to his father, and you can tell by Simon’s expressions and body language that it stings a lot of the time. You make sure to love on him extra when you have moments alone, assuring him often that in a few days this new phase will be over, your hand lightly massaging his shoulder, reaching across said toddler who's sound asleep with his arms and legs strewn across the two of you.

It isn't until Simon saves the day with his remarkable dad strength that he's no longer on your toddlers shit list. You're in the kitchen making lunch for both of them when your son appears at your side with a juice he's pulled from the pantry with your permission. He hands it to you to open but the character head attached to the nozzle always makes the bottle hard to grip and open, especially when your nails are done. You grunt softly after trying to open it a few times, and idea popping into your head after your last failed attempt. You crouch down slightly to be on his level before flitting your eyes over to Simon sitting quietly at the kitchen island, eyes glued to the screen of his laptop and by the way he quickly typed and furrows his eyebrow you can tell he's answering last minute work emails. You nod to him and quietly suggest that, "Maybe if you go ask daddy nicely and give him a big kiss he'll open it."

He thinks it over for a few seconds before pattering over to Simon, determination in his eyes as he pulls at his pant leg. You watch as his eyebrows shoot high up, surprised at the interaction before he effortlessly opens the bottle with a smile. His eyes catch yours when he leans down to receive his "thank you" and cheek kiss, mouthing an excited "You see this?"

You nod excitedly at him, happy that your boys are loving on each other again, what more could you want?

Photo booth (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x GN! reader)

Warnings: none (let me know if there is any!)

Word count: 1079

There weren't many times when Simon had a day off, but when he did, you better know he'd be spending every moment with his partner. 

Back for a few days after a long mission? Reports are finished in record time and left on Price's desk.

A few hours between long meetings? He's calling you or sending a text, just wanting a moment of peace and to hear your voice before he'll inevitably have to deal with Soap's shenanigans.

Point being any time away from work he has, you're the first thing on his mind, and he will do anything to get that little bit of recharge time with the one person who he feels he can truly relax with.

So when the 141 gets back from a long, few-month mission on the other side of the globe, as soon as humanly possible, Simon's heading home to be with you. 

The first few days are just spent curled up together. Lazy mornings turning into lazy afternoons with lingering touches and tender kisses. Cooking together in the warmth of your shared kitchen, his big arms wrapped around your waist as his chin rests on the top of your head. Warm meals and lots of storytelling, more so coming from your end, but who wouldn't want to know about how the neighbours got into another fight and might be ending in divorce this time?

After those initial days just gently getting back into the calm civilian life, the two of you are more than happy to adventure out for the day. Treating yourselves to a nice cup of tea and a fresh pastry from a rather fancy cafe in the heart of town and a calm walk by river, hand in hand, the two of you find yourselves in a little corner store as the clouds roll over and little drops start to fall.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"Bloody hell love, a little rain won't hurt ya," Simon chuckles as you pull him into a nearby corner store as the droplets of rain start to gain momentum, falling in a more rapid succession.

"Yes, but I did my hair today, and I don't want it to be ruined," you answer with a playful roll of your eyes. The store is much more pleasant than the rain, with a warm glow to the lights and, most importantly, nice and dry. 

Deciding to busy yourselves while the rain rolls over, the two of you go up and down the few isles, pointing out little snacks you want to try or ones you have tried and definitely didn't like. Coming to the end of one of the isles you spot an old photo booth pushed into the corner and excitedly pull on Simon's arm.

"Si, look! Do you think it works?" The whole thing looks like it hasn't been used in a long while, but, taking your chances, you pull the curtain open and the display lights up. 

"Suppose it does, come 'ere," a large hand moves to hold your waist as you're pulled onto Simon's lap, the two of you making a tight fit in the small booth.

With an excited squeal you press a few buttons, pulling a few pound coins from your pocket and inserting them into the machine, a quick preview of the photo format appearing on the screen. Before the two of you can plan what your poses will be, the first timer starts counting down.

""Right, just a smile then?" He says, guiding one of your arms over his shoulders as you lean your head closer, big smile pulling at your lips and a hint of a curl on the Brits. The flash clicks and the photo shows before another timer starts counting down.

"Now a silly one!" You say, holding up bunny ears behind his head as you stick your tongue out, Simon doing quite the similar pose. The timer stops and another flash goes off, both your eyes drawn to the preview of the photo. For a burly military man Simon sure does look a bit silly with the tip of his tongue poking out and your fingers as bunny ears behind him, contrasting his usual hard and gruff facade he put son for the average individual.

"Hey, you copied my idea," A playful shove is given to his shoulder as you look at the photo, chuckles leaving the both of you. "Can't help if it's a good idea," Simons voice grumbles though the smile on his scared lips tells you how happy you make him as he pokes a finger in your ribs, making you laugh.

"Simon!" You giggle, half heartedly pulling away from him, "That tickles!" The Brit doesn't stop his teasing and you try to pull away again that you almost fall off his lap, arms flailing slightly but a hand firmly on your waist ensures you don't go anywhere. In the struggle the timer for the third photo finishes and the flash goes off just as you feel like you're tipping.

As the two of you calm your giggles you see there's only one photo left and you turn to look at Simon, exaggerated disappointment on your face. "Look you ruined the photo," you tease as you point to the screen.

"Wouldn't have been ruined if ya were more original," He chuckles, fingers lightly pinching your thigh as he gazes at you with those big brown eyes. "I'm plenty original, thank you"

The timer counting down for the fourth and final picture snaps you both back as you stumble to figure out one last pose.

"What do you we do for this one?" You ask out loud as you try your hardest to think of a cute pose.

Without more than a little grumble of a 'Come 'ere' Simons free hand reaches up and gently wraps around your neck, pointer finger helping guide your face to his as your lips meet his. All thoughts are almost completely disregarded as you lean into his touch, eyes fluttering closed as his tongue traces the seam of your lips. Just as you begin to part your lips the flash goes off and the machine begins to print the series of photos.

""ere you go, love," Simon grumbles as his hand leaves your warm skin to grab the photos, handing them to you. Hand on your thigh giving you a gently pat before guiding you off his lap and out of the photo booth, grin on his lips the whole time.

there was something to be said about the fact older bf!simon made such a good house husband.

“i forgot my lunch :( ”

“forgot to make it or bring it?”

“both?”

“on my way”

because the next thing was your coworkers slowly raising their heads to the sound outside your office, a throaty rumbling of an engine right outside the doors.

not a car, motorcycle maybe? question affirmed when it revved twice.

they shot you confused looks when the sound made your ears prick up, a sweet smile on your face as you trotted out the front of the building.

behemoth of a man sat astride a motorcycle. his leathers added bulk but there was something about him that said he was big enough without them.

he watched you walk over as he raised the visor on his helmet, the black one with a ghostly image of a skull painted across it.

your coworkers pressed to the windows, trying their best to hide behind the curtains and potted plants but failing all the same.

the man pointed to his face as you got on tip toes to press a kiss to his nose through the balaclava he had under the helmet.

“don’t make it a late one, alright?”

“yessir”

as you gave him a haphazard salute, he reached behind to give you a pat on the backside before he stood to retrieve the brown paper bag he’d been carrying.

lunch in hand, you lean in to press a kiss to the visor he’d just lowered- right on top of the lipstick print that sat in the corner of it.

the print that looked a lot like your lips.

the helmet never leaves the back of you as you walk towards the office, your coworkers scrambling to not get caught staring.

you didn’t mind, just smiled as you reached into your lunch bag and retrieved a sandwich. the one that was cut perfectly into the shape of a heart.

Hello 👋, I hope you're doing well..

My name is Mahmoud, and I'm a 17-year-old from Gaza. The ongoing war has devastated my city, destroyed my school, and made daily life incredibly challenging.

Despite these hardships, I'm determined to continue my education and build a better future. I've been given a chance to study abroad, but I need help to cover the costs of leaving Gaza, as well as living expenses and other essentials abroad once the crossing opens.. 🙏

If you can, please consider donating or sharing, your kindness can truly make a difference, and thanks for your time. ❤🍉

https://gofund.me/bd3ccf0b 🔗

I am unfortunately unable to donate right now but I try to do my part in sharing this.

"simon riley!"

your voice calling out to simon was what snapped him out of his relaxed state in the living room.

simon loved it when you call his name. not ghost. not lieutenant riley. just simon riley, or simon or si. your sweet voice calling his name sounded like a wave of melody in his ears.

but just now when you called his name loudly and it echoed in his flat, he felt the alarm bells ringing in his head.

danger.

he tried to act nonchalant when you stepped in front of him with your arms on your hips. your face was cool but simon could feel the anger behind your eyes.

"yes, love? wha' is it?"

"did you eat my pudding?" you glared at him, crossing your arms.

simon internally winced at that. yes, yes he absolutely did. but simon can't just admit it or else he would be the receiving end of your fury (he already did). he had to protect his pride as your loving and considerate boyfriend no matter what.

"no."

you looked at him, unimpressed. there were no words exchanged but the moment simon denied it, his fate was already sealed. your stare said it all.

you're sleeping on the sofa tonight.

and when you walked away, simon's brain frantically tried to come up with excuses and apologies.

goodluck, simon. you needed it.

–

happy 300 i love you guys (^_^)♡

— masterlist.

Sleepy Affection

Sylus X Reader

Summary: You're tired. Sylus is the best cuddle partner. Lots of soft love here. That's it.

Word Count: 1061

Note: Self indulgent really, I have a hard time with burnout and sleeping in general, but I know cuddling with this man would solve all of that. Sorry if I overused adjectives.

---

Days as a hunter are long. It’s a part of the job, always being alert, always willing to help when the need arises. And you love it. You love being awake before the sun rises, and the exhaustion in your limbs as you walk home. It satisfies the restlessness in your bones.

But still, it’s hard to not hit burnout eventually.

You can feel it weighing down your body as you step out of headquarters. The sun is just rising over Linkon, and you narrow your eyes up at the sky. Of course you worked through the night. It was that or let your paperwork drag into your weekend. Maybe not the best decision. You sigh, rolling your shoulders. Every muscle in your body aches for sleep.

You don’t want to go home, though. It would be too quiet, too empty. If anything, you would probably end up staring at your ceiling, impossibly restless despite how tired you are. And that sounds absolutely awful.

Before you can think too hard about it, your feet are carrying you towards the transit center. To the one place where you feel safe, despite all the reasons you shouldn’t.

---

The N109 Zone is strangely quiet in the early morning gloom. The streets are nearly empty, the only sound coming from the electric buzz of the overhead wires and the snuffling of a stray dog on the corner. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if being a criminal makes you allergic to the day. Or maybe they’re all vampires. An amused hum dances past your lips at the thought. Perhaps they’re not after the aether core in your heart, but your blood.

One man seems to be at least.

By the time you reach Sylus’ place, it feels like you're walking through a light fog. Or stepping into a dream. The home greets you with a pleasant warmth that eases the tension in your muscles. Music drifts through the halls, distant and fuzzy with that old quality that vinyl has. Like a siren song, it draws you deeper into the dark comfort of the manor.

Right to your sleeping dragon.

Even while he’s sleeping, Sylus looks…dignified. Ethereal even. The soft light peaking through his curtains casts a glow on his features, dancing across his white lashes, making them almost look like snowflakes. Your eyes trail over the relaxed line of his jaw, the contours of his chest and shoulders. He lies so still, you could almost believe he’s a statue, if not for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He just looks so…perfect.

It’s hard to believe that this is Onychinus’ feared leader. 

Toeing off your boots, you tread carefully to the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under your weight, the sheets soft and silky under your fingers. Sylus lets out a low sigh at the movement, red eyes flickering open ever so slightly before falling back shut. Without a word, he shifts and lifts the sheets for you to crawl in next to him.

His warmth draws you in, just like his wispy, old music. You can’t resist it, not that you want to. It’s all the invitation you need to tuck yourself as close as possible, like an exhausted little kitten looking for a safe place to sleep. Sylus immediately draws your leg over his hip, long fingers kneading lazily at your thigh. Every part of you presses against his addicting warmth, drawing a content hum from your lips, completely pliant under his touch. He could do anything to you right now and you wouldn’t complain. But there’s an almost reverent feeling to the way he holds you, the way he traces shapes along your skin and presses gingerly into your wound up muscles.

It’s a rare moment of pure gentleness. No teasing quips. No haughty smirk. Just you and Sylus, the air between you thick with something so incredibly tender. You stay like that for what feels like forever, time lost to soft touches and quiet sighs. Neither of you are willing to break whatever spell has fallen over the room. 

Soon enough, though, the weight of your eyelids becomes too difficult to fight. You tuck your face into the curve of his throat, the scent of his cologne washing over your senses. It’s spicy and warm, like worn leather and rum, just so perfectly Sylus.

You wish you could stay like this forever, floating pleasantly on the edge of sleep with him. Just with him. An indescribable fondness curls somewhere deep in your chest.

“I missed you,” you admit into the crook of his neck, your voice thick with sleep and something vulnerable.

“Mmmm, I was wondering why you crawled into my bed in the middle of the morning.” 

He wasn’t, really. You both feel it whenever you can’t see each other for too long. It’s like the worst feeling of homesickness. He won’t admit to it, but you can feel it in the way his arms curl possessively around your waist, like he never wants to let you go. You slide a hand up to his chest, savoring the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of his heart under your palm. You’ve missed this. Sylus shivers at your teasing touch, those red eyes finally flickering open again to look down at you, half-lidded and unfocused. You hold his gaze, trying to memorize every detail, every fleck of color, the dark gleam of fondness in their depths, matching your own. This is the real Sylus. Gentle and kind, passion burning just below the surface. The one only you get to see. And you love him more than you’ll ever be able to explain.

You curl your arms around his narrow waist, forehead pressing against his chest, “Is it okay that I came?”

You already know the answer. Still, Sylus humors you.

“I would have it no other way,” he rumbles lowly, lips brushing against your hair. “Now rest, sweetheart, I can tell how tired you are. We can talk in the evening.”

You hum, eyes finally falling shut, “Promise?”

“I promise.”

And just like that, you find it impossible to stay awake any longer, lulled by his words and the sound of his breathing. Every nerve, every worry, washes away, leaving you to fall into the darkness you’ve been craving, dreaming of the weekend you can spend together.

---

Honestly took so long to write. I wanted to moment to feel soft and more drawn out, don't know if it worked. But I hope y'all liked it :)

♪ BROOKLYN BABY. (💌) – previous part

౨ৎ simon 'ghost' riley | reader

synopsis: the 141 believes the scot now.

tags: fluff, romance, soft!simon, you're basically their mom atp lol, bickering, there's a bet between gaz n soap, gaz secretly wants you shh, ooc characters, not proofread, price being the gentleman he is, he's seriously just watching everything unfold

       It's not always that Ghost is willing to let the 141 stay at his house for their traditions – which is just drinking beer and watching sports, really. In fact, he's always said something about his place being empty, so they always settled on someone else's. They stop asking after a year, and in turn, he stops having reasons.

It's not until Soap pops the question again when everyone else's houses are unavailable for a variety of reasons, his being that he left his faucet on and now his shitty apartment is flooded. You can only imagine the suspicion and shock when Ghost agrees (or, rather, simply grunts).

The drive is long, nothing short of 5 hours, and Soap spends the better half of it bickering with either Gaz or Ghost. He falls asleep by the next half, and when he awakes, he gawks at the lovely looking house before their car. There's two stories to it, a balcony, a front porch, and there's no doubt that there's a backyard.

Contrary to popular belief, no, it is not all black or plain at all. It's all equally surprising to them. The Brit isn't the type to care about the appearance and state of a house, usually. They do envision him in a mostly empty apartment with only a bed and a bathroom, though.

There's a delicate touch to where a rough man lives; the smell is almost heavenly when they enter the house. It's homely, the scent of newly washed sheets and lingering smell of food; there's a cat perched on the living room table that Ghost scratches the head of lovingly in a way that's so casual and natural. It's like they're at the gates of–

"Simon!" Heaven's bells ring in their ears, luring them into the doorway of the living room, and the sound of feet padding against the cold floor. There comes a soft-looking thing running into Ghost's arms, completely engulfing you.

You only notice the three familiar faces of your boyfriend's team members – though you know he considers them family if anything – when you pull away. An angel clad in only a cami top, shorts, and Simon's hand around your waist, you turn to look at the group with a surprised look on your pretty – Soap thinks that God, you're so pretty – face. "Oh, hi," you smile sweetly, obviously awkward at the silence and the staring.

"It's been a while," Ever the gentleman, the gruff voice is the first to speak up with your name uttered, the only who's actually met you – John Price. Soap is too enamored with the way you hold yourself and the fact that, holy fuck, even your name's pretty. Gaz raises a brow at the captain's greeting.

You smile once more – a genuine one now. "Nice to see you again, John."

"'S rude to stare, Johnny." Simon speaks out, a smirk under the mask. "Please excuse him, miss," Gaz adds, this beautiful man, and offers a charming smile.

"You must be Gaz," you hold your hand out, "it's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine," Kyle forgets that a hand could be this soft and gentle, "and please, call me Kyle." He barely stops himself from turning your hand in his to kiss the back of it like one should to a lady so fair; his lieutenant has good taste in women, he'll give him that. And when you're out of the area, Soap is sure to rub it in Gaz's face. I told ye so! LT wis hidin' somethin' from us. A pretty something, that is. You don't miss the way he slips a twenty-dollar bill into the Scottish man's hand.

"Glad tae meet ye," Soap finally says, winking. "Understand why he wis hidin' a bonnie lass like ye from us." There's a mischievous glint in his eye, almost naturally so.

"A'm hurt, LT, but whit can I do? After all, we're just a couple o' brutes, arenae we?"

Simon watches in amusement, "you'll live." Soap is quick to move to your side as you lead the small group of hulking men through your shared home after that.

Simon is visibly more relaxed with you around. He's comfortable, that much is a given, with the way he's taking up most of the thankfully large couch with his manspreading. So is the 141. They're pampered like spoiled children (or pets, really) through the whole day.

Instead of just beer and faucet water, they're offered a variety of drinks in the kitchen that's enough to be considered a private bar. Instead of an empty belly unhealthily stuffed with beer and a mix of mediocre takeout, they're met with warm homecooked meals. They lose track of time quickly; the night falls by the time they've tired themselves out, and they've had not one, but two meals thanks to you.

(They're sure to commend your cooking skills and think of how lucky this tall brute of a man is blessed with a woman so soft and pliant and wonderful and– while Price is the one to be the most grateful, Soap compliments you the most. "A can practically taste the love." You laugh in turn.)

Gaz is the first to speak after a meal so lovely, they could simply just sleep on the floor comfortably and wake to the same smell of home. "It's a bit late, love, we should probably go."

"Thank you for having us," Price smiles down at you kindly.

"Ye've been lovely, bonnie." He wants to stay some more.

"Wait," you stop them, looking up at Simon for further approval. He's already looking at you with a reassuring brush of his thumb on the side of your hip and a nod. You turn your eyes back at them. "It's already late, you three should stay the night. We have enough room for everyone."

There comes, "we don't wanna intrude," then, "we can take care of ourselves, it's alright."

"Please, I insist." Your smile brightens, "I'll even cook breakfast before you leave."

The mohawk moves with a sigh, "now tha's just no' fair, lass. How are we gonna say no tae that?" You giggle. Only then do they find themselves tucked away in the guest room, and boy, you were right when you said it could fit them all if not more.

On the way to the bathroom in the late hours of the night, Soap catches a glimpse of light through the crack of your bedroom door to see his oh-so strong lieutenant, vulnerable in your arms. There's something natural about the way you cradle the large man and kiss his hair like it's part of your DNA, like you're programmed to do that 'cause Soap thinks you're simply unreal.

He's proud of his lieutenant, this lucky bastard. He turns another blind eye once more, but he's paid in full with another fulfilling meal by the morning.

simon riley x deaf!reader

tw: none, literally just pure fluff

“It’s just one date. I promise.”

You didn’t know how your friend had convinced you to go on a blind double date in the first place. In fact, you weren’t even the first choice, but when your friend came by to ask you to fill in for another girl who had bailed out last minute, you pity-agreed to help her out.

You weren’t sure if you were making the right choice. Dating wasn’t your thing, and you avoided it like it was the scum of the earth. Not to say you had bad experiences, per se, but you also didn’t have the best choice of men. None of them understood your situation to its fullest, but that was okay! You didn’t need their validation, and you were perfectly content with the way things were.

There was no harm in going on a fun date and having a few drinks and good food, you thought. One night, and you’d never have to see your blind date again.

Besides, your friend seemed to really be into her date from the way she’d gush about him after they met online (not your favorite choice, but you’d support her anyway), and you didn’t want to ruin that for her.

That’s what led you to be here, shoulder to shoulder with your friend as she rambled on about how excited she was with speedy hand gestures, how grateful she was that you came, that she’ll make sure your dinner and drinks are paid for. You weren’t exactly sure where the two of you were going, but judging from what she forced you to wear, it had to be a bit fancy and lavish.

You didn’t have the heart to tell her that was also not your favorite choice.

She guided you inside of the building, which was a preview of what was to come — high ceilings, ravishing decor, and low lighting that made everything much more romantic. You took in the fluorescent scenery as she spoke with the hostess. You didn’t know what they were saying, but as the waitress gestured with a hand for the two of you to follow, you assumed the two men were already there.

Your arm was looped loosely with your friend’s as the two of you walked after the hostess. When you approached a table, you took in the sight of one man that looked familiar — your friend’s date, a man with smooth, tanned skin and a smile that could cure sickness. The other man was new to you, and compared to your friend’s date — Kyle? — he was much more phlegmatic.

Kyle gave a polite nod towards you with a blinding smile, and you have one back, bowing your head in greeting. You sat next to your friend, watching as Kyle pulled out the chair for her, to which your date definitely didn’t do the same.

That was alright. You weren’t planning on making it past the first date anyway.

Your friend began to chatter with Kyle while you and your mystery date sat in silence. Your hands remained in your lap as your eyes scanned the menu that sat on the table.

Focused on appearing as busy as possible, you were unfortunately snapped out of it before it could last long when your friend nudged your shoulder with hers. When you looked up at her, she was smiling, and she lifted her hand to signal the man in front of you.

Blinking at him, you realized he was possibly trying to talk to you, and you shifted awkwardly. He probably thought you were rude.

“Sorry, Simon. I forgot to mention she’s deaf, so she didn’t know you were introducing yourself,” your friend apologized, and you watched as he stared at her before nodding in acknowledgment. “It won’t change anything, yeah?”

You sat in tense silence as you averted your eyes back to the menu. Your date had eyes that could pierce right through you if they wanted to, and you weren’t quite sure you wanted to be their next victim, date or not.

A phone screen was slid across the table from where you were studying the menu, and your eyes flickered to see a string of words typed out in the notes app.

“Sorry if that came off as rude. I’m Simon.”

Glancing up at him, you flashed him a smile that was relieved. He gave you an awkward one back, and you thought maybe he didn’t do it much.

You picked up his phone from where it sat in front of you and began typing out your response before slipping it back to him. You watched as he read it, a look of amusement in his eyes as he did so.

“Not rude at all. Sorry she didn’t tell you. You can back out if you’d like, I won’t take offense.”

Kyle and your friend were conversed in conversation with one another while Simon and you had your own back and forth.

“Why would I do that?” his next note read, and you tilted your head at him. He offered you a shrug, and your fingers tapped along his screen in return.

“Most men wouldn’t like being blindsided by not knowing their date is deaf.”

You saw his mouth part open when he read it, and you wondered if he was chuckling to himself. You wished you could hear it.

Was it deep? What if it was one of those contagious laughs that sounded like the literal gates of heaven opening up, and you wouldn’t ever have the chance of hearing it?

You didn’t have time to think about it when he placed the phone back in front of you, and when you glanced down, you couldn’t help but smile bashfully to yourself.

“A pretty girl’s a pretty girl. I’d be an idiot for backing out on the prettiest one I’ve had the gall to see over something like that.”

Fuck.

You weren’t supposed to like your date, much less so quickly. You only came for the food and for the sake of your friend’s happiness, but here you were, cheesing to yourself like a stupid teenager with a new crush.

But as the date continued, with the both of you eating alongside Kyle and your friend, shamelessly passing his phone back and forth and filling his notes app with evidence of your growing infatuation, you knew it wasn’t only for the food anymore.

He was sweet. Sure, it was all on paper (well, screen), and you told yourself to always be cautious with men.

But when he asked you out on a second date, then a third, you allowed your concrete walls to crumble.

And when he showed you the new signs he’d been working on so he could communicate with you on the fourth date, spelling out your name with cautious, slow fingers, eyes searching for your approval? You could’ve already married him then and there.

title: moonlight dance

paring: kai azer x reader

synopsis: you’re a contestant in the purging trials, who has lived in the slums your whole life. at a ball, you need a breather, but an uninvited guest appears and alters any previous plans of serenity

warnings:

a/n: thanks for reading 🤍🤍

tag list: @heartwithsimplenotes @lxvebelle @whatsamongus @zaraaaabear @tornqdowarnings @emelia07

You stand outside still in your ballgown. The cool air that laps your face feels nice, fresh in your lungs. You breathe rhythmically, melodically. You’d never cared much for dances and certainly not ones held for these stupid trials, so this escape was perfect. It’s not like anyone would miss your presence anyway. The moon shines down into the gardens and reflects a silvery shadow on the surface of the pond. Beautiful.

“Dance with me?”

You spin around after hearing the familiar voice. Azer. Of course he’d be the only person to follow you out of a ball you were desperately trying to escape, pulling attention to the whole matter.

“I don’t dance,” you reply curtly, turning back to the moonlit pond.

“It wasn’t a request, love,” he murmurs, coming up dangerously close behind you, “we’re dancing.”

Classic, cocky, self-entitled prince. He thinks he can command anyone to do anything. But he picked the wrong girl to try and domineer. You can feel his warm breath on the back of your neck, making you shiver slightly. He’s trying to be intimidating.

You angle your face towards him slightly and shoot him a sickly sweet smile, “try and make me, sweetheart.”

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, your choice,” he shrugs, making it appear like you had a choice in this matter.

“I don’t dance,” you repeat bluntly, wondering why he was struggling so greatly to understand three simple words.

“I don’t believe you,” he replies, taking you by the waist. His hands cup it perfectly as he guides you away from the ponds edge. He takes of your hands and interlocks his fingers with yours, as the two of your begin to move.

“What are you doing?” you ask, not pulling away just yet, something about this position wouldn’t let you.

“Dancing,” he responds simply, spinning you around.

“I told you I don’t-“

“You don’t dance,” he finishes with a roll of the eyes, “yes, I recall you mentioning a few times. But what are you doing now?”

Much to your annoyance, he was right. The two of you are dancing to the dying hum of music coming all of the way from the ball you were trying to escape. But for some reason you don’t mind this. You don’t mind his hands on your body or the closeness of your faces. In this moment it didn’t matter who you were and what you thought. You are just two strangers dancing under the moon.

“Why did you run away from the ball? Trying to pull a Cinderella stunt?” he asks quietly.

“Why did you follow me? Trying to be my Prince Charming?” you reply, a challenging eyebrow raised.

He acknowledges it and grins, “touché.”

You fall back into a comfortable silence, finding solace in the methodical movement of a routine. 1 2 3 4…. 1 2 3 4…. 1 2 3 4 …. you don’t think, you just move. And for once, it’s blissful not to have so much on your mind.

“Suspicious you were so insistent on dancing with me,” you say, as he twirls you around again, “one might assume you were desperate.”

“Desperate to see you make a fool of yourself,” he quips back grinning, “you really are quite horrible at this.”

“Apologies,” you reply, sarcasm dripping from your tone, “are my steps not up to your standard, your majesty?”

He scrunches his nose at the title, you like making him feel like this. Inferior. A feeling he’s probably not used to, that you know like the palm of your hand.

“Suspicious you agreed to dance, it didn’t take much persuasion and you haven’t stopped,” he points out, “one might assume you’re actually enjoying yourself.”

He mirrors the way you worded your sentence to get under your skin and annoyingly it’s working. You don’t think you’ve ever hated a man more in your entire life and that’s when you feel the blade that is stuck to your upper thigh.

“I want to take the knife strapped to my thigh and ram it into your chest,” I smile sweetly, “that’s how much I’m enjoying myself.”

“A knife? Are you flirting with me?” he smirks, grey eyes lighting up with this new found amusement or was it hope?

“In your dreams sweetheart,” you laugh, the nickname popping back up in a petty attempt to get under his skin.

He smiles and his whole face lights up. You hate yourself for thinking it but the truth is, he has a beautiful smile. Alluring and mesmerising.

He utters three small words, the smile never leaving his lips, “I hate you.”

You open your mouth to reply but don’t get a word out because Kai takes your chin tentatively and tilts your head upwards, smoothly planting a kiss on your lips.

At first you’re frozen in the pure shock of the act but you don’t break away. You don’t want to break away. It feels so nice to be wanted, to be spoiled. And then suddenly you’re kissing back and you don’t know why. Your hands are buried deep in his hair and you’re pushing your upper body against his. He kisses back even harder, the roughness throwing you off guard but you feel you like it. That you want more of it. You encourage his lips further.

That is until your brain kicks in and you realise the nature of the situation. You quickly tear yourself away, ashamed you’d let it go this far, angry at him for paralysing your brain with his mouth. You’re breathing heavily and you’re confused. Your head and your heart are torn in two completely different places. You look up and lock eyes with him, falling into endless puddles of grey. You try and form a sentence but you’ve forgotten how.

“Goodnight darling,” the prince winks, before spinning on his heel and walking off into the moonlight, leaving you stood there frozen and speechless.

What just happened?

a/n: thanks for the request anon!! sorry it took me a little while… hope you enjoyed this 🤍🤍

powerless masterlist

⋆ ｡⋆ fem pov ୨୧˚ warnings: none, age gap (not specified, but legal) ↣ {wc: 524}

older knight! simon - one︱two︱three

Older Knight! Simon who’s no longer in his prime. Though, years of training remain with him. The muscle memory engrained, honed through decades of fighting. Yet, the King had decided it was time for Simon to lay down his shield, to relinquish the sword that had served him and the kingdom so faithfully. 

Simon longs to argue on it. He wants to plead his case and tell the King that he can still manage. He knew he was a powerful fighter, he could still best most of the younger knights, even with the aches that now linger in his bones.

And he almost does protest, nearly drops to his knees to beg, until the King speaks once more. Muttering something about a parting gift that leaves Simon speechless. The words all blur together as soon as the King mentions your name.

The King chuckles lightly at Simon’s surprise. “She is my eldest,” he begins, voice filled with affection. “Honestly? A fussy brat when it comes to marriage, too picky for her own good. Every suitor we’ve introduced has fallen short in her eyes. But she cannot evade marriage forever—I need to ensure she can lead this Kingdom when I am gone.”

“But, your majesty, I-”

“She will accept it.” the King interjects with certainty. “She doesn’t talk to me on these matters, but my beloved wife tells me that she is rather... fond of you, for whatever reason.”

Simon only met you a handful of times, at ceremonies or boring royal events. You were always friendly to him, of course, but he had never imagined it extended beyond mere courtesy.

The thought of laying down his sword no longer finds its way to his lips, silenced by the King’s proposition. Marriage was never in the cards for a man like him, let alone with you, the cherished princess of the realm.

But why, then, does his heart beat faster at the thought of you? Why does the notion not fill him with dread, but with something akin to anticipation?

Sensing Simon’s hesitation, the King continues, “If you wish, you may speak with her yourself. Hear her mind from her own lips. But I believe she will be pleased with this arrangement, as will I.”

The King doesn’t elaborate on that last part, but Simon understands the unspoken words. He was essentially born into the castle, his mother had been working for the royal family and he became a knight at a very young age. He’s been loyal to the Kingdom for decades and he knows the King trusts him implicitly, with his own life and, by extension, with yours.

The King’s handshake seals the pact, a smile playing on his lips. And whilst Simon’s thoughts were partly the reason, the King failed to mention one other thing. 

He conveniently forgot to tell Simon that you were a nightmare to handle. A tempest that no suitor had managed to yet tame. But Simon was a fighter, one that had won countless battles. If he can handle the bloodshed in war, surely he can face the storm that is you.

At least, the King hopes so.

༄ posting a part 2 of this tomorrow

༄ cod m.list

© veritasangel ↣ 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴

Doing my nails rn and I couldn't help but think of simon

"What's 'at for?" His gruff voice questions as he watches you carefully apply a layer of gel over your nails.

"So my nails won't break." Your reply is short. You kept your attention on your nail, carefully putting a thin coat of transparent gel over it.

"An' that?"

"That's the color, Si." You replied, looking at him from your spot.

He was, theoretically, watching the telly. Even his team was playing, yet his attention remained on you, the way you stick your tongue out as you painted your nails.

You were sitting next to him on the couch, one leg curled up to your chest as you carefully, minding the cuticles, coated your toenail with a thin layer of glittery gel polish.

Simon, of course, won't admit it. He's just watching the game.

But there's something so mesmerizing about watching you be... a girl, you know?

The way you put those weird curlers into your hair.

How you concentrate, trying to make your nails look good.

It always amuses him how frustrated you can get when doing your makeup, insisting that your eyeliner, in fact, does not look the same on both eyes. It does to him.

To Simon, you were as beautiful in a 3 day old shirt and with messy hair as you were in a classy dress with a full face of makeup.

Because at the end of the day, it didn't matter what you did with your appearance. It was still you.

Simon Riley who sits on the back porch of his esteemed house, looking at how far he has come. His wife is playing with his three girls in the garden, the sun glistening beautifully on them as they get into a water fight.

He sighs, this won’t last long. Even though he’s hung up his boots and his array of medals are hung on the corridor wall to prove his loyalty to his country, John Price had just called him to ask if he was up for one more mission. Price knew he was asking a lot especially due to everything their task force went through.

But Simon didn’t say no. Well, he didn’t say yes either. He doesn’t know what to choose. It’d be selfish to pick going back to the task force, especially considering all those sleepless nights you and the kids had. There were times Simon looked and behaved like a whole different person. All you wanted was for him to be safe.

However, it’s his country. Simon always remembers how he’d have this strange inkling every time he was in a mission that he was ‘meant to do this’.

Maybe it was the fact that military lifestyle is all he knows and he has a co-dependent relationship with it. Maybe he loves the recklessness of the guns and the violence.

He’ll never know.

He hasn’t told you about the call either, deeming that it’d ruin the summer break. He wonders how much it’d break his daughters’ hearts. They love him so much, they never want him to leave.

But for now, he’ll enjoy this view. Seeing all his girls laugh and be happy. With a cold beer in hand and the sun blinding him, he has to enjoy these little moments. Because it might be his last.

Simon, whose only tattoos are from your little sketches.

It starts out accidental, you have no paper and he lets you draw on his arm, but he likes it so much that he gets it tattooed.

And then he asks if you can purposely design him a tattoo, which he gets on the same arm as the first one.

But before you know it, he’s gone through almost all of your sketchbooks and ends up with two patchwork sleeves, every single dot of ink being one of your creations.

“Bit overboard, no?” you tilt your head at him, a raised eyebrow as you eye both of his arms.

“No. I don’t think so.” he says matter of factly with a shrug as he hands you a pen and a brand new sketchbook

“...A few more won’t hurt.”

✄┈┈┈┈

༄ cod m.list

© veritasangel ↣ 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴

Once you and Simon get married, you best bet this man is OBSESSED with calling you his wife.

You’re no longer listed as Y/N in his phone, you’ve now upgraded to “Mrs. Riley.” And the man couldn’t give two shits about how much he’s teased for it.

Any time he address you, you’re no longer babe, love, honey, oh no, it’s “wife, where’s the detergent?” “I missed you, Mrs. Riley.” “What would you like for dinner tonight, wifey?”

Is SUCH a proud fuckin’ husband and loves to show you off to everyone. Had the biggest shit eating grin as he introduced you as his wife to the 141. “This is my wife, Mrs. Riley.”

Will always find ways to tell people that he’s married to you. Getting his haircut? “Oh yeah, my wife likes it when I get it cut this way.”

At the supermarket? “Excuse me, my wife is trying to find this, can you tell me where I can find it?”

Getting hit on by folk at base? “Oh you like my mask? I’ll be sure to let my wifey know, she’s the one who made it for me.”

EQUALLY loves when you call him husband, or hubby. This man will never get tired of you calling him as such.

Oh, you called him Simon? Who the fuck is Simon? That’s hubby to you, sweetheart.

Sweet fuckin man just wants everyone to know what a lucky man he is that he landed you as his wifey.

uh holy shit? this poetry. this academic writing. this beautifully illustrated piece of literature. amazing

🌕Sun & Moon 🌑

*ೃ༄ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*.ೃ࿐

Simon Riley x Reader

Tags: Fluff, comfort, slight angst, Afab!reader

✩ ♬ ₊.🌌⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

He wants to talk to you, he sees you around all the time. The pub is busy with happy soldiers, laughing and drinking together after a successful mission. He tries to talk to you whenever he sees you, but something always pulls you away from his proximity. You both work together in the same building, same line, yet at different stations.

But tonight, he sees the opportunity. He follows you outside, where it is vacant of customers. The cold night keeps everyone indoors, the outside sitting area is avoided.

"Mind if I borrow a light?” he approaches beside you, bringing out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

"Sure," You reply in a soft kind voice, getting a lighter from your pocket and handing it over.

Simon accepts the lighter from you with a quick, silent nod. His thick, calloused fingers gently brush against yours as he takes it, the brief touch sending an electric current that he tries to ignore.

He flicks the lighter expertly, igniting the spark that illuminates his sharp features under the soft glow. The flame licks the end of his cigarette, and he takes a long slow drag, the smoke filling his lungs for a moment before he puffs it out.

He hands the lighter back to you. Fingers brushing again.

"Thanks," he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

"No worries," You answer quietly.

For a moment, Simon's gaze lingers on your face, studying the shadows cast by the flickering light. He’s observant and curious, but he doesn’t pry. Not yet, at least.

He takes another drag of his cigarette, his eyes shifting to the night sky for a second, watching the stars.

"You're not much for crowds, are you?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You shake your head, "I like the space, the silence." You smile.

Simon nods in understanding, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t seem surprised by your answer, but he finds something pleasing in the way you’ve confirmed his observation. You've always been on the more quiet side, only speaking when needed.

He takes another drag of his cigarette before replying.

“I get that.” he says, his voice softer than before. “Peace and quiet are a luxury in this line of work.”

He studies your face for a moment, trying to get a read on you, but your expression is too well guarded, shy.

"Unfortunately true," You agree, shifting your stance.

There’s something about the small gesture that makes him want to know more about you, how you seem comfortable around someone you've barely conversed with. The itch to learn more about you grows stronger, despite his years of training that made him control his curiosity. Perhaps it’s that very control that makes the need to know more about you this intense.

He blows out a puff of smoke, the gesture more contemplative than casual.

“I can’t remember the last time I had actual quiet,” he admits, his voice low.

"This line of work makes you forget things too," You murmur.

Simon takes another long drag of his cigarette, his silence confirming your words. He knows better than most what this job takes from you.  The things it makes you do, the things it makes you see. He’s seen and done far too much to pretend it isn’t true.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his voice laced with a note of bitterness. “It does.”

For a moment, his eyes return to the sky, lost in his own thoughts. The weight of their shared experiences hangs heavy in the air.

He finishes his cigarette and drops it to the ground, crushing it under his boot. The silence between you lingers a little longer.

A part of him wants to fill it with meaningless small talk. Another part wants to dig deeper and ask questions he suspects you won’t answer. He’s too stubborn to choose either option.

“You always this quiet?” he asks instead, his tone teasing.

"I learned the hard way," You replied simply, giving him a polite smile.

Learned the hard way.

Simon ponders on your choice of words. For some reason, his mind immediately jumps to the worst possible scenarios. He’s always been too curious for his own good. Something about you makes him want to find out more. He can’t help but wonder what exactly you mean. What exactly did someone like you go through?

He suppresses the thought, his jaw tightening slightly.

He looks at you, trying to read the hidden meanings behind your polite smile. It’s difficult to tell what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling. He respects your silence, but that doesn’t make him any less curious.

“That so?” he grunts, trying to sound casual, though the weight in his tone betrays his interest. “You ever gonna share?”

"It's nothing worth sharing." You shrugged.

Simon's eyes narrow a little. Nothing worth sharing.  As if whatever you went through isn’t important. As if the things that have shaped you, that have made you the person you are, ‘aren’t worth sharing.’ It's a sentiment he’s used to hearing, and one he’s grown weary of hearing.

His gaze lingers on your face, his eyes searching for something,  even though he knows you're too guarded to reveal anything. As if you are afraid.

“I don’t believe that.”

"How come?" You asked gently.

His eyes lock with yours, and in that moment  he’s taken back by the softness in your voice. It catches him off guard.  He's not sure when someone last spoke to him with such gentleness. The sound makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t expect.  He  doesn’t know how to react to it or why it affects him this way.

He recovers quickly though, shoving down the strange feeling.  He tries to remain impassive, but his voice betrays him.

“Everyone's story is worth telling.”

"Then what's yours?" You smile softly.

Simon’s breath hitches at your question. He hadn’t expected you to turn the conversation around on him.

For a moment, he’s tempted to shut you down, to dismiss the question with a sarcastic comment. He opens his mouth to do just that, but he surprises even  himself by answering instead.

“Too long.” he replies, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a small, almost involuntary smile. It's a rare sight,  but you seem to bring out a softer side of him.

"We have our reasons." You conclude.

We have our reasons.

Your words hit a little too close to home. You’re right, of course. There are things you don’t talk about, things you can’t talk about. But hearing you say it, acknowledging the truth behind those words makes him wonder. What has your life been like? What have you been through?

He looks at you, studying your expression in the faint light, trying to decipher the meaning behind your simplicity. His heart seems to skip a beat. He wants to ask. He wants to know your story, to understand what you've been through.

He wants to share his too.

For the first time in a long time, he feels the urge to open up– He shakes his head, breaking himself out of his head.

“You’re dangerous,” he said softly under his breath, more to himself than to you.

"Hm?" You looked over with kind eyes.

For a moment, he freezes, slightly embarrassed that you heard his mumbled confession. He can’t remember the last time his thoughts have been this loud. When his eyes meet yours, however, he finds himself mesmerized by the kind look in your eyes. It steals his breath and weakens his self-control.

He doesn’t want to think about why.

He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind again. "Nothing," he mumbles, his voice slightly strained. "You're just observant."

"Loneliness does things to you." You murmur, looking up at the moon.

Loneliness.

The word cuts through him like a cold knife. It’s almost ironic, the way you’ve managed to hit the bullseye with just one word. Simon has never admitted it to himself, but it’s loneliness that drove him into this job in the first place. Trying to fill the void left by his family with honor, with glory, with loyalty.

He knows the weight of loneliness all too well

He follows your gaze to the moon, its soft, pale light illuminating your face, giving you an almost ethereal glow. It's a raw moment, one that makes him feel a little too exposed by your quiet revelations.  His heart clenches at the thought of you being lonely. At the thought that someone as kind and caring as you is living a life of solitude.

"It does." he agrees quietly.

He takes a step closer to you without realizing it. It’s like something is drawing him towards you, something he can’t resist. For a moment you just stand there in comfortable silence, sharing this oddly intimate, oddly vulnerable moment.

He wonders if you feel it too.

"Do you ever..." He wants to curse himself for his hesitation, for the uncertainty in his voice. It’s unfamiliar, this feeling of being awkward. He’s never been good with emotions, but something about you makes him want to try.

“Do you ever get tired of being alone?” He cringes inwardly as soon as the words escape his lips. It sounds too sentimental, too desperate, too hopeful.

"Not anymore." You smiled, looking back at him.

Simon’s stares. It’s the softest smile he’s ever seen on you, and it makes his heart speed up. He’s not sure what to do with this newfound, strange feeling in his chest.  So, he just stands there, studying your face, taking in every little detail.

He has so many questions, so many things he wants to ask, but all he manages to say is a soft “Yeah?”

It’s not the most eloquent response, but it’s  all his mind allows him to produce in that moment.

"It's nights like this." You nodded to the moon.

Nights like this.

He looks at the moon too, the soft light bathing both of you in a gentle glow. He understands what you mean.  He feels it too. There’s something about the night sky, about the calmness of the night, that makes even the biggest loner wish he wasn’t so lonely.

He looks back at you, but you look at the moon. In that moment, he feels a connection, a sense of understanding that goes beyond words.

"Do you know why wherever you go the moon seems to follow you?" You asked, laughing a little.

Simon is taken aback by your question, caught off guard by the sudden change of topic. But he finds himself strangely intrigued by it. He likes the way you laugh, the way your eyes seem to sparkle.

He’s not sure what you mean, but he plays along. He’s always been curious, and he likes the sound of your voice.

“No, why?” he asks, his voice almost gentle.

"Because she's afraid of the dark." You whisper softly.

Because she's afraid of the dark.

Simon feels a strange prickle in his chest at your words. It's such a simple, but incredibly profound answer. A small moment of vulnerability hidden beneath an innocent statement. He doesn't respond immediately, he just stands there, taking in the weight of your words. He's not sure why he feels so affected by it, but your voice, so soft and gentle, makes his knees feel weak.

"And the sun?" he can't stop himself from asking.

"Dies a little more everyday because he can't find his love." You murmured.

Dies a little more everyday because he can’t find his love.

Those words hit him harder than he expected.  He's not sure what it is about your simple, straightforward way of seeing the world, but it makes his heart ache in a way he’s not used to. He’s so used to seeing the world in black and white, in mission and mission parameters, in enemy and friend, in enemy and prey.

He looks up at the moon then.

"It makes me feel less alone I guess, seeing how there's plenty of things that are alone, one singular thing..." You muttered distantly.

One singular thing.

Something about that statement resonates with him on a deep level. He’s never thought about it this way, but now that you said it, he sees it all around. The moon, the sun- two singular things, so different, yet so similar.  Both alone, longing for something they can’t have.

"You're quite the philosopher, you know that?" he says, trying to hide the softness in his voice.

Simon tries to ignore the way his heart flutters at the sound of your laugh. He’s never been this affected by a sound before, but the way it makes him feel is both exhilarating and disorienting.

He looks at you, the little smile on your lips, the gentle light in your eyes and he suddenly doesn’t want this moment to end. He wants to know more about you, to hear more of your gentle laugh, to see that smile more often. It’s a dangerous wish.

He clears his throat awkwardly, trying to hide the strangely intense emotions that are coursing through him. This is getting very out of hand.

"Why the moon?" he asks suddenly, needing to divert the attention back to you. He hopes you won’t notice the way his voice shakes.

"Sorry?" You asked softly.

God, even your voice is soft.

He shakes his head. The thoughts in his head are loud and insistent, and they’re making him feel things and think things that he usually suppresses. It makes him uncomfortable. He’s not sure what to do with these new, unfamiliar feelings, so he pushes them away.

“The moon... why the moon?” he clarifies, “Why not the stars?”

"Do you have anything poetic to say about the stars?" You asked kindly, listening to him for anything he has to say.

Poetic...

Simon feels strangely flustered by your question. He’s not the kind of man who does poetry. He’s a soldier, a coldblooded killer, trained to be detached, logical, analytical. Feelings are a weakness, poetry is an unnecessary sentimentality. He has no time for that.

But you make him want to try.

“No.” he answers honestly.

"In the end, the stars chose destruction over life." You murmur into the night air.

The gravity behind those words hit him harder than he expects. The idea that the stars, these bright, beautiful things in the sky, chose destruction over life... it resonates with him on a deep level. Reminds him of his own past.

Of the choices he himself has made.

He can sense a meaning behind your words, hidden in between the lines. He wants to ask you more about it, but he's not sure if it's his place to.

"And the most worthy ones are reborn," You added.

Again, a strange sense of familiarity with those words. Like you’re speaking from experience. Like you know the pain and the suffering, the loneliness and the guilt, and you understand what it’s like to be reborn. He suddenly feels an urge to reach out to you, to offer some kind of comfort, but he has no idea how. He’s not the comforting kind.

He just stands there, trying to think of something to say. He’s not good with words, especially not with comforting words. All the usual reassurances seem empty and shallow in his mind. He wants to help you, to make you feel less alone, but he’s not sure how.

He looks at the moon, the bright circle in the sky. For the first time, he notices how lonely it looks. Alone.

Just like you.

You’re feeling just as lonely as the moon. That’s why you’re standing here, watching the moon. To feel less alone. To find some solace in the loneliness. He understands that feeling. All too well.

Without thinking, without realizing what he’s doing, Simon takes a step closer to you. Close enough that he can feel the warmth of your body.

Close enough to offer comfort without actually touching you.

"I guess... we all need a bit of company sometimes." he says quietly, his eyes still on the moon, his heart aching for yours. It’s the closest thing to a comfort he can offer and he hates how inadequate it feels. How useless it sounds. He wants to do more, but he doesn’t know how. His words are not very comforting.

"Humans need socialization. We thrive in groups." You agree.

They need a pack, a clan, a community. He knows that, he's lived it. But you're different. You don't seem to be looking for a community. You seem to be searching for something else.

Someone else.

"What about you?" he asks quietly.

"There's always a black sheep," You smiled.

The term immediately brings up images of himself, of all the times he didn’t fit in, the times he was labeled as the black sheep, the problem child, the dangerous kid, the killer. It’s an isolating feeling, being the black sheep.

He looks at you, your smile, the sadness hidden in it. He wonders if you’ve had a similar experience, if you’ve been the black sheep, if you’ve ever felt like no one understands you, like no one sees you.

"Being a black sheep sucks." he says bluntly.

She giggled.

His heart does a weird little flip in his chest. Just for a second, he forgets that he’s a coldhearted killer. In that moment all he can think about is how lovely your laugh sounds. How he wants to hear it again and again.

He hates this. This tenderness, this softness. It’s not him.

"Sometimes it's not so bad." You offer.

He looks at you, the way you’re trying to stay positive, to find the silver lining in your own isolation. He admires you for that. He wonders how you do it, how you find the strength to be okay on your own.

"How do you do it?" he asks.

"When you look at it one way, nobody tells you what to do, what to say, how to act...you can just be you freely."

He lets those words sink in, lets them touch that deep, lonely part of him that craves freedom. That yearns for a chance to shed the heavy weight of expectations, of guilt, of duty, of orders. To be his true self.

It’s a dream he’s never dared to wish for.

“Sounds liberating.” he murmurs.

"It's pretty great," You remark.

The simplicity of your contentment makes him envious. How can someone like you seem to be so satisfied with the life that would drive everyone else crazy? The isolation, the freedom, the loneliness.

How can you stand it?

And yet, in that moment, he yearns for it.

The way you say it, with that small smile on your lips, almost like you’re holding back something. Like you’re not telling the entire truth. It makes him wonder. What else are you not saying? What else are you holding back? What about the other times it’s not pretty great? When loneliness hits too hard, when it feels like too much?

He wants to ask you about it, but he doesn’t want to pry. He has no right to. He has no right to push, to get to know you, to invade your privacy. And yet he can’t stop himself from wanting to know more about you. To find out everything there is to know.

To understand your loneliness. Is it like his? Could you both grow together and understand each other on a soul deep level?

The gentle sound of night bugs, the soft scent of rain... it all adds to the beauty of the night, to the strange intimacy of this moment.

This is not what he expected when he stepped out for a smoke, he’s not exactly sure how he ended up here, having a deep conversation with a beautiful girl he barely knows. 

"...You just gonna stand out here for no reason?" You smiled at him.

His cigarette. It’s finished. He stares at it for a moment, almost surprised to realize he’s smoked it gone. He doesn't even remember getting rid of it.

He’s never been this distracted before.

He looks down at you, and his heart lurches at the sight of your smile. God, you're beautiful.

“Yeah,” he says lamely.

Way to sound like an idiot.

He mentally curses himself for being so awkward. For losing his cool. He’s supposed to be a soldier, a strong, confident man, not a mess of nerves.

“I mean—” he starts to say, but he doesn’t really know how to finish that sentence.

He can feel his ears getting red, the embarrassment creeping in. He’s never been this awkward with girls. He should be smoother than this, but the nerves are making his brain too slow. He looks down at you, trying to think of something clever to say, something suave, anything, but he feels like a damn teenager again.

He clears his throat, hoping to sound more like his usual, composed self.

“I have no reason to go back inside.”

"Fair enough," You conceded.

He’s standing here with you, having this easy conversation, and it feels so normal, so natural, like this is something regular friends do.

Like the two of you are friends. You aren’t, he reminds himself. This is a one time thing. A one time conversation. Nothing more.

But he doesn’t want it to be nothing more.

He wants more.

The thought jolts through him, making his heart stumble.

He wants more.

He wants to talk to you again. He wants to know your secrets, your stories, your dreams and fears.

He wants to know you.

"What’s your name?" he asks suddenly. Your real name. Not a callsign, or what others call you.

You give your name, speaking softly, sweetly. Like a soothing caress.  Like a warm hug for his cold soul.

The sound of your voice is beautiful, just like you.

He wants to hear more of it.

“I’m Simon,” he introduces himself, even though you probably already call him by Ghost.

But he wants you to know his name.

"It's nice to properly meet you," You smiled.

He has to stop himself from melting. The sight of you smiling, the sound of his name coming from your lips… it all creates a dangerous mix in his heart.

Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.

“Likewise,” he responds softly and then, because he’s feeling brave, because he wants to know a little more about you, he asks, “What made you choose the moon?”

"It's not that I chose it." You replied easily.

"I feel like it chose me."

He looks at you, that soft smile on your lips, and he can see it. The connection you have with the moon, the understanding between you and this lonely celestial sphere.

He doesn’t understand it, but he feels he’s beginning to. Because the same thing happened to him. He didn’t choose it, but it doesn’t give him up. It follows him, haunting him, reminding him of his deeds.

Perhaps they’re not that different.

Those words send a shiver down his spine. There’s something about how you say it, some melancholy hidden in your voice. Something that tells him that you and the moon have more in common than you’d like to admit.

“How so?” he asks softly.

You bite your lip with a shrug, "I'm not sure myself, it's just a feeling I guess."

He looks at you, really looks at you, and he can see it. That loneliness, that sadness, the pain hidden in your eyes.  He knows those feelings because he’s felt them too.

“It chose well,” he murmurs.

You give him a small grateful smile.

That beautiful smile.

His heart stutters in his chest. He’s never wanted to protect someone the way he wants to protect your smile. It’s like a little piece of sunshine in a dark world. He wants to see it again. And again. And again. 

“You deserve it,” he says simply.

"Think so?" You ask, preening.

He’s almost stunned by how shy you sound. Shy, like you don’t really believe you deserve it. How can you not realize how special you are?

How gorgeous you are, inside and out.

How many people should want you.

You don’t know how lucky he feels, just to be having this conversation with you, to have this moment with you.

You’re blushing.

The sight of your shy, bashful, beautiful face has him lost for words for a moment. He’s seen you in battle, all fierce and focused and badass, it’s a huge difference from this shy side of you.  Both versions of you are beautiful.  Both versions of you make his heart race.

“I know so.” he affirms.

He wants to reach out, touch your cheek, feel how soft your skin is. To trace the curve of your cheekbone with his thumb. To make your blush deepen with a touch. But he doesn’t dare. He knows it’s not allowed. It’s not what people in their positions do.

You’re his subordinate. You’re his teammate. He doesn’t have the right to touch you. He reminds himself.

But he wishes he did.

He clears his throat, trying to distract himself from that dangerous thought.

“Do you, uh, watch the moon often?” he asks, trying to keep the shakiness out of his voice.

His heart skips a beat when he sees you throw your head back and laugh, so openly, so freely.  It’s a genuine, full laugh, one that seems to come from the very depths of your soul, and it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. He did that. He made you laugh.

He wants to be the reason you laugh every day. Every damn day.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, trying to sound annoyed, but there’s no hiding the smile tugging at his lips.

You shake your head and laugh again. That sound, god, it’s addictive. It feels like you’re pouring sunshine into his soul. But the sight of you, shaking your head and laughing, makes him think the question might’ve struck something deep. Something painful. Something you’re trying to hide.

And he wants to know what it is.

“Come on,” he says.

"Sorry, it just sounded so cliché."

He can’t keep the smile off his lips when he sees your grin. It’s mischievous, cheeky, beautiful. Just like you. He lets out a soft chuckle. He can't help it. Your grin, your honesty, it's adorable. It's so refreshing, so genuine. He doesn't know how to handle this version of you. The soft, vulnerable, sweet, beautiful version of you.

It's a little bit terrifying.

"Cliché?” he feigns offense, raising an eyebrow, “What’s wrong with being cliché?”

He crosses his arms as you shake your head again, mirroring your stance. He’s feeling bold, playful. He likes this side of you. He wants to see more of it.

"Come on,” he teases, "it’s a valid question.”

The two of you spend the night talking. Laughing. Bickering when you accidentally insult one of his favorite things, which is a silly thing to banter about, but you’re determined to prove him wrong.

And he’s determined to get you to agree with his correct opinion.

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s perfect.

He’s never had such a pleasant night.

Every time he makes you smile, every time he makes you laugh, his heart swells with pride.

He did that. He made you happy.

He wants to make you happy forever. The night passes in a blur, and he savors every second of it.

He looks at the moon with you for a while. He lets you talk about the solar eclipse that happened during the mission, how you were able to get a few pictures. He doesn’t care about the moon or the night sky.  He's been watching you, under the night sky of stars his eyes are on you, illuminated by the stars. It’s beautiful. You are beautiful.

Just like the sun longs for the moon, he will chase after what he cannot have.