Title: Moonlight Dance

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

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.

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.

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?

♪ 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.

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.