nonilogical

[nonilogical]

Wrong Graves, Right Heart - pt. 2

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x female!Reader

synopsis: In the warmth of a quiet café, Simon finds himself explaining the story behind an unusual act of kindness gone awry—a two-year gesture of leaving flowers at the wrong grave. Amid teasing laughter and genuine understanding, the conversation shifts from awkward confessions to a heartfelt connection. As the rain falls outside, Simon begins to see that even the strangest mistakes can reveal truths about who we are—and bring us closer to the people who matter most.

warnings: Language, emotional themes, mild angst, slow burn.

word count: 652

a/n: Sorry for the mistakes, English isn’t my first language, and thank you so much for all the interactions and feedback on part 1! I’m really grateful for your patience and support! I hope you enjoy this too.

Part 1

The café’s dim lighting cast a warm glow over their small table, the golden hue bouncing off the polished wood. Outside, rain pattered gently against the window, a soft blurred background to the low murmur of voices inside. Simon shifted in his chair, sitting across from her, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, the warmth doing little to chase away his lingering embarrassment, the smell of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the faint hint of her lavender perfume. She stirred her tea absently, her eyebrows still arched in disbelief.

“So, let me get this straight,” she said, her voice light but her raised eyebrow sharp. “You brought flowers to a murderer’s grave for two years?”

Simon groaned, his shoulders slumping. “Hey, I didn’t know, okay?” he muttered defensively, running a hand over the back of his neck, the rough fabric of his hoodie scratching his skin. His ears felt warm—either from the heat of his coffee or the weight of her amused gaze, he wasn’t sure. “And they were nice flowers,” he said again, as if that somehow made it better.

“Right, that makes it all better ‘Sorry for the murders—here’s a bouquet of daisies.’”. Her laugh was soft, melodic, and Simon found himself watching the way her lips curved upward. It wasn’t the first time someone had laughed at his expense, but this... this felt different. Less mocking, more... comfortable.

He snorted despite himself. “Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds bad. And, it wasn’t daisies,” he muttered, his lips twitching despite himself. “It was roses. Classy ones.”

She leaned forward, her elbow resting on the table. “Simon,” she said, her tone mock-serious, “nothing about this is classy. It’s weird. Sweet in a... deeply concerning way, but still weird.”

Simon couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head. “I swear, this isn’t how I usually impress women,” he said dryly.

“Oh? What’s the usual method? Buying flowers for people still alive?” she quipped.

He snorted, raising his mug in mock salute. “Touché.”

“But, you know... also kind of sweet. In a weird, overly dedicated kind of way.” She gave a coy smile while he rolled his eyes, but a faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Glad my bizarre coping mechanism entertain you.”

“It does,” she admitted, taking a sip of her tea. “But honestly, it’s not every day you meet someone who’d go to all that effort for a stranger. Even if they didn’t deserve it.” Her expression softened, her teasing tone fading into something more genuine. “I think it says something about you.”

“Yeah?” he asked, tilting his head, suddenly unsure of what to do with the compliment.

She nodded. “Yeah. Like... you’re someone who cares. Probably more than you let on.”

“I guess I just... didn’t want anyone to feel forgotten,” he murmured.

Her gaze softened, and for a moment, the teasing slipped away. “That’s not a bad thing, Simon.”

He glanced up, his throat tightening. “Sometimes it feels like it is. Like maybe it’s... selfish. Doing something because you’re afraid of your own ghosts.”

She shook her head, her hand brushing against her mug. “Or maybe it’s brave. Trying to make sure no one feels what you’ve felt. You might have gotten the wrong guy, but the thought was there. And honestly?” She leaned back, tapping a finger against her mug. “It’s kind of refreshing to meet someone who’s still willing to care that much, even about the wrong things.”

Simon chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess that makes me a grade-A idiot.”

“Maybe,” she teased, a playful glint returning to her eyes. “But you’re my kind of idiot.”

For the first time that day, Simon felt a weight lift from his chest. The guilt, the awkwardness—it all seemed to fade under the warmth of her smile. He took a sip of his coffee, the bitter liquid tasting a little sweeter now.

[nonilogical]

Wrong Graves, Right Heart

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x female!Reader

synopsis: What starts as Simon’s small act of kindness—leaving flowers on an abandoned grave—takes an unexpected turn when he learns the dark truth about the man buried there. A chance meeting at another grave, however, leads to a connection he never saw coming.

warnings: mentions of death, grief, murder (briefly described, not graphic), guilt, emotional vulnerability. Mostly fluff with humor and a touch of angst.

word count: 1367

a/n: Inspired by a hilarious, and slightly dark, Twitter thread that I stumbled across (this one) and written while listening to Radiohead—so, yeah, heavily inspired. This spiraled into something bigger than I planned, but I loved how it turned out!

part 2

Simon visits his mom pretty often. At least once a week when he isn’t on deployment.

He would buy her bouquets and her grave was the most well-taken care of all Southern Cemetery, it frequently resembled a solid third place at Chelsea Flower Show.

But the guy next to her didn’t have much luck. His grave was abandoned and never received flowers, the only readable information about the man was his name and that he died on christmas day at age 33.

There was something unsettling about the headstone that Simon couldn’t shake. Maybe it was the way the chiseled name seemed to fade quicker than the others around it, or the date etched so starkly—Christmas Day. It felt like the grave itself bore a story too heavy for time to carry.

Every week, as Simon walked past that abandoned grave, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. Not for the man, but for what the man represented—a life wasted, forgotten, abandoned by time and loved ones. It was as if Simon could almost hear the echoes of the man’s lonely final days, a voice in the silence that reminded him of his own lost moments, his own griefs that had never been healed. He was doing it for both of them, in a way—he was making up for something he couldn’t even name.

He thought of his mother, resting just a few rows down, her grave adorned with flowers he could no longer place there himself. Maybe, just maybe, this stranger’s memory deserved a similar kindness… when he looked outside the iron gate and saw the pop-up florist and had an idea.

That's how Simon started buying flowers for a deceased man he had never met. And after some time Simon even started adding little touches—fresh soil to the base of the tombstone, cleaning the headstone when the rain left stains, sometimes even rearranging the flowers into a new arrangement.

Simon didn’t know why he cared—it wasn’t like the man would notice. Still, an odd sense of duty settled on him, as though he’d become the custodian of a memory long forsaken.

It was like he was making the world better, one bunch of flowers at a time. He did this for quite some time, but never told it to a soul. He knew it sounded weird, kinda lonely but he came to think about him as a friend. The loneliness of it all gnawed at him. He wondered, was he doing this for the stranger—or for himself, to fill some silent void he couldn’t quite name?

As Simon approached the grave that week, the familiar pang returned, sharper than before. He stood still, the wind teasing the edge of his jacket. The flowers in his hand felt weightier than usual, as though the guilt he carried seeped into their petals.

“What am I doing here?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves. But no one answered—not the man beneath the stone nor the ghost of his own regrets.

He wondered if there was a hidden connection between them, something that drew Simon to him. Maybe they went to the same school, or maybe both supported Manchester United football club or whatever. So he decided to google his name.

Finger hovering over the enter button, he hesitated. It was silly, he knew, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was about to unearth something better left buried.

When Simon first Googled the man’s name, he found nothing.

But, just like Price says, “Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.”

The days had passed, and curiosity gnawed at him until, one night, he gave in. With a few beers in a pub with the 141 clouding his judgment and hours of searching through online records, he finally found a Newspaper article.

His pulse quickened. When the article loaded, Simon froze. The words blurred together at first, the screen swimming in his vision.

‘Family Tragedy Ends in Suicide on Christmas Day.’

“Murdered her…” he whispered aloud, his mouth going dry.

The words clawed their way up his throat, and the details stood out like jagged shards—murdered his wife and in-laws on a Christmas night. His hands shook as he scrolled, the bedroom suddenly feeling too small. The man he’d been honoring wasn’t a victim but a villain.

His wife didn’t leave him flowers because he murdered her on christmas day. After murdering his wife he also killed her parents and then jumped in front of the only train passing in Piccadilly Train Station that christmas night.

His stomach churned as he read on, his hand trembling against the mouse. By the end, he wasn’t sure if the nausea came from the man’s actions or the realization that Simon had spent years tending to the grave of a killer.

Simon’s heart sank while reading all the news, he felt like a terrible person and felt so sorry for his wife and parents. He felt he needed to do something to soothe the guilty and that's the situation he found himself in, he wouldn’t buy them flowers for almost two years but he was going to apologise.

After searching where they were buried he bought them flowers and drove to the Blackley Cemetery.

The smell of damp earth and fresh-cut flowers hung in the air, mingling with the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional distant crow. It was quiet, reverent, a sanctuary—and yet, under it all, a gnawing sadness.

Standing in front of their graves, Simon’s hands trembled. The flowers he’d brought felt heavy, like a physical manifestation of the guilt he hadn’t even known he was carrying.

What right did he have to apologize for a crime he never committed?

The flowers became more than just a gift; they were a ritual. With every petal he placed, Simon felt as though he were piecing together something broken—not the strangers’ lives, but perhaps his own. And when he laid that last bouquet at the foot of the victims’ graves, it was less an offering and more an apology whispered through the blooms.

Kneeling before the graves, Simon fumbled with the bouquet, his fingers clumsy and unsure. He cleared his throat, but his voice cracked anyway. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, the words escaping like a confession.

The headstones didn’t respond, their silence deafening, but Simon kept going. ‘I didn’t know. I should’ve…’ His words trailed off, swallowed by the damp air, leaving only the faint rustle of trees to answer him and a nudge on his shoulder.

‘Hi,’ she said, her voice calm but mildly woolly. ‘Why are you leaving flowers for my aunt and grandparents?’

Simon was startled. He turned, finding a woman standing a few feet away, arms crossed but her expression more puzzled than angry. His throat tightened. ‘I, uh… it’s complicated,’ he stammered, his face flushing under her steady gaze

Her eyes were full of something he couldn’t place—curiosity, disbelief, maybe even a little amusement. The words he’d rehearsed in his mind felt silly now, but he said them anyway, rambling about flowers and apologies.

Simon shifted, glancing from her face to the graves. “It’s… a long story, one I’m not even sure makes sense.”

She tilted her head, lips quirking into a half-smile. “You know, weird as it is, those are usually the best stories. So, how about you tell me over coffee?” Her face softened, the tension easing as he listens, there was no judgment, only a quiet understanding that unsettled Simon more than anything.

He blinked, surprised. ‘I, uh… yeah. I’d like that.’

As they walked away from the cemetery, the weight in Simon’s chest lightened. Maybe it was the fresh air, or maybe it was the odd sense of peace that seemed to hang between them now. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something had shifted. The ache in his chest had faded, replaced by a soft, unfamiliar warmth. It was as if, in trying to make the world a little better for a stranger, he’d found a piece of something he’d been missing too.

[nonilogical]

Merry belated Christmas everyone xxx

[nonilogical]

thinking about sleeping next to simon thanks to @thatsamericasass24

“What’re you doing up this late?” His gruff voice rang out, empty bottle in hand coming to fill it in the sink here, but all rationality seemed to run to waste when he saw your state.

For some reason, you cant sleep in your bed tonight whether that’s because of a giant spider, a nightmare scaring you or your bed entirely breaking mid sleep. Either way, you’re shaking in the common room, hands wrapped around a warm mug as you recount the previous events like a broken tape playing the same part.

With that, he had ushered you into his bedroom, knowing he couldnt just leave you to tremble any longer on that couch. He never planned to sleep beside you, no, he would only lay next to you, make sure that shiver stopped. He settles in the bed first, making sure to be on the edge before patting the space next to him in the dark room, only the small lamplight glowing up the untouched sheets.

You let out a soft breath of relief as you shuffle beneath the covers beside him, only to tense up immediately when your leg collides with his. “Sorry!” You squeak out, shuffling forward only to meet your tipping point, your hand gripping the bedframe to stop you from completely falling off the mattress. You were seconds away from falling off altogether but you couldn’t fathom complaining so you just lay there, squashed into yourself to avoid touching him once more— your hands still holding on desperately so you dont fall off the bed altogether.

His teeth grit as he watches the situation unfold, clearly having underestimated just how large he was. Of course his own bed was more than sufficient for himself— he didnt really think twice when his arm fell off the bed in the mornings. so he figured the same would apply to you. Now he could only watch as you lay stiffly, trying your best not to be ungrateful for his help but it was a little difficult when you felt more on edge than before. Literally.

He taps your shoulder and motions for you to face him, which you do, rolling over when your shoulder brushes his arm once more, a flush on your cheek.. Looking down between you two, there’s only an inch of space at best, and even so, he’s not even in a comfortable position. “Sorry— i’ll just go back to mine-“ You begin but he shakes his head, settling himself properly in the bed until his arms bump yours.

“Hold onto me.” You blink in surprise and instinctively follow his instructions, reaching an arm out before he guides your hand to settle over the expanse his chest. He would’ve wrapped you up tightly with his own arms, keeping you safe in his strong grip. However, the last thing he’d want is to scare you off by being his usually rough self. This way you could choose what you wanted to do, without feeling pressured to comply.

And you do, your hand snug over his chest as your body slowly pushes more against his, right in the crook of him. “I think my arm is too short.” He loves the way your lips quirk up into a nervous grin, afraid yet still finding entertainment in the silliness of this situation. He shuffles onto his side instead, every inch of him pressing against your body as he moves. “You gonna keep being cheeky or can i hold you properly?” He knew what you were implying but it was best to be sure, especially from how shaken up you were earlier. “The latter, please.”

You let out a soft squeal as he wraps his large arm around you, his forearm pressing against your back as he tucks your head into his neck. “ ‘m not gonna let you fall off. Close yer eyes.” He squeezes you a little, forcing the breath you’ve been holding in the corner of your lungs for hours now to finally release. Your eyes flitter, the warm skin of his neck bringing colour back to your cheeks. The panic from before dissipates now, sleepy eyes drifting close as your hand reaches around, only landing on his side at best. “Night, Si.” You squeeze him just as tight, your nose nudging his neck and he chuckles, never having thought he’d ever be able to hold you like this.

“Night, sweetheart.”

[nonilogical]

Part 1

cw: death of family members

It had been five years since Simon’s last tapping-out ceremony. Back then, he had hoped he’d never again have to stand on this field, but now he was glad he was there. Clad in his ceremonial uniform, he once again watched as families tapped out their loved ones. He watched until only one was left. You. The young woman who had tapped him out five years before.

With a heavy heart, he walked up to you, coming to a stop right in front of you. He watched as silent tears streamed down your face, your eyes focusing on him. And he continued to stand there, his mind taking him back to the worst day of your life.

You had joined the military shortly after you had met Simon, cruising through basic training without issue. When Simon found out about it, he had put in a request that you get transferred to the 141 as a rookie, as soon as your training was over. You were ecstatic to be training under him and you quickly grew close with the rest of the task force. But then everything came crashing down.

Your brother died during an op. Just months after you started training with the 141, you had to bury him. Simon stood by your side as you grieved him. You grew close to each other, closer than you probably should, since he was still your superior, but it did both of you well, so Price turned a blind eye.

But when the Captain received a call just a year ago, he had Simon break it to you. Your entire family had died in a car crash. Your mother, siblings, nephews - everyone was dead. You were alone. All alone. A feeling Simon knew all too well.

When you met Simon, you never thought you’d find yourself in the same situation he was. But…you weren’t alone. You had him, and Price and Johnny and Kyle. You had your own little family, and slowly, you healed. But days like these brought all the hurt back.

Simon reached up, his hand gently cupping your face as the sob that had been building inside you for an hour finally escaped your lips. Without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him as he pulled you closer against himself. “I got ya love. I got ya.” Your tears stained his uniform as he just held you while you cried.

It took you a few minutes to calm down, but when you did, Simon gently pulled away, cupping your face and making you look up at him. “I’m so proud of you, baby. And they are, too.” You nodded, managing to smile a little at the thought of them cheering on from heaven. “Come, the boys are waiting back on base.”

Just like you had with him five years ago, he slipped his hand into yours and led you to the car park.

A/N: Part two! Hope you liked it, sorry for all the angst. Also, I almost cried writing this.

[nonilogical]

POW!Ghost and EnemyMedic! Reader who come into his cell and patches him up after every torture session.

You never talk to him, even with all the vitriol he spews about how medics are supposed to protect, do no harm, all that stuff. You never react when he is uncooperative, when he spits blood at you, yells at you, screams at you.

No matter what he does, you simply clean the blood from his skin, patch his wounds, and make sure he gets nutrients and fluids, even if you have to use an IV.

He gets rescued, eventually, and they take you prisoner. The strip you of your uniform, force you to take the medical mask off your face.....

And find that your mouth has been sewn shut. There's a feeding tube taped to your cheek, dissapearing into your nose, not visible under the mask.

Turns out you were a POW as well, a medic captured years ago who figured out it was just easier to do what your captors wanted than to fight back.

[nonilogical]

Please I’m literally at work and this thought would NOT go away

Roommate!Simon Riley who sits in the bathroom while you’re in the shower.

The first time it happened he’d been so lost in his head he hadn’t even noticed the water was running. It was after work, late at night. When he walked in and heard your shriek, he was quick to cover his eyes, despite the shower curtain, fumbling for the door while a constant stream of apologies fell from his lips.

“Simon! Is that you?” Your voice was shaky, and he realized, just by the simple sound of your tone, that you weren’t screaming because he’d walked in, you simply just hadn’t known he was home.

“Yeah love, ‘m sorry, I didn’t know you were in here.” His fingers nervously fiddled with the door handle, squeaking hinges reminding him to take his weight off of the old wood.

“No it’s okay, you just scared me is all.” You peeked your head out of the shower, dripping loose droplets of water all over the rug. “You can stay in here ya know. I wouldn’t mind the company.” Didn’t have to tell him twice. He was sat.

He listened to you ramble as he cleaned his bloody knuckles, inhaling the familiar scent of your shampoo with every breath. He found comfort in it, even found himself longing for the lingering smell of your hair when he was away. That’d never happened to him before, not since you came along.

He liked how the smells weren’t harsh, they were just you.

“Hey Riley! Hand me my towel please?” He turned his gaze from the crimson sink to face you, quirking a smile when he saw the way you clenched your eyes shut, soap suds dripping down your forehead. “Got soap in my eyes.”

An amused huff came from his nose. “I can tell.” Instead of handing it to you, he grabbed your jaw with one hand, bandaged fingers careful as they wiped from the corner of your eyes to the outer part and back again. It wasn’t necessary of course, but you didn’t need to get a perfectly clean towel soaking wet before you needed it. That would be silly.

“Thanks,” You couldn’t help how breathless you sounded, eyelashes fluttering open to see his stern ones focused on making sure the rest of your face was dry.

“Welcome,” It was gruff and short, but he meant it, truly.

After that, it didn’t necessarily become routine, but if you got home from work, and he was there, it was bound to happen. You just had so many things to tell him. Stories of rude coworkers- about how they tried to steal the cookies he’d bought you, but how you were determined to eat every single one of them.

He’d follow you around like a lost puppy, finding solace on the toilet seat when you finally managed to get your ass in the shower. He made fun of you once for how distracted you got, and after seeing the fake pout on your lips he couldn’t stop. Picking on you was his favorite past time after all.

He loves how you sing softly, and he queues away the songs your the loudest to in his head, storing them away to discreetly surprise you with later. The sound of your voice just soothes him, even if it’s not always on key.

Sometimes he’ll even tell you about his day too. It’s not often, but when it happens, you remind yourself to stay dead silent. He was like a baby deer, one wrong move and you’d lose him.

When he inevitably goes quiet mid conversation, you always urge him to continue. “C’mon Riley, I’m listenin’” He melts right then and there every time.

The towel is always in his hands once he hears the shower turn off, ready for you to grab whenever you’re ready. You always insist on doing the rest of your routine behind the safety of the curtain.

“I don’t mind leaving love,”

Another peek of your head and another puddle of water.“Simon Riley, finish telling me your story or I’ll murder you.” It was a pretty convincing argument. He’d obviously listen so he didn’t die. Not because the cute little angry crease between your brows drove him crazy or the way your eyes were stormy with determination made him feel a little horny.

It was always the small things with you.

“Alright you sassy lass, I’ll talk.” And so he’d finish his story, handing you whatever products you asked for every now and then before you reached your hand out for fresh clothes.

As he turned around to get them he’d hear a loud slam, the sound of bottles clattering and your quiet hiss making him alert. Before he could even say anything though, you’d counteract his concern.

“I’m fine. Just slipped on my fucking conditioner.” And oh if he didn’t belly laugh.

Now, sometimes, you’d follow him to the bathroom, and he’d let you. Those these were the moments where he wouldn’t get a second to speak. Because you’d talk, and talk, and talk some more, and he’d eat it all up like it was his last meal.

He’d go to bed thinking about the sound of your voice, bottle it up and take it with him when he had to be away for to long. Because a minute without the sweet sound of your presence was a minute to damn long.

i asked someone to do this for me once and they looked at me like i was crazy and said no :( (is this only cute in my head???????)

[nonilogical]

Did somebody ask for more??? Too bad cause you’re getting it.

Roommate!Simon Riley who loves to find you sprawled out on the couch like an octopus when he gets home from work. You’re always laid out in some odd way, a way that certainly cannot be comfortable. The blanket you’d been snuggled up with was now tangled haphazardly around your legs, and your arms were dangling off the side, head dangerously close to tipping off with them.

He likes to think you were waiting on him. That it’s the reason why you left the warm lamp on by your head, why there’s a familiar movie playing in the background. Your dinner is untouched on the end table beside you, his is neatly placed on the kitchen counter. His favorite drink is left unopened, a cup of melted ice right next to it, your bottle is nothing but a few drops of water.

Gently setting down his things, he pads as quietly as he can to where you’re laying. The tips of his fingers ghost along your spine before he gives your back a gentle squeeze, moving to the kitchen to grab his plate of food. He puts your food in a plastic container as he waits on supper to warm up, making sure to trade out your empty bottle of water for a fresh one. You’d wake up thirsty, you always did.

The microwave beeps a fraction too loudly once it’s finished. and he finds himself cursing at it, wincing when it squeaks as he opens the door. You twitch in response, adjusting your head just to squish flushed cheeks even further into the cushion.

When he comes back to the couch, he’s careful moving your feet, placing them one by one onto his thighs. He’ll give ‘em a quick little rub, patting the sides of your toes before scarfing down his dinner. He leaves the movie playing while he eats, just because he didn’t wanna wake you up, not because he likes it. Because he doesn’t.

Subconsciously, he finds his fingers tucking the blanket back around your body, and instead of tugging them away, he rests his hand on one of your calves, setting his empty plate on the coffee table.

With one hand on your leg, and the other wrapped around his stomach, he scoots down, letting his head rest on the back of the couch. He’d close his eyes. Just for a minute.

A minute turned into the end credits blasting through the TV speakers, jerking the both of you awake. He notices the way your eyelashes flutter, sleep leaving you dazed and confused. You don’t question him being there, instead just reach for his hand, fingers tangling around his thumb.

“‘m thirsty.”

Of course you were. He shakes his finger, jostling you to open your eyes again. “On the table.”

There, waiting for you, was a fresh bottle of water. You don’t question that either. “thanks,” He just grunts in response, settling back down beside you.

You keep your grip tight on his hand, flicking off the lamp after chugging your drink. He turns on another movie, for you, of course. Definitely not for him.

As sleep tugs him under once more, his side droops down toward your body until he’s resting an arm against your back, and his head against his arm. Large legs stretch out as far as they’ll go, his other hand moving to lay over your feet.

Now you’re tangled together. Two octopuses sprawled out on a small piece of furniture.

And what’s that they say about octopuses? They’ve got three hearts?

Well he was sure that was him right now. Three hearts all beating solely for you. They always would.

Guys, this is the end of my drafts. WHAT DO I DO?? Is this stupid? Too silly? Was it only cute and domestic in my own brain??

[nonilogical]

Neon Lights and Bloody Fights

(fighter!Simon Riley x reader)

At this point in your relationship, you thought you knew your boyfriend. Yeah, he was kinda stupid, yeah he didn’t listen much, and yeah maybe he consistently made bad choices and dragged you along to stupid crap. 

But you never thought you’d be standing outside in the cold, watching the sketchiest men you’d ever seen flood into a narrow staircase. Shouldering each other and barking laughs, dampness soaking the ground.

Arms crossed tightly, shoulders raised high and tight, your jeans low on your hips, jacket not as thick as you wanted it to be at the moment. You were told to dress casually, what a load of crap.

Shoes crunching noisily on the gravel. Your boyfriend was a few feet in front of you, and you were trying your best to stay close to him, brows pinched together and goosebumps raising your skin. It didn’t feel safe, and as bad as it sounded you didn’t fully trust your boyfriend to keep you exactly…safe.

The neon signs hanging over doorways and flickering reflected in the puddles on the ground didn’t help add to the comfort of the place.

“Um, Ryan?” you asked, glancing at the men eyeing you, “Wait, hold on, please–”

Your boyfriend huffed and turned to you dramatically, “You’re gonna slow us down, I want to be close to the fight!”

He grabbed your arm and squeezed, dragging you to the stairs, not caring that he was dragging you into people. Apologies rolled off your tongue, almost endless as you bumped into people and tripped over them.

A few swears passed along and a few obscene gestures and you had made it to the bottom of the stairs.

You could feel the heat of the place before you were really even inside, the chill on your skin evaporating into something clammy. The thick stench of cigarettes and cigars hung in the air, not to mention the heavy cologne and sweat. Your lips curling up and your nose scrunching. Looking at your boyfriend who was almost pushing past people, his hand slipping from your arm.

“Wait,” you reached after him, the clanging of metal and bass heavy music drowning out your voice, “Slow down!”

You moved your way forward, and what felt like a large hammer jutted against your back, causing you to trip forward. Yelping slightly as two strong hands grasped your shoulders tightly.

“Careful there,” the voice shouted over the noise, you looked up startled, “Gonna knock someone down!”

“Oh-I, I’m so sorry!” you smiled politely, straightening yourself, the man's hands not yet leaving your shoulders. You couldn’t help but admire the black man in front of you, boyfriend or not, this was an extremely attractive man. Glowing skin, straight teeth and close cropped hair, a yellowish-purple bruise just under his right eye, a small nick in the same place. The lighting in the room was dim, and mostly yellow and orange honestly. But it still highlighted him well. Skin shiny with sweat.

“What are you doin’ here?” he chuckled, looking you up and down in a curious manner, “Not exactly, your scene i’m guessin’?”

You smiled nervously, looking around behind him, through the door he was standing guard next to, trying to find your boyfriend.

“No, not really, I’m just here for my boyfriend, he…he dragged me along,” you said, licking your lips slightly, and shrugging yourself out of the man's grip, glancing behind you to not get knocked down again.

“Boyfriend?” the man pouted a bit, “Wha’ a shame, where’s he at? Seems like he ditched ya’.”

The man chuckled, you let out a fake laugh as well, “Yeah, it seems he did.”

The man put a hand behind your back, pushing you through the door, “Come on, I’ll get you to a seat.”

“Um, I–that’s nice but I–” you swerved out of people's way, eyes widening as you saw the actual “arena” of the event. An old boxing ring-turned cage match, the leather of the mat stained with blood and sweat and who knows what else. A few rows of foldable chairs litter the room. The door on the side of the cage opened, swaying and creaking, trash and cigarette butts laying on the floor. Glancing up, you notice a…commentators box? Or what looked to be one, two large connecting windows at the top of a wall. Not being able to see inside of it.

“Just sit here, you’ll be fine,” the man plopped you down in one of the metal foldable chairs right in front of the rink, making you gulp and look back at him.

“I’m not really sure this is the best idea,” you smiled, teeth clenched. Sweat building up on your hairline. It was boiling in this room. Hair heavy and murky, so stuffy it made you stutter a breath in.

The man waved you off, tisking, “Nah, it’ll be fine, trust me.”

He winked as he walked off, patting you on the back one last time.

 Huffing, defeated, and wanting to go home, you slumped into the chair, crossing your arms across your chest. Looking up into the ring again you nearly jumped out of your skin. A hulking man standing in the ring on the other side of the cage. Your heart was in your throat, eyes wide and skin breaking out in a cold sweat. The beast was looking straight at you. Or you think he was, his body was positioned directly in front of you, as close to the metal as possibly. His hands wrapped in white tape, and fists clenched. Black shorts tight on his thighs, showing off the toned muscle and dark bruises. His chest was bare, unmoving, like he was holding his breath. Scaring and bruises stretched across abdomen, dark tattooing stretched up his arms.

He was like, a bear, huge and shadowed, his muscles taut and defined, barrel chested and wide shouldered. Waist thick as he dropped to defined hips and bulky legs.

A tight mask over his face.

His eyes blackened out by the lighting, and by the dark the dark eye makeup. A skull painted white over his face. Green neon lighting around the cage casting deadly shadows. Making the atmosphere sickly in it’s light.

Your muscles were tight as you sat in your chair, in some kind of staring contest with the man. You felt suspended in time, even the music seemed to quiet as you stared at each other. Like a deer spotting a hunter all too late.

Blinking, you raised your hand, waving softly. The man looked at your hand, then back to your face. His own hand raises slightly to wave back, his shoulders lumbering. 

“Ok,” muttering to yourself, you cross your arms over your stomach again, tearing your eyes from the lumbering males. The music faded out, and the lighting started to go down.

“Hey! There you are!” hands slammed down on your shoulders from behind. Causing you to yelp and jump, whipping your head around to see your sweaty boyfriend  standing behind you. He smelled like liquor.

“Where were you?” you frowned, watching as he walked around you, hand dragging over your back and shoulders to plop into the seat next to you.

The large man in the cage still watching,

“Baby, you left me,” he said, smiling and slinging an arm around your shoulders, “I was looking all over for you.”

“I–” before you could get your argument out, the lights shut off, and the music shut off.

One bright light flickering on over the arena. The big man was gone, off in the corner now. Another man in the opposite corner. Dread fell into your gut, dripping down through your nose as it filled your throat. Your boyfriend started cheering with everyone else. The man on the opposite side was twitchy, large but twitchy, and couldn’t stop wiping his nose. The man with the mask didn’t move, again, like he wasn’t breathing.

Your boyfriend’s hand curling around the nape of your neck, bringing you close to his mouth, and shouting into your ear, “You’re gonna love this!”

A sneer pulled its way onto your face, love this? Was he kidding? 2 years and he thought this was something you’d enjoy? It was bad enough that you weren’t surprised he pulled something like this. You looked at the ring again, flinching when the masked man was looking at you again.

“That guys such a monster,” your boyfriend laughed, “I swear he’s killed someone before.”

You shot a side eye to the prick sitting next to you.

“Really?”

“Yeah sweets, he’s ruthless,” dragging a hand through his hair, smirking at you, “But tonight’s gonna be interesting, the other guy’s supposed to be a killer too.”

“Yeah I guess,” you pulled away from him a bit, heart leaping at the bell that rang. Thoroughly spooked by how fast the two were on each other. Fists and knees flying. 

Near squealing at the sight of the masked man threw the twitching one of the ground roughly, the crowd screaming, and landed a knee right on his head. Your boyfriend stood and cheered. You sent him a look, and looked back to the fight. The masked man brushing off punches like they were nothing. Sending them back so hard you swear you heard the sound of flesh on flesh and crunching over the noise of everyone shouting.

Pulling our limbs closer to yourself as the crowd abandoned their seats, or the ones sitting at least, the air heavy with smoke. The floors sticky under your shoes.

People crowding around the ring, your boyfriend one of them. Even though he was smaller than the others there, he tried to fight his way up front.

You gulped and looked to the ring, seeing both men on their feet again. Realizing they were barefoot. Cringing at the thought of being on the mat, let alone barefoot. Looking up to their faces, the masked man looked no different due to the covering on his face, and the other man's nose crudely broken to the side, blood gushed down his face, splattered on his chest and shoulder. One eye was already swollen shut.

Frowning, you couldn’t look away from the mess before you, you weren’t squeamish, and you’d watched UFC fights before. But this was different, this just felt barbaric. Blood splattered, men cheering, the ring creaking and groaning. Cage rattling as someone was thrown against it. The two men just beat on each other. The bigger of the two, seeming to hold off anytime a knockout was about to come around. Then would start up again when the other regained his feet.

No one seemed to notice this besides you.

Pure entertainment, dragging on the fight so people stayed longer.

You wondered briefly how much your boyfriend had paid to get into this place. To get you both into this place…he really didn’t have that kind of money.

But a sickening crunch brought you out of that thought, just in time to see the masked man retract a kick that was sent to the twitching man's head, snapping it back and you watching him crumble to the ground. Falling almost cartoonishly onto the floor. The masked man went for another knee to the head, but stopped mere inches from it, the crowd booing and bitching about not “finishing him off”. Freaks. Bunch of fucking animals.

The masked man stood up, rubbing his face and looking across the crowd. His eyes finding yours, the amber color intensified by the dark eye-black around them. You could tell one was starting to swell a little bit, drooping slightly. 

The crowd shouting and booing and cheering and throwing shit, smashing bottles and bumping into one another.

“No…” your boyfriend snapped his hands up to his hair. Pulling at it till he dropped his hands down his face, “No no no–fuck–no!”

Standing up, you sighed, breaking eye contact with the beast in the ring. You grabbed your boyfriend's shoulder lightly, “Lets get outta here. I want to go home…”

He looked at you, a wild look in your eye, then grabbed your arms violently, nearly shaking you.

“Ow hey–”

“You don’t fucking–he–he was supposed to loose! He was supposed to throw it!” he shouted, frantic, you frowned.

“I don’t–what does that have to do with us?”

“I–” he gripped your tighter.

“Ow–please, you're hurting me let go,” you tried to push at his chest, which was damp with sweat, shift sticking lightly to his skin.

“We have no money,” he stressed, “I–he was supposed to lose, Y/N, we, I bet it all…”

You blinked owlishly at him, “You what…?”

His grip is still hurting your arms. Sure to leave at least nail marks at this point. The sting was buzzing as you processed what he said.

“You dumb–” he dropped his head, “What aren’t you understanding?!”

“Let her go mate,” the deep voice made both of you jump, looking over your boyfriend's shoulder, to see a sweaty, bloody mass of a human standing behind him.

“I, I…” your boyfriend was frozen, his hands still gripping your arms. You weren’t much better, he looked bigger up close. Much more intimidating.

“Hands off.”

He barked it again, putting a hand on your shaking boyfriend's shoulder, squeezing it. It was almost hard to breathe with him so close, air heavy and choking as you gulped it down. Stagnant and reeking of sweat and smoke.

You hadn’t noticed that people had cleared out when he walked up, parting them like oil and water. Never to be mixed.

“R-right,” your boyfriend dropped his hands from your arms, but the masked man stayed on the scrawnier man's shoulder, almost as a warning. If the sharp looming look was anything to go by, then it was a threat. A serious one at that.

“Boss wants ta’ speak wif’ ya’,” he looked at you as well, gaze steady, “Botha ya’...”

The walk to the office you’d spotted earlier was dead silent. There was a spark of conversation at the beginning when your boyfriend tried to reason, tried to convince the man to let you go, but that was snuffed out quickly with a quick smack to the head. Rendering him silent the rest of the time. 

The big man had you walk in front of him and your boyfriend. Your hands shaking and your legs rather weak as you climbed the staircase, a warm glow coming from the room to the right. Muffled laughter and voices coming from it.

When you got just within reach of the door a hand grabbed your hood, jerking you back into a solid chest, eliciting a yelp from you, and looked up to see the masked man behind you. His hand dragged down your back gingerly as he let go of your hoodie. It made goosebumps rush up your spine.

“Wait ‘ere,” he pushed your boyfriend forward, grabbing him by the collar as he dragged him inside, snapping about his shutting the hell up as he went in. You stood frozen.

What, was this how you died?

In some mangy, back alley fighting ring?

Because your boyfriend was as fucking idiot you felt bad for and thought loved you, but turns out he was betting away your money, and now you wer gonna die in some mafia style Saw trap by some boxer-MMA man in a skull mask. Great.

You snapped your head up as you heard heavy boots approaching. The man in the skull re-emerged with a (more brown than white) wife beater that had holes on the bottom and by the neckline, his shorts still on, and large boots now unlaced on his feet. You doubt he had socks on.

Mask still tight over his face.

He looked at you in silence, and closed the door behind him.

You two blinked at each other for a minute, then he cleared his throat and walked forward, leaning on a railing, overlooking a sort of warehouse under you two. You assume that the ring and swarms of men were on the other side of the wall. The thumping of music rocking through the floor, and up the metal stairs.

Both in silence for a minute, before he beckoned you over. It took a second for your limbs to thaw and your feet to unstick, but when you did, you walked over to him, keeping a healthy distance. 

“I ain’t gon’ hurt ya’,” he snapped, looking at you. He pulled the bottom of his mask up, revealing a sharp stubble covered jaw, and dry cracked lips. Stopping just under his nose.

Reaching into his boot, you flinched, nearly eating it down the stairs. 

“Watch yer-self girl,” he said, looking like he was ready to leap out at you.

“Right,” your voice was strained and tight, “Sorry…”

The man shrugged, pulling out a lighter and a very crumpled pack of cigarettes. 

He glanced at you again, shuffling a little awkwardly, and offered the pack to you.

“Um, no thank you,” you politely refused, stiffly standing next to him, eyes lingering on the man's big, bruised hands pinching the cig, flicking his old lighter and taking a long drag. Honestly you could probably use the cigarette, but there was a good chance your hands would be shaking too much to light it.

He stared at you again, a heavy silence falling onto you two. There was a loud bang on the other side of the door, snapping your attention to it. The large man unflinching,

“Don’t botha’ with that,” he grumbled, cig between his lips.

“O-oh…is, is he ok?”

The man tensed up, smoke blowing out his nose, sifting through the fabric, brows pinched, “Why do you care?”

“He's my boyfriend?” you squeeked, subconsciously trying to make yourself smaller.

The man looked down in front of him, then back to the door. Huffing like a bull.

“He's fine.”

You looked down to your feet. Gulping down a thick wad of spit, your heart beating so loud you were sure the brute could hear it.

“Name’s Simon,” he glanced at you, then rubbed a hand down his thigh, almost nervously. Taking a drag from his cigarette and blowing the smoke away from you. A little peep in the back of your mind was confused on how polite he was being. 

“Oh,” you nodded, not really processing what he had said. Taking a glance down to the dusty crate he was staring at. Eyes locked and unblinking.

“Oh?” he shot you a look, frowning. Lips pulled taught against the cigarette.

“Um–it’s a nice name,” you said, almost choking out the words, nodding and offering a stressed smile, “My friend had a cat named Simon, it was really fat. Like 20 pounds, which you aren’t fat, obviously–but the cats dead–diabetes, it was really old too…but it was a cool cat…”

You looked a mess you bet, hands clenching and unclenching, skin clammy, fidgeting and eyes wide and darting around. Breathing shakily as you rambled.

The man–Simon, looked at you with blank eyes, then looked forward, almost in thought. 

“Hm,” he hummed to himself, “She get a new cat?”

“Y-yeah, um, it was a guy, guy friend,” you pulled at your fingers, then tucked your hair behind your ear, “H-he did, it’s a few years old now. Got it as a kitten.”

Simon pressed his lips together again, sending you a mean side-eye, hunching his shoulders up, “You still friends with him?”

“Y-yeah? Kinda, we haven’t talked in a while actually…” you felt awkward. Why was he asking about your friends? Why were you sharing your poor social life with him?

“It got a name?”

“I don’t really,” you thought for a second, “Mimi? I think it was Mimi?”

Simon nodded, blowing smoke out his mouth, pinching the cigarette, “Good name for a puss.”

You felt your face flush lightly, you were grown obviously, but something about his rumbling voice made you want to turn around and just risk it by walk away. Embarrassed by your own reaction.

“Yeah…”

“How long you been datin’ tha’ shit?” Simon shot a look behind him.

“2 years.”

You really felt no need to defend him, he was a shit.

He grumbled something to himself.

You sighed, more confused the longer you spent in the weird conversation with this man. Glancing repeatedly at the door, begging for it to be open and for your boyfriend to come out so you could both leave…and so you could beat the shit out of him as soon as you got to the car.

“Why are elevator jokes so good?”

“Huh?” you looked at Simon, who was snuffing out his cigarette, pulling his mask back down over his mouth.

“ ‘Cause they work on so many levels…”

It took a moment, but a giggle bloomed in your chest, covering your mouth in hopes of silencing it. Lips curled up as you looked at the brutish man. He stared at you, you didn’t notice that he took half a step forward, listening closely.

“That was a really bad joke,” you giggled, smiling at him.

He shrugged, “Made you laugh…”

A loud bang of the door behind you made you jump out of your skin, almost falling down the stairs again, Simon's hand jutting out behind you, as if prepared to catch you. Looking to the door your eyes widened at the man who opened it, it was the beautiful black man from earlier. He smiled at you, chuckling.

“You twos can come inside now,” he beckoned you in, Simon putting a hand to your mid back and pushing when you didn’t move.

The thick smell of cigars filled the room, and warm glowing lights. As well as your boyfriend who sat in a chair across a large desk, a rather shitty chair. Curled in on himself and whining something.

“Please, please don’t, she,” he looked at the man across the desk, “She didn’t know honestly…”

The man across the desk was a large hairy man, with thick mutton chops and soft eyes, a cigar smoldering in the ash-tray in front of him. Button up tight on his figure.

“Ah please,” the man beckoned to you, still hyper-aware of Simon's meaty hand on your back, “Come ‘ere, my name's John, it’s a pleasure.”

He stood, and leaned over the desk, holding out his hand. You looked to it and back up to Johns face, hesitant. Simon’s hand shoved at you, making you squeak and jut your hand out, shaking Prices.

He chuckled and sat down, sinking back into his chair, “Come on Ghost, you can take your hand off the poor thing now.”

SImon–or Ghost you suppose–dragged his hand down your back again, pulling it off, the black man who was standing next to your boyfriend chuckled as well. You didn’t see, but Simon had sent an annoyed look his way, and the other man sent back a teasing smile.

“Let her leave man–she didn’t know–”

Your boyfriend's whines were cut off by a smack to the side of the head by the man standing next to him.

“If I wanna hear from you i’ll ask.”

“Settle now, don’t wanna scare the poor thing any more,” John smiled, he looked at you and clasped his hands together, “Now, we have some things to discuss.”

You looked from your boyfriend to the man at the desk, “O-oh? Really?”

“Yes, really, now as you may know, your boyfriend here seemed to have lost a little,” John paused, looking for the word, “Money is some games he played with us.”

“Yeah, he mentioned it,” you thought back to not even half an hour ago when he was gripping your arms and shaking you. Shooting a glance to Simon, who was leaning against the doorway, staring at you.

“So, he did mention that it was your money?” John asked, leaning back in his chair, picking up his cigar, looking between you two.

You didn’t move. It felt like your heart stopped beating, in fact you were a little dizzy. Your stare blank and slightly slack jawed as you stared at the bear behind the desk.

“My money?” you asked, pointing to yourself.

“Baby please you gotta–”

“Yes.” John looked at your boyfriend–ex boyfriend you’ve now decided–and made a ‘quiet’ motion with his hands, “Your money.”

“How… much of my money?” you still didn’t know how to react, yes you were angry, yes you were sad, yes you were shocked, betrayed, livid. But you just, stood there.

Price looked at a paper he had on his desk, “Just about 15,000 dollars.”

You slapped a hand to your mouth in an attempt to quiet the scream you were about to let out. It felt like all the blood had rushed to your head. You looked at Simon in the doorway–you looked just about as angry as you were–to your boyfriend in the chair who looked like a kicked dog, to the man next to him who stood with his arms crossed, and a disappointed look on his face.

“How the fuck did he get 15,000 dollarrs–” you snapped to look at the slime sitting in the chair, “How the fuck did you get 15,000 dollars!”

He gulped, and looked down to his lap, feet tapping on the concrete floor.

“Tell her.” Simon snapped, his voice spooking you slightly.

“I-I took out a loan in your name,” he spilled, “I forged your signature, your credit is better than mine so they let, you take out the loan…”

Your blood was boiling.

John chuckled, “Well, now that that's settled–”

He turned to you again, your jaw officially slacked up, and your brows pinched. You had a headache…

“Since technically it was your money that was wagered, you have the final say in this…there’s two options, we can, deal with the boyfriend problem for you, and either you pay us back within the month, or you could pay it back via working for us,” John’s eyes crinkled in his smile. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Simon shift, straightening up.

“W-work for you?” you thought about the fight earlier, the knees cracking noses and the fists working stomachs to mush, “I-I’m not a fighter, I can’t fight for you.”

“Oh no love, none of that,” John waved you off, “Don’t want muck up that pretty face’a yours, I need a secretary of sorts. An assistant. Help me set up meetings, file papers, keep our boys in check. A pretty thing to bring to meetings and such.”

You blinked owlishly, looking at your ex-boyfriend on the chair, tears in his eyes and quiver on his lips. He was shaking his head, in a silent plea. His eyes jumping from yours to over your shoulder behind you.

Looking back at John, you rubbed your face, a sigh fighting its way out your throat. You could not pay off $15,000 in a month, much less alone, much less at the shitty office job you had right now. But you worked an office job so you’d have some basic qualifications to do the job offered well. They seemed, understanding of the  situation at least, and hopefully give you more time to get the money than just a month if you worked for them.

“Would I have more than a month?”

“Depends on how well you do the job,” John mused, “Do it well and you'll have all the time you need.”

Licking your lips, jaw clenched, you looked at John sheepishly from under your brows.

“I…I’ll work for you, just, don’t kill him…please–I don't care if you fuck him up just don't kill him,” you looked to your ex, who slumped back in his chair, a shell shocked look on his face. But was snapped out of it quickly as the pretty man grabbed the collar of his shirt, jerking him up. 

“Brilliant!” John grinned, opening his arms wide, “We’ll take real good care’a ya’, promise.”

The man walked your boyfriend out the door, Simon following behind them, a heavy stomp to his step, and fists clenched.

You looked back to John, you were sure you looked utterly defeated, shoulders to your ears and a pout on your lips, browns pinched and shallow breaths.

He stood up, walking around the table, your steps involuntarily matching his, backing up as he walked forward. A very large man indeed. Intimidating.

He grinned, teeth shining, as he held out his hand, yours awkwardly held out to meet it. His hand engulfed yours in a crushing grip, knuckles throbbing in pain. He leaned in closer to you, pulling your body close to his. You swallowed and pulled your head back, muscles tense.

“Looks like we have a deal.”

(word count: 4480)

[nonilogical]

you found ghost on the rooftop after a particularly brutal mission, his mask in his hands instead of on his face. the scars he usually kept hidden caught the moonlight.

"i didn't mean to fall for you," he admitted, words barely audible over the night wind. "especially not after... everything."

you knew something was different from the very moment he started kissing you that night. it didn't feel like the usual ghost you'd known since you moved in.

the kisses were passionate but slow, dirty and needy but filled with emotion. when pounding you, it didn't feel like he was letting the tension and brutality of the missions out on your body. you didn't want to overthink it, didn't want to break your own heart. but this changed everything.

you stepped closer, understanding the weight of trust he was showing. "neither did i. guess that's what happens when you let your guard down."

"so... what now?" there was a vulnerability in his voice you'd never heard before.

you reached for his hand, feeling the calluses that matched your own. "now we stop pretending we're just neighbors, simon."

his fingers intertwined with yours, and for once, the legendary ghost seemed at peace with being simply simon riley.

[nonilogical]

Ghost was pushing you. That's the only explanation for his actions. You didn't understand why he went harder on you than any other recruit.

So, you pushed yourself even more when he wasn't watching. You wanted to impress him. You wanted to impress all of your superiors. It didn't matter that your hours of sleep were dwindling dangerously low.

You were getting better, your results more apparent to everyone.

You were faster than the other recruits, had better endurance, you could fight hand to hand better. You could lift more. It didn't matter that you had deep bags hanging beneath your eyes. It didn't matter that you nodded off when you had a moment to stand still. You were doing so good, you couldn't give up now.

Not until it was another day under Ghost's watchful command. Every push-up harder than the last, your vision going spotty.

"Up! Down! Up! Down!" Ghosts shouts, voice in time with a metronome. He was stomping around all the recruits, correcting postures or yelling at someone. "Get up, recruit!"

You start to get up, vision going dangerously blurry. You think you slur out an affirmative, you aren't sure. Time seems to slow for a second before your vision goes completely black.

~

What you don't see is the way Ghost's eyes widen as your body suddenly collapses, the way he jerks to try and catch you before your head hits the ground. He's fast but not fast enough. Guilts paints his mind, worry smudging his clear thoughts.

Picking you up is easy, even for a recruit of your size, you should be weighing more. Especially with the amount of muscle on you.

Ghost rushes to the infirmary, yelling at them for attention. He's directed to laying you on a bed, he's so deceptively gentle with it.

The nurses ask him to leave but the dead-eye stare he gives them in return has them flustering and murmuring its okay. He doesn't want to leave you, he has to make sure you're okay. It was all his fault- he had been pushing you too hard.

Pushing you so hard the rest of the Task Force noticed.

Ghost remembers Price telling him to take it easier on you, Soap trying to take over his training days to keep you away. His sharp eyes didn't miss the way Gaz tried to slide you more energy bars to make up for Guost's harshness.

He had caused this.

~

By time you wake up, some several hours later, Ghost has cleared out. But in his place stands Price, carefully watching over you and your vitals. He didn't want to make it worse and scar you when you woke up so he entrusted you to Price - Price could take care of you if Ghost couldn't.

Even when you're cleared from infirmary, he makes his guilt apparent in other ways. He's softer towards you, softer than he should be. It leaves you reeling. You aren't sure how to handle this new side of him.

Ghost makes the cooks give you a larger portion to make up for the calorie deficit. Gaz and Soap enforce stricter lights out rules for him - making sure you don't have any midnight trainings.

He just wants to protect you but he's not sure how to show you that. Ghost can't show you how important you are to him.

[nonilogical]

Everyone talks about being survivalist, love that btw, but nobody talks about Zombie! Reader.

But not any zombie - a human like one.

So human, a horde almost ate them, because they were too much human and too less - a fucking zombie. Of course, the rotting smell deterred them.

Imagine what life would be like?

Not needing to eat, breathe, not feeling warm, cold, etc. Just a rotting corpse, able to walk, talk and instead of looking for supplies, you are looking for a way to keep your body up.

The rotting process stops after some time, but you can still break. It doesn't hurt, but it is inconvenient.

Somehow, somehow you found a way to become 100 % human on the outside and convince survivors, you are one - for some time, of course.

Just for a quick chat. You hate eating flesh, so you are not tempted to eat anyone.

And you meet the task force and they "save" you from zombies. And.. and you try to run away, but they try to convince you to stay in their base.

For the plot, a zombie follows you to the base and calls a horde there.

You successfully stop them and reveal your zombie self, making zombie communication sounds, convincing the horde you are all advanced zombies.

The zombies leave and just as you try to slip away, the boys muzzle you down and question you relentlessly.

They figure you are not threat, since you just want to run away, but are convinced you brought the zombie that started this.

One of them already fell for you. Another though you are their friend. None of them want to let you go and some weird scientists wants you to try and create a cure, or at least, a sentient zombies. (Maybe they will turn out like you and not eat human flesh?)

This will include torture, which the boys cannot allow. Yes, you won't feel it, physically, but you will go insane, for sure.

I don't know. I am on some zombie apocalypse lane lately.... But, yeah.

Love the trope of Zombie! Reader x Task force 141 and sprinkle some serious drama on that shit.

[nonilogical]

i've been reading a lot about mind uploading, body autonomy, and the human soul, and this happened.

CYBERNOIR AU. JOHN PRICE/READER.

You are grievously injured in an accident. Your body damaged beyond repair, but you're still alive. At the same time, in the same hospital, someone else is in the process of dying. Their body is fine, but their brain was legally declared dead when your accident happened.

Both of you are "organ donors" with the exception being that the other person has declined life extension. You have not.

Your brain is uploaded into the healthy body. A second chance at life.

But there's a problem: this body is legally married to a man named John Price, who is overseas on a mission and set to come home soon.

However, you are not his wife. You just have her body. The lawyers you hire to look over the case find a clause buried deep inside the docket—an added caveat that explicitly states this body belongs to John Price. Every cell, every molecule, every atom. From the skin covering this body, to the organs inside. It's all his.

And John comes to collect what he owns.

(Maybe if you can convince him you're not his wife, he'll let you go. After all, why would he want to stay married to a stranger?)

[nonilogical]

The first time Ghost sees you, you're tending to a mangy, feral mutt that haunts the base, snapping and snarling at anyone that gets too close. The other soldiers joke about it being Ghost's spirit animal often. It bites you, even though all you're trying to do is help. But you don't lash out defensively, or turn your back on it. You see through its angry mask for what it really is--a scared, hurt creature that just needs someone to love it enough to make it feel safe again. And you do. You sit with that flea-bitten, ill tempered dog, feeding it treats and talking to it softly, until it finally calms enough to let you help it. You're patient, and kind, and gentle. Everything the dumb beast has been missing for so long.

Christ, but he wishes he was the bloody dog.

[nonilogical]

Standing outside your apartment, Simon tightened his grip around the wooden toy train, the corners of the box digging slightly into his palm. His heart thrummed uncomfortably in his chest—a sensation far too foreign for someone who’d faced down worse odds than this. He was used to calculating risks, taking them head-on, but this? This wasn’t a battlefield; it was something infinitely more terrifying. He was meeting his daughter.

He cast a glance at the train in his hand, a sturdy, well-crafted toy he and Johnny had spent hours picking out earlier that day. The shopkeeper’s amused expression still lingered in his mind—two grown men scrutinizing toy trains as though the fate of the world rested on their choice. You hadn’t been specific, just a train, no frills, nothing cartoonish. And so Simon had chosen the simplest one, figuring it was better to err on the side of practicality.

Beside him, Johnny leaned casually against the wall, spinning a plastic-cased mermaid Barbie in his hands. The vibrant teal-and-pink packaging clashed starkly with the air of seriousness Simon carried.

Simon scowled, his gaze darting to the doll. “I told you, no dolls. She said no dolls.” His voice was low and rough, almost a growl, though it carried more nervous energy than actual anger.

Johnny raised an eyebrow, smirking as he turned the Barbie over in his hands. “What kid doesn’t like a Barbie? Eh? You’re overthinking this, big man.” His Scottish accent lent an irreverent edge to his words. “Besides, it’s just a backup. If she doesn’t like the train—which, let’s face it, is a bloody long shot—I’ve got something she’s bound to love.”

Simon shot him a sharp look. “It’s not about the toy,” he muttered, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “It’s about… makin’ an impression. Proper one.”

Johnny’s smirk softened, his usual teasing tone giving way to something closer to sincerity. “And you think that’s all ridin’ on a train? C’mon, mate, it’s you she’s meeting, not just some toy. Kids aren’t daft—they know when someone’s tryin’.” He tilted his head toward the toy in Simon’s hand. “But, for what it’s worth, that train’s not bad. Proper classic. No gimmicks.”

Simon grunted in response, his attention flicking back to the apartment door. It was a quiet, unassuming building, but the pressure of what lay beyond that door was immense. You were in there with her—Adira. His daughter. The thought still felt surreal, even after the days he’d spent turning it over in his mind. He’d seen her before, from a distance, but that was different. This was too personal in a way he wasn’t sure he was prepared for.

“I should’ve brought the others,” Simon muttered under his breath, more to himself than Johnny.

Johnny’s eyes twinkled with humor. “Aye, because showin’ up with the whole bloody team wouldn’t be overwhelming at all, eh? ‘Here’s yer dad, and here’s his army of uncles.’ Real subtle.”

Simon huffed a dry laugh despite himself, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction. Johnny always had a knack for cutting through his nerves, even when Simon wasn’t in the mood for it.

The sound of footsteps on the other side of the door snapped Simon’s attention back to the moment. His pulse quickened as the lock turned, and the door creaked open to reveal you standing there, a mixture of caution and curiosity etched into your expression. You didn’t say anything right away, your gaze darting between Simon, Johnny, and the toys in their hands.

“Hi,” Simon managed, his voice quieter than he’d intended. He cleared his throat, adjusting his grip on the train. “Uh… thought I’d bring somethin’ she might like.”

You glanced at the train, then at Johnny’s Barbie, raising an eyebrow. “I see Johnny didn’t listen,” you comment dryly, though there was a hint of amusement in your tone.

Johnny grinned, unbothered. “Insurance, lass. Always good to have a backup plan.”

Stepping aside, you gestured for them to come in. “Well, let’s see how this goes. She’s in the living room.”

Simon felt the air grow heavier as he crossed the threshold, each step bringing him closer to something he’d been equal parts dreading and hoping for. The sound of quiet giggles and the rustle of toys came from the living room, and he stopped short in the hallway, his hand tightening instinctively around the train.

“You okay?” you asked curiously, your question laced with something he couldn’t quite place—concern? Reassurance?

He nodded stiffly, though he wasn’t entirely sure who he was convincing. “Yeah,” he said, masking his unease. This wasn’t the time to let emotions run wild, not when his daughter was just a few steps away. He needed to reel everything, keep composed.. “Just… takin’ a moment.”

Johnny clapped him on the shoulder, his grin unfaltering. “You’ve got this, mate. And if all else fails—” he held up the Barbie with a dramatic flourish—“I’ve got you covered.”

Simon rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at his lips. “Thanks for that,” he muttered dryly.

He took a grounding breath, then stepped into the living room. The sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks—Adira, sitting cross-legged on the floor, a miniature train set spread out before her. Her dark hair fell in delicate curls around her face, and her eyes, so startlingly like his own, lit up with delight as she guided a tiny train along the tracks.

The world seemed to narrow, every noise fading into the background except for the sound of her soft laughter. This was his daughter, and for the first time, he wasn’t just watching from afar—he was here.

Adira looked up, her curious gaze locking onto him. Simon’s heart leapt into his throat as she tilted her head, studying him with a mix of curiosity and caution. Before he could speak, Johnny stepped forward, a grin plastered across his face as he crouched beside her.

"Hey, bonnie lass," Johnny greeted, bringing in  warmth and cheerfulness. He held out the mermaid Barbie, its plastic casing shimmering in the soft light. “Look what I got for ye.”

Adira blinked at him, her small head tilting to the side in the same assessing way she’d done with Simon. Then, in a voice as sweet as it was blunt, she said, “Ugee.”

Simon held back a laugh, but Johnny froze, his grin faltering. Did she just call me ugly again? he thought, momentarily stunned before recovering with a sheepish laugh.

“Oh, come on, lass. That’s no way to treat yer Uncle Johnny,” he teased, though his pride was clearly bruised. He pushed the doll a little closer, his voice softening. “It’s for you. Look—she’s got a shiny tail and everything.”

Adira’s expression shifted, her curiosity piqued as she finally reached for the doll. Johnny’s face lit up with relief, and he turned to you and Simon with a victorious smirk. “Told ya,” he mouthed, his tone smug.

Simon raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, while you merely crossed your arms, waiting for what you knew was coming.

The sound of plastic ripping shattered Johnny’s moment of triumph. His head whipped around just in time to see Adira pull the doll free from its packaging with surprising efficiency. She studied it for a moment, her tiny fingers gripping the head and the body. And then—pop—the doll’s head came clean off.

Johnny’s jaw dropped as he watched Adira inspect the decapitated doll with silent satisfaction. She set the head down beside her, then held up the now-headless body, apparently contemplating her next move.

Simon let out a chuckle, unable to hide his amusement as Johnny gawked at the scene, his earlier smugness entirely gone. “Well,” Simon drawled, unable to hide his dry humor. “Guess she wasn’t a fan after all.”

Johnny turned back to you and Simon, his expression caught between disbelief and betrayal. “What… what kind of kid just does that?!” he demanded, gesturing wildly at the scene behind him.

You shrugged, biting back a laugh. “I warned you about the dolls.”

Johnny shook his head, still reeling as he muttered under his breath, “She’s Sid from Toy Story incarnate, I swear.”

Adira, seemingly unbothered by the fuss, returned her focus to her trains, contentedly adding the doll’s head to a makeshift pile of "cargo." Johnny looked ready to protest further, but Simon stepped forward, crouching to her level and holding out the wooden train.

“Hi,” he spoke softly, his voice steady despite the lingering laughter in his chest. “I brought you somethin’. Thought you might like it.”

Adira didn’t respond right away, her eyes bouncing between him and the toy. Then, slowly, she reached out, her small fingers brushing against the train before taking it from his hands. Unlike the Barbie, she carefully opened the box, her movements deliberate and methodical. She removed the wooden train gently, inspecting it for a moment. Without a word, she added it to the tracks, her attention already back on her play as if nothing else in the world mattered.

Simon stayed crouched, watching her intently. A flicker of relief crossed his face at her acceptance of the gift. The room, heavy with unspoken tension just moments before, now felt lighter, though Simon could feel the enormity of the moment pressing against his chest.

You appeared at his side, crouching slightly to meet his eye, a small grin on your lips. “That’s a good sign,” you murmured, keeping your voice low. “She doesn’t usually let people touch her trains.”

Simon exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His gaze flickered back to Adira, watching as she carefully positioned the new train car alongside the others, her focus unwavering. It wasn’t much—just a small gesture—but it felt monumental. A start.

“She’s got good taste,” Simon adds, a touch of pride in his tongue as he nodded toward the tracks. “Knows quality when she sees it.”

You chuckled, the sound easing the edges of Simon’s nerves. “It’s not just that,” you replied, your eyes lightening as you watched Adira. “Trains are her world. If she’s letting you into it, even a little…” You trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.

Simon nodded, his throat tightening with a mix of emotions he wasn’t used to confronting. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply watch her, the curve of her cheek, the determined set of her brow as she pushed the train forward, creating a soft click-clack noise against the wooden tracks. He thought of all the moments he’d missed, all the firsts that had come and gone without him. But now, sitting there on the floor of your apartment, watching his little girl play, he felt something unfamiliar: hope.

“It’s a start,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. And for now, that was enough.

Johnny hung back near the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he watched the tender scene unfold. Simon, a man he’d always seen as unshakable and stoic, was crouched beside Adira, his usually guarded expression diminished by a rare, genuine grin. Johnny didn’t dare interrupt—this wasn’t his moment. He was just a spectator, standing on the sidelines as a long-standing divide finally began to close.

The warmth in the room tugged at Johnny’s own heart, and though he wasn’t one for sentimentality, the sight was too good to pass up. Without a word, he slipped his phone from his pocket, angling it just right to snap a quick picture. Simon’s grin, lopsided and proud, was illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp, his large frame almost comically dwarfed by the tiny train set and the little girl at its center.

Satisfied with the shot, Johnny smirked to himself as he typed out a caption: “Big man, small trains. Heart officially melted. ” He hit send, the photo shooting off to the group chat where the lads were bound to have a field day with it.

Moments later, his phone buzzed with a flurry of responses:

Roach: “Never thought I’d see Ghost look so human.”

Gaz: “He’s got the ‘Dad Look’ down already. Almost feel bad making fun of him.”

Price: “I don’t. Send more pics.”

Stifling a snicker, Johnny shoved his phone back into his pocket. He glanced back at Simon, who was completely absorbed in Adira’s world, watching as she pushed the new train along the tracks with the utmost concentration. The sheer joy and focus on her face seemed to draw Simon further into her orbit, as if nothing else existed but the tiny, clacking train set.

Johnny shook his head fondly. Big, scary Ghost, he thought, brought to his knees by a wee lass and a wooden train. It was a sight he’d never forget.

Johnny slipped out of the apartment with a quiet click of the door, leaving the two of you in a silence that felt both comfortable and weighty. His absence left the air clearer, yet filled with the unspoken. As Adira remained engrossed in her trains, her murmurs creating a gentle rhythm in the background, you found your mind racing with a single, unrelenting question:

What now?

Giving her toys was one thing. Simon showing up, physically present, was a start. But the path ahead of you wasn’t so simple. Building a connection took more than gifts and fleeting moments. Adira was too young to truly grasp the gravity of this shift in her world. Telling her outright that Simon was her father didn’t feel right—not now. That conversation would be better left for a day when she could fully understand it.

You rose from your position near him, brushing off your knees as you took a real long look at her. There it was, in her little mannerisms, her sharp focus, the way her brow furrowed just slightly as she concentrated—it was him. So much of him. And the way Simon’s gaze relaxed as he watched her? You could see it, plain as day. He wanted to be there for her.

And you wanted her to be happy.

The realization hit you with clarity: the best way to make this transition smooth was to let Simon find his place naturally. He couldn’t make up for all the firsts he’d missed, but there was still time for so many more moments.

“So…” you began, your voice quiet but heavy, the word hanging between you like an unspoken question. You turned to face Simon, watching him carefully as he sat cross-legged on the floor, his broad frame surprisingly small in this intimate space. He was still holding that wooden train, his fingers gently brushing over the smooth surface like it was something sacred.

Simon looked up at you, his eyes catching yours, and he shifted slightly, his posture relaxed, but there was something else—something vulnerable yet determined. "So," he echoed, his voice unshakable, though you could hear the undertone of apprehension, a slight tremor of uncertainty beneath his calm façade. He wanted to be open, to show you he was ready for whatever was coming next, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what that was.

You crossed your arms, not out of defiance but out of the need to ground yourself. It was a physical gesture, a way to hold yourself steady in the face of everything that had led to this moment. “This isn’t going to be easy,” you said, the words a simple statement, but they carried meaning.

“I didn’t expect it to be,” Simon replied, his voice firm, the same way it would sound in the midst of a mission, when the stakes were high. The seriousness in his tone wasn’t lost on you. But there was more than just the soldier in him now—there was a father. "But I’m here. I want to try. For her." His eyes darted to Adira, his gaze lingering on her as she lined up her train set with careful precision. It was a look filled with fierce, almost protective determination, and it tugged at your chest.

“For her,” you agreed, your heart swelling with the truth of it. “She deserves that. But it’s not just about showing up with toys. It’s about showing up for her. Being there when she needs you, even if it’s hard. Even if she pushes you away at first.”

Simon’s jaw tightened as you spoke, and you saw the muscles in his neck flex, as though he was fighting against something—maybe the grandness of what this all meant, maybe his own doubts. “I can do that,” he said after a pause, his voice low but resolute. “I will.”

“You’ll have to.” Your tone tender, but you still held that edge of playful taunting. It was your way of testing the waters, of gauging if he was truly prepared for what this would take. “She’s stubborn. Wonder where she gets that from.”

Simon huffed a quiet laugh, and a faint smirk forming on his mouth. For a brief moment, the walls he’d built around himself seemed to weaken, just a little. “Aye, can’t imagine,” he replied, the humor easing some of the tension in the room.

There was a pause, the room settling into a calm that hadn’t been there before. You watched as Simon glanced back at Adira, his eyes lingering on her as she placed another train down, her little brow furrowed in concentration. The sight was almost too much for him—this was his flesh and blood, sitting right there in front of him, in this quiet, domestic world he hadn’t been a part of.

“First things first—likes and dislikes.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, but you didn’t wait for him to respond. You turned on your heel and slipped into the kitchen, the quiet tension that had settled between you both diminishing. Simon, sitting cross-legged on the floor near Adira, was still absorbing the weight of everything unfolding. His gaze followed you as you disappeared into the next room, the brief silence stretching between the two of you.

When you returned, you were holding a file—nothing flashy, just a plain folder. You approached him and handed it over, watching as he hesitated, the weight of the paper in his hands heavier than it appeared.

The sight inside that greeted him threw him off guard—pages upon pages of meticulously written details. At first glance, it looked like a detailed report, every section filled with information about Adira’s daily routine, preferences, and even the smallest of habits. Her favorite snacks, the way she liked her sandwiches cut in triangles. Each page was packed with specifics: her reactions to certain foods, her favorite colors, how she responded to certain sounds and even what she liked to do on rainy days—took him completely off guard.

Simon blinked at it, flipping through the pages as if trying to find a sense of grounding in the flood of information. It was overwhelming, but what struck him the most was how thorough it was—how much you had put into it. Everything about her, everything you alone learned over the years, all laid out for him to see.

The file was thick, packed with details. The more he flipped through, the more surprised he became. Notes jotted in neat handwriting with labeled sections.There wasn’t just filled with cold, clinical notes. It also contained moments of tenderness, small anecdotes about how Adira reacted to certain situations or things that made her smile. You had carefully noted the songs she liked to sing along with, how she would curl up on the couch when she was feeling down, the exact way she liked her bedtime story read.

Simon looked up at you, his expression one of confusion and curiosity. “What is all this?” he asked quietly, his voice tinged with surprise.

You offered him a faint smile, though there was no real humor in it. “Before you think I’m crazy or paranoid,” you began, raising your hands slightly in defense, “I work at the daycare around the corner, and Adira comes with me. It’s policy to keep these records—just in case. You know, since some kids have allergies, or there are specific things we need to be aware of.”

He nodded, still flipping through the file, as if seeing this list of Adira’s little quirks and habits for the first time made her seem more real. More like a child who had to be cared for, understood, and loved in ways that went far beyond simply showing up with a toy.

“I didn’t know you’d been keeping track of all of this,” A look of genuine surprise crossed his face. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know you’d been doing so much.”

You shrugged slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “It’s nothing. Just making sure she’s okay.” There was an edge of vulnerability to your words, as if you were downplaying the emotional weight of it all.

Simon’s fingers lingered on the pages, his gaze skimming the words as if trying to understand the depth of the commitment you had for Adira. It wasn’t just about her well-being, it was about every little thing that made her, her.

“You really do know everything about her, don’t you?” he said, his voice tinged with awe.

You nodded, feeling a warmth spread through you at his reaction. It wasn’t about control or being overprotective—it was about ensuring that every part of Adira’s world was in order, even when you weren’t looking.

“I know what she likes, what she dislikes. I know how she reacts when she’s tired or overstimulated. I know what makes her laugh and what makes her cry. It’s not about keeping tabs, it’s about making sure she feels safe. Especially with everything changing right now.”

Simon absorbed your words quietly, the weight of the file heavy in his hands. The realization hit him like a punch in the gut. You had been doing this alone for so long—carrying the weight of all these little details, managing the complexity of motherhood without the support he should’ve been offering.

“She’s lucky,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’ve done more than I can even imagine.”

You didn’t say anything at first. The simplicity of his words caught you off guard, making you feel a bit exposed. “It’s just what you do for them,” you replied, your voice softer now, more vulnerable. “You do what you can to make sure they’re okay.”

Simon closed the file slowly, processing what it meant. He felt a surge of something—guilt, maybe, or a quiet ache—as he realized just how much he’d missed. He’d been absent for so many of the small, seemingly insignificant moments that made up Adira’s life. And now, looking at the file, he could feel the weight of his absence more than ever.

“I want to know it all,” Simon said quietly, his voice full of resolve. “Every little thing. I don’t care how small it seems. I want to learn everything about her.”

Your heart skipped at his words, and for the first time, you felt a sense of stability knowing he’d be around to lift some of the hardship off your shoulders. For once, it wouldn’t just be you anymore.

“Good,” Your voice filled with quiet approval. “Because it’s going to take time. And you’ll need to be patient.”

“I can do that,” he replied, his jaw set with determination. “I’m not going anywhere.”

By 6 AM sharp, there he was—a solid, familiar figure standing at your door with his sleeves rolled up and a faint, hesitant smile. He never asked if you needed help; he simply showed up, ready to lend a hand. Simon didn’t just want to be in your life—he wanted to belong in it. Every visit to your apartment wasn’t just about showing up; it was about figuring out how to bridge the gap between her world and his. You had been Adira's anchor, her everything. Simon understood that, respected it, but he was intent on creating his own place in her little universe—one small gesture at a time.

At first, his kitchen skills left a lot to be desired. You insisted you could handle breakfast on your own, but Simon waved you off, determined to prove himself. Adira sat in her highchair, small fingers clutching a slice of strawberry as she watched her father with wide, curious eyes. He wrestled with the stovetop like it was an enemy combatant, flipping pancakes that somehow always ended up sticking or splattering in every direction. A particularly ambitious flip sent batter flying, splattering across his shirt and the counter.

Adira paused mid-chew, her sharp little eyes zeroing in on the mess. "Messy man," she mumbled around the strawberry, her tone matter-of-fact but laced with childish amusement.

Simon froze, mid-swipe with a paper towel, and glanced at her, eyebrows shooting up. “What’d you call me?”

"Messy man," she repeated, a little more confidently this time, giggling as she pointed at the batter streaked across his chest.

You couldn’t help but laugh as Simon groaned, shaking his head with mock exasperation. “I’ll remember that,” he muttered, though there was no hiding the faint smile that tugged at his lips.

Despite the mishaps, he never gave up. Day by day, the kitchen disasters became fewer. He learned that Adira liked her pancakes shaped like stars if you had the time and that a dollop of whipped cream on top made her clap her hands with delight. He discovered she preferred her strawberries sliced thin, not chunky, and that she hated the crusts on toast but loved when it was cut into neat little triangles.

More importantly, while you were around, Adira began to interact with him in ways you hadn’t expected. She would babble at him as he cooked, her little hands waving animatedly as though she was offering advice. He listened as if she were telling him the most important secrets in the world, nodding solemnly and responding in his deep, rumbling voice.

One morning, as he handed her a plate with her favorite star-shaped pancakes, she looked up at him with a toothy smile, “Thank you, messy man.”

Simon froze, his grip tightening on the plate for just a second before he crouched down to her level. “You’re welcome, love,” The endearing nickname left his lips with ease, carrying an edge of something raw and tender.

You stood in the doorway, watching the scene unfold with a lump in your throat. This wasn’t just about breakfast. It was about Simon trying—every single day—to show her that he was there, that he wasn’t going anywhere. It was clumsy and imperfect, but it was real. And you couldn’t help but feel the faint stirrings of something like hope, watching the way Adira’s small world seemed to expand to make room for him.

After some time of this new, unspoken pattern settling in—one that felt like a quiet, gradual understanding—Adira seemed to begin warming up to Simon. It wasn’t as deep or instantaneous as it had been with you, but it was enough. Enough for her to sit at the table, nibbling on the pancakes he’d made. Enough to sit near him and listen to his voice without the immediate urge to run to you. And, perhaps most telling, enough for her to offer him a strawberry one morning before daycare.

Still, there were unspoken boundaries. She wouldn’t let him touch her trains, a sacred realm of hers he dared not trespass. And after a while of him being nearby, she’d often wander back to you, clutching at your leg or climbing into your lap, needing the reassurance of your proximity. 

You saw it in Simon’s eyes sometimes, the flicker of hurt that he quickly masked, brushing it off like it didn’t matter. But it did. You could tell. Adira was studying him from the safety of her bubble, keeping her distance as if trying to figure him out. You couldn’t blame her. Adira had lived her life with you as the constant; Simon was a new element in her world, one she wasn’t sure how to integrate yet.

But you couldn’t help but wonder: Did she need just a little nudge? A chance to have a moment with him—just the two of them—without you hovering nearby to catch her if she fell?

That opportunity came one morning when the daycare announced they would be closing down the toddler classrooms for renovations. Since Adira’s classroom was off-limits, she couldn’t come with you, leaving a gap in her schedule for at least a day or two. It was the perfect chance for Simon to step in and watch her alone, just the two of them.

That morning, Simon arrived as usual, but the atmosphere was different. You were already dressed for work, and Adira sat on the couch, her little frame wrapped in her favorite onesie—a fuzzy lavender number with tiny clouds on the sleeves. Her attention was fixed on the cartoon playing on the screen, her pillow hugged tightly to her chest.

You had considered this moment for a while, weighing the risks and the benefits. You knew how much it would mean to Simon if Adira let him in just a little bit more. But it was still a leap. You couldn’t help but feel the protective instinct rising in you, a sharp edge of caution in your chest. If anything went wrong, if Adira seemed uncomfortable or the situation felt off, you’d be home in a heartbeat. It was your job to protect her, to put her needs above all else—even Simon’s. As much as he was trying, as much as he cared, she was still your child, and her safety and happiness mattered most.

Simon raised an eyebrow as he noticed your state of dress and Adira’s lounging figure. “So, it’s just me and her today?”

You nodded, grabbing your keys. “her classroom is closed for renovations. Figured this would be a good chance for you two to spend some time together.”

He didn’t respond right away, instead Simon seemed to take everything in stride, breathing in deeply, knowing his moment was now.

You couldn’t help but study him for a moment longer, as if reading him for any sign that he was second-guessing himself. But then he smiled at you, it was genuine—reassuring. You had to trust him. You had to let him try.

Walking over to Adira, you knelt beside her, smoothing her hair as you spoke. “Sweetheart, you’re gonna hang out with Simon today, okay? I’ll be back soon.��� 

Adira’s brows furrowed, her lips pressing into a tiny pout. “You go?”

“Just for a little while,” you reassured her. “Simon’s going to stay with you, and you’ll have lots of fun. Won’t you?”

Adira looked up at you with those wide, dark eyes, not fully understanding the implications, but offering you a small, shy nod. She then returned her attention to the TV, her little fingers absentmindedly squeezing the fabric of her pillow.

“She’s had her bath, so no worries there,” you swiftly explained, slipping into your role as her mother. “She’s in her onesie because it’s raining today, and for some reason, she loves wearing it on rainy days—I don't understand it but as long as she's happy. There’s food in the fridge, but after a couple of hours, I’d suggest cutting the TV off. Let her color, read, or maybe play with her trains. It gives her eyes a break from the screen. Oh, and rainy days mean pizza. Her favorite place is ‘Mario’s,’ and the number’s on the fridge. She’ll ask for the stuffed crust and extra cheese, light on the sauce.”

Simon absorbed the instructions like a soldier receiving a mission briefing, nodding along as you spoke. His eyes flicked to Adira, who was now idly kicking her feet as she watched the TV, and then back to you. “Got it. Anything else?”

You hesitated for a moment, then let it subside. “Just… be patient with her. She’s still figuring this out. You’re doing great, Simon.”

His lips twitched into a small, almost shy smile. “Thanks.”

You gave him one last glance, scanning for any signs of hesitation or doubt, but his steady demeanor gave you confidence. With a final goodbye to Adira, who waved absently, you headed for the door. With that, you left, the door clicking shut behind you. Your chest felt tight, your every nerve on edge as you walked to work. This was Simon’s test, sure, but it was yours too—trusting someone else with the most precious thing in your life. Only time would tell how it would go.

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving Simon standing awkwardly in the quiet apartment. Adira stayed exactly where she was, her little form cocooned on the couch, eyes glued to the animated animals bouncing across the TV screen. Simon exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck as he took in the moment. This was it. His chance.

He crossed the room and sat down next to her, careful not to invade her space. For a moment, the silence stretched between them, thick and uncertain. Adira didn’t so much as glance his way, her focus unwavering as the characters on the screen launched into a cheerful song.

Simon cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the air like an awkward ripple. "So, uh," he started, his voice low and unsure, "you like it when it rains?"

Adira finally looked up at him, her big, curious eyes meeting his. She blinked a couple of times, processing his question, before giving a small, shy nod.

"Yeah?" he pressed, a soft smile creeping onto his face. "What’s your favorite thing about it? The sound? Jumping in puddles?"

Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she shifted on the couch, pulling her pillow closer as if using it as a shield. Simon waited, giving her time, not wanting to push. Then, as if finding the courage, she mumbled, “The sound.”

“The sound, huh? Me too,” he said, leaning back a bit to ease the tension. “Kinda peaceful, isn’t it? Makes everything... quiet.”

Adira nodded again, this time a little more confidently. Her tiny fingers started to drum on the pillow in her lap, the rhythm mimicking the pitter-patter of raindrops. Simon caught it and grinned.

“You know,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I used to watch the rain all the time when I was little. Sometimes I’d sit by the window for hours, just listening. My mum always said I’d get stuck there.”

Adira tilted her head at him, her curiosity evident now. “Why?” she asked, her voice soft and a little unsure, as though she wasn’t entirely ready to start talking freely.

Simon chuckled, scratching his chin. “Dunno. Maybe I thought if I stayed there long enough, I’d see something special, like... I dunno, maybe the rain would make magic happen.”

Her eyes widened slightly at the word magic, and Simon felt a small victory bloom in his chest.

“Magic?” she echoed, her tone a mix of skepticism and interest.

“Oh, yeah,” he replied, leaning in just a little, like he was about to share a secret. “The kind that only shows up when you’re really, really patient. You gotta look close, though.”

Adira’s gaze darted back to the TV for a moment before returning to him, her guard lowering inch by inch. She hugged her pillow tighter but didn’t turn away.

“Maybe,” she murmured, almost too quietly for him to hear, “maybe I’ll see magic too.”

Simon’s chest tightened, a warmth spreading there that he hadn’t felt in years. For the first time, he wasn’t just a stranger in her world; he was someone she was starting to let in.

“Maybe you will,” he said softly, leaning back into the couch. He let the quiet fill the space again, content to sit beside her, waiting for the rain—or the magic—to come.

After a few minutes, Adira reached over to the side table where her sippy cup rested. She grabbed it, then paused, her hand hovering. Slowly, she stretched it out toward him. “Drink?” she offered, her voice small but steady.

Simon blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. It wasn’t much—just a sippy cup of watered-down juice—but it felt monumental. “Thanks, but that’s yours,” he said gently, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

She pulled it back and took a sip herself, nodding like she’d made a grand decision.

Simon chuckled softly. “Fair enough.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something. A small step, a tiny opening, and Simon took it as the win it was.

The hours slipped by quietly, the sound of the TV buzzing in the background, and before Simon knew it, the three-hour mark had passed. He glanced at the clock, then at the screen, and with a deep breath, he reached over and clicked the power button.

Adira's eyes widened in shock, her little fingers frozen mid-air as she pointed at the now-black screen. "Why?" she asked, her voice a mix of confusion and mild frustration. "I wanna watch..." Her words trailed off, her pout deepening as she looked back at him, like she couldn’t quite understand why he’d taken it away.

Simon bit his lip, fighting a chuckle. "You’ve been watchin' for a while now, kiddo," he said, trying to sound casual, but there was a slight hesitation in his voice. "Time to do somethin’ else, yeah?"

Adira stared at him for a long moment, her little brow furrowed as she processed what he’d said. She didn’t seem convinced at first, her gaze darting back to the black screen as if willing it to come back to life. When it didn’t, she crossed her arms over her chest, her lower lip poking out in a full pout.

“I don’t wanna,” she muttered, voice small but firm. It was clear she wasn’t happy with the decision, but Simon had a feeling it was more about the principle of the matter than the TV itself.

“C’mon now,” Simon said softly, trying to soften the blow. “We can do somethin’ fun. How ‘bout we build somethin' together? Or read a book?”

Her little frown deepened, and Simon almost felt bad for turning the TV off. But this was the first time he’d gotten a moment alone with her, and he knew it was important to break the habit, to show her there were other things to do in the world besides the screen.

She hesitated, her gaze flicking between him and the quiet living room. Then, with a small sigh, she uncrossed her arms and stood up, shuffling toward the toy box with little steps, only to find nothing that interested her.

"Books?" she asked, her voice still laced with uncertainty but tinged with the smallest bit of curiosity.

Simon smiled, feeling a wave of relief. “Books it is,” he said, standing up to join her. “I bet we can find somethin’ that’ll be just as fun as that TV show.”

Adira didn’t answer, but the way she grabbed a book off the shelf made Simon’s heart flutter with a tiny spark of victory. 

Adira returned to Simon’s side, holding a colorful book with a soft, focused expression on her face. The cover was bright, featuring two foxes—one with a bushy tail and the other a smaller, more timid-looking one. The title, No Matter What, was written in bold letters above them. She climbed up beside him and, without a word, placed the book in his lap, her small hands brushing gently against it as if offering him a treasure.

Simon looked down at the book, caught off guard by her quiet gesture. He glanced at her for a moment, meeting her eyes. She looked at him with a silent kind of expectation, waiting.

Slowly, he picked up the book, holding it carefully as if it were something precious. “What’s this?” he asked softly, though it was clear he already had an inkling.

“Foxes,” Adira replied simply, her voice soft but firm. “Mama read it. It’s ‘bout love.”

Simon’s heart tugged at the mention of you. He could imagine the way you’d read to her, the soothing cadence of your voice, the way Adira had probably snuggled up beside you during the bedtime ritual. But there was something in Adira’s face now, something that felt like an invitation—a little piece of trust she was offering him, too.

“Well, alright then,” Simon said, his voice soft as he began to flip open the book. Adira sat close beside him, her tiny hands still on the cover, watching his every move with an intense focus. She didn’t rush him. The silence between them felt comforting.

He began to read aloud, slowly at first, as if still gauging her reaction. “No matter what, the foxes knew that they would always be together, through the rain or the snow, through the darkest nights and the brightest days.”

Adira shifted beside him, her little legs crossing as she settled into his side. Her small hand reached for the page as he turned it, her fingers brushing over the illustrations. She didn’t interrupt, just quietly absorbed the words.

As Simon read on, his voice grew more confident, and the warmth of the moment started to settle between them. For a fleeting moment, it felt like they had bridged a gap, one word at a time, one page at a time. It wasn’t much, but it was something—something to build on.

Adira’s gaze remained fixed on the book, but her body had relaxed against Simon’s, the way a child does when they feel safe. As the last pages of the book came into view, she snuggled closer, her head resting against his shoulder.

When Simon finished reading, he let the book fall softly onto his lap. He looked down at her, her eyes half-closed, but still aware and trusting. She looked up at him again, her tiny voice soft as she spoke. “Foxes love each other... no matter what.”

Simon’s heart thudded in his chest, the simplicity of her words hitting him harder than he expected. He wasn’t quite sure what it all meant yet, but in that moment, it was enough to see her so close, so willing to share something so personal. A bond had begun to form—fragile, yes, but it was there.

“Yeah,” Simon said, his voice barely above a whisper, “no matter what.”

With the last of the kids sent off and the staff beginning to clean up, you closed up shop, ready to call it a day. But just as you were locking up, a loud clap of thunder rattled the building, causing you to jump in shock. Your heart raced for a moment, the suddenness of it making you freeze in place.

“Jesus, if Adira was here, she’d lose it,” you muttered to yourself, trying to laugh off the shock. But then, your words hit you like a ton of bricks.

If Adira was here.

A chill ran through you as it dawned on you just how careless you’d been. Shit. Shit. Shit. You had completely forgotten to tell Simon about her fear of thunderstorms. She hated them. Hated the loud crashes of thunder, the flashes of lightning. You’d seen her curl up in a ball, her hands over her ears, eyes wide with terror when the storms hit.

The sound of the storm outside was only getting louder, the thunder now booming and crackling as it came closer. You could imagine Adira, sitting there with Simon, eyes wide and full of fear, clutching whatever comfort she could find, and Simon… God, Simon probably didn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t have any idea how to handle it.

Without thinking twice, you dropped everything—your bag, your jacket, anything that wasn’t crucial to getting home. You shot a quick look toward the staff, offering a hasty explanation and apology. Then, without another word, you bolted through the doors, past the remaining parents who were still talking in the lobby, and into the rain.

The rain beat down on you as you sprinted through the streets, the cold droplets stinging your skin as the thunder rumbled overhead. You couldn’t focus on anything but getting home. Adira needs me. Adira needs me.The mantra repeated in your head with each pounding step. Your feet splashed through puddles, the air heavy with the scent of wet pavement and the growing tension in your chest.

It felt like forever as you raced through the downpour, but at last, you reached the building, heart hammering in your chest. You fumbled with your keys, every second feeling like an eternity as the thunder rumbled louder, closer. Hurry, you told yourself, voice shaky as you turned the key and shoved the door open.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

The air felt thick, and as you stepped inside, your eyes instantly darted to the living room.  

On the couch, Simon was sitting with Adira curled up in his side, wrapped tightly in her favorite blanket. Her little body was nestled against his, her small form practically hidden in the folds of the soft fabric. On the coffee table in front of them were the remnants of their quiet afternoon—plastic plates with pizza stains, her sippy cup placed haphazardly next to the mess. Around them, the stack of books you always read to her was scattered across the table: I Love You to the Moon and Back, The Koala Who Could, What Color is a Kiss?—books that had been a staple in your bedtime routine for as long as you could remember.

The sight of them—Adira calm, safe, resting against Simon—caught you off guard. You’d expected panic, chaos, something more… uncertain. But instead, the two of them looked peaceful. Simon’s hand was gently resting on her back, his other arm loosely around her as she drifted in and out of sleep, her head nestled against his chest. She was calm. And that... that made your heart ache in ways you hadn’t expected.

You hadn’t expected Simon to be so… natural with her. He’d stepped up in a way you didn’t think was possible, at least not this soon. Maybe you had underestimated him. Maybe—no, you knew—you had underestimated this. 

Simon, with Adira, was something real.

Hi so, this took a while, wanted to make this really long for yall. For me as im writing this, it's 5 AM! I've been working on this since 1 PM yesterday. Long Fics are not my strongpoint, I had so much trouble with this because I'm a perfectionist and my tiny brain often repeats words ALOT. I'm working on it and the best way to improve is to keep writing.

As things currently go, I may write shorter things for this family, I want to develop Adira and Simon's relationship more just not with super long stuff like this. I'd also would love to answer any questions or talk about headcanons anyone has about them. Feel free to send asks!

Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed and by the time this goes up I'm sure I'll still be asleep!

P.S can someone tell me if I do tags wrong, like ive noticed sometimes when I tag it doesn't have the little underline so I keep thinking it doesn't go through </3

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[nonilogical]

Seamstress Masterlist

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

AO3

Masterlist

[nonilogical]

neighbor!reader x simon 'ghost' riley pt 2

You smile at him. "Of course these are for you- wait, you're not allergic to anything, are you?"

"No," was his gruff response.

"Good! There are some chocolate chip, some peanut butter, and some sugar cookies." You thrust forth the tray of cookies. "Hope you like 'em!"

"I- erm, thank you," Simon manages, still bewildered at the exchange. He takes the tray of cookies and sets it aside somewhere.

"Are you here to stay for a while?" you ask him curiously.

Simon nods. "A while, at least. It's... Well, it's been a while since I've been home for this long."

"Probably takes a while to get back into the swing of things," you muse thoughtfully. "If you ever need anything to eat, I always cook way too much for just myself."

"You live by yourself?" he asked you.

It was in that moment that Simon made a decision. This woman, this sweet girl that smiled at him, offered him more cookies than he could eat (that were still warm), and offered him home-cooked meals?

Yeah. He wanted - needed - to keep an eye out for you. Your actions, within minutes of meeting him, showed him that you were one of those people that were just too good for this world. And he wanted you to stay that way, to shield you from any harsh realities that come about.

"Yeah, it's just me- well, me and my cat, Izzy. She's a good guard cat."

"Really?"

You laugh and shake your head. "No, not really. She loves people too much. You wanna meet her?"

Yes. Yes, he did.

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