nonilogical

[nonilogical]

Can you pleaseeeeee do a simon ghost riley fic where the female reader is also on the team but she's like very introverted (not shy) doesn't talk much. She gets along well with everyone else but simon. She and simon got off on the wrong first impressions and they haven't been getting along ever since. BUT,,, she kinda had a crush on him and isn't ready to admit it so she just cover it up with acting like she hates him. ALSO,,,, I ABSOLUTELY LOVE YOUR POSTS!

I read this request, kicked my feet and giggled 🤭 this is just *chefs kiss*

“Salt and Gunpowder”

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

Word Count: ~1,500

CW: enemies-to-something-more, introverted reader, miscommunication, slow burn, banter, unresolved tension, reader is part of Task Force 141

⸻

You didn’t hate Simon Riley.

You just… didn’t like him.

Which was different.

You got along with the rest of the team fine. Soap made you laugh, even when you didn’t want to. Price respected your silence, never pushing you to talk more than you needed. Gaz? Charming and observant—he always seemed to know when you needed air.

But Ghost?

You were oil and water.

It started on your second day with the Task Force.

He’d made a comment—half-dismissive, half-curious—when you barely said two words in the pre-mission briefing.

“If she’s not gonna speak, what’s the point of having her here?”

He hadn’t meant for you to hear it. But you had. Loud and clear.

And you didn’t forget things like that.

So you snapped—just loud enough to make sure he heard.

“Maybe the point is I do more than talk.”

That was all it took.

Since then, every interaction was short, clipped, or needlessly barbed. Not yelling. Not fighting. Just… tension. Quiet and simmering, like a gun left loaded on the table.

He’d look at you like you were a puzzle missing too many pieces.

You’d look back like he was the last person on earth you wanted watching your six.

Except, you didn’t mean it. Not really.

Because sometimes, in the quiet between operations, you’d catch yourself watching him.

The way he moved—precise, silent. Always one step ahead. The way he talked only when necessary. Like he measured every word.

And God help you, the way his voice dropped when he said your name.

You weren’t proud of it. You weren’t ready to admit it. So you kept pretending.

Pretending that his presence didn’t spark something under your skin.

Pretending you weren’t already thinking about him too much.

Pretending that this wasn’t just friction—this was fire.

⸻

It wasn’t until a mission in the Scottish Highlands that things cracked.

The op had gone sideways—intel was off, numbers were worse than expected, and your extraction point was blown.

You and Ghost got separated from the others. Ended up hunkered in a half-collapsed sheep shed with no signal, dwindling ammo, and a cold wind howling outside like the end of the world.

“I’ll take first watch,” he said, voice neutral as always.

“I’m not tired.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

You sat against the opposite wall, cleaning your knife just to avoid looking at him.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

And then—

“Something I did?” he asked.

You blinked. Looked up. “What?”

“You act like I shot your dog every time we’re in the same room. Figured I might’ve missed something.”

You set your knife down, heart ticking faster.

“You said I didn’t belong.”

“I said I didn’t understand why you were here.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “I don’t say things I don’t mean. If I thought you were useless, I’d have told Price to pull you.”

You looked away, jaw tightening. “Well, thanks for not doing that.”

Silence.

Then, softer: “I was wrong.”

Your head snapped up.

His mask was in place, but you could tell by his posture that he meant it. Ghost didn’t do performative apologies. He barely did talking.

“I watched you take down three targets last week with a combat knife and no backup. I’ve seen the way you move. You’re methodical. Quiet. Dangerous. I get it now.”

You stared at him, brain refusing to cooperate.

“…Are you complimenting me?”

“I’m apologizing,” he corrected. “But if you want to take it as a compliment too, that’s your call.”

You didn’t respond right away. The words stuck in your throat like gravel.

Then you said, without thinking, “You’re not what I thought you’d be either.”

That got his attention. “Oh?”

“I thought you were an asshole.” You shrugged. “Turns out you’re just… guarded.”

Another long pause. You held his gaze. He didn’t look away.

You wanted to stop there.

You should have.

But the words slipped out before you could catch them.

“And that’s what makes it worse.”

He tilted his head. “What?”

“That I don’t actually hate you.”

He froze.

“I wish I did,” you muttered. “It’d be easier than whatever this is.”

Something shifted in the air then. Not explosive. Not sudden.

Just real.

Ghost didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But the way he looked at you? It was different now.

Like he was seeing you for the first time. Not the soldier. Not the mask you wore around everyone else.

You.

“I thought you hated me,” he said quietly. “Couldn’t figure out what I did.”

“You intimidated me,” you admitted. “But I don’t scare easy, so I turned it into attitude.”

His voice dropped, rough and unsteady. “Why would I intimidate you?”

You hesitated.

“Because I liked you.”

It hung there in the cold air, sharp as broken glass.

“I still do.”

He stood slowly, crossed the short space between you. Sat beside you, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat from his arm.

“I didn’t know,” he said. “Wasn’t sure you even wanted me around.”

“I didn’t,” you said. “Because I knew if I let you in, it’d feel like this.”

He let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. “And how’s it feel?”

You turned to him, heart loud in your ears.

“Like trouble.”

He leaned in just slightly. Not enough to break the space—but enough to shatter the distance.

“You want me to back off?”

You could have said yes.

You should have.

Instead, you said, “Not yet.”

⸻

When you finally made it back to the others the next day—bruised, tired, cold—Soap took one look at you both and narrowed his eyes.

“You two good?” he asked, not bothering to hide his suspicion.

“Peachy,” you muttered, walking past.

Ghost followed, silent.

Price arched a brow. “Something change?”

“No,” Soap said, watching the two of you walk away. “But something cracked.”

Gaz just laughed. “Told you they’d either kill each other or fall in love.”

“Still time for both,” Price muttered.

⸻

That night, Ghost found you again. No words. Just quiet company, shoulder to shoulder, the silence finally comfortable.

You didn’t hate him.

You never did.

And now, maybe… just maybe…

he didn’t hate you either.

This was soooooo much fun to write! It took me ages but we got there in the end and it’s 😚🤌🏻 (if I do say so myself).

If you have any requests please send them my way and I’ll get to them asap ❤️ xoxo



[nonilogical]

more roommate simon!

i love the idea that simon thinks he's super open and available with his emotions and reader thinking he's really cold and disinterested. is he ooc? yeah. do i care? no. if you want cannon ghost, play the game!

simon riley doesn't know when you became so important to him.

the only reason he even put out the ad for a roommate was because his landlord though he'd moved out while he was away and he'd rather have some bird in his place than deal with that again.

you were just so easy; showing up to the coffee shop (where you requested to have your first meeting just in case he was some crazy murderer) face flushed, strands of hair all over the place, and sweater a mess; rushing to explain how you got sprayed by a sprinkler on your walk over then chased by a dog. and just as you repeat sorry for the 30th time simon thinks he's in love. you're officially his roommate 30 minutes later.

but it's so out of character for him. he hasn't been around anything other than hard ass military men since he was a teenager. fuck, he's killed hundreds of men in his line of work, tortured thousands more. (he doesn't like to think that that's why he's so drawn to you. that you're so different from who he has to be, someone he's been for so long, that being around you lets him breathe. that he feels like he can actually sit and enjoy his moments away from the field in your tiny manchester apartment.)

he thinks it actually started with the decorations.

the small trinkets you let around the common spaces when he was away. it starts with your room obviously; fairy lights above your bed that spills light into the hallway when he comes home in the early morning hours, paintings on the wall that eventually flow over into the living room, the small plants in your window sill that you ask him to water one day after you leave for work.

then the dinner table suddenly has checkerboard placemats and a vase of flowers that change with the season. and his run-down couch has decorative pillows and a throw blanket (both words he learned from you when he questions what the fuck is on his couch). then the bathroom in the hallway gets a new soap stand, and a mat is placed at your front door, next to the shoe organizer and coat rack.

so he starts buying things too; the penguin plushie in the supermarket window, the vase that matches the curtains in the living room, and a small skull magnet to rest on the face of your fridge.

and before simon knows it his dreary, cold apartment actually looks lived in. and instead of coming home to a dark hallway and an empty fridge, your flower lamp is on, some random show from the 90s is playing, and there's food on the table.

he gets to know you more than he thought he would; he knows what foods you don't like, the books you're reading and the ones you refuse to read again, and even that dick from work he promises to take care of if he bothers you again (it's evident that you think it's a joke and not something that he would genuinely do but simon doesn't think he's ever been more serious).

but he never lets you know too much about him, you don't need to know about it and the less you find out the better.

then came dinners, actual dinner not just him showing up while you already had food ready. you would ask if he wanted whatever you had made ( 'i'm already making food and i normally don't eat is all anyway, so i might as well share' ). so suddenly he was spending his nights at your table with a homecooked meal and simon doesn't think he could ever let this go.

then he gets sent away again, for way longer this time. he makes sure to update his paperwork, changes his emergency contact, your name swirled onto the spouse line. you were probably as close as he'll ever get to one and if you're there they'll tell you if anything happens to him faster. he doesn't want to think of how nice your first name looks with his last name. and you'll probably never even know, simon's never gotten that injured before and he doesn't plan on it now.

months in the heat of the middle east return him to hard shell of a man he was. coming home caked in dirt, blood speckled on his clothes; he doesn't want you to see him like this, he doesn't want you to know this version of him. and for the first time he regrets letting you come into his life.

you are home when he gets back, 2:30 in the morning and every light is off, he opens your door to make sure. you're asleep, not shocking, cuddled into the giant octopus you won at an arcade. he tries not to move, he just wants to look at you for a little bit.

he wakes up the next morning to breakfast and a new pair of combat boots. he's only home for a week this time, not that he's ever home for longer than a month, and he tries to soak up all of your time. you complain about your car, he's on it. the heater started being testy, that's fine he'll take care of it. he's going grocery shopping with you, he watching that weird hospital show, and he enjoys his time in domestic bliss before getting thrown back into some random country.

somehow that all led him here. laying in a hospital bed with two bullets lodged in his shoulder with you sitting in some shitty chair pulled as close to the bed as you could.

"so uh, i'm mrs. riley now?"

"yeah, ya are. 'av been for a while."

[nonilogical]

YEEEEES looks so good very excited to do this again after over a decade, also you can see the throat of the world, very cool.

[nonilogical]

Being the only female in 141, but not in the “they all wanna fuck me uwu” way…

cute lil drabble (im sleep deprived as hell)

wc: 243

These men have no idea how to do the most basic tasks, taking care of themselves be damned.

They looked at you like they saw a ghost the first time you sat down with something on your plate that wasn’t a can of corn, beans, tuna or MRE’s. Holy shit, you’re eating from a plate, love!

And it was like you grew three heads when you wiped the table after Gaz spilled water, why didn’t you let it dry? Or that time you had to broom the dead mice out of the safe house. We could have lain down next to them, sweetheart! Oh when you made dinner for them? You won their hearts…

This wasn’t about gender roles, no, you weren’t doing this because you had to. You weren’t the problem for doing it, they were the problem for being so fucking dumb.

“Are you lot some sort of loyalty as in riches, or fucking rags?”

“Wha’?” Simon blurts.

“Are you this incompetent because you’ve never done anything and people did shit for you your entire life, or are you just… straight completely useless with no excuse?” The genuineness in your voice is a shock factor itself, enough to make the captain’s eyebrows raise.

“Lass, are you okay—“

“Soap, you just told me you’ve never held a broom in your life.”

One time, Gaz was cleaning ketchup from the table with rounded motions, smearing it over the table. Your breath hitched. “GARRICK!”

They’re nervous around you since.

Check out my masterlist!

[nonilogical]

more of Ghost’s sweet wife from this blurb! | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Ghost’s sergeant’s are still trying to figure out how a sweet thing like yourself ended up as their Lieutenant’s wife. Rumors spread, ones that bruise Ghost’s ego just a little— ‘Did you hear the Lieutenant is holding a poor lass hostage as his wife?’

It doesn’t help that anytime anyone asks he chalks it up to his ‘irresistible charm.’

The truth? Well he can’t let his team know how utterly soft he is for you.

It would ruin his image if he told them that when he’s not on base he spends his spare time at his elderly neighbor’s apartment. Carries her mail up the stairs everyday so she doesn’t have to climb up the stairs herself, helps her up them whenever he does see her shaking and stumbling up the steps.

Asks her if she needs anything from the market when he’s going shopping, takes her to get refills of her medicine. Always makes himself available to her no matter how minuscule, opens stubborn jars for her, helps her read the tiny font on her prescription bottles, fixes the time on her clocks when the time changes.

Her glorified maintenance boy, and truthfully, Simon was more than happy to help. It felt good to be needed for something normal, so he replaced her light bulbs, drained her clogged sinks, fixed her lopsided wash machine with a smile.

Every Sunday morning, the same routine, tea and biscuits while she taught him how to crochet. It wasn’t exactly easy to hold the slender hooks in his thick fingers, but he could hold them steady long enough, zero his focus through a needle after years as a sniper. He was quite a patient person, and the stitching helped pass the days he was alone, numb his mind to nothing, but loop and thread.

Loop and thread.

It’s not like she was the only one benefiting from the agreement. It was quiet, peaceful, a much needed contrast to the draining and stressful occupation he put himself in. Most days he fell asleep in her recliner, always had her heater a little warmer than needed, the smell of pastries she was baking wafting from the kitchen. Made her living room entirely too comfortable, but she didn’t mind when he took naps, even if he was sure he snored like a bear.

Insisted he call her ‘Gran,’ even if she wasn’t his grandmother. Though, he supposed she acted like she was; baked him an abundance of pastries, always made more than enough dinner for two people. Gave him left overs for lunch— ‘a little lady like myself can’t finish it all alone, Simon.’

Plus, it led him to you.

There were days their conversations strayed to his relationship status. Single, of course, something Gran tried to change, dropping hints throughout their time together:

‘A young man like yourself should have a wife and kids by now, Simon!’

‘You sure are a handy man, you’ll make a great husband someday.’

‘You should meet my granddaughter, I think you two would get along swell.’

‘You know, my granddaughter can cook just as well. Taught her all my recipes.’

He always brushed it off; he wasn’t exactly looking to be in a relationship, but Gran was cunning, sneaky, and set the two of you up. Invited him over for dinner and to watch the football game on the telly one day. Except when he walked through her front door, calling for her, he saw your figure in the kitchen, adorned in an apron, covered in flour and sugar.

And well, he already called her ‘Gran,’ why not legally make her his grand-in-law?

[nonilogical]

a quiet kind of love

simon riley x pregnant!reader

requested: yes

summary: A pregnant woman finds comfort in her quiet, kind neighbor. With gentle moments and quiet care, they grow into something like family.

wc: 1.3k

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You hadn’t expected much when you moved into the run-down flat on the second floor of the old building. The wallpaper peeled in the corners, the radiator hissed like it was dying, and the ceiling above the kitchen had a water stain that looked vaguely like a sad face. But the rent was low, and you needed low.

Seven months pregnant. Alone. Starting over.

The first time you saw him, he didn’t say a word.

You were wrestling four overstuffed grocery bags up the stairs, your balance thrown off by your growing belly. You hadn’t even noticed him until one bag slipped and burst open��apples and cans tumbling across the landing with a loud clatter. You let out a groan, crouching awkwardly to grab them, breath short and frustration high.

Then boots.

Big, heavy, worn boots stepped into your line of sight. He crouched, wordlessly collecting your things, and handed you the rescued apple like it was something fragile.

“Thanks,” you managed, flushed and winded.

He just nodded, quiet, and took the rest of your bags without asking. Walked them to your door. Set them down. Then left.

No name. No words. Just… help.

The landlord had said the guy in 4B kept to himself. “Military, I think,” he’d muttered, fixing a dripping pipe in your kitchen. “Big bastard. Weird one. Don’t bother him.”

But you weren’t bothered.

Not when the man in 4B started showing up just when you needed someone the most.

Your car refused to start one morning—battery dead, rain pouring. You were already late for your prenatal check-up, soaked through, panic clawing at your throat.

You didn’t call for him.

But there he was, crouched by your engine in the rain ten minutes later, sleeves rolled up, hands steady. You just stood beside him, umbrella shaking in your grip.

He got it running. Said nothing. Just gave you a nod and turned back toward the building.

Later that day, you found a note slipped under your door:

Battery’s going. Let me know if you need a ride next time — S.

S.

It was the first time you knew anything about him at all. Just a single initial.

But you felt safer somehow. Like maybe the world wasn’t as empty as it had felt lately.

He came around more after that.

Never intrusive. Always quiet. But steady.

You caught him fixing the hinge on your door one afternoon. Didn’t knock—just noticed it was squeaking and did something about it. You offered tea, awkward and warm, and he took it with a small nod, standing in your doorway like he didn’t quite know if he was allowed inside.

Sometimes, he’d help without saying a word. A stuck window. The dripping tap. The crib, which had arrived in pieces and looked like a nightmare.

He showed up with a toolbox slung over one shoulder and a roll of sandpaper in the other. “Can’t have your little one sleepin’ in splinters,” he muttered, smoothing the edges with care that made your throat ache.

You started to wait for him without realizing it. Listened for his boots in the hall. Left the door unlocked when you knew he’d be coming by to check on the leaky pipe again. Made two cups of tea instead of one.

The flat felt less cold when he was near.

“You really don’t have to do all this,” you said one day, watching him tighten a bracket on the changing table.

Simon glanced up, a ghost of a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Don’t mind.”

“But why?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just focused on the wrench in his hands, twisting it slowly. His sleeves were pushed up, revealing strong forearms, a faint scar running along one. The light caught the side of his face—a rare moment when his mask was off.

Finally, he said, “’Cause no one was there when my mum needed help.”

The words were quiet. Heavy.

You swallowed, the room suddenly too full of unspoken things. “You’re here now.”

He met your gaze for a long moment. Then nodded, just once.

He never pushed. Never asked questions. But he was always there.

Late nights when your ankles were aching and your back hurt, he’d knock with a bowl of soup or a spare pillow he’d swear was better for propping you up.

When you had a rough appointment and came back in tears, he said nothing—just stood by your kitchen counter, letting you cry while he quietly fixed your kettle.

Sometimes, he’d sit across from you while you folded baby clothes, his voice low and rough as he asked about the due date, or what names you liked.

“I was thinking… Liam,” you said one night. “It means ‘strong-willed warrior.’ I just… I like how it sounds.”

He rolled the name on his tongue like it was something sacred. “Liam,” he echoed. “It suits him.”

The night Liam was born, the city was drowning in rain.

You knocked on his door, breathless and barely able to stand. You didn’t even say anything—just clutched your belly and whimpered.

He caught you before you fell.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

You didn’t remember much of the drive—just his hand on yours, the low rumble of his voice calming you through every contraction, and the way he paced outside the hospital room like it was killing him not to be inside.

When it was over—when Liam was in your arms, tiny and perfect—you looked toward the door.

And there he was. Hesitant. Hovering.

You smiled through your tears. “Simon,” you said softly, “do you want to meet him?”

His shoulders stiffened, eyes going wide. You hadn’t ever called him that before.

But he came. Stepped inside like he was walking into something holy.

You placed Liam in his arms, watching the way this hardened, silent man melted in an instant. His hands cradled the baby like he was the most fragile thing in the world.

“He’s beautiful,” Simon said. “You did good.”

“You helped,” you whispered.

Simon looked at you—really looked—and for the first time, let the walls fall.

“You’re not alone,” he said. “You never will be again.”

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@h0lydrag0ns

[nonilogical]

In which Simon Riley meets a distressed single mom at the park and is immediately LOCKED IN.

Here's Part Two and Part Three and Part Four and Part Five :)

Simon likes going for walks.

It's an easy way to eat up time when he's on leave -- every minute he's walking is another minute he doesn't have to sit staring at the walls in his cold, dull apartment. And this way, he gets to see all sorts of things, trees and flowers, beautiful buildings and people that he passes by so quickly that he can almost convince himself they're beautiful too.

He doesn't think highly enough of himself to believe that he can truly have any of these things. That's why his apartment is bare bones, sparsely furnished with only the necessities, nothing even close to a frill in sight. But on his walks, he can catch little glimpses. He's been telling himself for so long that this is enough that most of the time, he believes it.

Then he met you. And now, suddenly none of it matters -- what he believes he deserves, what he thinks he can get by with, none of it. Because for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, he's filled with such an exquisite, excruciating rush of want that it drowns out everything else, floods all the ugly little nooks and crannies in his mind and his heart until all that's left is you.

It happened at the park. Not the big one he walks by sometimes in the nicer part of town, with its brand new shiny jungle gym and the constant crowd of children and parents and nannies and noise -- no, it was at the small little rundown one closer to home. The one that's almost always vacant, which is probably one of the reasons why he noticed you there.

Another, much more notable reason would be the way you were nearly screeching, your voice filled with panic and fear as you stood by one of the tall slides.

Simon heard you from a distance, and when he was close enough to see you, it was easy enough to figure out why. You were standing there, your belly big and swollen with child, looking up at a little boy with your complexion and hair color as he stood by the railing of the steps leading up to the slide.

"Get down right this instant," he heard you hiss when he snuck even closer. "Charlie, i swear to God, this isn't funny, get down."

The boy, with a playful, terrorizing little smile Simon could make out from a distance, shook his head, replying, "You come get me."

And there was the problem. You couldn't get up the narrow little staircase of that part of the playground with your pregnant belly, and the boy wouldn't come down on his own. Simon surveyed the park once more, but he already knew there was no one else there. You were alone, no husband to step in and take care of things.

At this point, he was strolling along the sidewalk beside the park, trying to decide if he wanted to help or not. On one hand, you seemed a little desperate, but on the other, he didn't want to frighten you even more. He knows how imposing he can be, and at least in these kinds of situations, he's mindful of it.

Then he hears it: a frustrated, choked little sob from you. That made up his mind.

"All right?" he asked carefully, slowly approaching you.

You jumped at the sound of his voice, your hand instinctively going to cradle your bump, then glanced back up at the boy.

"We're fine," you told Simon. "We're just waiting on my husband to come back, then we'll call it a day."

It was a weak lie -- he'd already clocked that you weren't wearing a wedding ring, nor did you have a tan line there, but even if he didn't go on that, you were just not a good liar. He might have laughed at your attempt to brush him off, but then little boy put his hands on the railing and leaned over it to greet him, and your nervous gasp brought him back to the situation at hand.

"Charlie, stop," you barked, an authoritative mom voice if he'd ever heard one. But Charlie, it seemed, was a headstrong little thing, and he simply laughed and began jumping, apparently not noticing or caring that his reckless behavior was causing you so much stress.

"Could get him down for you, if you like."

He didn't know why he said that. Why he even thought to offer. But you looked up at him, really looked at him with those wide, teary eyes, and he knew he'd do that and so much more, if only you'd let him.

"I can't ... it's ok, you don't have to do that," you replied, still hesitant to accept the help from the big, bulking stranger.

"'Course I don't have to," he answered simply. "Just trying to help."

You glance between him and the boy once more, and you even give Charlie one more chance to listen and come down on his own, but he just shrieked with laughter, pleased to be the center of attention, so you just sighed and gave Simon a nod.

He easily climbs up the tall metal structure, squeezing his wide body up the narrow steps to where the boy stood. Then he stopped.

He's not a people person by any stretch of the imagination, so of course he's not a kid person either. He's never interacted with them much, so as stilted and closed-off as he is with most adults, he's even more clueless with children.

He didn't know if he should pick him up and carry him down to you, maybe push him to the slide to get down that way. He also considered that maybe he shouldn't even touch him at all, but that left talking to the kid, which didn't sound great either.

Luckily for Simon, Charlie was chatty enough for both of them.

"Never seen you here before," he told Simon. "You're too big for the slides."

"Not here for the slide," he said, his gaze drifting back to you where you stood below, watching anxiously. "Why don't you get back down there before you give your poor mum a heart attack?"

"I'm not supposed to listen to strangers."

"That so?" Simon asked. "Supposed to listen to your mum though, yeah?"

That easy bit of logic seemed to trip Charlie up, and Simon smirked, then nodded to the slide.

"Go on, then."

The child let out a dramatic sigh, then climbed the rest of the way up the steps and went down the slide. Simon watched you rush to the bottom of it, swiftly grabbing his hand when it came within reach.

"Thank you so much," you told him when he climbed his way back to the ground, your earlier trepidation gone, seemingly with relief. "He usually listens better than that, and I couldn't ..."

"No need," he said gruffly, cutting off your explanation. "Just glad I could help."

You gave him a smile, and just for a moment, he let himself think of things he never allowed himself to imagine. A life in which he not only had a family, but this family -- a family where you, the boy, and the baby in your belly all belonged to him.

That's when the wanting started. And now, nearly two weeks later, Simon finds himself walking past the park, again and again, hoping to find you there. Hoping to ease the gnawing little ache that began knocking around his chest that day, to see what he now believes could be the most beautiful thing this ugly world has to offer.

[nonilogical]

your roommate was a strange man.

can you even really call him a roommate if he's only home for one week every few months? but when he is home, simon riley is a pretty good roommate.

he fixes the heater that's been broken for two months, he replaces the faucet after it drenches you for turning it on too quick, he even takes a look at your car when you mention how your breaks have been squeaking. but other than his penchant for whiskey and the color black, you really don't know much about the man you've been living with for more than a year.

he's in the military, you know that for sure. he works with a team because he tells you that you have a striking resemblance to a man names "soap"? you take that as a compliment even if he didn't really mean it to be one. he wears combat boots even when he's off, you buy him a pair for his birthday that he doesn't take off until soles wear out. but all of these are merely observations, you don't actually know anything about him.

and it's not like you don't try to find out more things about him. you search his name on google- nothing. you ask him about his social media- 'don't got any'. you never ask about family because he never brings them up. all you have is a phone number and the license plate on his beat up dodge charger.

so, getting a call in the middle of the night, three months after you'd last seen simon, about a mission taking a bad turn and simon taking a bullet for an american private. all you really manage to catch after that was the hospital's address and a room number to ask for.

you feel like you're in a trance as you pack yourself an overnight bag, then move to simon's room and just start grabbing the softest clothes you can find and a bunch of snacks from his side of the pantry, then you're off.

you didn't want to see desperate or overly worried about a man whose favorite song you don't know but you're pushing into the high 90s on your way down. and your mind isn't clear until you're standing in front of a tired looking nurse in sanrio scrubs.

"um, i need to get into room 1206?" you barely choke the words out before she's getting up to lead you, "oh! mrs. riley, they told me you were on your way."

"oh-i'm, well" and if you hadn't watch so many hospital shows where they don't let anyone but family into the room you would have just told her the truth, but you just shut your mouth, give her a tight smile, and follow her down the hallway.

the room doesn’t take long to get to, but the door is shut and you can hear the people inside talking. but the nurse doesn't even hesitate to swing the door wide open, "mr. riley, your wife is here."

and then there are four sets of eyes trained on you, but all you can look at is the hulking figure of your roommate sat up in his comically small hospital bed. and all you can muster up is a slight smile and a small wave in his direction before the bags you're holding fly straight onto the floor.

"oh, shoot- i'm sorry. i didn't know if you needed anything so i just grabbed some things from your dresser- and some of those granola bars you like, and there should be a gatorade somewhere in there. and, oh my god, i'm sorry, how are you? i came as soon as they called, and they said you got shot, and-"

"calm down, sweetheart, or yer gonna be the one that needs a hospital bed." ok, simon could still speak that was good, and he was conscious and remembered you.

"i'm sorry. i just got worried, and-" simon knew you well enough to know that you'll worry yourself to death if he lets you keep going, "nothin' to worry about, sweetheart, pull up a chair, you've 'ad stressful few hours."

you practically fell back into the chair that the man with the kindest brown eyes you've ever seen pushed towards you. and for the first time since you arrived, you took a deep, long breath. hand clasped in your lap as you take simon in.

"feeling any better, mrs. riley?"

"she's fine, garrick." 

'garrick' seems utterly unphased by your roommate's- husband's? you can address that later- tone and just continues to smile at you.

"c'mon simon, we just wannae ken 'bout the bonnie lass yer hidin' from yer pals. ye 'aven't even introduced us." you're glad the scot waited until you'd calmed down to start speaking because it took you at least 30 seconds to realize he was even talking about you.

"sweetheart these are the boys, boys this is sweetheart, now fuck off before you scare 'er away"

they didn’t seem like they were going to leave until the older man practically dragged them out saying something about the heaping loads of paperwork they had to do. so will a little wave and a cheeky smile, they were gone.

"so, um, ho-how are you feeling? they, uh, said that you got shot?"

" 'm fine, sweetheart, better knowing i've got a bird at home who'll come runnin' cause she thinks 'm hurt, yeah wife?"

yeah, maybe you'll let the mrs. riley thing go on for a little bit longer.

idk i just really like the idea of simon just picking someone random and being like 'yeah this is it, you're mine now' and they have literally no idea

[nonilogical]

Part two of this one where Price is your neighbor and falls in love with you but whoops you have an awful gross boyfriend :/

John is a man who embraces his flaws. He knows each and every single one of them by heart, and if he doesn't put time into fixing them, he works long and hard to make them into something useful.

And thank goodness he does, because it turns out that his competitive streak and his slight obsessive tendencies -- the urge to devour the things he loves, to feast on them endlessly until he's either consumed it all or been consumed himself -- would come in handy in his mission to win you over and away from your useless leech of a boyfriend.

For days, every time he sees you, the boyfriend is attached to your side, a parasite sucking all the light and life from you, and it almost hurts John to watch. To see such a pretty little thing like you get used -- because it's obvious to him, from the heart-to-heart you'd had all those weeks ago, as well as just from simple observation, that that's what was happening -- when he could be making you smile, making you happy ... it's a struggle.

But he wants to bide his time. He knows if he comes in to your rescue, guns blazing, it could backfire, that even if he knows in his bones that you are meant to belong to him, it might seem overwhelming and presumptuous at best to make such a declaration so early.

"I'm glad he's back," you tell him the first time he gets you alone -- a Wednesday night in the laundry room of your shared apartment complex. "I think things are working out better this time, I really do."

"Is that so?" he replies in a carefully measured tone. He shoots you a tight grin that he knows good and well doesn't meet his eyes as he moves his clothes from the washer to the dryer.

You give him a look, one that tells him that you know he knows you're bullshitting, and he lets out a small laugh.

"I don't mean to rain on your parade, love, truly, I don't," he tells you. "But I seem to remember you being none too happy about the man. You didn't exactly paint a happy picture when you spoke of him, yeah?"

You sigh as you take each individual piece of clothing from the dryer, folding it neatly and placing it in your basket, and he tries not to notice how much it gets under his skin to see your lovely, careful hands smoothing out your boyfriend's clothes before mixing them in with your own.

"I know," you admit softly. "But he's here, and he's trying ... well, trying for him. And maybe that's better than being alone."

John wants nothing more than to pull you away from the machines, to press you against the wall and kiss you until all that sad resignation was gone from your voice. He wants to hold you until you understand that you deserve more than the scraps of a pathetic man too stupid, self-involved or both to realize what a treasure he had in you.

But he's playing the long game now. So instead, he hums thoughtfully, then says, "You ever think that there's another option?"

You grin, and it's a shot of warmth to his chest, a cozy little feeling that spreads out and over him and god, he wants so much more of that.

Before you can respond, a buzzer goes off -- your second load of laundry, ready to be dried. It breaks the moment, but that's all right. John is a patient man. He can create another.

A week or two later, he's heading out for a bit, a quick trip to the shops to pick up some groceries. As he's walking to his parking spot, he hears raised voices, and when he pinpoints one of them as yours, he walks faster.

He sees you standing by your car, looking as cute as ever wrapped up in your winter coat, and your boyfriend kneeling on the ground by your rear right tire. It's flat, and there's a jack and a tire iron lying on the pavement near it, but no real work done on repairing the situation.

"Look, it's not a big deal," John hears you tell your boyfriend, the frustration apparent in your voice like this is your fourth or fifth time repeating this same line. "I'll call someone to come fix it, it's --"

"I can fix the fucking tire, Jesus Christ," the boyfriend barks, and for John, that's quite enough of that.

"There a problem?" he asks, a bit of the Captain coming out in his tone as he glares down at the other man.

"Just a flat tire," you tell him. "Someone is pretending they know how to change it, but --"

"For the last time, I know how to change the goddamn tire, your piece of shit car is just --"

"Let me have a go then," John interrupts, his lips in a tight line.

The boyfriend rises, moving to stand in front of John. He has an inch or two on him, and he clearly tries to use them to intimidate John, which is a ridiculous enough move that both men can hear you bite back a laugh.

It's a pissing contest, pure and simple, but John is playing to win. He stands his ground, staring steady until the boyfriend sighs and gestures to the tire, inviting him to take over.

As John goes to take over the job, the boyfriend purposefully brushes against his shoulder with his own, leaning in to growl, "She's not going to fuck you for changing her tire, old man."

The remark was just low enough for you to miss up, but pointed enough for John to imagine a number of scenarios in quick succession, most of them involving the tire iron and shutting up the boyfriend's rotten mouth for good. But again, John is all smooth control, so he just pats the man's shoulder before he gets down on his knees and begins, with little trouble, the process of changing the tire.

It's at some point before the new tire is put on that the boyfriend storms back inside, muttering some feeble remark about not feeling like going out anymore. When he leaves, you move closer to John, watching him as easily continues the job.

"Thank you," you say softly. "You didn't have to do this."

He smiles up at you quickly before his eyes go back to the tire, and says, "Quite all right, sweetheart. No trouble at all."

When he's done, he packs everything back up for you, tucking it all in your trunk. You protest, trying to grab the tools from him, but it's easy enough for him to out-maneuver you. He holds the tire iron up high, out of your reach, and you laugh easily, all earlier tension gone, and the difference in you when you're with him, when it's just the two of you, is almost enough to make him ache with longing.

You thank him again, tell him again that he didn't have to help, and a bit of his resolve snaps. He doesn't want much more time to go by without you knowing that you deserve that kind of help, those simple, easy little acts of kindness.

"Tell you what," he says, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial tone. "If it makes you feel more at ease, you can pay me back for the labor."

"Yeah, sure," you reply earnestly. "How much?"

"One cup of coffee. That's my rate."

You gift him with another bright smile as you pick up on the offer, but he sees your eyes glance towards the apartment building.

"I maybe shouldn't," you respond. "My boyfriend is --"

"Not here," John finishes the sentence for you. "And I, the man who just slaved away to do a repair on your vehicle, am."

"... So you are."

He grins, lowering his voice just a smidge more, adding "Quite thirsty too."

You laugh, then gesture for him to get in your car -- an agreement, for coffee, at least.

It's a small victory, but as John well knows, that's how wars are won.

[nonilogical]

Simon Riley x reader; soft Simon kinda; love him need him idk <3

Simon was not built for relationships.

He knew it innately, and he'd known it for as long as he could remember. He knew it the moment he met you, and it was floating in the back of his mind, poisonous but inherently true, almost every moment he spent with you.

"You're going to ruin this," that toxic, consuming part of him would whisper. "You're going to ruin everything."

He heard it in lazy afternoons in your apartment, you curled up against him on the couch, talking about nothing and everything with you, all the while, showing him a sweet, easy kindness like nothing he'd ever known. It flitted through his mind like venom when he held you in his bed, you fast asleep in his arms and him wide awake beside you, aching. It was an exquisite agony, being so closed to you, with part of him sated and soothed by it and part of him knowing it couldn't last.

"Simon," you'd tell him, your voice like a dream, so soft and near. "Be here with me."

And he tried. Or he'd wanted to try, which for him, was the closest he ever came to it.

Ghost was a brave man, a soldier who fearlessly risked his life to do things that most people wouldn't. But Simon was a coward. He was a weak man whose oldest, dearest friend was the nasty little voice inside his head. He let it taint his time with you, to the point where even your soft skin and gentle kisses couldn't drown out the hateful, spiteful warnings rattling around in his skull.

So he left.

You deserved better, that's what he told himself. He knew he could be a distant lover, closing himself off when you wanted him open, and he could be controlling in his desire to keep you safe and sound and his. Sometimes his mind drifted to another place when you'd tell him about your day, and sometimes he didn't show up for you. You deserved someone who could be present and whole. A complement to your light, not whatever sick, strange darkness he was made of.

Time passed after he left you, but the yearning never did. Not really.

Which was why when you called him out of the blue, three years later, asking him if you could stop by his place, he agreed without thinking about it too much. It had taken every bit of his resolve to break your heart the first time, he didn't have it in him to deny you something now.

When you walked into his apartment, he held his breath, quickly scanning your features, taking in your scent, recommitting everything to memory like he didn't still know you like the back of his hand. Your hair was shorter, you were a bit thinner, but you were still you. Still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

And he still couldn't just say that.

"Everything all right?" he asked quietly, arms crossed over his chest.

"Actually ... not really," you told him, your expression stormy and serious, the tone of your voice setting his nerves on edge. "That's why I wanted to see you."

Simon had always towered over you, but you seemed somehow smaller even now. He heard the stirrings of the voice in his head, warning him to keep his distance, but he couldn't help but put place a calloused hand on your shoulder, his thumb lightly stroking your collarbone.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" he asked.

You were sick, you explained to him. Really sick. Enough that you were scared.

"No one else has ever made me feel as safe as you did," you said quietly, the confession enough to break him.

Again, like when he'd agreed for you to come over, your need for him, his own need to be the one you needed, drowned out that nasty little whisper in his head, and he pulled you to him, wrapping his strong arms around you until you were swallowed up in him.

In the moment, it didn't matter that he was fundamentally broken, or that he may have broken you a bit too when he was with you, or by the way he left. It mattered that your shaky hands stilled against his back after a moment of being in his arms, that the tears that fell hot on his chest when he pulled you to him began to dry as he kept you against him.

"You tell me what you need," he said in a low rumble you could feel vibrating in his chest against your cheek. "Anything, anything at all, love."

The sincerity in his voice surprised him, but not you. Because you knew something he didn't know: that even at his worst, even when he thought he was a disappointment to you, when his own perceived shortcomings had him preoccupied with a burning sense of shame and defeat, he had always, always shown up for you.

[nonilogical]

𝗓𝗈𝗆𝖻𝗂𝖾!𝖺𝗎 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 “𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵” 𝗋𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝗑 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖼𝗐 : 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾

𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽. 𝖻𝗎𝗍, 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌.

𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻��𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝗈. 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁, 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽. 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗒.

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗈�� 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗎𝗇𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 30 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈 𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗃𝗈𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎—𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄—𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝗈𝖻, 𝗌𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌. 𝗈𝖽𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍—𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾.

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾-𝗈𝗋-𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗒—𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝗈𝖻 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗌. 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈𝖽 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖺 '𝘴𝘰𝘢𝘱,' 𝖺 '𝘨𝘢𝘻,' 𝖺𝗇𝖽 '𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯.' 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝗒, 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆. 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒.

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇’𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗄, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌, '𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.' 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺��𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗂𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽. 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍.

𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍. 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁—𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽.

𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗁, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽’𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗒. 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽’𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌. 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗍, 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗀. 𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗃𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋. 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.

𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗄𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀; 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇.

𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝖽𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗄. 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾.

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾��, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅. 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒: 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗈—𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌.

𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉𝗅𝖾, 𝖻𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗏𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌, 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁: 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁, 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗋𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺 𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌.

𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗀. 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗒. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎? 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗍, 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍

[nonilogical]

simon who is the town's executioner. he's accustomed to the weight of justice— or vengeance— delivered by his own hand. when he hangs your husband, it's just another day's work, flesh made rent. but then there's you. you stand there, hands folded neatly even as your world crumbles, posture straight, collected despite the grief that must be clawing at your insides. you don't plead, don't beg for clemency and that, to simon, is curious. interesting.

he vaguely remembers the bailiff muttering about the prisoner not having any next of kin, blood wanting nothing to do with an ignominious wretch like him, and by the way you stand there alone, the crowd having long dispersed, enduring—

you've no one either. so he makes his decision.

simon leads you away, his grip just shy of painful around your wrist, toward his horse, and you don't resist, which is good. patience isn't in his nature. he doesn't pause before helping you up, his large hands sure and efficient, and then swings up behind you.

his home has been in dire need of a goodwife.

(the blood on his hands doesn't bother him; it never has. he'll make sure it won't bother you for long.)

[nonilogical]

He married you immediately after his discharge, deciding rather quickly that why wait, he knew what he wanted, he had all the time in the world now that there wasn't a lingering cross hair on the back of his head 24/7.

So he tied the knot, a quaint ceremony with only the lads and a few of your family members, nothing too fancy while appealing to all of your demands.

Next was the house, Simon insisted on building himself only to be joined by his old team, who refused to leave him alone despite not being in the military anymore. They all spent years together, side by side, in some of the shittiest places imaginable, and now they were helping him build his dream cabin a bit a way from the city, his little peace and quiet.

Price teases him for gaining weight, a testamant of your cooking. Johnny jokes about Simon needing to share, earning himself a glare that could boil water and Gaz? Well, he couldn't help but snag a couple bites of your food whenever possible, eating from the retired lieutenants lunch.

The ongoing peace was something Simon never imagined for himself.

Truth be told, he wouldn't have retired at all if it wasn't for the uncontrollably shake in his hands when idle. Simon tried to hide it—get control of the tremors. But nothing could, and eventually, it became an issue. No longer was he able to sit in long perches. The insistent shaking left him mixed focused, unable to concentrate.

Simon wasn't a man who liked to admit he had a weakness, so the true nature of his discharge had always been a mystery to you. Until he returned to your temporary home one night, struggling to pour himself a glass without his hands battling their own ongoing earthquake.

All it took was your gentle touch on his arm, cooing if he was alright to ease the trembling. He didn't know how or why you had such an effect on him. Simon placed the cup away, hands sinking into your plush hips, face buried in your hair, your softness a palm to his unease, salve to his wound, an angel sent from heaven just for him, a sinner who didn't deserve this life.

What would he do without you?

[nonilogical]

Honorably discharged partially disabled Simon, who swears he is perfectly fine and capable of doing everything himself. But it doesn’t really matter what he thinks says because Price sees differently. He sees the way Simon’s hands shake and how he’s started fidgeting when he’s never done that in the past, he can see Simon’s right side, the side that was crushed under rubble during an attack, he sees it shake and almost falter every time Simon puts even a little bit to much weight on it, but what worry’s Price the most is when Simon zones out and stops paying attention to his surroundings or whatever he’s doing. Not to mention now Simon has to go back and live in civilization, when all he’s known is military life since he was still a teen.

So although Simon claims he’s fine, Price gets him live-in-help, you. You’ve been with him the past week and although he rarely talks you’ve learned a few things. The blinds always need to be fully open unless he’s sleeping, he needs to be able to see what’s happening but it’ll keep him up when he’s trying to sleep, so they close at night. He gets very tense when he can’t see your hands, it hurts you a little to know he doesn’t trust you but you understand. He can't cook at all, unless you prepare food for him he’ll only eat a prepackaged dinner nothing else, of course that isn't healthy so you've started fixing him both breakfast and lunch which he accepts with a grunt but he doesn’t eat till you’ve started. He never takes off his mask around you unless he's eating and even still only up to his nose. Lastly you've noticed something always sparked in his eyes when you called him Simon, you haven't been able to figure out what it is so instead of risking offending him or something, you've stuck to calling him Ghost.

Price chose you for two reasons, you were quite, something he thought Simon would like, he was very wrong. It’s probably the oddest thing about him, he doesn’t like when you're super quiet you've learned it cause he doesn’t know where you are or what you’re planning the other reason is Price hired you is because you were a military nurse for quite a bit so you would always be there for Simon. This was something Simon actually did like it meant he didn’t have to leave his flat just to see a doctor, what he didn’t think about though was the cut and bruise on his face that he would have to remove his balaclava for.

“Okay Ghost” you paused not sure how he would react to having to take his mask off “I-i need you to remove your mask for me please” almost immediately he grunted out a why “because you have a cut and bruise on your face and I need to make sure it’s healing properly” Simon stilled completely for a few seconds before he slowly pulled the balaclava completely off. You took a second looking over his entire face before you brought your hand up inspecting the area “your bruise is completely gone” you whispered slightly surprised it had only been a week, you went to write it down but the moment your hand left his face he spoke up “it’s still ere, jus can’t see it” carefully your brought you hand back to his face to carefully push on his check “does that hurt” “bit” was all he grunted out, you hummed to yourself as you removed your hand and started writing, but had you been looking at him you would have seen the almost pout gracing his face.

Once you finally looked back up, placing your hand on his face “okay let’s finish this quickly” you say looking over his scar “I know I’m not that pretty but you ain’t gotta rush” he said in the quietest voice. You looked up into his eyes quickly only to find them looking back at you with what you could only describe as curiosity mixed with need “Gh-Simon that’s not what I meant, your very beautiful I just thought you wouldn't want me touching or looking at your face any more since you always hide it behind that mask” he never replied to you, just kept staring with that look in his eyes. Finally you peeled your eyes away, finished writing whatever you needed to in your book then you got up and walked away “I’m gonna fix us some lunch, okay Simon?” you called from in the kitchen already, and that’s when Simon managed to place the feeling he had been having every time he saw you. He liked you, he had a crush, a crush! “Simon?” You called again “yeah okay” he called back, he wasn’t gonna fuck this up, not when he thinks he might have found a new purpose in life.

pt 2 here

[nonilogical]

f!reader

Reader who always wear a mask, and was more secretive than Ghost who had no problem showing his face to the team once in a while.

And just like with Ghost, the others joked about you being ugly, which you similarly replied with confidence that's not the case.

When you were tired of keep getting questions about the mask, you'd respond with a joke.

Putting on your best act, you sighed with a solemn look, telling a story about how you used to be obsessed with Shrek and had him tattooed on your face, which you were ashamed of now.

"..Are you serious?" Kyle asked.

You simply shrugged "I guess you'll never know".

And they could never guess whether you were lying or not, being known as the master of psychological warfare and often sent for espionage because of your skill with people, manipulation.

And acting.

What they didn't know is that, you gained that skill from your previous job, when you were a big deal in the entertainment industry. A professional actress that started in many movies and got into a really big scandal that got you hiding.

And somehow ended up here.

That was the reason as to why you needed to hide your face, your identity. Not even your captain knows about it, only Laswell who knew a bit of your story.

Lounging around in the recroom, you silently observed the others arguing about a certain movie to watch before it somehow ended with them fanboying for a certain actress who played the main character.

You.

"Ah swear, Ah saw this porn where the lass looked just like her. Had folk arguin’ if it was really her or just a doppelganger… haud on, where is it—" You heard Johnny rambled as he fumbled with his phone.

You shifted in your seat and hid a smille.

Oh yeah, that side gig you took a long time ago.. almost forgot about that

Dropping this idea before class so i wont forget abt it UPDATE : yes, im def writing this

[nonilogical]

Viking! Simon who you never expected to be the one to court you. Bringing you massive bucks and wolf pelts from his hunts, jewelry made for you from woven iron and shining beads, racks of firewood brought to you through the wintertime to keep your home warm. Simon hadn't said more than a handful of words to you, but his intentions were clear.

Viking! Simon who was waiting near your front garden for you one early morning when you were leaving to wash clothes in the creek, his hand clinched tight around something in his fist. He greeted you softly, reaching out for your hand and placing the object in your palm. You smiled as you held the necklace up softly in your fingers, studying the woven iron anchoring a black wolf's tooth into a pendant, the chain made from delicate silver.

"I knew i would give this to my future bride" he murmured quietly as if to himself as he tied it around your neck, a giddy smile stretching your cheeks as you turned in his arms, pressing against him and hearing his heart pounding.

Viking! Simon who asked for you to do his war paint before he went off to a raid at the end of winter. Promising to come back to you in quiet murmurs over the crackling firelight in his main room, the softness of your fingers dragging the charcoal paint across his skin puling out all the words he had wanted to say to you before but was afraid of admitting his feelings.

Viking! Simon who returns from the raid the first hot morning of summer. The bag of loot falling from his shoulder and his strong arms encircling you against his chest the moment he sees you. He chuckled lightly at the concerned look on your face as your hands grazed the fresh scar on his chest.

"Did everything I could to get back to you lovie" He said, rough hand soft as he cupped your jaw and turned your face closer to him. Your heart felt it would skip out of your chest as his lips pressed against yours, a satisfied hum in his chest as his hands gripped your waist.

Viking! Simon who marries you the following day. Not wanting to wait anymore, that journey having made him wait long enough to make you his completely. He keeps you close that night as the festivities of your wedding go on far past moonrise, his hand or arm never leaving you. Feeding you juicy meat from his fingers and tilting his cups of mead and water up to your lips. Finally things died down a bit, and Simon lifted you up over his shoulder and carried you giggling back to his house. He had already moved your things in before the ceremony.

Viking! Simon ravaged you in his bed that night. His fingers were gentle as he squeezed and rolled your nipples while his lips and teeth sucked and nipped roughly at your bare flesh. His cock throbbed deep in your gut when he breached your virgin entrance, both of your voices raised in broken moans as you learn each other's bodies for the first time. Your mouths were locked in a messy tongue filled kiss when he filled you up, hot cum shooting in creamy spurts against your womb as you locked your legs around him. Limbs tangled and covered in sweat, he takes you until the morning birds begin singing.

Viking! Simon who is beaming with pride as he lays his rough hands against your swollen belly months later, his baby growing big and strong and kicking fiercely against their fathers touch.

"A warrior already" he chuckled when your stomach jumped a little, the impression of a little foot or hand pressing against your skin. Your husband holds you close, pulling you in tight to his warm chest and just breathing you in through the cold night.

"Strong like his father" you whispered with a soft smile, caressing your stomach lovingly.

Viking! Simon who has tears in eyes a month later when his baby is born. A strong, beautiful little girl that makes his heart swell. She's so tiny in his arms as he holds her while you rest, the safest place in the world with her father who would burn the world to ashes before he let anyone hurt either of you. He presses his lips to her forehead in a soft kiss as her tiny fingers wrapped around one of his and he realized that with you and her, he finally found something to live for.

[nonilogical]

BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.

Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

Or: the live-in masseuse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings

The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly. 

He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates. 

It never quite goes away though.

And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag. 

This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on. 

It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.

But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.

There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year. 

It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester. 

But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.

Odd.

Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.

Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.

His key still works though. Fancy that. 

He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up. 

You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway. 

He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”

Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry. 

He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat. 

You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”

The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else. 

“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!” 

Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place. 

You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run. 

“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door. 

When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.

“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”

On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom. 

What a bloody headache. 

He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”

“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite. 

Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?” 

“I have a knife!”

Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there. 

“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again. 

Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open. 

You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat. 

The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be. 

He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”

“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”

“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod. 

“Yes.”

“Show me then,” he orders. 

And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.

“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable. 

“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.

“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?” 

His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.

“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”

“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten. 

“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism. 

It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you. 

“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.

For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him. 

Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.

“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner. 

No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.

“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically. 

“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”

“Me neither, birdie.”

He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in. 

There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time. 

The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale. 

Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.

“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”

He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back. 

Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for. 

“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone. 

The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.

His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out. 

He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.  

“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face. 

“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”

“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling. 

You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”

“Oh. ‘Til when?”

“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more. 

You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”

“Your cousin live around here?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”

“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”

While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial. 

“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says. 

“Fine.”

The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year. 

He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.

He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway. 

What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.   

Cohabitation is—

Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect. 

It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy. 

But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this. 

You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him. 

Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room. 

“I’m a masseuse.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes. 

“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat. 

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch. 

“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words. 

He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”

You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin. 

For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for. 

A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though. 

Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.  

When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.  

Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you. 

And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone. 

The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds. 

His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what. 

Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.

When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear. 

Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done. 

Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.

In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter. 

Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed. 

At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away. 

Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.

You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot. 

“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor. 

That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more. 

“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket. 

He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed. 

In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours. 

So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.

But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.

In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent. 

It’s an idea, at least.

He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults. 

The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you. 

He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find. 

“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.

“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.

“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?” 

He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.

“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder. 

Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”

You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.

His nose itches because the world is changing. 

He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.

Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it. 

“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table

“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth. 

Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.

He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook. 

What really ticks him off though is that—

he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices

—you keep getting away with it.

The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.

“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business. 

Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”

You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

“Well, it is.”

“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”

How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside. 

“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table. 

“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.

Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open. 

But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely. 

He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits. 

“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset. 

“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to. 

That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.

You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”

Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else. 

He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.

Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.

When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA. 

Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip. 

“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward. 

“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”

Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.

“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?” 

He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”

“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”

Ghost doesn’t answer. 

Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”

“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”

Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?

It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry. 

In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat. 

He has some nascent idea of where this is going.

As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”

In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence. 

All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face. 

Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face. 

It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism? 

Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed. 

One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches. 

His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch. 

He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight. 

“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap. 

You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist. 

Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?

Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base. 

His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.  

You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him. 

“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”

He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”

“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness. 

His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”

A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room. 

He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.

The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off. 

Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put, 

“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips. 

You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back. 

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest. 

“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?” 

Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV. 

“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says. 

“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”

Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises? 

He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.

One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things. 

He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.

You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—” 

Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable. 

You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him. 

Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.

Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.

When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue. 

“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch. 

The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means. 

But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.

You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.

“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap. 

“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes. 

“Calling me fat, sir?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”

Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey. 

All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him. 

The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn. 

The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into. 

Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.

Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either. 

Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand. 

“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word. 

Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.

Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.

You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss. 

“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open. 

It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering. 

Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks. 

“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin. 

This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice. 

He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way. 

“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open. 

“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug. 

You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.

His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.

He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full. 

He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected. 

Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you. 

“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.

His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.  

“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle. 

“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten. 

“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms. 

He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out. 

You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face. 

“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.

“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”

Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air. 

“Simon—”  you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place. 

He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.

“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”

He means it too. 

“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.  

Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away. 

He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms. 

“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.

Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds. 

He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.

When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom. 

“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?” 

The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?” 

He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”

The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.  

Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice. 

“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”

Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive. 

“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.

His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees. 

Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.

Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.

In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck. 

“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”

Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off. 

He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices. 

“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again. 

And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight. 

The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way. 

His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always. 

The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.

“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”

Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.

If he were a different man, if this was a different world—

No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does. 

But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under. 

The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air. 

A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Shut up.”

“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”

And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway. 

It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.

You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid. 

“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him. 

“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”

“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?” 

Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity. 

Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.

“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open. 

Simon doesn’t respond.

You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.

“No.” 

When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying. 

“It’s ours?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.