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Fresh from the shower. Bare foot, bare chest. Sweats.

Soft gold glints on his chest. Your ring. His ring. There are a hundred good reasons for him not to wear it on his finger, most to do with keeping said finger.

On a breakaway chain, he never takes it off. Not on abseils or dark ops. Even when the dogtags stay behind.

Maybe he knows it makes you feral, can see it in your eyes. Mine mine mine, a soft whisper beats your heart, echoed in your expression. It's supposed to mark you as his.

Mine! Your body reminds you until you can't ignore it anymore and he needs to know it, too. And you think he's been waiting for this, for you to crack.

Too pleased by far when you do.

The ring rests at the hollow of his throat and his heart is in his eyes, and you can't look away. You ride him like a xerox until your hips stutter and shake and the hands that were helping are suddenly rolling you over with no space to spare.

He takes over where you left off.

Deep, deliberate strokes, ring grazing your chest with every thrust, breathing into your ear - yours yours yours.

He definitely knows.

Ghost is legally dead. No signing on house or mortgage or car. Can't give you his last name.

Instead you give him yours.

He feels like a person again.

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Pinnochi-ghost.

He's a war dog and he knows it, a product of vengeance and ashes, pointed at an enemy and given purpose. Bullet holes and breaks, they sand him down and put him together again. Fill in what's missing with sawdust and woodglue and loathing.

Barely a person and they give him a team anyway. Let him pretend he's not a puppet. The leash is long but the collar is tight. He chokes where they can't see, when he thinks he might feel something. Damn them for giving him warmth, a place where the light almost reaches his core.

It makes him want things he knows he cannot have. Things he doesn't deserve.

Can't disobey an order. The spell would break. He'd shatter into a thousand splinters, and nothing left. They'd sell him for toothpicks and the rest would blow away with the dust.

Something is better than nothing. And so again and again:

Target acquired.

Shot. Splinter. Glue.

Target down.

Whittled away little by little by time and repair until all semblance of the Simon he used to be is buried. Hidden under layers of varnish and fill, hardly anything solid, anything real, left behind the mask.

Not a man, barely a puppet. A spark that once had a dream.

A ghost.

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There is something so wonderful about jumping into a new fandom and not hitting the bottom.

You mean that AO3 has 130+ pages of new-to-me authors and fics that will scratch the iiiitch and it's just THERE FOR ME whenever I need it like a blanket on a rainy day

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Ghost is legally dead. No signing on house or mortgage or car. Can't give you his last name.

Instead you give him yours.

He feels like a person again.

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I wanted to write an original story and instead am consumed by soft Simon thoughts.

Now I will write original fanfiction.

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Hello new year new me new sideblog-for-dirty-fanfiction