I FUCKING LOVE YOU SO MUCH. MY STOMACH HURTS FROM LAUGHING

He barely sees you, but sometimes while hes driving recruits around the obstacle course with sharply barked commands, he sees you laying in the grass seemingly focused on the ground, legs kicking slowly in the air.

Only on good weather days of course. Sometimes he watches you fall asleep on soft sunny days right there in the grass.

One day he finally decides to satiate his curiousity and wanders over to where youre currently focused on the grass.

"Wot're you lookin at?"

You flinch a little, not having heard him approach. It takes you a second to stop staring up at him and reply

"Weevil"

Ghost tilts his head before crouching down and staring at the same patch of grass. You in turn also keep looking. Ghost thanks himself for his sniper abilities to spot even the tiniest movements through a scope, since he spots the tiny blue weevil in less than a second as it pitterpatters across grass stalks.

"Proper weevil"

He grunts out and you nod fixated on the scampering bug.

"Proper weevil"

Ghost raises an eyebrow under his mask as you mimic his accents. No one did that, too scared of the Ghost. Hes a little puzzled, either you hadnt heard the rumors or didnt care. Either way it was refreshing.

However, since I was busier than expected today, I couldn’t finish the drafts I had already started. So, in order to keep my goal of posting once a day, I ended up bringing this small little piece!

Even so, I hope you enjoy it! ♡ Because if you do, I plan to post more of this theme ~

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Haruka Sakura - Playing Minecraft with you (headcanons)

♤ Warnings: no one; Just a lighthearted and fluffy piece

◇ Content: You managed to convince Sakura to play Minecraft with you, and some of his friends decided to join as well ~

♧ Words: ~ 440

》》 ● MASTERLIST ● 《《

→ He’s never played this before and is completely lost with the controls — moving around and controlling the camera feels way too complicated for him.

→ He gets all red and irritated when the others laugh at him for not being able to do something so basic in the game.

→ You’re the savior of his dignity when you offer to spend hours with him on a private server just for the two of you, teaching him step by step.

Face blind Reader x Ghost Idea Pt 2 Pt 1

As per usual, just an idea, and writers can take it and run with it. Just let me know where to read your work.

It was the definition of slow burn to get Ghost to open up to your relationship. Slow baby steps because you did not want to startle him.

Simon, for a long time, did not know about your condition because you had been coping so well. He just did not understand why a pretty thing like you would settle for him. Still, you were so happy around him, and he did like you; even if it felt temporary, he let himself enjoy what he believed was a fragile peace. You would light up anytime Simon willingly accepted affection or reached out to you. He loved that look. So he put in the effort to do better.

Then he had time off work. He did not really want to go to his empty flat. You were not there. Price invited him into your home. "She has been fretting, pondering how to ask you. Does not know if you would want to share a bed. If she keeps pacing, the carpet will have to be replaced... again. Please."

You do not make it to the bed the first few nights. Simon thinks it is on purpose because you both fall asleep on the couch watching TV. The thing is, you do not like TV. Simon does not know that this is due to your condition, as he is still none the wiser about it. Then you start complaining about your neck hurting to Price, unaware that Simon can hear you. Price points out that you have a bed, and you get irritated, "I am not giving up valuable cuddle time with Simon."

Simon carries you to bed that night after you fall asleep on the couch. He climbs in only a minute later at your unhappy, sleepy sound, after having lost his warmth. Price moves ghost in not long after. No, he does not get a choice. Price is tired of the long game.

Include that and military culture, and you get a surprisingly traditional Simon Riley who takes it upon himself to pay anything.

Dinner? His responsibility.

Travel? His. Don't even argue.

Bills? Yeah his.

Clothes? Look, British men love a lil going out moment where their partner dresses up for them. It won't happen every week but he'd pay for the damn clothes (and dinner, ofc).

And yes, Simon excepts his partner to become Mr./Mrs. Riley.

End of discussion.

words: roughly 7.4k

cw: mdni! Simon has some nsfw thoughts, mentions of car crashes, driving related anxiety, English is my second language and as much as I try, there may be some lil grammatical errors

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You may have been somewhat of a shit driver (to yourself, not to Simon, in his eyes you were just a careful, sweet little thing not wanting to die), but fuck, you made up for it with your baking skills. After each of the bites into the crunchy, but also somehow soft, buttery, sugary biscuit, Simon was sure he had another reason to become your personal driver. He’d drive, you’d bake. If you needed ingredients, he would go to the shops and pick them out for you. No matter the time or the day. How did you do it, you clever thing? What was it that you put into them that made the ever so abstemious man want to commit the sin of gluttony and stuff his mouth full and swallow until he choked or until his stomach hurt from the sugar overload that he wasn’t used to.

Whatever it was, he wanted it.

Needed it.

Craved it every second of the day.

He craved you.

Because in reality, the fucking buttery biscuits were only this good because you have made them.

Surely, you’d taste just as fucking sweet. And he could only imagine himself feasting on the sweetness hidden between your thighs as you laid spread out on the bed looking oh so fucking beautiful.

But no. Simon forced himself into sparing them and making them last as long as possible. Could not let himself indulge. Max two or three biscuits a day.

After all, he couldn’t come knocking on your door a day after seeing you last and beg for more. More of you the biscuits.

When he was leaving, he saw the way you looked as you practically glued yourself to that fucking window. You recognised him. Of course you did. You weren’t stupid.

The fear and embarrassment came straight back mixed in with shock and surprise in an incredibly amusing and fucking arousing cocktail.

Your cheeks went so adorably red that he had to literally force himself to drive away instead of storming back into your house to make sure that blush stayed on your face for a bit longer. Instead, Simon tried to not gawk for longer than it was proper (what even is fucking proper?). He already stared at you so much that your image was practically engraved into his brain.

And once you two were married, once you had that pretty ring on your pretty fucking finger, he wouldn’t have to worry about not staring.

But you were stressed out enough at the moment, poor sweet thing.

Needing a bit of space to recover. Even though it wasn’t that big of a deal. He’d give you space. Enough to let your precious head settle and not get flustered at the thought of him; but not enough for you to forget about him. Enough space for you to start questioning when you will get to see him again.

And fuck, you didn’t think you could even attempt to forget.

He knew this whole fucking time that you were you and then he decides to rub it straight into your face. Did he do it purely for amusement? Did he enjoy making people feel like fucking twats?

As if embarrassing yourself during that driving lesson wasn’t enough.

You hated it.

Maybe hated him too, just a little.

Or maybe you didn’t, you just tried to disguise the constant feeling of your heart hammering in your chest whenever you thought about him as hatred. Because it definitely couldn’t be anything else. Fuck that.

Why did you even give him more biscuits? Simon’s mum probably forced him to eat the ones that you bought over to her house. Should have just accepted that you made a fool out of yourself (fucking again), when you completely messed up his name, and took the box before shutting the door in his face.

But no. It wasn’t neighbourly. And as much as he wasn’t technically your neighbour, he was your neighbour’s son. And what if he told Anne that you were rude?

Fuck. No.

He was not gonna destroy your relationship with his mother. Anne was the best thing you had in your quiet life and nobody would take that away from you.

So now all because of this, you knew he was coming back.

At some point.

You dug yourself a grave, silly duck, now fucking lay in it.

Not knowing what to expect and when to expect it.

But then, you kind of wanted him to come back. To look at him with narrowed eyes and annoyance written allover your face and ask if he enjoyed seeing you all stressed out of your mind during the lesson. Maybe push the blame for your shit driving onto him? Yes, turn all those completely messed up, twisted emotions into anger. Like you were substituting the attraction towards him with hatred. Definitely the best way to deal with them. He looked like he could take it. Anne said he was a soldier. Surely he could withstand a frustrated woman.

A few days later, your instructor rang and asked if you could reschedule your weekend lessons to that specific mid week afternoon. Something came up, she said. She couldn’t do it, but didn’t want you to miss out on your weekly sessions. You knew it wasn’t even about money. Last time you insisted on just cancelling, the following week it seemed as if you forgot how to drive. Took you four lessons to move past 2nd gear. Terrie for whatever reason believed in you. Maybe she treated you as a project? If she could turn you into a good driver, that would be the peak of her career?

Simon Riley was a patient man. He was used to waiting. Used to being still for hours. Waiting for targets to move into view; waiting to get given orders whilst he was laying down for hours in the pouring rain on top of a building with a rifle in hand, finger still on the trigger; waiting for news of whether Johnny made it out of a compound that a bomb got suddenly dropped on. But as the last biscuit stared at him almost mockingly from the little pink, plastic, seethrough container, he couldn’t keep waiting to see you any longer.

It got eaten on the way to the kitchen where he scrubbed it clean. He couldn’t possibly have his girl thinking he was messy or that he wouldn’t keep their house clean in the future. No. He was already planning on being the motherfucking fantastic husband that you’d never have to complain about to your friends. His guns always stayed clean and so would the dishes. After all, he didn’t spend hours as a rookie scrubbing the toilets, for your bathroom to ever look dirty. For fucks sake, you wouldn’t even have to lift a finger when he was at home. He’d happily pick up any slack and make up for the time he was away whilst all the house chores were on your head. No matter how tired, he’d do it, just if it meant the harsh chemicals would not irritate your delicate pretty hands. Or worse, damage the sparkly ring that he had his eyes on. Because once the damn ring was on, it would not come off.

He finally pulled up and parked on his mother’s driveway, pulling the sheer pink box from the saddle bag and made his way up to your door.

His mum mentioned her darling neighbour worked from home, mostly in the afternoons, surely you would be there.

He let Anne know that he was coming over. Like the decent son he was. Back from deployment, wanting to spend some time with his precious ma, for the first time initiating it mostly himself instead of her having to practically beg for him to do so. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy seeing her. Of course he did. Sometimes it just proved difficult. He was tired. He had shit to do. Shit that didn’t involve staring into his mother’s pained eyes that still carried too much fucking sadness. No matter how much time has passed since that piece of shit of a father ended up 6 feet under.

So Simon stood there, in front of your door, knocking loudly.

Once. Twice. Thrice.

His teeth gritted harder than when a field medic was stitching up a slash wound on his thigh during one of the recent missions, something annoying, almost painful scratching beneath his skin, making him roll his shoulders, trying to get rid of it.

Why weren’t you home, sweet thing?

As he made his way back, he peeked in through the window, trying to gaze into your house, but the lights were off, he couldn’t hear any sort of noise and didn’t see any movement.

What if you fucking died in there?

No.

Impossible.

Unless you had any underlying conditions, he didn’t see a reason for it. And if you did, Anne surely would have mentioned it.

But then again, from her brief descriptions of you, he assumed you were a woman her age. Not this gift from the heavens that was put on the earth to walk along the mortals and make him lose his motherfucking mind.

He didn’t mind sitting with her. At the end of the day, he did say he was coming over to see her. So he happily took a seat in an armchair with a cuppa resting on his lap, pretending to listen to Anne babble about how Tommy and his family have been visiting her more often recently and how much she’s enjoying Beth and Joseph popping in for a play date.

Little does she know that her future daughter in law lives right next door.

He heard you before he saw you, too focused on drumming out an impatient rhythm on the ceramic mug (the one his nephew painted for him) filled up with half drunk tea.

Closing of two car doors, a moment of quiet before the engine rumbled behind the slightly opened living room window (of course just to let some fresh air through, not at all for Simon to have a better knowledge of what’s happening outside.). His eyes snapped to the road where the familiar white learner driver car was pulling away from the curb.

And then there was you.

And fuck, you looked so beautiful, hair tied up into a quick, last minute bun on top of your head, large cardigan falling down your shoulders, held up on the elbows, as you fumbled with the keys in your trembling hands.

Trembling fucking hands.

Red cheeks.

Quivering bottom lip.

Oh baby, you’re crying.

He ignored whatever Anne was saying as he stood and quickly made his way out of the living room and practically beelined for the front door.

Sorry ma, his future wife is crying, he can’t be having that.

You were too busy trying to hold back the stream of tears that were pushing their way from behind your eyes. You just wanted to make it through the front door. Of course you didn’t notice the bike. How could you, when your vision was blurred ever since you left the car. Your head hung low, your sweat slick fingers trying to grasp the right key to open your front door before you even got to it.

And your fucking hands would not stop shaking. It was easier when they were clenched tightly on the steering wheel. You couldn’t even blink. Not yet at least. Not until you were hidden within your little safe semi detached house.

You shoved the key into the lock much harder than it’s necessary, willing the stupid metal to release, the combination to fall into place, just so you could disappear behind the door and finally cry.

Alone.

Where nobody else could see you.

You shut the door loudly behind you, not even bothering to lock it, throwing the damn keys onto the cupboard, and headed for the sofa. Just collapse. Collapse and cry into the pillow like the pathetic excuse of a strong, independent woman that you are.

Almost there.

Salvation in a form of a knitted blanket you can burrow yourself under was right there. Staring at you invitingly. Willing to wrap you up in softness and soak in all your salty tears.

So when you heard a knock on your front door, you literally wanted to fucking drop and die.

Was it Anne?

Did she see?

You don’t remember ordering anything so it couldn’t be a delivery driver.

Maybe you forgot something from the car and your instructor had to drop it off for you?

Terrie saw you cry before.

But now, when your tears were practically a stream, running down your cheeks, you knew she’d definitely judge you far more than she already did.

With a sigh of pure resignation, you turned on your heel, wiping your flushed cheeks with the sleeves of the cardigan and mentally prepared for inevitable pity in whoever’s eyes were behind that door.

And then you saw him.

Samuel Simon Fucking Riley.

Holding that damn stupid pink tupperware box like a peace offering. Or maybe a Trojan horse actually.

Twice now he’d seen you break down over driving. Twice too many. You wanted to greet him with a scowl. With annoyance. You wanted to ask if he feels like he achieved something, acting like he didn’t know you. And to be fair he didn’t. Not really. Staring at someone through an interior car mirror for 10 minutes is not exactly getting to know each other, is it? You just wanted someone to take your frustration out on.

And Simon was right fucking there. You knew he would be.

You planned it all out perfectly, multiple times. Ran all the possible scenarios through your head and thought of all the things you could say to him that would show all the frustration and anger and annoyance you’ve been feeling.

But then you watched as he almost uncertainly shifted his weight on his feet, clearing his throat. Uncertainty was definitely not something that suited him, you weren’t even sure if he was actually familiar with this state of being. “Uh, brought this back.”

His eyes traveled between yours and the fucking container. Great timing. Really. Couldn’t be better.

Your throat was tight, any confidence that you practiced has vanished. Your jaw tightened, trying not to blink, not wanting to let out any more tears, even thought it was damn obvious that they were right there.

“Thanks.” You finally managed to whisper, immediately regretting saying anything, because your voice quivered. Pathetic. Come on, surely you can do better?

His gaze didn’t leave you, when you reached out, before taking the container and pressed it tightly to your chest, as if it was going to ground you in any way. It wasn’t. It was just there. Just like him, in your doorway, lips pressed into a thin line, eyebrows scrunched, a muscle in his jaw fluttering a little.

“You alright, sugar?”

And that’s it.

There was no warning or no grace.

It felt like a crack formed, running right through the middle of your chest, his surprisingly gentle voice slipping into the crevices that you’d been trying to seal shut.

Warm.

Tight.

You looked away from him quickly, sniffling as you swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the ball that seemed to form in your throat the moment you sat down in the driver’s seat of the car. And then you shook your head.

You gave up on pretending.

He already knew you were atrocious at driving. He saw it first hand.

“Bad lesson.” You muttered. “It was busy… I never drive when it’s busy… I got flustered, someone honked and I panicked and then I almost got us into a ditch because someone else forced priority. Terrie was just telling me to relax my shoulders and relax myself, but I couldn’t even feel my shoulders. And I fucking stalled and then stalled again a-and… Everyone was watching me and I just… stupid. I’m not gonna talk to you about it.”

Simon just stood there. Forcing every single one of his coiled muscles not to act and just reach for you, hide you in his embrace.

His poor, sweet girl was crying right in front of him and as much as he wanted to, he knew he couldn’t do anything. He didn’t want to overwhelm you even more. Especially not by kissing the tears off your cheeks, holding you tightly against him and telling you how proud he was that you did in fact keep yourself fucking alive and not ended up in that ditch.

An achievement is an achievement.

As desperate as he was, he knew you don’t just lunge at strangers to comfort them.

Fuck.

He didn’t know what to say or what to do. All he could do is watch as you crumpled, chest heaving, arms wrapped tightly around yourself like you could hold your own sadness in place.

This wasn’t a battlefield. You weren’t a teammate bleeding out on the ground, and he couldn’t shove a tourniquet on you and drag you to cover, he couldn’t bark orders and fix it.

So instead, he was pissed off.

Someone, actually multiple someones, made you cry.

Made you scared.

Made you almost have a fucking accident because they clearly lacked any form of patience.

Stupid fucking cunts. He wouldn’t let it slide if he was there, instead of your sad excuse of an instructor. He’s get their licence plates. He’d track every single one of those motherfuckers. The one who forced priority, the one who honked, any other one who even as little as gave you a dirty look. And he’d bury them. Happily.

And then he’d come back home to you and do your fucking washing up, because that would help him get rid of the dirt and any blood from under his fingernails, before he even dared to touch you.

But Simon didn’t say anything. Didn’t press. Just fucking stood in that doorway, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read through.

Because he didn’t know what the fuck to do with this part of himself. The part that wanted to pull you into his chest, bury his face in your soft looking hair and promise you that it’s okay. Tell you that you’re just learning and that, well, you’re alive still, so it meant it wasn’t that bad. And the car looked intact. And that he’d kill anyone who makes you feel small. That you don’t have to do this alone, because he’s right fucking here.

“Doesn’t sound stupid t’ me. Sounds like ye had a ‘ight rough day.”

You nodded again, feeling another heavy pause as you both weighed with the things that stayed at the end of your tongues.

You looked up at him and then back at the biscuit box that you held onto and sighed.

Well, Simon did promise to bring it back. And here he was. And as much as you hated to admit it and you were still angry (frustrated more like, but anger is an easier emotion to process), you were surprised with the understanding that seeded itself in his words.

“I’m sorry, for the other day.” You said finally, looking away from him.

Quite the fucking opposite of what you planned to say to him for the past few days. But the stupid guilt you’ve felt from being an absolute liability during the lesson today has already taken over your fuzzy brain. “For driving slow and forcing you to be stuck behind me and-“

“I could’ve overtaken ya if I wanted. It’d had been quite simple. You did give me way and the other side of the road was empty.”

Your head snapped back up, eyes meeting his, when Simon shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and licked his lips, his teeth catching on the bottom lip briefly.

“Why the fuck didn’t you?”

“Wanted t’ look at ya.”

Your cheeks burned. A lot. The fucking audacity! Your stomach flipped and you couldn’t see a reason beyond annoyance that could have caused it. Because you also chose to outright ignore tha way your pulse speeding up, particularly in your fucking pussy.

“Why didn’t you just say you recognised me the other day then? Do you enjoy making people feel shit and embarrassed and uncomfortable and— and stupid?” There it was. That quiet seething anger surfacing, bubbling up along with the tears that began falling freely down your cheeks. You didn’t control them anymore, couldn’t control them. And you felt so fucking pathetic that you needed to reflect it in any way you could.

And Simon right at that second froze. Uncomfortable? Shit? Stupid?

No, baby, you got it all so fucking wrong.

His throat tightened and the whole body went rigid, tense. Shoulders rolling, bottom lip getting scraped with his teeth as if he was seeking the sweet pain of punishment for whatever the fuck it was he’d done to make you feel that way. He did not mean to make you feel any of those things. Why would you ever even think that you silly girl? He wanted you to feel the opposite with him.

Cold sweat began gathering in a thin layer on top of his skin, heart battering in the chest, begging to be held by you, if only he could rip it out to show you that it’s beating for you. Because in his (slightly) twisted mind he was already your protector, the admirer, the fucking obsessed, crazy, lovesick fool who saw you as something untouchable. Luminous.

And now you were staring at him with those red, welled up eyes and he had a feeling like your driving lesson wasn’t the only reason for your tears. And it fucking killed him inside.

He sighed deeply and shook his head lightly, his eyes that still bore into yours softening, shoulder slumping. “Never.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

“’m sorry.” The words were almost foreign to him. He barely ever used them. People would apologise to him most of the time. It was an unspoken law. He was respected, feared even. No surprise, those two happened to go hand in hand whenever people looked at him, even more if they actually knew him. Ghost did not apologise. But right now he was questioning whether to drop to his knees and cower like a dog who chewed through some sandals when his owner was away. “Dunno why yer embarrassed tho, sugar.”

You sighed deeply, letting out a quiet, frustrated noise whilst rubbing your slightly sore eyes before looking up at him again. And you had to really dart your chin up.

“Because I’m fucking useless at driving, that’s why, Simon.” You whined and shook your head, your fingers tightening their grip on the empty container.

He apologised. Said he never meant it. Brought you the stupid biscuit box back. Stood there unmovingly whilst you had an emotional breakdown in front of him. And to his defense, you haven’t at any point felt judged, not really. You couldn’t with the way he looked at you.

You sighed and lifted the box a little. “Were the biscuits alright at least? Too salty? Too sweet?”

“Fucking perfect.” He might have said those words a little too quickly. Perhaps not just talking about the damned biscuits you’ve given him, but the sound of your voice as you said his name. Fucking. Perfect. Utterly enchanting in a way. It’s like all you needed to do was say his fucking name and that put an invisible leash on his neck, cock, heart and brain, dragging him towards you. Because without even realising it, he took a little step forward, pushing himself into your space.

And you didn’t take one back. Even worse, for some unknown reason, you went completely fucking off the rails, ignoring all your plans and all the ways you’d thought of for hours to remove him from your life as you said:

“Want some more? I’m in a shit mood, might as well bake.”

As you asked, you noticed the corner of his mouth twitching a little, barely. God, why would you say that?

“You makin’ more?”

You shrugged, wiping the tears with the back of your cardigan sleeve. “Probably. I stress bake.”

Cute. Adorable even. When Simon was stressed, he opted for destroying his knuckles on a punching bag or running until he felt like he was going to start dry heaving. But you, his sweet, little thing - stress baked. Well then, Simon would have to change that and quite quickly at that. Not baking. Stressing. Because: 1 - his future wife can’t stress, it’s not fucking healthy; 2 - he’d need to find another reason for you to bake, because if coming over under the pretense of more biscuits was a way to see you, he fucking needed it.

And then he was in your kitchen once fucking again. Watching you roll your sleeves up after you disappeared to the bathroom for a moment.

You needed to give yourself a pep talk. A serious one at that. Because for whatever fucking reason you invited him in once again. Why? Fuck knows. Maybe you just didn’t actually want to be alone, crying into the blanket that his mum made for you. Or maybe when he apologised, the forgiveness was fucking immediate. Or maybe your brain just decided to go on one and fucking sabotage you. Either way, you stood in front of the mirror, swearing to yourself that he wouldn’t see you cry again. Washed your face with cold water, dried it and took a few deep breaths. It was going to be okay. You would bake, maybe have a small talk and then just let him disappear. Having given him another reason to come back.

Now you’re in your kitchen, in your little, safe, cluttered heaven, measuring out the ingredients with shaky hands before adding them to the bowl.

You were being watched and you knew it. His eyes were following every single one of your movements, whilst you so bravely tried not to fucking crumble under its intensity. Because how can one person be so still? You could swear that Simon Riley hasn’t moved an inch since he rested his back against the wall of your kitchen, arms folded on his chest, head tilted ever so slightly to the side.

Like he was an inquisitive dog. Not a puppy though. Not a golden retriever either. Simon was more of a Cane Corso, or a Belgian Malinois. Something big. Something that bared its teeth and made you shit yourself. Something that would easily kill for food but toy with it first, taking the pleasure in the killing.

Because it felt like he was toying with you right now. He had his teeth around your neck, but before he decided to sink them in, he shook his head a bit, just to agitate you, making you lose your fucking mind, knowing that inevitably you will die.

He wasn’t even talking.

You’d think that he’d start a conversation. Wasn’t it obvious you were barely holding on?

Come on, Simon. Fucking say something, before the awkwardness becomes too much to bear.

But he just stared at you. Couldn’t take his fucking eyes off of your hands, the way the muscle in your jaw fluttered as you dipped the measuring cup in a container full of flour, before evening it out with one of your fingers, gently scraping off the excess.

You were so focused, he didn’t want to interrupt you. He could just watch. Like the day you met, when he was watching your pretty eyes in the rear view mirror.

Innocent, right?

In his head it was safe.

It meant he didn’t do anything that would potentially scare you. Because he was scary. He knew it.

You don’t serve in the military for such a long time, having progressed into a task force with questionable morals and far less questionable skills and not be scary. If he just stood by the wall and kept himself looking as small as possible, maybe you’d let him do it more often?

But then what was it that you said earlier?

Stupid, embarrassed, uncomfortable.

Were you feeling like this right now?

Was he once again judging it all wrong and what he thought was innocent, actually made you feel bad?

And then you cleared your throat.

“Instead of staring, do you wanna help?”

Simon blinked a few times, straightening up a little and embarrassingly quickly pushed himself off from the wall, taking slow, measured steps towards you, his eyes wondering between the bowl of ingredients, your hands and finally your eyes, which turned to meet his.

Of course he wanted to help, so he just grunted and nodded his head once as if the eagerness with which he pushed himself off of the wall didn’t already scream “please, let me, I’ll do anything you fucking want, just let me stay”. He’d help you with anything you fucking needed.

He tried baking once before. Once. When he was 8 and begged Tommy to help him make their mum a cake for her birthday, after school, before she got back from work. Because Anne, the sweet woman that she was, always made sure to have a jam filled Victoria sponge ready twice a year, with the right number of recycled birthday candles that equaled to her sons birthdays.

So her boys could at least once try and do the same for her.

They had the recipe and a little bit of change found in the crevices of furniture, just enough for the ingredients that they couldn’t find in the cupboards. What they didn’t predict was the untrimmed baking paper catching on fire within the oven. The smoke alarm naturally woke up their father who’d been sleeping off his night shift and inevitable morning post work daily night cap(s). The cake along with the circular forms have ended up in the middle of the street after being thrown out the window, candles broken in the bin, and bruises which at first looked as red as the leftovers of jam in the broken jar.

Snapping out of the memory, Simon watched as you nodded and opened one of the upper cupboards and pushed the bowl back making space for yourself to try to climb up onto the fucking worktop, inevitably to reach the large baking tray tucked away at the back the highest shelf.

His eyes narrowed, one arm immediately reaching to your back, securing you in case your idiotic idea of acting like a mountain goat didn’t work and you fell back. He wanted to grab whatever you were grabbing himself, but you were faster, clearly having done it multiple times before.

Silly girl. What if you fell?

“Easy, sugar. Don’t go breakin’ yer neck.” He murmured, his voice low and calm. “Could’ve asked.”

You passed him the tray, rolling your eyes a little as you looked down at him.

And fuck, he immediately felt blood rushing right to his cock, making it swell so fast that he had to bite the inside of his cheek not to fucking moan out loud at the pressure. His fingers gripped the cold metal, unable to take his eyes off of you.

It would have been all fine if you could have looked away at that point. Somehow staring down at him from your spot, kneeling on the countertop had been easier than having to dart your chin up constantly. Your chest seemed to tighten, mouth going dry, your tongue instinctively running over the lips. Because in your whole life you’d never had anyone stare at you the way he was doing it now. Those warm, honey eyes searching yours for whatever answers to whatever fucking questions were going on in that blonde head of his. Surprisingly soft, just like the touch of his hand on the small of your back, which you haven’t even felt until now. Or maybe he hasn’t actually touched it until now.

Was he staring at you like this that day where you unofficially met whilst he followed you on his bike? It seemed familiar and yet, you couldn’t quite remember, the memory clouded by anxiety that surged through your veins in that moment.

Either way, it made your stomach flip. Again. So you looked away, clearing your throat, climbing down, keeping your head low, hoping that the hair falling over your face would hide the blush creeping up onto your cheeks.

It didn’t.

At least not at first. Because when you were busy noticing the strange slight tan around his eyes, as if the opposite of a sunglass tan, he watched your face become a little more pink; the pupils of those pretty, although puffy from crying eyes, dilating; your absolutely fuckable lips having your tongue cover them in a glistening layer of spit (which he wished you would happily run along the tip of his dick at some point soon).

Stupid, embarrassed, uncomfortable.

“Want me to mix?”

He blurted out, stepping back from you once your feet have safely touched the floor tiles, hand reluctantly falling from your back, the other still gripping the mixer.

You nodded.

If he was here, he might as well help.

40 minutes, one broken and discarded egg, and a knuckle scraped whilst zesting an orange later, the biscotti was in the oven and you were wiping your hands on the tea towel, whilst Simon finished up the last of the washing up.

You were patient.

Soft spoken in a way.

He found cooking on his own easy. Methodical. He knew where exactly everything was in his kitchen, knew what seasonings went with what dishes, knew that the silence that surrounded him wasn’t anything world ending. It was easy.

Baking with you was not easy.

Well, that’s a lie, it was. He didn’t have to do much but stir and eventually shape the dough.

He just got distracted a lot. So mentally it was rather fucking difficult.

How could he not be distracted when you pulled the cardigan off, hanging it on top of the apron, that you clearly had no intention of using, revealing your shoulders to him. He always thought of himself as more of an ass man, but no, your shoulders were enough to do it for him. Especially paired with that little satisfied hum that escaped your lips when you rolled them a little at one point.

For fucks sake.

You didn’t need a recipe, muttering the ingredients under your nose, knowing how much of each one to use, throwing them into the bowl as Simon stirred the contents with a wooden spoon. Kind of reminded him of Johnny and the ease with which he could make a Molotov cocktail in the middle of an ambush.

There was no longer tension in your movements, the stress visibly disappearing with each minute, your shoulders relaxing, breaths becoming deeper and calmer, the little wrinkles between your eyebrows smoothing. Simon noticed it all. Maybe because he didn’t take his eyes off of you.

He wasn’t sure when was the next time he could experience this. His pretty future wife roaming around her kitchen, telling him to be gentler with the dough and to crack the almonds for her. The crunch unfortunately similar to that of broken phalanges. But there was no screams, just quiet humming and shuffling of parchment paper that you laid the baking tray with, smoothing it out with your no longer trembling fingers.

Delicate.

Even when you cleaned up the fucking egg that he accidentally knocked off the counter, apologising profously, staring at you as if he at least set your kitchen on fire.

Your hand found his shoulder, squeezing it lightly, head shaking as you whispered a quiet ‘shush, it’s just an egg’, and Simon melted. Completely fucking melted. Because the moment the shell cracked on the clean floor, his heart jumped up and this thirty-odd behemoth was fucking afraid that he ruined your quiet moment of serenity.

He didn’t.

And something in you made sure to make sure he knew it.

“So… is yer instructor a twat?” The question, technically rather fucking innocent, left his lips as he turned the tap off finished with any washing up. His eyes not dared to meet yours, not wanting to put you even more on the spot than he already was.

Because that’s what you felt like. Yeah, baking managed to push the feelings of recurring failure to the back of your mind and yet, he decided to remind you. To dig a little fucking deeper and stab your chest with little, sharp pins.

You dropped your gaze to the floor, sitting down in front of the oven. He saw the tears when you opened the door for him today. And then when you just fucking broke down like it was the most normal thing to do in front of someone who is basically a stranger. Surely, he knew what they meant. And if he didn’t, you told him! You laid it out in front of him how shit you were at driving and how hard you found it. Why the fuck would he ask you that? To play with you even more? To make you feel even more pathetic about yourself? Trying to shove the blame onto your instructor wasn’t the kind of thing you’d do.

“What? No! She’s lovely, very patient and kind and…”

Heavy footsteps sounded out on the wooden floor of your kitchen, closing the distance between you. Simon grunted and squatted down before letting himself sink to the floor next to the oven, facing you, resting his back against the cabinets behind him.

You didn’t dare look up and he didn’t ask you for it.

“How long have you been learnin’ with ‘er?”

“A few months…? But really, it’s not her fault! I’m just a lost cause, I told you I get scared and make mistakes and I don’t trust other drivers and she tries to be patient but I can tell she gets frustrated,” your voice started quivering, playing nervously with your hands as you intensely stared at the biscotti through the oven window and willed it to brown quicker so that you could shove half of it in a box, shove that box in Simon’s hands and shove him out of the house. “Listen, in reality, I’m just not made to be a driver. I’ll probably call her after the next lesson and just cancel.”

Silence fell between you. His gaze on you was so obvious and so intense, you felt your hands get clammy without even looking up at him.

But you sighed and pulled up your knees to your chest before letting your chin drop to rest on top of them and you finally let your eyes meet his.

Sweet fucking girl.

Or maybe salty.

Because your eyes were full of those fucking tears again.

Fuck, you looked so defeated.

His hands once again itched to reach out to you. Seemed to happen a lot. To drag you like he dragged countless men and lifted their dead weight to carry them out somewhere safe. Except he wouldn’t even need to carry you far. He’d grab those pretty soft looking hips and pull you right into his lap. Dig his fingers deep into the skin and fat and keep you there whilst he licked all that fucking salt off. Or bottled it and politely asked if you could add it to the next batch of biscotti you’d make so that he could literally fucking eat a part of you, since you’ve already managed to sneak under his skin. Might as well. He could just ask to lick them off. Or not even. He’d wrap himself tightly around your waist, stroke your pretty, soft hair and substitute the long streaks left by the salty liquid with ones of his saliva as he lapped at your cheeks like a fucking dog. You’d have no choice then. You’d just have to let him

Tears did something to him. He hated them. Truly. He saw Anne cry often when he was a kid and he felt useless. Because even when he tried to help and hug her, whimper in that little voice that he loved her and he hated dad for what he was doing to them, Anne would only cry more. And eventually, she’d shake her head then at him, begging him not to come closer, unable to push all that vulnerability onto her son. Thinking she could protect him from the pain if she just bottled it all up.

You were trying to do the same.

Ghost saw the way you were holding in your breath, trying not to blink, biting on the inside of your cheek as hard as you were digging those gentle fingers into the fat of your upper arm.

But he didn’t fucking move. Just let himself stare as you fought for words that didn’t make you sound like the most useless piece of shit in the world.

“I’ll teach ya.” He murmured finally, grinding his teeth a little. Maybe he somehow had enough self restraint to not reach out for you to comfort you, but that didn’t extend to needing to fix it. Because seeing his future wife in this state was just not fucking cutting it. And he was a problem solver. Tactical in everything that he did. Yeah, he did lose his mind around you a little, but that was not the point. The point was that if he could fucking teach you to drive, he’d do it. You blinked a couple of times as if you were processing your words, immediately wiping the tears that fell with the back of your hand.

“Don’t be daft, you’re not an instructor and I’ll probably kill us...”

“I’ll teach ya.” He repeated, a little louder, letting the words sink in properly and leaned forward a bit, tilting his head. “Ain’t gonna kill me sweet girl, worse people ‘ave tried an’ fucking look, am still ‘ere, yeah?”

And even if you were gonna kill him, that didn’t fucking matter. He’d happily die a death brought onto him by you.

What was that Smiths song?

And if a double decker bus, crashes into us, to die by your side, is such a heavenly way to die. And if a ten tonne truck kills the both of us, to die by your side, well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine.

Surely, Morrisey wasn’t singing about teaching his clearly anxious and petrified future fucking wife to drive, but it worked. The words made sense to him.

“You’re not-“

“An instructor, ay. But I’ve been driving long enough, I trained rookies who couldn’t tell their left fro’ right how to shoot a moving target,” he didn't mention how he trained them per se, he’d surely have to adjust his ways a lot little when it came to you, but that’d be easy. The love of his life deserved the best treatment only. And anyway, those men trained with Ghost, not Simon anyway. Surely Simon had more compassion and understanding in him. “You’ll be alreet, I’ll even get ya those L plates.”

“I don’t have a car.” You pushed.

“I’ve got one.”

“What if I crash it?”

“Think I’ll let ya drive it without insurance?”

“But dual controls and-“

He sighed running a hand over his face as he said your name. And your heart stopped for a moment. Hearing it from his mouth, from those scarred lips, in that low, kind of growl made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and not necessarily from fear.

“Simon…”

“Let’s just try, yeah? Just let me.”

Please, please, just fucking let him. Let him teach you to drive. Let him bake with you. Let him into your space. Let him into your life. Let him take all that fucking pressure and heaviness that you clearly carry on those pretty, sun-kissed shoulders. Please let him sit on your floor with you whilst he comforts you and licks and kisses away the tears staining your cheeks. Please. Let. Him. Fucking. Help.

He watched as you rested your chin on your knees again, looking back into the oven as you pondered on an answer, clearly aware he wasn’t gonna give up.

You licked your dry lips, scraping teeth over the plump bottom lip, snapping the thick ropes that he has wrapped around his restraint, one thread at a time.

“Fine.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, looking over at him again. He couldn’t help but smile a little, the honest, completely natural reaction caused by something different than laughing at a joke or the view of pushing a man beyond his limits, a little unfamiliar, but he welcomed it. He welcomed that warmth in the middle of his chest as he looked at you, your expression beginning to soften, fingers letting up their grip, shoulders slacking, chest expanding just a little more.

“But if I kill you or you end up all mangled in a car crash, that’s on you.”

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

~

Erm hello! So after an eventful 1, 2, 3… 7 months, I’m back? This fic, the poor learner driver and sweet biker Simon have probably gotten forgotten about, but if you haven’t forgotten… here they are, lol.

So much has happened. And I mean, S O M U C H.

But I think I’m back. No promises, because shit can get in the way but I have some ideas.

Anyways, hope you enjoyed it <3

Love x

Tag list <3 :

@anonymouse1807

@shesneverreallythere

@persephone-kore-law

@faggotine

@probablyposessedbysatan

@yourdaydreamerfan

@pinkylouise

@nina-from-317

@bingeingtillie

@pettypinkprincessblog

@nothingbettertosay81

@mushr90

He's never been worried. Not at home, not when he could fight any assailants off himself. Hell, they'd be fucking loose in the head to think they could take him on. It's not like he had much to show either--he didn't have much in the ways of luxury, simply because he chose not to purchase it.

Until he met you. He was nervous then, suddenly fixing shit around the house he'd let slip by him--the broken security system, the hole in the ceiling where he'd ripped out the smoke alarm because of its incessant 'low battery' beeping. Sure it was dangerous, but he hadn't cared before.

What never changed was the fact he'd had guns all over the house. You told him before that you'd feel sorry for whatever poor bloke thought he could grab a quick check off of your home, and he'd laughed in response, told you not to worry about it. He'd deal with it, after all, should push come to shove.

So he's prepared when he hears rustling from downstairs, and the beeping of the security system he'd had installed beeping away beside his ear--quiet enough for you to never notice, loud enough for him to wake up. He slips out of bed, sooths the crease that forms between your brows when his warmth leaves from beside yours, and grabs the pistol under the bed.

Whoever's broken in is about to feel bloody sorry for even trying.

He's efficient. Makes quick work of checking upstairs, deems it all clear before he's creeping down the stairs--the perpetrator's back in immediate sight. He's rifling through the desk in the study, thumbing through cabinets for cash, or anything expensive.

He only notices Simon when Simon wants him to. It's a firm press of the gun to the guy's head, causing him to jump, flinching under the touch. "What the hell--"

“I’d shoot y’point blank right ‘ere if I could, but the missus is sleepin’ upstairs. So y’ve got thirty seconds t’fuck off before I turn y’into a stain on the carpet," Simon interjects, checking the clock on the wall absently. Like it's just an average weekday to him.

"Hey, hey man, I'm just--" he raises his hands placatingly, dropping the papers he had been holding.

"Aye. Don't give a fuck. Would rather not stain the carpet, though, missus really likes this one. Said it's real soft n' nice on 'er feet."

Simon catches the door as he practically sprints from the home, only to avoid it slamming--he wouldn't want to alarm you, of course. He hums, shuts it quietly, and goes to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.

When he's back upstairs, shuffling into the bedroom, your wide eyes looking at him and quietly asking him where he went--how dare he leave you when you were cuddling, he smiles, places the glass on the nightstand and sneakily slips the gun right where he'd first gotten it.

[ sakura haruka x gn! reader ]

inspired from this scenario from this otp generator: person a and person b holding hands because there's a crowd but not letting go when they get out of it.

tags: fluff, established relationship, sakura figuring out relationships, and reader being a bit of a tease and liking his blush hehe <3

word count: a little more than 1k !

a/n: i've been dying to write for wind breaker for forever. sakura haruka you're so cute i love you sm you deserve everything good

“C’mon Haru! Don’t pout!”

Sakura sputters, a familiar red creeping on his face.

“Not pouting!”