As far as I’m concerned the 141 have taken up improv and John is forcing them to do the whole “yes and-“ game
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@lostagoodcigar
As far as I’m concerned the 141 have taken up improv and John is forcing them to do the whole “yes and-“ game

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Listen I know we’re all irritated as fuck over the new trailer but the edits that are coming out of the trailer are heart wrenching and y’all are upsetting me
(Keep making them please god don’t stop)
MEOWR
i don't care what happens anymore. no amount of insanity those moniyawak at Activision throw at me will ever take away from the fact that i'm currently in my mind palace, picturing sitting on merc Price's lap and kissing the thatch of grey on his beard while he smokes a cigar and gives cringe "i used to be a good man (not true), but the bad guys taught me the only way to win is to get on their level (also not true)" monologues and makes you hold his whiskey for him as he sighs forlornly at the loss of the man he was (literally the same, but his kills are unsanctioned and he has a new haircut) and does the "bad" old man thing where he talks about how he should push you away because you're too good for him (true) but won't because this new version of him is selfish and hungry and he needs a little bit of good in his life to remind of him the guy he (still is) was.
I know this is a deeply American thing to say but I am begging everyone to stay the fuck away from military recruiters. Especially high school kids. You are going to be seeing an unholy amount of them in schools or around schools or literally anywhere kids are known to congregate. THIS INCLUDES ALL FORMS OF ROTC. Stay the fuck away from military recruiters. As someone who’s familiar with entirely too many branches through entirely too many friends and family, including my partner, recruiters are authorized to say literally any fucking thing they think will make you sign on that line. They cannot and will not deliver on those promises. They need bodies for the war they’re pretending is only now starting up again. That’s all you are. A body. Stay the FUCK away from the military.
RECRUITERS LIE

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Three guard dogs might’ve been overkill.
Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—
Laughter stops him in his tracks.
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.
And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears.
“Cute pups,” you say.
Cute...what?
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.
“You military?”
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.
“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”
You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs.
And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet.
You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.
“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.
He might just have to become one himself.
inspired by this tweet 🥰 cheeky deer reader my beloved
deer hybrid!reader deliberately getting caught in hunter!simon's traps just so you can feel his big hands on you as he unties you for the nth time. hearing him grumble silly doe while he carries you to a safe spot in the grass has your little tail swishing excitedly, and when he hisses at you for nuzzling into his neck and licking at his skin, you only let out a soft bleat.
the bloodstained rifle that resides on his back does nothing to deter you from continuously getting yourself into trouble. he's never aimed it in your direction, but you can't help but fantasise about feeling the metal on your forehead when he huffs something along the lines of s'like you want me to kill ya.
you can't help it. he's just so big all over, so strong and capable. you can't help but imagine those hands on your body. you want him stroking your ears, your tail, you want his thick fingers slipping between your thighs... you've seen him in his element, and a sick little part of you wishes he was hunting you instead.
would he be gentle like he always is, or would he let his frustration take over and finally get back at you for being such a little tease? would he push you up against a tree and murmur sweet things in your ear? that voice always makes your skin tingle. no matter what you conjure up in your mind, you always find yourself down by the pond; you can only wash away the need that seems to permanently cling to your skin so many times. you should really stop getting yourself worked up like this.
it's when you actually fall victim to a foothold trap one evening that he finally cracks. being held in his arms while he trudges through the woods down to his truck helps calm you a little bit, but the pain is unbearable. it doesn't help that he's scolding you again, muttering something about just taking you home with him and keeping you there so you're not causing any more trouble.
i really love the idea of Simon's and Johnny's entire relationship being built on freak finding freak—or two hunters sussing each other out. but being very sly about it.
like Ghost knows Johnny's whole persona is a facade, and that the doe he keeps huffing about, the one that keeps wiggling away from him, isn't actually a deer or an animal, but a person. and when he makes these little remarks about needin' tae tame a doe or get a stronger rope, a bigger cage; or when he tells them that the scratches he has on his arms and neck are from finally bringin' his doe home, he isn't talking about improving his husbandry.
just like Soap is pretty sure that the lil birdie keepin' 'im up all night isn't a pidgeon or a sparrow, but is instead the tourist who went missing a few months ago.
Out of luck?
Johnny MacTavish x Reader
18+ MDNI! CW Smut ⚠️ Older, gross Johnny, boss's daughter, car sex, 141 office AU pt. 3
Part 1 (Simon x Reader beach fluff and miscommunication)
Part 2 (Price x bratty reader, situationship, smut)
Give a dog a bone. Or: Johnny's older, a little gross, and has all the time in the world tonight to give you the affection you didn't know you craved.
Read me on AO3 🫦
"I don’t understand this party-girl-thing you’ve been doing lately in college but know that tonight is a serious event. I want you on your best behaviour,” your mother, Susannah, was saying as she triple-checked the schedule for the evening was on time—that was the worst part, that she wasn’t even looking at you—her hair getting set into place by pedantic fingers, the hairstylist looking like he’d rather not be in the room for the diluted scolding you were receiving. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes ma’am.” You had to refrain from reminding her that you’d attended this very same event almost every year alongside her.
Her brow twitched at the formality but, just as quickly, she let it go, “go, finish getting ready. I’ll see you down for pictures.”
You nodded and slipped back through the door that connected your rooms in the booked-out hotel.
The building had been buzzing all day with preparations for the benefit your mother’s company was hosting tonight. Nonstop there had been people knocking on her door all day long. She had ducked into your room just to eat her lunch in peace and utter silence before stepping back into the fray.
You were split. One part of you love-love-loved the glitz and glam at no personal expense to yourself, but the rest of you was balanced on the knifes edge of your mother’s patience. Always had been since you started expressing your own opinions.
The two of you shared a tense relationship, to say the least. Not always was it so bad, just…more often than not.
But it was only the two of you tonight with your father called in to perform an emergency surgery, so you nodded and smiled and rolled over.
How Far Hate Gets You
John Price x Reader
3.5k one shot inspired by a deleted TikTok </3
18+ MDNI A little smutty⚠️, attitude from both parties, and John is bad at communicating…company retreat pt.2
At long last, you were on the annual company retreat. After six years at that crystal chandelier of a company, you'd been promoted beyond coffee runs or file checks or mere minute keeping. But the idyllic view came to an abrupt end. You hadn’t seen John in over a year and yet, there he was, looking painfully better than you remembered. Bearing those smile and frown lines you recognised from much too far a distance.
Read me on Ao3 💋
Simon's pt. 1
“You never mentioned you’d been invited out,” it’s Daniel, it’s always Daniel. He lives perpetually on the brink of temptation in your mind until he does that one thing that reminds you why you’re fine being on your own. “Here, I’ll grab your bags,” he’s already moving them before you can say you’re more than capable of handling a hardshell suitcase and duffel bag. But who are you to deny him his heart’s desire?
Instead, you pat him on the shoulder with a little, “thanks, Danny,” letting your gaze roam to the cars you’d just parked alongside. Not a single model earlier than 2020. With a swoop of your stomach, you realize you actually fucking made it.
After six trying years at this crystal chandelier of a company, you’d got yourself promoted beyond coffee runs or file checks or mere minute keeping. You were on the annual company retreat.
A delighted thrill threatened to swell up in your chest and suffocate you. “This place is…” words escape you at the view, nothing but lightly clouded skies, thickly forested hills, and swaying tall grass as far as you could see.
“I know,” Daniel sighed, closing the trunk of your car with a loud thud, “the beachfront last year puts this place to shame but hey, at least Allison didn’t get an invite, then it’d really be shitty.” Ah, there’s the one thing.
You give him a small smile, just shy of a grimace really, “ha.”

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Under Lock and Key
Simon Riley x Reader
Awkward Simon Riley, tiny miscommunication trope, jealous Simon, office retreat au pt. 2
Simon was cold, calloused, and tedious to work with. You were too much his opposite for your partnership to work. Talkative, and teasing, most rolled over in your palm. Though you knew they were only as nice as they were to get to Simon. Not that it worked. You kept him under lock and key, and he was happy there.
Read me on Ao3 💋
Price's pt. 2
Johnny's pt. 3
“Look, I’m sure you’re great at your job, you must’ve worked really hard to be Mr. Riley’s secretary, but you don’t have the right to—”
“As Mr. Riley’s secretary, I cannot pass on a call until I know who you are and why you’re calling. I will hang up on you if you can’t give me a reason, Mr. Davis,” you said, not even blinking as you rolled your finger over the scroll wheel of your mouse, skimming over the beauty subscriptions you had sent to your work email. You were thinking about a new hair oil… “Mr. Riley is very strict on wasting company time on calls he doesn’t need. If this is a personal matter, you can contact him through his mobile.”
Mr. Davis spluttered on the other end of the line, “fine—what’s his mobile number then?!”
You scoffed, your laugh a breathy thing, “sorry, I’m not at liberty to give that out. You’ll have to contact him directly. Perhaps try an email.”
“…Don’t you scan his emails for forwarding?”
“Yes I do,” you smiled, leaning back in your chair and spinning, looking out the large floor-to-ceiling window behind you. It was a lovely day, a little cloudy but the sun was out. “Shall I keep an eye out for yours to come through shortly?”
Mr. Davis sighed, frustration coming through the phone clear as day, “you’re wasting my time, girl.”
Your smile soured, “rather yours than his, Mr. Davis—” you noticed Simon’s line was blinking red, “sorry, I’m getting another call. Have a good day, sir.” You let him go with no further preamble, picking up Simon’s call, “yes, Mr. Riley?”
Simon Riley would be the type of boyfriend who likes nobody, except you, and his mates.
When he's forced on leave, before and after you come into his life, he holes himself up in his flat, sustained by a diet of tea and beer, only moving from the couch to grab another can. He almost never meets up with the team on leave.
He's "Busy."
Busy doing nothing.
Because nothing was a luxury activity.
With you, his habits aren't as self-destructive. He no longer drowns himself in alcohol, and actually gets up and walks around the flat, just to look for you. See what you're up to. Other than whatever football game is on, he's more interested in your own hobbies. What's going on in your games, luvie? What're making now? Is that a new recipe? Johnny's missus taught you, that right?
He even forces himself relents to go outside.
It's a big reason why the 141 likes you. You get their friend to come out of hiding and breathe some fresh air. With you, they could almost see the man they could call a brother begin to recover. Be normal.
It's Kyle that notices first. The men (plus you) are left alone at the quaint little pub John's selected, a feat accomplished by Simon's wicked RBF. You ask Sergeant MacTavish a question, and Kyle finally understands why people wrote "his gaze softened."
John catches on, too. The "normalizing" effect you had on his Simon. Your look, your voice, you were by no means a siren who made Simon lose control, but an anchor that rooted a ship to a safe bay, despite a raging sea.
Simon opens up more to the 141 whenever you're around. He responds in sentences, orients his body to you when you speak, and even cracks some jokes.
He's even more relaxed once you head home. His whole body is turned towards you, and there's even the beginning of a lazy smile on his lips as he listens to you talk.
you always knew this day would come—when someone would finally come looking for you. (ghost x f!reader, 18+, cw graphic violence)
he's always reminding you about consequences. there are deliberate choices that you make that set off chain reactions, whether or not you intended to.
one of your choices was choosing simon riley. terrible, horrifying, brute simon riley, who on paper was supposed to be dead, but in reality was still on the SAS payroll.
there were a lot of reasons not to let simon into your life. there were a lot of reasons to let him go.
he never answers his phone—the relic that it is. he comes and goes as the job demands; sometimes he's home for supper when he says, and sometimes you don't see him until three weeks too late. his entire family is dead because of the same job he leaves for, and he's never let you see his face.
yeah. definitely reasons to walk away; but there were too many other reasons to stay.
"oi—eyes 'ere, love."
your lashes flutter when his gloved fingers hit under your chin, angling your face up. he kisses you, masked lips pressing against your mouth, and you sigh as he runs his other hand down the back of your head, clutching the nape of your neck.
"come back soon," you whisper. "i-i...i know you can't promise—"
"'s olright," he murmurs. "heart's beatin' out of y'r chest, baby." he runs his nose along yours, shaking his head. "won't be long. this one's recon, nothin' else."
you close your eyes, reaching for his jacket. you clutch the front of it, standing on your toes, and he chuckles lowly. your mouth falls open when his hands cup you under your thighs, squeezing your ass as he drags you even closer and breathes out slowly.
"can you say it?" you ask.
"even though you know it?"
"just say it, simon."
"mmm." he grips your jaw tight with one hand, and it forces your eyes open. you look at him, trying not to smile, and you feel warmth spread in your belly when you see his eyes crinkle, indicating his own smile. "i love you."
you can't stop the giggle that leaves you. it feels so stupid sometimes, to feel this way. you never understood the metaphor of butterflies in your stomach, but fuck, what else could it be? how else do you describe it?
it's quiet when he's away. it's nothing but monotonous chores and waiting for him to come home. you go to work, you come home, and then you try to distract yourself from doing anything except think about simon.
simon in the field. simon in hostile territory. simon having to fire that gun. it follows you into your nightmares, and you think about it when you close your eyes.
it's why you can't sleep. it's why you hear footsteps on the ground floor of your house, and it's why you're awake when you know someone is here.
your hand reaches for the knife simon keeps under his side of the mattress. you slide out of bed, slipping your socks on, and you use them to keep your steps quiet as you go to hide by the doorway to your bedroom.
you peek around the edge, looking over the railing towards downstairs. you can't see much from this angle, but you do see a shadow pass by, and you know just from the shadow of it that it isn't simon.
you hug the wall again, closing your eyes. you squeeze the hilt of the blade in your hand tight, taking a deep breath.
keep your head on. you know what to do.
"negative. nothing downstairs. heading up-top."
you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. you hear a step creak, and you know that he's halfway up the stairs now. american accent. you grit your teeth, trying to commit all the little details to memory.
the clock reads 3 in the morning. there's a full moon tonight. it's cool outside. there's someone in your house—
you see the toe of his boot just before he comes into the bedroom. you wait until his gun has made it past the doorway before you make your move.
incapacitate. incapacitate. incapacitate.
you go for the thigh first. you swipe with all of your weight, catching him off-guard. you go for the warm spots that his gear doesn't protect, and you cut deep on his inner thigh. he stumbles forward, screaming, and you use his moment of weakness and shove the blade right up into his armpit. the gun skids across the floor as he screams again in agony, and you shove him hard into the dresser behind him before you run.
"you fucking bitch! i'm gonna kill you!"
not before i kill you.
you make your way downstairs, skipping the creaky step before making your way into the den. you pat a hand under the coffee table, mentally giving your assassin boyfriend a big, wet kiss when you find a gun secured to the underside. you slide it out of its holster, checking the chamber, where you see one loaded in already. you switch the safety off, the weight of it heavy, and you hurry to duck around a corner as you hear him limp downstairs.
"i'm gonna find you, you fucking cunt. i'm gonna find you and fucking bury you!"
you keep circling behind the walls as he makes his way further into the living room. he's stalking, swinging his gun around sloppily as he kicks the couch and flips chairs looking for you.
"i'm gonna make sure he sees what i do to you. he's gonna pay!"
when you see him sway on his feet, you know you have the upper hand.
you circle back into the kitchen, ducking to use the counters as cover. you tuck the gun under the sink before reaching for the skillet sitting there. stainless steel; the weight feels good as you hold it in front of you, and you creep to where he still is checking under the dining table.
he never hears you coming. he turns around for a split second, but you're already swinging.
"fucking bitch—"
something cracks under the pressure as he crumples to the floor. you kick the gun out of his way, and you lick over your teeth as you inspect the damage. the lip of the pan caught the edge of his mouth, and a couple of his teeth lay on the floor behind him. he coughs, blood splattering, and you drop the pan as you go for the duck tape in one of the kitchen drawers.
it takes a considerable amount of effort to hoist him up onto a dining chair. he's all bulk and gear, but you manage to sit him there, and you carefully tape each wrist and leg to the chair before securing him with zip-ties and spare rope. you use the remaining bit of rope to fasten it around his mouth, not even stopping when he howls from the broken teeth he's still spitting out.
you go for the bookshelf in the living room, keeping an eye on him the entire time. you feel for the right book, pulling it off the shelf before reaching for the satellite phone hidden inside.
you dial the only number on it.
it only rings a few times before you hear someone pick up on the other line.
"this is price."
you swallow hard, toes curling as your hands tremble just a little.
"uhm—" you close your eyes for a second as you rack your brain. "we're geronimo."
the other line is quiet for a few moments before you hear a deep sigh.
"i read you, love. how many?"
you squeeze the phone to your ear, sniffling.
"just one. i think."
"you think?"
"just...just one."
you hear some interference, and then he grunts.
"stay low. stay quiet."
"wait—" your voice shakes. "he...he knew. he knew who was supposed to be here."
"mmm," price curses under his breath. "roger tha'. you stay put. don't answer the door for anyone, and don't leave. do not open the bloody door unless i call this phone, do you read me?"
"y-yes."
you flinch as the phone call gets cut. you wobble on shaky legs as you take a seat on the couch. your eyes are wet and watery as you keep staring at the back of the man's head, not willing to look away in fear that he'll get loose.
you wait hours. you're still in your pajamas; just a big shirt to sleep in and fuzzy socks, your hair in all directions and on the cusp of totally freaking out as you guard the intruder to your house. he can't talk; he tried for awhile, screaming and spitting over the rope, but he gave up after awhile, and now he sits with his head slumped over and his chin to his chest.
when the satellite phone rings, you count to three before answering it. the sun is high now; it must be close to noon.
"hello?"
"open the door, baby."
as soon as he crosses the threshold, you're in his arms. forearm hooked around the small of your back, masked face buried in your neck as he hoists you up onto your toes and hugs you to his chest. you bite back a sob as you wrap your arms around his neck, hugging him back tight as you let all of the tension melt off your body.
all the fear. all the worry. all the guilt—he takes it all.
"i...i-i did what you said, simon, i—"
"did so well, baby," simon mutters. "y'r perfect. you 'ear tha'? perfect."
he pulls away, cupping both of your cheeks and making you look at him. you sniffle, letting some tears fall finally, and he catches them on his gloved thumbs and brushes them away.
"oi," simon shakes his head. "i'm proud o' you. y'r mine, yeah? oll mine."
you nod, stepping forward, and he wraps and arm around your shoulders as you bury your face in his chest. you cling to him, digging your nails in, and he stands up straight before opening the door wider.
three men file into your home. you've never met any of them, but you recognize the mohawked one from a picture simon showed you once. when the three of them make it into the kitchen, you hear a low whistle and a few curses.
"bleedin' christ," one laughs. "ye look like right shite!"
you're holding simon's hand when you follow him into the kitchen. simon sighs, narrowing his eyes as he gets a good look at your trophy. he's bleeding in your kitchen, eyes watery as he looks around the room. he's terrified; he doesn't try to fight, and he averts his gaze as quickly as he looked up.
"bloody hell," simon mutters.
the one in the beanie is definitely in charge. he looks much older, a few greys sprinkled throughout his hair, and when he speaks, you recognize his voice.
"this your work, simon?" he asks, nodding towards where you stand. you squeeze simon's hand, and he squeezes back.
"it's mine," you say.
"is that right?" he raises a brow. "simon didn't teach you how to subdue a bloody target this way, is that it?"
"well, not exactly," you hide a little behind simon's arm. "i took some...creative liberties."
"i can see that."
simon ushers you upstairs, kissing the back of your head through the mask as he watches you climb them. he gave you the go-ahead to start packing your things, and you just nodded and made your way up. simon lingers at the bottom of the steps as gaz sticks a bag over the guy's head.
"price," simon says lowly, and his captain turns his head to look at him.
"got somethin' to say?"
simon looks back to where you just disappeared into the bedroom.
"do wot you will with the bloke." simon's grip on the railing nearly splits the wood. "but you leave the last of 'im to me."
"copy that."
man's best friend. dog owner!simon + dog owner!reader thinking about the time I was out for drinks and there was a dude with the biggest fucking dog I’ve ever seen just chilling at the bar. surrounded by ladies.
simon taking riley out for an afternoon walk, but ending up at the pub cuz a man needs pint every now and then.
he's finishing his beer while watching the match on the pub telly when he feels a tug on the leash. he looks down, and finds you petting and cooing at riley. the bugger is all in for the attention, ears perked and tail wagging against his boots.
pretty little thing, you.
he doesn't move, content with watching you like this. maybe a minute later is when you finally notice him staring.
"oh! sorry," your voice is as sweet as you look; too tempting for a man like him. "your dog is so cute! what's its name?"
"riley." he grunts out. wouldn't mind indulging you, just for a while.
"cute name, it suits him," you say. riley nudges your hand with a wet nose begging for scratches. it makes you laugh. the sound is enough to make simon shift in his seat.
would suit you too, he thinks.
"got one of your own?" he asks instead.
you smile. "yes! i have a doberman. she's in her terrible twos right now, though. not as well behaved as riley."
"lots of energy, those ones," he grumbles. "better get a playmate before she rips your couch up."
simon ends up leaving the bar with a new number on his phone and a marked date on his calendar.
wasn't looking; wasn't hunting for anything, but riley sniffed you out for him. fell right into his lap anyway. he spoils the pup with some treats once they get home.
good hunting, riley.
ghost who kills time playing geoguessr and doesn't realize how good he's gotten until he falls down a rabbit hole of videos from some cute wannabe influencer, documenting every second of her 'journey' fixing up an old cabin she bought in the middle of nowhere. she's so careful about never tagging the location or saying outright where it is, but it only takes him a couple hours of going frame-by-frame to narrow it down. when he puts in for leave, price asks where he's off to, and ghost just says it's a secret. a surprise. he doesn't say for who, though.

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Heavy man folding you in half and apologising under his breath while his hips pick up the pace breathe if you agree
Valentine's day is Simon's favorite day of the year.
No one would ever guess. No one would ever think to guess. He knows when the shops start putting out red hearts on their windows. He knows when the chocolate starts hitting the shelves in bulk. He knows exactly how many days until you'll walk in wearing that red sweater again.
It's the same one every year. The knit has loosened slightly at the cuffs, and there's a snag near the hem you keep meaning to fix. He noticed the day it happened; he remembers which locker corner caught it.
(The locker isn't there anymore.)
Every year, like clockwork, you show up with your sleeves pulled over your hands, carrying a pocketful of those cheap heart-shaped candies that taste like chalk.
And every year, you hand them out like blessings to men who have done things that would curdle the sugar in your mouth if you knew.
Soap gets a fist full because he makes a spectacle of begging. Kyle pretends he doesn't care but takes two anyway. Price shakes his head, muttering something about sugar rotting teeth, but pockets one when you insist.
Simon watches you make your way across the room, and notes who lingers when your fingers brush theirs, who bends down closer than necessary to hear you better, and who laughs too hard at something that wasn't that funny.
He knows exactly how many hearts are left when you finally stop in front of him.
"Don't start," you say lightly, holding out a little folded card and a candy. "It's tradition."
He takes them without looking at you and waits until you've moved on before he looks down at his palm. A delicate pink— BE MINE— and when he lets it dissolve on his tongue, eyes tracking the sway of your red sweater, he imagines it tastes like the gloss on your lips.
That night, in the quiet of his spartan flat, he places the new card beneath a heavy book to keep it from curling and takes the old ones out of a tin box he keeps hidden behind spare ammo to read again, all of them dated in pencil on the back.
To my favorite person. Don't argue ❤️
You’ve written it every year, same wording, same little heart slanted to the right. The ink bleeds a little more on the cheaper cards. One year the paper was glossier, and in another, your pen ran out halfway through the word favorite and you pressed harder to make it last.
He knows your handwriting well enough now to read you in it. The loops are bigger when you're tired, pinched when you're stressed. The heart is fuller when you're in a good mood, and smaller when you're not.
He could replicate it if he needed to.
This year, when someone jokes about snatching you up before someone else does, Simon doesn't even look up from cleaning his weapon. He knows who he is. He knows the way the man stands— weight heavier on his right leg from an old injury. Simon also knows the man who signs off on deployment rosters and knows exactly what that man owes him.
Deployment rosters are delicate things; names get bumped all the time. Sometimes upward into a position they're not ready for, sometimes sideways into places much less comfortable for longer, and sometimes they fall off the list entirely, lost in administration reshuffling no one has the time to question.
“She’s already spoken for," Simon says flatly, cloth dragging down the barrel in slow, even strokes.
You blink at him. “By who?”
He looks at you then. Finally.
“Don’t argue,” he says quietly.