#fic:lbu

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CHAPTER 1 - Studying Something

CHAPTER 2 - Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player"

CHAPTER 3 - Pick Up and Pick me-ups

CHAPTER 4 - Broken Printer

CHAPTER 5 - Free Kick & A Penalty

CHAPTER 6 - Proving it

CHAPTER 7 - Let Out & Locked in

CHAPTER 8 - Interrogation

CHAPTER 9 - Advantage

CHAPTER 10 - Marking Home

CHAPTER 11 - Normality

CHAPTER 12 - Propositions and insistence

The first time he sees you, he’s uncharacteristically involved in helping pin the boy who pushed you to the side against the wall by the scruff of his collared shirt. There’s a yelp and a swear thrown out somewhere- whether from him or the other kid, he’s not particularly sure. All he knows is that one of his peers from his year group is swatting at him pointlessly, and his hands shake a little when he lets the kid go. His tempered expression is more trained on the way you look at him, wide-eyed and shocked. Simon almost bristles at the way you look at him, on edge but calmed by his mercy. It makes him feel too seen.

Being 15 is hard enough, but he reckons you’ve got a sugary sweet home compared to him. His usual conflict at home makes him much more adept at dealing with the roughness of this state school. You’re not yet accustomed to the claustrophobic hallways of the school; you were walking a bit too slowly and uncertainly, and had been pegged as an easy target to mess with. He was just there at the right time. He recognises you as one of the new girls who have joined his secondary school at an awkward point- Year 10 is too late to make any friends, but too early to just focus on academics.

“Thanks.” Your voice is warbled as you awkwardly rub your shoulder from where the bully had pushed you. You’re much smaller than him, which is not surprising; he’s tall for his age, but you really do look like a little mouse or perhaps one of those little birds he sees when he stares out windows.

He doesn’t reply vocally. Just nods. Adjusts his blazer halfheartedly as he turns to continue walking back to class. 

The next time he spots you is when he’s being escorted to the Headteacher’s room. It’s been just under a month, and he knows you’ve made a few friends here and there through word of mouth. He doesn’t like to admit that it gives him some semblance of comfort. He’s also learnt your name by social osmosis- it fits you. You look so content and untroubled- so utterly opposite to him. He’s in trouble for pushing another boy in the school yard, a boy who had said something about his younger brother Tommy. The intention of the fight gives him some morality, at least that's what he says to himself to humanise himself somewhat. He catches a glimpse of you in the corner of his eye as he is marched through the corridor. You are there, on show via the classroom interior window. You’re in one of the classrooms despite it being lunchtime; your face is unbothered by the noise of roaring children outside as you sit happily reading and eating a packed lunch that looks so homely he feels envious. 

While wallowing in his own thoughts, looking at you, he almost flinches when you look up and make eye contact with him. His brown eyes sharpen- and he feels a strange feeling in his chest when you shoot him a soft smile and even lift your dainty hand to wave. He rips his head back to the floor, his pace ever so slightly quicker as he hears the teacher in front of him tell him to keep moving.

You’re being friendly. He feels sick.

He’s missed far too many classes. Half-term is around the corner, and he zones out at the frustrated nagging tone of his teacher.  They’ve labelled him as a ‘ frequent school absentee’ - his truancy now pushing past just periods, but now full days. Simon sinks into his chair, slumped not out of guilt but instead of boredom. 

“This will catch up to you at some point, Mr Riley.” The warning makes him bite the inside of his cheek. Makes him want to bare his teeth and snarl- Out of all the things that Simon could worry about catching up with him, his GCSEs are not one he's particularly worried about. Staying at home and protecting his mam is more important right now as his father sits on the unemployment benefits again; Making sure Tommy is left unscathed after the brutality of his father’s drunken stupor is more pressing than a pass at English Literature. He sees the expression of his teacher change as they huff, softening their annoyance into pity as they read his student file. The staff are brutally honest with him; they understand he’s only really attending for the free school meals he’s entitled to and to keep an eye on Tommy. He’s let off a bit too easily, he thinks.

“You’ll have to sit for intervention after school. English. Get it done before it's too late. You’ve got just under two years to sort yourself out, lad.” The teacher dismisses him, and as he pushes through the door, he bumps into you; he doesn’t miss the way your eyes are wet and watery, and you shrink when you almost smack into his chest. Your uniform is a mess - unlike your usual prim and proper presentation. For some reason, his breath jumps and he grabs you lightly by the shoulders out of surprise.

“O-oh Simon-” He blinks, no one besides his brother and his mam calls him by his first name; it just goes to show how much you don’t listen to the schoolyard taunts, you don’t see him as the “Riley boy” who's too sharp around the edges to be near the bench,

“Alright?” His voice is gruff, and he doesn’t really understand why he’s asked when it's clear as day you’re not in the best of moods. You avoid looking up at him, but you nod and sniffle, hand going to wipe your nose. He lets go and sheepishly stands to the side to let you push through the door to talk to the teacher who just got done lecturing him. A part of him wonders who made you cry. 

A guilty part of him is wondering how you’d look if it were him.

It's some kind of cruel joke from the universe, almost as cruel as his father, when he walks into the forced after-school intervention and sees you sitting at the front of the classroom- ever so smiley and humming to yourself as you scribble some notes into your book. When he enters, he sees you look up, and your eyes widen a little, but your mouth isn’t turnt in disgust like most of the annoying girls in the year. He tries to ignore the greeting that gets stuck in his throat as he goes past you.

He stalks his way to the back of the room and is given a worn-out copy of Macbeth to peruse. He tries to make sense of what the teacher is trying to get him to do unsuccessfully, so he gives up within minutes. He can’t concentrate- his mind is still stuck on you. It's so easy to watch you when you’re sitting ahead of him, like a predator watching prey from a calculated distance. Your hair looks soft; his mind thinks about what it would be like to touch it. He then proceeds to tut at himself for being a bit of a perv. He’s not usually interested in any of the birds in his peer group- but you seem to be a strange fascination. He doesn’t like the way you make him feel, like he wants to be seen, like the first time you met.

He’s still thinking about the implications of his newfound minor obsession towards you when he gets pulled back into reality harshly. The teacher has designated it as independent revision now; a task has been written on the board, and the failing students in this compulsory class have been given the privilege of working with partners. It’s supposed to give the failing group some comfort in their study. A comfort that means very little when you don’t have friends, Simon thinks to himself.

It's why Simon shoots up and sits up straight, formal, and entirely uncomfortable when you suddenly come and pull a chair to sit across from him.

“What ye doing?” His words have a bite to them, but he regrets it when he sees how your patient smile falters a little.

“You were sitting alone-”

“And?” he interrupts, hands going to cross against his chest as he leans back almost defensively. He feels judged- usually, he doesn’t care about opinions, but the way you said it makes him feel pathetic- seen in a way he really doesn’t want.

“..I- um.. Right, well, we both don’t exactly have friends in here.” You gesture a bit. You cough as if trying to draw his attention back to you- you didn’t have to do that, he’s been staring the entire time. He doesn’t argue with your desperate logic. He amusedly watches as you open your copy of the play; your highlighters scratch on the off-white pages, and he almost flushes a little when you suddenly tap your finger on his unopened copy that lies untouched on the table.

“Are you going to make any notes?”

“Mm n’ point.” He states as if vocalisations cost money.

“The point is you need to pass if you want to get out of this revision group.” You say matter-of-factly. There’s authority in your tone- something he’s never expected out of your little stature. He just tilts his head and slinks down, but begrudgingly opens the book. He’s not bothered about this whole joke of studying, but your expression makes his hand twitch.

Neither of you says a word when you share your notes, and he voluntarily scratches them down.

It’s been about 2 months since he’s been forced to go to these sessions after school. It starts once a week on a Wednesday, and he always ends up sitting with you. He doesn’t speak much; more often or not just grunting or clipping his voice with murmured yesses when you ask if he understands what you’re reading out to him. He doesn’t like to admit he’s enjoying Shakespeare much more with you than when he does it in a lesson. The way you act out the scenes at times and your little giggles when you fumble with some of the old English have him more intrigued than any proper lesson he’s had. He tries to pretend it’s got nothing to do with the way your leg sometimes hits his under the desk when you get a bit too into your note-taking- or the way he can smell your fruity shampoo when you lean a little towards him when you correct his god awful spelling.

When going every Wednesday turns into going every Wednesday and Thursday, he rationalises with himself that he is only doing this to get him out of the grade hole he’s in. And because you get something out of teaching your notes to him. It’s a bit embarrassing actually, when he’s no longer kept on report for his truancy; the headteacher praises him,  but Simon does not get much out of the impressed words given to him. He comes in purely to entertain you, not actually being mandated to go to revision intervention. He thinks you must see him as some weird little pet project. You once told him that correcting him helped you identify where your writing had gone iffy. He’s simply doing a kind favour to a kind girl. A kind girl who's too nice for this shitty school. Too nice for shitty Riley.

“Why are you even in this group?” He asks before he even realises the words leave his tongue. You were in the middle of recounting scene 5: A messenger alerting Macbeth of the approaching enemy hidden in a disguise of Birnam Wood.

“What?”

“You’re not struggling with GCSE English Lit.” It's the most he’s really said to you before, and it’s clear you’re startled by his gruff voice and the mancurian accent that's easier to hear the more words he forces out.

There's a long pause. The air suddenly feels thick and the 15 year old teenage boy suddenly feels like a much younger child whose accidentally annoyed his mother at the wrong time. You make him feel like he'some bug under some sort of magnifying glass.You stumble to find an answer before you lean forward to him, almost as if the secret will kill you if the words you speak make any tangible sense.

“I…I don’t like being at home.” That’s all you whisper before sitting and staring back at him. 

Who is he to judge your answer? Home to him is horrid and disturbing; it would be hypocritical of him to tell you to go home. So he simply just nods, then shuffles back into his seat and waits for you to continue your little performance of Macbeth. 

Your voice carries on like a strange comfort for him. “That lies like truth. “Fear not till Birnam Wood Do come to Dunsinane,” and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane.—Arm, arm, and out!....”

After that shared secret, he tries not to draw attention to how you always wave at him in the hallway when you pass. He doesn’t say anything when you also join him at lunch, sitting next to him when he picks and prods at a pathetic excuse for a free school meal- almost always passing him another half of your sandwich as if a negotiation or ticket to be allowed to stay. He doesn’t argue with his mind when he finds himself trailing after you when the bells ring, and you happen to be dawdling down the same corridor as him. He’s a shadow for you, but neither seems perturbed by the development. 

He doesn’t want to call it a crush. It’s just that he has a bit of affection for you. Which isn’t completely unknown to him- he cherishes his Mother and cares for his brother; it's not like he’s never felt affection before. This is different, though. You slip into his mind more often than he wants to admit and find himself using you as a motivator to get out of his crappy council house every morning. He craves the little push and pull you let him have in your life. There’s a sick satisfaction he has when he sees you turn down sitting with some girls to continue sitting with him. Social suicide. For Him. He doesn’t like how much he likes you.

And he hates how he feels when you don’t turn up to school one day.

He doesn’t ask around- too awkward to really press, but eating alone feels even stranger now. He somehow finds himself more agitated, and for the first time in 2 months, he’s being called once again to the headteacher’s office. It wasn’t even really his fault! Another boy his age was trying to prove himself to his flock of idiot friends. They had come up to the lone Simon asking inane questions, mocking where he lives. It was only when they commented on you not being around did he find himself needing to punch the snarky bastard. His fist is a dull ache. He does not care.

It's when he sits waiting for his telling off that he sneaks a glimpse at the papers on the administrator's desk- he sees your name scrawled in red ink on the absentee list and the words ‘Medical’ tagged along with it. Something in him growls in discontent, but before he can stare harder at the words, he gets called in for his reckoning.

He doesn’t go to the after-school English intervention at all that week.

“You weren’t in” He says it plainly when he sees you a week later. You look normal but seem a bit dazed. He’s caught you in the corridor before form, like some sort of deprived animal cornering its next meal.

“Really, I wasn't? Gee, who knew-” You’re trying to be sarcastic, but the words sound so achingly tired it, makes Simon’s brain jumble.

“Not funny.” He says plainly.

You stare at him. He feels that weird feeling again, and so his eyes flick to your shoes.

“Sorry. Won’t happen again.” You say sincerely, your hand goes to touch his, grabbing it as if promising the world. Simon tenses and pulls away like its a flame and gestures for you to start walking to class. He follows you in silence.

True to your word, you’re not absent for the rest of the next few months.

When summer breaks out, and students are all buzzing about the long end-of-year plans they have, Simon feels more at odds with his peers than ever. He does not look forward to being at home anymore. He is ashamed to admit out loud how being in school at least gives him some stability. He sighs. It's lunchtime, and you two have chosen to sit at the back table in the busy canteen.  You’re nattering on about what movies you plan to watch, and he lets his mind focus on how you say your words- still no tinge of a northern accent despite having lived here for a year now. He’s picking at your hair when he sees a hair astray, but you don’t react- too used to him invading your personal space now. You don’t notice how other students shoot you two a perplexed grimace. He supposes it is a strange sight- he’s tall and a bit more built than your average British kid. His dark hair and usual vibe of “can’t be fucked” is oxymoronic next to your delightful, optimistic “Be friends with me!” aura.

“...I think I might even go see that Star Wars movie that's coming out- Hey.. Simon, Si- are you even listening?”

He makes a noise confirming, but he still fiddles with your hair.

“What are you gonna do on break?”

He shrugs, uncommitted to giving any true answer- it would probably make you concerned if he told you he was being forced to join his abusive dad on some weird benders or that he had to take up some part-time jobs just to feed his brother.

“Revising?”

He snorts at that. You’re teasing; both of you cannot imagine him actually studying without you. 

“I can lend you some of my books if you’re gonna be bored.” You suddenly offer. Everything about you surprises him, and when you dig through your bag and fish out worn copies of some random books and shove them into his lap, he almost gives you a deadly ‘be fucking for real’ expression. 

“Read them so I know you aren't wasting all those hours I've trained you to fucking read for once, please,” you say it jokingly, but there's an underlying pleading in your voice- as if you want to make sure he's kept engaged during the awful month both of you will be sequestered at home.

He nods and goes back to fiddling with your hair. You point out that the next time you see each other, both of you will be in Year 11, the final year of compulsory education. He lets go of your hair.

He hopes summer will be merciful to him.

Manchester is not particularly sunny. Not even during summer break do the rays of the sun ever really break through the grey outside his bedroom window. He shares his room with his brother, and as Tommy mouths off some shitty music on he radio and flicks through a worn-out comic book, Simon rustles through the pages of the copy of Slaughterhouse Five you gave him. It's almost delirious how focused he is on the words on the page; The cramped environment of his family’s council flat melts away as he follows each letter. He’s not sure how he feels about the story- the anti-war messages and graphic descriptions have him conflicted. Something dark in him twists when he thinks about soldiers and how organised it could be- how easy it would be to use orders as an excuse for his atrocities. 

“Wherdya get tha?” His brother's voice yanks him out of his thoughts.

“Nowhere.”

His brother sits on their shared floor, looking up at him, unconvinced and amused.

“Was it your girlfriend?”

"'s not my girlfriend.” 

“So was her then.” 

Simon shuts the book and goes outside. He doesn’t come back until it's dark.

When he’s not doing part-time shifts at the butcher's, He’s a latchkey kid for most of the time away from school. His mam’s not usually home, and Tommy goes out playing with neighbourhood friends. He doesn’t know where his father is. He gets stuck in the books you lent him. He reads every single one. Cover to cover. Maybe twice if it was particularly tolerable. He thinks about what you’re up to- if you ended up going to the cinema as you kept mentioning. He doesn’t have enough money in his pocket to even entertain the idea of going into town and seeing you there. When the house is lonely and echoey from the missing parts of his family, Simon sits in his bed and stares up at the ceiling. Your books lay on the floor near him. He keeps thinking of you. He’s alone. 

He feels insane when he chooses to think of you instead of the pornos he’s hidden under his mattress.

He feels even worse when he realises how satisfied he feels by the end of it.

Is this what possession feels like?

The question jumbles up in his brain when he sucks in his breath when he sees you again in the schoolyard the first morning back. You’re talking to some boy in the year group. He’s tall- not as tall as Simon, and the stranger is scrawny where Simon is menacing. Some football lad who's hovering by you a bit too closely for Simon to feel comfortable. You laugh at something. Simons' fist flexes. The other teenager looks too clean, too done-up; where Simon has his shirt untucked already, and a blazer hanging in his hand loosely, the other boy looks pristine. Simon feels something and then nothing. It was worthless to think you’d still think of him after a month of being apart. You were just being kind. Sweet. The days sitting with him at lunch were out of pity- he didn’t deserve it, and it makes sense you’ve attracted some pretty boy on the holidays. He is nothing, he is less than nothing, he is-

“Si! Hey- so you coming to English intervention tonight? They swapped it to Mondays!”

Your voice is so clear and mesmerising at the same time that he almost forgets to answer.

“Ye.” 

You smile at him and go to walk beside him like the holidays did not happen.

You never ask him about what he did on the break- there’s an unspoken understanding that he doesn’t want to talk about it (Not that he ever really did talk anyway). You do seem to have more friends this year, you don’t always walk with him in the hallways- sometimes you’re crowded with some boys and girls he recognises only by name and class. He still follows behind you those times. The other kids don’t say anything to him. A needy part of him keens when you still only ever eat lunch with him, and his chest aches with comfort when it's always just you two at the study sessions after school.

He’s become proficient enough at English Literature that you start to notice. You tease him a little, and he tries to hide his cheeks with his blazer and tries to play off how he preens under your praise. You’re more energetic this year. He notices it in the way you move, the way you hum louder and joke more. He notices it in the way you change your hair, in the way your shirt is slightly tighter than last year and especially in the way you hike your skirt a bit higher. You’re starting to match more with the girls around the hallways- a part of him mourns the loss of his nervous, little, shy bird version of you.

He doesn’t fight with his inner dialogue when he thinks of you at night anymore.

Sixth-form college applications are simply not in his cards. 

Even at the young age of 16, he’s accepted his fate as a worthless piece of crap. The very idea that Simon Riley would graduate with more than a pass at GCSE English and Maths is already wishful thinking; the idea of him going to college? Absolutely hopeless bullshit. Fantasies of studying anymore with the hopes of getting into a fancy university is purely a ‘You’ thing but that doesn’t stop him from listening to you yap on about all the potential colleges you want to go to. You mention how you’re focused on getting into this all-girls college that is too fancy for him to even pronounce. A filthy part of him is content you won't be talking to anymore boys like the football lad who keeps pining for you in the hallway if you got in.

He ignores you when you ask where he’s planning on going.

Simon is working a mind-numbing shift at the local butchers when he is rattled by your magical appearance in front of him. At first, he thinks he's hallucinating- no one from school has ever stepped into his part-time workplace. Of all the people to see him in his slightly mucky apron, mindlessly flicking a boning knife, he did not want you. 

Maybe he just accidentally stabbed himself and he’s bleeding out, dreaming of you.

“Si? I didn’t know you worked here!” Your voice feels sickly sweet as it cloys to his brain. You're dressed in nice-fitting jeans and a stripey shirt. Obviously, just having come back from something and running an errand for your family. He just nods and tilts his head to follow your hand as it points to some meat you need him to prepare and pack. You tell him of how you just came back from the high street and how your mum asked you to pick up something for dinner. You reference hanging out with some of the kids from your school. You smile as he tallies up the amount and just nods at every little thing you say.

When you leave, he washes up and buries his head in his hands as he groans in embarrassment of being seen outside, being percieved by you. You stop by almost every weekend after that. It slowly becomes something he looks forward to; you’re not even buying anything. Usually just there to say hello and dilly dally in front of the random accoutrements they sell in the window. Seeing you at work and at school has his little obsession over you worsen, and he doesn’t know if he is appalled or at ease by it.

Leavers' night is soon. The final year of secondary school went by scarily quickly for him. He’s never had dreams of prom, and certainly never thought of going to it. Somehow, he had scraped a decent B in English Literature thanks to your help. You, of course, did well enough to get into that fancy all-girls sixth form college. You forced him to promise to show up to this event, and he hates how easy it is to listen to you; to fall in line at your demands, to be at your beck and call. 

Tell me to jump. I ask how high?

This is how he finds himself leaning against the wall like the Class of 2001’s graduating leavers do. He’s stolen a tie from his parents’ room - not that his father has used it much- and the shirt he’s wearing chokes him at the collar a little. 

Tell me to dive. I check, how deep?

He eyes you chatting and flitting about the room, always people pleasing for the people around you. He follows your every move with his gaze. You’re wearing a very pretty dress- the kind he’s only ever seen in the posho shop windows. Cute. Fuck, you’re so cute. He shifts, trying to look less weird for staring. Tonight is one of the last nights he will probably see you. After 2 years of this deeply unsettling hole he’s carved out for you, it will be meaningless. When you finally find him and come toward him with that cheerful expression, he almost wants to shoot himself.

Tell me to die. I plead, how quick?

His macabre internal monologue is snipped short as you grab at his arm and jump with excitement at how many songs they were playing. You once again go on a tangent he can barely coherently follow, but follows regardless. To anyone else, he is expressionless and distant- but you can read it in the twitch of the corner of his mouth and the furrow of his brows when you make a joke that he is somewhat content. There's a tinge of bitterness in the air between you. If you notice it, you don’t ever mention it. At some point after being pulled away from him multiple times by other friends, you come back to him looking a bit exhausted. You wordlessly motion towards the back door of the school hall, and he curiously follows as you lead him out. He feels like he is the unsuspecting prey now.  He follows, like a man guided solely by the song of a siren of his demise.

The two of you huddle behind the school building. It's so unlike you to be this daring- the end of this chapter of your life must have shaken something in you, he reckons. You hum a quiet song as you two sit on the cold concrete floor, cosy in each other's presence. Simon Riley being the delinquent he has always been, pulls out a pack of tobacco he’s swiped from his living room. You knew he smoked, but he never did it in front of you (The smell that follows his hair has never been hidden from you though) so you chuckle a little when he drops the pack with a thwack between you two and searches for his papers. He fiddles with the shitty thing and rolls a crappy ciggy. He had left his lighter on the little pack of cheap tobacco and when he goes to grab it, your hand overlaps with his and you swat at his as you go to take it before him. You lean so close as you light the fag that hangs in his mouth for him. You don’t say anything. He stares, as always, at you. As if you just did something impossible.

“Make sure to call, please.” You say quietly, your hands shove back the ligh,t but also a crumpled piece of paper where you’ve scrawled your family’s landline for him.

He tries to say something, his rough calloused hand goes to pull the cigarette out of his mouth, and you take it from him and take a long, drawn puff of it. He ends up not saying anything.

He just laughs quietly when you start coughing.

He doesn’t call.

He argues with himself- it costs money and a beating to use his family’s phone, and calling through a payphone just to hear your voice seems a tad desperate. It’s been months since you both left secondary school. He’s working full-time now at the butchers, and you’re at that dream college, no doubt studying your A-levels ever so diligently. You probably don’t even miss him; he tries to suffocate the feelings that swell up in him at the thought. 

He regrets not calling when you walk into his work. You try to talk to him, but he doesn’t know what to say, so he just grunts and nods as always. You ask if he’s still reading. He nods but doesn’t tell you his collection of books is just stolen copies of books you've mentioned in the past from the charity shop or never-returned editions from the library. He feels disgusted with himself when you pout and frown at him when he doesn’t have anything else to say. You are hurt that your reunion seemingly means nothing to him.

You don't know It means everything to him.

“I hope you’re okay.” You leave, and as the bell above the shop door jingles, Simon Riley feels empty. 

You never come back to his work after that.

When Simon eventually signs up for the Army at age 18, he rationalises it as an easy way to leave his crappy life in Manchester, to escape his abusive son of a bitch father, to serve his country and be something. He doesn't admit how comforting it is to know you won't see him again.

He thinks about how you would react to seeing him in his CS95 DPM. 

The military is good. Great actually. He is fed every day, he has an outlet for his aggression, and there is structure. Stability. Predictability. Something he hasn’t had in a long while. Now and again, he gets letters from home- his baby brother old enough now to talk shit about what's going on with expletives in every sentence. His eyes nearly tears the most recent letter he received, in which Tommy faintly wrote about how you were in the local paper for graduating top of your class. 

He goes to spar. He is on edge all day, and like the good, perfect little soldier he is, He exceeds all records. Simon knows he’s good at this; he knows how to do this, to follow orders, to serve and protect. Serve and protect. He tries not to think about how far the military base he’s stationed at is from you if he gets promoted. He doesn’t argue with his inner voice when he yanks a newspaper from some other soldier’s hand and scans it, trying to look for you. He doesn’t breathe when he comes up with nothing.

It's been years since he’s heard anything about you, and frankly, after the horrifying death of most of his family, he wants to separate himself from everything to do with his hometown. He’s been shipped to various places on missions now, and his rank has solidified him a decent spot in the Elite SAS group; he does so well, he internally laughs at all the teachers who said he was good for nothing. By the time he’s joined 141, he’s much more developed and complex. He’s had too many traumatic experiences that rival his childhood; his demeanour only cements into a hardier version of the troubled boy you met. Ghost is now too much a part of him that Simon Riley feels so unapproachable in his mind. He scrolls on his phone meaninglessly as he lies bored in the army barracks he's temporarily stationed in. 

The others’ voices drawl annoyingly in the background and his fingers flick mindlessly on the glassy screen of his phone. Suddenly it stops and stills; ‘Manchester Evening News’ is recommended on his browser and he recognises that awkward smile anywhere. You might have grown up (evident from the way you pose in the picture and the length of your hair), but Simon Riley can immediately tell it's you. 

‘Teacher of the Year’ - You’re holding a terribly cliché certificate as you sit in a classroom for the photo; your career seems so natural to him- you had a gift for teaching worthless saps like him. He fixates on you. Not even reading the words in the article. His hands twitch, his eyes even drifting to look at the battered copy of a book he’s brought on deployment- thinking what you would say about where he is now. He’s so lost in staring at your picture.

“Ghost, mate you with us?” Soaps voice sounds amused, not used to seeing Simon so engaged with his mobile. Ghost slams his phone down and gets up, nodding at his teammate. 

It’s a strange comedy scene, one he can imagine playing out in the likes of a corny play or maybe even written about in some girly romance comedy novel: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, sat daintily on your couch like some exhibit, moodily quiet as your civilian friends harp on about some random drama you’ve had at work. The contradictory quality of his broodiness between the delightful giggling of your peers has him almost gagging, but of course, he’d do pretty much anything for you at this point. Anything to keep you happy, to keep up this perceived tameness of his intentions. He will play docile if it means getting to prowl in your herd of peaceful sheep.

His tea is his only current lifeline, the mug cradled in his big palms as if it will slip away the second someone shunts their attention onto him. You’d been so eager to invite him into your wider life- friends now being texted with his name mentioned wherever possible with pride. The label ‘boyfriend’ slips into your vocabulary as easily as the weather, like you’ve known him as that for centuries. He revels in it. Tonight you’ve invited a variety of friends over for dinner (“it’s called Tea dove, none of that southern ‘dinner’ nonsense” he had jabbed at you when you were planning it all) and it’s been painstakingly awkward to avoid some of the stares that linger on his simple black medical mask, or the dragged looks as they eyed up the difference in his stature to yours. An odd pairing. Odd if they didn’t know how much you fulfil his distant dreams of complacency, Odd if you don’t take into consideration the fact you’re well known for keeping the difficult few controlled. It’s simultaneously hard and easy to play politely. A nod here, a gentle hum of agreement or a practised chuckle he uses when he's trying to appease superiors; Simon has learnt it all and prepped himself the moment you told him they were coming over.

“So you’ve known each other since secondary?” The upturned grin of a woman who leans forward towards him makes him a bit wary- as if he knows she's trying to delve too deep into your past as well as his. He gives no more than a murmur of a yes.

“Your girlfriend hardly ever talks about her past life, fancy she’s been hiding something from us with the way she’s practically flustered when she gets a text from you.” Before he can even try to muster an awkward response, your voice interrupts, hurtling through the conversation like a quick arrow shooting past. It’s a warning of sorts. You whine at your friends for putting him on the spot, and Simon tries not to shirk.

“Got any cool army stories to tell?” One of the few boys in your group calls out, typically overly interested in the fantasy that is their view of the armed forces. Thoughts of bloody bandages, gunfire and debris don’t mix well with his now cold tea. His nose scrunchies, of course, It’s natural they’d be curious, they’ve heard you mention how often he’s gone. Seen how lonely you go home.

“ er..nawt much to say..”

There's a flicker of disappointment from most of the small, intimate crowd, and Simon has to suppress the urge to roll his eyes and cuss most of the group out. As if trying to remedy the near disappointment in their voices, Simon rambles on needlessly, a shy attempt at bonding with your crowd:

“‘I’m at the local barracks a lot- training the typical band of idiots…gym- uhh..” his eyes flicker around the group as if sitting in some sort of strange interrogation or perhaps some damned ‘Alcoholics Anonymous’ counselling. 

“I read a lot. Read quite a bit- actually met her through reading. I guess.” He stumbles on each bit, wincing at how silly it all sounded- such a big buff beast of a man hunched over small novels.​

When the interest in him finally fizzles out, and he’s managed to fend off any more questions of his character, He excuses himself to help tidy up some of the random cups and plates littered around your living room; the remnants of ice cream melted and messy stick on his finger as he retreats. He makes his escape carrying the dishes as if in a balancing act. As he dumps them in the basin of soapy water that you’ve left out, he has half a mind to return when he hears your cheerful laughter amongst a chorus of cheers from the room next door.

It aches his chest a little. You sound pleased. He’s relieved to have made you sound so pleased- somehow amusing you with his poor attempts to fit into your secure lifestyle. His finger dragged remnants of silky dish soap around ceramic, lazily fiddling with a tea plate as he tried to listen to the muffled noises from nearby. He’s mercifully grappled out of this wandering thought when his phone buzzes incessantly, a rare text from Gaz flicking up on his screen.

[Down for a drink on Saturday? Coming up for a gig. I’ll Take the train and meet with Price and Soap, then Manc]

Ghost tilts his head as he contemplates the offer- coming up for a gig tends to mean that Gaz would like to crash at his flat; save some pounds rather than spending a valuable £50 on a shitty Premier Inn (Not acknowledging that the £50 inevitably gets swept away in the pint purchases regardless).

[Can’t. Busy.]

[Since when were you the busy sort? Manchester burning down?]

His eyes twitch at that. Was it so hard to believe that perhaps Simon Riley was a busy man off duty- that he was just as charming, adept and interesting as Ghost? His life was becoming something other than sitting around waiting for the next mission. The rest of 141 probably would implode at the very imagery.

[My business.]

There’s a long enough pause where no reply pings that Simon stupidly believes that Gaz has accepted his excuse. This is shattered in mere moments when his phone beeps with a buzz. Insistent text messages start invading his inbox; this time it’s not the Londoner but instead it's the other obnoxious Sergeant that he has the pleasure of being harrassed by. Fucking Gaz is calling in reinforcements.

[Gaz says you’re bailing on us!!]

[I’m not wasting train tickets for you to bail, LNER ain't cheap, spooky boy!]

It becomes clear as the two hooligans text and Price only sends him an apology for not replying, that saying no was seemingly an ‘irresponsible and unacceptable’ answer, from a professional standpoint, of course.

[I know where your missus lives, we can just ask her :)]

Soap jokingly threatens. It does get a slight chuckle out of him. The group liked to push his buttons, but surely they weren’t serious?

-

Horrifically, they were serious. His captain decides the best way to force Simon’s hand is to simply forward a screenshot of incoming train tickets and a map preview of the distance it would take from the Manchester station to Ghost’s flat. He cringes, about to send some frankly rude messages and perhaps block them all when you come looking for him. You look adorable, even with another myriad of cups and plates in hand and looking a little worn out from all your guests who are already abandoning the small get-together. You give him a quizzical glare, watching him type furiously, but he simply leans down to give you a gentle kiss on the forehead as he continues to scroll through the socially intimidating threats of his friends.

“Simon…You’ve got that annoyed face on.” You tease despite not being able to see his lips pursing through the mask. Your voice is still light and airy from the gleeful energy of before.

“The lads are being right asses.” He massages his brow. At the mention of his friends, you perk up. It’s been a few days since you last discussed the idea of him sharing that part of his social circle (can it be considered a circle if it’s more like a square of 4 people?), and he can tell there’s a constant itch that seems to bother you- wanting to dig a little out of curiosity about this more regimented version of him. 

“They…might be coming on up. To Manc. Saturday”

Simon wants to smother down his frustration, maybe shoot it dead, when he witnesses an almost cunning sly version of you, poking at his side, nestling in like some alien trying to burrow deep into his ribs. You have gained a sort of unexplainable determination from the idea of getting to meet his brothers-in-arms.

“They’re not-”

“Oh come on Si, I can be so friendly-”

“It’s not you I’m worried about, Dove.” he shoves his phone into his back pocket and goes to grab your shoulders as if needing to stop your attempts to placate him into agreeing. A rough palm caresses your cheek, and he leans in, forehead to forehead. “They’re not… house-trained much..like your…lot.”

He says it rather conspiratorially, gesturing to the background banter of your friends packing up, as if there’s a mystery to why his colleagues can’t be anywhere near you with a 5ft pole. You scoff and push back on his rejection, and Simon tries not to get more disgruntled by your perseverance. He mulls it over in his head when you give him a pleading pout and reckons as long as he can control where, when and how, then maybe this will go the way he wants it to. He doesn’t want to be exposed any more than he already has for you; his other life is already blurring too much in every soft touch of the expanse of your skin you give him. You can have Simon’s flesh. They can have his blood. Fuck- you have his soul, and they can keep his spirit. He will dole out the parts that make him the two versions of himself until they no longer conflict with each other.

“Fine. Fine, you can come, shite, but-” You’re already tiptoeing to give him a kiss. He takes it greedily. He’s a weak man. “No questions about work. Please.”

You nod hastily, not one to let opportunities go wasted.

-

Saturday rolls around rather anxiously. Simon can feel the distress seep and trickle slightly in his bones. His flat feels even more of a void of comfort now that he’s spent various nights in your sheets, and so Simon finds it mind-numbingly monotonous cleaning it up and adjusting what he can before people come over. There are some lingering signs that you exist; one of your jackets lies limp yet territorial over his couch, and your various hair baubles can be found scattered amongst his shelves and tables. Simon wonders if he should stow them away, store them somewhere only he will check, as if letting them see more pieces of you would be allowing them to take what belongs to him. As if it’s even possible for him to have a claim over you just by grasping onto one of your possessions.

He told you to come by after he’s received them. Treating it like a drop-off or military rendezvous, he plans meticulously when they will be around and when you need to come over. He is constantly stressing the importance of not making a big deal of it when they inevitably hound you, to which you reply snarkily that it’s he who is making mountains out of mole holes. He knows he’s overthinking it, but Simon at least relaxes at the reminder that you’ve offered him to crash at yours so that Soap and Gaz can rest soundly and not pay daylight robbery for a hotel. Not a mission without a planned exit, a good bailout if anything.

He hears the hum of the taxi before it even stops outside his grey, dreary building, spots it through his window blinds like a stakeout. Soap is already bursting at the seams, fizzling with an almost vibration-like excitement as he tumbles out of the car and starts to hop over to the building’s door. Gaz carries a duffel, but more importantly, what looks to be a shopping bag full of tinnies. The dark-skinned man whistles at Johnny to come back and help pick up the slack, annoyed he’s been given the whole lot of goodies. His captain, always the leader, clambers out too, sluggishly relaxed. Ghost watches as he fishes out some notes and tosses them to the driver as he leaves. Never one to rush without reason, Price simply steps to the curb and pulls out a pack to smoke.  While the sergeants amble with more stashes of snacks and beverages, Price doesn’t hesitate to take his sweet time, deep in thought. Simon doesn’t appreciate the way that John manages to catch his observations through the blinds- catching him with a smirk as he stomps out the cigarette, and does a little wave as if it’s normal to actively scope a civilian building.

When Ghost reluctantly lets them in, chastising Johnny for not keeping his voice down as they come up, there's a weird tenseness. An ache in his shoulder and a soreness in his neck; his previous injuries flare up as if suddenly remembering their own horrendous existence. Being reunited with this band of idiots seemingly antagonises the more worn-out versions of Ghost.

“Missed us, big guy?” Johnny chirps out, patting him on the back before shoving a heavy crumpled Tesco bag into his grasp. “Got you gifts! Bought some things for the hen too.”

Simon tries not to immediately wrangle the bag open at the comment, feeling already regretful of the situation when Johnny gives him a wink. The bag luckily contains nothing sinister or embarrassing but a nice bottle of cider and a fancy-looking tin of Scottish shortbread. The Scotsman has already settled down on his couch, humming to himself in a way only a satisfied stray cat could.

“Speaking of her, where is your lady Ghost?” Gaz asks casually as he puts away some of the stuff they’ve brought into his fridge.

“Later,” he grunts out, trudging his way to pass his friend the Cider bottle after a quick inspection that it would be something you’d actually enjoy. “She’s preoccupied right now. She’ll join later”

“Aw, here I thought you were tryna hide her away from us, LT”

“Probably is- doesn’t want us to see the bird that slapped-” A loud cough and the demanding presence of Price juts in, having made his way into the flat and into the conversation.

“Let’s not antagonise our host, shall we, boys.” The Scot and Londoner both give a mock and fairly limp salute as they shut their mouths once more. Price gives Ghost a handshake and a nod, already confident in his jeans and sated by the smoky puffs of a cigarette gone by. The gig that Gaz intends to drag them all to is tomorrow, so the aim of Friday is to simply play the rest of them into a modicum of leisure. It feels very much like nights in base common rooms or the hours Ghost has spent listening to the ramblings of his teammates when they have no other entertainment but themselves. His thigh aches, legs moving on it’s on as it bounces- he checks his wristwatch with semi-focused jitters. Usually, he is steely and composed, but as he finds himself sinking into a careful companionship with his group, Simon’s own nerves play him. Ghost is relaxed. Your boyfriend Simon Riley is not.

[I hope I haven’t missed much!]

[I’m stopping to pick up the pizza. ETA 20?]

[Omw Si! be there in 5 x]

He knows what five minutes can feel like- he’s spent multiple five-minute periods of his life in combat, with bombs near exploding or with him tied in a room and not knowing how long extraction could take. Your five minutes, however, feels infinitely longer. Your boyfriend tries to focus on the words of his coworkers (already moved on to some forgettable football rankings) when the bare-knuckled rapping on the door has him shoot up from his position. You’re mid-knock when he swings it open and immediately goes to try to carry the heavy boxes of delivery you picked up. As if they are a group of waddling ducklings, he can hear Soap and Gaz saddle up side by side. Gaz at least has the decency to pretend that his eagerness is so he can help take the weight of the food off your hands, whereas Soap fails to contain his shit-eating grin much longer.

Ghost is about to pull rank and call off the mutts that are his teammates when you instead greet him with that heart-melting smile and pull his mask slightly down to give him a sheltered kiss. You don’t say a word except a thank you to Gaz as you push your way into the flat past a dazed Simon as if your composure couldn't care less about such public displays of affection.

“Nice to finally meet ya, lass! Cannae we all get kisses then?”

When he’s home, he always loves a good routine. While Simon has never been terribly fond of this whole ‘living’ thing, routines fill him with great satisfaction; in some way, it's also grounding for him. It’s one part of him he knows that he can maintain in between missions; In this way, Simon Riley is as real as Ghost is. His morning runs, the type of tea he always has, and even the regimental way he plans to leave time for a book after his workout- these habits keep him chugging. Routines are the only sort of predictability he can stomach, and while he knows having too much of a set routine can become a security risk, he decides that sacrificing this small pleasure would be too paranoia-charged even for him.

That being said, his routines have very rarely been shared with companions. On base, Ghost drinks his tea sporadically- and he adapts his workouts to avoid people as much as possible. Even the rituals he entertains with 141 are inconsistent; He makes sure not to linger in the kit room, and he never takes the same way through the camp. The only routine Ghost ever really concerned himself with is practical ones- adjustment of equipment, transport checks, and room clears. All of which do not necessarily require other people. The irony of his distaste for getting too comfortable in rhythms with people, is that being Ghost requires his ability to seek out and understand patterns- and what is a joint routine, if not a social pattern? As an operator and soldier, and definitely as a man who had the lives of his friends rest in the capabilities of his observation, Ghost knows routines with other people require trust. He trusts you. It's why, after that dinner at yours, you both drift into a solid routine; a social pattern he can only assume is a sign that you were being genuine in your care of him. He had left yours feeling more human than before- raw and almost picked apart, as if being near you had reignited his want to be someone who could stomach a routine. 

He’s got 2 weeks left before he goes back to minor operations- base work, perhaps training a few recruits, pissing about until Price deems him useful enough to swing back into danger. You decide to declare- nay, demand, Simon come see you on Fridays- make whatever the weird dance you have with him a routine. It thrills him, warms him even. He reflects on all the mornings he would wait for you in the schoolyard and all the hours you doted on him when he was younger- getting too nostalgic, too old, the cynic in him snarks. He accepts your demands, for who is he, once more to deny you anything?

He decides on something simple, an evening out at the nearest pub that he knows well enough that there's no worry of something happening, even if it is a footie night. He’s frequented the ‘Queen’s arms’ multiple times, some even with members of the 141 on downtime, so when he walks in earlier than you, there's no extra thinking where he plants himself. Near the back exit, line of sight of the entrance and less than 5m from the bar with the draught choices he prefers. Despite the pub being very busy, there are a few military men around, he can tell just by the way they drink and posture for the female bartenders. He rolls his eyes, hands busy tracing patterns on the table as he sips, absent-mindedly watching the footie on a crappy TV. He likes this pub because no one questions his covering, and in fact he even has a tab under the name Riley for helping the owner kick some drunks once- but when you walk in, all doe-eyed and pretty in a long flowy skirt and your hair tied up, he thinks yes, this is definitely his favourite pub.

You spot him immediately, the speed of which almost rivals his room clearing. You look so bright-eyed as you give him a wave, then give him a quick signal, motioning that you’re ordering your drink. He keeps his trained gaze locked on you, not like he could choose to- not when his bruised heart is beating, addicted to watching you bend slightly over the counter; watching those sweet lips murmur your order.

He can just about hear what is being said. The bartender immediately goes to pour you the draught of cider you paid for, when Simon has to grit his teeth. A man comes up to you, slides in between the gap, blocking his line of sight of you. Simon shifts, a wave of annoyance too clear in his mind when he can just about see you again. You’re being polite, you say something which makes the man laugh and you tap your hand on the counter, as if demonstrating something. He tries to zero in on what is being said- what has this man done to get you to focus on him? but the football crowd roars when he just about manages to catch a glimpse of your cheeks, slightly rosy.

His hand grips his drink, and he finishes his drink. In the midst of all the yelling and hollering from the football fans, and the fact he can’t see or hear exactly what is distracting you, Simon feels on edge. His hand is almost going to press down on the table, ready to get up and hover directly over you. As if you could sense his brooding, you push past some overexcited pub people and place down a pint of Peroni and a fruity-looking cider in front of him succinctly. 

He feels relief, about to say thanks as you push the Peroni toward him, but it's cracked and slightly ruined when he notices the man who had blocked his view of you earlier is behind you.

“Simon! Hey! Oh, you would not believe who I ran into at the bar!”

The walk to the Queen’s arms had been quick; in fact, your lateness to your meeting with Simon had been due to your own anxiety picking an outfit earlier instead of the distance. You felt ridiculous fretting over such a stupid thing- it was Simon, for gods' sake, and besides, it was only a pub night; getting dressed up was a bit unnecessary, but there was a nagging in you to look a bit better than usual. By the time you had gotten in, the entire pub was loud and a bit overcrowded- footie night was the culprit for the noise that drenched over the old building. When you spotted him, legs spread and so passively attractive while sitting in the booth, you thanked past you for fretting over your own appearance. Knowing he was near done with his pint and you were empty-handed handed you reckoned you should pick up the next round before liaising. The Bartender was mid pour when you heard someone exclaim your name, a pat on your shoulder and you looked up:

“Oh my god, Charlie!” You recognised the tall skinny person to be an old classmate- specifically a football boy you had hung out with a few times in Year 11.

“Fancy seeing you here, love! He chuckles, going in for a half-hug hug and you scoff, sipping some of the dark fruits while waiting for Simon’s Peroni, amused.

“I could say the same about you, too! I thought you moved to London?” Charlie was always much smarter than you- he had the mind for all the numbers and equations, but he could not keep up with any of the reading you so thoroughly preferred. He explained that he was moving back up North, too sick of the cost of living and wanting to go back to his roots. You too lamented and explained how you had done the same thing. When you finally get a hand on Simon’s drink, you invite Charlie to join you- you’re excited, wondering if Simon will recognise Charlie, so you lead him to the table, almost bounding.

When you announce the little surprise with a tada, Simon's brows quirk, and he is quick to sit up, and Charlie takes it as a chance to lean forward.

“Christ! It really is the Riley Boy!” Charlie exclaims quicker than Simon speaks his own greeting, and you notice a slight twitch in his hand as Charlie uses that name. You’re about to say something when Simon clears his throat and sticks his hand out begrudgingly.

“Right- ..uh do I know you?” You can’t tell if Simon’s fucking with him because of the deadpan and emotionless delivery, but Charlie doesn't seem to be bothered.

“Charlie Jones! From Secondary? I played on the football team.” The smaller of the two seems entirely too proud of that fact, and Simon merely runs his eyes up and down the man, unimpressed and almost painfully judgmental- you try not to snicker at how openly Simon is glaring at the man. You’ve gone and slid next to the booth next to Simon, the leather seats squeaking slightly, but as the Pub is too overcrowded with more and more of the general public coming in to watch the match, you end up sandwiched between Simon and Charlie uncomfortably close. You make the most of it, the cider and the good vibes of catching up with more than one old friend, making you buzzed. You laugh as Charlie recalls some embarrassing moments in a few of the classes you shared. You notice Simon is barely looking at either of you, but from the way he hums, you can tell he is listening. You are talking about your experiences as a teacher and how you find it funny to be the responsible one in the classroom now when Charlie makes a pointed joke at you and Simon:

“You in a classroom with your guard dog? Some things don’t change, I suppose,” He laughs, but your brows furrow and you look slightly confused. You can feel that even Simon has snapped to really listen to his words. You both stare at Charlie.

“Whatya mean by that?” You fiddle with a coaster as you try to politely smile, asking with a slightly irritated tone. Charlie looks at you, caught off guard, embarrassed. He coughs a little before bobbing his head and gesturing to Simon with a pint in hand.

“You know. Got Riley constantly behind you. Barely saw you without him- except you know…” Charlie's voice drops a slight octave, wiggles his eyebrows and nudges you with the last bit of the statement. “Except during summer.” He goes to sip his pint, slightly chuckling, failing to hide what he's referencing. You go bright red. You sputter a bit- self-conscious of Simon right near you as Charlie teases. You realise he’s referencing the summer before Year 11- the summer you had lent Simon some books. The summer you had found yourself kissing Charlie Jones in the cinema, wishing it was someone else. The summer you rejected Charlie, telling him you were too focused on English class to have a boyfriend.  You push on Charlie's arm lightly, too flustered and cringing at the memory for it to hold any true pain behind it.

“Aw, come on, hen, it was good when it happened. Can’t be too mad, not that it worked anyway, right? Broke my heart you did” The other man smirks at you; he too has a slight tint in his cheeks and you both awkwardly chuckle. You feel anxious and go to trace your hand in circles of condensation from the pint glasses, just hoping to change the subject. The world seems to have some mercy for you as another goal rips Charlie's attention on you to focus on cheering for his team. As everyone else in the pub is focused on the score, you feel Simon nudge you under the table with his leg. Despite both of you watching the pub around you, you know he’s trying to check in on you just by the movement alone. You nudge him back.

Simon knew who it was immediately. He doesn’t forget the faces easily, and when the two of you came in front of him, Simon internally cursed how small this fucking town was. Charlie had been one of the boys who sometimes followed you; all of them had always ignored his presence- too intimidated to have said anything. He always had an inkling that something between you and him had happened; he starkly remembers Charlie not far from you, and the times you’d say you were going to one of the school matches.

He detests Charlie. Just like years ago, the man is too perfectly made up even with a crappy football jersey on and ill-fitting jeans, the man seemingly charms you- makes you fluster. It’s irritating. Simon drinks his pint feeling more bitter than usual. When he makes a comment degrading him to that of a dog, Simon is almost too ready to scoff and drown the poor attempt at passive aggression with nonchalance. But he stops when he hears the upset in your voice. You didn’t like that. And both of you most certainly did not like his explanation. 

A part of Simon kicks himself, trying to rack his brain at the words Charlie plants in his brain. What did you do during the summer? What did he do that had you so flustered and almost embarrassed? More concerned by your dismay than ticked off by Charlie fucking Jones, he had nudged you, and you nudged back. In this situation, Ghost wanted to grab you by the waist, pull you against him, stake a claim and maybe- just maybe, punch the other guy. But he couldn’t. You had asked Simon to be out tonight. Simon settles with just inching his elbow to touch yours as you two silently stare at the footie, both feigning interest to be like the others in the room. 

The contact has you more calm, and you do seem to fall back into your collected, friendly persona. You even entertain Charlie a bit more, too polite to complain as he talks about some mundane stories of the London finance sector. Simon thinks of all the bullshit he’s ever dealt with. He thinks about how warm you feel pressing into his side and how miserable he is in knowing you are only this close because of how cramped it is- the only thing he can thank Charlie for, he muses. When you excuse yourself to go to the loo, Simon feels a sick happiness when you choose to clamber over him, that long skirt bunched up slightly as you pass over him- this brief moment making him not regret the outing. When you’re gone, he is awkwardly left with the other man sitting beside him. 

“Hey Man, so uh… You finally screwed her, huh?” 

This man must have a death wish. The question is so crass that Simon only responds with a slow turn of his face to stare at the football fanatic, his mask even more intimidating now that Charlie can see him up close. He throws his hands up in defence and splutters.

“Whoa, just thought maybe it had happened. You didn’t make it easy for her in school, you know. You owe her that. She had so many guys itching for her, and since you’re here with her, I assume-”

“Assumed, eh? I assume you know you should stop speaking about her like that before I really get annoyed.” His words come out less tactful but still laced with a warning he usually reserves for interrogations. He watches Charlie shrink, gulping as he immediately backs off and goes back to watching the football match. Eventually, the man excuses himself and leaves the table, citing that he wanted a better position to catch the view. He’s halfway through sliding out of the booth when you return, and you look at Simon, confused but slightly relieved as Charlie hurries away with only a small goodbye.

“What’s got him running?” Simon just shrugs, seemingly not wanting to share what the two of them talked about while you were gone. You have a few more drinks, and now, with just the two of you, you let yourself really chill out; a few more ciders have you tipsy but not as dazed as last time you drank with Simon. The two of you lean closer, trying to hear each other's words amongst the loud cheering, and you laugh at some of his bad football jokes.

When he has reached the bottom of his pint, Simon lets out a contented hum. You’re next to him, and despite the crowded room, it feels like it's just the two of you again. You’re giggling about something you saw written in the bathroom when he looks at your face again. His knees are nudging yours, and your elbows still poke at each other and fuck, you’re so so so pretty when you’re a bit tipsy. Simon is thankful for the cloth covering him as he studies your expressions again. However, as his eyes flick to our lips, he thinks about what your old schoolmate had insinuated, the comment piercing his thoughts like an unwanted pest.  He needs a smoke. you turn, your body jittering by the sudden movement as Simon moves to get out.

“Where-”

“‘M’ smoke break.” He huffs, but as he moves quickly to the back door into the beer garden, you make the decision to follow him- not like you care that much about the sticky table anyway. He doesn’t contest your decision, but he does flick his head, motioning to you to lean against the cold brick back wall in the corner, tucked away from most of the beer garden projections and sports fans. His lighter clicks, and as he smokes, you close your eyes, back pressed against the cold brick.

“Wanna leave soon? I gave up our table”

“...Aight. I’ll walk you home” You hum, Simon nods and blows out his smoke, and just by the way he shuffles his feet and breathes out less cockily, you know he’s deep in thought about something.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He shrugs, but he’s stalling. He then drops his cigarette and stomps it out before clearing his throat. This time, his tone is drenched in pure friendly mockery as he moves to stand looming over you, one hand on the wall near you as he cages you in just to whisper into your ear:

“Can’t believe you shagged Charlie Fucking Jones.”

“SIMON!” He bursts out laughing, and you do too, your cheeks hurt from it as you smack him on the chest in retaliation. As he continues mocking you, he even puts on a fake voice- an appallingly bad attempt to sound like you as he does a fake moan. You both keep laughing, and when you finally tell him to stop since your ribs hurt, you clarify.

“I did NOT shag Charlie. We just kissed. He uh he asked me out that summer and I said no.” Simon just nods, and he lets out an intrigued and thoughtful ‘hm” at the confession. He’s looking down at you, hand still above you as he leans. You examine his cheek as its uncovered, he had forgotten to drag his mask back up after that smoke. He’s got this little scar, and you are so tempted to drag your finger on it.

“Was it good?”

“What?”

“The kiss.”

You grimace, your face has him chuckle a little, and he fixes a part of your fringe, humming.

“It was a shit first kiss. Absolute waste.” You tut out, breath a bit wispy as he fiddles with your hair. You can feel the warmth in you getting worse- no longer just from a few drinks but from the way he is so close to you. Simon glowers in solidarity to your words. You can no longer hear the other people around the corner or inside the building. It's dark, and while the chilly air billows your skirt a little, you feel so warm as you are cornered against the wall. 

 Neither of you moves as he keeps rubbing the strands, and you go to touch his cheek where that scar hypnotises you. He breathes in, eyes fluttering close as you touch it- his hands still, but you move your finger tracing it- it goes over his top lip. You don’t move. You can’t. Not when you lay your pointer finger on his chapped lips, and he leans forward, face closer and closer. You can smell his musky cologne mingled with the ash again, and you both huff a little but don’t pull away. He’s so close- so close, and when his forehead finally bumps against yours, you let out a breath you don’t know you're holding, your hand dropping from his face to grasp at the hem of his shirt-

And Shit.

One hand gently but firmly holds your hip, and with the other hand, his fingers pull your chin to bring your lips to his. It's sudden but soft and light. You kiss him back suddenly, and he presses into you like he’s trying to imprint himself on you. You feel like drowning- your fumble, move to grab at his chest, to pull him closer too and it feels right. His head turns, and he guides you into a deeper motion as you two needily submit to each other’s attention. You’re pressed into the wall, the simple kiss now devolving into desperate wanton when you hear Simon groan and suddenly- You yelp and whine at a loss of contact.

He pulls off. The soldier goes to yank his mask back up, and his eyes are wide as you both pant, looking at each other. He puts a space between you, and before you can push yourself off the wall with your shaky legs to pull him back, he mutters: “I- I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Simon-”

“Go home. I'm sorry. I-” He chokes out, and he looks at you, eyes wild. When they meet yours he shakes his head violently as if trying to erase the look of despair you had at the turn of events. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He says it with a crack in his demeanour. Before you can protest, he turns and leaves. You are too stunned to move- mind racing, and as you try to move and chase the man who left you a mess, you get delayed by the frenzy of other pub goers. Your mind panics, eyes searching through the crowd as you try to follow him, try to say something that will fix what just happened, but he seems to weave and weasel his way away from you. Simon demonstrates his ability well.

He disappears.

Morning sneaks through the lacklustre curtains of Simon’s flat, spilling unceremoniously on your eyelids. Your back has a slight panging ache as you wake up, groaning in discomfort from the odd position you slept in on the couch. While the unfamiliar surroundings have your morning mind slightly confused, the weight of the blanket and the sight of empty cans on the nearby table have you shooting up quickly.

You hadn’t purposely stayed over, and the thought of putting your friend in an awkward position because you couldn’t handle a few cans had you wrapping your arms around yourself in minor mortification. You’re about to get up and maybe excuse yourself quickly- try to leave before Simon perhaps chews you out for being a handful when your ears suddenly perk up to the nearby whistling of a kettle and the gentle yet heavy pats of someone moving in the kitchen area-

He’s already awake, his back turned as he stirs a mug of breakfast tea, the spoon clinking lightly with every turn and twist. As if he can hear your movement so innately- trained and ever so strategically, Simon simply speaks up as if he were an alarm clock or radio announcing the morning brief:

“It’s 8 am. Kettle still warm enough for a brew.” He sips, not that bothered to look at you, but you can hear in the softness of the notice that he is not pressed by your presence.

“Milk?”

“Bare pickins’.” He shrugs as he turns to face you- he avoids direct gaze, but you reckon it's to do with the early morning, or maybe politeness after your overstep. You shrug off the pudgy duvet he had given you, and as you pad over to his countertop, your outfit from last night is now slightly rumpled and off-kilter. He, in contrast, is already dressed up, some joggers and a long-sleeved black shirt adorning him as well as that half mask he had in the library, slightly pulled down on his pale neck so he can drink.  As you look, you notice he’s wearing his trainers already. You frown.

“Did I keep you from something?” You ask timidly as you fumble to grab some of the last bit of his milk for your own cuppa. He shakes his head slowly, sipping and nursing the cup as he watches you make the drink.

“Na, just popped out earlier for my run.” He slides over a tupperware of sugar for you, “Thought you was dead since you barely moved when I came back.” The emotionless delivery of the joke has you titter.

“Sorry. I should have gone home.”

“Not mithered at all, Dove.” The words again poke at you with their softness as he goes to put his mug in the sink. It reminds you of the early days of your connection to Simon, his short answers decorated every now and again with a simple, tender bout. You talk to him about tea- some half-hearted story about the caddy being raided by a coworker putting everyone in dismay one time, when Simon’s phone beeps. There’s a slight awkwardness as he quickly goes to check it, and you sip as you watch him ever so carefully type out some text before sighing deeply.

“Should I take that as time to leave?” His eyes focus on the message, but snap back to yours almost too quickly

“Just..the boys checking in. Maybe.” He sounds unsure of himself, but you notice he goes to touch his shoulder and arm- just where his bandage had been when you saw it in the car. Your hands flex as you go to grab his forearm, gently moving it so you can figure out what he’s done. Simon lets you, but he is tense, and you just tut.

“Surely covering it with a long sleeve won't be great for movement Si.” You hound him a little as you turn his arm- inspecting it through his sleeve. He rolls his eyes, and you can hear a huff as he slowly pulls his arm away from your grasp. I shouldn’t have touched him. He ignores your concern, more interested in building another wall between the two of you.

“I need to go to base in a bit. Pick up some work.” You nod and try not to let your polite smile reveal your own disappointment. The two of you clear up a little, and you follow him out to your rickety yet reliable car again- He even opens up your door for you as you duck in. This time, He does not join you in your cramped passenger side. He stands in front of your car as you reverse and nods- hands in his pocket as you pull out and go back to your simple Simon-Less existence.

He had lied to you. And although the words felt bitter and awful because God, he never wants to lie to you, Simon deems it necessary to tell you he’s busy so he can plot his escape. The moment you leave, he rests his hands on the back of his neck and squeezes, head tilting back as he flares at the cold northern morning blue. He slowly retreats into his flat and immediately winces at the sight of the left duvet lying on his 2 person couch. 

Last night had been a true test of his resilience. The ability to not spill his gut over every single word you had to share with him, to not rush his palms on your waist as he had helped you onto the couch, to refrain from holding you any longer lest he do something too needy. He was fraying apart. And you.

You must know what you do to him.

The way you had looked up at him, all pliant and slack. Taking him apart as easily as you took his cigarette from his chapped lips. It was so explicit- so disturbingly hypnotic, and he tried to look away when you nearly lay your head on his thighs. His mind lingers on the dangerous image of you below him- all pleasant as you whisper sweet comments. He thinks about how his knuckles would look, palm heavy on your neck. He thinks how pretty you’d be if he were to guide your chin to look back at him- your eyes all slinked and slitted in bliss if you’d let him please you. Fuck. Jesus Christ.

He makes his way to his room quickly, just about kicking off his shoes when he stumbles with the urgency of a mission. Last night he tried to sleep- much too self-aware of the fact you were in his flat, voluntarily sacrificing your time to accompany him, making it insanely difficult to drift to any sort of appropriate slumber. He had woken up from the thin veil of rest at around 6am- and in seeing you lying there wrapped in his possessions, he nearly wanted to stay put like some sheep dog herding you into a pen. He had gone for his run out of pure concern that you would awaken to find him staring. He had lied to you. He had lied so he could get you to leave so he could succumb to the utter depravity of imagining you beneath him, breathing on his neck and wilting in his touch.

The northerner rushes to shove his hand in his pants- there’s no build up or dilly-dallying as he guiltily remembers the way you look so dishevelled waking up in last night's clothes. He’s barely sat on the edge of his bed when he moves his hand- grip firm and insistent as he shudders. He’s a few friction-fueled strokes in when he groans, replaying the way your mouthed his name- you'd let it run off your tongue as if it belonged to you; and he’d let it, let you own his name and his very soul if it meant getting to know what else that tongue could do to him. He lies back on his cotton bedsheets, back arching as he chases the high that is you. Fueled purely by stolen touches and your pathetic glances of concern that you so gracefully gifted him earlier. Even your pity had some sick and fanatical effect on him. Slick with precum and cock achingly hard, his hands stutter. In the intensity of his desperate chase, Simon goes to cover his mouth with his left hand- the momentary pain of his injury filtering out as it's overshadowed by the sensation of his debauchery. You had tried to inspect him- soothe him, your touch no more emotional than the field medics he had seen time and time before. You are no doctor, no nurse, but the way you had tried to touch him had him drugged up.

It’s almost too much. Years of half-assed attempts with others, and the countless nights flicking his thoughts to you a little when he jerks off, get erased in this singular session. You make it all too easy for him to imagine that Simon could have you like this, lucid and lewd. Those previous guilty fantasies of you, hunched over your picture, all pale in comparison to the simple fact that you were here, in his flat, touchable and tangible. It’s too much. He can’t even decide how he’d like his little death to go- for you to be all over him, or for him to be all over you. He can’t decide. What would it feel like to have your lithe body weigh in his lap? Your ass in his hands as he would push and rut against you? Or perhaps what you would look like if he crawled between your thighs- waiting for permission to devastate every polite or shy perception you have of him?

“F-fuck holy…fucking shite-” His breath falters, and he pants, a broken version of your name collapses out of his throat as he cums. His body quivers, and the tension in his shoulder aches, then relieves.  Restless and humiliated in the reality of being left alone in his room, his spend warm and uncomfortably soaking his sweats, Simon stares at his bedroom ceiling. He lied to you, and he feels no remorse. 

The text he had received earlier was an update from the team, asking him if his first night back home had treated him well. He knows any sort of proper reply to Price would be greeted with invitations to go to Liverpool again. He also knows that Gaz, who slums it down south, would also be much too friendly- and to be honest, Ghost could not be paid to doss about in London voluntarily even if Gaz held a gun to his head right now. So instead he texts Johnny; He knows for as skilled and disciplined that man can be as an SAS soldier, that any updates he gives to this man would be forwarded to the other, regardless of his own choice anyway.

[Injury is fine. Manchester is as plain as ever, of course.]

[Aye, good to hear mate, been pissing it down up here, plans?] Ghost replies to Soap with little detail, only saying that he had a few drinks and plans to take it easy on the arm in between his usual workouts. There's back and forth, and Ghost reconciles with the boredom he has once Soap heads off, citing going out to the pub with mates from back home.

The Manchester native looks out his window and picks up 'The Clockwork Orange' again to read, continuing where you had left off. He decides to let you make the next move.

A week passes before you see him in person again. Swamped with work and parents’ evenings for some of your year groups, there is simply no wiggle room to come up with an excuse to go back to his flat. You text, but there seems to be some sort of reset in the way he replies. Despite your punchy jokes and well wishes, asking if his arms are getting better, Simon replies less timely than before his last deployment. Your ever-observant coworker friend picks up on it; she teases you about looking anxious every time he replies. 

“I’d just invite him out or something. Maybe he’s just got nothing to say.”

Nothing to say? Simon could say a hundred million things just with the way he clicks his tongue or chuckles under his breath- while the man seemed intimidating to everyone else, there was a slight pattern to his reactions, and you had come to be able to recognise that. While the man was silent, it wasn’t like he had nothing to say. Not to you. You bit your lip, and your fingers twaddle as they rub the edges of your phone. You try to come up with some excuse- anything that would give you reason to have him look at you again.  

Your hands fly to type uncertain and unconvinced offers:

[Dinner at mine tonight? If you’re busy, it's fine, but it's a Friday, and I’m not driving home, so I'm off work a bit earlier at 5.] You grimace- did that seem too pushy? 

[I just haven’t seen you since you came back. We can get takeout if you’d prefer or something idk] You were willing to maybe just get takeout if he hated the idea of stomaching someone else cooking. You swam in your worries, thinking about the fact that maybe his injury meant he wouldn't want any more pestering.

[1st Idea was sound. Walking alone is how you get done. I’ll come collect you.] 

Ever so wary he is. In Simon’s offer, you send him your work address. The school is nestled in a suburb about 30 minutes from him (Much shorter if he paces it like a rendezvous drop), so he lets you know around 4:40 he’s on the move. The kids funnel out excitedly when the bell rang, and while you had stayed back a little to clear up a mess, you thought about what you would say to him to make up for making a fool of yourself the other night. You're wiping some crudely drawn smiley face off of one of your back tables when one of the admin ladies comes around to find you.

“I think your boyfriend is here, dear!” You blush and blurt out that while he is here for you, there was no romantic relationship, but the lady simply walks off, not too interested. Your heels click on the linoleum as you hurry with your workbag in hand to the school guest reception.

“Heard you’re military eh- must work out a lot…” One of the younger administrators in the office comments, voice playful and purposefully dragged out as they speak to the tall man.

“Aye.” Quick and unphased, Simon just signs his name for security purposes on the tiny clipboard the young woman presented him. Simon towers over her, and no doubt intrigues her as he is dressed in a very flattering hoodie and his half mask over his nose. Neither notice as you round the corner.

“You reckon you could lift me then? Say- she said you were single, maybe I could see you around sometime- maybe get to understand all the mystery.” Something ugly in you pauses; you’ve not properly revealed yourself, and you find yourself frozen as the woman flirts. You almost find yourself turning around and excusing yourself back to your classroom- ready to just text him to find you than witness any more of this interaction.

“Not that sort of guy, ma’am.” Simon shuts them down immediately. And with that, suddenly your body pushes into the room, feeling a lot more stable. Both the staff and he look at you, and the woman’s smile twitches when Simon suddenly comes to pat you on the shoulder as he takes your workbag out of your hand. 

“Aye up. Let's go.” He tells you, nodding politely at the reception staff as he almost impatiently leads you out. Your cheeks heat up at how his hands linger on yours during the exchange, and the two of you are silent until you are about 5 minutes down the road, and Simon turns, waiting for directives on which direction your house is.

“You’re in a rush, did the office ladies scare you away?” you tease as you take the lead and start walking in the direction of home. 

He hums, “Nah, don’t like to lead them on. Easier,” he says succinctly as if he’s talking about something mundane. 

“A man of honour, then. You treat the maidens with such mercy Si.” You mock a little, but a part of you preens in the idea that he’s so uninterested in their advances. He puffs out a little hah. The walk is quiet, and the chilly afternoon air feels refreshing, but your cheeks start to redden a little. Early winter always bites at you as it's too soon to be decked out in scarves, but too late to not be freezing when you leave. Simon must notice your predicament when he stops you by the wrist for a second. You are about to protest when his hand comes up to feel your cheek, as if checking your temperature. He looks down at you, he's hesitating before dropping his touch.

“Hoodie?” He murmurs, he doesn't look you directly, but kinda coughs it out as he turns to look past you, waiting for an answer.

“No, it's fine-” He’s already shucking off, and you can see he’s once again in a long sleeve ensemble underneath. He puts it in your hand and waits for you. 

“Cannae cook if you freeze to death ‘fore we get there, Dove.” He rationalises out loud. You take it, your hands, slipping it on, and you're practically tiny in it. It drapes on you with ease, and your cheeks feel even redder, this time out of giddiness as the smell reminds you of the duvet he had you borrow last time. Once you’re a bit warmer, the two of you continue.

When the brick exterior of your charming little terraced flat comes into view, you can sense Simon slow a little. He seems surprised when you stop outside the little gate, and you push through before fishing in your pockets for the house keys. He lets out a sharp, drawn-out whistle of admiration.

“Cute little place.” You grin proudly at him and push your shoulder against the slightly jammed old door, letting both of you in. He goes to take off his shoes, and you take your bag and settle it in your study area. You tell him to make himself at home- maybe put on the telly and snoop around while you get started in the kitchen. You’re settled on making pasta, and as you rifle through your fridge for the ingredients, you hear Simon come into the cooking threshold. He leans on the doorframe and watches as you are in your own little world.

“What’s for tea then?”

“Um…pasta? If it's not enough, there’s a kebab place down the road...” You trail off when you find a passable tomato and grab it. Simon doesn’t argue; in fact, he steps in and awkwardly follows you around a bit as you start.

“You alright, Sim-”

“Anything I can do?”  he hovers, once again shadowing you like an unforgettable habit. You can smell his cologne, a stronger version of the woody and smoky scent you have lingering on the hoodie you are wearing. You shake your head and laugh a little. 

“In the kitchen right now? No..” you can feel the disappointment in him slightly, and so you are quick to try and please him, racking your brain for something he could do. You give yourself a little ‘aha’ when you remember your printer broke this week.

“Well, my printer’s busted- if you’re bored, maybe you could figure out what's wrong with it.” When you present the idea, it comes out lamer than you were thinking, almost too ready to take it back and play it off as a joke. Yet Simon, ever the serviceman, moves off quickly, you yell out which room it is in, but the shuffling tells you he’s managed to find it. 

By the time you’ve finished and doled out the servings, you try to find him in your small flat. 2 bowls in hand, you walk into your living and dining room to find Simon hunched over the disassembled remains of your crappy printer. You snort. He’s using a key to pry and turn a screw when you call for him.

“Alright, Mr Engineer, Got your scran.” He sets everything aside and joins you as you settle at your teensy 2-person dining table. Mask pulled down, and he so quiet as he sits across from you, Simon looks almost sincerely content. You fluster up again- something so strangely comfy watching this 6ft+ man hunker down to eat something you've provided. You hum to yourself as you also pour out some water. Dinner goes smoothly, and you ask what he’s been up to the whole week he’s been back. He finally relents to your pestering to know how his arm is, and he states that it barely hurts when he moves it now. He compliments your cooking, and you can't help the warmth in your gut at how domestic and useful you are to him. When all is eaten, plates thoroughly finished, you go to throw them in the dishwasher, and Simon returns to sorting out the damn printer on the couch. You sit near him, this time not wanting to lounge on the floor. You sit close to him and lean to point at the pieces you have previously taken apart.

Simon jokingly berates you for potentially making it worse the last time you tried to fix it yourself, the two of you laughing when the printer keeps malfunctioning after a few attempts.

“I think I owe you a new printer, Might ‘swell get a new one.” he gruffly laments as it jams for the 4th printing attempt.

“Reckon we could just call it even, since I overstayed at yours last week,” you say, ready to accept the defeat of a broken machine and smile at him. “At least it gave us something to do.”

He laughs at that, the rumble in his voice going straight to your chest. “Not sure fixing a printer and feeding me is the most exciting Friday, Dove.” He pokes at you, the self-deprecation not lost on you. He always does this, makes it seem like the time together is such a sacrifice for you- or maybe even a chore.

“God, stop doing that.” You whisper, almost quiet enough for him to miss but the soldier catches it.

“What?”

“Acting as if I didn’t choose to have you here, Simon,” you say it gently yet firmly, as if telling a child off. He stills, and then he goes to relax, back hitting the couch as you continue. “I invited you, I couldn’t care less if all we did was sit in silence.” Your honesty astounds both of you, and you can tell he’s not sure what to say. You sigh, and before you can excuse yourself to check on the dishwasher, he interjects.

“Dun mean to. Honest.” You look at him, and he sounds almost reluctant. “Just not used to it, is all. Having you-” He cuts himself off as he flicks his eyes to the wall past your shoulder again. “Having you back in my life.” You understand it. You know he’s never had a stable family environment, and with not many friends either, he’s not used to socialising in such a familial and almost tame experience. 

“How are you with your squad?” His breath stops, and he wobbles his head side to side as if having to debate his next few words.

“Different. The lads aren’t as sharp with their words as they are with knives, ya get me?” He motions to you as if comparing you to them. “We don’t do the whole chatting thing- like chatting chatting. It’s all just lad talk- banter, I guess.” He is uncharacteristically talkative as he explains, and you can see him almost soften with relief at letting this out. You lean your head on his shoulder as you listen, trying to focus on the way he is waving his hand about.

“You ain't like em. And I wouldn't want you like em. It’s different,” he ends with the short statement, and it feels like he’s opened up in a way you’ve never seen from him. He stares at the wall ahead, as still as a deer in the headlights, as if only realising how much he’s said.

“Alright.” You go to look at his left arm again. This time, when you grab it, he doesn’t pull away. Your voice, firmer than ever, pays his honesty back with your own:

“I’m glad to be your contact, Simon.”

When Simon was a young child, he would hide behind his creaky, thin door, tucked away in the cramped, overstuffed corner of his bedroom. He remembers plucking at the ragged carpet that covered the floor and the slight, mildewy scent of damp and mouldy walls. He recalls trying to block out the heightened yells that always scared him at first. The position had kept him safe and occupied when the common commotions would rattle the floorboards and shake his rickety bedframe. Other times, during the earlier days before Tommy was around, and it was just the three of them, his mother would shove him into the bathroom, forcibly barricading him away from all the hatred that flooded their hallway. At first, he would bang on the grubby bathroom door- wanting to burst out- to save his mother from the pushing and pelting; by the 8th time it had happened, Simon simply sat in the bathtub bored- or sometimes he’d hop onto the toilet performing a balancing act as he tried to sneak a look out the ventilation window.

When Tommy was born, it was the first time Simon had the courage to settle himself further into the open, to go against his mother’s wishes and not cower or hide. He would drag his stool to camp beside his baby brother’s cot, poking at the lump of a child with careful hands. It had felt like a stakeout- as if he was a brave soldier protecting the innocent. When his father would finally make his way into the cruddy mess of his childhood room and spot Simon playing brave hero, a cruel and dictatorial expression would always slip onto the bastard. He remembers the sting of shallow cuts and the pain of split lips. The broken collarbones and bloody noses. He remembers vividly the taste of dirt and the feeling of uncaring hands pushing down on him and the sound of the brutish laughter of his father’s peers as they watched him get humiliated. What he’s trying to explain is that he is not a stranger to suffering. He is a companion to it, a reluctant colleague, and now, as he is much older, he is forced to play the victim and victimiser over and over again. And he can take it. He has learnt to take it, and in some gruesome and pitiful way, he likes it. It’s familiar, familiar like that raggedy carpet or the dampness of that bathroom or even the earthy dirt.

Your home is not familiar. At least not in this moment. Your quiet demeanour as you fiddle with the key, and the shuffle to switch on your lights, is disarmingly calm despite the fight you’re having with him. And despite how different this tension is from his childhood, it is just as debilitating on Simon’s mentality.  Simon feels like he is being tested- challenged to not run away and hide like he’s back in that crappy council childhood nightmare. To not run away like the last time, when he had fallen prey to his impulse to kiss you. You let him in, you don’t even let him take his duffelbag and instead point to a bench in your entryway where he’s had to shuck off his boots before. He’s witnessed the unbearable silence of a woman’s fury before, his mind goes back to the scrunched up wrinkles of his mother’s face- a look she’d reserve solely for his shitbag father- but what sets you apart from that comparison is the way distress is etched in your furrowed brows. How his father survived under the scrutiny of strong women, he doesn’t know- in that way, perhaps his parents were truly meant for each other, and perhaps his father is stronger than who he is now.

He tries to tread lightly as he follows you into your bedroom, watching as you dump his bag and shuck off his spare black hoodie you had been wearing onto your bed. You’ve obviously made an effort to tidy up, and the guilt becomes more palpable as he spots the pretty candles sitting on your bedside and more pillows laid on the mattress- laid out as if trying to impress. You had brought him into your home, your safe space. His brief remorse withers away as uncontrolled admiration takes over- his eyes rake over your figure as he takes in your outfit that was previously hidden away under his baggy clothing. The flowy dress has your softness accentuated, and each dip of your hips and patch of your exposed skin looks so smooth and silky.

Even under the punishment of your discontent, you shimmer and astound him.

You take notice of his slight refocus, you go to step closer to him- he stiffens as you rest a gentle hand on his arms, fingers tracing the tattoos peeking out from under his sleeve as if trying to redraw their patterns with your nails. You’re trying to ground him, and it works so easily that it’s almost alarming. You seem more reserved and determined as you view his figure and try to let go of the earlier spat.

“Thank you.” You whisper the words and look up at him, the height difference starting to feel much larger than it actually is as he’s taken aback by your measured motions. He’s confused, and a part of him stutters and writhes with nerves- for what? What could you possibly be thanking him for right now? As if you’re reading his puzzled eyes and the twitch in his breath, you clarify: “...For coming back. I’m fine, let’s get on with it.”

You give him another out. A volunteered escape from his misdemeanors before- forever compromising your own disjointed irritation to deliver this peace offering to him. A sacrifice from a doe to a wolf. Ye,t unlike your previous snarkiness or your bluntness in your unpicking of him, your sentences are fuzzy and drawled. You pull him into a hug, and Simon practically collapses into the comfiness that is your oh so memorable shampoo and your firm touch. He rests his head on the top of yours, hands moving feverishly to hold your waist and to rub circles into your hips.

“Dunno what’s wrong with me. Just… don’t want any pricks touching you, noone but me” Simon can’t help himself but bring it back up- despite your get-out-of-jail card. His hands fiddle and pull a little bit as the fabric clings to you, and you can feel his nose jut into your as he buries his face into your locks as if trying to muffle his confession. “Puts me in a right bind Sweetheart.” The use of the pet name softens the harsh intention of his words- he had growled it out, and the way his fingers press into your body signals the severity of his racing thoughts.

You snort. Disbelief and the tiniest curl of a smile as you press your face more into his chest. “As if you’d have to share me.” You say jokingly, you feel the pressure in his fingertips, his breathing is delayed as if trying to control his posture. He whispers again:

“I don’t like sharing.”

There’s finality in it. You gulp. You recall all those school days where he had you practically stuck to his side, no other company except your endless voice. He followed you around, akin to a bodyguard, ready to part the crowd for you whenever the corridors were too slim for the capacity of students milling about. Maybe Charlie Jones was right; he was a guard dog of a man. You feel him run his hands on your sides, and you hum as he pushes you to sit on the edge of your bed. You back hits the duvet with a plop, and Simon wastes no time to hover over you and kiss your neck- despite the intimacy of it all, you can tell it's not out of lust but instead of needy stimulation- as if needing to prove your tangibility.

“Simon, maybe we shouldn’t-” your brows knit, not ready for this much affection so soon from the quarrel.

“Not gonna- I’m not…” he stammers, before clearing his throat “, Just need to mark you…” He groans into your neck, slightly shy, and he pulls back slightly to check your face for discomfort. “Can I?” A hand goes to your chin and then lightly pulls your face up to look at his. Then, to the side as if needing to inspect the flesh of your tender neck. Your voice rippled out, cheeks tinting at his inspection- the idea of his teeth scraping at the tender skin erotic enough to make you flush.

“S-sure. Okay.”

He’s torn his mask off properly now, and you can feel a slight stubble that's grown on his face as he follows through on his words. At first it's faint, and you can feel the tremble on his chapped lips, and then his affection is bessetted with firmer kisses and a strained breath. He bites. His teeth pinch, not hard enough to puncture but definitely hard enough to bruise. Your gasp as he sucks slightly, then nibbles at the dent as if trying to taste you, gnaw on you like a pleased dog with a bone. As the initial pain subsides and his hands grip you to keep your head still as he licks at it slightly, he makes a pleased and satisfied trill. He pulls away once more, and you see his eyes following the reddened spot, as if wanting it to shift into its bruised hue immediately. When he catches your fluttering eyes and your slight pant from the sensation, he goes to move your head more, making way for another somewhere further down the first spot. Plotting, planning a strategic advance on your supple, unharmed skin.

“Simon- n-not too many hickeys-” You half-heartedly object,

“You said you weren’t working for 3 weeks…” Voice trailing as if uninterested in your paltry protest, he continues to bury himself in the crook of your neck, and you whimper as his other hand moves to hold you still by your waist. He needs to make you feel cherished- he lies to himself knwoign full well this is a cheap attempt to settle himself.

“Y-yeah, but-” You almost yip out as the sting of another bite, but it melts as he soothes it with more sucks and kisses. “People will see…”

“That’s the fucking point.” his voice is low, stirred with purpose as he continues his invasion. Both hands now focused on holding you and squeezing your sides as if trying to mold you to the mattress. You let him get away with the neediest of manoeuvres, letting his mixed-up mind take control of the situation and have you at his mercy. He takes what he wants, what he needs from this interaction- trying to brand you in a way other people would be able to observe. You make keening noises that have him bite his own lips in restraint and have him thinking of where else he could feed off your energy-

“Atta girl, looking all pretty already…”

When he’s finally done, you have a dozen new sore spots, bruises ready to bloom tomorrow for his depraved display of ownership. Simon Riley is a dog, and you are a complicit owner, letting him salivate into your hands as they drop the leash.  He goes to lie down next to you, body aching from the exhaustion of his tumultuous return. Both of you study the ceiling; your hand slithers across the space between you to find his. Your palms link and connect evenly, as if made to grasp at each other. Heart aching despite the sensual and intimate moments, it's evident that the two of you have hardly resolved the issue of Simon’s insecurity and your puzzlement about his behaviour. If anything, you have only fueled the pyre of his strange acolyteship of this relationship. You’ve perhaps made him worse. You grimace some more at your ceiling, a quote from Frank Herbert’s sci-fi novel coming out of a brain fog so distinctly Simon it irks you: “To endure oneself may be the hardest task in the universe”. You decide to carry on regardless.

“...Did you enjoy reading Dune?”

“Was bloody brilliant.”

-

The two of you had procrastinated getting out of bed from the peculiar cuddle session. Ignoring the obvious unsettled spat, both of you had murmured on about Dune. Simon mentioned he had annotated some parts of it, complaining lightly about the confusing nature of its political diatribes and the long tangents of world-building. You wonder where he had found the time to have scrawled those notes- had he done so in between all the exhausting orders and endless physical fights? You let those inklings dismantle into static when he starts squeezing your hand, waiting for your own opinions of the book. By the time you actually do leave the bedroom, you’re starving for more than his attention.

The fridge disappoints you when you tease open the door, nothing more than a bit of leftovers and raw ingredients too tedious for you to be bothered to prepare. You feel Simon’s presence behind you as he holds you from behind and copies your movement.

“Fancy a takeout?” You mutter, one hand fidgeting to rearrange a stray half-empty jar on one of the cold shelves. He grumbles in agreement, still admiring his handiwork on your skin as you go to open the food app.

Later, after a hearty and gratifying dinner, the two of you sit on the couch, movie on a lacklustre loop, and knees hitting each other comfortably. You go to lay your head on his shoulder, snuggling in like a letter fitting perfectly in the envelope of his embrace. You’re trying to stay focused, but it's increasingly difficult when Simon’s thumb keeps rubbing lightly on your neck as his arms droop around your shoulder. As if wanting to retrace each hickey over and over like some sort of worrystone he’s trying to wear down. He can’t seem to function; his mind is struggling to form a thought that doesn’t centre around you right now. He knows he’s not absorbing any of the details of the film that’s playing, and you seem to know too when you hum for him. This moment is the antonym of all Simon has ever known- there is no distance, no jaded or stilted air, no threat of wrath and your home environment feels so unbothered that it makes him feel almost out of body. The only thing keeping him here in the moment is the constant touch of his bites. No hiding in bathrooms or behind doors. Just you on the couch laying on him, all marked up and close to him. His mind doesn’t let this contentment last, though- it trickles and splits into slightly furrowed and antsy notions; as if trying to placate itself, stopping before it can be hurt. It’s overactive in his self-preservation:

“So When do you need me to leave tonight, Dove?” Another finger moves to twirl at a loose bit of your hair as he asks solemnly. He needs to know so he can savour this moment as long as possible. You shift, look up at him and give him an answer:

“You’re not staying tonight?” Simon stills. His brain blares with warning signs- heart giddy and a nervous laugh stuck in his throat as his hand grips the side of your neck a bit firmly in the sudden focus. You sit up again in return and lean into the touch, as if trying to tell him that you didn’t mean to panic him.

“Ye. uh.. Yeah, no, I can if you don't mind.” His accent flares up in his sheepishness, and you give him an amused smirk and go back to your cosy position. The night is quiet. Your body is warm. And this is not his flat.

You are well aware that you must go with very little communication with Simon. You understand the point of it all, the short few days before he left again had you trying to understand just how confidential his work could be- ‘operational security’ he had called it. The first month had gone by all right- you settled back into a steady routine of work and quiet evenings. You were tempted to send him the texts regardless- an update everyday even though you know his phone would be far from reachable. You don’t. You don’t want to seem overly demanding of his attention- not when he is busy tying up the invisible strings that hold up the world. You exist in a kind of bubble at your job- the representative of that one cog that keeps turning, regardless of how it is maintained. You have a tight circle of friends, and while you view yourself as the most capable, you feel almost distraught at the loss of his presence in your schedule. Nonetheless, the papers get marked, and the children are taught, and the Simon-less world keeps spinning as it had before. The only difference is now your drives home are encapsulated by half-finished audiobooks and a recurring memory of how cramped Simon had looked in your passenger seat when you dropped him off. 

It's the second month when things seem jarring. The juxtaposition between your life and his becomes comically, if not distressingly, obvious the more you let your mind worry about him. Was he off in some faraway war-torn country? Was he down in the depths of political intrigue? Whatever it was, it must be more exhilarating than the meagre subsistence that is you watching pallid, repetitive episodes of predictable crime dramas. You’re curled up on your living room couch, and your eyes wander to your bookshelf and the small pile of novels you’ve bought, thinking of him. He seems to haunt the narrative that is your docile and tame existence.

By the third, it's clear you’ve been moping in your own singular actuality- busy trying to fill in spaces in your social calendar with anyone or anything that will get you to not think about how you have no idea where he is. A night out here, a friend’s book club there, a coworker’s promotion- they all pass by with not much but gentle smiles and a few concerned pats on the shoulder by friends who notice the way you’re always staring at the exit. It’s not easy. 

There are evenings when the loneliness nips at you relentlessly, like a yappy, over-agitated dog in desperate need of attention. On those miserable nights, you think about his low voice, the way the vowels had shaken out when he was on you; you try to recall the grip of his worn-out hands that had spread you open and the silkiness of his hair as you had ruffled your finger through them. Those nights, it’s much too easy to let yourself abuse those memories, thighs squeezed and hands going to touch yourself. You only dream of the confident way he’d whisper into your ear.

In the fourth month, your friends had begged you to try and enjoy yourself again; turns out you’re not very good at hiding your yearning. Some of them nastily suggest you go out,  to try to fill the void with temporary relief in strangers, but you ache just thinking about it- They aren’t him. It doesn’t help that you pass the military base on your way to and back from work more often now; A subconscious part of you is hoping that he’ll appear, scattered somewhere amongst the men who are doing their drills. You’re restless, and the late Friday night loneliness seeps into your bedroom when you get into your bed. It’s so late, and you’ve done nothing but fail to read words on some romance novel. You bite your tongue, your alarm clock mocking you with the reminder you’ve wasted another evening, and you’re about to close your eyes when your phone beeps-

A private number is calling and your heart thumps. You pick it up with zero hesitation.

-

He’s not squeamish. After years of childhood torment, odd butcher jobs and military gigs, he’s been conditioned to view spilt blood as a mere inconvenience. In Ghost’s mind, it can be likened to signs of a less-than-efficient kill and cleanup, like a bad paint job that leaves you with more fuss than satisfaction. As he stands above another slowly-growing puddle of blood, he grits his teeth- they are close to securing an informant who would make this mission easier with a single meeting. The last few months have been monotonous.

“Reckon we gonnae be out of this soon, LT?” Soap mirrors his mood- the slight boredom evident in the way he fiddles with his tacticals as they get back to stalking through some crappy, impoverished residential building.

Ghost lets himself grumble out a reply, his head checking for all possible exits. “Negative. Long way back round’- interrogation next” he signals a quick outline of the directions, and they move. He’s focused, targeted. Efficient. The way he’s moving has Soap on his toes, trying to keep up. The target had been some disgraced scientist- one that had defected to give up his superiors and instead side with a cartel for the sake of self-preservation; the morality of it all boggles Ghost, but he doesn’t question the find and capture mission when it was thrown into his lap. When they managed to bust down a door and find the man cowering with a pistol shaking in his grip, barely able to lift it in his own fear, Ghosts tuts. It’s almost disgraceful- the kind of weakness that makes him feel almost guilty for abusing.

The target sniffles and scowls as they drag him tied up to the extraction point, and Ghost finds his grip tightening when the bastard starts spitting out useless negotiations and half-hearted deals in exchange for his release from under the bag they’ve shoved on him. When they eventually haul in the dishevelled hostage into the dreaded interrogation room, Price simply clicks his tongue and nods for Soap to carry on with some other duty.

“Ghost. Help me out with this one.” Price says it while unnervingly calm, like he knows Ghost wouldn’t reject the cruel offer. He wonders if it's more about helping with Price’s psyche rather than helping with the actual motions of running an interrogation. As if sharing the burden would ease the stress for both of them. He nods, and he moves through into the room without any hesitation. It's dark and depressingly bland in there- everything unmarked and sterile. When they yank off the bag, There’s obvious wear and tear in the man's eyes. His head lolls rather weakly, and his lips have been beaten and chewed in obvious distress. This makes it easier. Price has Ghost hover in the corner, covered in the shadows that are created by the pathetic lightbulb hanging on a bare thread above them all.

“Be easy to get ‘im to talk. Din’t shut up earlier, Sir.” Ghost remarks plainly as his boss crouches in front of the poor man.

“Is that right? Why not say something now, you piece of shit? God knows it might help.” Price picks his words carefully, trying to goad the man and instead gets spit on his boot. The captain sighs and whistles as if debating their next move. Ghost knows what's next. When he’s signalled to, he paces forward slowly, practically circling the prey and then settles behind him. A gloved hand goes to pull the man’s head back- his eyes quaver and slightly watery from the fear as they meet Ghost’s mask. His captain comes close and presses a pistol underneath his chin, neck feeling the cold metal.

“Why don’t you tell the Lieutenant what's on your mind?”

It takes less than a couple of hours. They’ve deprived the man of any comforting notion- the restraints bite against his skin, and while he’s gasping and struggling to breathe from the physical abuse, Simon tries to ignore the fact that what they do has gone far beyond mere teetering on the edge of the Geneva conventions. The man had been easy to break- starting by simply asking if he would be released after answering, then confessing his sins the moment he had Ghost’s knife drag behind his ears.

“-They’d have me killed- Had to do it-” The man is spluttering excuses, and Ghost tries hard not to roll his eyes. Price seems unamused but nods, hands precisely rubbing the barrel of a gun as the man talks. “- They t-took my wife, shot her in front of me-”

“And that gives you the right to join them? One death and you decide I might as well commit to killing the damn fucking neighbourhood?” Price spits venom, and the words fall heavy on the hostage’s shoulder. It’s pitiful. The empty vessel of a man starts sobbing- no longer showing any sign of the original snarl that had him writhing when they first dragged him in. 

“I’m sorry- sorry fuck, please- Plea-” Ghost can’t take much of the whiny remorse that is gargled in between each sniffle, and he goes to smack the man on the back of his head- refocusing him on talking. Price has Ghost come back in front of the man, to help intimidate him into muttering the final key bit of info they need. When he sees Ghost slide beside Price so unaffected by his beg,s the man curses even more.

“-it’s beneath the corner warehouse- rigged for tomorrow 17-” He’s hyperventilating, “1700. Look I- I had nothing once she was gone- she was everything- I Had-”

“That’s enough.” Price slowly looks the man up and down and kicks the man's shin lazily before turning to head out of the darkened room. “Lieutenant.”

“Sir?”

“Finish the shitbag for me. We’re done with him.”

“Affirmative Sir.” 

As Price exits, hat turned down and hand already reaching for a cigar, Ghost flexes his hand. The fingers stretch out in his gloves as he goes to pick up the pistol that had been left on the table earlier. He doesn't intend to react much to the mess of a man that is weakly trying to wiggle in the seat; His brain focused on following the order that was so readily given to him. He can see the man’s diaphragm strain against the rope, and he starts panicking- watching helplessly as Ghost loads up the bullets. 

“You’re all fucked up- you British fucks think it’s this easy-” Ghost doesn’t bristle, boots shift to oppose the man, “I had to do it- You have no clue-” He wants to scoff at that notion, Ghost has been in countless live-with-the-consequence situations. Sink or swim, kill or be killed. He’s kept his morality fed with the small slivers of humanity; why couldn’t this man do that? “I didn’t want to do any of it, but they wanted to hurt her-” There’s fragility in his voice and Ghost zones it all out, “Take her away- Touch her-” Under his mask, Ghost’s brows furrow, with a minuscule bit of hesitation, but he's still unnerved.

“After what they- they did-”  He goes to click and ready the pistol on the man's temple. “Without her, it meant nothing-” 

Bang.

Snuffed out with a quick shot. Ghost lets out a breath he doesn’t remember holding. His finger shakes off the force of the gunshot and he chucks the gun to the side and stares at the lifeless corpse that accompanies him. There’s more blood beneath him. Fucking disgusting. When he leaves the room, Price is there writing down the information, and Gaz is already counting mags, readying up more kits for their next movement.

“Alright L.T?”

“Pure bliss,” his short answer tempers the rest of the team, sets the tone for the rest of the evening. He tries hard not to think about the raw emotion of that dying man when he is sitting in the back of another van. Tries not to think about what he’d do if it were you before him.

-

The bomb was easy to sort out. They’ve managed to sidestep another terrorist attack. When his superiors announce that they’ll get a few days on an actual army base to recoup before heading out again, Ghost feels some of Simon bubble beneath his thoughts ever so slightly. The timezone difference means that you’d probably be asleep; so despite knowing he can finally give you a call in the privacy of his shitty bare-bones accommodation, he dithers. He sits on the edge of the military-issued cot and pulls off his mask as he studies your phone number he’s punched into the burner phone. He had it memorised like a precious psalm a catholic schoolboy might take comfort in.

He calls you. There’s a horrid corporate beeping- the type reserved for limited phones and as he sits patiently, listening to the tone waning. He puts the phone beside him on the thin sheets as he undoes his boot laces and tries to settle a bit, as if you’d be able to tell he had rushed to privacy just for you.

“...Hello?” Your voice instantly has him perk up, hand going to grab it and put it closer to his ear.

“Hey. It’s-”

“Simon!” Beneath the clear sleepiness in your drawl, you sound ecstatic. He can hear rustling and waits as you tell him to hold up as you sit up and take your phone fully off the charger. “You staying safe?” he can hear the concern in your voice; you ask it like its been on the tip of your tongue this entire time.

“Alive and kicking.” To that, he hears you let out a contented giggle, and he can practically imagine the way your head would tilt. He asks about your day, and you fill in the conversation with tidbits of what you’ve been doing; it’s almost as if Simon is only down the road and not thousands of miles away- as if this is one of the normal calls you would have had if he were still in Manchester. You know not to ask any details of him, but you struggle to hide your curiosity, though, when he says he’s had a rougher day. He can hear it in the gulp of your throat, and he tries to segway into something more manageable. “Oughta stock up on more bad jokes though. Not a lot of material out here.”

You snort. He imagines the cute scrunch of your nose and the way your shoulders always shake when he’s said something stupid. You go to lie down, and you tell him you’re too cold even with the soft bedsheets he knows that adorn your mattress. His free hand rubs the crappy scratchy regulation lining he’s sitting on.

“Am I keeping you up, Dove?”

“Nah- I just..” you mumble, he can hear the sheets shift, and your voice comes out closer on the speaker as if you’ve laid him next to you. “Just miss you, is all Si. Was thinking about you…” The way you purr the words has him locked in.

“Is that so, sweetheart? What about?” He hears your breath catch- both of you dancing around the obvious longing that's pervaded into the phone line. He can tell you’re smirking. His hands smooth down his pants at the thought of you lying waiting for him.

“How we never got to later.” You say it with the faintest whine, like a petulant child whose trying to be good but can’t help but complain she never got her ice cream. He chuckles under his breath, gets up and starts to pace the room slightly- as if not really sure how to apologise.

“Would if I could, darling.”

“Shite excuse.”

“What, no credit for saving the world?” The quips are hurried, intentionally charged, and he hopes you’re enjoying this as much as he is. You give him a little noise, as if deliberating an answer. You negotiate much better than any enemy he’s had.

“...make it up to me now?” Your request is sharp and chocked up with bait- you’ve set this trap and are waiting for him to trigger it- let it entrap him as his thoughts flood with a hundred million things he could be doing with you if he weren’t stuck in this shipping container of a prison room. He skips straight to it- not one to waste his shots.

“Tell me what you’re wearing.” The intake of your breath and the slight delay have him staring upwards to his ceiling- standing in purgatory as he waits for your reply.

“Mm Not much.”

“Cheeky. But too vague, Dove.” He reprimands you lightly, a click of his tongue clear, “Tell me.” When your reply consists of you admitting to only being clad in a sleep shirt and nothing- void of any barriers, Simon nearly shudders. He imagines you enveloped in something baggy, the shape of you nearly lost, and the idea of unwrapping you holds firmly in the forefront of his imagination. It’s like the world has turned upside down- Simon is the one in full control of the conversation. For once, he is the one talking, and you are stuck on edge, planning each reply. 

He is a man thumbing the detontation and he revels as he toys with the strict focus you have on every one of his words.  He tells you to trail your hands up your sides and to your breasts. He almost prefers this fantasy, imagining your soft hands' fragile touch petting your smooth, pliable body rather than his own larger grasp that would be too eager to pinch all the spots that would make you squirm. He can hear the shifting of clothes, and when you release the tiniest of moans, his eyes close, and his free hand impatiently goes to fumble with his belt buckle.

“Alright, Dove? Need me touch you?” A part of him knows he’s not asking for your sake, he’s asking purely to suspend the idea that you’d want him so carnally like this- that you’d beg for this sick worship he wants to drown you in. When you avidly choke out a yes as you squeeze and tease yourself, Simon fully indulges in this; awkwardness of phone sex be dammed- he needs to hear you come undone.

“I want you to touch yourself, pretty girl, just for me…” The hand he had shoved in his trousers push to shake off the cursed material, and he goes to sit on the edge of the bed. As you dip your hand further down, Simon dreams of what it would be like to perch over you in that moment. To see how wet and willing you were. Exposed and positioned on your lonely bed, just ready for him. His hand goes to stroke himself leisurely- he’s already hard, and the pre-cum slips and slides easily as he focuses on your murmuring. He wants to know what pace you’re working at- are you slow and steady? Letting your cunt pulse and pleasure sink into your mattress, or are you impatiently pumping, thinking of how it would feel to have him bury himself into you?

“Fukc. Fucking need ya right now.” He hisses slightly as his wrist tightens unconsciously in response to a whimper that tumbles out from you. He wants to ramble on about all the things he’s thought of you over the years. The deep embarrassment that was pining and jerking off to you when he was younger is now meaningless, as he has you on the other end. Touching yourself for his own perverted comfort. “God- dreamt of this, so many stupid bloody nights-” his breath hitches, and you can hear his throat stutter and his groan as he is trying not to get too ahead of himself.

You moan out Simon’s name. His eyes roll back, and he tries to shut out the desperate need to thrust even harder into his own rough and busy grip. He wants you so badly- wants to feel the push of your body against him and watch the way your face would contort in pure bliss as he fucks you. And while he’d do whatever you’d want, give it to you however you’d like- right now he just wishes he could pin you down and force his thick shaft into that tight little perfect cunt and fill you up until you’re crying from the pressure.

“A-ah shit- fuck-” His hands have to stop lest he cums before hearing you; his mind is off trying to make sense of the rush of adrenaline and the uncommon feeling of lust that’s coursing through him. “God, you make me a fucking mess. Perf-perfect girl…” He whispers for you to go harder, to ride your own fingers and think of the way he plans to put you in your place. He makes endless promises of how he’s going to touch you, have you bare beneath him and idolise your body. He wants to imprint himself on it- to bite your neck and leave a darkened bruise that will have you blushing for days. And God fucking shit- when you moan with that keen, choked-out, depraved pitch as you tumble into orgasm, he loses it. He cums. He cums to the idea of you strung out and dazed, chasing his words and crying from the exhaustion of your sex. In this moment, and in your vulnerable states, He’d coo into your ear sweet words about keeping you, doing it all for you- killing for you. 

He sighs. You drag him out of his thoughts like you’re dragging him out of a gilded prison. Your voice is slightly nervous underneath your light panting.

“Simon? ..You good?”

“Yeah. aight’ all good, sweetheart.” He stops and stills, then flops back onto the empty bed. His thighs were sticky from his mess, but he did not care at all. “Too good.”

“Stay on call until I sleep?” He relinquishes his calculated control of the conversation and hums a simple yes. He lets his eyes flutter shut as he listens to you ramble on about your plans for the next 2 months. He stays on until he hears your gentle snooze steal you away.