Masterlist
Some of my writing is explicit, please read with discretion. Minors need to navigate away.
AO3
i don't do bad sauce passes
Show & Tell
Game of Thrones Daily
$LAYYYTER
No title available

shark vs the universe
Misplaced Lens Cap
Today's Document
ojovivo

Origami Around
hello vonnie
cherry valley forever

No title available

Love Begins

Product Placement

izzy's playlists!
wallacepolsom
Acquired Stardust

blake kathryn
almost home

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from France

seen from Tunisia

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Colombia

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Germany
@mooncalfed
Masterlist
Some of my writing is explicit, please read with discretion. Minors need to navigate away.
AO3
We Can Be Happy
Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader (Jaguar) Chapters: 1/? Notes: Why yes I am writing a final Ghost and Jag fic after three years, funnily I wrote my fiancé into existence via these fics, this is ever as much our happy ending as it is Ghost and Jag's, This will be Ghost and Jag's final fic so I hope you guys enjoy and thanks for being a part of this crazy fic writing adventure!
AO3 | MASTERLIST
You were in a rough state, weaving through the swarms of people in the market. The summer heat was glaring down on you like it was personal, and your fever was making you see double. Of all the shit situations the 141 put you in, getting taken out by a fever seemed the most demeaning. Christ, you survived a near-direct rocket launcher blast in Mexico. And now here you were, in Old Delhi with too many people, sick out of your mind, and not enough fucks to give to continue your reconnaissance.
Somehow you made it back into the small safe-house where you had been staying the last five weeks while stalking your target. The objective was simple enough: trail your target through the never-ending crowds, down the exhaust filled streets. Observe him to see if he ever met with Viraj or other of his contacts. Price needed a way into Viraj’s illusive inner circle so he could send in the heavy hitters (a certain towering Specter and his favorite Scotsman) to take out the terrorist organization from its root. But five weeks lead to nothing—nothing except three days of a high fever and spilling your guts out in the dilapidated safe-house bathroom. At least there was a toilet.
Dragging yourself to the bathtub, you fell back into your makeshift den of blankets and a pillow. The ceramic tub was the only semi-cool thing in the place, and this way you were at least close to the toilet when you inevitably threw up again. Your backpack was next to the tub, with your personal kit of pain killers and electrolyte packets. A benign part of you thought to go to the local hospital, but you had seen the line out the building, and had witnessed the chaos and clamoring to get seen and treated, and you decided sweating it out in a bathtub sounded like a better idea than that hell. Beside, you’d have blown your cover anyway. So you laid back in the tub, both shivering and sweating profusely at the same time, stared at the ceiling above, and wrapped a blanket around you.
In the quiet of the room you could hear the clamor outside—motorbikes honking and trucks zooming by; people shouting and yelling over all of the noise. There was an electrical hum somewhere near the room that had insidiously drilled its way into your skull, and vibrated your cranial stem. Suddenly a wave of nausea surged through your body and you violently dry heaved into the toilet. There wasn’t much in you that came up since you could barely stomach anything. You forced yourself to take some more pain killers and some water, and then curled back up in the tub.
What the fuck, you thought before the fever took over and you succumbed to your exhaustion. When you woke later, the sun had already set, and the humidity had stagnated in the room. There was still a buzzing from the streets outside, but you were freezing and shivering in the tub now. You stared at the mildew in the caulking next to you.
Images played in your mind, as your eyes unfocused. You thought about how you ended up in this situation. Thought about Russia, and your time there—the coldness of it all; Vladislava and her teachings that inevitably led you to here. You thought about your apartment in San Francisco, and how you sold it after joining the 141 since you were never home. Thought about Simon’s in Leeds too. And how the light in the bathroom also hummed when you turned it on.
Simon. That was the reason you were here, six years later. Price’s most loyal dog.
It wasn’t his fault, you knew. After all he had been through, after all he had done… killing, doing these missions: it made him feel useful; gave him a purpose. And a part of you hated Price a little bit because you thought he exploited that. And you had been swept up in it—becoming an honorary part of the 141 because your need to be enveloped and filled by Simon every single day outweighed brushing hands with death on every single mission. But here, in this shitty safe house all alone in Old Delhi, dying of a fever miles away from your man, had you rethinking it all. You wanted out. But all you could do was curl further into yourself and wait. Perhaps Fate would be good to you. ------- Old tags so let me know if you want to be (un)tagged! @deadbranch @solidly-indulgent @aalxrose @dotcie @thepowers-kat-be
Absolutely one of my OG Simon writers. Jag and Ghost are legendary.
whimper (xi)
life goes on, and yet...
[fem!reader - inexperienced!reader - slow burn - loss and grief - insomniac!reader - insomniac!simon]
part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii, part ix, part x
Two months drip by and mercifully the weather grows warmer. On the occasional sunny day you take a half day off work and sit in the park to draw. London being London, it drizzles almost the entire time, but the light refraction makes for some beautifully complex views.
You try to sit in as many parks as possible, absorbing as many different trees and squirrels as you can. The people change too, and you try to capture the spirit of each borough as best you can. In only a few short weeks, you’ve filled an entire sketchbook. They’re mostly landscapes, although every once in a while you ask someone’s permission to draw their portrait. You always show them, but never part with it.
The portraits are always done with ballpoint pen, sometimes felt tip liner if you’re in the mood, but the landscapes have become increasingly similar to pointillism, and despite the exhaustive nature of the technique, it captures in particular the drizzly London mornings with almost loving effect.
A smaller sketchbook sits in your jacket pocket. You take it out when you sit on the Tube, but it mainly comes out at the cafe. You don’t use it when you’re out and about at the parks or at work, but it sits in your pocket constantly, a little talisman of… something.
In it, you draw hands.
At first the hands look slightly dissimilar, one with thicker thumbs, the next with short and rectangular nail beds, another with prominent veins, the next with mottled scars. Eventually they merge into the same hand, those that belong to your insomnia companion.
Simon.
I was so excited when I saw the notification that you'd tagged me on something! I was hoping maybe it was another chapter of this fic, and it was!! Oh happy day!! Even though it still hurts :'(
And this is just my rambling thoughts. It's not a good analysis. I just wanted to talk out loud about the chapter as i read it. That's all this is...just my feelings and thoughts.
For a minute I was so worried that you’d stopped reading! Phew, I’m so glad to see that you enjoyed the return.
I’m still not really satisfied with how he came back, I had a different idea that came to me a few weeks ago but I didn’t write it down and forgot about it… even though this is a lot more tepid than what I had originally imagined, I think it leaves the next chapter a lot more room to develop, and I feel like I have a good idea of what happens next so maybe this chapter being more lukewarm was a good thing after all 🧐
I do feel for Dot, it’s a lot of thinking and feeling on her part and at times I’ve almost changed tack with Simon because I felt like he was leading her on a bit… I won’t say too much because I’ll leave it for the next chapter! I think it will be (hopefully) a gratifying read.
As always, I keenly await your feedback!! Thank you for reading and writing :)
Oh no! I'm so sorry you were worried that I'd stopped reading! Heavens no! I will never stop reading this fic until you're done. And even then, I know I'll revisit it when I want to read an amazing Simon fic.
For future reference, I "like" fics when I first see them, until I have a chance to reblog with my comments. So, if you see a like from "savebytheodore", that's me. It's my main account, so the one that likes will show from. And as soon as I saw your tag on this fic, I "liked" it to bookmark it for later. I did read it as quickly as possible though, because I was so excited. But I didn't have time to comment then.
Good to know! I won’t panic the next time you don’t immediately respond to something I write lol.
So interesting to hear your experiences, and thank you for sharing. When I say I think Simon was leading her on I meant from my perspective as a… third person? I think Simon is as you say, wary, cautious, busy, and traumatised. Dot did a lot of the courageous reaching out, and I think because I identify with her more than I do Simon, I want something clean and clear and well-defined for her.
I think the flowers on her sister’s grave could have gone either way… along with the stalking… I think if Dot had a modicum more of self-preservation and possibly self-respect, I think she might be furious about those things. I think a less damaged person could take those things as severe infringements of privacy, but I think Dot is so wounded that she can’t tell.
I’m sure you know all this, but I just mean to clarify that the leading on is my own frustration with the two of them (as though I weren’t the one writing it lmao)
whimper (xi)
life goes on, and yet...
[fem!reader - inexperienced!reader - slow burn - loss and grief - insomniac!reader - insomniac!simon]
part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii, part ix, part x
Two months drip by and mercifully the weather grows warmer. On the occasional sunny day you take a half day off work and sit in the park to draw. London being London, it drizzles almost the entire time, but the light refraction makes for some beautifully complex views.
You try to sit in as many parks as possible, absorbing as many different trees and squirrels as you can. The people change too, and you try to capture the spirit of each borough as best you can. In only a few short weeks, you’ve filled an entire sketchbook. They’re mostly landscapes, although every once in a while you ask someone’s permission to draw their portrait. You always show them, but never part with it.
The portraits are always done with ballpoint pen, sometimes felt tip liner if you’re in the mood, but the landscapes have become increasingly similar to pointillism, and despite the exhaustive nature of the technique, it captures in particular the drizzly London mornings with almost loving effect.
A smaller sketchbook sits in your jacket pocket. You take it out when you sit on the Tube, but it mainly comes out at the cafe. You don’t use it when you’re out and about at the parks or at work, but it sits in your pocket constantly, a little talisman of… something.
In it, you draw hands.
At first the hands look slightly dissimilar, one with thicker thumbs, the next with short and rectangular nail beds, another with prominent veins, the next with mottled scars. Eventually they merge into the same hand, those that belong to your insomnia companion.
Simon.
I was so excited when I saw the notification that you'd tagged me on something! I was hoping maybe it was another chapter of this fic, and it was!! Oh happy day!! Even though it still hurts :'(
And this is just my rambling thoughts. It's not a good analysis. I just wanted to talk out loud about the chapter as i read it. That's all this is...just my feelings and thoughts.
For a minute I was so worried that you’d stopped reading! Phew, I’m so glad to see that you enjoyed the return.
I’m still not really satisfied with how he came back, I had a different idea that came to me a few weeks ago but I didn’t write it down and forgot about it… even though this is a lot more tepid than what I had originally imagined, I think it leaves the next chapter a lot more room to develop, and I feel like I have a good idea of what happens next so maybe this chapter being more lukewarm was a good thing after all 🧐
I do feel for Dot, it’s a lot of thinking and feeling on her part and at times I’ve almost changed tack with Simon because I felt like he was leading her on a bit… I won’t say too much because I’ll leave it for the next chapter! I think it will be (hopefully) a gratifying read.
As always, I keenly await your feedback!! Thank you for reading and writing :)
whimper (xi)
life goes on, and yet...
[fem!reader - inexperienced!reader - slow burn - loss and grief - insomniac!reader - insomniac!simon]
part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii, part ix, part x
Two months drip by and mercifully the weather grows warmer. On the occasional sunny day you take a half day off work and sit in the park to draw. London being London, it drizzles almost the entire time, but the light refraction makes for some beautifully complex views.
You try to sit in as many parks as possible, absorbing as many different trees and squirrels as you can. The people change too, and you try to capture the spirit of each borough as best you can. In only a few short weeks, you’ve filled an entire sketchbook. They’re mostly landscapes, although every once in a while you ask someone’s permission to draw their portrait. You always show them, but never part with it.
The portraits are always done with ballpoint pen, sometimes felt tip liner if you’re in the mood, but the landscapes have become increasingly similar to pointillism, and despite the exhaustive nature of the technique, it captures in particular the drizzly London mornings with almost loving effect.
A smaller sketchbook sits in your jacket pocket. You take it out when you sit on the Tube, but it mainly comes out at the cafe. You don’t use it when you’re out and about at the parks or at work, but it sits in your pocket constantly, a little talisman of… something.
In it, you draw hands.
At first the hands look slightly dissimilar, one with thicker thumbs, the next with short and rectangular nail beds, another with prominent veins, the next with mottled scars. Eventually they merge into the same hand, those that belong to your insomnia companion.
Simon.
I’m sorry for the lack of updates on both Seepage and Whimper! I can’t figure out how to reunite Dot and Simon and it’s driving me crazy…
Being OG!Ghost’s significant other and waking up in a world where everything is just a little off.
One thing that stayed the same though, was the pub where you and Simon met. Your regular spot—albeit, with a bartender you didn’t recognize minding the establishment. Aside from that, it was identical to the place where you spent countless nights out together after long days and longer deployments—or, at least you used to. Before he…
It was him who approached you first, a stranger with haunted brown eyes and a shaken expression, privacy mask pulled up over his nose. You could hear him exhale. Then, quietly, he spoke your name.
seepage (part two)
a chronicle of desire for two people who have intense, complicated feelings about it (find part one here)
inexperienced reader, experienced but traumatised Simon Riley, complex feelings about sex and physical touch, cockwarming, nipple sucking, nightmares
Month twenty-seven blurs the edge Unluckily for Simon, time passes eventfully.
Almost everything that can cock up an operation goes wrong – satellite issues turn into communication failures that snowballs into a compromised location… Johnny gripes the whole time about dying ignoble deaths from frostbite, and when the team stumble into the bare safehouse that appears to be more shack that house, even stalwart John Price is ready to blow a bloody gasket.
Meanwhile, Simon Riley disappears into rumination-induced dissociation and in his place is Ghost – immovable, implacable, impossible to break. A real mockery of a man.
He remains that way the entire trip back to Hereford, stomping out of the Chinook with barely a nod to his Captain and team. He stalks all the way to his room and dumps his filthy gear on the floor and yanks open the door to the bathroom, ignoring the way the hinges screech in protest.
Grumbling to himself he shucks off even filthier clothing and turns the shower to as hot as he can handle. He’s fuming for no reason because lord knows he’s had significantly worse missions – he made it out of this one with nary a scratch – and he knows he’s being a fucking child but he’s angry for good reason…
He’s been hard for days.
Simon steps into the shower and resentfully glares down at his swollen, bobbing cock.
Embarrassment tailed him the entire latter half of the operation because he couldn’t stop fucking sporting a semi. Arousal is common and ignored when you’re in proximity with other people but surely the lads would have noticed and thought he had properly lost his mind.
The lack of control he has over his own body creates a sick, oily feeling in his stomach that hasn’t abated at all. The entire thing is fucking with him because yeah he’s thinking about your cunt and how much he wants to taste you but also he’s mad with anxiety about coming home and somehow being a massive fucking disappointment.
He hates that he is thinking about his scars and burns and he hates that thinking about it makes his skin crawl and his clothes feel too tight and he hates knowing that this will lead to panic so he needs to keep breathing steadily, but above all else he hates that the more he tries not to think about you, the harder his cock gets.
Simon’s body is betraying him and he’s never felt more like a little boy.
Usually he can get away with having a wank once every blue moon. Now, as he fists his cock with a dirty hand and pumps soberly to completion, he worries that this new version of him is a new kind of monster that he isn’t prepared for.
He’s worried about bringing this home to you… worried about what you will think.
Simon comes with a few short grunts and watches as his come hits the shower glass. He leans his head until his forehead rests on the glass and sighs lightly. He really does miss you. It’s time to man up and get the fuck home.
whimper (Christmas special)
it's Christmas, and you are not alone.
[fem!reader - inexperienced!reader - slow burn - loss and grief - insomniac!reader - insomniac!simon]
part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii
This Christmas, it's this:
You, sitting with a masala chai cupped in two hands, Simon across from you with a steaming black coffee, hands mirroring yours except they’re loosely knotted in front of his mug.
Proximity warming you from the outside in, tea and company warming you from the inside out.
This story is interesting to me.
Sometimes I feel like I have insomnia, but maybe just mild.
The concept of death and those left behind is interesting.
“He doesn’t have the misery of the parents (particularly the mother), but his boredom also feels apt - life goes on and we only grow into our awareness of deaths.”
These lines really struck me bc it really makes me think of what is my purpose, and is it really that important?
We feel the grief of death more as we get older. I think it’s because we know there were so many possibilities for one life.
I’m so glad this story resonates with you. I write this with a look back at the more nihilistic and lonely period of my life, and I like to think that this story is an expression of that sort of transition between alone-ness and togetherness. I hope that you can transition into togetherness as well.
Thank you for reading and leaving such a thoughtful comment on my work.
seepage (part two)
a chronicle of desire for two people who have intense, complicated feelings about it (find part one here)
inexperienced reader, experienced but traumatised Simon Riley, complex feelings about sex and physical touch, cockwarming, nipple sucking, nightmares
Month twenty-seven blurs the edge Unluckily for Simon, time passes eventfully.
Almost everything that can cock up an operation goes wrong – satellite issues turn into communication failures that snowballs into a compromised location… Johnny gripes the whole time about dying ignoble deaths from frostbite, and when the team stumble into the bare safehouse that appears to be more shack that house, even stalwart John Price is ready to blow a bloody gasket.
Meanwhile, Simon Riley disappears into rumination-induced dissociation and in his place is Ghost – immovable, implacable, impossible to break. A real mockery of a man.
He remains that way the entire trip back to Hereford, stomping out of the Chinook with barely a nod to his Captain and team. He stalks all the way to his room and dumps his filthy gear on the floor and yanks open the door to the bathroom, ignoring the way the hinges screech in protest.
Grumbling to himself he shucks off even filthier clothing and turns the shower to as hot as he can handle. He’s fuming for no reason because lord knows he’s had significantly worse missions – he made it out of this one with nary a scratch – and he knows he’s being a fucking child but he’s angry for good reason…
He’s been hard for days.
Simon steps into the shower and resentfully glares down at his swollen, bobbing cock.
Embarrassment tailed him the entire latter half of the operation because he couldn’t stop fucking sporting a semi. Arousal is common and ignored when you’re in proximity with other people but surely the lads would have noticed and thought he had properly lost his mind.
The lack of control he has over his own body creates a sick, oily feeling in his stomach that hasn’t abated at all. The entire thing is fucking with him because yeah he’s thinking about your cunt and how much he wants to taste you but also he’s mad with anxiety about coming home and somehow being a massive fucking disappointment.
He hates that he is thinking about his scars and burns and he hates that thinking about it makes his skin crawl and his clothes feel too tight and he hates knowing that this will lead to panic so he needs to keep breathing steadily, but above all else he hates that the more he tries not to think about you, the harder his cock gets.
Simon’s body is betraying him and he’s never felt more like a little boy.
Usually he can get away with having a wank once every blue moon. Now, as he fists his cock with a dirty hand and pumps soberly to completion, he worries that this new version of him is a new kind of monster that he isn’t prepared for.
He’s worried about bringing this home to you… worried about what you will think.
Simon comes with a few short grunts and watches as his come hits the shower glass. He leans his head until his forehead rests on the glass and sighs lightly. He really does miss you. It’s time to man up and get the fuck home.
whimper (x)
you learn to look outside yourself, to see what lives and dies
[fem!reader - inexperienced!reader - slow burn - loss and grief - insomniac!reader - insomniac!simon]
part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii, part ix
The return to routine does wonders for you.
Admittedly life is still hard and you lug grief and shame around like an Olympic weightlifter, but in a strange way, the heaviness of your burden has made you open to community in a way you have never experienced before; in the months and years after your sister’s death you sequestered yourself away like a princess in a tower, shedding friends and family like you were the one that had died instead of her.
whimper (ix)
absence makes the heart grow tender
[fem!reader - inexperienced!reader - slow burn - loss and grief - insomniac!reader - insomniac!simon]
part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii
Perhaps it’s being chilled to the bone that starves you of your ability to sleep.
February’s frostiness hasn’t abated at all, and all night you lay in bed, feeling the cold air grow teeth. The radiator is at the other end of the bedroom and the trek there would take energy that you don’t have.
When the morning arrives and condensation builds on the window, you hobble into the bathroom and begin again with all the rituals of the living – the brushing of hair and teeth, the washing and make up drawing, the slow wrestle of a limp body into clothes, the shovelling of food into a mouth.
Then, the day. Long, bright and endless, a series of hours where nothing makes sense to you though you still appear coherent to others, where your eyes hurt and your muscles feel detached from bone yet you still walk back home without simply melting into the ground.
You have not been back to the café.
Oh dang...I knew it wouldn't be okay, I knew that, but it still hurt all over again.
I'm so glad she went back though, even if it was painful. At least she got to see Emir, and he was so sweet.
There’s a line from A Streetcar Named Desire where Blanche says, “I have always relied on the kindness of strangers”… and that’s stayed with me over the years, and it’s so true!
Simon will return, but it won’t be easy… thank you as always for being an avid reader!
As a general rule, I don't seek out angst. It's always a testament to how good a fic and an author are when I stick with an angsty fic. You write this so well, I have to stick around. Easy or not, I need to see him return.
I had a question, and absolutely no pressure to answer, but do you know what's going to happen already? Like do you have the story planned out in your head? Or do you think of it as you go along? I'm just curious.
I have never written a plan for anything because I'm impatient and flighty, which means all of my stories go unfinished most of the time...
With this one, I just enjoyed the idea of Simon meeting someone in the quiet hours. I wrote the first instalment and then just forgot about it for over a year because I couldn't think of anything else -- I wanted it to be just snippets, but at the same time couldn't think of a way of writing snippets without involving at least some kind of story.
Before I write the next chapter I always worry that there has to be some kind of major development (ie. they get together or something bad happens etc) to fit an entertainment trope, but then I remember that it isn't the point of this story to be very dramatic or to fulfil a dramatic purpose.
I often have to start writing to then think of something -- I almost never have prior inspiration because my brain is always full of dramatic stuff and it just doesn't really suit these two characters.
I don't really have an idea of how this will end. I do want them together but I also want to be careful with it because I don't want the message to be that Simon rescues Dot from her misery. I didn't have a man save me from mine and I think if you're lucky enough to have someone help you on the way, that's amazing, but they don't have to be romantic interests.
Actually, I think I just figured it out. I want this story to be about community. I'll follow that theme wherever it goes.
Thank you for the question, it's clarified a lot about this story for myself. I wrote another part based off of the inspiration I felt from your comment, I hope you enjoy.
whimper (ix)
absence makes the heart grow tender
[fem!reader - inexperienced!reader - slow burn - loss and grief - insomniac!reader - insomniac!simon]
part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii
Perhaps it’s being chilled to the bone that starves you of your ability to sleep.
February’s frostiness hasn’t abated at all, and all night you lay in bed, feeling the cold air grow teeth. The radiator is at the other end of the bedroom and the trek there would take energy that you don’t have.
When the morning arrives and condensation builds on the window, you hobble into the bathroom and begin again with all the rituals of the living – the brushing of hair and teeth, the washing and make up drawing, the slow wrestle of a limp body into clothes, the shovelling of food into a mouth.
Then, the day. Long, bright and endless, a series of hours where nothing makes sense to you though you still appear coherent to others, where your eyes hurt and your muscles feel detached from bone yet you still walk back home without simply melting into the ground.
You have not been back to the café.
Thank you for gifting us with another beautiful angsty chapter .
So much of Dots feelings resonated . The alone in the park broke me.
Thank you for reading! So many of us have been in those positions… longing hurts so much but it’s such a vital feeling!
whimper (ix)
absence makes the heart grow tender
[fem!reader - inexperienced!reader - slow burn - loss and grief - insomniac!reader - insomniac!simon]
part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii
Perhaps it’s being chilled to the bone that starves you of your ability to sleep.
February’s frostiness hasn’t abated at all, and all night you lay in bed, feeling the cold air grow teeth. The radiator is at the other end of the bedroom and the trek there would take energy that you don’t have.
When the morning arrives and condensation builds on the window, you hobble into the bathroom and begin again with all the rituals of the living – the brushing of hair and teeth, the washing and make up drawing, the slow wrestle of a limp body into clothes, the shovelling of food into a mouth.
Then, the day. Long, bright and endless, a series of hours where nothing makes sense to you though you still appear coherent to others, where your eyes hurt and your muscles feel detached from bone yet you still walk back home without simply melting into the ground.
You have not been back to the café.
Oh dang...I knew it wouldn't be okay, I knew that, but it still hurt all over again.
I'm so glad she went back though, even if it was painful. At least she got to see Emir, and he was so sweet.
There’s a line from A Streetcar Named Desire where Blanche says, “I have always relied on the kindness of strangers”… and that’s stayed with me over the years, and it’s so true!
Simon will return, but it won’t be easy… thank you as always for being an avid reader!
whimper (ix)
absence makes the heart grow tender
[fem!reader - inexperienced!reader - slow burn - loss and grief - insomniac!reader - insomniac!simon]
part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii
Perhaps it’s being chilled to the bone that starves you of your ability to sleep.
February’s frostiness hasn’t abated at all, and all night you lay in bed, feeling the cold air grow teeth. The radiator is at the other end of the bedroom and the trek there would take energy that you don’t have.
When the morning arrives and condensation builds on the window, you hobble into the bathroom and begin again with all the rituals of the living – the brushing of hair and teeth, the washing and make up drawing, the slow wrestle of a limp body into clothes, the shovelling of food into a mouth.
Then, the day. Long, bright and endless, a series of hours where nothing makes sense to you though you still appear coherent to others, where your eyes hurt and your muscles feel detached from bone yet you still walk back home without simply melting into the ground.
You have not been back to the café.
⚠️ A situation that calls for your humanity, the tears of my disabled child in the paws of your generous hands 🙏🏻 The solutions have ended, and death remains the master of the situation. Gaza is dying alone without saying goodbye. #Humanity has fallen and Gaza remains alone with the shrouds, face to face‼️.💥 Save my disabled child and my innocent children.I am so sorry. I am asking for a donation of €20 which will go a long way in saving my family's lives from death and war and providing a lifeline and safety. Help me secure the money for a meal during Ramadan I would be very grateful 💔🫂
https://chuffed.org/project/153965-urgent-appeal-kidney-failure-and-autism-threatens-farah
thank you, posted. please know my thoughts are with you.
whimper update tomorrow, seepage this weekend