Imagine Being Able To Say You Fucked This Man When He Was A Lieutenant AND A Captain Bye

having family is thinking daily, continually, “i love you & you will never understand me or how i love for as long as we live.” & having to make peace with that for the rest of your life.

Simon never heard his father say sorry, or please, or thank-you, or I love you.

In their house, when his mama would put down hot, heavy casseroles, her skin damp with sweat, eyes darting for some sweet words, his father never said one word of thanks, let alone 'some'. Only waved his thick, impatient hand.

His father never took the plates to the sink. Never noticed when she stayed up at night to sort the screws by size and purpose—organizing the chaos he left behind just to find one damn hammer.

His father never said ‘please can you—’ only grunted with that bitter mouth, glared with those unkind eyes when he needed something.

Simon never heard him say I love you. And he couldn’t believe his eyes the day his father plucked out his baby brother from his mama's arm, and didn’t spare one glance for his Ma. She didn't deserved that, did she? Her weak frail body, cracked murmuring lips — she should be celebrated with adoration, comfort, love.

Love, and an infinite of it.

His father never sat beside her just to drink tea. Never told her about his day. Never asked about hers — what she did, or liked, or wanted. Never reached out his thumb, however calloused it was, to wipe away the sprout on her chin. That he was grateful she's next to him, that he loved her.

So when life happened, and Simon was left to pick up his pieces and place them in a way he wanted to be—he thought whomever he will be, anything, but his father.

Anything but him.

And then life happened again but this time it arranged itself in beautiful ways. Because you came with it this time. You and all your silly lovely ways, you who kissed your knee before resting your chin, you who cheered up catching up with fridge' light switching off, you so beautiful, so kind, made up of sundust. His sunshine — lighting up his world.

And God, he was so, so grateful. Every moment, every day !

“I love you,” he’d say the moment he wakes up next to you. Pressing his love on your lips, on your shoulder, on your neck.

“I love you,” when you spill milk in the morning daze and stare at it like it might disappear.

“I love you,” when he wipes your chin and kisses your forehead.

“I love you,” when he takes your hand in his and rubs it between his palm, why ? Because he'll spend his whole life keeping your hands warm than anything else.

“I love you.” because he loves, loves, and loves you so much that it hurts, so much that it heals, so much that it's everything sweet ever happened to him.

“I love you.” for all the ways his father failed, and Simon too, as a son, as a brother — failed to save his mama and lil' brother. I love you, because in loving you he is allowing himself to be loved.

Masterlist

guys please he's so handsome it's unbelievable I CAN'T

I see a lot of childhood best friend headcanons for gaz, soap, and ghost, but never price.

I need that old man running into “the girl next door” that he lost touch with ages ago. The one that got away after you both grew up and life got busy. I need him making contact after 10, 15 years. I need him pulling you into a tight, overly familiar hug when you meet up at an out of the way cafe. I need him reminiscing about long summers spent together as kids and teens: riding your bikes all over town, swimming at the community pool, buying ice cream with your pocket change, all while you smile and laugh. Because, honestly, you haven't been this happy in ages.

Stalking your socials didn’t quite scratch the itch for him like it used to. It used to be enough to swipe through your photos and imagine being there. On dates in cute little pubs and parks. Taking you on surprise sunny little holiday getaways. Putting a ring on your finger.

That one hurt. Really fucking hurt. He tried to be happy for you, grimacing as he swiped through picture after picture, one gushing congratulation after another. He really did. You’re almost too beautiful in your wedding pictures; airbrushed and photoshopped to perfection in your white gown as you gaze lovingly at your new husband on the chapel steps. Bastard doesn't know how lucky he is.

Well, was.

So what if a sick part of him twists when suddenly that album is deleted, hubby’s name disappears from your profile, and your relationship status updates to “single”? He lays careful traps, small bits of bait to lead you right where he wants. Then, he waits patiently for the noose to tighten, the cage to clatter down around you. You tell the whole sad tale as he nods, pretending not to know every detail already. How you tried to make it work. About your regrets. Maybe things moved too fast because you pushed for a commitment, you say as you laugh through tears.

Or, he suggests as he lays a heavy hand over yours, maybe he wasn’t right in the head because he’d marry you in a heartbeat. Your laugh then is musical. His heart soars. He let you slip out of his hands once, when he was too young and stupid to know better, but he won’t let that happen again. You let him wax poetic about life and loss. He knows what it really means to have your life on the line, he says, to fight like hell and somehow come out the other side. So, he continues, eyes casually following the swirling dregs at the bottom of his cup with your hand still clasped in his, you'd never have to fight for him. Never.

'bury all your secrets in my skin'

yes

John Price is the type of hold your hand no matter what you both are doing. It brings him comfort and gives him prove of your existance.

He'd hold your hand as you both walk through the farmer's markets on Saturday, watching the various stalls with their prodcuts on display. He'll pick up your favourite flowers, and stop at a stall for some coffee and scones all while holding onto your hand.

You're both watching the soccer on the sofa while you rest on top of him, your head on his chest. John will lazily fiddle with your fingers before interwining his fingers with yours.

Taking a bath together as John subconciously traces the contours of your body but at the end finds his way to your hand to hold it.

Cafe dates are a weekly thing when he is not on deployment. You'll both be sitting at a table sipping your drinks with your accompanying meal. You'll be talking, gushing over whatever piqued your interest that week while John continues to hold your hand, rubbing his calloused thumb over your knuckles as he smiles earnestly while giving you his full attention.

He'll also hold your hand when he comes home drunk from the pub and needs to take a shit. He'll shit on the toilet and hold your hand because he's scared a shark with jump out of the toilet bowel and bite his arse. So your job is to hold his hand while he shits and pull him off the toilet when the 'toilet shark' does attack.

How Ghost eats a taco, based on Samuel Roukin's explanation on his livestream. 🤣

GONE, GONE / THANK YOU

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just some bloke…