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there are many reasons why you enjoy living with ghost—the way everything in the house smelled like him, or the way his possessions mixed with yours, for example. the little things, such as the shelf full of trinkets and souvenirs from past deployments, that never failed to spark warmth within your chest. but perhaps, your most favorite was being able to have him by your side.
it’s well known amongst the task force that ghost is not an affectionate man by any means—he is battle-hardened and weary. a cold upbringing filled with neglect and abuse left ghost with a certain distaste for most—if not all—forms of touch. that being said, there are times when your lover, as touch deprived yet reluctant as he is, gives into such an instinctual desire for contact. coming to you, the one he trusts most, loves more than anything in the world, he lays himself bare and silently asks for what he cannot bring himself to voice.
it was a cold and rainy afternoon, the home you shared with your lover left chilly and near-silent. you sat, tucked into bed, reading and relishing in the warmth of your blankets and the soft pitter-patter of the rain just outside. your evening was peaceful, nearly perfect, just lacking one essential piece of your life. hearing the creaking hinges of your bedroom door, you turn your head to see the massive figure that is ghost silently stepping into your shared room. masked, as almost always, his eyes meet yours as he hesitates in the doorway for a moment.
he looks somewhat distraught, you think to yourself, his eyes betraying him with the way they peer into yours. gently you place your book down beside you—not before marking your page—and make a small gesture for him to come closer. finally, he shuts the bedroom door behind him and approaches, coming to kneel on the bed at your side. you turn fully to him, reaching down to grab his hands. they are cold, and they tremble.
his eyes meet yours once more, and what they reveal this time is different, desperate. many years with ghost have granted you the ability to read him as easily as the book you read before—you understand what he’s come here for. you let go of his hands and reach up slowly, as if trying not to startle a wild and frightened animal, and hover your hands around the edge of his balaclava. you hesitate for a moment, as if asking for silent permission, and he nods. gently you pull up his mask, planting soft kissed to his face as more and more of it comes exposed. he sheds his mask, discarding it finally to your bedside table. he won't—or can’t—meet your eyes.
you know this is difficult for him, ridding himself even momentarily of his mask, ridding himself of the persona of ghost. you may be one of the only people who he allows himself to become undone for, one of the few who he allows himself to not be the hardened and cruel ghost, but the gentle and all too broken simon for. within your safety, simon relaxes and allows himself to bask in all that is you.
you move slowly, allowing simon time to adjust, and softly trace your fingers over his jaw. when your thumb comes up to ghost over one of his many scars, his lips part and he lets out a shuddered sigh. his eyebrows come together to form a subtle crease, and finally his eyes meet yours again. you drop of hands from simon’s face—much to his displeasure—and shift to move your thick bed sheets aside. simon moves over you, laying between your legs with his arms wrapped tightly around your waist and his ear pressed right to where your heart beats surely for him. you re-adjust the covers and allow yourself to get comfortable with him atop you.
the pressure, and the warmth that simon brings, is calming, and you’re able to almost instantly relax with him here with you. one hand moving to grab at your book, and another moving to card through simon’s short hair, you begin to read once more. a soft sigh escapes your lover as you run your fingers through his hair and massage his scalp. many moments pass in pure bliss like this, but eventually you begin to notice the way simon’s eyes glance up periodically, seemingly trying to read from your book as well. you took this as a much-welcomed invitation to break the silence.
“at these moments, i often endeavored to put an end to the existence i loathed,” you quoted, tone soft and voice rough as if you had just woken up. you briefly glanced down at simon to gauge his reaction, continuing on when his expression formed one of contentment. “and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence.”
the cornerstone of sci-fi and widely popular novel amongst gothic fiction fans, frankenstein, may not be considered a particularly romantic book—the agonized life of adam, victor frankenstein’s creation, would hardly qualify as charming or polite conversation. yet with the sounds of rain, in your warm bed with simon pressed against your chest, eyes closed and basking in your embrace, nothing else seemed to matter. no concept carried any weight in the world past you, your lover, and the novel of which you read aloud from.