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You tell Simon you want to take him to the fair, and his response is along the lines of "Absolutely not."

Not because he doesn't like doing things with you - doing things with you is his favorite. He loves seeing you happy, and he knows, for some reason he still can't quite seem to grasp, that making him happy is what always brings the biggest smile to your face But something about the idea of going to a fair ...

Well, no, that's not quite it. It's not "something about the idea," like it's some mystery - he knows exactly what the issue is. It's being surrounded by people, loud noises in a big open space, not being able to keep his eyes on everything as well as he'd like. And deeper down, in a place inside him so dark and old your light still hasn't touched, it's about the kinds of people, too. Happy families. Kids who are only worried about getting on their favorite rides, and parents who love them unconditionally.

But you ask, then you ask again, then you beg, and you beg so pretty that Simon eventually gives in.

And you take him to the fair.

It's bad at first, but it gets better. Your hand grasping the crook of his arm anchors him to now, and he does his best to settle. He rides the Ferris wheel with you and lets you kiss him at the top, and he even closes his eyes, just for a second.

You pass by a face-painting booth, and when you look up at him, eyes big and eager, he knows what's coming.

"No."

It's preemptive, but it doesn't deter you. It never does."

"Oh come on, Simon, look," you start, dragging him over towards the booth. "You could get so many cool things. A spider, a bat ... whiskers! You could get whiskers, Si, doesn't that sound fun?"

He's just about to tell you how much fun that does not sound like when a boy steps away from the booth, fresh paint drying on his face.

A skull. White around the face with the eyes all blacked out - a quick job from the artist, but the image is unmistakable.

Simon tenses, and this time, he really can't place exactly what the issue is. It's like the skull paint is a reminder of Ghost, right here in front of you, under the bright lights and the carnival music and it's too much.

He's never let you see his own mask. When he comes home from a deployment, it's tucked away, and it stays in his bag until he's gone from you again. He doesn't want you to see it - you see him as Simon, the man, and you know why he feels like he has to hide his face, why he puts that separation up. But to actually see the separation. The thought of it makes his skin crawl.

But this isn't his mask, and it's not even him- it's just a little boy who seems to be growing a bit uneasy because he's been staring at him too long.

As always, you notice. Your hand slides down from his elbow to his palm, lacing your soft fingers through his and squeezing, a gentle reminder to be here.

"Let's go do something else," you say.

"It's all right," he responds. "Let's get the whiskers."

It's a novel feeling, having a stranger so close, the little brush strokes across his cheeks that he knows are red from the attention. But the way you stand off to the side, grinning wide, it makes it easier to bear.

That night, when the two of you get home, tired from walking the grounds, he gets the first glimpse of himself with the whiskers. He looks absolutely ridiculous - a bit smudged off from where you kissed his cheek, some of the lines seeping into his scars.

He's pulled out of his thoughts when you come up behind him in the bathroom, your arms wrapping around him. Your face peeks out from his left side as your hands give his chest a little squeeze, and the paint cracks more when he smiles.

"I had fun with you tonight," you tell him.

"Because I'm an absolute delight."

You laugh, giving him another squeeze, and say, "My cute little kitten."

It's always odd, the juxtaposition of his work life and his life with you. You make him softer, gentler than he ever thought he could be. You kiss his scars and you hold him like he's worth something and you love him, every last bit of him, so hard and so loud it's undeniable.

"I don't know about 'kitten,'" Simon tells you. "But yours? That I am, love."

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Personal but

I asked my husband how to make friends (I am very well-adjusted don't look at me) and he said to just talk to people online who have similar interests and I said that there are a good few people in my phone that comment on my little stories who have that same interest and he said to talk to them, but that is terrifying so

If you have ever commented please know that I have read it and smiled and tried to think of so many witty fun things to say back but my dumb little brain has a hard time and I get scared. I'm trying but like this is my "hey, if you wanna be friends that might be cool" post tysm for listening

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all of these prices wife + simon blurbs r making me a lil feral ngl

Let me tell you, friend, ME TOO. For me I like when it's subtle, you know, like a slow slooooow burn -- just months and months going by, an agonizingly slow shift from Simon being the strange guy who works with John to a friend, then to "... he's just a friend, right?" And everyone coming to their own sort of understanding about what their feelings are and how it all works together, and and and *faints*

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Personally I've been going through a difficult time, which is why I have not been writing as frequently, and I was nervous at first that the fixation was becoming less hyper. Then I developed a mantra that has been getting me through day to day, which is "Price would never let have let this happen to me," and that's how I know I'm still here.

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You meet Price, fall in love and marry pretty fast -- so fast that you don't end up meeting many of the people in his life until after the ring is already on your finger.

He introduces you to Kate when you stop by the base one afternoon, and she's lovely, and Kyle is a perfect gentleman when you meet him at an event. Johnny escorts you to your husband's office when you can't remember the way one evening, and he's a little intense, but fun.

And you feel a sense of relief that John has these people in his life. Strong, smart people, of course, but good people too. It feels good to know that these are the kinds of people he has looking out for him when he's gone from home.

Then you meet Simon. And it's ... different.

Because the man is, for lack of a better word, strange. He's bigger than even your bear of a husband, taller and broader both, and he just stares, unnervingly, with those big dark eyes. Not in a creepy way, he doesn't leer, nothing like that ... but it's the perceptiveness in his gaze that throws you off kilter.

And it's not like you can talk to him about it -- you try. Easy little jokes, bits of small talk whenever you're in his presence, but nothing takes. He's quiet and closed off.

He's a mystery. And you never could leave well enough alone.

"What's the deal with Simon?" you ask John every once in a while.

John adores you, thinks you hung the moon and to him, you outshine all the stars in the sky. But he's loyal to a fault, so he'll just chuckle when you ask, or make some soft little comment to change the subject.

"No stranger than the rest of us, just not as good at hiding it, love." "You think he's odd now, you should have met him 15 years ago." "'Least you haven't seen him with the mask, sweetheart."

But Simon does wear a mask, that much is obvious to you. It's not the skull one you've heard he wears in the field, but it's a mask all the same. Months go by with little interactions here and there, but you haven't seen so much as a smirk cross his scarred lips. There are signs of life, obviously, you can see his chest rise and fall as he breathes, but real life? Signs of actual living?

Not a one.

"Let me ask you something," John says one night in bed, a heavy arm draped around your waist. "Why do you care so much, sweetheart?"

"I don't," you answer defensively, and he laughs softly, his chest rumbling against your back, before leaning in to kiss your shoulder.

You can feel the grin against your skin.

Your curiosity is one of the things that made John fall in love with you so fast. When he met you, you didn't write him off as an old broken soldier, instead taking your time to dig in deep and find all the good parts buried under the hard exterior. He'd never admit it to those friends of his you'd come to know -- only to you in soft whispers in the dark -- but you made him feel special. Like he was worth learning.

And now, seeing a similar spark of eagerness in learning about Simon, it's ... well, it's an interesting feeling. John took Simon under his wing years ago when they met as much younger men, and he's never quite let him go. He's always seen something special in him, and seeing you notice it too ...

He presses another kiss against your shoulder, and another, trailing them to the back of your neck. His hand finds your hip, pulling you back against him so you can feel his building arousal.

He doesn't quite know why, and you don't either, but things are just a little bit different that night. His calloused hands, usually so gentle with you, grip a little harder as he moves you, and when he slips inside your warmth, he doesn't take his time like he usually does.

There's an urgency there, but what it's born from, neither of you quite know.

It won't become clear until months from now, when Simon starts popping by more frequently -- for dinner sometimes, to help John with some project others.

That first time you see it, a small little upturn in the corners of Simon's mouth, paired with a little light in his eyes that warms up the darkness...

That's when you get an idea.

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Sorry, still on about Price and his wife + Simon

Because for Price, it's not that he wants to share his wife, nothing like that. It's that he loves her so much, knows how good she is and how soft she feels, and he knows how hard Simon's life has been. His wife is a kind of luxury that Simon's never been afforded. So when Price sees the longing in his eyes, if he sees any of that same desire in his wife? Absolutely he's ok with it. He knows how good a boy Simon is, and he knows how much his own life changed when his wife walked into it. It would be a disservice to both of them to deny them anything they want to explore with each other.

And for Simon, it's not that he wants another man's wife either. If she was married to anyone else, things never would have gotten this far. He never would have fallen so deep. But he knows Price, knows what he's been through and the kinds of things he's done. And if you can love him anyway -- enough to marry him, enough to gaze at him with hearts in your eyes like you do every time he sees you -- then maybe, at least theoretically, you could love him too. It's a bit pathetic, he knows, but he's never felt a rush like it: not being loved by a good woman, but just the thought that it could be a possibility.

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Simon does not want to be in love with you.

He would give anything to make it all go away. That awful little lurch in his stomach whenever he hears your voice, the way you smile and the corners of his own mouth turn up. How he can't help but lean down towards you when you're close to him, like a flower growing towards the sun.

It's agonizing. Hell on earth, your sweetness seeping into him and rotting him from the inside out.

And it's not just that he thinks he doesn't deserve you, although that's true. It's not him being selfless or doubting his own worth.

It's that golden ring on your finger -- and the fact that his captain is the one who put it there.

Price adores you. He doesn't talk about you on the job, not really, but Simon will sometimes catch him studying a photo of you he keeps tucked safely in his vest, or he'll see him fidgeting with his ring finger, empty but for a tan line. Price doesn't necessarily like anyone at work knowing about you, that he’s married at all, but he trusts Simon.

Which is why, when both men are on leave, he invites him over sometimes. That’s how this whole mess began.

It started, then it built, and now it’s consuming him.

Simon tries. He tries so hard to block it out, to forget or to find someone else who makes him feel the same way. But it’s impossible. Fantasizing about a life with you feels wrong, but the thought of finding someone else to distract him feels worse. He’s used to burying his feelings, but no matter how deep he digs, you rise to the surface, bursting through his hurt and shame and sadness like a stubborn weed.

You demand to be seen. To be felt.

At his core, he understands this. That nature will do what it does and there’s little that can be done to stop it. There’s something in him that’s drawn to something in you, and it’s too strong to be ignored.

In his mind, in his heart, his soul … you persist.

Price hasn’t noticed, at least Simon doesn’t think so, and you’ve never acted differently towards him.

But he doesn’t know how much longer this thing can grow before it takes him over completely.

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Simon never had a father to teach him things, so when Price takes him under his wing when he joins the army, he soaks up everything he has to offer like a sponge. Price isn't that much older, of course, but he's always had that air of efficacy about him, and even as he began working his way up the ranks, it was clear he was a natural leader.

And Simon, with certain people, is more than willing to follow.

It's to the point where if someone knows both men well enough, they'd be able to see the through lines - little pieces of John that shine through Simon. Some might tease (Laswell has likened John to a doting father on more than one occasion), but mostly it's just sweet.

The person who notices it the most? You, John's darling wife.

You've been with John for years, and while he likes to keep you separated from his work life, Simon's long since drifted into his personal circle. So you know your husband's lieutenant - he stops by from time to time, comes around some holidays or if John needs some help in the garage, things like that.

When you make tea for your husband and his friend, you know both men take it the same. And when Simon stays for dinner, you know to make extra, because he's got a healthy appetite, just like John.

You come out from the kitchen into the dining room, serving the two men as they sit at the table. They both have the same quiet strength, a similar sag to their shoulders that you know is there because they both carry too much. They even sound similar when they thank you for the meal, John accompanying his gratitude with a squeeze to your hip.

But when you look at Simon, there's something just a little different in his eyes. He's missing the little bit of peace you've seen come into John's gaze since you married him. When you really look at him, he looks a little wilder, almost.

Hungrier.

You know, through countless stories and years of witnessing it firsthand, that John never lets Simon go without.

You wouldn't either, would you?

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Baxter Hours

Because what if he met someone in high school, after he stopped being friends with Qiu and the gang, when he was getting deep into his bad boy phase. And maybe they were going through something too, and maybe they could commiserate, at least a little. And like Jamie Last, Baxter knows he's never going to go the distance with this person - knows he's going to get out of Golden Grove the second he has the chance. But maybe they're the person who makes the time he's stuck there bearable.

Like quiet moments in the woods where he used to play, back when he had friends. Someone who doesn't look down on him whenever his load gets a little too heavy for him to carry it as smoothly as he always tries to. Just someone who gets him, and he gets them in return.

Then he leaves, and he goes to Virginia to college, and he tries to move on, from this person, from his family, from Golden Grove, all of it. He tries to carve out a new path for himself and be a person who he thinks is worthwhile, because of course he's never believed the real him is worth much at all. And he goes to Sunset Bird for the summer, meets Jamie, has the summer fling. It means something, but it also reminds him of what he left back home. Because in the context of this particular person, it feels ok thinking of Golden Grove in that context.

Ok ok and then maybe the five years goes by, he's a wedding planner, he meets Jamie again, he learns the magic of friendship and that he's worth sticking around in people's lives, it's great. But THEN a few more years ago by and he gets the courage to go back to Oregon - got in touch with Qiu online, bridges rebuilt, etc. And who do you think he finds there?

It's like no time has passed at all. Puzzle pieces settling where they were always meant to go. Walks through the old woods, everything falling back into place.

But this time, he's not afraid to tell them exactly what they mean to him. He's not so quick to run from something that feels like home.

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I played Growing Up this week then I played it again then I got the mobile version and why is no one talking about these little guys

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I went into hiding for like two weeks watching a TV show from like 15 years ago in its entirety and one character consumed me, no thoughts only this fictional man, and I didn't even look up anything because I didn't want to see spoilers but I just finished the show AND he died AND literally no one here is frothing over him like what am I doing. What was this all for. Give me my brain cells back I didn't have them to spare.

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Simon Riley who smiles appreciatively and tells you that you look pretty when you show off your new strawberry lip gloss. He loves when your lips look all plump and wet, but he loves it more when you’re feeling good about yourself.

That’s why later, when he takes you for a ride in his truck and you complain about your hair getting stuck in the gloss, he leans over at a red light, holds your face in his hands and licks it off.

He just wants you comfortable, love. Enjoy the ride.

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Price who (obviously) likes order, likes everything a certain way, even, or maybe especially, at home. Everything has its place, everything has a routine. It’s important to him, to feel in control.

And then you burst into his life, and it’s like he’s just holding on for the ride.

You spew color into his drab, muted home. Where there were once white bedsheets and a navy duvet, made every morning to regulation, there are now mismatched blankets in rainbow hues and more pillows than he knows what to do with. His drawers were once filled with carefully folded shirts in neutral colors and the exact same pair of jeans, multiple times over, with his uniforms and work gear in the closet. They’re still there, but condensed, as half the space is now stuffed with things like pretty sundresses with little strawberries on them and those little bike shorts that drive him insane.

The first time John went to your place after a date, he worried he might hate it, moving you in and losing the order that he’s always craved.

But now that he’s got you, he never wants you to leave. Sure, it’s an adjustment. He still puts your toothbrush in the holder when you leave it on the bathroom counter, and he still makes the bed, trying to find some way to arrange the frankly inconceivable amount of pillows.

And you’re worth every bit of it.

“John, baby, can we get a cat?” you call out one day as you come through the door.

“I’ve already got one pet, pet,” he answers from his spot in his office, going through some papers. “Don’t believe I need another.”

He looks up when you walk into his office, looking adorably apologetic. When he glances down to see the scruffy little stray cat in your arms, he sees why.

John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, telling you, “I thought we agreed to no pets, sweetheart.”

“I know,” you say as you step closer. “But he was just sitting outside and he looked so sad and lonely and hungry and cold.”

He can’t help but give you a small smile — he never can.

“Sounds like quite the dire situation.”

You smile back, in that soft, sweet way that reminds him, every day, of why he chose you. Why, despite the subtle chaos you bring to his life, he chooses you, over and over again.

A few weeks later, John is dozing in his armchair, the cat, which of course you’d kept, curled up on his lap. You’re nearby on the couch, napping yourself, one of your shows playing quietly on the television.

Something wakes him — a distant clap of thunder, or maybe it was a particularly hearty purr from the cat. But it’s enough for him to open his eyes and take in the scene before him.

It’s beautiful. The empty takeout containers on the coffee table, the books stacked up next to them, the new yellow couch you somehow convinced him to replace his old brown one with and you, laying on it so peacefully.

He closes his eyes again, letting out a contented sigh. The movement jostles the cat, who digs his claws into his jeans in retaliation.

It’s not necessarily the home life he pictured himself having. But it’s one he’ll treasure for as long as he can.

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You ever write like an absolute banger of a line and get so proud before you realize that you have to actually write a whole bunch of other stuff to accompany it then get humbled real quick?

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Simon tinkers around with an old carburetor like a fidget toy. He disassembles and reassembles it for fun, something to keep his hands busy when you watch TV some evenings.

You'll stretch out on the couch and he'll sit in front of it, close enough to reach, an old towel spread out between his legs and his eyes dart from whatever you're watching back to his little project.

During ads, you lean over, your chin resting on his shoulder as he fiddles with the thing.

"Very nice job, Simon," you tell him, giving him a playful kiss on his neck. "Good boy working on those fine motor skills."

He turns his head towards you to give you a grin, and your chest aches at how perfect the moment is. You're home, with Simon, because he is your home. Just like you're his. It's perfect and simple and all you've ever wanted.

By the time the next ad break rolls around, he's got you spread out in front of him instead, the carburetor forgotten. He works you open slowly, teasingly, enough to keep you on edge but not enough to push you over just yet.

“Just wanna make you proud, sweetheart,” he mutters, shoving two thick fingers deep inside before pulling them back out and running them through the wetness that’s accumulated between your legs. “Working on that dexterity like you said. Good boy get a gold star?”

He’s being a smug little asshole it — you know it and he knows it too. But after he gives you three orgasms, two with his fingers (“Wanna finish the movie, love, quiet down”) and one on his cock, you lay in bed together in the dark, picking out a chore chart to hang on the refrigerator, complete with a packet of star stickers.

Because it’s fun being with Simon. It’s home. You love that he feels comfortable enough with you to tease and be silly, and he loves that you let him, understanding the deep current of love and respect through every single thing he does.

Plus, he is, when it’s all said and done, a very, very good boy.

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Simon, while having a solid amount of sexual experience, has just never really done the whole relationship thing. He knows what he's like at work, he knows what he's like with friends, he knows what he's like in bed, but Boyfriend Simon? No clue who that guy is.

So when he falls hard enough for you to actually be convinced to give it a try, he just assumes he'll wear the pants in the relationship. He always wears the pants, so why would it be any different in this context? Not like a Whole Thing, like he's not picturing a lifestyle in which he's the big dominant man and you're submissive, obedient ... it's more like he just pictures himself taking care of things.

You picture it differently. And he is shocked by how much he loves your take on things.

"Simon, go wash your face and I'll put some moisturizer on you, you're getting a little dry." "We're having what you want for dinner tonight and I don't want to hear another word about it." "Just sit down and rest for a minute, I can handle it."

There are all these little things that you say and do -- little ways that show that you care, and that you think about him -- that all add up to something much bigger. It all makes him realize that maybe Boyfriend Simon is someone who can rest. Perhaps he doesn't need to be constantly, relentlessly in charge and on alert. Maybe this way, he can be cared for.

Of course, the feeling translates to the bedroom too. With his previous hookups, he'd always taken the lead. Strong hands putting his partner where he wanted them to go. Never too rough, never too demanding, but focused on his own pleasure, just like he always assumed the other person was focused on theirs.

Not on your watch.

He felt like he was being torn in two the first time you knelt before him and put your hands on his belt buckle, intention clear. It was like he was being split between the Simon he knew better, the one who might have greedily pulled down his jeans, tipped open your lips with a thumb on your chin and slid deep inside your hot mouth until tears rolled down your cheeks, and the Simon you'd somehow pulled out of him. The one who was too in love to imagine using you like that.

He told you as much that night. He stilled your hand over his belt with his own, his voice sounding strangled as he murmured, "Don't have to do that, love."

"Of course I don't have to," you'd told him. "I want to."

And you did. You unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his jeans then put your soft, warm hands on his hips, just under his shirt, and pushed his pants down, along with his boxers. You took his cock in your hand first, using slow, languid strokes, then gazed up at him.

“Is this ok?”

He began realizing, when you took him into your mouth only after he said yes, that this wasn’t him using you. It was clear in the little muffled whimpers you made as you pulled him close enough for his tip to hit the back of your throat and in the way your free hand gripped his thigh, like you were the one who needed grounding — you were enjoying this too. This was just another way for you to care for him.

Now, after days and weeks and months have passed of breaking down and rebuilding, learning and growing with you into something he never knew he could be, he trusts you. He values your judgment, he believes you what you tell him. If you think he needs to rest, he will. If you lead him, he'll follow.

Whatever you want, whatever you need, whether you let it be known with words or glances or your hands on him, guiding him, steady and sure ... now, Simon listens.

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Price doesn't want you asking for anything, not ever. When he put that ring on your finger, it wasn't just because he wanted you to have something pretty -- it was because he wanted you to know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, his intentions to take care of you, till death do you part.

So he anticipates things you want, things you need, before you can voice them. If you get a little snippy in the afternoon, he brings you a snack. If he catches you wincing and stretching in the morning, might be time for a new mattress.

And when it's summer and he sees you parked in a lounge chair in the yard, the legs a little uneven on the grass, well, time to go shopping for some lumber, because he's going to build you a porch.

John is strong, capable and knowledgeable -- this is hardly the first thing he's built -- so it goes pretty smoothly. He sets up his saw in the garage, parks his truck with the lumber near the entrance, and gets to work.

And it is a sight to see.

Just him in cargo pants and a sweat-soaked t-shirt, spending what little free time he has doing something like this, all for you. You can't come in the garage unless you put on safety glasses and preferably some ear protection when the power tools are going, but him? He's used to it all. And when he starts putting down the posts, his biceps flexing as he works the nail gun ...

You start to think that maybe you might like some more home additions.

"Like what you see, pet?" he asks as you stand around, just watching. He lifts his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow and his shirt lifts enough for you to catch a glimpse of a sliver of his hairy stomach, soft but strong.

You do. You really, really do.