manicrouge

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN - Simon Riley x F!Reader

INFORMATION

Popular works in the series are marked with '➸'

This entire series is x F!Reader

This series is set in the 1940s during WW2

Explicit works are marked, if you are a minor, please do not interact.

PLAYLIST

BLURB

Upon being called home during the evacuation of Dunkirk, a four-man brigade stumble across a farm in which Lieutenant Simon Riley becomes infatuated by a doe-eyed farm girl.

CHAPTERS

» CHAPTER ONE: MERE YET ABUNDANT

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴇᴠᴀᴄᴜᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴜɴᴋɪʀᴋ, ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ʙʀɪɢᴀᴅᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ, ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰʀᴇɴᴄʜ ꜰᴀʀᴍ ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴇᴇᴋ ʀᴇꜰᴜɢᴇ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴀʀ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ

» CHAPTER TWO: THE REQUEST

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀꜱ ʟᴀɴᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴛʀɪᴄᴋʏ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʀɢᴜᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ

» CHAPTER THREE: SCREAMS IN THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ɪꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀꜱᴛᴇᴘ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴍɪɴᴏʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴘᴇᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

» CHAPTER FOUR: THE QUESTION OF FAITH

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴ ɪɴɴ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪᴅᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱʜᴇʟᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪʙʟᴇ, Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴɪɴɢ ꜰᴀɪᴛʜ ɪɴ ɢᴏᴅ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴀꜱꜱᴀᴜʟᴛ

» CHAPTER FIVE: THE PANZER

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜᴘ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ'ꜱ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟ

» CHAPTER SIX: A SEAL UPON YOUR HEART

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴀ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴛᴜʀɴ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ꜱᴍᴜᴛ

» CHAPTER SEVEN: AMIENS

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴍɪᴇɴꜱ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: N/A

» CHAPTER EIGHT: THERE WAS ONE DAISY

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴡʜʏ?

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ʜᴏʀʀᴏʀ, ʙᴏᴍʙɪɴɢ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ

» CHAPTER NINE: DUNKIRK

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴡʜʏ?

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ'ꜱ, ᴜɴʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜʏ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ, ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ

» CHAPTER TEN: BOOK BOUND

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀ ɪꜱ ᴏᴠᴇʀ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: N/A

» EPILOGUE

[manicrouge]

Even more catdad!price

There's something to be said about the man and his adamancy that he hates the cat, hell, whenever you so much as suggest that he might like her, his back is up and he says the one line you've started to mouth whenever the pair of you get onto the topic: I don't like her, I tolerate her.

Huh, his toleration of the cat sure does look like adoration. You think these words, but you never say them to him, instead, just nodding your head and returning to whatever you were doing.

Only, it becomes undeniable that this man is full of shit, and he is one of the worst liars you have ever met.

The cat has become accustomed to sleeping on him whenever you're in the living room and he never ever pushes her off of him - in fact - you don't even know when this tradition started. He'll lie on the sofa, hand nestled in her fur, occasionally looking down from the TV to look at the sleeping cat.

Hell, you're quite sure you caught him slowing his breathing in an effort to not wake her.

And when he is home, you tend to do a lot of the house work; he works hard all the time, and with his request to look after the cat, you feed her, clean her litter tray, play with her - the whole nine yards.

Until, one afternoon, you go to grab her bowl, only to find that cat food is already in it, and, when you look to the man who was cooking, your brows furrow. 'Did you feed her?'

'Well, she came up to me meowin' and... well,' he clears his throat, 'she was doin' my head in so I fed her.'

'Doing your head in?' you repeat.

'Yeah,' says the man.

'Just say you like the cat, John.'

You watch him as he continues cooking, his back to you. 'Well, she's alright, I suppose.'

'That's the best I'm getting, isn't it?'

'Sure is, sweetheart.'

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN - Simon Riley x F!Reader

INFORMATION

Popular works in the series are marked with '➸'

This entire series is x F!Reader

This series is set in the 1940s during WW2

Explicit works are marked, if you are a minor, please do not interact.

PLAYLIST

BLURB

Upon being called home during the evacuation of Dunkirk, a four-man brigade stumble across a farm in which Lieutenant Simon Riley becomes infatuated by a doe-eyed farm girl.

CHAPTERS

» CHAPTER ONE: MERE YET ABUNDANT

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴇᴠᴀᴄᴜᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴜɴᴋɪʀᴋ, ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ʙʀɪɢᴀᴅᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ, ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰʀᴇɴᴄʜ ꜰᴀʀᴍ ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴇᴇᴋ ʀᴇꜰᴜɢᴇ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴀʀ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ

» CHAPTER TWO: THE REQUEST

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀꜱ ʟᴀɴᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴛʀɪᴄᴋʏ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʀɢᴜᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ

» CHAPTER THREE: SCREAMS IN THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ɪꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀꜱᴛᴇᴘ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴍɪɴᴏʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴘᴇᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

» CHAPTER FOUR: THE QUESTION OF FAITH

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴ ɪɴɴ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪᴅᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱʜᴇʟᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪʙʟᴇ, Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴɪɴɢ ꜰᴀɪᴛʜ ɪɴ ɢᴏᴅ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴀꜱꜱᴀᴜʟᴛ

» CHAPTER FIVE: THE PANZER

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜᴘ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ'ꜱ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟ

» CHAPTER SIX: A SEAL UPON YOUR HEART

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴀ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴛᴜʀɴ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ꜱᴍᴜᴛ

» CHAPTER SEVEN: AMIENS

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴍɪᴇɴꜱ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: N/A

» CHAPTER EIGHT: THERE WAS ONE DAISY

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴡʜʏ?

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ʜᴏʀʀᴏʀ, ʙᴏᴍʙɪɴɢ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ

» CHAPTER NINE: DUNKIRK

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴡʜʏ?

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ'ꜱ, ᴜɴʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜʏ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ, ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ

» CHAPTER TEN: BOOK BOUND

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀ ɪꜱ ᴏᴠᴇʀ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: N/A

» EPILOGUE

[manicrouge]

Girldad!Simon

You got home after being out of the house for most of the day. It had been a productive day: picking up dry-cleaning because your daughter spilt something on her dress - no matter how much you scrubbed you just couldn't get it out - restocking a few things for the cupboards, getting your nails done (thanks to your generous husband), and picking up food on the way home.

When you walked through the door, you were greeted by the sound of laughter and music, the giggles of your little girl having a smile forming on your face as she sang with all her might. You stood at the door for a moment, listening to her little voice, almost dropping the pizza in your hand when you heard your husband... singing?

Slowly, you approached the living room, standing in the doorway to see your daughter dressed in a princess dress, tiara on her head, using a wand as a microphone. Your husband stood beside her, wearing a tiara on his head, also holding a wand with pink tassels, using it as a microphone as he sang with her.

He turned to look at her, only to fully turn around, allowing you to see the full face of smudged and clumsy makeup he was wearing. His eyes were covered with a blue, glitter gel, lips marked with red lipstick, and when your daughter noticed he'd turned away, she turned to see you standing in the door.

'Mummy!' she squealed, bounding up to you. She wrapped her arms around your waist, hugging you tightly. Setting your hand on the top of her head, you smiled.

'Hi flower, have you and daddy been having fun?'

'Soooooo much fun! We gave each other makeovers. Daddy looks so pretty.'

You looked at Simon, who was still holding the wand. With a laugh, you nodded your head, 'so pretty, sweetheart, you're right.'

While your daughter rushed out the room to fetch you a drawing she made, you stood and stared at your husband. 'Y'know, red really brings out your eyes.'

'Shut up,' said the man, 'I was gonna say no, but then I saw her poutin' and... well,' he motioned towards his face.

'And the tiara?'

'Every princess needs a tiara, love.'

You couldn't keep yourself from laughing. 'And you're the prettiest princess of them all, Si.'

[manicrouge]

Even more catdad!price

There's something to be said about the man and his adamancy that he hates the cat, hell, whenever you so much as suggest that he might like her, his back is up and he says the one line you've started to mouth whenever the pair of you get onto the topic: I don't like her, I tolerate her.

Huh, his toleration of the cat sure does look like adoration. You think these words, but you never say them to him, instead, just nodding your head and returning to whatever you were doing.

Only, it becomes undeniable that this man is full of shit, and he is one of the worst liars you have ever met.

The cat has become accustomed to sleeping on him whenever you're in the living room and he never ever pushes her off of him - in fact - you don't even know when this tradition started. He'll lie on the sofa, hand nestled in her fur, occasionally looking down from the TV to look at the sleeping cat.

Hell, you're quite sure you caught him slowing his breathing in an effort to not wake her.

And when he is home, you tend to do a lot of the house work; he works hard all the time, and with his request to look after the cat, you feed her, clean her litter tray, play with her - the whole nine yards.

Until, one afternoon, you go to grab her bowl, only to find that cat food is already in it, and, when you look to the man who was cooking, your brows furrow. 'Did you feed her?'

'Well, she came up to me meowin' and... well,' he clears his throat, 'she was doin' my head in so I fed her.'

'Doing your head in?' you repeat.

'Yeah,' says the man.

'Just say you like the cat, John.'

You watch him as he continues cooking, his back to you. 'Well, she's alright, I suppose.'

'That's the best I'm getting, isn't it?'

'Sure is, sweetheart.'

[manicrouge]

once again promoting this

I AM MERELY MAN - Simon Riley x F!Reader

INFORMATION

Popular works in the series are marked with '➸'

This entire series is x F!Reader

This series is set in the 1940s during WW2

Explicit works are marked, if you are a minor, please do not interact.

PLAYLIST

BLURB

Upon being called home during the evacuation of Dunkirk, a four-man brigade stumble across a farm in which Lieutenant Simon Riley becomes infatuated by a doe-eyed farm girl.

CHAPTERS

» CHAPTER ONE: MERE YET ABUNDANT

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴇᴠᴀᴄᴜᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴜɴᴋɪʀᴋ, ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ʙʀɪɢᴀᴅᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ, ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰʀᴇɴᴄʜ ꜰᴀʀᴍ ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴇᴇᴋ ʀᴇꜰᴜɢᴇ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴀʀ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ

» CHAPTER TWO: THE REQUEST

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀꜱ ʟᴀɴᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴛʀɪᴄᴋʏ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʀɢᴜᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ

» CHAPTER THREE: SCREAMS IN THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ɪꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀꜱᴛᴇᴘ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴍɪɴᴏʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴘᴇᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

» CHAPTER FOUR: THE QUESTION OF FAITH

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴ ɪɴɴ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪᴅᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱʜᴇʟᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪʙʟᴇ, Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴɪɴɢ ꜰᴀɪᴛʜ ɪɴ ɢᴏᴅ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴀꜱꜱᴀᴜʟᴛ

» CHAPTER FIVE: THE PANZER

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜᴘ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ'ꜱ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟ

» CHAPTER SIX: A SEAL UPON YOUR HEART

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴀ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴛᴜʀɴ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ꜱᴍᴜᴛ

» CHAPTER SEVEN: AMIENS

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴍɪᴇɴꜱ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: N/A

» CHAPTER EIGHT: THERE WAS ONE DAISY

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴡʜʏ?

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ʜᴏʀʀᴏʀ, ʙᴏᴍʙɪɴɢ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ

» CHAPTER NINE: DUNKIRK

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴡʜʏ?

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ'ꜱ, ᴜɴʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜʏ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ, ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ

» CHAPTER TEN: BOOK BOUND

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀ ɪꜱ ᴏᴠᴇʀ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: N/A

» EPILOGUE

[manicrouge]

Even more catdad!price

There's something to be said about the man and his adamancy that he hates the cat, hell, whenever you so much as suggest that he might like her, his back is up and he says the one line you've started to mouth whenever the pair of you get onto the topic: I don't like her, I tolerate her.

Huh, his toleration of the cat sure does look like adoration. You think these words, but you never say them to him, instead, just nodding your head and returning to whatever you were doing.

Only, it becomes undeniable that this man is full of shit, and he is one of the worst liars you have ever met.

The cat has become accustomed to sleeping on him whenever you're in the living room and he never ever pushes her off of him - in fact - you don't even know when this tradition started. He'll lie on the sofa, hand nestled in her fur, occasionally looking down from the TV to look at the sleeping cat.

Hell, you're quite sure you caught him slowing his breathing in an effort to not wake her.

And when he is home, you tend to do a lot of the house work; he works hard all the time, and with his request to look after the cat, you feed her, clean her litter tray, play with her - the whole nine yards.

Until, one afternoon, you go to grab her bowl, only to find that cat food is already in it, and, when you look to the man who was cooking, your brows furrow. 'Did you feed her?'

'Well, she came up to me meowin' and... well,' he clears his throat, 'she was doin' my head in so I fed her.'

'Doing your head in?' you repeat.

'Yeah,' says the man.

'Just say you like the cat, John.'

You watch him as he continues cooking, his back to you. 'Well, she's alright, I suppose.'

'That's the best I'm getting, isn't it?'

'Sure is, sweetheart.'

[manicrouge]

'I'm telling you this is only gonna end badly' reader x 'what are ya talkin' about? I disarm bombs for a livin', lassie! A stray, feral, growling cat ain't gonna do nothing to me!' johnny...

Yes, you had to go the store afterwards for bandaids and antiseptic wipes, and no, your hopes of having a precious fuzzy little friend died the moment you had to pry the cat off your boyfriends head.

[manicrouge]

Policeofficer!Simon

Simon's patrol of the main street on the city in the late night had his breath clouding in the air, his hands tucked into the pockets of his uniform as he trudged along the round, listening to a mixture of blaring pop songs from every club he passed by.

Crowds of people surrounded him, but he didn't move for them, parting the people like the Red Sea. He continued on doing that until the clumsy clopping of heels filled his ears and a body collided with his own. He'd hardly had the time to process it, staggering backwards slightly.

A drunken giggle escaped your mouth as you peered up at him, swaying side to side. 'Did it hurt?'

He raised an eyebrow, 'what?'

'Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?'

He near enough rolled his eyes into the back of his head, watching as you steadied yourself. 'If you're gonna blame anyone, blame my friends,' you said, pointing behind you. He followed where you were pointing, all to find no one amidst the moving groups of people bar-hopping. 'They pushed me, an' thought it was funny.'

'There's no one there, sweetheart.'

'Oh,' you said, glancing over your shoulder, 'well, it's been fun talkin' officer,' you hiccuped, heels clomping against the ground as you held your hands out either side of you, 'imma go... find my friends.'

He catches your arm. 'Where do you live?'

You grinned ear to ear, 'why? You wanna do something?'

'No,' he said, pressing a button on the radio on his vest, 'Johnny, you alright patrolling main street?'

'Sure thing, Lt.'

'C'mon, let's get you home.'

You giggled happily, 'sure thing, officer.'

[manicrouge]

I'd like to thank my moggy, her name is Mavis (Mave, or May -- also goes by, 'kitty cat' and 'baba' and, for a brief period of time 'meine katze'), for inspiring my Catdad!Price drabbles. She is currently staring at me as I type this right now.

Here are some pics of her as a thank you for the support on the silly little imagines :3

Arguably my best post on this website

LUV YA

Min <3

[manicrouge]

Kyle LOOOOVVEESSS physical media, you cannot tell me otherwise.

He has a record player in the apartment you share with each other, and has a broad collection of artists he loves. It's always been his thing, so, when he comes home with a bag in the shape of a vinyl, you don't question it.

It's only when he approaches you and sets it down on your lap that you turn your head up at him, brows raised. 'What's this?'

'Open it, love.'

And so you do, pulling it out of the brown paper bag, you find a photo of the pair of you on your first date on the front cover. 'Turn it over,' he says.

When you turn it over, you find a list of songs in his handwriting. Placing his hands on your shoulders, he presses his lips against the top of your head, 'I found this place where you can make your own vinyls,' he explained, 'so I sent in a list of songs that remind me of you and got it pressed.' Your cheeks are burning red as you look up at him. 'What do you think?'

Your fingers brush down the lengthy list of love songs, 'all of these remind me of you?'

'Each and every last one of them - I would've had more but there was only so much space,' he explains, taking the vinyl out of your hand.

He approaches the record player, taking the disc out of its packaging and setting it down. He's meticulous in his cleaning of the record, before he drops the needle, a sweet melody playing through the speakers.

Holding his hand out to you, he says, 'dance with me?'

You take his hand excitedly, his hand settling against the small of your back. Your other hand presses against his cheek as you kiss him, mumbling out, 'I love you.'

[manicrouge]

The entirety of the novella is now yours !! I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it; it's been one of my favourite things I've written on my tumblr to date and I do think it has some of my best story telling in it full stop.

Please let me know what you think !! I love chatting and would love to know what you think of this story !!

Lots of luv,

Min <3

I AM MERELY MAN - Simon Riley x F!Reader

INFORMATION

Popular works in the series are marked with '➸'

This entire series is x F!Reader

This series is set in the 1940s during WW2

Explicit works are marked, if you are a minor, please do not interact.

PLAYLIST

BLURB

Upon being called home during the evacuation of Dunkirk, a four-man brigade stumble across a farm in which Lieutenant Simon Riley becomes infatuated by a doe-eyed farm girl.

CHAPTERS

» CHAPTER ONE: MERE YET ABUNDANT

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴇᴠᴀᴄᴜᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴜɴᴋɪʀᴋ, ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ʙʀɪɢᴀᴅᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ, ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰʀᴇɴᴄʜ ꜰᴀʀᴍ ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴇᴇᴋ ʀᴇꜰᴜɢᴇ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴀʀ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ

» CHAPTER TWO: THE REQUEST

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀꜱ ʟᴀɴᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴛʀɪᴄᴋʏ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʀɢᴜᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ

» CHAPTER THREE: SCREAMS IN THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ɪꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀꜱᴛᴇᴘ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴍɪɴᴏʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴘᴇᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

» CHAPTER FOUR: THE QUESTION OF FAITH

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴ ɪɴɴ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪᴅᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱʜᴇʟᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪʙʟᴇ, Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴɪɴɢ ꜰᴀɪᴛʜ ɪɴ ɢᴏᴅ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴀꜱꜱᴀᴜʟᴛ

» CHAPTER FIVE: THE PANZER

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜᴘ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ'ꜱ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟ

» CHAPTER SIX: A SEAL UPON YOUR HEART

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴀ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴛᴜʀɴ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ꜱᴍᴜᴛ

» CHAPTER SEVEN: AMIENS

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴍɪᴇɴꜱ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: N/A

» CHAPTER EIGHT: THERE WAS ONE DAISY

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴡʜʏ?

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ʜᴏʀʀᴏʀ, ʙᴏᴍʙɪɴɢ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ

» CHAPTER NINE: DUNKIRK

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴡʜʏ?

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ'ꜱ, ᴜɴʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜʏ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ, ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ

» CHAPTER TEN: BOOK BOUND

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀ ɪꜱ ᴏᴠᴇʀ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: N/A

» EPILOGUE

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN (EPILOGUE)

EPILOGUE: CONCERNING LIEUTENANT RILEY

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

I have never, in my life, read something so tragic.

I uncovered the journal of Lieutenant Simon Riley — later referred to by his call-sign ‘Ghost’ — amongst the things that had been stowed away in the attic of the home he lived in and had felt inspired to tell the story of the love he had found and lost, all within the span of a few days. In the box, I would also like to note, was a mask —  although he made no allusion to wearing it during the time that this story was set, it seemed to be something that came after the death of the woman in these pages. 

Their tale was devastating and he had seemed to be very harsh on himself whenever it came to describing how frustrated he was that, no matter how he tried to word things, he could never do the girl he had fallen for justice. He stated often how he was too ‘stupid’ to find the words and how he wished that he could write something coherent, to let the world know that even in spite of the horrors of war he experienced, love still persisted. I have no idea what happened to him for me and my husband bought this house from and old woman as opposed to the man who clearly lived here as shown from by the box of things we found in the attic. 

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been unable to sleep — and it hasn’t just been the result of the baby kicking — but also because I can’t stop thinking of the painfully short time they got to spend with one another and how he had to return from France alone without her. His ramblings were of a man who had been grieving and I do not understand why she hadn’t dared to speak about the wound that she experienced in the blast that occurred in Amiens. I suppose that, after losing so much, she hadn’t the heart to continue or, maybe she just never noticed it. Adrenaline can trick the human body and he’d stated multiple times that she’d told him that she wanted to go with them, that she wanted to be with him. But it wasn’t to be as she passed after telling him that she loved him. She’d said so in his native tongue, a last ditch effort to show him what their lives could have been like if she had not been victim to such torment. 

My heart bleeds for the young woman who was left to rot on that beach — for all she experienced, losing the life that she knew in the span of a week. The story of Hattie was particularly devastating, I couldn’t bear to turn the page of the journal and had to take some time to myself before continuing on with reading. A little girl, so pure and so young killed in such a devastating way. Even the Lieutenant couldn’t bear to write too much on it, although, I found the sketch of the daisy that I believe he placed upon the grave to be particularly heartwarming. They knew those girls for such a short amount of time and it was through the existence of that war that they became a family. I suppose that was a bonus of the conflict although, war is fruitless and the results of such were portrayed in the journal of a bereaved soldier who wished to hold the woman he fell in love with again — just one last time. 

I wrote this in the hopes of bringing comfort to him and I hope he knows that people will see this story and that the memory of that family and of that brigade were not destined to die with the passing of time. In fact, I mentioned it to my husband and we are considering calling our daughter ‘Hattie.’

There’s nothing to be done and I hope that their souls can exist together in the pages of this story and live out the lives that they were supposed to lead in spite of the formidable forces which destroyed their story before it had a chance to start. 

Together.

I will end this passage — acknowledgement, or whatever you call it — with a quotation directly from the Lieutenant himself, which I found to be rather compelling as it covered the last two pages of his journal, scrawled by the hands of what anyone else would assume to be a madman. I understand this to be as the result of the love that he lost and I know it would be a disservice to not only you, the reader, but also a disservice to Riley himself as these words seemed to be the only ones he was not critical of.

‘I AM MERELY MAN — BUT ALSO A GHOST.’ 

- Lt. Simon Riley (1945).

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN (CH. 10)

CHAPTER TEN: BOOK BOUND

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀ ɪꜱ ᴏᴠᴇʀ.

[ᴄᴡ]: N/A

IN THE WAKE OF THE SOUND OF SIRENS WAS THE SOUND OF LAUGHTER. It had been said, confirmation from the mouth of Mr. Churchill himself that the war was over. 

What had started all those years ago had ended and it was with excitement that he returned home after returning to France. There was a prep in his step, one that Johnny had mocked him for as he disembarked from the boat they had settled on, just as he had done all those years ago, the only difference being that this time, you were already standing on the shore, waiting for him with open arms, grinning ear to ear. It didn’t matter that his pants and boots were soaked from the water as he hadn’t the heart to wait for the boat to dock properly, throwing himself overboard and into freezing, waist high waters, wading through the water with haste. When your hands were finally pressed against his shoulders, you squealed as he lifted you off the ground, spinning you around. He dipped his head, pressing his lips against yours. Had you been bothered by his chapped mouth, you made no effort to move away from him, instead, you pressed your palm against the back of his head in an effort to keep him from leaving you again. And he welcomed it, oh, he welcomed it with such joy! You were there, in his arms, and he embraced you until he was short of air and had no choice but to pull away. He had survived a war, he couldn’t have died to your kiss.

Not yet, at least. 

There was a celebration on the shores as people welcomed their loved ones back with open arms and, when he looked at you, he realised you had began to cry. When you had, he hadn’t a clue as he pressed his lips against your face in an effort to stop the waterworks. In response, you giggled, pushing him away by his shoulders. For a moment, you stood and admired him, chest raising and falling quickly, almost awestruck that he was there, standing before you. He closed his hand over yours, brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and with a smile, he said, ‘Tu m'as manqué, mon amour.’ 

You blinked at him before erupting into a burst of joyous laughed and, with a sharp breath and a smile on your face, you said, ‘I’ve missed you too, my love.’ 

The surprise that struck his face must have been blatant as your laughter only continued. This time, when there were tears streaming down your cheeks, they were the result of your happiness, and what a welcome sight it was. 

‘You learnt English?’ 

You rolled your eyes, ‘what else was I gonna do sitting around waiting for you to get home?’ Your accent was still thick, although, concerning how you pronounced your words, he noticed a Southern twinge.

‘You sound like a Tory.’ 

‘Is that a problem?’ you asked with furrowed brows. 

The Northerner grinned as he leant in for another kiss and, before pressing his lips against yours, he said, ‘nothing I can’t fix, sweetheart.’ 

The joy of being together was the heaven he had heard mentioned by the mouth of his father when he had only been a boy. A man who had no right to speak the word of the Lord for, if there were to be anyone who would burn in hell, it would surely be him. Nonetheless, he hardly gave the man a thought opting to devote every second of every day to you — his muse, his doe-eyed beauty. Your arms were so inviting, like the blue water on the shore he chased you across, the he longed to jump into them. And that was how life would be for the rest of it, for it was love that prevailed over all evil. And he was quite sure that no love like yours had existed and, when it came to the final breath he knew would come to him one day, he was unsure a love like it would exist ever again. 

And so it was that he and his love for you reigned eternal, forever able to feel the heat of your passion and the ice of your moods when he had struck a particular mood either accidentally or on purpose. Either or, he would have it no other way so long as you were to remain. 

Together. Forever. 

A mere human, and her beloved ghost. 

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN (CH. 9)

CHAPTER NINE: DUNKIRK

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ʀᴇꜱᴄᴜᴇ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴇꜱ.

[ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ'ꜱ, ᴜɴʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜʏ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ, ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ

THERE HAD NOT been a second wasted between the five of them, determination driving them. 

When they broke out from the forest, finding themselves in yet another city’s ruins, the crashing of waves accompanied their arrival this time and he had not felt the emotion which welled in his chest ever in his life.

With a mixture of sleepless nights and blistering feet, he was relieved to be encroaching on the location that had not seemed too far initially. Hell, he'd walked further than the distance he had covered since leaving Nancy and, still, he felt as though the days prior dragged painfully so. Had he been told that they had actually been travelling for years at that point, he would have been inclined to believe such a blatant falsehood.

The days passed had been bleak, significantly so, and he found his eyes occasionally drifting to the Captain in front of him. Typically, when walking, Simon had noticed his hands would always grasp the straps of his rucksack. A while back he'd complained of chaffing, stating that they would irritate him, that it was bound to do more damage than a gunshot would if he didn't keep his bag from shifting with every step.

He progressed with a hobble, limping as though he had been wounded. One arm held the strap of his rucksack, whilst his other hand hung limply at his side, fingers curled, almost forming a fist.

It was as though he was holding something.

But, there was nothing there, leaving his hand waving about in the empty air.

The sound of the water, the ride home that had been promised was right at their fingertips, granted, he imagined the feeling would have been much more dramatic had the little girl with doe eyes been there to hear the crash of the shore with them.

It was where she should have been: with her sister, jumping, dancing, laughing, bounding excitedly towards the sandy shore.

Instead, she lay still, silent, confined to a dirt tomb for the rest of eternity. Her existence had hardly made a mark, she had so much to learn, so much to do.

Time had moved faster than her little legs could manage, that fact left him seething. The tension in his jaw had not soothed since he had laid that lonesome daisy atop the smallest grave he had ever dug in his life.

A part of him wished that he too had died when she had, all to spare him the shame he felt every time he looked into his lovers eyes. The coldness, the detachment — everything — he had only seen in the eyes of soldiers who had served during the first world war.

You were shellshocked.

There was no other way to put it and he wished he could look into your eyes and see the light he had saw upon your initial meeting. To see you smile as you had done when he’d offered you a slice of apple would have been enough to solve the bleeding of his heart, courtesies the wound and stitch him back up. He’d have healed so quickly, everyone would be shocked by the speed of his recovery. But, no. It was not going to be so and he knew better than to trick himself into thinking that you would be in the condition you had been prior to such a horrific tragedy.

You’d lost so much in a week.

Too much. 

He hadn’t much to begin with, his background in comparison to yours night and day. Yes, he had a mother, a father (regrettably so), and a loyal brother in the form of Tommy. But he hadn’t experienced softness until he had experienced you. It was not in the words you spoke to him, hell, he’d never been any good with words or writing, he couldn’t have given a fuck about stupid words. It was in everything else, embedded deep within your soul.

The closest to God a man like him could ever hope to get was when he embraced you in his arms and listened to the gentleness of your breath as you slept. Like a sirens tune, it lulled him into a state of serenity and, for the first time since the war had started, he slept soundly. To have encountered such taught him all he needed to know — you didn’t deserve an ounce of the suffering you had endured. If anyone did, it was him. 

You hobbled beside him, locks matted, eyes glued on the blueness of the ocean in the distance. Your lips were chapped, pupils dilated, the bags under your eyes worsening with every second that passed you by.

Still, you looked pretty. He wished he could have said so to you, told you verbally in a way you would understand. There would be time for that, he thought, considering the fact that you had made the choice of abandoning France to come back home with him. He’d visit the library, pick up a book for the first time in his life and read until he went crosseyed if it meant that he could sit down and have a conversation with you.

The thought of visiting a library excited him more than he cared to admit, imagine being able to ask you all the basic questions: what’s your favourite colour? What’s your favourite animal? It was the little things, the tiny things. It almost made the entire hardship of war worth it. His hand slipped into yours and he squeezed your hand tightly. In response, you squeezed his back, your hold slightly lacklustre. He paid no mind to it, smiling ear to ear as he continued to daydream of the future that awaited you beyond the boats.

‘Almost there,’ said Kyle, slightly breathless, ‘been the longest week of my life this.’ 

‘Tell me about it,’ said Johnny, wiping the sweat from his brow, ‘about time we got some good fuckin’ news though, ain’t it?’ 

He looked at you and then at Simon. ‘You’re doing a good thing, Lt.’ 

‘Wasn’t gonna leave her here to rot,’ he answered. ‘Not what she deserves — not at all.’ 

‘You oughta pick up a book when we make it back home, Lt.’ 

‘Planning on it, Johnny.’ 

The man grinned in a similar fashion to Simon, and they fell into a comfortable silence as the ebbed closer and closer to the promise land. When they were a couple of streets away from the pier, the hollering of soldiers filled their ears.

They were boisterous and loud, full of life and excitement as they chimed out a jaunty tune, sounding almost careless. Had he not a single clue of the happenings just on their doorstep, he would have thought it was a seaside fair they were approaching, not the evacuation of the armed forces. The tune grew louder and louder and his heart was thudding in his chest. He hold your hand tighter, your hands sweaty from the summertime heat. Neither of you attempted to pull away from one another, however.

No, he wouldn’t dare to do that. Not with you. 

‘They’re excited,’ remarked Johnny. 

‘No Serg,’ Price said, ‘they’re drunk.’ 

‘Ah,’ said the Scot, ‘even better!’ 

The Captain rolled his eyes at the man’s words, and Simon noticed that he walked with a prep in his step, almost skipping towards the pier. His excitement was infectious, as was the excitement of all the soldiers he could hear just an stones throw away from them. He hadn’t attended a party so loud since he had been back home in Manchester, and what he had went to was hardly a party, rather, a brief drink in the pub with his old man and his brother.

It was short lived — the joy that is — as it died as quickly as his sobriety when he placed his lips on his first pint. Nothing was ever simple with his dad, he always seemed to have an issue with something. It didn’t matter what it was. It could have been the best day ever: the sun high in the sky accompanied with a cooling breeze, no lines at any of the establishments he tended to, and he could have been let out on a half day at work, and that man would still hunt for something to be mad about. His search never strayed much further than Simon, however. Keeping his son at arms reach so he would always have something to blame for his shortcomings. 

Simon was only able to shake off the thought of his old man when he felt you press against his arm, losing your footing as you stepped onto the sand of the beach. The sight beyond was straight out of a dream as hundreds of men stood around, sitting in the sand, laughing and joking, many nursing bottles of wine that they had found on their travels.

They were as rowdy as teenage boys — most of them were that — sticking out like a sore thumb in a uniform which was much too big for them, the sleeves and pants having been rolled up. To the left, further down from the main part of the beach was a small hut. The groups of men seemed to disband the further they got and the Captain remarked that it would be a good place to stay until the boats showed. Silently, everyone agreed and moved towards the wooden hut. 

Upon making it there, Simon assumed that it must have been a changing room prior to the war. The sun shone down on the golden sands and it was much too hot to stay and sit out in it for he was conscious of the possibility of you burning.

So, he held your forearm, keeping you close to him as they stepped inside. The pair of you sat against the back panel of the hut, back pressed against the splintering wood. Upon sitting down, you rested your head against his shoulder and he looked at you in the corner of your eye.

Your exhaustion saddened him terribly, knowing there was nothing he could do to take away the pain you were feeling at that moment. The weather was scorching, almost feverish and it showed itself on your skin. You were hot. Very much so. In noticing such, he moved his hand and took out his canteen, all to find it empty.

He turned to Johnny and said, ‘you have any water left?’ 

The Scot turned his head up, lips wrapped around a bottle of liquor he had pulled out of thin air. He nodded, not taking his lips off his bottle as he grabbed his own canteen and held it out to him. Simon took it gladly, unscrewing the lid of it, turning his body so you were now pressed against his chest. You moved a little, beady eyes looking up at him as he pressed the canteen against your bottom list, insisting, ‘have a drink, sweetheart.’

Turning the canteen up, water flowed out of it and into your mouth. You lapped it up greedily, as though you had been thirsty for days and he wondered why you never bothered to ask him for something to drink. The water which didn’t make it into your mouth slid down the curve of your chin. You drank until the canteen was empty, not that Johnny would have minded as he was much more interesting in his bottle of booze. When Simon pulled it away from your mouth, he used his hand to wipe your chin and smiled at you. 

Beneath your breath, you mumbled, ‘Je suis fatiguée. Je veux dormir.’

It was slurred as your tongue seemed sluggish and when he turned his body so his back was against the wall, you placed your head back against his shoulder.

The party on the outside raged on as all of you sat in the hut, the faint smell of urine filling his nose with each breath he took. He’d smelt worse, he thought, and it was worth it so long as you were kept out of the sun. He’d never encountered such heat, partially due to growing up in the North of England.

Taking you home and allowing you to see his home town had his heart throbbing in his chest. By no means was it as pretty as the countryside the pair of you had explored together, full of tall grey buildings — probably mostly ruined after the Nazi’s efforts.

Even then, he gleamed at the thought of taking you there, having you on his arm as you sat in some mediocre cafe. You’d remark that the pastries were lacklustre, the ones you had back home were so much better. And he would nod his head, agreeing that they were disgusting, even though the only remnants of his food would be the crumbs on his plate and on the table. 

It would all be so perfect when you made it back to Britain and, while sitting in the silence, listening to your gentle breaths, the hollering of the soldiers outside and the crashing of the waves on the beach, he thought of what he would say to you when you had your very first, proper, conversation with one another.

Would you talk about the weather? Would you discuss your favourite foods with him? Anything and everything, he thought to himself: he would be read for anything you were to say to him. In the midst of his mind, he was brought out of his trance when you grabbed his arm, closing your hand around his wrist. He looked down at you expectantly.

Your tongue pressed against your chapped lips and, with a sleepy smile, you said, ‘Je t'aime.’

There was a sorrow in your words, the grief you had experienced the past couple of days clearly making its way from where it had rested in his chest.

Simon stared at you, tongue heavy in his mouth, his stomach churning as he smiled so brightly his face ached.

And, with pride beaming in his chest, he said to you, ‘Je t'aime,' bringing your hand up to his mouth and pressing his lips against the top of your hand.

You settled against him after saying that and he wrapped his arm around your shoulder resting his head atop of yours. You stayed like that until, after what must have been an hour, the drunken conversation of the soldiers outside shifted to cheering.

He’d thought it was gunshots at first with how firm their hands joined together in clapping, yet, his fear was laid to rest when he head the honking of a horn.

Garrick was the first one who rose up from where he had been sitting, remarking that he was going to go and find a bush to piss in before they boarded a boat and Johnny staggered to his feet, slurring that he also needed the toilet, rushing out behind him.

Price shook his head at the pair as they left the hut, standing up and putting his rucksack back on his shoulders. He offered a look to Simon, then turned his attention to you. Simon had thought he seemed happy to see the pair of you together, such an idea springing to mind as he nodded his head. Then, he turned around and left the hut.

As the calls of more ships horns edged closer and closer, he turned his head to find that you had fallen asleep on his shoulder. With a careful nudge, he grinned. 

‘Wake up, love. They’re here — we’re going home.’ 

[manicrouge]

to all the new followers pls show this some love i love this series sm and worked so hard on it

I AM MERELY MAN (CH. 8)

CHAPTER EIGHT: THERE WAS ONE DAISY

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴡʜʏ?

[ᴄᴡ]: ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ʜᴏʀʀᴏʀ, ʙᴏᴍʙɪɴɢ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ

(This chapter is graphic — if you are sensitive to any of the aforementioned warnings, please do NOT read. The brutalities of war are harsh and very real. This is a work of fiction but is still inspired/ directly references things that very real people experienced and still experience on a daily basis.)

THE HIGH PITCHED SCREECHING IN YOUR EARS PERSISTED, it persisted terribly so, in fact, and the sound of the world around you became muffled.

You lied, your body aching, believing that the sirens had not done their job properly as you had been left with no time to move out of harms way. Really, you had heard the whistle before you had heard the warning. It was loud, the shadow looming over the towns square as blatant as blood stain on a white dress, the immanent destruction unescapable as you turned to look across the square to the cafe you had dreamt of visiting, spying you sister and grandmother sitting at the table.

The sight warmed your heart, the two people you cared most for in your life sitting there together, sharing a cup of tea and some pastries with one another. The war seemed to have died out with that picture, existing only in the healing bruise on your cheek — a reminder the parents you had lost by the hands of the enemies.

How delightful it was, the heat which radiated in your chest. You grinned ear to ear, looking back at Simon for what you had been convinced to be the last time. He beckoned you along, waving his hand in the air, encouraging you to go and take a seat at the table with the pair of them. You moved with haste, nearly skipping, and that’s when you heard it. 

The whistling. 

It was so quiet at first and you had mistook it for the whistle of one of the locals in the town. And then the shadow appeared. Like an eclipse, the world seemed to darken. The buzzing of the engines raging above the sky was akin to hornets, and when you lifted your head you saw it.

What happened in the moments after were a blur.

You hear screaming, a lot of screaming and crying too. Pleads to God, asking why he would permit something so inhumane, something so torturous.

Some even begged for the Lords forgiveness, you heard it prior to the blast. And they were so minor, so small the crimes they confessed with their chest. You had even caught someone apologising for forgetting to pray that morning.

You ended up down one of the side streets, limbs strewn out, lying like a beached starfish when you came too. A dizzying sickness struck you with immediacy and, as you lifted your head, the world seemed to be spinning.

You hadn’t the strength nor the sense about yourself to get up off the ground, fingertips grazing at the bricks that had originally belonged to the fountain in the centre of the square. The buzzing of the planes was no more and, when you opened your eyes, looking right at the sky, there were none. 

They didn’t even wait around for the devastation they caused.

The chatter, the music, the laughter which all turned to begging and pleads were no more, only the sound of concrete clinking against the streets of the City being heard. It was all warped. The dust from the destruction sat against your chest, you felt like you were consuming mouthfuls of sand as you looked above as the world continued to wage on in spite of the calamity that had just taken place.

It took a while until you heard his voice, rasped as he coughed his lungs out, he cried out for you, begging for you to respond to him. You lifted your head, spying a figure appearing through the dust, nose and mouth buried into the crevice of his inner elbow. You pressed your hands against the cobblestones, momentarily wondering where the flowers Simon had given you just moments before had gone. You searched temperamentally, pushing yourself off the ground with a huff as he knocked into the rubble in a desperate attempt to get to you.

He did so quickly, dropping to his knees, hands holding your face as he checked you over. You hadn’t a clue what he was saying to you; your ears felt like they were bleeding, the throbbing of your heart absolving you of your ability to hear.

And you hurt, you hurt so terribly bad you had thought you were going to die.

So, you wrapped your arms around his neck, your grazed hand pressing against the back of his head, telling yourself that you were safe; you were in his arms.

Your bottom lip wobbled, the taste of metal filling your mouth as you sucked in a deep breath, flaring your nostrils as tears clung to your eyelashes. He shushed you, holding you tightly, his chapped lips skimming your ear as he pressed a kiss against the side of your head. 

It was him holding you, the hot breath fanning against your ear that made you remember. The thought struck you like a blade as you had felt a similar thing when you had been at that inn — when you and Hattie had shared a bed with one another.

As though awaking from a nightmare, your eyes widened, your hands trembling as you pushed yourself away from the man. In spite of your state, you staggered to your feet, the adrenaline coursing through your veins sending electric shocks through all your nerves. The dust had not since settled as the blast had hardly been a minute ago at that point. It was as thick as the most staunch fog, uncaring for your mission. You showed it the same care as you threw yourself into dust cloud, ignoring Simon who frantically called after you. 

The air was burning, scolding, and your lungs ached as you tripped over piles of rubble, merely missing the crater left by the explosion, moving around it, hands out either side of you to steady yourself as you headed in the direction of where you believed the cafe to be. You heard the crackling of flames, the muffled murmurs of people calling out for their loved ones. You’d lost your voice in the midst of your panic, unable to find anything but your footing which left you towards a building that appeared through the mist. 

The front of the cafe had been decimated. The furniture on the outside blown through the window. You tread of rocks, coughing loudly. That was the first time you called out to them. 

‘HATTIE! MÉMÉ!’ 

Your hysterics were kept at bay, body fuelled with determination as you encroached on the crime scene. Your movement stopped, glass shattered beneath your foot, hooked on the small wall of the cafe was a hand. It was small in size, too small to be lying in the rubble deservedly. It hung limply, unmoved by the sound of sirens and people surrounding it.

Just below it was a stuffed rabbit. 

Time slowed, the piercing screech in your ears worsening as you stood and stared. A whimper escaped your lips, and you brought your hands together, squeezing them tightly hoping that you’d wake up back in the farmhouse — that all you had been witness too since leaving the security of your home was one wicked dream. If it were a dream, it was unending as you did not wake in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. No. You remained prisoner to the schemes of evil, forced to reckon with the sight before you. 

You broke. 

You screamed, keeling over onto the ground. ‘NO! NO! NO!’ Your open hand slapped against the cobble, disturbing the dust as it clouded around you. ‘Oh no,’ you said, saliva hanging from your bottom lip, phlegm and snot hitting the ground as you winced.

Your tears and snot darkened the dust below you, and you heaved, crawling on your hands on knees towards the little hand. At the sound of your anguish, it did not move. It remained undisturbed.

Extending your hand out, the tips of your fingers brushed against the limb, sliding off of it, landing on the rabbit below. You clutched the you with a tight fist, as though it had been the rabbits fault.

You hadn’t the heart to look, to see what had happened in your absence. Instead, you turned your eyes down towards the ground, hand firmly planted on the stuffed toy and vomited the tea you had shared with your grandmother and Hattie earlier that morning.

You heard the calling of the British from behind you.

You didn’t lift your head as you continued to spill your guts onto the ground, sobbing like a maniac. Too much had happened, too much for your heart to handle and, when you heard a gasp leave the mouth of the Captain, you had all the confirmation you needed. Blubbering like a baby, you rattled out belligerent words, asking how it could be so — what had you done to deserve such a cruel fate? 

You were held by the shoulders, moved up and pulled backwards so you were sitting against the ground. Unable to catch your breath, the sight in front of you was a blur, although, you could see enough to see Price and Johnny stepping into the remains of the cafe. Johnny brought his hand to his mouth, taking a short step back as he stared down in horror at whatever was hidden behind the wall of the cafe.

‘She’s gone!’ you blubbered loudly, tone shrill as you coughed, pressing the palm of your hand against your forehead, ‘i- isn’t she?’ You directed your question at Price, snivelling. In one effort to save yourself the agony, you said, ‘p- pleaasseee,’ you clutched your chest, feeling your heart thudding against the tips of your fingers, ‘please tell me it’s not…’ you gulped, swallowing a mouthful of vomit, ‘please tell me it’s — that it’s not— not her. Anyone else, j- just... not my Hattie.’

Even the man, that gruff powerhouse of a man, couldn’t find the words. He stared at you, then back down at the floor, rubbing his face with his hands as he nodded his head slowly. Pressing the palms of your hands into your eye sockets, you sobbed your heart out, hearing nothing anyone said, only the rushing of the faucet that had been turned on behind your eyes. You wished to die there and then, with them. So, when you were picked up off the ground, you cried out to be released, to be left to rot there because you were completely alone. 

No family left. Just you. 

And you felt so incredibly alone. 

Laid like a corpse in Simon’s arms, you felt your body swaying as you were removed from the rubble, seeing other survivors of the frivolous attack crawling out of the ruins.

In particular, you saw a woman.

She was wearing an apron, you believed it to have initially been white, marked with a scarlet red. It was not clear where exactly she was bleeding from and she made it but two feet from the cloud of fog she had escaped from before she collapsed onto the ground, landing motionless with her cheek pressed into the dirt. The sound of sirens — this time ambulances — filled your ears. You weren’t relieved by the sound, quite frankly, you were unmoved by everything.

Simon’s chest rose and fell quickly, occasionally nudging you as he trudged through the mess, dipping up one of the side streets. He placed you down onto the steps of a building, crouching down in front of you, holding your face with his hand, forcing you to look at him. You complied, all things par from her blurring in your vision. Your mouth turned downwards, stammering on your own breath as you burst into tears once more, falling into his arms. He caught you unflinchingly, rubbing your back as you clung to him like a flea on a dog's back. 

And, while holding you, he mumbled, ‘désolé.’ He repeated it more times than you could count as he said it under his breath, over and over again until stopped. He had made it half way through the word, the end of it getting stuck in his throat and, when you pulled away from him, you realised that he too was crying. It was silent, small tears welled in his eyes and, when he blinked, a single tear rolled down his cheek. 

You embraced one another and cried like children. 

The next time you saw Hattie, she was covered in a tarnished white sheet, in the arms of the Captain as she had been just two days before. He carried her from the rubble, the stuffed plush rabbit in the hands of Garrick. All three of the soldiers walked with their heads hung low. ‘We looked for your grandmother,’ said Price grimly, ‘but… well…’

‘Don’t,’ you said, pulling away from Simon, ‘please don’t.’ 

He remained silent, watching as you pushed yourself from the steps, approaching him. There was blood on the middle of the sheet, possibly from a wound in the stomach or something, you didn’t know and, frankly, you didn’t want to know.

Extending out a trembling hand, you rested it against the stain, hoping to feel the raising and falling of her belly, hoping to find some trace of proof that what happened wasn’t so. Your hand raised higher and higher until you grasped the edge of the sheet, gently pulling it down to reveal her face. It was strange, so strange, how peaceful she looked. She looked like she was sleeping.

Your fingers curled against her cheek. 

She was still warm. 

Tilting your head as your eyes narrowed, more tears falling down your cheeks. With your whole body shaking, you felt your knees buckle and, in the blink of an eye, you were keeled over on the ground, sobbing into the floor. 

The proposition of an informal burial was made by Johnny.

He spoke up quietly, remarking that, if she were to be taken by an ambulance, there was a chance you would never have the opportunity to see her again. Price relayed it to you, speaking as quiet as his Sergeant. You wished to vomit again, but, having brought up everything in your stomach, your terror was restrained to a small, yellow puddle which soaked into the dust of the wilting building surrounding you. It swirled in the wind like the petals from cherry blossom trees, piling up in the sidelines of the street.

Eventually, you nodded to the proposal and attempted to push yourself up off the ground. Your arms shook in an effort to secure your weight and you only made it up off the ground thanks to Simon and Garrick who crouched down, capturing both your arms and pulling you up off the ground. Their hold remained on you as you walked through the ruined streets of Amiens, the calling of birds you had heard upon your arrival no more as they had been replaced — or maybe overpowered — by the screams and cries of the innocent, and the sirens of ambulances. 

You walked, explaining under your breath in very few words that, down the road you were walking on, there was a Cemetery. Ironically conveniently, you wished it wasn’t so, but you knew it was better than having her in some random field. Price nodded, looking down at the bundle he had in his arms, exhaling deeply, lightly shaking his head. When you made it to the Cemetery, the sun was in the middle of the sky, although, there was not a soul within. Guided by a gravel path which twisted and turned with tree planted on the sidelines, you walked until you read the very back of the Cemetery, finding a rather large plot of land which had not been touched. Grey gravestones were in the surroundings, all without flowers.

Johnny disappeared and when he returned, he came back with two shovels. 

Wordlessly, they started to dig the grave. 

You turned away, hand clasped over your mouth, sucking in a deep breath. You moved away from the soon-to-be grave site, stating that you were going to find some flowers — something to place atop the grave. Each breath was murderous, burning, and, when you made it back onto the path, you had to steady yourself with a shaky hand, near enough coughing your lungs up as you brought up more bile.

Breathlessly, you patted the gravestone of the unfortunate souls grave whom you had essentially desecrated, looking around the Cemetery for any form of flowers blooming from the ground. Much to your displeasure, as you stepped onto the field, you found nothing.

No daisies, no daffodils, no bluebells — not even a single fucking daffodil. 

There was nothing. 

Nature was exhausted, tired of the wars humanity waged, not only against one another, but against her too.

The knot in your throat worsened at the realisation and you searched and searched until Simon approached you. He said nothing to you, simply holding his hand out to you, showing you one tiny daisy. His fingers practically swallowed the dainty little flower. You smiled the best you could at his effort, even though some of the petals of the flowers had been stuck together and, when you looked past him, you noticed the piles of dirt which had been heaped up beside the grave the men had dug. He said something to you, holding his free hand out to you, motioning for you to follow after him. 

It was time. 

You walked with him back to the soldiers. The shovels had been shoved into the grass, standing tall as though to show their respect for the dead. When you peered into the hole, just a couple feet down was the white sheet. It had sunken against her frame allowing you to make out the bumps of her hands resting against her bleeding stomach, her feet turning in on one another, and the slight bump of her nose.

She was just sleeping, you told yourself, just sleeping, and she was okay, she was going to be okay and you were too. You all surrounded the shallow grave hands out in front of you and joined, heads bowed. No one had words for the indescribable horror of the situation, for the loss of something so sweet, so gentle, and so innocent. It didn’t come down to anything aside from evil and, when you turned your head up to the sky and saw the sun looming over you, you gritted your teeth together. 

‘Why?’ you asked, a white-knuckled grip braced against the fabric of your snagged pants, ‘what did she do to you, God? Tell me! Tell me what she did!’ You stomped your feet against the ground as though you were a child throwing a tantrum, in fact, you wished the reality of the situation was akin to that in the hopes of escaping the awful situation you found yourself in. But, nothing changed. There was no life to be breathed by the dead — there was just about life in the living. You sobbed again, covering your face with your hand. You said nothing else, though, before they covered the grave, the Captain leant forward, placing Hattie’s stuffed rabbit against her chest and said, ‘rest easy, ma petit.’ 

It took little time for the grave to be covered and, when she was properly covered, Simon leant forward, placing the decrepit little daisy he had picked atop the grave. 

What happened following the brief funeral was a blur as you had opted to fall into a state of disassociation. Your feet moved on from the graveyard, yet, you couldn’t help but feel like you had left your heart in that tiny grave.

Neither Garrick nor Johnny had even broken a sweat from digging the hole Hattie was placed in. That thought had your blood boiling. Not that you were angry at the men, rather, you were angry at the people who had dropped the bomb, wishing it had landed anywhere but where she was. And they did so seemingly without thought, under the instructions of some twisted higher-ups who wouldn’t have dared step out into the world they were making for the rest of humanity. 

‘What’s your plan?’ asked Price, falling behind to talk to you. 

Lifting your head you said, ‘hm?’ 

‘Are you going to stay here?’ 

You blinked, rubbing your face. At some point, it had started to get dark and his features were quickly evaporating into the nighttime. ‘I- I don’t know.’ 

He nodded. ‘You’re welcome to come to Dunkirk with us… Simon would like that,’ he explained, looking over his shoulder in the direction of where the graveyard had been, ‘but if you choose to stay here, we wouldn’t blame you.’ 

His pace the quickened to get in front of the men who were walking in silence, leaving you alone to ponder the choices he had given you. You bit down into your bottom lip until you tasted metal. You rubbed your face with your hand, wincing when you inhaled sharply.

To stay seemed to mean almost certain death and, when you turned to see Simon walking alongside you, you considered what life would be like if you were to go to England. It was shown to be the one beacon of hope for those in Europe hoping to escape the war which seemed to grow more brooding and brutal by the day. There, it seemed you would have a chance. Then, you thought of the child you had buried, who was destined to remain in that graveyard for all eternity without a single visitor. 

Would she forgive you if you left her?

Nothing was bound to be easy no matter what you chose and you hardly knew the man beside you well enough to say, confidently, that you would continue whatever the relationship was if you were to leave with them. Only, when you turned your eyes back to him, feeling his hand brush against yours, you realised that he had never been so gentle in his life as he had been with you. Even in the forest, he could have gripped your waist harder — you knew he could have considering the callouses on his hands, and yet, he hardly squeezed you. He looked at you, seemingly wondering what was going on in your mind and you spied a glint of hope in his eyes that you might give him the answer that he was hoping for. 

It was at the edge of the City, hand grazing your side that you said to Price, ‘I want to come with you — back to England.’ 

[manicrouge]

TYSM FOR 600 FOLLOWERS !!! (601 I missed 600 whoopsies)

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Min <3