How I’m Tryna Be

It’s almost my birthday in two hours! And yes I will be staying awake for that <333

tumblr is my scrapbook, i find something pretty i want to look at later and i glue it to a page . like yesssss you are my little memory forever to look at lovingly

― Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous

I took the shortcut because I planned to go to town and pick up my favorite chocolate milk :)) let’s say it didn’t worked out that way

My bike’s brake immediately became loose and I tried to fix it but ended up making it worse :))

The shortcut to the main town consists of mini hills that went up and down, some were steeper than others. I tried going down a few times but I nearly slipped down. So I had to resort to walking.

I got some pretty pictures of the freeway though!

I wasn’t able to go to the town but I took a few rests in between rides. Some parts of the road were wet and what happens to a biker wearing knee-high shorts and a brake that doesn’t work?

They trip and scrape their knee

And if that wasn’t the cherry on top, it showered for 5 MINUTES! Thankfully, on my way back home I passed by my grandparent's house and they just cooked their snacks and hungry, sweaty, tired me was more than happy to help myself.

Sweet Like Honey | Simon Riley x Reader

A honey trap—such a sterile phrase his superiors used, as if it could sanitize the rot festering in his conscience. Unethical? Yes; but that single syllable barely scratched the surface of his transgression. They needed information, they said, and Simon—God help him—had orchestrated every tender moment, every breathless laugh, every trembling touch with surgical precision. His superiors, those faceless men in their stark offices, had pushed the proposal forward; they wanted him closer to her father, that suspected architect of labyrinthine offshore accounts.

He remembers that exact moment. Her eyes had sparkled with tears of joy when he dropped to one knee—tears that now haunted his dreams, crystalline drops of his betrayal. In quiet moments, when she lay sleeping beside him, her trust radiating like warmth against his skin, the question would claw at his throat: When she discovers the truth—not if, but when—will those same tears fall in rivers of rage? Will her love calcify into hatred, sharp enough to pierce the armor he'd built around his guilt?

"Three years of marriage." Her words floated like seafoam in the Mykonos twilight; wine-hazed eyes drinking in the pastel sky as if it were a gift he'd arranged specially for their anniversary.

Simon's jaw tightened—a muscle working beneath the skin—as waves lapped at their bare feet with metronome precision. The word 'marriage' sat like bile in his throat; every anniversary a fresh reminder of his calculated lies. He fixed his gaze on the bleeding horizon—anywhere but at her—letting the salt wind strip away the taste of guilt that had become his constant companion.

"Yeah... three bloody years." The words scraped past his lips, his British accent thick and coarse as Mediterranean sand. A bitter laugh threatened to escape—three years of this charade, three years of her soft touches that felt like brands against his skin. "Can't believe it's been that long."

She reached for his hand; he let her take it.

"I'm so happy you married me..." Her words hung in the salt air—fragile as soap bubbles, painful in their innocence. Those eyes, sparkling with a love he could never return, cut deeper than any interrogation he'd endured in the field.

Simon's muscles coiled beneath his skin; her declaration struck like a precisely aimed blade. His jaw worked silently—grinding truth to dust—as guilt wrapped its familiar fingers around his throat. The sensation lasted only moments before training kicked in; sentiment was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had a job to do—always the job.

"Yeah..." The word emerged like gravel. His expression hardened into the mask he'd worn for three years. "Me too."

A heartbeat of hesitation—then, striving for conviction: "It was the right thing to do..."

She wound herself around his arm like morning glory seeking sunlight. "Do you love me?" The question dripped with need for reassurance; every syllable another weight added to the anchor of his deception.

A muscle betrayed him—twitching in his jaw like Morse code airing out his lies.

"Course I do..." The words tasted of ashes as he forced himself to meet her gaze. Her eyes—God, those trusting eyes—gleamed up at him like searchlights through his carefully constructed shadows, sending fresh waves of guilt crashing against his ribs.

Mission parameters flashed through his mind like a lifeline: just a mission, a means to an end—nothing more. Clinical words that did nothing to dull the edge of her next question.

"Have I made you happy?"

The question hung between them like a loaded gun; he wondered which of them it would wound more deeply.

Simon's jaw ticked—a mechanical tell he couldn't control—as her voice spilled sweetness and light into the darkening air. His fists clenched; knuckles white with the effort of containing truths that would shatter her world.

"Yeah... you have." The words scraped past gritted teeth; his tone harsh enough to wound—though whether himself or her, he wasn't certain.

He forced himself to look at her—God help him—and found trust swimming in those eyes; love so pure it sent guilt cascading through his veins like ice water. Training kicked in like muscle memory: compartmentalize, distance, remember the mission parameters. This was all theater—a carefully orchestrated performance where he played the doting husband.

"If I make you uncomfortable or unhappy—" her voice trembled with an eagerness that flayed him alive—"tell me what to do and I'll change whatever it is you don't like about me."

Simon's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of her devotion; each word of self-doubt another stone added to the cairn of his shame. Her willingness to reshape herself for a man who didn't exist—it was obscene in its innocence.

"You don't need to change anything." His voice emerged gruff, carefully modulated to hide the storm beneath. "You're perfect the way you are." Perfect—and that made it infinitely worse.

As they walked further along the shore, his boss's voice slithered through his memory like an oil slick: "Give her a baby, Riley. Solidify that you're a family man to her and her family... that'll make them trust you more..."

The waves crashed against the shore; Simon wondered if they could wash away the taste of bile rising in his throat. A baby—the ultimate collateral damage in this game of shadows and lies. His handler's words echoed like bullets in an empty chamber; each one designed to kill whatever conscience he had left.

Simon's gut twisted into knots as his handler's words burrowed deeper—parasitic thoughts breeding shame. Using her love, her body, their marriage had been one thing; but this—creating life as a prop in their charade—made bile rise bitter in his throat.

He swallowed against the acid guilt. "Baby..." The endearment scraped past his lips like broken glass; his voice rough with self-loathing. "I need to talk to you about something."

"Yeah, baby?" Her response came wrapped in a smile—always that damned smile on her gorgeous face; each curve of her lips another twist of the knife he'd planted in his own conscience.

Simon guided her toward a secluded stretch of beach—away from witnesses to his latest betrayal. His muscles coiled tight as she called him 'baby'; the war in his mind reached fever pitch—duty and disgust grappling in the shadows of his skull. Professional distance crumbled beneath the weight of what he was about to propose.

He drew in a breath that tasted of salt and lies; tried to fortify himself against the magnitude of this new deception. Speaking had never been his strong suit—now words felt like weapons turned inward.

"...I've been thinking about something." His voice dropped low; serious—as if gravity itself could lend legitimacy to this fresh hell.

"I've been thinking..." Another breath—sharp enough to cut—"that maybe we should start trying for a baby..."

The words fell like stones into the space between them; he couldn't bear to meet her eyes. Instead, his gaze fixed on the sand—watching darkness creep across it like the stain he felt spreading through his soul. This was more than a mission parameter now; this was crossing a line he hadn't known existed until he stood at its edge—about to take a step that could never be untaken.

Her eyes widened—galaxies of hope expanding in those innocent depths.

The squeal that erupted from her lips pierced the evening air: "Yes! Yes!"

Simon's face contracted like a wound being stitched; her unbridled joy a fresh kind of torture. The guilt gnawed at his bones—a familiar parasite he'd learned to live with—but he buried it beneath layers of practiced indifference. Just the job, just the bloody job.

"Yeah... yeah..." The words tasted of ash in his mouth as he attempted enthusiasm—a poor actor playing at happiness. "I thought it was time." Time for what? Another layer of betrayal; another innocent drawn into his lies?

Her face glowed with such pure delight—Christ, if she only knew the truth behind his proposal, would that radiance transform into something that could burn him alive?

"I'm so happy... I'm so happy..." She bounced on her toes like an excited child; her eyes swimming with naked affection as she gazed up at him. "Can we try tonight?"

The question hit him like a body blow—air evacuating his lungs in a silent gasp. His jaw clenched; muscle memory of contained revulsion. "Tonight?" His voice emerged rough as sandpaper. "Uhh... tonight?"

The speed of her agreement caught him off-guard; reality crashed over him like a cold wave. The physical act loomed before him—another performance in his repertoire of deception. But sex is sex—a mantra he'd repeated through three years of marriage; a thin comfort that grew thinner with each repetition.

"Sure baby... sure." The agreement slipped past his defenses before he could stop it.

Sex is still sex—the lie tasted bitter this time.

"Yeah... alright... tonight." Each word dragged like shrapnel from a wound.

Simon forced the syllables past the knot of self-loathing in his gut. Conflict churned inside him—desire warring with disgust, duty grappling with decency. But there was no extraction plan for this mission; no way to abort without destroying everything.

He drew in a breath that felt sharp as glass. "We'll head back to the room then, yeah?"

His extended hand seemed to belong to someone else—a stranger playing at being a loving husband. His mind raced through a labyrinth of regrets; each thought a new dead end. The fraud of it all pressed against his chest—this performance of love, this pantomime of family planning.

"Come on." The words scraped past his lips, gruff with barely contained turmoil. "Let's go."

Each step toward their room felt like moving through quicksand—every movement drawing him deeper into a lie he might never escape.

That evening, as she lay beneath him—trusting, eager, loving—his guilt manifested in the most primal betrayal of all. The little blue pill dissolved on his tongue earlier was his shameful secret; another lie to add to his collection. His body rebelled against his deception—even chemistry couldn't fully overcome the weight of his conscience.

It should have been paradise, shouldn't it? Being buried in the warm sanctuary of her body—her beauty undeniable, her desire genuine. But paradise, he'd learned, couldn't be built on foundations of sand and shadows. Each tender touch felt like judgment; each passionate kiss a sentence passed. His pleasure came tainted with self-loathing—mechanical responses to artificial stimulation.

The truth burned in his throat like acid: he couldn't maintain arousal—not with guilt wrapped around his throat like a garrote; not with his handler's voice echoing in his mind. This secret he'd take to his grave—another shard of shame embedded too deep to ever extract. The warmth of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; heaven transformed into a special kind of hell, designed just for him.

She lay beneath him—all warmth and trust and love—while his heart turned to ice in his chest. The dim light caught the gold of her wedding ring; it flickered like an accusation with every movement. His own ring felt like a brand against his skin, burning with each tender touch she offered.

The chemistry coursed through his veins—artificial desire fighting against the tide of his guilt. Her fingers traced patterns of affection across his shoulders; each caress felt like judgment carved into his flesh. Paradise turned to purgatory; pleasure transformed into punishment.

"I love you," she whispered against his neck—words that should have been salvation became damnation instead.

His body responded while his mind recoiled; training and tablets working in tandem to maintain this cruelest deception. She arched beneath him—so trusting, so eager to create life with a man who was more shadow than substance. Her skin flushed with genuine desire; his grew cold with calculated performance.

The sounds she made—soft sighs of pleasure, whispered endearments—echoed in his skull like accusations. Each thrust felt mechanical; each kiss a fresh betrayal. His handler's voice mingled with her moans: "family man... make them trust you more..." Until he couldn't tell where the mission ended and the madness began.

Her hands cupped his face—so gentle, so loving—and he wanted to weep at the cruel irony. Here she was, trying to create life with a man who died a little more with each tender touch. The heat of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; intimacy perverted into intelligence gathering.

He buried his face in her neck—not from passion, but to hide the war raging behind his eyes. She mistook his shuddering for pleasure; it was revulsion at himself. Even as his body chased its chemical conclusion, his mind splintered into fragments of guilt and duty and shame—pieces too sharp to ever fit back together.

Mediterranean sunlight crept through the curtains like liquid gold.

"Did you have fun?" Her question floated up from the tangled sheets; innocent as morning dew.

Guilt lanced through him—sharp and familiar now. Her eagerness to please him felt like needles under his skin; every effort she made to earn love he couldn't give was another weight added to his conscience.

He forced out a grunt—another performance in his endless repertoire. "Yeah... yeah I did. You've gotten better." The words tasted of copper and shame.

"Why do you ask?" He aimed for casual; missed by miles—tension threading through his voice like steel wire.

"I just want to make sure I'm making you happy," she murmured against his chest, fingers tracing abstract patterns on his skin. "I read some articles about... you know... trying for a baby. Making it more likely to happen." A soft laugh escaped her—pure, unguarded. "I want to do everything right."

Her head rested on his shoulder—soft hair brushing his skin like whispered accusations. Any other man would thank whatever god they believed in for a woman like her; Simon could only hate himself more with each gentle breath she took.

He wrapped an arm around her—another act in this elaborate charade—pulling her closer even as his soul recoiled. The weight of her trust pressed against him harder than her body ever could. She felt like silk against his skin; he felt like sandpaper against hers—rough with deception, coarse with lies.

The urge to push her away clawed at his chest—to end this facade, to confess every sin he'd committed in the name of duty. But the mission bound him like chains forged from his own choices. His mind waged its endless war: duty versus decency, mission versus morality. An innocent woman lay in the crossfire, and he'd loaded every bullet himself.

Her warmth seeped into his side; he wondered if it would ever wash away the cold calculation that had become his core.

Simon slouched in the corner, half-hidden by a wall of pastel balloons and garlands, the sound of laughter and soft coos grating against him like nails on glass. She was radiant, glowing in that way all the books and articles had promised, a woman basking in the warmth of her impending motherhood. Friends and family surrounded her, hands touching her belly as though it held some sacred truth he could never understand. She laughed—a sweet, unguarded sound that should have brought him joy. Instead, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He couldn’t bring himself to join the celebration; every time he looked at her, every time she glanced over and smiled at him, something twisted deep in his gut—a sharp, relentless reminder that he was a fraud. She deserved a man who’d be a father in more than name alone, someone who’d be wrapped up in this new life with her, but all he could feel was the weight of his shame and pathetic self pressing down on him.

That evening, Simon spun a quick excuse for her—something about a problem at the office, a sudden emergency requiring his immediate attention. She barely questioned him, simply nodded with that gentle trust he’d come to dread. But his destination wasn’t the office; it was a dimly lit bar, a familiar back corner where his superior waited, nursing a drink and an expression Simon could only describe as smug satisfaction.

“So… successfully knocked an heiress up, eh?” The words rolled off his boss’s tongue as if they were discussing the weather.

Simon ground his teeth, feeling a spike of anger flare in his chest. “Yeah.” The response was clipped, his jaw clenched so tight he could barely force the words out. “I did what you asked.”

“Head over heels for you, is she?” His boss laughed, a low, contemptuous sound. “God, the poor thing.”

Each word felt like a blade twisting deeper. Yes, she loved him; she loved him with a sincerity he’d never known he could inspire. But the way his boss spoke of it—as if her affection was some cheap victory, as if her trust was a trophy to be tossed aside—made his blood run cold.

He balled his fists beneath the table, his knuckles turning white. “I know,” he said through gritted teeth, barely able to keep his voice steady.

“We didn’t think you’d pull it off this well.” The amusement in his boss’s voice was unmistakable. “We knew you could manipulate—use people; that’s what you do best, after all. But to get her so… blindly devoted? Impressive, even for you.”

Simon bit down hard, jaw aching as he fought to keep the bile from rising. He didn’t want to hear it; he didn’t want to hear about how flawlessly he’d betrayed her, how thoroughly he’d convinced her of a love that was nothing but smoke and mirrors.

“She trusts me,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel, hoping to deflect, to shut down this sickening praise.

His boss let out a chuckle, cold and mocking. “Just trust, is it? Sure, if that’s what you want to call it. But come on—no credit for yourself? I think you deserve a bonus for this one, Riley. You’ve put in the work, pulled all the strings. Hell, even I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Simon felt himself go still, every muscle in his body wound tight, like a coiled spring about to snap. The monster his boss saw in him—was that all he’d ever be? He forced himself to nod, his voice barely a murmur. “Yeah… sure. Send some extra cash my way if it makes you feel better.”

“Good,” his boss replied, that smug satisfaction radiating from him like poison. “I’m proud of you, Riley. You’ve secured an influential family, locked down the daughter. And soon enough, there’ll be a little Riley running around, further cementing our foothold.”

A wave of nausea rolled through him at that. His boss spoke as though this were just another operation, another mission ticked off the list. Not a woman’s life, not a child’s future—just another step in their endless game of leverage and control.

Simon gave a curt nod, jaw so tight it felt like it might shatter. He kept his silence, swallowing the urge to spit some scathing retort, to lash out and tear down every vile word his boss had spoken.

“Good,” his boss said again, with a finality that felt like chains tightening around Simon’s throat. “Keep it up… and, of course, gather all the intel you can on her father.”

Simon didn’t respond. He simply sat there, silent and still, the weight of his choices pressing down like iron shackles. The mission bound him—bound him tighter than any oath he’d ever sworn—and he couldn’t escape the feeling that, somewhere along the line, he’d traded his soul for it.

All photos sourced through Pinterest

Headers made by @rookthornesartistry

B-LOG #1 (110121)

Okay nah I’m taking back everything I said about the Metaverse… I might take advantage of this with crypto…

Knock. (angst & fluff)

It was this scene again, etched into her mind like a relentless curse. She could smell the acrid stench of burning wood and rotting garbage, mingling with the desperate cries and screams of her neighbors. She was nine again, small and terrified. Her head throbbed with a dizzying pain, the bruising ache from when a piece of plywood had crashed onto her.

A deafening roar shattered the air as another explosion tore through the neighborhood, sending shockwaves of fiery devastation in all directions. Flames danced hungrily, consuming everything they touched. The stench of burning flesh was unbearable—thick, nauseating, and infinitely more horrifying than charred pork or beef. It reeked of something profoundly evil and utterly revolting, a scent that clawed at her soul and churned her stomach into knots.

The black smoke invaded her lungs, a suffocating grip that squeezed tighter with every breath. She choked, each inhalation a desperate struggle against the oppressive heat and toxic fumes that swirled around her, burning her throat and searing her insides. The smoke was so dense it felt like it was wrapping around her, binding her in a lethal embrace.

Amidst the chaos, her vision blurred with tears and pain, she saw dismembered limbs scattered on the ground, charred beyond recognition. The grotesque sight of lifeless bodies, twisted in unnatural positions, added to the overwhelming horror. Blood pooled on the scorched earth, dark and glistening under the flickering flames, a grim reminder of the carnage.

"Mama… mama…" Her voice trembled, a pitiful cry swallowed by the chaos and destruction. Her heart pounded in her chest, a frantic drumbeat against the cacophony of terror. She tried to move, to find her mother, but the fear paralyzed her, roots of dread anchoring her to the spot.

Suddenly, she jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat. Her heart raced as her eyes darted around, adjusting to the dim light of the enclosed room. The air was still, the silence heavy and almost oppressive. There was no fire, no smoke—just the lingering terror of her nightmare, wrapping around her like a suffocating shroud.

“It’s all a dream… just a dream…” she murmurs to herself, wrapping her arms tightly around her trembling body. She’s alive. She’s awake. The nightmare was over.

She forces herself to stand, her legs shaky beneath her as she makes her way to the shared kitchen. The images still haunt her, vivid and terrifying, refusing to fade.

"A nightmare, huh?" Ghost's low, husky voice cuts through the silence, startling her. His sudden presence, as always, is unexpected yet oddly comforting.

His voice softens, though it still carries that rough edge. "Nightmares been getting to you again?"

“I thought you were on guard duty,” she replies, trying to sound dismissive but failing to hide the quiver in her voice.

Ghost leans against the wall, his massive frame dwarfing her in the small room. The proximity is both intimidating and strangely reassuring.

"I was," he says, his tone gruff but laced with a softness he reserves only for her. "But I thought I'd check on ya. You haven't been sleeping well lately."

She looks up at him, meeting his gaze. There's a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, barely perceptible but enough to make her chest tighten. He's a fearsome soldier, renowned for his combat skills and unwavering presence on the battlefield. Yet, here he is, his demeanor softened, his concern for her palpable.

“I’m fine. Just a dream. That’s all.” She gulps down the water, the cool liquid doing little to quell the tremors running through her.

Ghost's expression darkens as he watches her try to brush off her troubles. “Yeah…” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “and I’m the King of England. Those nightmares are taking a toll on you.”

He’s heard her wake up in the night more times than he cares to count. Each time, he hears her whisper in her sleep, gasping for breath in the aftermath of the nightmare. He knows the dreams haunt her, more real and terrifying than she lets on.

“Respectfully, Sir… I think you should let it go.”

Ghost’s eyes narrow behind the mask. “And respectfully… I think you should talk to me 'bout these dreams.” There’s a raw edge to his voice, a hint of pain beneath the brusqueness. “We’re supposed to watch each other’s sixes. How can I do that if you shut me out?”

“Don’t.” She raises her palms, a defensive gesture, but her voice wavers, betraying her inner turmoil.

"Don’t what?" His gaze remains fixed on hers, intense and unwavering. "Don’t care? Don’t worry? Don’t try to help?”

A sigh escapes his lips, heavy with frustration and a touch of vulnerability. In this moment, he isn't Ghost, the fearless soldier, but just a man trying to understand. His voice softens, “I’m not good at this feelings stuff… you know? But you’re important to me. And, hell… I worry about you.”

“Tell that to the woman you kissed at the pub!” she snaps, the words out before she can stop them. Her eyes flash with hurt and anger.

Ghost’s eyes widen behind the mask. Shock and guilt etch across his face, though mostly obscured by the skull covering. He stumbles over his words, a rare occurrence for the usually collected soldier. “I can explain,” he starts, but she shakes her head, cutting him off.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” she mumbles, trying to maintain a semblance of indifference. “I’m not your girlfriend, right?”

And that… that truth cut deep. She wasn't his girlfriend. Despite the electric chemistry crackling between them, despite the longing glances and the lingering touches, they had never crossed that line. But Ghost couldn't deny the storm of emotions raging within him.

He had kissed the woman, hoping it would ease the ache in his heart, hoping it would dull the sharp edges of his feelings for her. But now, faced with the reality that she had witnessed him with someone else, all those emotions crashed over him like a relentless tide.

He tries again, his voice betraying a crack of desperation, "that woman… she meant nothing to me. She was a distraction. She was…”

But he trails off, the weight of the truth bearing down on him. He had used that woman as an escape, a way to hide from the relentless pull he felt towards her, a futile attempt to silence the longing in his soul.

But now, he can't hide from the truth any longer.

“Let me deal with my nightmares on my own.”

And that stings, too. The way she keeps pushing him away, refusing to let him in, refusing to let him share her burdens. He wants to be there for her, to hold her through the darkest nights, to chase away the demons that haunt her dreams. Yet she keeps pushing him away.

“Why do you push me away?” His frustration spills out, mingled with a raw vulnerability that he rarely shows. "I want to help, damn it. I…"

He hesitates, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. "I care about you. More than I should.”

“And you shouldn’t.”

Those words cut deeper than any bullet ever could. Yet, he presses on, his voice heavy with emotion.

“Why not? Because it’s not what we signed up for? Because it’s not what’s professional?” He steps closer to her, his voice barely a whisper now. His gloved fingertips graze against her cheek, the touch gentle, as if afraid she might vanish before his eyes.

“It’s not professional. I can’t have you risking your rank.”

“To hell with my rank!” His gruff voice reverberates through the room, his hand now firmly cupping her face.

“I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve stitched me up, patched me up. You’ve saved my damn life on innumerable occasions. I owe you that and more.”

His gaze holds hers, pleading for understanding, for acceptance of the truth he's finally admitting. "Maybe it’s not ‘professional’. Maybe it’s messy and complicated. But it's real, damn it."

He brings his other hand to her face, cradling it gently, his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. The leather of his glove contrasts starkly against her soft skin.

"I’m done pretending."

His voice is rough, filled with a desperate intensity. The walls he built around his heart, the barriers of restraint, finally crumble as he speaks the words he’s been holding back.

"I don’t care if it’s not ‘professional’. My heart is already yours. And I don’t want it back."

“Am I… interrupting something?”

Gaz’s eyebrow is raised as he uncaps his water tumbler.

Ghost's eyes widen in realization, embarrassment flushing his cheeks beneath the mask. He turns towards Gaz, annoyance and surprise lacing his voice.

"Bloody hell, Gaz! Can't you knock!"

B-LOG #1 (110121)