Cod X Reader - Blog Posts

this just fuels my obsession

BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.

Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

Or: the live-in masseuse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings

The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly. 

He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates. 

It never quite goes away though.

And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag. 

This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on. 

It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.

But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.

There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year. 

It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester. 

But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.

Odd.

Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.

Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.

His key still works though. Fancy that. 

He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up. 

You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway. 

He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”

Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry. 

He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat. 

You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”

The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else. 

“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!” 

Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place. 

You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run. 

“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door. 

When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.

“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”

On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom. 

What a bloody headache. 

He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”

“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite. 

Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?” 

“I have a knife!”

Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there. 

“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again. 

Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open. 

You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat. 

The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be. 

He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”

“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”

“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod. 

“Yes.”

“Show me then,” he orders. 

And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.

“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable. 

“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.

“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?” 

His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.

“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”

“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten. 

“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism. 

It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you. 

“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.

For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him. 

Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.

“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner. 

No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.

“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically. 

“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”

“Me neither, birdie.”

He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in. 

There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time. 

The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale. 

Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.

“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”

He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back. 

Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for. 

“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone. 

The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.

His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out. 

He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.  

“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face. 

“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”

“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling. 

You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”

“Oh. ‘Til when?”

“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more. 

You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”

“Your cousin live around here?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”

“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”

While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial. 

“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says. 

“Fine.”

The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year. 

He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.

He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway. 

What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.   

Cohabitation is—

Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect. 

It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy. 

But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this. 

You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him. 

Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room. 

“I’m a masseuse.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes. 

“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat. 

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch. 

“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words. 

He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”

You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin. 

For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for. 

A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though. 

Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.  

When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.  

Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you. 

And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone. 

The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds. 

His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what. 

Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.

When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear. 

Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done. 

Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.

In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter. 

Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed. 

At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away. 

Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.

You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot. 

“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor. 

That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more. 

“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket. 

He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed. 

In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours. 

So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.

But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.

In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent. 

It’s an idea, at least.

He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults. 

The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you. 

He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find. 

“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.

“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.

“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?” 

He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.

“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder. 

Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”

You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.

His nose itches because the world is changing. 

He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.

Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it. 

“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table

“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth. 

Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.

He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook. 

What really ticks him off though is that—

he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices

—you keep getting away with it.

The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.

“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business. 

Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”

You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

“Well, it is.”

“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”

How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside. 

“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table. 

“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.

Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open. 

But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely. 

He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits. 

“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset. 

“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to. 

That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.

You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”

Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else. 

He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.

Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.

When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA. 

Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip. 

“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward. 

“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”

Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.

“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?” 

He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”

“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”

Ghost doesn’t answer. 

Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”

“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”

Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?

It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry. 

In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat. 

He has some nascent idea of where this is going.

As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”

In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence. 

All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face. 

Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face. 

It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism? 

Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed. 

One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches. 

His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch. 

He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight. 

“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap. 

You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist. 

Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?

Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base. 

His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.  

You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him. 

“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”

He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”

“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness. 

His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”

A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room. 

He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.

The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off. 

Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put, 

“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips. 

You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back. 

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest. 

“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?” 

Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV. 

“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says. 

“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”

Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises? 

He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.

One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things. 

He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.

You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—” 

Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable. 

You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him. 

Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.

Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.

When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue. 

“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch. 

The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means. 

But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.

You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.

“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap. 

“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes. 

“Calling me fat, sir?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”

Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey. 

All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him. 

The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn. 

The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into. 

Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.

Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either. 

Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand. 

“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word. 

Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.

Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.

You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss. 

“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open. 

It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering. 

Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks. 

“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin. 

This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice. 

He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way. 

“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open. 

“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug. 

You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.

His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.

He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full. 

He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected. 

Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you. 

“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.

His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.  

“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle. 

“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten. 

“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms. 

He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out. 

You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face. 

“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.

“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”

Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air. 

“Simon—”  you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place. 

He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.

“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”

He means it too. 

“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.  

Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away. 

He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms. 

“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.

Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds. 

He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.

When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom. 

“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?” 

The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?” 

He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”

The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.  

Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice. 

“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”

Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive. 

“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.

His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees. 

Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.

Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.

In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck. 

“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”

Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off. 

He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices. 

“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again. 

And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight. 

The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way. 

His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always. 

The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.

“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”

Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.

If he were a different man, if this was a different world—

No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does. 

But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under. 

The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air. 

A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Shut up.”

“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”

And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway. 

It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.

You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid. 

“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him. 

“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”

“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?” 

Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity. 

Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.

“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open. 

Simon doesn’t respond.

You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.

“No.” 

When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying. 

“It’s ours?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.

This ☝🏻☝🏻 Tag. them. right.

Can you guys please tag your noncon, dubcon, grooming, toxic and abusive fics properly.

I don't want to even see that shit on my timeline suggested to me because you're too lazy to add it to the hashtags. How can we filter out content that disturbs us if you don't tag it?

I'm seriously so over it. If you can use the tags to tag the ship, you can use them to tag your dead dove content. It's your responsibility to tag your content properly.

Please stop inserting Names when you have ‘x reader‘ in your Tags.

Im looking for „x reader“ stories specifically and I don’t wanna start reading a story and see a name halfway trough, only to see the words ‘can be read as x reader‘ afterwards. Just use OC but pls stop

IF YOU ARE A WRITER, PLEASE READ THIS‼️

ORIGINAL CHARACTER OR READER INSERT?

i came to talk about a problem that has been happening both here on tumblr and ao3 (which is the incorrect use of tags in some fanfics)

i don't understand why some people use the tag "reader insert" or "x reader" when the story is clearly not a reader insert.

i don't know if it's a way to get your fanfic to reach more people, but this is starting to get really annoying...

if i wanted to read a fanfic where the original character has a name, and original features i would search for that kind of history. the problem is that there is clearly a difference between the tags but people choose to ignore them..

so please, if you are a writer and you use the tags incorrectly (like the example of your fanfic being an oc insert and you still put the tags of reader insert) please correct them!

ORIGINAL CHARACTER IS NOT THE SAME THING AS READER INSERT!

Home And More

hiii my back is killing me but horny for simon NEVER stops!!! afab but gender neutral reader, consentual somnophilia, simon eats u out whilst u sleep bc he wants u that bad, simon cums in his pants from eating u out

Ghost was always there for you. 

He lived up to his namesake in that regard, always spotted in the corner of your eyesite, most of the time gone by the time moved to greet him, or ask what he was up to during some rather strange times you caught him watching. 

He protected you, kept an eye on you best he could, wanted to keep you safe.

He knew you didn't need it, knew as a fellow member of 141 that you could easily protect yourself, he trusted you more than he trusted himself sometimes, but you two were close. Not in the same way the rest of 141 was, despite how strong your relationship was with them, it was different with Ghost. It was more.

Whilst neither of you outright defined your relationship, never had the time to go on proper dates or spend as much time together as you wanted, it was obvious to everyone, including yourselves, that you loved each other more than life itself. The situations you both often found yourselves in caused your relationship to blossom much quicker than would be considered usual, but nothing about your relationship was usual. 

Long nights of watch often lead to keeping each other company as you cleaned your weapons, sitting together in a comfortable silence and just existing together. To him, it was the little things about you that he craved, the happiness in stolen moments together, even in the worst of situations. It was comfortable with you, even after days of fighting, after having to shield every emotion behind getting the job done efficiently, prioritising anything but yourselves. 

It was these times spent together that led to Simon longing for you when apart, the silence away from you almost unbearable. It was the same as it always was, even when you were there the silence was the same, but to him it was a stark difference. Your missing presence was notable, it left him on edge and more snappy than his normal, usually friendly jabs. Fingers twitching often like he wanted to hold something, wanted to reach out and grab.

It was this pining, the want in his chest that lasted the entire mission, that led him to your room, quickened steps uncaring of the time of night, of the fact anyone of sound might would be asleep right now. Not Simon, however, not when he spent the last weeks aching to touch you, the time alone on watch usually spent by your side instead spent humping his fist, nothing being enough without your touch, your voice right beside his ear.

The way he slammed your door open he was surprised you didn't wake up immediately, the desperation causing him to use a little too much force, if the walls weren't as sturdy as they were, he was sure the door handle would have left a sizable indent in the wall behind. He just couldn't help himself, not when you were finally in his reach, finally before him, finally able to feel you again, properly. 

The scent of you, your room full of everything you, was enough to make Simon shiver, hands almost shaking as he removed the blanket from your sleeping form and grabbed your hips, dropping to his knees and pulling you towards him. He knew you were okay with this, heard your voice telling him to just take you whenever, you really wouldn't mind, not when it's him, not when you've missed him just as much as he's missed you. Any touch from him is a blessing, waking up to him is an honour. 

He made quick work of your shorts, your underwear alongside them, almost groaning when he could finally see all of you, finally see the hole he'd been desperate to fuck the entire time he was away from you. His hand never compared to being buried deep inside of you, how tight you were, how you would whine his name and beg for more. Shoving the mask off of his face, the balaclava up above his nose, he spread you apart with his thumbs and let a low hum at the sight, how absolutely delicious you looked. 

He missed this. Missed seeing so needy for him, even unconsciously, he loved knowing that you needed him as much as he felt like he needed you.

It was easy for him to lean down, press a soft kiss against your clit, before absolutely devouring you. 

It was your own loud, depraved whine that woke you up, your thighs tensing around Simon's head and hand immediately going to push him away. 

"Don't," Simon all but growled at your attempt, flattening his tongue to lick from hole to clit. His voice was so deep, so gravelly, you couldn't help the whine that escaped. 

You went slack against the bed, the hand in the top of his mask only tightening, no longer pushing him away but pulling him against you, thighs tense on either side of his head. 

"Sweet thing," Simon's voice was low, a quiet whimper. "Sorry for wakin' you, just needed your cunt too badly." 

"It's- okay!" Your voice was all whines at this point, high pitched and needy. Even when trying to reassure him, he didn't pause for even a minute. Even when you were trying to tell him you didn't mind, that he could spit in your mouth and use you so that he gets off, you wouldn't care at all, so long as he feels good.

Sleep still clouded your mind, still covered your thoughts in a blanket of grogginess, but the pleasure Simon gave you was red-hot, almost blinding. It was hard to even think when he was this close, this determined to bring you to the peak of your pleasure over and over, as much as his energy drained body would allow. 

"Simon," You whined, and you could feel him grin against you, could feel the low groan he let out at you simply moaning his name at his actions. He really was pent up, if just your voice and taste was getting to him that much, and he thanked whatever God was out there that you were too tired to focus on anything, you weren't able to see how he was humping the air. 

"S'okay, love, just stay still, yeah?" Voice slightly muffled, unable to pull away even to respond. "I'll take good care of you…" 

He touched you, ate you, like a man starved. And he was. He missed your taste so much, missed feeling you tremble on his tongue. He would happily spend hours between your thighs, devouring you whole.

"Needy cunt just wanted attention, who am I to deny my sweet little thing?" 

Suckling your clit into his mouth, it wasn't hard for him to move his fingers to your hole, for him to press inside, very little resistance as a result of his tongue and how much your pussy was practically drooling against him. 

Your hands were tight in his hair, the balaclava pushed off due to your grip, your desperation to touch him, your Simon, not any mask or material.

"S'too much, please-!" 

"You can take it," He muttered against you, eyes lidded and watching, tone almost stern. "You're always so good for me, always so sweet… you can take anything I give you, pretty thing." 

His lips and tongue on your clit, fingers pressed deep inside, the fact he was finally here, in your bed like you dreamed of him being, was all so overwhelming. It didn't take long for you to reach your peak, not when you've been waiting for this since the moment he left, been waiting for his touch since the last time you felt it.

The hands in his hair tightened, your voice raising an octave as you moaned his name, and if Simon wasn't as strong as you knew he was, you would be worried at how tightly your thighs were around his head. You knew he didn't care, knew he welcomed anything that meant you were as close as possible, loved when rode his face and used him for your own pleasure, as you were doing now, bucking against him and holding him close.

The groan he let's out is low, needy, and if you weren't as overwhelmed as you were, completely out of it with white hot pleasure, you would have teased him for how much it sounded like a whine.

It quickly became too much, hand still holding his hair tight moving to push him away, move him away from your incredibly sensitive cunt. 

The grin he gave you was devilish, devious as he moved up from his knees to kiss you, to press his lips against yours and consume you whole, based on how desperate he seemed. 

"Simon," You muttered into the kiss, breathing slowly and heavily. You had missed him so much, missed feeling him against you, it was such a blessing to have him back. 

"Gimme a minute," Your voice was low as you pulled away, moving to instead trail kisses down his cheek, his jaw. "You can do whatever you want to me."

"No need," he spoke quietly, slowly, like he was ashamed. You would be worried if it wasn't for the flush on his cheeks, the way he narrowly avoided your eyes and refused to look at you. "I'm uh... I'm good." 

Simon, the insatiable man that he was, refusing something like this? You moved one hand to hold his jaw, pulling back with narrowed eyes. He still refused to look at you, and when he moved his hips away, you realised what happened.

Simon came in his pants from eating you out.

The grin that spread across your face was quick, bright, and it only made the flush on his face worse. 

"Simon!" You whispered, grin bright and tone full of fake shock, "Really?"

"Don't," He groaned against you, hiding his face in your shoulders. "Seriously. Don't you dare. Fuckin' embarrassing."

You quickly moved to press another kiss on his lips, full of love and utter adoration. You knew what he was like, knew how easily he could turn against himself, feel bad about the smallest of things that didn't truly matter. It was easy for him to put walls back up, to pull away and retreat back into himself, and you wouldn't let that happen. 

"You're so fucking hot," You muttered into the kiss, gently biting into his lower lip. "Jesus, Simon, really? God, I can't believe you're this hot,"

The low noise he let into the kiss made everything worth it. The time away, the time spent missing him, it didn't matter when he was here, finally. 

Simon was home, back with you, where he belonged.

any fic recommendation of simon x f!reader where f!reader doesn’t trusts men easily, like a fereal cat? but not a brat, just angry and kinda jumpy all the time? and she meets simon? but she’s not very trusting bcs ykw he’s a man but then slowly she opens up? idk i may be projecting but in almost all fics reader is super open and i’m like- don’t give out ur trust too easily!

does anybody have any fic rec for simon “ghost” riley x “tomboy” reader? (idk if tomboy is the right or appropriate term, i apologize) where reader is afab and etc but she’s like masculine? kinda looks like a boy and not very feminine, but yk she still tries to look feminine? and she has like short hair? (totally not projecting😅)

ps: also maybe where reader is short (i’m sorry)🥲😭

I feel this so much, sometimes it's nice and strange and awkward and beautiful to finally be seen by the right people

Thinking about designationless reader...

Imagine how alone she must've been for all her life. It started since she was young, her parents pushing her to the corner of the home, away from the family, and naturally, her siblings would follow their parents' lead, pointedly ignoring her, and finding any excuse available to be out of her presence. She wouldn't understand them anyway, she can't tell the difference between noises nor could she even recognize scents. It just wouldn't work.

Reader thinks that maybe she could find someone, anyone in school, but kids are like sharks, except instead of smelling blood, they smell the lack of all scents on her. Most kids have a combination of their own and their family members' scents. Reader has nothing, so everyone continues the pattern, but now with more stares and jeers and hushed giggles. Reader knows that bullying is bad, but anything would be better than simply not existing to anyone. That's what the others say, at least, that she's nothing, nobody. Never to her face, though, just in the whispers shared between friends.

She eventually tries to find others like her through the wonders of the internet. There's maybe a handful more scattered in her country, but none are her age, and all have their own families who care about them. Was it just her who wasn't deserving of love, of connection? Reader reaches out to them, and they talk a little, but before long, through no one's fault, it falls through. She was bad at talking anyway, even if she doesn't have to worry about scents or sounds that aren't there, she never knew much about context or connotation. She never had the opportunity to learn about the intricacies in communication. Reader is back alone.

The military eventually scouts her, and it's the first time anyone has ever really looked at her. Sure, they look at her like a valuable tool, but a tool is better than nothing. Reader obviously joins, desperate for crumbs. She climbs the ranks, gets the job done. She is good at her job, so people respect her. She learns how to talk professionally, emails, texts, and so one, but no one talks to her on leave. No one invites her to the pub after a good mission. No one even talks to her in the mess. But people do talk to her when they have to, and that's enough. Maybe she even gets a callsign. Doe. After Jane Doe, the placeholder name for unknown individuals, and insult if anything.

Now there's the 141. They invite her to things. They talk to her. They touch her. Reader exists for them. She isn't just an unknown person stuck in the background and invisible to everyone else, and Reader doesn't know what to do. Her speech is awkward and overly professional, even in personal settings. How is she supposed to be friends with someone, multiple someones? How is she supposed to move? To act? To express? She doesn't know, but she really wants to learn. At least now she has good teachers.

ANON YOU GENIUSSSS okay but this? Perfect. AHHHH I ADORE THIS IDEA!! Esp the jane doe callsign omg yes

You weren’t used to being seen.

Growing up, you learned quickly how to make yourself small- how to exist quietly, without taking up space, without asking for too much. Because the few times you had asked- asked for a hug, asked to be let into the nest, asked why you felt so different- the answers had all been the same.

No.

Not now.

Not you.

It wasn’t that your parents didn’t love you. You were sure they did, in their own way. But love was hard to feel when your mother flinched at your touch like you were something disgusting, when your father sighed like he was tired every time you entered the room as if you were taking up space he was saving for his other children. When your siblings built their nests without you, curling into piles of warmth and safety while you sat outside the door, knees pulled to your chest and hands balled into fists to keep them from knocking, a cold ache burrowing itself in your chest.

You stopped knocking eventually.

You stopped trying.

You used to wonder if you’d done something wrong- if maybe you could fix yourself and everything would go back to normal. But it wasn’t something you could fix. It was just… you.

Scentless.

Designationless.

Invisible.

School had been worse, perhaps the worst. At least your family had pretended not to notice how different you were. The other kids didn’t bother pretending. They stared openly, whispered behind your back, laughed when you walked by. You’d caught bits and pieces of what they said- weird, wrong, broken, as if they hoped by having you hear their words, they’d convince you to leave at last.

You’d started keeping your head down after that, slipping through the halls like a shadow. No one talked to you unless they had to, and even then they either did it with a mocking, jeering tone that echoes in your nightmares or with a meek tone; as if your lack of everything is contagious. No one sat next to you at lunch, either. When partners were assigned, you always ended up working alone per your teachers’ instructions.

It was easier that way.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

By the time you joined the military, you’d gotten good at being alone. You didn’t need friends. Didn’t need packmates. You had work, and work didn’t care if you were quiet or awkward or too stiff to laugh at the right jokes. Work didn’t care if you flinched when people got too close or froze when someone raised their voice. Work demanded to be done, and you had nothing and no one to stop you from that.

But the military also has the same teens who used to bully you so consistently. Rookies all to ready and happy to lord over you. It’s how you get your despised callsign, Doe. Jane Doe. A cruel mockery, comedy wherein you are the joke that has the world laughing.

Still, you wear it. It’s still an acknowledgment and that will always be better than never being seen. You flit from team to team, unit to unit, always an observer from afar, watching everyone around you speak a language you can’t.

But the 141 was different, when you eventually end up working for them.

They cared.

They cared in ways you weren’t ready for.

Soap was relentless, dragging you into conversations even when you barely knew what to say. He filled the silences like it didn’t bother him, kept talking for the both of you, lounging against you unbothered, until you started talking back. Gaz was gentlest, steadier. He never pushed, just lingered close enough to remind you he was there, waiting, whenever you were ready. Quiet, silent acceptance you’d never been given before, and you were yet far too afraid to so easily cling to it.

And the Alphas- Price and Ghost- were worse.

Price had a way of looking at you that made your chest ache, like he saw you, really saw you, and didn’t mind what he found. Scentless, with no designation and all. Ghost was quieter, sharper, but his eyes tracked you everywhere, presence wrapping around you like he was staking a claim you didn’t understand, like he was teying to etch every part of you behind his eyelids.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

They didn’t give you space. They sat next to you at meals, tugged you along when they went out for drinks, called you over during breaks like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it felt natural- until it didn’t, because sometimes you still felt like an outsider.

Like you didn’t belong.

You tried to hide it, but they saw through you. They always did, and they never shied away.

When you started avoiding the mess hall, it was Gaz who caught you, shoving a plate of food into your hands and dragging you to sit with him like it wasn’t a big deal. When you hung back during missions, letting the others fall into their pack dynamics without you, Soap was the one who looped an arm around your shoulders and pulled.

And when you flinched, once, at the sharp sound of someone’s voice echoing down the hall- when you tensed so hard it made your fingers tremble- it was Price who closed the distance, standing in front of you like a wall and letting Ghost linger at your back. Neither of them said a word.

They didn’t have to.

You weren’t used to being protected. You weren’t used to belonging.

But they made it hard not to.

just watched sinners and it was amazing! highly recommend! it it had me thinking of vampire!nikto trying to get reader to let him in.

pairing: vampire!nikto x afab!reader

cw: p in v, unprotected s (wrap it before you tap it), fingering reader receives, dub-con, vampires duh, southern inaccuracies, accent inaccuracies, sinners au, very ooc but this is set in the south and he's a vampire so... tw: blood wc: 1.6k

You heard rumors of vampires through the grapevine, hushed whispers as if evoking the word vampire would be enough to summon them. You had a hard time thinking that such a devil could exist in this quiet part of the south which had nothing but cotton fields and dust storms as far as the eye could see.

What business did vampires have down here?

You scoffed at the idea, shaking your head at the notion. Some farmer boys probably heard too many stories and were spreading tall-tales around the town for the fun of it.

Just as the sky turned to a hazy pink, the sun setting, you retired back to your little cottage. You hung up your shoes and then padded your way to your kitchen, tying an apron around your figure as you prepared to make your infamous orange juice. You hummed as your hand squeezed a batch of oranges, the crickets of grasshoppers and squelching of the supple fruit filling the solitude of the night.

It was quiet, just like every other night before it and probably every night after it. You planned on squeezing just a few more oranges and then you'd retire for the night, rewind and get cozy under your covers with a book tucked in your hands. 

However, your plans derailed when there was knocking at your front porch. You spun your head to the door, eyebrows scrunched, scrutinizing the offending sound.

Who could possibly be knocking this late?

You wiped the grime of your labor onto your apron, eyebrow cocked as you hesitantly walked towards the door.

"Who out there?" You spoke out, hand steady on your rifle you had on standby. A rifle you've kept for months, gifted to you by your lover. Use it to protect yourself while he was off fighting, he told you. 

"It just me baby." A rugged voice spoke from behind the door — a voice you immediately recognized. You dropped your rifle, your hand reaching for the doorknob.

"Andre?" You whipped the door open, eyes wide in disbelief seeing the man you had promised yourself to standing in front of you, breathing and alive. He was still the behemoth of a man you had etched in your memories, and still in that dirty soldier uniform you saw him in before he left for that accursed war.

"I promised I'd be back and marry you after, didn' I? Well, here I am. Just let me in baby." His drawl lured you in, sultry voice hooking you just like it did so many months ago before he left.

Yet, you hesitated. Something about him was... wrong. He looked like your Andre, but he didn't feel like your Andre. A twisted and sick imitation of your lover.

"You— Is it really you, Andre?" You whispered, voice trembling as you looked at his eyes, bloodshot and lidded. He had an unfocused look, not really seeing you like he did before. It was a hungry look, like his bones were aching for something you didn't know about.

"Who else would it be if not me baby?" He chuckled, much more relaxed than he's ever been. His voice didn't have that hint of tension he usually had, and his shoulders weren't rigid like they were before.

You gulped, your head spinning as you tried to rationalize your cautious thoughts. Maybe he just loosened up after the war. He was Andre — your Andre. He had to be. Definitely.

"Yeah... yeah— sorry baby, had a rough day today." You shook off your hesitance, reeling the door back to let him in.

Andre smiled, a toothy smile that made your spine crawl. You could see his sharp teeth and how red his gums were.

Were his canines always so sharp?

He took one step inside your quaint home, rolling his shoulder as he exhaled a heavy sigh, like there was a boulder on his back that came off once he entered your cottage.

He hooked his arm around your waist, pulling you towards him and he chuckled hearing the shrill of your voice from his sudden action. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his nose dragging along the muscle where your neck and collar bone connected.

"Fuck, you smell good." Andre inhaled deeply, his tongue lapping at your skin to taste the sweat on your body. "I wanna taste you tonight baby. Been so long since I had you like this— that damn war had me starving."

You squealed as you felt his tongue drag along your flesh, nearly falling onto the rickety floorboards from how Andre was holding you. He always had an imposing pressure to him, but it felt like he was trying to crush you right now.

Your lips parted to let out a whine but his lips were quick to catch yours, sloppy and desperate, his tongue licking at your teeth and swiping over the roof of your mouth.

You groaned at how nasty the kiss was — it was depraved and dirty, but god it had your knees weak, hands clutching at his burly forearms to steady yourself.

You push yourself off of him, panting and breathless as you looked up at him.

"An—"

You were barely able to let out a syllable when he yanked at your arm, his grip tight and unyielding as he pushed you onto the couch. You leaned onto your elbows, eyes wide and face flushed as you looked up at him through your eyelashes.

"I'm starving baby, and you look like a damn meal right now." He tilted his head as he looked down at you, grinning like a madman. The sight made you quiver, feeling like a piece of meat rather than his lover.

Your gaze fell down to his glossy mouth, noting the drool that was seeping past the corner of his lips.

Strange.

"Andre, you're drooling." You commented, your heart racing a little faster as your brain tried to connect each of these strange occurrences. Andre's sudden appearance, his relaxed demeanor, his drool, and that damn insatiable look of hunger in his eyes.

"Just excited baby. You wanna taste?" He chuckled, giving you no time to linger on your observations as his hands already started groping at your body. He grabbed at the flush meat of your thighs, bunching up your skirt up to your hips, a low growl coming from his chest when he saw the damp spot on your panties. "Fuck, look how wet she is for me."

Your breath hitched when you felt his fingers tug your panties to the side, whimpering as the cool night air hit your cunt. You instinctively tried to close your legs, but his hands kept them spread wide open.

"None of that baby. Let me see her." Andre grunted, two of his fingers swiping at your slick cunt, gathering up your juices onto his fingers. A chuckle rumbled out of him when he saw how you shivered, your body reacting just the same as when he deflowered you so many months ago.

"Been a while since I've had you, but seems your body still remembers me perfectly clear."

You groaned when he removed his fingers, hips bucking into the air at the loss of friction.

"Andre, don' tease me." You whispered, your hands gently pulling at him so he was on top of you, but it was then when you noticed his eyes. His baby blue's that you adored were replaced by an empty grey, a haunting color that made your heart stop.

He wasn't Andre.

He noticed the look of horror in your eyes, his smile forming into a terrifying grin as one hand harshly grabbed at your cheeks and pushed you down while the other held down your hips, keeping you caged under him.

"Oh baby, I was hoping you wouldn' notice." He spoke softer, as if trying to soften the damage. You squirmed and writhed, trying to kick your feet at him but he was strong — so fucking strong. Your futile attempts were like a little kitten head butting against his muscled body.

"Shh, easy girl. I won' hurt 'ya." He reassured you, but you knew he was just whispering sweet lies so you'd ease up and let him in.

You squealed when you felt his leaking tip against your slick hole, tears welling in your eyes as he slowly slid inside, filling you up inch by inch until his hip was flush against the swell of your ass. " 'atta girl... my sweet girl, taking me so well aren' 'ya?" He cooed, his thumb swiping at the tear pricking down the corner of your eye, shushing you as he slowly began to rock his hips.

You hated how your body took him, how your hole weeped at each of his thrusts, and even worse how you moaned in ecstasy. You didn't want to admit it, but It felt good — really fucking good.

"Taking me so good, yeah? Fuck— Fucking missed how you clench around me baby." He purred in your ear, his tongue licking at the shell of your ear and making your back arch off the couch. He knew exactly what you liked, how to make you unravel and turn into putty in his hands.

He fucked you just like how Andre did.

"An— hnngh-" Your mind was breaking, eyes squeezed shut at how his cock kept hitting your g-spot, making you mewl and cry beneath him until you were a puddle.

He dragged sloppy kisses down from your flushed cheeks to the meat of your neck, sucking and nibbling on the tender skin, making a shiver shoot up your body when you felt his sharp canines poke at your skin.

Your nails clawed at his back, trying to scratch at him and push him off but he was a determined man that wouldn't stop until you could feel him in your veins and your heart only pumped for him. 

"Don' fight it, once I bite you we'll be together forever baby."

And you didn't — or really you couldn't. You couldn't fight how he held you down, his hot seed filling you up as he sank his teeth into your flesh, letting you shake and writhe until your hands fell limp and your eyes glossed over.

"You're beautiful like this." Andre grinned, his mouth covered in blood and the crimson liquid dripping down his chin. He looked down at your trembling form, licking his bloodied lips as he was entranced by your body shifting into a vampire.

His beautiful bride, a vampire just like him now.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

Authors Note: I put a bunch of references to sinners lol! If you've seen the movie then you probably noticed them

König and his kitty

pairing: König x gn!reader

Konig slow blinks at his kitty, his heart swelling seeing the fluffy thing slow blink back at him.

"Look at that. She said she loves me back." Konig let out a slow laugh, his thick hand curling behind his kitty's ear and scratching at her fur. She purred at the contact, keening at his touch.

"I never took you as a cat person." You hummed, sitting comfortably on the couch with your legs on Konig's lap and cheek pressed against the cushion. Your eyes crinkled as you saw how tenderly Konig held his kitty, so small in his arms, but the little kitty didn't care.

"She reminds me of you." He muttered, his voice soft as he continued scratching at his kitty's ears.

"Yeah? Because I'm cute?" You teased him, beaming when you saw a faint smile on Konig's face.

"Yeah, you're the cutest." He hummed, his gaze glancing down to meet yours, "You're so cute I don't know what to do with myself half the time."

Your cheeks felt warm from his words, mouth open to reply, but nothing came out of your mouth — just in awe that Konig would say something so affectionate and vulnerable.

"Did I leave you at a loss for words?" He chuckled, his gaze softening seeing how flustered you were.

You could only huff out a reply, a pout forming on your lips as you shuffled closer to him and lean your head against his broad shoulder.

"Since when were you such a romantic with your words?" You whispered, your hands shifting down to gently paw at his kitty. She purred happily, meowing in bliss having two people coo at her.

“Since I met you.”

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

Author's Note: I hc that Konig has a siamese just because my bsf that is a huge konig fan has a siamese cat lol!

Simon hums Pretty Little Baby by Connie Francis as he cradles his son.

pairing: simon "ghost" riley x afab!reader

Music wasn't something simon indulged in often. The closest he had gotten was the jazz background music that would be muffled in the pubs he frequented, but even then he rarely paid attention to it; His mind occupied with nursing the drink he would be having that night.

But then he met you.

His sweet, musically inclined, bird that always had some sort of soft music playing as you idly worked, or had your headphones on while mindlessly scrolling on your phone and humming to whatever song you were listening to.

It made silence unnerving and he soon began seeking songs to fill the void of emptiness left from lack of noise.

At base his finger would tap the rhythm to the song you were currently obsessed with that week, and in the solitude of his office he'd hum a tune from one of your songs. His gruff tone was nothing like the original quality of the song, but he did it regardless — maybe to mimic and feel closer to you.

As the years went by, Simon's knees were getting weaker and his body wasn't moving like it used to anymore. Begrudgingly, he retired from the force. Still kept in contact with them, but he wanted to begin a new chapter in his life — a chapter with you at the center, belly swollen and cradling a new life made from your shared union.

Simon's burly arms built for guns and violence now held your little one, thick arms made from war now made to cradle your baby. He swayed with the hushed hum of music, his voice mellow to not alert his sleeping son.

The early rays of the morning sunlight filtered through the nursery, his little boy squirming in his arms and wriggling at the sunlight.

"It's alright honey— I know, I know, you ain't an early bird either are 'ya? Just like 'ya mum." Simon whispered, his gruff voice filling the cozy little nursery, gently bouncing his squirming son.

He chuckled seeing his hands in tight fists, as if trying to fight the rays of sunlight, fussy and squirmy.  "Pretty little baby," Simon started, his voice sultry and smooth, still under the effects of sleep.

"You can ask the flowers, I sit for hours."

"Tellin' all the bluebirds, the bill and coo birds."

"Pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you."

Simon's lips curved into a smile seeing his baby boy fast asleep in his arms, his little chest slowly moving up and down, lulled by the voice of his daddy.

10 years ago Simon never thought he'd be here, cradling a little baby in his arms, and an adoring partner tucked under the covers of their shared bed, but here he was; the happiest man on earth.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

Johnny knows he's messed up when his sweet bonnie calls him "Johnathon"

pairing: john "soap" mactavish x gn!reader

You had a handful of nicknames you'd call Johnny.

Love, Honey, Baby — whatever you were in the mood for.

Johnny loved all your nicknames, always giggling and smiling ear to ear whenever you'd endearingly mention him. Ever since dating you he's never heard his actual name, even at base it'd be soap or johnny.

Until he messed up. Big time.

"We have to talk when you come home Johnathon."

It was just one message you sent to Johnny and he damn near shat his pants.

His mates knew something was up when he was eerily quiet — his usual dorky remarks and tease nowhere to be found and instead replaced by uncomfortable silence along with rhythmic thumping of his foot.

"What's got your knickers twisted Johnny?" Simon would question, arms crossed as he stared down at Johnny.

"The missus is angry with me."

Even Simon knew that was a death sentence — his mate might as well have one foot in the grave.

Johnny ran around town to gather a bouquet with your favorite flowers, candy, takeaway; he bought the whole damn city just to somewhat quell your wrath when he came home.

He hesitantly opened the door, and after only 2 second when he entered his house he immediately felt your looming presence.

"Johnathon." Your voice was stern, arms crossed, and an empty pint of ice cream in your hands.

Johnny gulped, his eyes darting from your scrunched face to the empty pint of ice cream.

Your favorite ice cream, nonetheless.

"Luv—"

"Don't. You greedy man!" You cussed at him, face scrunched in anger as your hand dug into the plastic body of the ice cream. "You ate all of my ice cream, and even had the audacity to put it back in the fridge after!"

Johnny knew he couldn't say anything back unless he wanted his bonnie to be even more angry at him, so he just stood and let you vent at him, calling him a gluttonous beast and every other name in the book (he deserved it because seriously, who leaves the ice cream in the fridge after they eat it?)

After you finished yelling at him, a bit breathless and panting, he'd scoop you into his arms — coddle and kiss you until all the anger washed out your body and you went back to calling him your baby.

He also made sure the next day you'd have your favorite ice cream tucked into the fridge, less he wants his poor bonnie to lash out at him again for his gluttony.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

König and his kitty

pairing: König x gn!reader

Konig slow blinks at his kitty, his heart swelling seeing the fluffy thing slow blink back at him.

"Look at that. She said she loves me back." Konig let out a slow laugh, his thick hand curling behind his kitty's ear and scratching at her fur. She purred at the contact, keening at his touch.

"I never took you as a cat person." You hummed, sitting comfortably on the couch with your legs on Konig's lap and cheek pressed against the cushion. Your eyes crinkled as you saw how tenderly Konig held his kitty, so small in his arms, but the little kitty didn't care.

"She reminds me of you." He muttered, his voice soft as he continued scratching at his kitty's ears.

"Yeah? Because I'm cute?" You teased him, beaming when you saw a faint smile on Konig's face.

"Yeah, you're the cutest." He hummed, his gaze glancing down to meet yours, "You're so cute I don't know what to do with myself half the time."

Your cheeks felt warm from his words, mouth open to reply, but nothing came out of your mouth — just in awe that Konig would say something so affectionate and vulnerable.

"Did I leave you at a loss for words?" He chuckled, his gaze softening seeing how flustered you were.

You could only huff out a reply, a pout forming on your lips as you shuffled closer to him and lean your head against his broad shoulder.

"Since when were you such a romantic with your words?" You whispered, your hands shifting down to gently paw at his kitty. She purred happily, meowing in bliss having two people coo at her.

“Since I met you.”

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

Author's Note: I hc that Konig has a siamese just because my bsf that is a huge konig fan has a siamese cat lol!

just watched sinners and it was amazing! highly recommend! it had me thinking of vampire!nikto trying to get reader to let him in.

pairing: vampire!nikto x afab!reader

cw: p in v, unprotected s (wrap it before you tap it), fingering reader receives, dub-con, vampires duh, southern inaccuracies, accent inaccuracies, sinners au, very ooc but this is set in the south and he's a vampire so... tw: blood wc: 1.6k

You heard rumors of vampires through the grapevine, hushed whispers as if evoking the word vampire would be enough to summon them. You had a hard time thinking that such a devil could exist in this quiet part of the south which had nothing but cotton fields and dust storms as far as the eye could see.

What business did vampires have down here?

You scoffed at the idea, shaking your head at the notion. Some farmer boys probably heard too many stories and were spreading tall-tales around the town for the fun of it.

Just as the sky turned to a hazy pink, the sun setting, you retired back to your little cottage. You hung up your shoes and then padded your way to your kitchen, tying an apron around your figure as you prepared to make your infamous orange juice. You hummed as your hand squeezed a batch of oranges, the crickets of grasshoppers and squelching of the supple fruit filling the solitude of the night.

It was quiet, just like every other night before it and probably every night after it. You planned on squeezing just a few more oranges and then you'd retire for the night, rewind and get cozy under your covers with a book tucked in your hands. 

However, your plans derailed when there was knocking at your front porch. You spun your head to the door, eyebrows scrunched, scrutinizing the offending sound.

Who could possibly be knocking this late?

You wiped the grime of your labor onto your apron, eyebrow cocked as you hesitantly walked towards the door.

"Who out there?" You spoke out, hand steady on your rifle you had on standby. A rifle you've kept for months, gifted to you by your lover. Use it to protect yourself while he was off fighting, he told you. 

"It just me baby." A rugged voice spoke from behind the door — a voice you immediately recognized. You dropped your rifle, your hand reaching for the doorknob.

"Andre?" You whipped the door open, eyes wide in disbelief seeing the man you had promised yourself to standing in front of you, breathing and alive. He was still the behemoth of a man you had etched in your memories, and still in that dirty soldier uniform you saw him in before he left for that accursed war.

"I promised I'd be back and marry you after, didn' I? Well, here I am. Just let me in baby." His drawl lured you in, sultry voice hooking you just like it did so many months ago before he left.

Yet, you hesitated. Something about him was... wrong. He looked like your Andre, but he didn't feel like your Andre. A twisted and sick imitation of your lover.

"You— Is it really you, Andre?" You whispered, voice trembling as you looked at his eyes, bloodshot and lidded. He had an unfocused look, not really seeing you like he did before. It was a hungry look, like his bones were aching for something you didn't know about.

"Who else would it be if not me baby?" He chuckled, much more relaxed than he's ever been. His voice didn't have that hint of tension he usually had, and his shoulders weren't rigid like they were before.

You gulped, your head spinning as you tried to rationalize your cautious thoughts. Maybe he just loosened up after the war. He was Andre — your Andre. He had to be. Definitely.

"Yeah... yeah— sorry baby, had a rough day today." You shook off your hesitance, reeling the door back to let him in.

Andre smiled, a toothy smile that made your spine crawl. You could see his sharp teeth and how red his gums were.

Were his canines always so sharp?

He took one step inside your quaint home, rolling his shoulder as he exhaled a heavy sigh, like there was a boulder on his back that came off once he entered your cottage.

He hooked his arm around your waist, pulling you towards him and he chuckled hearing the shrill of your voice from his sudden action. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his nose dragging along the muscle where your neck and collar bone connected.

"Fuck, you smell good." Andre inhaled deeply, his tongue lapping at your skin to taste the sweat on your body. "I wanna taste you tonight baby. Been so long since I had you like this— that damn war had me starving."

You squealed as you felt his tongue drag along your flesh, nearly falling onto the rickety floorboards from how Andre was holding you. He always had an imposing pressure to him, but it felt like he was trying to crush you right now.

Your lips parted to let out a whine but his lips were quick to catch yours, sloppy and desperate, his tongue licking at your teeth and swiping over the roof of your mouth.

You groaned at how nasty the kiss was — it was depraved and dirty, but god it had your knees weak, hands clutching at his burly forearms to steady yourself.

You push yourself off of him, panting and breathless as you looked up at him.

"An—"

You were barely able to let out a syllable when he yanked at your arm, his grip tight and unyielding as he pushed you onto the couch. You leaned onto your elbows, eyes wide and face flushed as you looked up at him through your eyelashes.

"I'm starving baby, and you look like a damn meal right now." He tilted his head as he looked down at you, grinning like a madman. The sight made you quiver, feeling like a piece of meat rather than his lover.

Your gaze fell down to his glossy mouth, noting the drool that was seeping past the corner of his lips.

Strange.

"Andre, you're drooling." You commented, your heart racing a little faster as your brain tried to connect each of these strange occurrences. Andre's sudden appearance, his relaxed demeanor, his drool, and that damn insatiable look of hunger in his eyes.

"Just excited baby. You wanna taste?" He chuckled, giving you no time to linger on your observations as his hands already started groping at your body. He grabbed at the flush meat of your thighs, bunching up your skirt up to your hips, a low growl coming from his chest when he saw the damp spot on your panties. "Fuck, look how wet she is for me."

Your breath hitched when you felt his fingers tug your panties to the side, whimpering as the cool night air hit your cunt. You instinctively tried to close your legs, but his hands kept them spread wide open.

"None of that baby. Let me see her." Andre grunted, two of his fingers swiping at your slick cunt, gathering up your juices onto his fingers. A chuckle rumbled out of him when he saw how you shivered, your body reacting just the same as when he deflowered you so many months ago.

"Been a while since I've had you, but seems your body still remembers me perfectly clear."

You groaned when he removed his fingers, hips bucking into the air at the loss of friction.

"Andre, don' tease me." You whispered, your hands gently pulling at him so he was on top of you, but it was then when you noticed his eyes. His baby blue's that you adored were replaced by an empty grey, a haunting color that made your heart stop.

He wasn't Andre.

He noticed the look of horror in your eyes, his smile forming into a terrifying grin as one hand harshly grabbed at your cheeks and pushed you down while the other held down your hips, keeping you caged under him.

"Oh baby, I was hoping you wouldn' notice." He spoke softer, as if trying to soften the damage. You squirmed and writhed, trying to kick your feet at him but he was strong — so fucking strong. Your futile attempts were like a little kitten head butting against his muscled body.

"Shh, easy girl. I won' hurt 'ya." He reassured you, but you knew he was just whispering sweet lies so you'd ease up and let him in.

You squealed when you felt his leaking tip against your slick hole, tears welling in your eyes as he slowly slid inside, filling you up inch by inch until his hip was flush against the swell of your ass. " 'atta girl... my sweet girl, taking me so well aren' 'ya?" He cooed, his thumb swiping at the tear pricking down the corner of your eye, shushing you as he slowly began to rock his hips.

You hated how your body took him, how your hole weeped at each of his thrusts, and even worse how you moaned in ecstasy. You didn't want to admit it, but It felt good — really fucking good.

"Taking me so good, yeah? Fuck— Fucking missed how you clench around me baby." He purred in your ear, his tongue licking at the shell of your ear and making your back arch off the couch. He knew exactly what you liked, how to make you unravel and turn into putty in his hands.

He fucked you just like how Andre did.

"An— hnngh-" Your mind was breaking, eyes squeezed shut at how his cock kept hitting your g-spot, making you mewl and cry beneath him until you were a puddle.

He dragged sloppy kisses down from your flushed cheeks to the meat of your neck, sucking and nibbling on the tender skin, making a shiver shoot up your body when you felt his sharp canines poke at your skin.

Your nails clawed at his back, trying to scratch at him and push him off but he was a determined man that wouldn't stop until you could feel him in your veins and your heart only pumped for him. 

"Don' fight it, once I bite you we'll be together forever baby."

And you didn't — or really you couldn't. You couldn't fight how he held you down, his hot seed filling you up as he sank his teeth into your flesh, letting you shake and writhe until your hands fell limp and your eyes glossed over.

"You're beautiful like this." Andre grinned, his mouth covered in blood and the crimson liquid dripping down his chin. He looked down at your trembling form, licking his bloodied lips as he was entranced by your body shifting into a vampire.

His beautiful bride, a vampire just like him now.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

Authors Note: I put a bunch of references to sinners lol! If you've seen the movie then you probably noticed them

Simon hums Pretty Little Baby by Connie Francis as he cradles his son.

pairing: simon "ghost" riley x afab!reader

Music wasn't something simon indulged in often. The closest he had gotten was the jazz background music that would be muffled in the pubs he frequented, but even then he rarely paid attention to it; His mind occupied with nursing the drink he would be having that night.

But then he met you.

His sweet, musically inclined, bird that always had some sort of soft music playing as you idly worked, or had your headphones on while mindlessly scrolling on your phone and humming to whatever song you were listening to.

It made silence unnerving and he soon began seeking songs to fill the void of emptiness left from lack of noise.

At base his finger would tap the rhythm to the song you were currently obsessed with that week, and in the solitude of his office he'd hum a tune from one of your songs. His gruff tone was nothing like the original quality of the song, but he did it regardless — maybe to mimic and feel closer to you.

As the years went by, Simon's knees were getting weaker and his body wasn't moving like it used to anymore. Begrudgingly, he retired from the force. Still kept in contact with them, but he wanted to begin a new chapter in his life — a chapter with you at the center, belly swollen and cradling a new life made from your shared union.

Simon's burly arms built for guns and violence now held your little one, thick arms made from war now made to cradle your baby. He swayed with the hushed hum of music, his voice mellow to not alert his sleeping son.

The early rays of the morning sunlight filtered through the nursery, his little boy squirming in his arms and wriggling at the sunlight.

"It's alright honey— I know, I know, you ain't an early bird either are 'ya? Just like 'ya mum." Simon whispered, his gruff voice filling the cozy little nursery, gently bouncing his squirming son.

He chuckled seeing his hands in tight fists, as if trying to fight the rays of sunlight, fussy and squirmy. "Pretty little baby," Simon started, his voice sultry and smooth, still under the effects of sleep.

"You can ask the flowers, I sit for hours."

"Tellin' all the bluebirds, the bill and coo birds."

"Pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you."

Simon's lips curved into a smile seeing his baby boy fast asleep in his arms, his little chest slowly moving up and down, lulled by the voice of his daddy.

10 years ago Simon never thought he'd be here, cradling a little baby in his arms, and an adoring partner tucked under the covers of their shared bed, but here he was, the happiest man on earth.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

Simon hums Pretty Little Baby by Connie Francis as he cradles his son.

pairing: simon "ghost" riley x afab!reader

Music wasn't something simon indulged in often. The closest he had gotten was the jazz background music that would be muffled in the pubs he frequented, but even then he rarely paid attention to it; His mind occupied with nursing the drink he would be having that night.

But then he met you.

His sweet, musically inclined, bird that always had some sort of soft music playing as you idly worked, or had your headphones on while mindlessly scrolling on your phone and humming to whatever song you were listening to.

It made silence unnerving and he soon began seeking songs to fill the void of emptiness left from lack of noise.

At base his finger would tap the rhythm to the song you were currently obsessed with that week, and in the solitude of his office he'd hum a tune from one of your songs. His gruff tone was nothing like the original quality of the song, but he did it regardless — maybe to mimic and feel closer to you.

As the years went by, Simon's knees were getting weaker and his body wasn't moving like it used to anymore. Begrudgingly, he retired from the force. Still kept in contact with them, but he wanted to begin a new chapter in his life — a chapter with you at the center, belly swollen and cradling a new life made from your shared union.

Simon's burly arms built for guns and violence now held your little one, thick arms made from war now made to cradle your baby. He swayed with the hushed hum of music, his voice mellow to not alert his sleeping son.

The early rays of the morning sunlight filtered through the nursery, his little boy squirming in his arms and wriggling at the sunlight.

"It's alright honey— I know, I know, you ain't an early bird either are 'ya? Just like 'ya mum." Simon whispered, his gruff voice filling the cozy little nursery, gently bouncing his squirming son.

He chuckled seeing his hands in tight fists, as if trying to fight the rays of sunlight, fussy and squirmy.  "Pretty little baby," Simon started, his voice sultry and smooth, still under the effects of sleep.

"You can ask the flowers, I sit for hours."

"Tellin' all the bluebirds, the bill and coo birds."

"Pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you."

Simon's lips curved into a smile seeing his baby boy fast asleep in his arms, his little chest slowly moving up and down, lulled by the voice of his daddy.

10 years ago Simon never thought he'd be here, cradling a little baby in his arms, and an adoring partner tucked under the covers of their shared bed, but here he was; the happiest man on earth.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

Johnny knows he's messed up when his sweet bonnie calls him "Johnathon"

pairing: john "soap" mactavish x gn!reader

You had a handful of nicknames you'd call Johnny.

Love, Honey, Baby — whatever you were in the mood for.

Johnny loved all your nicknames, always giggling and smiling ear to ear whenever you'd endearingly mention him. Ever since dating you he's never heard his actual name, even at base it'd be soap or johnny.

Until he messed up. Big time.

"We have to talk when you come home Johnathon."

It was just one message you sent to Johnny and he damn near shat his pants.

His mates knew something was up when he was eerily quiet — his usual dorky remarks and tease nowhere to be found and instead replaced by uncomfortable silence along with rhythmic thumping of his foot.

"What's got your knickers twisted Johnny?" Simon would question, arms crossed as he stared down at Johnny.

"The missus is angry with me."

Even Simon knew that was a death sentence — his mate might as well have one foot in the grave.

Johnny ran around town to gather a bouquet with your favorite flowers, candy, takeaway; he bought the whole damn city just to somewhat quell your wrath when he came home.

He hesitantly opened the door, and after only 2 second when he entered his house he immediately felt your looming presence.

"Johnathon." Your voice was stern, arms crossed, and an empty pint of ice cream in your hands.

Johnny gulped, his eyes darting from your scrunched face to the empty pint of ice cream.

Your favorite ice cream, nonetheless.

"Luv—"

"Don't. You greedy man!" You cussed at him, face scrunched in anger as your hand dug into the plastic body of the ice cream. "You ate all of my ice cream, and even had the audacity to put it back in the fridge after!"

Johnny knew he couldn't say anything back unless he wanted his bonnie to be even more angry at him, so he just stood and let you vent at him, calling him a gluttonous beast and every other name in the book (he deserved it because seriously, who leaves the ice cream in the fridge after they eat it?)

After you finished yelling at him, a bit breathless and panting, he'd scoop you into his arms — coddle and kiss you until all the anger washed out your body and you went back to calling him your baby.

He also made sure the next day you'd have your favorite ice cream tucked into the fridge, less he wants his poor bonnie to lash out at him again for his gluttony.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

Happy new years! I had the idea of reader doing the tradition of eating 12 grapes on new year day and miraculously meeting their dream man a week later (König)

pairing: König x gn!Reader

cw: robbery, police tw: knives (nothing done by König)

Despite the hurdles, challenges, and unfortunate breakups the past year had brought upon you — you still made it. You made it to the end of the year and now you're with your friends, all of you laughing and giggling while holding bowls of grapes under their rickety old dining table.

"This year I'm finding the man of my dreams. Tall, Kind—"

"The countdown is starting!" One of your friends suddenly interrupted, everyone looking at the TV screen as the countdown ensued.

All your voices muddled together as you counted along with the crowd shown on TV, smiling and shouting in enthusiasm when the clock ticked midnight and it was officially the new year.

Everyone hurriedly ate their 12 grapes, forced gurgles and swallows filling the room with uncomfortably gross sounds.

Thankfully you finished them all under a minute, gulping one last time before sighing in relief.

You crawled out from under the table, grabbing a glass of water to down after shoveling grapes down your throat.

Your heart thrummed at the idea of meeting your dream man soon, hoping that the 12 grapes would work in your favor.

They definitely did — just a lot quicker than you expected.

Unexpected as well.

A week later your workplace was getting robbed by some amateur, their hands shaking as they fumbled with a knife and were yelling out demands for all the money in the cash register.

You would think the scene was pathetic if you weren't at the other end of the knife. You tried your best to remain calm, assuring the robber you wouldn't call the cops as your hands meticulously bagged the money away, only for a man — a really big man — suddenly grab the guy and shove him onto the ground.

Honestly you weren't paying attention to the guy crying in pain or the sound of knuckles against skin from the punches the guy was swinging at the robber, your head foggy as you were actively dissociating from the chaotic scene.

"Miss," A gruff voice spoke to you, an Austrian accent present as he held the bloodied and bruised man by the scruff of his neck.

"Ah— sorry, let me call the police and- and thank you!" You stuttered out, your hands jittery as you fumbled out your phone and called the cops.

You sighed as you saw the robber get dragged away, your manager talking with the cops, and strangely the man lingering next to you.

"Are you okay?" He asked, his posture slightly hunched to meet your dazed gaze.

"Yeah, just— kinda still in shock," You mutter under your breath, a shaky exhale leaving your lips, a breath you weren't even aware you were holding the entire time.

"Do you like coffee?" The man questioned, his gaze firm and steady on your trembling figure.

You raise your head, eyebrows knitted together from the sudden question as you looked at the man's face first for the time.

He was wearing a black surgical mask and had a black hoodie to further hide his face, but you saw his serene blue eyes — heavy yet gentle as they gazed back down with you.

"Why are you asking?" The question finally leaves your lips after a beat of silence, your cheeks growing warm at how he kept looking at you with such fondness. It was so strange how he looked at you — so loving and patient even though he had just tussled with an armed man.

"I know a place not far from here. Let me take you,"

You nodded before your brain even registered what you agreed to, but you didn't mind. He saved you from a robber, getting coffee with the buff man seems reasonable as a sort of repayment.

It was barely even February when by some miracle you two began a relationship and he was exactly everything you wished for in a man. Exactly what you wished for on new years when you were munching on grapes under a wooden table with all your friends and fireworks erupting outside.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

i've been swamped with school work sooo... simon taking care of reader after a study session

pairing: simon ghost riley x student!reader

Hours muddled together in your mind — the only thing keeping you awake was the occasional shuffles of feet passing in the library, pages turning, books being grabbed from shelves, and the shushed sighs of stress.

Your eyelids fought to stay awake, feeling so heavy and drowsy that you felt akin to a heavy rain cloud ready to pour. The cup of coffee wasn't helping anymore either, your bones to tired and wrist to sore to continue with your notes.

Your feet dragged behind you as your trudged into your car, hands weakly gripping the steering wheel as a nagging voice spoke in your head that you were in no position to be driving right now.

You fumbled out your phone from your pocket, your thumb clicking on Simon's contact before groggily muttering to him that you were too tired to drive home from the library.

You tried to be patient and wait for him, but your exhaustion won. Your eyes fluttered shut and your breathing slowed down, a gentle sight for Simon when he came to the library parking lot and saw you peacefully passed out in your car.

The next morning you'd awake to a warm, cozy bed, sunlight flickering into the room, and fresh pair of clothes at the end of the bed for you to change into.

You stretched your sore body, yawning as you blearily looked at the bedside table and saw a scribbled note on the wooden surface.

Theres oatmeal in the fridge with cut up fruit and orange juice. Love you

—Simon

Your lips curve into a smile, your heart feeling warm at the sincere and sweet message left by Simon. Despite being pulled and pushed as a solider, he still tried his best to be there for you in your academic pursuit.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

Counting the freckles on König's face as you two lay on the couch after an exhausting day

pairing: könig x gn!reader

König's face was a privilege only a select few people have ever seen in his life — barely enough people to count on one hand.

Even amongst those select few, they didn’t see his face on a daily occasion. He keeps his identity locked behind his sniper hood, leaving only his heavy gaze as a small window to his soul; everyone except his schatz.

during the long deployments where he was left with only a polarid of you tucked away in a pocket next to his heart he'd stare at it every night, his heart tugging wondering if you were safe — if he'll make it back to feel your touch on his scarred body.

When he returns he immediately tugs off all his clothes, haggard hands tugging at your own so he could feel you as close as possible; to feel you intimately without the restriction of cloth or anything else, just limbs tangled together in a loving embrace.

You lay on top of König, his large physique dwarfing you in comparison as your hands interlocked with his and lips lazily brushing against each others lips as you laid comfortably under the fluffy blanket.

His mask was tossed into a random cupboard, clothes strewn off into a corner of the room and his eyes half lidded as he looked at your gorgeous figure under the mellow sunlight. Seeing you bask like an angel under the warm light of the evening.

You broke away from the tender kiss, eyes glancing across his chiseled cheeks and noting the faint freckles on his face.

"You have freckles." You spoke softly, not wanting to break the silent peace in the room.

"Ja, they're more visible in the summer." Konig replies back, his cheeks tinting red seeing the star-struck look on your face — like the simple dots on his face had carved their way into your heart.

"They're pretty." You'd hum, your lips gently grazing against his cheek and pressing a soft kiss against each one. König let you pepper kisses all over his face, letting himself be a canvas for your kisses as he floated away somewhere soft and away from the war-torn and violent world he was brought up in.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

boydad!simon misses when his son was a little newborn.

[ boydad!Simon - one - two - three ]

cw: simon "ghost" riley x afab!reader

You liked to think that you showed off your son a decent amount of times with pride like every other parent — but Simon took it to a different level. Anyone who gave him a moment of their time would be subject to listening to him ramble about his adorable son and be forced to see the catalogue of videos he keeps in his gallery.

Regarding that information, It came to no one's surprise that he was a fanatic for taking pictures of your little boy — doesn't matter if it was just him simply playing with his blocks it needed to be photographed!

He began the tradition that once a month he'd take a cute picture of your son next to a ballon that said how old he was in months. He even bought a new polaroid camera for it so he can tuck the images away safely in a photo-book (and most definitely show to your son to tease him once he's older).

Today would be the 8th month of the tradition, your little boy already laying down on a soft wooly blanket as he happily kicked his feet and his chubby hands smacked against the ballon.

You smiled down at your son, cooing at him as you waited for Simon to come in with his camera.

But, after 10 minutes you began to worry. You scooped your son up from the blanket, carefully cradling him and walking to your master bedroom.

"Simon!" You called out into the house, your baby on your hip as you looked through the house for your husband.

Your hand curled around the door knob to your bedroom, creaking the wooden door open and your eyes landing on Simon sitting on the edge of the bed with one of your son's old baby onesies — the first one he wore after you took him back from the hospital.

"Oh, love." You whisper softly, your little boy letting out a curious gurgle when he saw his father sitting on the bed.

"He used to fit in this." Simon mumbled to himself, his hands gently running along the fabric of the onesie.

"Yea, our baby grew up so quick." You added, shuffling yourself to sit beside Simon while your baby squealed and sat in your lap.

"Can't believe it's already been 8 months. He'll be off to uni soon enough." Simon let out a shaky breath, your gaze growing softer seeing his eyes become glossy and his waterline filling with tears.

"He'll always be our baby even when he's grown, love." You reassuringly reminded Simon, a heavy sigh leaving him as his shoulders relaxed. Your little boy wriggled in your arms, crawling his way to his father's arm and giggling once Simon held him securely in his arms.

"You better not grow up too fast on me." Simon playfully lectured your son, cradling the little boy as his large hand gently ruffled his dirty blonde tuft of hair — same shade as his daddy's.

You smiled at the scene in front of you, your head against Simon's shoulder as you both looked lovingly down at your baby. He'll grow up and become a respectable young man, but for now he was in his father's arms and loved unconditionally.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

Price is absolutely baffled when he see's his lovie's phone layout (old man confusion)

cw: older!captain john price x younger!gn!reader (legal age gap)

When price started dating someone much younger than him — nearly a 20 year age gap — he knew there would be some generational misunderstandings.

You'd scrunch your face in bewilderment every time he'd reference some old childhood show he watched, a beat of awkward silence passing before it finally clicked in his head that while he was watching the show you weren't even a thought yet.

He'd look at you unamused whenever you talk in gen-z lingo, his eyebrows furrowed while you tried to explain "gyatt" in between your giggles because come on, how are you meant to tell him with a straight face that gyatt means a fat ass?

One lazy morning, you were doomscrolling through your phone, absentmindedly moving your thumb and not bothering to move as John sluggishly trudged towards you. His beefy arms curled around your waist, grumbling as he pulled you closer under the comforter — but then his eyes shot wide open when he saw how different your screen was.

It had little icons, pictures, and other things that definitely weren't on the regular iphone screen. Hell, you had a damn record spinning on there somehow!

"Why's your phone look like that?" John gruffly spoke, eyes squinted as you turned your head and laughed at his confused expression.

"I decorated it using widgets."

"Widgets?"

The lazy morning turned into you decorating John's phone (he requested a brown theme); you smiling as you handed it back to him after decorating it in a light brown aesthetic. He was surprised at how quick you had transformed his phone, but hummed in appreciation and planted a kiss on your cheek as a thank you.

The boys at base had a good laugh seeing their captain's phone all "dolled up." (Soap laughed the hardest so he was given bathroom cleaning duties for the rest of the month.)

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

Simon helps you put on your heels

pairing: simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader cw: implied smut, simon is a flirt, he'd rather be home with his lovie than at a social gathering

"Simon, can you help me love?"

Your back was facing simon, head turned to look at him behind your shoulder.

He was in the middle of buttoning his shirt, a chuckle rumbling out of his chest as he stepped closer to you — calloused hands running along your back, savoring the feeling of his hands on your soft skin. He lowered his head and planted a kiss your shoulder, making the small hairs on the back of your nape rise and a whine fall past your lips.

"Simon." You'd huff out softly, pouting at him for being such a tease.

"Sorry darlin', you just look so beautiful."

He whispered lovingly, planting one more gentle kiss on your exposed shoulder before zipping up your dress.

"You're stunning, love." Simon hummed as he looked at you through the mirror, his hands resting on your hips as he kissed the top of your head.

"We're gonna be late if you keep this up Simon."

"I wouldn't mind that."

You rolled your eyes, wriggling yourself out of his grasp as you walked to where your heels were. Simon followed closely behind, hooking his arm around your waist to stop you from bending down to grab your heels.

"I'll do it for you love."

Simon purred softly, kneeling on one leg as his hands guided your feet to slip into your heels, planting a tender kiss on your knee as you giggled at the soft affection.

"Si—"

You gasped when his lips went further up your leg, immediately grabbing his scalp and pulling him away — a grin on his face as your frowned.

"We can't be late Simon!"

You'd remind him and he'd huff playfully, still smiling as he got up onto his feet and press a kiss on your temple.

"After the party then love?"

"Fine." You'd roll your eyes, but your frown couldn't last when he kept peppering kisses all over your face.

Sneaky bastard, knew exactly how to rile you up and then calm you down. (And he definitely got what he wanted after the party)

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

just found out I'm on my period so I wrote about our favorite austrian coming to your beck and call during shark week

cw: könig x afab!reader

König would unironically be those "just found out women get periods" men but it's expected. He doesn't have any sisters, his mother didn't teach him either because why would she? And the military definitely didn't teach him about the female anatomy.

So the first time when he saw you curled up under your comforter, whimpering softly and clutching your stomach he genuinely thought you were dying.

"Mein schatz what's wrong!?" Konig would ask in a panicked voice and quickly step to your side, kneeling at the edge of the bed and his rough hand cupping your cheek.

"Just my period konig..." You groggily mumble out, almost not catching how his expression changed from worry to confusion.

"Period?"

"Yea I—... you don't know what periods are you, do you?" A chuckle escapes your lips when you see konig's fallen face and his almost shameful nod to your question.

After you explained it to him you couldn't help but giggle seeing how mad he looked.

"I can't believe women have to go through that."

"Once a month for the rest of our life."

"Scheiße- I'm so sorry mein liebchen..." Konig would whisper softly, his voice smooth and gentle as his calloused hand would rub against the apple of your cheek.

From that day forward he'd always have a care package ready for you with chocolates, ice cream, pads, tampons — whatever his schatz needed. Not only that but he gladly became your heat pack for you, letting you lay under him and whine to put his full weight onto you (as much as he loved you he never did because have you seen him? he's huge. he'd crush a little thing like you!)

His large hand would run down your back and soothe you as you groaned and hiccuped about cramps, his burly arms warming you up and whispering sweet assurances into your ear. He was already a sweetheart but he would be such a gentlemen during your period.

trying to get out of bed? he'll carry you bridal style to wherever you want to go. ordering food? don't worry your pretty little head he's already ordered your favorite takeout. your mood swings making you feel irritable? hit him as many times as you want to feel better schatz, it's not like he can actually get hurt anyway.

he'd be the most understanding and doting lover during your period, ready to kneel and worship you like the goddess you were to him.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

König is addicted to kissing your cervix

cw: könig x afab!reader, p in v, oral (reader receives), aftercare

König is massive — no shocker: 6'10, built like a mountain, burly arms, meaty thighs, thick cock.

It made sense that he'd fill you up easily, albeit with a lot of struggle. It'd be a long and tedious process to make sure your cunt was stretched enough that it wouldn't tear from his sheer size.

His flat tongue lapping at your folds; deep growls making your clit throb and the sheets soak under you as your slick dripped down the curves of your ass. God — just from eating you out he makes you cum so hard to the point your knuckles would turn white from gripping the sheets and your vision blurred with hot white stars.

Your chest would be heaving — breaths short and erratic as König groaned against your slicked cunt.

"Relax, Schatz."

König's raspy voice made shivers crawl down your spine, whimpers spilling out your lips as he pulled away and his thick hands grabbed at the flush meat of your hips.

A gasp choked out your mouth when his broad hips forced your legs further apart, eyes rolling to the back of your head feeling his throbbing tip rub against your sensitive entrance, fluttering around nothing but the teasing roll of his hips.

"So needy, ja? Tell me how desperate you are for my cock, mein liebchen."

"Please... Please König—"

Your nails dug red crescents into könig's muscular shoulders, shuddering as he slid inside, feeling every inch of him fill you up and split you open. You groaned as his hips pressed flush against your ass, a deep growl forming from König's chest as he babbled slurred praises in broken german about how tight and warm you were.

The bed would creak from his sheer speed, a mix of groans and whines coming from the both of you as his cock kept slamming into your gummy cervix — your belly protruding from each thrust as you cried from the mix of pleasure and pain.

"Köni— König! Ah—"

Tears flowed down your face as a sheen of sweat covered your body, lips parted and drool leaking as lewd smacks and moans filled the air.

Each time his tip would kiss your cervix your hips would buck up, eyes squeezing shut for just a moment before König would growl at you to open your eyes.

"Don't shut your eyes mein schatz. Look at me — Look. At. Me."

He would say each word between a powerful thrust, one hand gripping your cheeks and forcing you to look directly at his hungry and desperate gaze.

His thrusts would grow sloppy and more desperate as he neared his climax, your knees bent next to your head as he grunted between each ruthless slam of his aching cock into your sopping wet cunt.

"Scheiße— Scheiße, du bist so gut... Ugh— so good liebchen."

Your thighs trembled, body growing sore and a swelling ache forming in your abondmen from the amount of times he's slammed his massive cock against your poor cervix. But you couldn't care about the bubbling pain at that moment — your mind to fried and hazy with the thought of his cock to care about the tingling pain growing in your belly.

After he slammed his hips one last time, pumping hot white ropes into your cunt and groaning seeing some of his seed spill out your twitching folds he'd gently pull out — voice soft and gentle as he peppered you in kisses.

He'd bring a damp cloth and wash you up properly all while whispering how good you did, his warm lips making your skin shiver as his other hand rubbed at your sensitive tummy that endured his merciless pounding.

"Feeling okay, schatz?"

"Yea... but you have to stop kissing my cervix so much." You'd whine softly, earning a chuckle from König as he kissed you.

"I'll try, mein liebchen."

(spoiler: he doesn't)

thank you to my equally insane bestie for beta reading this also 🤭

Johnny was a naturally chaotic man and you loved him for the ruckus he could create — but you also loved the private moments with him

cw: john "soap" mactavish x gn!reader

Johnny was notorious for his chaos. He was unapologetically noisy and the embodiment of a rowdy Scotsman’s.

You knew what you were getting into when you fell for his boyish charm: His accented voice that had you hooked, his toned body that embraced you so lovingly, his toothy smile that made your heart throb — he was perfect. Perfectly yours.

You expected that your relationship with johnny would be private; previous exes didn't really show you off so why would Johnny be different?

Oh, how wrong you were. He talked about you constantly. You were his heart and he bared his chest out to everyone.

"Guess wha'? My sweet bonnie got a promotion yesterday!"

"The missus made me cinnamon rolls yesterday!"

"My darlin' knitted me these socks!"

Everyday you would get a message from his mates, complaining how he wouldn't shut up about you. You'd giggle each time seeing their annoyed messages, your heart swelling hearing him proudly speak of your accomplishments and how much he adored you.

"Johnny, your mates texted me today about how you kept chattering on about me. Keep it to a minimum, could you love?" You'd scold Johnny lightly, but fold immediately seeing his bottom lip protrude to form a pout and whine how he just wanted to talk about his darling. How could you say no to that while his arms are wrapped around your figure and peppering kisses all over your face?

Despite his need to be a chatterbox and fill the room with whatever his mind was thinking, you also appreciated the quiet moments with him.

Whenever he came back from a draining mission and all he wanted was to lay his head down on your pillowy thighs and listen to the soft hum of your voice as your fingers threaded through his hair — you could never decline. Having him breathing softly on your lap and eyes fluttered shut, away from war and in the arms of his beloved.

But your favorite is when he asks you to come with him on a walk. His hand intertwined with yours, thumb brushing against your knuckle, the setting sun casting a golden hue on Johnny that had you bewitched — he never looked so perfect.

He'd catch the way your eyes twinkled as you stared at him, a chuckle falling from his lips.

"Somethin' caught your eye darlin'?"

"Yea—" Your voice barely above a murmur, breath hitched when he took a step closer. His gentle smile made your chest tingle in warmth, calloused hands rubbing against the apple of your cheeks as he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss — slow and steady so he could savor the feeling of your lips against his.

You both reluctantly pulled away, limbs still pressed against each other and chests heaving as his lips pressed lazily against your flushed face.

"I'm the luckiest man in the world to have you, bonnie."

Oh, how you loved that he adored you so loudly and gently at the same time.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

boydad!simon misses when his son was a little newborn.

[ boydad!Simon - one - two - three ]

cw: simon "ghost" riley x afab!reader

You liked to think that you showed off your son a decent amount of times with pride like every other parent — but Simon took it to a different level. Anyone who gave him a moment of their time would be subject to listening to him ramble about his adorable son and be forced to see the catalogue of videos he keeps in his gallery.

Regarding that information, It came to no one's surprise that he was a fanatic for taking pictures of your little boy — doesn't matter if it was just him simply playing with his blocks it needed to be photographed!

He began the tradition that once a month he'd take a cute picture of your son next to a ballon that said how old he was in months. He even bought a new polaroid camera for it so he can tuck the images away safely in a photo-book (and most definitely show to your son to tease him once he's older).

Today would be the 8th month of the tradition, your little boy already laying down on a soft wooly blanket as he happily kicked his feet and his chubby hands smacked against the ballon.

You smiled down at your son, cooing at him as you waited for Simon to come in with his camera.

But, after 10 minutes you began to worry. You scooped your son up from the blanket, carefully cradling him and walking to your master bedroom.

"Simon!" You called out into the house, your baby on your hip as you looked through the house for your husband.

Your hand curled around the door knob to your bedroom, creaking the wooden door open and your eyes landing on Simon sitting on the edge of the bed with one of your son's old baby onesies — the first one he wore after you took him back from the hospital.

"Oh, love." You whisper softly, your little boy letting out a curious gurgle when he saw his father sitting on the bed.

"He used to fit in this." Simon mumbled to himself, his hands gently running along the fabric of the onesie.

"Yea, our baby grew up so quick." You added, shuffling yourself to sit beside Simon while your baby squealed and sat in your lap.

"Can't believe it's already been 8 months. He'll be off to uni soon enough." Simon let out a shaky breath, your gaze growing softer seeing his eyes become glossy and his waterline filling with tears.

"He'll always be our baby even when he's grown, love." You reassuringly reminded Simon, a heavy sigh leaving him as his shoulders relaxed. Your little boy wriggled in your arms, crawling his way to his father's arm and giggling once Simon held him securely in his arms.

"You better not grow up too fast on me." Simon playfully lectured your son, cradling the little boy as his large hand gently ruffled his dirty blonde tuft of hair — same shade as his daddy's.

You smiled at the scene in front of you, your head against Simon's shoulder as you both looked lovingly down at your baby. He'll grow up and become a respectable young man, but for now he was in his father's arms and loved unconditionally.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

könig would never in a million years speak up in a public environment, but when he sees his poor schatz's sullen face after getting handed the wrong item — social anxiety suddenly never existed to him.

cw: könig x gn!reader

You and König both bonded over the fact you hated unnecessary interactions with other people. You were practically carbon copies of each other; preferring to keep conversations at a minimum and then hurriedly walk back to your office (König's office) and recharge after any social interaction. Doesn't matter if it was a simple "how was your day" coffee talk — you'd whine and fumble into König's lap after to recharge in his warm, bearish hug.

König found it adorable how you used him like a charger, feeling safe in his grasp knowing your feelings were understood and validated. He knew what it was like — his social anxiety stunted him in the conversational skill department as well so he was acutely aware how draining and nerve-wracking the simplest of conversations could be.

On the rare occasions you two have a date night that isn't binge watching shows, you both pick quiet and intimate locations — like tonight you two decided on a fine dining restaurant. Yea it'll be expensive, but better than a concert where you're surrounded by strangers, right?

It was enjoyable for the most part; the atmosphere was romantic and the restaurant was elegantly designed. Only problem — they gave you the wrong dish.

Your face dropped, scrunching in dissatisfaction at the meal in front of you that you definitely did not order; and your grimaced expression did not go unnoticed by König.

It broke his heart seeing his liebchen's sullen expression. He knew you wouldn't call over the waiter to tell them the mistake, so for probably the first time in nearly his 4 decades of existence he called over the waiter.

"This is the wrong order." König nearly growled out, his voice stern and monotone as the waiter quickly spewed out apologies and whisked the plate off the table.

You stared at König, wide-eyed that he did that knowing how uncomfortable it must have made him feel.

"König—"

"Don't worry about it mein Schatz, I'm fine. You know I'd do anything for you, ja?" He gave you that sweet and adoring smile, and you swear you could feel your heart melting and falling in love with him all over again.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

just found out I'm on my period so I wrote about our favorite austrian coming to your beck and call during shark week

cw: könig x afab!reader

König would unironically be those "just found out women get periods" men but it's expected. He doesn't have any sisters, his mother didn't teach him either because why would she? And the military definitely didn't teach him about the female anatomy.

So the first time when he saw you curled up under your comforter, whimpering softly and clutching your stomach he genuinely thought you were dying.

"Mein schatz what's wrong!?" Konig would ask in a panicked voice and quickly step to your side, kneeling at the edge of the bed and his rough hand cupping your cheek.

"Just my period konig..." You groggily mumble out, almost not catching how his expression changed from worry to confusion.

"Period?"

"Yea I—... you don't know what periods are you, do you?" A chuckle escapes your lips when you see konig's fallen face and his almost shameful nod to your question.

After you explained it to him you couldn't help but giggle seeing how mad he looked.

"I can't believe women have to go through that."

"Once a month for the rest of our life."

"Scheiße- I'm so sorry mein liebchen..." Konig would whisper softly, his voice smooth and gentle as his calloused hand would rub against the apple of your cheek.

From that day forward he'd always have a care package ready for you with chocolates, ice cream, pads, tampons — whatever his schatz needed. Not only that but he gladly became your heat pack for you, letting you lay under him and whine to put his full weight onto you (as much as he loved you he never did because have you seen him? he's huge. he'd crush a little thing like you!)

His large hand would run down your back and soothe you as you groaned and hiccuped about cramps, his burly arms warming you up and whispering sweet assurances into your ear. He was already a sweetheart but he would be such a gentlemen during your period.

trying to get out of bed? he'll carry you bridal style to wherever you want to go. ordering food? don't worry your pretty little head he's already ordered your favorite takeout. your mood swings making you feel irritable? hit him as many times as you want to feel better schatz, it's not like he can actually get hurt anyway.

he'd be the most understanding and doting lover during your period, ready to kneel and worship you like the goddess you were to him.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」

König is addicted to kissing your cervix

cw: könig x afab!reader, p in v, oral (reader receives), aftercare

König is massive — no shocker: 6'10, built like a mountain, burly arms, meaty thighs, thick cock.

It made sense that he'd fill you up easily, albeit with a lot of struggle. It'd be a long and tedious process to make sure your cunt was stretched enough that it wouldn't tear from his sheer size.

His flat tongue lapping at your folds; deep growls making your clit throb and the sheets soak under you as your slick dripped down the curves of your ass. God — just from eating you out he makes you cum so hard to the point your knuckles would turn white from gripping the sheets and your vision blurred with hot white stars.

Your chest would be heaving — breaths short and erratic as König groaned against your slicked cunt.

"Relax, Schatz."

König's raspy voice made shivers crawl down your spine, whimpers spilling out your lips as he pulled away and his thick hands grabbed at the flush meat of your hips.

A gasp choked out your mouth when his broad hips forced your legs further apart, eyes rolling to the back of your head feeling his throbbing tip rub against your sensitive entrance, fluttering around nothing but the teasing roll of his hips.

"So needy, ja? Tell me how desperate you are for my cock, mein liebchen."

"Please... Please König—"

Your nails dug red crescents into könig's muscular shoulders, shuddering as he slid inside, feeling every inch of him fill you up and split you open. You groaned as his hips pressed flush against your ass, a deep growl forming from König's chest as he babbled slurred praises in broken german about how tight and warm you were.

The bed would creak from his sheer speed, a mix of groans and whines coming from the both of you as his cock kept slamming into your gummy cervix — your belly protruding from each thrust as you cried from the mix of pleasure and pain.

"Köni— König! Ah—"

Tears flowed down your face as a sheen of sweat covered your body, lips parted and drool leaking as lewd smacks and moans filled the air.

Each time his tip would kiss your cervix your hips would buck up, eyes squeezing shut for just a moment before König would growl at you to open your eyes.

"Don't shut your eyes mein schatz. Look at me — Look. At. Me."

He would say each word between a powerful thrust, one hand gripping your cheeks and forcing you to look directly at his hungry and desperate gaze.

His thrusts would grow sloppy and more desperate as he neared his climax, your knees bent next to your head as he grunted between each ruthless slam of his aching cock into your sopping wet cunt.

"Scheiße— Scheiße, du bist so gut... Ugh— so good liebchen."

Your thighs trembled, body growing sore and a swelling ache forming in your abondmen from the amount of times he's slammed his massive cock against your poor cervix. But you couldn't care about the bubbling pain at that moment — your mind to fried and hazy with the thought of his cock to care about the tingling pain growing in your belly.

After he slammed his hips one last time, pumping hot white ropes into your cunt and groaning seeing some of his seed spill out your twitching folds he'd gently pull out — voice soft and gentle as he peppered you in kisses.

He'd bring a damp cloth and wash you up properly all while whispering how good you did, his warm lips making your skin shiver as his other hand rubbed at your sensitive tummy that endured his merciless pounding.

"Feeling okay, schatz?"

"Yea... but you have to stop kissing my cervix so much." You'd whine softly, earning a chuckle from König as he kissed you.

"I'll try, mein liebchen."

(spoiler: he doesn't)

thank you to my equally insane bestie for beta reading this also 🤭

boydad!simon misses when his son was a little newborn.

[ boydad!Simon - one - two - three ]

cw: simon "ghost" riley x afab!reader

You liked to think that you showed off your son a decent amount of times with pride like every other parent — but Simon took it to a different level. Anyone who gave him a moment of their time would be subject to listening to him ramble about his adorable son and be forced to see the catalogue of videos he keeps in his gallery.

Regarding that information, It came to no one's surprise that he was a fanatic for taking pictures of your little boy — doesn't matter if it was just him simply playing with his blocks it needed to be photographed!

He began the tradition that once a month he'd take a cute picture of your son next to a ballon that said how old he was in months. He even bought a new polaroid camera for it so he can tuck the images away safely in a photo-book (and most definitely show to your son to tease him once he's older).

Today would be the 8th month of the tradition, your little boy already laying down on a soft wooly blanket as he happily kicked his feet and his chubby hands smacked against the ballon.

You smiled down at your son, cooing at him as you waited for Simon to come in with his camera.

But, after 10 minutes you began to worry. You scooped your son up from the blanket, carefully cradling him and walking to your master bedroom.

"Simon!" You called out into the house, your baby on your hip as you looked through the house for your husband.

Your hand curled around the door knob to your bedroom, creaking the wooden door open and your eyes landing on Simon sitting on the edge of the bed with one of your son's old baby onesies — the first one he wore after you took him back from the hospital.

"Oh, love." You whisper softly, your little boy letting out a curious gurgle when he saw his father sitting on the bed.

"He used to fit in this." Simon mumbled to himself, his hands gently running along the fabric of the onesie.

"Yea, our baby grew up so quick." You added, shuffling yourself to sit beside Simon while your baby squealed and sat in your lap.

"Can't believe it's already been 8 months. He'll be off to uni soon enough." Simon let out a shaky breath, your gaze growing softer seeing his eyes become glossy and his waterline filling with tears.

"He'll always be our baby even when he's grown, love." You reassuringly reminded Simon, a heavy sigh leaving him as his shoulders relaxed. Your little boy wriggled in your arms, crawling his way to his father's arm and giggling once Simon held him securely in his arms.

"You better not grow up too fast on me." Simon playfully lectured your son, cradling the little boy as his large hand gently ruffled his dirty blonde tuft of hair — same shade as his daddy's.

You smiled at the scene in front of you, your head against Simon's shoulder as you both looked lovingly down at your baby. He'll grow up and become a respectable young man, but for now he was in his father's arms and loved unconditionally.

「 Masterlist ❤︎ 」