littlechomper

[littlechomper]

If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.

[littlechomper]

husband!simon setting up the baby's room warnings!: bad words, pregnancy.

It was a cold afternoon.

You were wrapped up in a thick blanket on the couch, half-asleep, barely paying attention to the TV. The final month of pregnancy had turned you into a furnace of exhaustion, cold, and drifting thoughts.

Suddenly, a sharp grunt followed by a dry curse.

"Son of a bitch"

You flinched. The voice came from the nursery. That’s when you remembered: he was home. For the weekend.

More curses, more wood cracking. You got up slowly and walked to the door.

Simon — or Ghost, because it was impossible not to think of him that way when he looked that focused — was kneeling on the floor, surrounded by crib pieces, screws scattered around, hammer in hand.

You leaned against the doorway. He didn’t look at you.

"This manual was written by idiots" he muttered.

"You said we were gonna build it together, remember?" you said quietly, your hand resting on your heavy belly.

"That was the plan. But the manual’s useless. And I don’t have time to waste."

The sharpness in his voice wasn’t for you. It was frustration, mostly aimed at himself.

You sighed and stepped back. You knew better than to push.

When you came back minutes later, the crib was standing. And... tilted.

Ghost stood up slowly, arms crossed, staring down the crib like it was an enemy target. His fingers tapped against his elbow as his mind scanned for flaws.

"I’m not sure she’ll fit in there, Moonie." you tried, half-joking.

He didn’t answer. Just ran a hand down his face. Then looked at you. At your belly. And for a second — just one — something cracked behind his eyes.

"She’ll fit," he said flatly. But there was something in his tone. Pressure.

You took a step toward him. Then another. Until you stood right in front of him.

"Love... it doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be real."

Simon said nothing. But his hand came to rest on your belly.

You saw his jaw tense, eyes fixed on the life inside you.

"I’ll fix it," he muttered. No drama. No softness.

Just promise.

And even without sweet words or kisses, you felt it.

Felt that, in his own way, Ghost was trying to be a father.

[littlechomper]

SIMON GHOST RILEY??

(saw this on tiktok)

[littlechomper]

If you're in the US military or National Guard, and are given an illegal or unconstitutional order, the GI Rights hotline (1-877-447-4487) is there to help give you the support you need to do the right thing by refusing it. It would be good to think about this now before it becomes a live issue for you and it would be smart of you to memorize that number.

[littlechomper]

something silly with our boy simon because i don't write anything for him literally ever heehee! (Also I saw a work abt Price and a djungelskog that probably inspired this wrinkle in my brain, but i cannot for the life of me find it - pls let me know if you know it so i can tag for inspo!!!)

"The fuck is tha'?"

He just wanted to lie down with his girl. That's all he wanted.

Familiarity. After being gone for over a month, he's been craving a moment of peace with his sweet girlfriend. In his bed. With his sheets. And his pillow that's got his head practically etched into it from how long he's had it.

But there it is - a new fixture - right smack in the middle of his bed.

A bloody teddy bear. And a big one, at that.

"Djungelskog" You say with a proud smile, placing your hands on your hips like you haven't been completely betraying him for the past five weeks.

"Gasundheit. Now answer my question."

"His name is djungelskog."

Simon's eyebrows raise to his forehead as he glances between you and the brown blob taking up nearly half of his bed. "His? It's a bloody he?"

And you - you seem absolutely chuffed at his displeased expression. "Are you jealous?"

"Of an obese teddy bear? Please. His head is too small for his body." He punctuates his words by smacking the bear's head back unceremoniously, pulling a discontented squeak from you as you move to fix it. "Looks like a fuckin' idiot."

"He does not!"

"Stupid fuckin' name, too."

"Cut it out!" Your defense of the thing only makes him brood even more - and he's starting to look more and more like the bear himself with his hunched shoulders and bowed head - not that you'd ever tell him that. Not out loud anyway. "He is the only reason I haven't absolutely lost my mind from loneliness while you're halfway across the world, so I'm sure he would appreciate a thank you."

"Thanks." He mumbles coldly as he picks it up out of your hands and tosses him on the floor - leaving you slack-jawed and horrified. He just shrugs his shoulders, trying to steer you back towards the bed as he steps over the flaccid bear that's now sprawled out on the carpet. "Don't need 'im anymore, love. I'm here now."

"...Djungy..." You murmur quietly - a soft coo that makes Simon roll his eyes in annoyance. You came up with a bloody nickname for him, too? While he was off fighting terrorists? He can't help but scoff softly as you shimmy out of his grip to bend down and pick it back up again, giving him a disapproving look before you begin dusting him off carefully. "Don't put him on the floor, Simon."

"Fuck's sake, love. I want to lie down in my own bed."

"We can all fit!"

And now here he is - spooning you from behind while you cuddled up to junglesmog or whatever his name was.

You're sound asleep, sandwiched between your two boys without a worry in the world to ruin your peace. But Simon? Simon is glaring daggers over at that overstuffed piece of Swedish fluff.

Was he being dramatic? Probably.

But the way you cling to it so tightly is making his chest ache. He understands that you were lonely without him - probably missing him more than he could ever imagine. But he's here now...so why the hell are you still snuggled up to that thing?

Ever so slowly, he loosens your grip on the bear as carefully as he can, but you still whimper softly in your sleep when he pushes it away (a bit more aggressively than he needed to, but hey, it's not like you're awake to see). You shift around uncomfortably - actively seeking out the comfort that Simon had so rudely taken away from you - and he decides to take his opportunity to flip you over gently to face him.

Your arms immediately circle around him, and he lets out a breath when you begin to nuzzle your face into his neck and settle back down. Fucking finally.

"There she is..." He whispers softly as he presses a gentle kiss to your hairline, making you hum quietly in your sleep. "...there's my girl."

And he can finally fall asleep now that he's gotten that damn bear out of the way and you safely tucked into him - wrapped up in his arms.

Where you belong.

[littlechomper]

Just fluff

You’re grumpy when you first wake up. Grumbling under your breath, cursing the alarm out, and burying yourselves deeper into the warmth of the blankets.

It takes some time for you to adjust, you glare at Simon when he starts to talk, ignoring him completely because you don’t have the energy to think of an answer. Groggily blinking at him before turning the other way, pushing his hands away with an incoherent groan.

The first time Simon encounters it, he’s a bit amused; any other time you’re the perfect sweetheart. He’s learned your cues though, how to detonate the bomb festering in your sleep-fuddled mind.

Waking up from his alarm makes you less grumpy, braving the sleepy inconvenience to walk him to the front door, make sure he’s got his lunch, and kiss him goodbye with mumbled words of ‘I love you’ because sometimes he doesn’t come back.

Waking up from your alarm is a different story, you’re grouchy, slamming your hand on your phone to shut the noise up. Those are the days he leaves you be, stays on his side of the bed until you’re ready. It’s several minutes, and most of the time you fall back asleep anyways.

But when you do finally come to him, eyes slightly less puffy after washing your sleep away, oversized shirt with nothing under, but panties, two cuppas in hand, and sock clad feet, Simon thinks it’s all worth it.

When you slot yourself between his knees, straddle his lap, or lay down next him with a quiet ‘good morning’ he can’t help but grin. Snaking one hand under your shirt to sink into your soft hips.

“Grumpy girl.”

He teases, the other hand cupping the back of your neck, thumb resting over your throat possessively. He nudges you forward until your lips meet, soft, languid.

“Sorry.” You apologize somewhere between the third or fourth kiss.

He hums, doesn’t really mind, just likes to dwell in your thawed out state, irritation melting away to soft acquiescence once you’ve truly woken up.

He kisses you until the tea is cold and forgotten on the nightstand, until you start to taste like him and not morning breath. Until he pulls away and there’s the prettiest little smile on your lips.

A little drowsy. A little delirious.

“There’s my sweet girl.”

[littlechomper]

When you see it, REBLOG IT.

Depression Hotline: 1-630-482-9696

Suicide Hotline: 1-800-784-8433

LifeLine: 1-800-273-8255

Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386

Sexuality Support: 1-800-246-7743

Eating Disorders Hotline: 1-847-831-3438

Rape and Sexual Assault: 1-800-656-4673

Grief Support: 1-650-321-5272

Runaway: 1-800-843-5200, 1-800-843-5678, 1-800-621-4000

Exhale: After Abortion Hotline/Pro-Voice: 1-866-4394253

If you ever want to talk: My Tumblr ask is always open.

[littlechomper]

Gemstones

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

18+

CW: angst, hurt/comfort, pregnancy, childbirth (mentions), the good ending to this (if only he behaved), simon is a good husband and a good dad

Masterlist 🦊

Simon had promised himself that if he ever lived long enough to be satisfied with his life, he'd go and piss on his father's grave.

He thought about giving up, thought about ending it sooner rather than later—easier to expect life to deal another bad hand, considering what he'd been given in the past. The whisper of a blade along his wrists, or, better yet, a ripe bullet fuming in his head.

Prevent the cunt from sliding more poor draws as birthday surprises.

Still, the thought of desecrating the bastard's grave gave him something to look forward to. And when you have a source of anticipation, life tends to slide by in a bearable manner.

The only thing he had to do now was find a reason to go there, to the cemetery where he was buried. He wouldn't show up with nothing to shove down the man's throat, no matter how dead it was. No, Simon would go there with a trophy in his hand, rub it nicely where the Riley name was just about to fade, and then piss on it.

Medals didn't do the trick in his own eyes—never fond of chest candy, he couldn't imagine the ghost of his father being impressed either. His survival mattered little, too. Hell, he could go there to tell him that he had made it out of a grave, at least, while he stayed buried and dead, killed by the same things he once worshipped: alcohol, drugs, and a fat fucking liver.

Nothing quite fit the plan.

Simon drifted past his thirties with nothing meaningful in his cards — the same shitty hand life had dealt him from the start.

The only thing he could've bragged about was that he never found it hard to juggle work, relationships, and life.

Mostly because he lacked the latter two. What a brag, aye?

Easy as anything, though: go to work, get the job done, and go back home. Crack open a beer, maybe. Pass out on the couch.

He knows what it looks like. He knows and reluctantly admits it, too. Doesn't need a reminder from his psyche, doesn't need to hear the derisive laugh of his old man echo in his head.

He shuts it all off and drinks on it—paradoxical as it may be.

And as life gets dull and duller, rankled with boredom and self-loathing. With the same beers and the same shows on the telly. With the same silence haunting his flat and the same dreadful black hole swallowing his chest—

A spark. A light.

Out of the blue, during the hottest day of summer. Something that makes the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end, like a cat sensing danger—though this is no threat at all. It's the unusual of it, the novelty leaving his stomach knotted and heavy.

A pair of jeans, a light blue shirt left unbuttoned at the top. Just two, nothing too revealing. Open enough to stave off the warmth of HQ, yet still hiding the right amount of skin for a professional setting.

Makes his imagination run wild. Didn't even know he still had it in him, to fantasise.

A necklace you mindlessly toy with between nimble fingers, pretty blue gemstone mounted in gold, as you point at numbers and charts on the whiteboard behind you.

He's heard fuck all.

"Alright then." You snap him out of it. "Any questions?"

It takes him one well-placed elbow in the ribs, surreptitious as the owner, Garrick, for him to notice that he's been gawking at you to the point of discomfort. You're staring back with tightened brows and steeled shoulders, lips furled in either a pensive frown or a disgusted one.

Simon opts for the latter.

Of course he had to go and act like an animal the day he forgoes the balaclava. Not even his need for anonymity could force him to wrap his face in fabric when the temperature is just shy of 35 degrees. And while this has protected him from melting against the chair of the conference room, it has also left him completely vulnerable to bystanders' eyes.

Including yours. Sharper than a blade, cutting him into thin slices until there's nothing left for him to hide.

John asks something. The focus shifts. God fucking bless him alright.

You answer smoothly, crystalline voice that tinkers with his eardrums like they're made of glass.

He takes the ball and brings a hand to his jaw to massage its hinges. It aches. His mouth is dry. Pulse climbing up, palms clammy as they go for his face. If he didn't know any better, he'd think he's on the verge of having a stroke.

But not even Simon, clueless as he may be when it comes to feelings, is that unfathomably stupid. His cock straining in his trousers is a big, fat hint anyway.

You collect your things. Tap your papers neatly into place. Peel off a post-it note and scribble something on it. He follows the curve of your hand, the sharpness of each knuckle.

Simon blinks, and you're right beside him, sticking that yellow paper on the table in front of him.

Your number penned on it. Your name right below.

Simon has fucked plenty of people without remembering much of it. There are those who care if he comes, and those who fuck him even if he isn't hard at all.

It's a very straightforward way to force his body to feel something that isn't agony. Though he wouldn't describe himself to be a sad person—he doesn't think what he feels is sadness. It's more than that, less fickle than simple heartache.

He's accepted that life could either be this or the complete opposite. Between those two states of being, however, there is a whole ocean to cross, and he's utterly alone on a pitiful raft and with a single oar. At that point, he starts realising that he can either row day and night, hoping to reach a place that only seems to get farther and farther, or he can try his bloody hardest to make the journey more pleasurable.

He's tried drugs. Good for a tick. The aftermath is atrocious, though, worse than whatever has been festering in his guts.

Alcohol knocks him out. That's good. Less frowned upon. Easier to hide. His mouth waters when he pops open his beer and listens to the telltale fizz as the bubbles rise to the top. Foam spills on his knuckles, and he lets it crust. And when the beers are over, he switches to whiskey. It burns so good he wishes he could bathe in it—let it corrode at his skin the same way it's corroding his liver.

Sex is a good, perfect balance.

It can't kill him, for one. Another addiction to add to the list, sure, but at least this one won't have him rotting any time soon.

Whoever lands in his bed is game, to be honest. Doesn't care if he's horny, doesn't care if he can't get it up right away. It's the feeling of it—to be used, to be needed. He'll switch to whatever their hearts desire, as long as they fuck him until the knot in his stomach uncoils and he can somewhat breathe again.

But with you, it feels just slightly different. Or maybe a lot different, and he's not ready to face it yet.

He's not letting himself be used, be needed. Simon is reluctantly accepting that he's wanted, and that he can want too. He can want and he can take, if that's what he fancies.

He takes you. Takes you for all that you are: your sense of humour, your quirks, your wit, how your teeth bite into your cheek when you're thinking, the way your hair sways when you talk excitedly.

The way you fuck him, how you look when he fucks you. How your mouth parts when you cum, the weight of your hands on his chest as you ride him. The gentle breaths in the crook of his neck.

The I love you you whisper that first time.

His stomach gets heavier the longer you stay. It's not an unpleasant feeling, but it's new and unpredictable, and Simon doesn't like unpredictability. However, he forces himself to digest it because it feels like something in his belly is finally full.

Something in his heart, too.

Life gets harder, though—practically speaking. The scale tips to where the air smells of citrus and steeping teas instead of rotting flesh and cheap kentucky.

Now he has to go to work, get the job done, and return home. And if he gets home earlier than you, he has to prep dinner and all. Something nice to treat you right. Has to actually do laundry, the way you like it. Clean the house, much bigger than the studio apartment he used to inhabit.

Can't even brag about being able to juggle his life correctly—the visit to his father's grave has got to wait.

It's alright, he reckons. What's one more year, after all.

He stops enjoying lonely Stellas at night, because he found he doesn't really like to kiss you when his breath smells so heavy. Masks your taste, makes him curl his nose in disappointment.

He fancies wine now, like the posh fuckers he's always despised—pop open a bottle and nurse it from one of the two glasses you set on the coffee table at his feet. Bourbon, if he's got nothing to do the next day, and you're off as well. Pepsi, if you're both too tired to digest alcohol that night.

Liquor tastes different now. He doesn't find himself drawn to the bottle if you're not home—at least, not as often as before. He still loves his bourbon, but only after the clink of his glass with yours. A big lad like him can handle a beer or two—still, it tastes better if he can pet your head propped on his thighs as he gulps one down.

Every night, he's got you cuddled in his side, hence passing out on the couch is not an option anymore. The bed it is, then. Better sleep, much more space—hell, better sex for when you're both up for it.

Plus, sunlight hits you just right when he first wakes up and you're asleep, splayed on his chest. He likes the way golden ribbons curl around your shape, threads on your fingers like you're wearing jewels.

Doesn't take him long to actually put a golden band where it belongs, against all fucking odds. When the thought popped in his head, he prepared himself for the devastation that would follow your no. 

However, you nod your head when he takes out his mum's ring from his pocket. You nod your head vigorously, he'd like to add. You say a yes so genuine it cracks him open, leaves him bare for you to see the confusion festering inside. The elation.

The unmistakable joy.

No one believes him when you say yes—though truthfully, his mates do. Still, he's the first among the sceptics. A loud minority in his own head.

Johnny claps his shoulder as he stands there, clad in a suit and sweating bullets. Clammy hands pulling at his tie. However, none of it matters when you come to stand before him. Wedding gown on, and the most gorgeous of smiles. Pearls on your neck and tears in your eyes—gemstones, as precious as can be.

A hand on his cheek, a kiss on the lips.

The last as his fiancée, the first as his wife.

Sure, life becomes harder than his previous one. Responsibilities double, but loneliness halves. And halves. And halves. Until he forgets what it's like to live in a house and not in a home.

Briefly, the thought of finally having something to rub in his father's face crosses his mind. But when you take his hand and bring it to your lips, golden wedding ring catching the sunlight, he thinks it can wait a bit more.

What's a couple more years to add to his thirties, after all.

It's a foggy day when you abruptly wake up, lamenting a stomach ache that won't leave you alone.

"I'm so fucking sure it's yesterday's dinner," you mumble, unable to peel the frown off your face. "Fucking take out—I knew we should've cooked."

He's fixing you a cuppa in the kitchen to help with your nausea when he hears you retch from the bathroom. Simon sprints your way, leaving the tea bag to steep in the hot water for longer than needed.

He kneels beside you, running his hand up and down your back. Hooks his arm under the crook of your knees after you've brushed your teeth and takes you to bed.

You murmur that he's the best husband in the entire world as you nuzzle his chest. He chuckles at that. Thinks you proper insane but never voices it.

Perhaps because he likes to hear it. Perhaps because you're making him accept it too.

It's hard to digest, to metabolise that he is not… rotten. Or at least, not as wasted as life made him believe. Fear rankles his bones—to disappoint you, to disappoint himself. But you hold him like you'd rather be nowhere else, and that makes it easier for him to swallow it all. Have his stomach break it down into pieces and feed it to his soul.

It's worth it—fucking hell, really worth it.

Worth more than anything, especially when you both peek through the gaps of your fingers as you shield each other's eyes. The buzzing of the cold bathroom lights is the only background noise, silence as the companion of your bated breaths.

The ping of your phone signals time's up, and his focus finally lands on that stick. His eyes meet two little lines instead of one.

Pure horror and delight. His father's cruel eyes flash like lightning in his head, ice cold and terribly real, awfully tangible. Thunder cracks. He can't breathe right, not as calmly as he should.

You look into his eyes with gemstones in yours. A smile so bright the clouds part to favour it. It's not sunless anymore.

And it's worth it again.

Worth it, worth it, worth it. 

Worth every back-breaking job he takes next. Worth every solitary mission he goes on, and every particularly dangerous one he rejects. Worth every extra stack of paperwork tossed on his desk. Worth every bit of overtime he spends in HQ.

Worth it, worth it, worth it.

Worth seeing you grow, worth seeing you healthy. Worth seeing you hungry and devouring the food he makes, drink from the cups he washes.

Worth hearing your chuckle when he brings home that questionable concoction you crave. Worth holding your hair out of the way first thing in the morning.

Worth making love to you again, and again, and again, knowing that's what being home is supposed to feel like. Knowing that he has it, just right there, in the spaces you inhabit. In the pillow under your head, in the green mug next to his blue, in your hair tangled with his clothes.

Worth it. 

Worth it, to hear her heartbeat.

Worth seeing her move around in black and grey.

Worth feeling her hand pressing up. Her feet kicking at her ma.

"Like a little alien," you murmur tenderly, pressing his fingers to your belly.

She answers every time.

He kisses your skin. "My little bug."

Worth it, to watch you hold her when she first sees the world. To leave you that space, reserved for you two and not another soul. Even if his fingers itch to touch her, lurching to hold her as well—beating crazed, pulse climbing up, as if his heart could break the bones in his chest and reach out to her. To you.

Angel in your gentleness, goddess in your strength. Heavenly, overall, even drenched in blood and sweat.

Worth the fear for your safety, the fear for hers.

Worth the apprehension, the anxiety. He's not fit to be a dad, is he? Not fit for this life, where all is tender where he's hard, where all is comfort where he's pure unease. His hands have dealt more punches than caresses. They've taken the brunt of so much anger, it must have transferred to his bones somehow.

But if rage truly is his inheritance, it must not have taken root in him. Or at least, not as deeply as he thought. Not as invasive.

There's no space for it, no space for a hollow heart or withering anger. No space at all, because everything inside of him is full of you.

And it's so, so worth it.

Worth it all—just to hold her that first time.

Tiny, tiny thing. He could fit her in a hand if he wanted to, have her little legs hang off his forearm.

He could, surely.

He doesn't.

No, Simon becomes a cradle instead. Both arms curl around her as he sits down, afraid his knees might give out. He speaks to her words he never thought he'd get the chance to say, never thought they'd fit the mould life forced him into.

"Hey bug," he whispers. "I'm your dad."

Tears in your eyes. Gemstones.

In his, too.

Managing life is tenfold harder, especially when his little bug starts crawling.

Now he has to go to work, get the job done, get home—no, scratch that.

Now he has to wake up earlier so he can get breakfast ready for you. Feed his daughter so you can sleep in. Kiss you goodbye.

Go to work. Check the baby monitor connected to his phone so he can watch her sleep for a minute, or see her play in the cradle.

Good for his heart.

Get the job d—call you, to see if you're alright, how you're hanging on. He hates with all his guts that he can't stay home longer, but money doesn't grow on trees, and it's not only about him anymore.

Again, back on track: get the job done. Try to. Check the monitor. Send you a text.

His life would be so fucking bleak without you in it.

Might as well play along.

Back to his plans.

Get the job done early, precisely, so he can get home earlier and see you. Help you. Shed the soldier's armour and wear his dad clothes. Give you time to rest as he takes care of everything, until his baby falls asleep, so he can take care of you too. Be your husband again.

His days are harder. Balancing life and job is not as easy as it was when he used to come back to an empty house and a cold heart. It doesn't go nearly as smoothly as when he came home to you only, to warm arms and gentle eyes.

He knows it's not easy for you either.

Still, now he comes back to the smell of milk and baby powder. To changing nappies and sleepless nights, only to wake up at the crack of dawn the next day.

He comes home to your beautiful, tired eyes. Happy, happy as can be, like you've always been. Like he is—unbelievable to even think about it.

Home to the sound of innocent laughter or piercing cries, to tender babbling and chubby hands grabbing at his hair.

He still has to piss on his father's grave. But that's a thought for another day. You're waiting for him to come home, for him to be the man you know. The man you love.

The man he is.

Life's harder, but his heart's regrown. Spread its roots, symbiotic with you.

His little bug is a troublemaker. Curious. Brilliant.

Like her mum, he reckons.

She crawls everywhere, touches things she shouldn't. Not a soul on Earth has baby-proofed the house like Simon has, and still she finds ways to give her dad a chain of consequent heart attacks that leave him floored for the next couple of hours.

Hell, he wouldn't change a thing.

A dinner at home is how Simon properly introduces his daughter to the team.

Kyle can't stop baby talking to her and she giggles loudly every time. John promotes her to Sergeant Riley with a velcro SAS patch attached to her onesie. Johnny juggles her on his knees, but it's the third time she reaches out with those chubby hands to grab the goddamn knife.

Makes sense, to Simon, to just put her on the playing mat and have her handle things she can actually play with.

And as chatter ensues, Simon's hand drawing circles on your thigh under the table, you gasp.

It's a moment of frigid horror. Fear travels like shards of ice through his bloodstream, tips at his skull. But when he follows the line of your eyes, his body freezes in awe.

There she is, standing on her own two feet.

Sage green socks wobbling on the mat. Tiny arms spread out for balance, chubby fingers wiggling in the air as if it could help her keep still.

Gummy smile pushing at her cheeks, tiny dimples pressing in. She looks at her dad with innocent pride.

Simon's mind travels back. Breath lodged in his throat.

He sees you frowning at him in the conference room. Sees your number scribbled on a post-it note, your half-buttoned shirt and the gemstone in between your fingers.

Sees the pearls like dewdrops around your neck. Those eyes charged with gorgeous tears. The gold around your finger, hand clutching his own to your heart.

He sees those same tiny feet, now touching the floor and holding her up, hidden in your belly. Her tireless kicks to meet his hand through you.

Sees her eyes squinting in a piercing cry. His lips to your forehead, coated in sweat and fear and relief. Feels her weight in his arms like that first time, like he's holding her again—small fists bumping around, eyes adjusting to the first light she's ever seen.

"Hey bug," he whispers. "I'm your dad."

He stands slowly, holding your hand. You follow his movements, eyes locked on your child. The silence in the room is palpable, but it's not a dreadful one—it's anticipation, it's a joy that thrives quietly, bathing each person in the loveliest of lights.

You both crouch a few feet in front of her. Simon opens his arms.

"C'mere bug." His voice trembles, doesn't even sound like his.

You sniffle next to him. "C'mere baby, go to daddy."

There. There she does it. Her babble fades into a giggle. A tiny, tiny step—a tumble. You react automatically, reaching forward with your arms, but his girl's stubborn, resilient.

Like her dad, he reckons.

She stands up again, regaining her balance. And steps forward, and forward, and forward, until the tips of Simon's fingers find hers—solace in her daddy's hold, small hands curled around his bigger thumbs.

Joy explodes. Golden fireworks. His mates laugh brightly, the air is pure delight, and as he picks his daughter in his arms, he holds one out for you.

You scoot inside. Press a kiss wet with lovely tears to your child's cheek. She giggles. It's clueless and light.

It has Simon's heart in a clutch.

He doesn't remember hearing his baby brother laugh like this. Doesn't think he's ever laughed like this either, when he still couldn't even speak.

His baby girl's happy. Loved. You are, too.

His chest tightens when he realizes he is part of the reason why.

"Good job, little bug," you whisper tirelessly, as if no force could stop you from showing how proud you are. How radiant. "Good job my love."

Simon's ears are cottoned. A bubble around you three, impenetrable because Simon has vowed so. His lips on his baby's forehead, then on yours.

His carbon copy looks up at him. Chocolate eyes meet his twin—smaller, fragile, and yet as strong as man can be. His pride, his love, packed inside a mess of curls and dimpled cheeks and pure, gorgeous sunlight.

A small sticky hand lands on his cheek, as if she's trying to make her daddy smile. Simon turns to kiss his daughter's palm and looks into your eyes, glossy with joy—aquamarine tears, glowing from within.

His little bug might look like him, but she's just like you—eyes like gemstones. His treasure trove. Most coveted one, most precious.

"I love you," he mouths to you.

Your smile is wet with tears, chock-full of joy.

You say it back.

His father is buried six feet under. There he'll stay. Buried under cold soil. Food for bugs, corroded by time.

Not his problem. Anymore.

You kiss him. A quiet peck in front of guests, but still so charged with love it gives his heart whiplash. He transfers it to his daughter's forehead.

Johnny lifts his glass with a loud Cheers. A happy cacophony follows suit, clinking glasses and a small chorus of congratulations to "wee Sergeant Riley".

Life is hard. It's gonna be harder, and harder, and harder.

But Simon doesn't think it's ever been this bright.

[littlechomper]

II HANDS II HEAVEN

or: getting married to Country!Simon wasn’t as easy as you thought it’d be.

“baby I’ve been waiting my whole life, for you and I.”

a part 2 to ruthless.

cw: 6.4k words, 18+ mdni, a lot of plot with smut at the end, Country!Simon, au universe, no use of y/n, fake southern town names, lovey dovey sex, mating press, p in v, creampie, masturbation, against the wall, some of your cousins are shitty, engaged!reader (to Simon), age gap (Simon is 29, reader is 23), pussy pronouns, mentions of religion, lucky!reader

a/n: it’s really been a short amount of time but I thought a part two would be right. I hope you like it. Also won’t make sense without reading the first, sorry. I like building plot.

Simon Riley learned early in your already quick relationship, that you were headstrong.

You’d come downstairs of the house, wobbly legged and doe eyed after he fucked you into the mattress with absolute promises of getting you two married and soon, in nothing but a sheet covering you. And the blonde was sure you there was cum dripping your sore cunt, a smirk danced on his lips as he lifted the coffee cup to his lips.

“I wanna get married in a church.” Your voice was horse as ever, scratchy but you’d sounded so deadset. Knee deep in certainty.

Simon simply gave you a nod, “sure thing lucky.”

“And I don’t want a big fancy wedding, something small. A little quaint.”

“Perfect,” He hummed.

“And I want to get married after my graduation so my family can come.”

“If that’s what you want.”

You laugh nervously, yanking the sheet you almost dropped up and scratching the back of your neck with the other, “A-And it’s my first time gettin married so- so I’m a bit nervous.”

“ ‘S my first time too.” You could’ve melted from his southern accent alone, he set his mug down on the counter and stepped towards you. Cupping your face in his hands, precious girl, “let’s take our time so you can have the perfect weddin, alright?”

You gave a bashful nod, you two meeting half way to kiss each other and laughed. Pretty sweet.

Loving you was so easy. Too easy. You were the sunshine after the storm, a good balance to whatever mess that Simon saw himself as. You were sweet, loved all the animals he had, listened attentively when he spoke about the farm and he did the same for you. Hearts practically growing in his eyes as you talked about your life, your friends and the things you loved what you wanted the most.

You’d decided to have a June wedding, eager to be a June bride above anything. Waiting another year to have some big wedding wasn’t something either of you wanted. You’d settled on the chapel an hour out in Millbrok, your colors would be baby blue and sage, you’d have a small wedding and then a reception under some tents next to the church.

Your mother and father were genuinely shocked, you, their daughter who refused to settle for anything, eager to feel the breeze in your wings, first to move out at 18 (and not on a college campus) was actually settling. And with Simon Riley at that. But they accepted it, felt in their guts that he was a good person for you. Your mother and father themselves had a quick marriage since they fell pregnant with your older sister, they didn’t have much room to tell you, you were wrong.

And if all went to shit, they’d come and scoop you up. And beat Simon’s ass in the process. Your father assured the older twenty year old of that. Simon swallowed the fear down.

“Who are you invitin Ms.— I mean future Mrs. Riley?” Soap asked you after you properly handed him his wedding invitation. Simon was off, collecting another stray horse that was disturbing John Price’s cattle. Soap was one Simons farm hand, he was his top man. A good guy, a little wild. You’d met him one night out dancing and he drove you home. Simon had casually told him from the doorframe, right as your cowboy boots hit the front porch, that you two were getting married and that he should finally get himself a proper tie.

Simon slammed the door shut once he got you inside while you mouth was wide an agape. “Why did you tell him like that?! He’s probably shocked!”

The blonde scuffed, pulling your boots off himself and lifting you to take you to bed, “Idiot won’t believe it till I say it a second time either way.”

And then right on que, there was howls of laughter that came from the brunette. “There ain’t no way on gods good earth you, Ghost, of all people, is gettin married!”

But then he came the next day, for work. And there you were saying your goodbyes because you had just a couple days before graduation. And Soap’s sharp eyes caught it, a fresh, a round cut diamond with a traditional gold band ring on your finger.

“You two- Shoot- You two really gettin hitched, ain’tcha?”

And you beamed, glowing even more than you already had from not just the sun glowing off your brown skin but Simon fucking you silly as a proper send off, squeezing at Simons larger hand.

“Of course, and soon!”

Johnny was more than happy for the two of you, somehow snagging your number from Simon’s phone so bombard you with questions Simon wouldn’t answer. He was a funny guy, a golden retriever. You’d warmed up to him perfectly in Simons eyes.

You couldn’t help the heat that grew on your face, “Well,” you practically sung, “my mom and dad, my five siblings, my grandparents from up north and those aunts ’nd uncles and then my family from down here. I’m pretty sure I can get one of my cousins to cater the reception for us so it really won’t cost much—“

“—Your family from here? From Pinewood?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Just-“ Soap clears his throat, hesitant, “Just the folks in Pinewood, your folks included— they just- They ain’t the kindest to Ghost, especially with his family- you know… Think you should be weary of ‘em, is all I’m sayin.”

Pinewood was the town Simon, Johnny and your family were from. You always knew someone’s family, had the essentials; a bank, a grocery store or two, a library, post office, mayors office, police department a dollar store, a few salons and barber shops, a bakery, a bridal store, and few town known restaurants and bars— a small town. A little too small, that seemed to dunk of Ghost for being. That would change.

You’d make sure of it.

You’d all be family soon enough, they’d have to understand.

You were ambitious of sorts— and most of the time, you stuck the landing after your rushed dismount. When you learned how to properly ride a horse and kicked Ace, a wild thing, too hard, and you went flying full speed down the road— you managed to get a hold of him just fine. When Simon taught you to carve by hand and you almost cut your thumb clean off 4 times, you finally got the hang of it, and made that crooked and polished bowl for your keys at the front door.

Other times, not so much.

The chickens had a weird beef with you, and you forgot to feed the horses on time leading to the ranches whole schedule being off. Or when Ace really did send you flying and you almost broke your fucking arm and neck.

Giving out your wedding invitations would be just like that.

Simon properly told you that, that night on the porch after dinner. Rocking in one of the hand crafted rocking chairs he made, he’d call you over with a sigh, ‘lil girl come ‘ere!’ Like he always did. And you came, now in one of his shirts, with those damn invitations in hand. Already knowing what he was going to say. But you waved him off.

“They just don’t get you like I do Mr. Riley.”

That’s a given. But it didn’t mean others would understand you, a hopeful city girl from a loving family, marrying the likes of him. A cursed man, from a more than broken family, a tarnished name he was trying to rebuild with new foundations, with his own ghosts wandering around.

He’d known your family from down here. Some of them were understanding, like your mother and grandmother but there were others. Hypocritical bitches, who’d go to church on Sunday, sing the church hymns and preach about loving and caring for one another and then curse down the neglected and those who didn’t fit in the box on Monday. Real righteous alright.

But you had that look on your face, big brown eyes, bottom lip sticking out and eyes full of pride— begging him to let you invite them yourself. Practically stabbing him in the heart with cuteness.

He sighed, “Fine, you do what you want.”

You grinned, wrapping his arms around his neck tightly and kissing his cheek, you’d kill him at this rate, “Thank you Si! Let me go call ‘em so we can have lunch! Ugh, it's been so long!”

And you practically ran off into the house, leaving Simon alone in the rocking chair. All the more worried about you.

••●••

You’d looked pretty, almost too pretty to let Simon let you leave the ranch to go talk to a bunch of high strung, stuck up people. Curls perfectly defined in a side part, a long white skirt, a red croquette milk maid top, with necklaces on your neck and all your ear piercings in, a white wedges heels, plump lips beautifully glossed. God, he could’ve lifted that damn skirt and fucked your right then and there.

Simon’s hands hung low on your hips and then lower, squeezing your ass. “Oh, come on Simon! you can’t feel up on me like that! You’ll wrinkle my skirt!” You playfully whined, pushing at his shoulder.

“Fuck the lunch, just stay here with me. We got food here too.”

“Though I’d love that, I already promised with my cousins. Plus,” you give a little point, “your workers are watching,” you keened, pointing over to the men and women a couple yards away, leaning against the horse corral with smirks. Whistling and catcalling away.

“God damn it.” He groans, hands going back to your waist. His ears turned bright red under his cowboy hat at you gushed, fuckin adorable, kissing each of them. And he pulls away, just a little bit to get a good look at you and then pulls you against his chest, putting his head in the crook of your neck, sniffing. He should’ve told you no.

He grumbles, “don’t let them talk to you crazy now. I’ll come ‘nd give them a talkin to.”

“I can do it on my own! It’ll be fine!”

Bless your little heart.

You loved your cousins. And you thought they loved you too. Teeny (Tina) and Gabriella, both a little older than you but you spent so much time playing together whenever there was a family reunion or when you came to see the family. You just knew they’d be the perfect bridesmaids, in fact, you and Teeny were Gabriella’s bridesmaids at her wedding a few years back. You were like sisters.

You had fun catching up with them face to face, your heart pounding more and more. Wanting to find the perfect time to tell them the big news.

Gabriella gave you an all but knowing look, smirking, “Don’t tell me you got more excitin news to tell [+]. You never take a break, do you?”

“Naw, do tell! I wanna hear it all about that city life! Oh! Don’t tell me! You’re gettin yer masters or some shit?! Marryin a big top lawyer?!” Teeny claps her hands with excitement.

You let out a breath, “Sort’ve. Actually it’s somethin a little closer to here as of the last two months.” You reach in your bag, pulling the two cards out and handing them each one.

“I-I’m getting married and you’re all invited! Hopefully you’ll be my bridesmaids!” You squealed, handing out the little invitations. “Well it’s for you and your spouses, and I plan on telling Aunt Julie and ‘nem soon enough. It’s in June! Just like we all talked about!” And you spent so much time picking those invitations out, making sure the signatures of your names together were perfect. Yours practiced and did the calligraphy yourself, the cards were perfect. The picture of you and Simon’s hands on it were perfect, the sage and baby blue bows that held the cards were perfect— so you were hoping for more squeals, more excitement, tears of happiness.

You were met with the exact opposite.

Confusion, disgruntlement— vexation.

“Yer marryin… that Ghost boy?” Gabriella blinked slowly, after a few moments of silence.

“Yes? And It’s Simon, not Ghost,” you corrected with a nervous giggle, waving them off. The nickname was stupid to you, Simon never corrected people when they called him that. Even though the name was making fun of him for simply being, for not dying with the rest of his family and that tragic fire. You’d always made it a point to correct people though, especially when Simon wasn’t there and wouldn’t tell you to just let them talk. Especially when it was with people who were supposed to be family saying it.

“A-Aren’t you happy for me?” You’d felt small, a little lost. This was a happy union. Both your grandmothers said that, your grandfather, your mom and your dad, aunts and uncles and cousins from up north supported you. Most would be at the wedding. Your siblings were a little protective and so were your best friends (all in their own right) but they’d get over it soon enough they’d see how well Simon treated you. How much you truly loved each other. Why was it hard for your cousins down here to understand?

“How could we be happy for you when you’re marryin a man like that [+]?” Teeny spoke, handing the invitation back to you.

“That boy might as well be a demon, [+]. Yer settin yourself up for failure.” Gabriella adds.

“You shut your fuckin mouths.” You cursed, just below a whisper. Why were they being so hateful- so- so—

“—We’re tryin t’protect you! His father was a bastard who terrorized folks ‘round here, who knows what that man’ll do to you! Might do to this town.”

Teeny nods, “He even killed his family—“

“—That ain’t fuckin true Teeny, why would you say that?” Your lip quivered, almost slumping in your seat.

“Oh come on [+], one of those rumors got to be true now. Somebody ain’t lyin. That man barley talks!”

“Cause y’all talkin ‘bout ‘em like this! Why would he want to say shit that’ll fall on deaf ears?!” Your ears were practically ringing at their words. How could they? How dare they?

“Fucks sake [+]! I can't go to no weddin were I gotta watch you marry someone— someone so sinful! Hes got bad energy ‘round him ‘nd suckin you up right with ‘em! You’re still a child. Just don’t know any better.” Gabriella shook her head.

“Then don’t fuckin come! I wanted you there cause you’re my family, clearly that ain’t the fuckin case!” You snatched yourself up, harshly standing from the table with a screech of your chair.

“My grown and adult marriage will be the best fuckin thing and love filled marriage this shitty fuckin town full of gossiping cunts that think they’re holier than thou, has ever laid eyes on! You got the fuckin gall to talk about Simon when he’s nothin but kind and polite to everyone he interacts with, and cares about the stupid fucking town to help with their stupid horses they don’t know shit about! Can’t say the fuckin same for your fuckin wife Gabriella, who’s cheatin on you with Lisa-Ann Cambridge and Yolanda Peterson! All the while, trynna uproot people who’s been here for decades through gentrification!”

Your eyes are frantic darting from both of your cousins and then you point, fuming, “And you, Teeny, supposed to be a future preachers wife, but here you are judging and cursing down folks when you don’t even know ‘em! Haven’t even bothered to check on ‘em! It ain’t fuckin God like, and the likes of you will end up in fuckin hell before the fuckin word reaches anywhere near that man, God be my fuckin witness!”

Your chest heaves up and down fast, rummaging through your purse and throwing whatever bills on the table.

“Now you two have the day you fuckin deserve! I’m gonna go be the best damned fiancée there ever was!”

And you leave out the diner to the bright and sunny day, the diner filled with whispers and disapproving glares.

••●••

You’d couinsidently ended up in a bar, wanting to just have a little something to ease your troubles. Sadly enough, you ended up in your cousins bar. Gaz, to be exact. He saw you walk in, passing by the drunks who also were in at 1 pm and you plopped yourself down at the bar stool.

“How can I help ya cous’, what’re you doin here?” He asked while whiping off the counter, an amused look written on his face.

You sniffed, looking up at him, huffing, “Don’t start with me Kyle.”

“I ain’t start nothin,” he sets the rag down and throws his hands up, “Just, the family group chats gon crazy cause of you.”

You groaned, practically slamming you head down on the bar counter, “I know that, just shut up!”

It’s not like you meant to do that. Yell and tear everyone in that diners ear off. You were just tired. Tired of them being bullies. Tired of them not understanding that you were marrying someone that you so deeply loved.

You weren’t asking for their permission, you were telling them.

For them to out right reject it was just wrong. You didn’t think they’d blab their loud fucking gums in the 50+ family Facebook group chat. Now, you had cousins, aunts and uncles from all over wondering what the hell you were doing. Blowing your mom and dads phone up. Then they were in turn, blowing your phone up. All of which, you declined.

“I’m marryin him Gaz. I’m not backin out.” You rested your head in your hands, taking the napkin Gaz had set down for you and blowing your nose as harshly as you could.

Your cousin winced at the noise, immediately grabbing hand sanitizer and a bin for you to throw the tisheue away. “Yeah, I know. Ghost went ‘nd told me that just after you graduated.”

Your eyes shot up, glossy, “What?”’

“Yup,” he nodded, crossing his arms over his chest, “Came back and told me ‘nd John first. The man wouldn’t even take your eyes off you, and he was just sharin that graduation photo you took together. To me, it wasn’t nothin special. Just looked like two folks hanging out after a while. But that guy was blushin, you know how scared I was? I thought he was fuckin mad at me, thought I fucked with him one too many times! Then he got all serious, still blushin, said you were the love of his life and that you two were gettin married one of these days.”

“Said you’d made up your mind and he just could not say no to such a gorgeous face. Think he really fell in love with you right then ‘nd there [+].”

Your heart swells, a warm and fuzzy feeling radiating off of your skin, you speak weakly, “I really love that guy a lot.” You dab at your face, so sure your makeups already done for.

Gaz rolls his eyes, “I knoooow, no need to cry jeez. Here,” and he slides you a shot of whiskey. “One for the road.”

••●••

There’s a hand that meets the back, gentle and calloused, “Yer drunk Ms. Trouble, let’s go home.”

Your lashes flutter open, body immediately relaxing at that husky deep southern drawl, “ ‘M not drunk,” you shake your head sitting up, “Just had a little shot.”

Yeah, four little shots of whiskey. It was only 3:00 pm.

You were not driving home like that.

So Kyle called your soon to be husband to come get you.

“Oh, right,” you mumbled, going through your bag once more. Clumsily looking for an invitation, then handing one, still new and wrapped up, to Gaz.

“You’re invited to our weddin. So is Auntie Mary and Uncle Derek. Come, or don’t. Cause it seems like no one from the rest of our family wants to go.” Your voice broke, putting your head down yet again. Simon gave him an apologetic look from under his bandana. Lifting your all but exhausted body after paying your tab.

Gaz took it, laughing down at the card, and smiling, “I’ll be there [+]!”

You looked over Simon’s shoulder, mouthing a ‘thank you’ and waving goodbye.

“You alright?” Ghost asked ten minutes into the drive. He’d let you try to get comfortable in the quiet of the car. The radio low, the road practically empty, the engine could be heard. The afternoon summer breeze was hitting your face through the cracked windows of the old truck, sobering you up.

Simon had sent you to the wolves, already knowing how’s they’d react before he sent you off with a hug and a kiss. He’d known you wouldn’t get the answer you wanted, people were mean. But you only learned the hard way, you’d let them bite at you and let them think you were a sheep. Till it got to be too much and start biting back. Pulling limbs, he’d known you’d get out there with blood in your teeth, but your heart scratched up.

You were thankful he didn’t go and say it, ‘I told you so.’ You despised hearing it more than anything.

You bit your lip, bottom lip trembling while you looked out the window. Simon frowned, looking at the road because you didn’t like when looked at him as you confessed, “gon, say what you got to or you gonna hold it?”

Your breath immediately hitched, cries leaving your mouth before you could even get a word out.

“God why did they have to be so fuckin mean Simon? They were callin me childish for wanting to be with you and you- you some demon! You ain’t a demon! You’re human. Why would they treat you like that? Why would they talk about you like that?” You sobbed, tears rapidly falling down your face.

Simon sighed wiping one side of your face with his free hand, you wiping the other but it did nothing. Tears still fell, your voice moaning like you were in agony. You sat back in your seat and closing your eyes.

“I’m sorry dolly, everyone here- they- they ain’t as sweet as you. Can’t help themselves. They don’t know no better.” He cooed genuinely, rubbing your thigh with his thumb.

You shook your head, wailing now, hard. Loud. “Not knowing any better is just a fuckin excuse so they can treat you that way Simon! You didn’t do anything wrong! You’ve never done anything wrong! Do you even know that? That fire was never your fault! It could never be your fault! You were just a child! Why would that be your fault?!”

You let out an annoyed and strangled groan, “Ughhh! Why’d they have to go ‘nd treat you like that!? You were a fuckin baby!”

Not once. Not once in his life had Simon had someone cry for him.

There were people who understood his situation when he was younger, people who looked out for him and he was more than thankful to have some source of kindness in his life even when he felt like he didn’t deserve it.

But to have some cry like this, like you were the little boy who saw that house go up in flames, the one who heard the screams and the yells across the way for help. And you were telling that little boy that it was alright. That that his fathers doings weren’t his, that people shouldn’t be mean to him for something he didn’t do. The short amount of time you’d been together, you’d never judged him. Not when you realized it was a little harder for him to open up to you, not when you realized how hard it was for him to go into Pinewood without a little bit of a stare.

You’d love with all your heart, creating your own little moments of happiness with him on the farm whenever he was free. Silly little things, swimming in the creek, racing against the cows at the farm over, teaching him how to line dance in the house. All but accepting of his faults, and he of yours. Always right there to catch you when you tripped over your own feet while running off.

But sometimes he could wrap his head around it. He’d asked once, while you two sat on the porch after dancing the night away, a bottle of bourbon sat on the steps after burning the back of your throats once.

“You deserve nothin but kindness and the truth, don’t you Simon? Who would I be to judge you?” Your brown eyes twinkled right along with the stars that shone in the sky.

“You’re just you, I’m just me. We’ll be figurin this loooong journey together from now on. Running with coyotes with you, I’m excited.” And you laughed so beautifully, swinging your feet back and forth.

It made that little boy in his heart tremble. Like he was finally okay.

Tears swelled at the brim of his eyes. He took a shaky breath, sniffing before grabbing your hand in his and kissed it.

“Jesus, [+], I love you. Truly I love you.” And he couldn’t stop himself. Whispering it against your knuckles like a prayer.

Maybe, just maybe, God was allowing Simon this pure and utter happiness for the first time in his life. He’d been to hell and back and only god knows why. But someone out there had sent him an angel— a savior, and he was more than happy to be called yours and only yours for the rest of his life.

••●••

With less than half the people you’d intended to come, your wedding was, in every single way, perfect.

You were surrounded with nothing but love and support, so much so, you could see Simons eyes watering no matter how hard he tried to hide it. John was the officiant, a man Simon had trusted with everything in him, it was only right to marry the two of you. You even asked for his blessing, through a deep belly laugh he told you yes.

The only real debate was if your wedding cake should be carrot cake or red velvet.

You told Simon, carrot cake was too old and too picky to be a wedding cake.

Simon told you red velvet cake was just chocolate cake with red food dye.

Yes, there was a great, presidential-esc debate about it. So much so, you had to leave the bakery and come back two days later, both of you with unwavering opinions. The only thing you did agree on is that having the cake half carrot half velvet would be gross.

“Why don’t you two just have two small cakes and the guests can have cupcakes?” Offered through a huff, tired of the bickering.

And that’s what happened.

Both of you cutting your own small, two tiered cakes and feeding the other.

No, Simon did not wipe your face with cake.

Just a little icing on your neck, and he sucked it clean off. Naturally, you had to match it. A hickie being seen on both of your necks in all your wedding photos then on.

You’d go on a honeymoon at a later date, till then, Simon carried you princess style over the threshold. The biggest smile he ever had on his face.

Up until you two saw the state of the first floor. Fully, and obnoxiously decorated with fake lanterns, beach balls, fake grass skirts around the tables, a little container full of sand with a umbrella, blue streamers on the ground of the living room to represent “water” with a paddle board and shot glasses that said, ‘aloha’ and the like— to top it off?

A large sign having on the walls that said, ‘Welcome to paradise! (adjacent :) )’

“Who the hell did all this?” You scream laughed, clutching your stomach. It was ridiculous and Simon rubbed at his temple, voice laced with annoyance, “Soap and Gaz I’m fuckin sure.”

You looked around the island of the kitchen, spread out with pictures of your siblings, a few of both you and Simon from when you were younger, your sure Gaz brought over to decorate this mess.

“Oh John’s here too!” You smile at the picture of John, Soap ad Gaz all too big and muscular but crowded in the small frame.

You took another look around, giggling at the silliness of it all. And then the quiet filled the air, heart pumping. Almost like the air completely shifted.

“Mrs. Riley,” oh, didn’t that just roll off the tongue ever so nicely?

You, Mrs. Riley. didn’t it sound good?

Simon’s hands found your hips, moving your hair out the way, lips trailing from the back of your neck to your chest.

“You mind,” kiss, “if I” another, “take my sweet wife,” another, “upstairs? Think it’s bout time I treat her.”

Your stomach could’ve fallin out your ass. You gulped, slowly nodding only to yelp right after, Simon throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“I-I got a little surprise for you Mr. Riley, if a wait a little.” You giggled, patting his back as he slowly went up the steps.

“How long I have to wait?”

“Like ten minutes.”

What a lie that was. A flat out lie. You were ready fifteen minutes ago. Why? Well you were eager. Wanting, and now have spent the last five minutes pacing the bathroom like it was your first time.

This was the opposite of that.

Just the first time as husband and wife.

“I don’t mind fuckin you in there darlin, ain’t a issue.” Your legs almost gave out from his voice alone. But you made sure the door was locked, doing another revamp of your hair.

“You can’t! We have to do it in bed first.”

“Yeah, first.” Simon scuffed, sitting on the bed just like you told him to. His buttoned shit found it’s was to the laundry bin, shoes and socks off.

“Your eyes are closed?” You asked from the bathroom, fixing the last bit of your lingerie.

A groan, “Yes ma’am.”

“You sound like you’re lyin!”

Another groan through the door, followed by a huff, “they’re closed I swear it, lucky. Come on now, been waitin for ever.”

You let out a sharp inhale, slowly opening the door.

“No peaking” you warn, tip toeing to lean yourself against the wooden dresser.

“[+], I ain’t peakin,” he was, but he could only see your damn socks, so he settled with being surprised. Following your voice across the room. He was already half hard.

You cleared your throat, adjusting yourself one last time. “Okay, you can open.”

Maybe this was the after life. Maybe you were an Angel.

A sight for sore eyes, you were against the dresser in an off white two piece lingerie hugging your breasts and hips, matching lace knee highs with bows on them, a lace garter hugging your thigh, with a pinned veil in your hair. Delectable.

Beautiful.

“Well, say something Mr. Riley! I’m embarrassed!” Your cheeks flushed, eyes looking elsewhere.

The blonde stood, slowly crossing the room to trap you inbetween his large build and the dresser.

He gave you a little smile, a scar that ran through his pink lips moving upward, “You’re cute as shit when you blush.”

“You can’t even see it!”

He presses your foreheads together, holding your chin in his fingers, “You look real pretty [+]. Most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen my whole life.”

And you decide to melt, right in his arms, right then and there. He catching you, laughing against your lips. Kissing you soft. Slow. Slipping his tongue in your parted and your mouth ever so sweetly.

He lifts you by the hips, then setting you in his lap at the end of the bed.

You gently pull away, hands on his “I’m tremblin so much. I’m sorry, can’t really think straight.” You giggle, you feel foolish. You’ve done it with Simon countless times but felt so nervous right now.

But he’s sweet, rubbing your back, he kisses you once more, “We can take our time dolly, let you get comfortable.”

You thank him, god what a fucking sweetheart. His large hands slowly foldles all over you, squeezing and pulling. Slowly taking everything off, everything but that garter and knee highs. Simon would need to engrave the sight in his brain. Your pretty nipples all hard, long lashes peeking through to him. He sticks two fingers in your mouth, you suck on them for a bit before he pulls them out trailing down to your already gushing cunt. You let out a ragged breath as he easing his fingers inside you.

He thrusts his fingers inside your tight walls “Come on darlin, take mine out. ‘S all yours.”

You do, taking hiss length out of his boxers. It’s hard, rushing with blood and veins, a strawberry red mushroom tip.

You gulp, eyes stuck on his his large length. Practically salivating, “Always so big Mr. Riley.”

“Ain’t shit you can’t handle,” he whispers in your ears and you shudder at his words, Simon gives your gummy pink more thrusts. You grind down on him, finally finding a bit of your senses and pumping your hand around Simons dick. You’re both panting, rocking your hips against each other, both needing, desperately wanting more.

You whimpered, biting your lip as your head fell on his shoulder, “Mr. Riley- please-“ you walls tighten around his two fingers and he slowly drags them out. Sucking them both while looking right at you. You shudder, head feeling dizzy, panting and grinding down in his lap.

“Aht, aht, Mrs. Riley don’t be so impatient. Gotta take my time with ‘er sweetheart.” He smirks against your lips. Pecking them once before laying you on the bed, getting in between your legs land slapping his aching cock on his slick clit. A hiccup of a moan escaping your mouth while he rubs his dick between your pussy lips.

“You’re not bein fair Simon.” You pout, trembling at his badly you wanted him inside. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

“Guess I’ll have to listen when you call me that. Right baby?”

You give another sheepish nod, Simon stretched your dripping hole with his tip, sliding right in your velvety walls, that clung to him with every inch he gave you. The blonde’s tip brushing against your cervix. He almost losses his vision at how good you feels how fucking warm you are. He curses, caressing your hips while he takes a deep breath,

“Christ, lucky, who’s makin you so wet lil girl? Huh?”

“M-my husband,” you slurred, toes curling while he pushed your knees to your forehead, folding you half and splitting you open with his large cock.

“That’s right honey. Yer sweet ‘nd lovin. Husband.” And he rams it into you, deep. Giving you harsh thrusts, torturing your poor cunt as the loud slap, slap, slap of your thighs smacking together hits the walls of your bedroom.

“Mr. Riley, hold me!” You mewl, your arms already reaching out for him. Fuck, he can’t get enough to you’d already fucked out and wanting to feel him on you. He does so, making sure to press more of his weight into you as he fucks— no- loves into you juuuust right. His mouth reaches your mouth, kissing the corner of your lips before trailing to your ear. Sucking and biting at it that makes you moan.

He curves his dick into you, swiveling his hips just for his tip to brush against your g-spot. You claw at his arms, shivering and tears form in your eyes. Your sobbing,

“Fuck, Mr- aanh- mmph- Mr. Riley! ‘M gonna cum!” You claw at his back, thighs shaking and Simon bites at your jaw. His hand, adorned with his wedding band, pinches your clit. Grunting once you clench around him and he rubs at it vigorously.

“Fuck baby, show your husband how a good wife makes a mess. Yeaaah pretty, alll over my dick.”

The knots in your stomach finally release themselves, you shudder, clamping down on the blondes length and clinging onto his cock. Milking him for what he’s worth. “That’s it girl, shi- thaaaat’s it. Gonna take my fuckin cum, deep. Damn pretty,”and his tip twitches inside you, ropes of his seed flying inside you womb. And he gives you deeper thrusts to make sure sticks.

He pays your stomach that’s already starting to bulge, “Gonna keep you nice ‘nd full tonight lucky.”

Please, do. But you couldn’t even babel it out. You just yanked Simon closer by his blonde strands as you attach your lips to his. Molding you two together.

••●••

Your hand loudly bangs against the wall of your bedroom. The sun was creeping up in the sky, the crickets ceasing to chirp while the birds begun their songs.

You were drunk on his dick, looking back while he worked into you. One hand on your hip, the other mushing your face into the wall. You don’t even remember getting over here. You’re sure you’d been running half way through and made up so excuse, mumbling that you had to go to the bathroom. That 6’4 freak of a man couldnt wait, a couple seconds for you to hobble back to the bed so he met you half way.

Fucking you right on the floor before pressing you into the wall, nipples brushing the cool paint with every thrust. You shimmied your ass back on him, smirking stupidly as the loud sound of your juices sloshing was heard. Simon groans as you fuck him back

You hiccuped, sputtering out your words, “Mr hicc- Mr. Riley?”

“Yeeees Mrs. Riley.” Simon teased, giving your ass a nice slap, plummeting into your sobbing cunt. There was a ring that formed at the bottom of his dick, your mixed cum down his thighs and clinging to his dark pubic hair.

“I fuck- fuckin looooove you soooo much. Gonna make you happy for- hicc- hmm- the rest of your life. I pwomise.” Your lashes were wet with tears, so gorgeous. So adorable.

Simon croons, ocean eyes finding yours and wiping a stray tear away. “I love you too, my lucky girl. So fuckin amazin. All for me. I’ll- damn it- gonna be good to you too.”

You nodded, dumbly. Barley hearing his words before your eyes closed. He yanks you back by your hair, giving you a sloppy, wet kiss. Pulling away with a smack, Simon growls, bullying his cock into your faster. Harder. Sobs escaping you as you feel it, that electric feeling coursing through your veins. Your toes curling, and you shake, walls suddenly coated with Simon’s white cum while you spasm around him.

He entertains both of your hands together, holding you against his chest while you both cum. Simon leaves soft pecks on your cheeks, rocking you both through climax. Your skin is sticky and hot.

“Fuck, so happy to be married to ya darlin.”

a/n: As always lmk what you think. There’s also plot in this that will make more sense (imo) in little drabbles so I’ll do those soon. Oh, fully inspired by II Hands II Heaven by Beyoncé. I highly recommend. I love yew <3

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[littlechomper]

Great point by the other Anon but can you imagine how angry Price would be if Simon "Ghost" Riley managed to get married? Especially if Simon never told anyone about his wife til he was married

Secret wife guy Ghost...

Honestly the idea of Ghost getting married never crossed Price's mind. The man doesn't talk about women, excuses himself from any conversation about family, there are no pictures on Ghost's desk, no photos on his phone or in his wallet, he doesn't take vacations, his only property is a shitty cabin up north, it's hard enough getting the mask off so the man will eat something, so how could he possibly get a wife? Besides, if Ghost got married surely Price would get an invite to the ceremony, right?

Which makes it so much worse when they're in the middle of the fucking desert, nearly a month overdue for extraction, and Ghost finally cracks, bouncing his leg like a hyperactive child and mumbling that he's going to miss his daughter's dance recital if they're here much longer.

The worst part is the length of time. Price asks how old the kid is and Ghost sniffs, "Be eleven in November." Over a fucking decade. This man has been hiding a kid for over a fucking decade. Even the sergeants seem surprised.

Impossible to pry any more information out of this man. He refuses to respond to any further questions, just shuts the fuck up. Nobody will ever know that you were high school sweethearts, or that this is actually your second child he's talking about.

[littlechomper]

Teen Parents

teensimon x teenreader

Your hoodie’s stained with milk, your hair’s in a knot you don’t remember tying, and your phone alarm is going off again even though the baby’s already awake—and screaming like the world’s ending. Simon groans from beside you.

“I just closed my eyes,” he mumbles, face buried in the pillow.

“Yeah, and she just opened hers. Guess who wins?”

You’re already scooping your daughter out of her bassinet, your arms on autopilot. She’s warm and fussy, rooting against your chest like she knows what she wants and isn’t taking ‘later’ for an answer.

Simon peeks with one eye, voice rough. “You need me to—?”

“No, I got her. Just…” You lower yourself onto the edge of the bed, unclip your nursing bra one-handed like a total pro. “Get me a granola bar or something. Please.”

“On it,” he says, sitting up with a stretch and a yawn, hair sticking out in about seven directions. He disappears into the kitchen while you latch your daughter on. The crying stops almost instantly, replaced by soft gulps and the tiniest sigh you’ve ever heard. Your heart does that weird twisty thing it does every time—like it still hasn’t caught up to the fact that she’s yours.

Yours and Simon’s. Teen parents. Two barely-grown kids figuring out how to keep another human alive.

He comes back with a granola bar and a juice box, which honestly feels like the most romantic gesture in the world right now.

“Your breakfast, madam.”

You smirk. “Fancy. What’s next, candlelight and a clean burp cloth?”

“Let’s not get crazy,” he says, dropping onto the mattress beside you. “We still haven’t folded the laundry from, what, last Tuesday?”

You rest your head on his shoulder while the baby nurses, the room still dim, full of warm, sleepy morning light.

“I’m pretty sure normal teenagers are asleep right now,” you mutter.

“Normal teenagers don’t have a bossy little milk gremlin,” he says. Then, softer, “But she’s ours.”

You both stare down at her. Her hands are so small. Her cheeks are full and flushed, and her eyes blink up at you like she knows you. Not just your face, but you—the scared, overwhelmed, stubborn girl trying her best. And she loves you anyway.

“She smiled yesterday,” you say, brushing your knuckle gently across her cheek.

Simon leans in. “What? No way.”

“Totally did. Right after she peed on my leg.”

He snorts. “A true romantic, this one.”

The baby unlatches with a soft pop, and Simon immediately grabs a burp cloth with the speed of someone who’s learned the hard way. You hand her off carefully, and he lays her against his chest, patting her back with his big, gentle hand.

[littlechomper]

price with erectile dysfunction. beats himself up simply because his love is too pretty to not get hard over, but being the wise old man he is he quickly finds a solution. what does he have three young men for, if not to help him out?

he regularly let's the boys have at you, fuck your cunt raw while he sits next to you and watches, petting your hair gently. and you? you only have eyes for him. no matter which of them fucks you, no matter what they do, you just have eyes for your husband. gazing up at him, gripping his arm, moaning his name, begging him to go harder, to make you cum.

and the boys loathe it. they're the ones fucking you, the ones making you feel good, why are you only looking at him? calling out for him when you cum, clutching his arm when they hit that spot that makes you see stars? they stumble over themselves to make you look at them, moan their names or at least acknowledge them, but you never do.

and yet they still keep coming back to do it over and over again.

[littlechomper]

Commission for @/tamagoart on twt! 💤💕

[littlechomper]

the idea of Johnny unintentionally staring people down when talking to them is great. looking at him too long is like looking directly at the sun, you just have to awkwardly look away every once in a while because his piercing blue eyes are locked onto yours

even better, Johnny was raised on ‘it’s polite to make eye contact’ when talking to people. Johnny physically moving back into your line of sight as he keeps yapping to stare into your soul

on the other hand, Simon staring you down while listening to you so he can process what you’re saying. absolutely still, not moving a muscle, when was the last time you saw him blink— you have to look away sometimes because his gaze is burning through you

even worse, when you glance away you can still feel his eyes on you. his silence is incredibly loud, is he even breathing? it’s unnerving until you look back at him and— no, he’s still staring at you

[littlechomper]

Gentle intimacy with Simon - cleaning his fresh tattoos, rubbing his back, holding hands, christmas shopping

Maybe im just on my period and craving love but i just want to do laundry and cook together and go for walks with our dog and look at nature

Simon could swear he has cried more from your touch and your sentiment than he had in the entirety of his life before you. It’s just that he spent so long robbed of any and all tenderness— he became a survivalist. He learned to do without. Stopped seeking it. The same way an axolotl can become so dry it transforms into a salamander.

But now here you are— handing it out in spades. It hurts. Because it means he could’ve had it all this time— if only someone had found him worthy the way you do.

He initially regards it with the suspicion of a dog with a neck still healing— pink lesions from the tightness of the chain.

Lots of “what are you doing?” and “what’s this for” and the saddest of them all: “d’you want something?”

He just can’t imagine a world where affection isn’t transactional. Where you might want to touch him and hold him and not run up a tally against him for it.

He’s the first person to offer to go with you on every errand, to help you with every chore. You’ve made him into a lover of the mundane. Buying ingredients to make dinner for you. Knowing the type of laundry soap you like to use. That you don’t want him to make the socks into balls because it “stresses the elastic, and the socks deserve a break”. That you save the jars from your fancy yogurts but you’re not really sure why yet. He’s addicted to dusting the corners of your soul.

[littlechomper]

yeah yeah “johnny can’t sing” you guys are just cowardly lairs. anyway johnny singing a lullaby to your newborn daughter.

it startles you, at first.

your body moves like it’s under water as it wakes. gravity drowning the aches in your bones until you’re spit onto the shore, rolling against the cotton sheets of its bank. the heat of the room plummets when you rise, and you shiver as you lean against the headboard peer into the dark room.

moonlight spills like milk over the familiar; the wooden footboard, the tapestry carpet, the bookshelf. but it obscures the corners of the room, including the cradle.

handcrafted. embroidered lace trim, that you toiled over during the last days of your pregnancy. made special, by the little dreaming bundle that rests between feather bedding.

you squint, and your heart collapses against your ribs when you register a figure standing over it.

maternal instinct burns below your stomach and rises to your throat, cement rigid. lips notching, teeth bared, reaching for your husbands side of the bed when,

I will build my love a bower

By yon cool crystal fountain

And round it I will pile

All the wild flowers o' the mountain

his voice is quiet. thick. softer around the edges- more than it’s ever been. like his eyes, when he held her for the first time. it’s the eroding of stone, a dying fire, a tree curling to the sun.

and suddenly you’re crying quietly from your perch on the bed, listening to the way your daughter coos at his voice- whispering, singing, thawing- just for her.

Will ye go, Lassie, go?

And we'll all go together

To pull wild mountain thyme

All around the bloomin' heather

Will ye go, Lassie, go?

she’s back to sleep somewhere in the second verse, and johnny turns to find you a still, teary mess, curled against his pillows and in between dreams.

kisses your forehead, and finds himself raw and pliable because of the family that lets themselves be comforted. by the baby who he can sing for, and the wife who gave him the voice to do so.

pulls you into the bow of his chest, and begins to hum when you stir.

[littlechomper]

I've been thinking about this for a while, but could you write a drabble or something about Simon's reaction to you trying to sleep on the couch after a fight?

Would he be mad and fight with you more or drag you to bed or silently let you sleep on the couch??

lmk × ×

It’s rare the two of you fight.

Argue? Sure.

Purposefully annoy each other? Definitely. Simon loves crawling under your skin just so he can watch you ride your frustrations out on his cock. He can’t help it, you’re cute.

But fighting? Petty comments, growling harsh words at each other, suffocating tension, silent treatment, and stubborn avoidance? You and Simon don’t do that.

Simon admits, he’s not exactly the easiest person to date, but you’re incredibly patient with him, even when he’s not communicating the way you need him to.

He’s a work in progress.

So, when you walk out of the shower, tugging on one of his oversized shirts, he thinks you’ll crawl into bed next to him like always. Instead, you grab your pillow, an extra blanket, and leave the room. Riley follows behind you, his own dog betraying him.

You have to be teasing, trying to teach him some lesson, remind him what it feels like to sleep in an empty bed if he doesn’t straighten up. He should be the one out there, sleeping in the dog house.

He lets you lay out there for exactly 12 minutes.

When he scoops you up, you pretend you’re asleep. Even when he lays you down on your side of the bed and slides in, you keep up the act.

“Oy,” He grumbles, pinching your cheek lightly, “I know you’re awake, dove.”

A breath of a smile twitches at the corners of your lips, but you turn your face into the pillow. No problem, he hoists you in his lap easy enough, pressed against the bed frame, and rests his hands on your spread thighs.

“Why the bloody hell you sleepin’ out there?”

You scowl at him, “Don’t wanna sleep with you.”

“No?” He tilts his head, smoothing his palms under your, his, shirt, “Why not, pretty girl?”

“Mad at you.”

He huffs a laugh, “Wearin’ my shirt, but don’t wan’ sleep with me?”

You start to peel the shirt off begrudgingly, but he swats your hands away, holding you in place with his thumb on your chin.

“ ‘nough of that. What kinda man d’ya think I am? Letting my bird sleep on a bloody sofa.” He says, “Send me out there.”

“But your feet hang off the edge.” You frown and it tightens his chest, even when you’re mad you’re thinking of his comfort.

He’d wake up with a hunched back and cramped legs if it made you happy.

“Exactly, ‘ts why we both belong right here.” He pats the mattress, scooting back down the bed to lay down, holding you against his chest. He presses his lips against the crown of your head, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”