#dad!simon ghost Riley x black reader

[crystlizabeth]

The Riley household dealing with a complication at school.

The girls are about 7-8! All children are oc!

Just watch this video https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT89KHjBj/

Simon and you having to talk to Sa’diya and Zhuri because Diya has been getting bullied and Zhuri is not having it but her sister won’t tell her the girls name. Now you sit in the living room in front of the two girls your oldest son watching from the side, laughing her and there not helping the situation.

“Zhuri you don’t need to be fighting nobody.” You spoke to your daughter.

“What is it?” Zhuri asked speaking over her mother as well as ignoring her. Sa’diya sitting next to her looking as her mom with teary eyes Simon sitting on the table as he watch you with the girls.

“Zhuri love, look at me.” Simon spoke trying to get her out of Diyas face.

Zhuri side-eyed her father looking straight back as her twin, “Sy what is her name.” Zhuris tone stern.

The look Simon received caused Elijah to laugh covering his mouth when his parent looked at their 15 year old. “What Z is standing on business.”

You signed “mmhm I know but if she fights one more little girl the have to change schools.” You whipped your face.

“The all deserved it though mama, they’re lil brats.” ‘Lijah spoke his arms falling over his chest.

“Listen Diya nobody should bully you like, you’re such a smart girl beautiful girl baby, don’t let those lil shits words get to your head.” You spoke looking at her, he giving you a small nod.

Simon though Zhuri had ever right to act like this somebody was billing her sister as she wasn’t standing for it. Sa’diya was never good with words or ever felt like she could speak up despite how you and him were raising the girls. So Zhuri did it for her.

“What is her name!”

“Zhuri you cant be in her face like that love.” You spoke, Diyas teary eyes looking at her sister.

“She won’t tell me her name.” Zhuri mumbling sitting forward now out of her face, her dark eyes never met yours, only glanced at Simon.

“Why do you wanna know her name love?” Simon asked.

The little girl didn’t answer him, let’s just say it was a long night thw though the would have to discuss it the next day again. But when Simon got a call from the school that he need to come pick up his daughters because of an incident.

Now here we are on the couch again Zhuri with a little smile on her face kicking her feet, she was pleased with herself. Diya was also smiling.

“Okay tell your mum what happened.” Simon said standing next to you his hand on your waist. He could feel your stress poor out of your pours.

“You’re not in trouble Zhuri, what happened.” You spoke.

“Umm well, I tried not to tell Ari that girl name, but she found out and went over to that girl, and she went over and caped her..” Sa’diya spoke, “she told her ‘don’t you touch my sister no more.’” She finished.

Zhuri from the side of her speaking up “And I would do it again!” She said a fat grin on her face.

You couldn’t help but giggle “Zhuri okay.. oh my god.. what was the lil girls name.” You chuckled, the two boy around you laughing.

“Stormy, and I made sure to show her the true storm.”

“Girl bye. You showed her the storm.” You laughed.

“Mmhm.. so dose this mean I don’t have to go to school tomorrow.” She asked. You looked at your husband leaving this part to him because you couldn’t be serious with her right now after what she said.

“No, but you still are doing school work at home.” Simon spoke earning a groan from her.

“Looks like you’ll be going to school with Aliyah,” he spoke.

“YAY! and we’ll get to see uncle Johnny more too!”

Simon chuckled taking the girls in his arms when the came over to him. He never taught them to resorted to violence but he never opposed to it and Zhuri was a fighter and a girl who hated seeing the people she loved be brought down, so he might have told Zhuri this was an exception.



[tojisteddy]

Cherry Waves | 18+ mdni, tiny plot & a lot of smut, >2k wrds (I think), cowgirl, fingering, daddy kink (pa & daddy used (idc)), creampie, dacryphilia, dubcon, overstim.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley is completely and utterly exhausted after coming back from a mission. But his sleep schedule is fucked, doesn’t know how he even got a wink of sleep while out in god knows where.

The only thing he knows for a fact will lull his 6’4 build to sleep, is being balls deep in your sopping wet cunt.

He’d get home after a long silent drive, throwing his stuff to the floor, yanking the mask away and brown eyes searching for you.

Usually you meet him at the front door. Taking his things and properly setting them aside before he scoops you up and takes you to the bedroom. Today was different, mainly do to Simon being a day early. You peeked your head from the kitchen, curls falling due to gravity, confused at the sudden noise from the entrance, eyes widening when you see the blonde. Shit, you dont even know managed to say anything out your face hole.

“I- fuck- you’re early Simon.” And he blinks at you. Once. Cocks his head to the side before nodding, “wrapped things up fast to be here.” To be with you. Simon, who used to be able to go away for months at a time and was unbothered by the lack of civilian interaction, now only wanted to be out for a month or two at a time. He had something— no— someone waiting for him at home. A cute little kitten to take care of. He couldn’t leave his pretty thing alone for too long, could he? You were the one thing helping him keep his sanity. He had to be with you.

And he doesn’t say anything else, just goes up the stairs, knowing you’re right behind, following his leisure strides as best as you could.

“Sluggers at my friends till tomorrow, she really wanted to see the old pup.”

“The wash’s makin that weird sound again. I was gonna call the repair man, but you’re here now.”

“I didn’t get a chance to make dinner, but tell me whatever you want when you’re ready. I’ll whip it right up for ya.”

And the man is just barely acknowledging your words as you followed behind him to the bedroom. Grunts of understanding escaping his throat at everything statement, but he wants you to give him a quick rundown of what he’s missed. Just so he can mentally prepare for how to handle it just like he always does.

“Come ‘ere.”

He’s already pulling his clothes off, sitting on the bed of your bedroom, reaching out for you because you’re just not moving fast enough. You’re straddling him, and his hands are slowly making their was down your hips after taking off one of his shirts you had on, to your inner thighs, then grazing the back of his fingers to your underwear— they’re wet. Simon lets out a breathy laugh, “already this wet, haven’t even touched you. Been waitin for me doll?”

Like he didn’t know you were gonna get excited just from seeing him back, he’d had you on this routine even before you two were in a establishment relationship. Get the house all spic and span, stretch yourself out, take a day off from work or two— or three because as soon as he got in the house he was gonna fuck you like no one’s ever seen before. And he’s sliding your panties to the side, slipping two fingers in so they’re knuckle deep and thrusting them right at your spot.

Why so fast, you ask? Well Simons desperate. Desperate to get his aching dick inside the gooey pink walls that’s shapped for him. That doesn’t mean he’s not getting you to cum for him once, get you to melt under his touch was Daddy’s simple muscle memory. He looks away from your pussy, that’s load and soaking his fingers to look up at you who’s covering your mouth. He tsks, slapping your hand away as you whimper.

“Not gonna let me hear you? After I’ve been away soooo long?” He fains a frown, curling his fingers into you more, fingering you faster, harsher, and the butterflies in your stomach build. “Pussy so greedy princess, won’t let me go, she’s callin for me— shit- but you, you won’t even let me hear your pretty voice. You turned into a spoiled bitch? Ungrateful for what I do?”

“N-no sir.”

“No? Then let me hear how much you’ve missed me dollface,” the moans leave your mouth like a second language, your lost in pleasure, grinding your hips against Simons stomach and he hums in delight. Atta girl, what a good girl.

“I wanna- lemme- haa, cum. Pa can I? Nngh Daddy-“

Simon rolls his eyes, flicking your forehead with his free hand, silly thing, “Cut the whinin out ‘nd let it go.”

And you unravel so beautifully, thighs shaking, pulsing around his long fingers, slick drenching them. It’s almost dizzying how good you cum so much so you lose yourself while Simons connected your lips, it’s so sweet. Bewitching, getting you all worked up all over again.

Usually when you’re taking him, he has to give you a swat on the thigh or ass so you dont try to take all of him at once, but you were taking it nice and easy today. Just like he taught you. Slowly taking Simon’s veiny member inch by inch, practically choking his airway by how tight your cunt was. His eyes fluttered closed his eyes, letting out a breath in relief once you bottomed out, tip giving a slight kiss to your cervix. Christ, this was were he was meant to be. Inside your drenched pussy for the rest of his life.

He’s kneading at you hip, other hand caressing your your stomach (freak) up to your jaw.

“Took it so good princess. So fuckin warm, love that shit.”

Awww, he was being sweet.

No actually this time, when you were good by ‘helping him out’ after being away for so long Ghost was soft with you. Praised you, worshiped you, thanking God for letting him get back to your pretty face, sweet voice and mesmerizing cunt. And it’s so slow when you start moving, his head of blonde hair resting on your shoulder, shuddering breaths leaving his mouth. Like a wave, he’s drowning in the feeling. Drowning in you. Addicted to whatever mystical being that you were. He’d drown a million times if it meant being with here in his big arms, holding you so you’d melt into each other.

He didn’t know if he could admit, his precious thing, he needed you. It made him sick thinking of a life without you. He had to have you. Forever and a thousand more years, to hell and back.

“Missed you so much Daddy mmph- so happy you’re b-back,” you gasped, you were completely and utterly full, hips rotating and moving up and down on his length, all you could do was mewl, “Did so good out there baby. Protectin everyone— fuck- protecting me.”

If you thought that the military man didn’t have a praise kink, you’d be absolutely wrong. Your words were like music to his ears, his eyes finding you and that beautiful enthralled in ecstasy face. the real reason he was able to continue in day in and day out doing his job that was fucking his brain up. You were a sign that he was doing something right.

“I’m a baby? Babies protect the world, huh?” his lips curved up.

“y-yeah,” you whined, fuck, you were barley thinking. Babbling.

“Yeah?”

“Yes pa, mmph- you’re my baby.” You sniff, your waterline filling with tears. Even if you’re the one doing all the moving this time, Simons good, too fucking good at making you feel— well— good. And he’s everything. Everything you ever wanted, everything you ever needed, so much so, it doesn’t feel real. His hands are everywhere, pulling, kneeding, nibbling. Focused on getting you there because you felt divine around him, just how you were supposed to be.

“That’s fuckin silly love, can’t be your baby and your daddy, that doesn’t make any sense does it?”

What an annoying brat this man was, you slap at his shoulder as he laughd, pulling you chest to chest, your nipples getting hard from the friction. “D-Don’t tease.”

“You love it, the way youre squeezin me, you definitely fuckin missed it. juuuuust how you love my dick. Shit, wanna make me cum? Don’t you baby? Use me. Ride it just how you want and make your daddy cum.”

And it’s fucking loud as you slam yourself down on him, the clap, clap, clap of your skin colliding together with every movement. You don’t even know how your eyes didn’t glue themselves to the back of your eyelids yet because the way Simon was stretching you out, keeping you niiiice and full as you clawed at his back, you should have. All you can do is gasp as your orgasm takes over you, you try pulling yourself away, but Simons pulling you closer. Whispering, “Shhh, shhh, shhh, it’s okay princess. Feel it. You can handle it.”

You’re a fucked out, mewling mess but still, Simons there. His mouth connecting to your nipples, sucking and biting as his hands on your hips, rutting up into you, he grips your curls with one hand, forcing you to look him in the eyes, “Fuckin move [+], told you to use me.” And it doesn’t matter that you’re exhausted, tears streaming down your face, your hips burning, sobbing that it’s too much. You’re some how, very sloppily, moving your hips because you were Simons good girl, you’d do anything to make him feel just as good as you did.

“Ahuh, that’s girl, my pretty baby girl.” Ghosts practically bruising your hips, groaning at how good your tight cunt is as he plops you up and down on his cock. You feel is length twitch and the tiny movement sends you over the edge again, screaming a pornographic moan as a shit, shit, shit leaves the scarred man’s mouth.

“Fuck meeee baby, that’s it, milk it.”

It’s so soft, light, as Simon cums inside you. His tattooed arms holding onto you like a vice, keeping you steady so you’d take everything he gave you, whispering in your ear of how good you were for your Pa. How he was so happy to be back in your arms. He’d lay you both down as you passed out and bundling you both up in the comforters. All while making sure you stay stuffed with him, because after you both took a much needed rest— Ghost would be back at it by sunrise.

Fucking you like you were the last person on earth.

a/n: would you believe me if I said this has been sitting in my drafts since February? Lmk what you think. Inspo: Cherry Waves by Deftones obvi.

most recent masterlist more meanie!simon

𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱<3: @figthoughts @tessakate @sevikasblackgf

[lxvvie]

Simon was so scared when he found out he was going to be a dad. So scared he'd be like his father. But when his newborn daughter is finally placed in his arms, she just instantly stops crying. And she just looks up at him, with the eyes she got from him. Like she knows he's her daddy. And she knows he'll do an amazing job. And deep down in Simon's heart, in that moment, he knows it too 🥹

And she’s so tiny, too.

Simon’s scared, unsure, hell, he’s downright uncomfortable holding something so fragile. And perfect. Heh. Perfection. Coming from him. Who would’ve thought? He feels his throat hitch. Fuck, he’s getting choked up. Simon manages to swallow the emotion down. For now. Can’t stop the butterflies in his stomach or swelling in his heart, though.

But bloody hell, he’s a father now. He has a daughter to protect, nurture, guide, and love, and it scares him in a way that his profession doesn’t. He looks up at you, sees your smiling face, and yeah, it’s scary. And fuckin’ exhilarating. It’s then that he makes a silent promise to you both to be the husband and father that his old man wasn’t, to protect you to the best of his ability, and to come home, always come home, in one piece.

He’s got another reason to, after all.

[writingoddess1125]

Not a Drop

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Black FemReader

So this is based off my Cousin (Yes we are black) and when she had her first baby. I remembered this while writing. So Enjoy! PROOF READ BY LOVELY PEOPLE

Now Please don't take this to heart its light hearted and stupid. Also working on other stuff but thought it would be cute.

You'd just arrived at your families home, it had been the first time you had allowed anyone to see your newborn son. As he had been a bit of a sick baby and you wanted time to adjust yourself. You'd been thankful for the space and also for Simon's help for the first few weeks of your child's life.

Arriving the whole family was excited to see your first born. Of course however, You wanted your dad to meet him first.

Truthfully your father was quite a.. Comedian of sorts and him and Simon shared a similar taste in terrible humor which is what made them quite close.

You pull back the little tent on the carrier showing your son. Who was in his pale blue train onsie, a matching hat and gloves.

Your Dad sits there in his chair, Looking at your baby and then back at you-

A weird look goes across your face as you don't know why he isn't saying anything. Before you dad speaks.

"...That is the whitest damn baby I've seen? The Fuck (Y/N)?"

Simon pivots to the side real fucking quick as he starts to try and hold in his laughter as hard as possible but his shoulders were shaking.

"Dad!"

"Not even a drop! You couldn't squeeze a bit of color into this boy? After all I gave you to work with"

He coos as he picks up your son who rubs his gloved hands over his face before settling against your father, You standing there slack jawed.

"H-Hes fine!" You defend now red faced as Your father shakes his head in false disappointment.

"Caucasian- Caucasoid. The darkest thing on him is the got damn train on his shirt. I dont know how the fuck you won Simon but you sure beat my ass in the gene pool"

Simon is essentially crying from silent laughter at this point, you quick to smack his arm as you peel the hat off your son showing the short tufts of curly hair.

"See! Look at his hair- He is just light skinned. Don't be an ass please?" You all but beg- however you knew you were asking too much when your Father gave a sarcastic smile.

"Yes he will darken from white to beige"

Simon wheezes at this point leaning against the closest wall. Your father gently patting your sons back and looking at the thin curls on his head.

"So you made me a Justin Timberlake 2.0 as a grandson?"

You hear your poor husband now breaking out in pure laughter doubled over as you stare at both of them angrily.

"DAD!"

[planetmimi]

PLEASE DONT TAKE MY IDEA and please vote :) 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

Y’all this criminal minds episode is making me want to write for Simon Riley. Like his entire family, a PREGNANT wife, two kids and two dogs , gets murdered (or kidnapped if I don’t wanna be too angsty) while he’s deployed. I don’t know if I want to do what criminal minds does where the fathers are alerted immediately….or! Not have ghost be alerted until his mission is complete and the absolutely loose his shit when he finds out that his higher ups hid this absolutely dire news about his family from him.

Of course you can’t forget that once he’s told about his families situation he’s sent back into that place, that time when his mother was murdered, his brother, his sister-in-law and nephew. If his family is killed most of the fic is going to be the after math, him completely leaving behind who Simon was and becoming less of a ghost and more of a Demon.

If his family is kidnapped the fic will be about how either he finds out weeks later and all hope seems lost, or how he “works with” the BAU (and it will be Hotch, Rossi, Emily, Spence, Derek, JJ and Garcia) to get his family back.

Ngl this’ll probably the next thing I post because I feel sooo connected to this, like I could write sooo well and detailed for this. But also so enthralled by this idea of having Ghost, an already tortured soul, be loved in such a way that he never thought would happen, just for him to get it taken, or almost, taken away from him forever. Yeah I have a looooot of ideas for this, it would probably be a medium sized fic too like maybe 3k-5k words long

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I'm sorry lmaooo nine months... hopefully we can finish this thing!

You land hard, elbows hitting the ground with a jolt of pain, but it’s nothing compared to the realization that someone is screaming—Blue is screaming. The heat in your veins fizzles, your heart jolting. Ghost has already sped off toward camp, pulling a knife from his ankle, and you scramble to your feet to follow.

Your movements are clumsy, your mind replaying the last few seconds, searching for any signs of trouble you might have missed. The air is clear, the trees are quiet, the ground is still. Yet, as you weave through the tall grasses that swipe at your ankles, you finally hear it—muffled voices, unmistakably human. They grow sharper with each step you take. 

Ghost reaches camp first, stopping in a lethal stance. You roll in just behind him, eyes snapping to where Blue stands behind the fence, alive and aiming one of her dad’s rifles at four strangers. Still dressed in an oversized sleep shirt, she juts the rifle through a gap in the fortification. Two of the strangers are mounted on a brown horse, while the other two flank their sides, backs swollen with rucksacks and chests thick with gear. There is no doubt they have weapons.

"D-don't come any closer or I'll blow your heads off! I mean it!"

“We’re not here to hurt you,” one of them says calmly. A man.

“I don’t care why you’re here! You need to leave before my dad…” Her eyes flicker to you. “Dad!”

When their heads turn in your direction, you waste no time arching the knife over your head. You’re not much without your bow, but this is all you have.

In a split second, your eyes land on the burliest of the group, a man with a boonie hat and a dense, brown beard. He was the one speaking. The leader, maybe. You aim the knife for his head, but before you can throw it, Ghost grabs your wrist, wrenching you to his chest without warning, the knife falling to the ground.

"Wait," he says in your ear, his breath steady against your skin. There’s a detectable lilt of surprise in his voice. You try to squirm free, but he holds tight. "Stay here."

He lets go. Confusion reels through you. Everything in you screams to pick up the knife, but you hesitate as Ghost signals for Blue to lower the gun.

He calmly walks over to the intruders, heading to the man you were aiming for. The air feels thick as you watch with parted lips, stance still readied and breath racing. Ghost stops in front of him, and the two stare at each other strangely before the man smiles.

A strong hand reaches for Ghost’s shoulder.

“It’s good to see you, Simon.”

The clanking of metal against ceramic plates and the low murmurs of a fire fill the cabin.

Your spine presses into the wall.

There isn’t a free chair at the table, but you’re not sure you’d sit in one even if there was. Blue stands beside you, hands laced in front of her. She’s silent. You are, too. The cabin feels cramped with seven people in it. It makes your skin itch. 

You can inspect them more thoroughly now that you’re not thinking about who to kill first. 

There are two men—the older one you believe Ghost called Price, and a younger one you think he called Kyle. He’s fine-looking, you figure, underneath the overgrowth of facial hair and grime smudged on his dark skin. He had a tan cap on earlier but now a head of short, black hair is free for him to slick fingers through every now and then. Then there is a woman, some years older than you. She’s beautiful in a raw, Grecian sort of way, with long black hair and a violet undertone to her skin. Lastly, a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen. It doesn't take much to discern he is related to Kyle in some way.

They all look starving, though not as much as you once were. Nevertheless, Ghost is feeding them more than scraps. Canned beans, rice, and rabbit. They shovel it into their mouths. The men have muscles on them, so they can’t have been struggling much. Based on all the supplies they carry and the horse tied to a tree outside, you’ve figured they’ve been traveling for some time. A flurry of questions runs through your brain, but your lips remain in a tight line.

Ghost hasn’t said much yet. He hasn't even explained who they are. Your slitted eyes flicker to him. While the strangers fill up the table, he hovers beside it. His body speaks more than his expression. His shoulders are not tense and lethal as they'd been when you first sat at that table scarfing down food. But they're not relaxed, either; his arms crossed, still exposed from the black tee he'd put on for training, giving way to the slight flexes in his corded muscles that signal even he is thrown off by their presence. 

But he trusts them enough to let them in here. With the way they carry themselves, and the fact that Ghost hasn't killed them, they must've been in the military together. He doesn't seem like the type to have had normal friends. 

Kyle speaks first.

He thrums the pads of his fingertips against the wood and clears his throat, breaking your thoughts. "We were hoping you'd still be here, but it was a shot in the dark."

"I’ve never left," Ghost says, plainly.

Kyle sips from his mug and wipes his mouth, then his eyes shift toward you. You meet his gaze with a hardened look. 

"We're sorry for scaring you."

It takes a moment to realize his words aren't for you. Blue glances to her toes. "I wasn't scared." 

His lips lift. "Of course not. It's us who should've been scared of crossing paths with Simon Riley's kid. You did the right thing, you know. Protecting yourself."

"I didn't realize you knew my dad." She nibbles her lip and looks up. "My name is Blue, by the way. And this is..." Her eyes flick to you. "My friend, Twix."

Your tongue pokes your cheek as you look over the new faces. What are you supposed to say? 

"Hi," is all you settle on.

Ghost clears his throat. "Kid, why don't you clean some more water for them."

Blue nods dutifully, lingering only a second before pouring more river water into the pot over the fire.

"Thank you for your kindness. We haven't had a warm meal like this in days," the woman says kindly.

"It's a strong setup you've made for yourself," Price speaks, one hand stroking his beard while he pushes the cleared plate away with the other. He leans back, boonie hat still cradling his head and casting a shadow over his eyes, but you catch a glimpse of warm brown irises that might've comforted you in any other circumstance.

"It's lasted me this long." Ghost shifts his weight slightly. "Where are you coming from?"

"Near the base by the border, further north."

"Last I heard you were in Manchester."

"Once the radios went out, we picked up my wife," he touches the woman's shoulder, "Nereida, and Kyle's nephew here, Ari, from Newcastle. Made camp with a few others. Served us well for the past five years."

Ghost slowly nods and then drawls, "And Soap?”

Price leans his forearms on the table. "Not quite sure. The base was falling apart, but he stayed back, saying he'd meet up with us once he could. That was five years ago."

You're not sure who Soap is, someone else they worked with, maybe. There is a brief pause before Ghost asks, "Why did you leave?"

"More and more of 'em, Simon," Price replies with a slight shake of his head, emitting a low breath. "Made it difficult to even get food."

"Too many of them, not enough of us," Nereida murmurs distantly. Her hand slips under the table, out of view. You imagine it resting on Price's thigh as she leans into him with a weighted sigh. "They always seem to be moving. Not with a destination in mind, of course, but it was only a matter of time before they ruined our setup. We decided to leave before that could happen."

Kyles adds, "It wasn't an easy decision, but living in anticipation of the worst isn't really living at all."

Your brows lower. “Where exactly could you be headed that wouldn't mean living in anticipation of the worst?” you can't stop yourself from asking, the question burning in your mind. 

Price leans back, those warm brown eyes finding yours. A short heartbeat passes before he answers simply, "Switzerland."

The absurdity of that single word response forces a disbelieving, chuffed breath through your nose. Of all the things this stranger could have said, that would have to be the least expected. You anticipate an equally surprised reaction from Ghost, but he seems unnervingly unfazed. Blue, however, swivels her head from where she sits cross-legged in front of the fire.

"What the fuck is Switzerland?"

"It's another country," the boy—Ari—answers.

Blue glances between him and her dad. "Like... not in England?"

Ari snorts softly. "No, not in England. It's across the channel."

"The channel?" Blue frowns. "That's... far, isn't it?"

"Very far," Nereida confirms with a nod.

The subject is brusquely dropped when Ghost reaches for their cleared plates. "You must want to bathe while you're here. There's a river nearby."

Price clears his throat. "These two can go first." He gestures to the woman and child.

Soon enough, you become irritatingly aware of what's happening; you're being shooed away, along with the kids and Nereida, so the three of them can speak privately. There isn't much room to object as you shuffle out of the cabin, carrying a handful of rags for them to wash with along with the homemade soap that you once used to wash away the grime and earth that caked up from traveling. 

The sun beats hard, the river warmer now that spring has aged. Dried sweat clings to your spine from this morning, but bathing yourself is the last thing on your mind now, not when you're still reeling in the presence of people you don't know. You swing a glance at the cabin behind your shoulder, something in your gut twisting. Ghost doesn't want you there to hear whatever they're talking about. 

"This is a good spot," Blue says, stopping in front of a shallow part of the bank where the water is warmest. She hands Ari some soap and teeters on her toes. You realize why she keeps staring at him like that; he's probably the only other kid she's met in years. She is even more shy than when she first met you. "Twix and I will look away, don't worry."

You and Blue sit perched on a rock as they wash themselves. 

"This is weird," she admits quietly to you.

"Very," you mumble.

When they're done, you offer Nereida the only clean clothes you have at the moment: one of the oversized shirts Ghost gave you and some jeans. An annoyingly strange thought brandishes your brain... you don't like the way the black fabric sits on her bare chest, nipples poking through, and the hem hanging down to her knees as it does on you. You should've just given her the dirty blouse to wear.

She sits at the edge of the river, wringing her soaked hair with a rag. From the corner of your eye, you catch Blue helping Ari rinse his dirty clothes in the water. You want to keep an eye on him; your knife is still nestled around your ankle in case they try anything, though a woman and preteen don't heighten your paranoia as much. 

"How long have you two been together?"

Her soft voice makes you blink. "What?"

"You and Simon."

You're confused until you recall the revelation from earlier—the man you've known the past few months as Ghost, the one whose hard form laid beneath you just hours ago, is actually Simon. Simon Riley. You're tempted to say the name; try it out. But it is hard to reconcile with. It might taste strange on your tongue. The name fits a version of him that doesn't exist in this world now, you suppose. British. Simple. Like John or Kyle. The name of a lieutenant. The bits of his face you've witnessed crosses your mind; his nose, lips, and chin seem like Simon. The damn mask is Ghost, though.

"Jesus... I am not—" You shake your head, the sun even hotter on your neck. "I'm not with him like that. We're just allies." You glance back at the cabin in the distance and you fight a scowl. "If that."

She runs her fingers through ravenous tendrils. "Oh. I apologize for assuming."

You offer a small smile. "It's fine."

"How long have you been staying here then?"

"Um, a few months now. I used to stay with my sister and a friend, but they died."

Her eyes soften. "I'm sorry for your loss."

You shrug. "Everyone has lost important people."

"Doesn't make it easier," she says. "Ari's mom and younger sister used to be with us," she adds quietly with a solemn downward cast of her eyes, as if a memory has taken her for a moment. "They passed two years ago during a really rough winter along with this other couple we knew. Then it was just the four of us."

You inhale through your nose and release, frowning. "No child should have to experience that."

"No," she agrees, nodding. "They shouldn't. Which is why we're looking for a better life for him."

"And you think you'll find it in... Switzerland."

Nereida offers a half-smile, as if reading your thoughts. "We'd heard of a commune there, up in the mountains."

"A commune? Like what, a town?" 

"Sort of. Just... more people, living together. Protected. Greys make awful climbers, and the mountains there are much higher than anything in the UK."

This catches your attention, and the divot between your brows deepens. "How do you know it exists?"

"Well, we can't know for certain. John heard about it at the beginning of the spread, but it was too difficult to make arrangements at the time, especially when he had to help out at the medical site and then come find me. Things were a mess, I'm sure you remember."

"Yeah, I do." You reel in her words, thinking. "That was... years ago, though. Aren't you taking a huge risk going there now? What if nothing is there?"

"Staying in England would be a risk, too," she counters. "There is nothing here except death and hardship. You can't hide from it forever."

You look down at the water. Cicadas fill your ears, the buzzing drowning out your voice. "No, you can't."

You go on a hunt that afternoon, itching for some space to breathe. Deer tracks are harder to spot without the snow, but you find the unmistakeable marks of antlers against a tree and follow them. You glance around the forest. It feels endless and like a cage at the same time. Which way did they come from? If they made it to camp by morning, that means they spent the night here somewhere. You don't like the idea that others could be so close by, like that car.

The sun has turned orange by the time a healthy doe skirts in your peripherals. You stalk it behind an oak. An arrow flies from your bow, but you miss; the deer flees. You return in the dark empty-handed. No doubt, the visitors are fatigued, with Ghost already setting blankets across the cabin's floor for them to sleep on. You offer Ari the couch, figuring an exhausted kid needs it more than you do. He knocks out the moment he lays down.

"Here. For the night." Ghost offers you a heavy blanket and nods to the only bare spot of floor left after they've all settled down. 

You avoid his eyes and accept it. The moment he's disappeared to his room, you slip outside under the starlit night, finding the flattest patch of ground to lay the blanket down, which happens to be only a few paces away from a sleeping horse. It's not the couch, but it'll do for a night or two, and you refuse to sleep in the shed again. 

You're in the midst of standing back up after straightening out your makeshift bed when you bump into something solid. A hand grips your bicep and whirls you around, a pair of darkened eyes glowering down at you.

"What are you doing?" you breathe up at him. "I don't like when you grab me like that."

"What are you doing?" he retorts, voice low and hard.

"Trying to get some sleep."

"Out here?"

You look away and shimmy out of his hold. "Does it matter where I sleep?"

"It's not safe out here."

"You had no problem sending me out here before."

"You have since earned your keep," he mutters, as if annoyed you're even mentioning the past. 

"My spot is taken for the night by your lovely friends, so for however long you plan to let them stay, I will sleep out here."

"There is a spot on the floor for you inside."

"I'm not sleeping in there." With them. 

The whites of his eyes flash as he darts his gaze over your face. His tone softens perceptibly. A mere breath. "They won't hurt you, Twix."

You roll your eyes away from him. "I would just rather sleep out here by myself, okay? I prefer solitude at my most vulnerable. And it's not like my experiences with militant men have been pleasant so far." You keep your tone neutral, but a chill touches your spine at the memory.

Ghost emits a low huff. He suddenly rips the blanket from the ground and turns his back to you. "What are you doing?" you gape at him.

"You'll take my bed," he throws over his shoulder.

[theorist-fox]

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. Drowning under cold, barren soil. Food for bugs, corroded by time.

Not his problem. Not 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.

[superhoeva]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘: 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐓

main masterlist | series masterlist | tag

⬩ pairing(s) gomez inspired!simon "ghost" riley x morticia inspired!fem!reader

⬩ warning(s) language, spiders, devoted husband!simon (seriously, he's absolutely obsessed with you!), pregnancy (mention), dad!simon, mom!reader

⬩ author's note spooky season might be over but it's always halloween at the riley house! saw an addams family gif a little while ago and had to go back and watch the sitcom version from '64. i ended up not being able to stop imagining simon in a relationship like gomez and morticia's–passionate and completely devoted to each other and their family! i hope you enjoy this as much as i did writing it, as there is much more of the riley family to come! (lovely divider is by @wethairjoel)

⬩ word count 1.4k

You’re uncomfortable here. Simon can feel it without even having to look at you.

The lights are too bright in the headmaster’s office, as are all the colors decorating the walls around you. No wonder his little Raven comes home with a frown that reminds him of yours and stories that make the entire house groan.

It’s when you shift for the second time, sniffing and rolling your stiff shoulders, that Simon places a warm palm on the back of your neck. The man watches you carefully as you all but melt into the touch, sinking against his hand with a soft sigh. It takes you a moment but you finally turn your head to meet his eyes, a silent thank you oozing from them in the quiet. His response–a squeeze of his hand–works well to settle you.

“Just a little longer, my darling,” your husband murmurs softly, not having to lean very far in his chair to plant a lingering kiss on the shell of your ear. He takes in a long inhale, the smell of you somewhat calming his frayed nerves. He breathes you in once more before kissing you again, this time on your jaw. “Then we’ll pick up our girl and leave this fuckin' hell they call a school.”

Simon’s lips drag nicely against you as he speaks. Slipping against you with light pecks, and staying there so long that it glides your hand into his grasp without you even noticing.

“I wonder what she’s done now. Hopefully something only a little unfortunate…” you sigh out, Simon laughing shortly against you as his mind fills with all the possible troubles his firstborn can cause. She takes after both you and Simon, he finds. Wickedly smart, fearless, and holds just enough disdain to make it the rest of the world’s problem.

Oh, your little Raven. Named after the blackbird that landed on the window seal the foggy morning you found out you were pregnant nearly seven years ago.

Neither of you bother to look when the door creaks open behind you, as Headmaster Archer is no one to be impressed by. A microscopic grin, however, cracks your lips when you hear his steps hesitate at the sight of you and your husband settled in front of his desk. It’s gone quicker than it came when you remind yourself where you are; in a little man’s stupid office for a reason you already know you’ll despise.

The footsteps resume after a quiet sigh, Headmaster Archer plastering an obviously fake smile as his greeting. He has to ease down in his chair, still not used to how harsh the pitch-black hue of your and Simon’s clothing clashes with the rest of the school.

“Mr. and Mrs. Riley… always a pleasure.”

“I wish we could say the same,” Simon rumbles back with an unimpressed look, the index finger of his free hand absentmindedly drawing swirls on the back of your hand. “Can we get on with it? ‘Ve got places to be.”

“Don’t we all,” Headmaster Archer chuckles rather nervously. The smile on his face drops into something uneasy at the displeased expressions on your and Simon’s faces. He gathers himself with a pathetic clearing of his throat and straightening of some blank, unimportant papers. He doesn’t even attempt to look at you, knowing that his bones will shake hard enough to shatter if he were to do such a thing. Instead, the headmaster settles for a few meek glances in Simon’s direction. “Alright. Well, I’ll try to make this as simple as possible; there was an… incident that occurred in Raven’s class today.”

Even with Simon still gripping just above your back, you grow painfully rigid. Your question leaves you, hot and quick.

“What incident?”

Headmaster Archer swallows thickly, still unable to flick his eyes your way. “It happened during today’s show and tell–”

“Look at my wife when you speak to her, Headmaster.”

The man behind the desk nearly jumps at Simon’s words. They ring darkly in the room, and the headmaster has to wring his shaking fingers hard to gain the courage to finally do as Simon commands. He doesn’t remember how to talk until an arched eyebrow from you has his voice croaking out.

“Tarantulas. She brought tarantulas–three of them, all as big and hairy as a rat–for show and tell. Pulled them out like they were nothing, then tried to pass them around. Her instructor was barely able to reign them up in all the chaos they caused. Children were crying. The adults were shaking. In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like it…”

The ramble trails off into nothing, allowing you and Simon a moment of quiet while the headmaster wipes at his face with a cheap handkerchief. God, you two make him sweat, and not in a good way.

Tilting your head, you peek over at your husband. He’s already looking at you, face reading ‘For fuck’s sake.’ Licking your lips, your eyes cut back to Headmaster Archer. 

“Not to be obtuse,Headmaster, but I don’t see what your issue is. All she wanted was to show her fellow pupils her favorite pets. Is that really so bad?”

“It is when the pets are spiders, Mrs. Riley. Not just spiders, but dangerous ones that, frankly, a child as young as Raven should not have access to.”

The headmaster has no idea where the things spilling out of his mouth are coming from. Maybe it’s the heat of the room making him a little braver. Maybe it’s because he knows he’ll see Raven’s spiders in his nightmares tonight, you and Simon standing along with them happily while they eat him alive. 

Regret soon washes over him faster than he can think. Even more so when he sees Simon, in all his dark clothes and scars and thick muscles, clench his jaw and shift in his seat like he’s thinking about hitting the man. Coincidentally, you’re the one moving first, giving the hand of a seething Simon a tender squeeze before you uncross your legs to stand.

You don’t have to move any closer than you are now to say what you want. The anger dripping from your tone is sharp enough to slice at him as it always does.

You’re all sinister smiles as you promise the man. “If you upset my daughter again, you’ll have a lot more than a few spiders to worry about, Headmaster.”

With that, you’re gone. Nothing more from you other than one last glare at the headmaster and a sweet kiss on Simon’s cheek before your heels click out of the horrid office. If Simon wasn’t so miffed, he’d remember to swivel his head to watch your hips as you go.

Unlucky for the headmaster, Simon does not swivel or admire. All he does is stare something horrid into the man across from him, eyes so hot they could bore a hole into the sweaty head of Archer if Simon wished it hard enough. 

The two remain in that position for a good while–Headmaster Archer doing all he can not to evaporate into a puddle of fear and Simon nearly wishing the man dead for making his girls upset. It’s around five minutes later when a small voice sounds at the office entrance.

“Papa, can we leave now? Mama’s ready.”

Simon rips away his glare, making sure to soften his eyes as he looks back at his daughter. He can tell she’s a little sad, mostly annoyed, as she cradles her tarantulas in a see-through cage. 

“Of course,” he coos without a second look to the headmaster, raising from his chair and moving to lift his daughter into his arms. He kisses her forehead, arms encircling her to ensure she doesn’t fall. “And you did nothing wrong, my girl. Do you hear me? Let’s just make sure to keep our pets at home from now on, yes? These silly little people don’t know how to appreciate them like you do.”

“Yes, Papa,” little Raven nods dutifully, Simon rewarding her with another kiss on the cheek and rub on her back. “Can we stop and catch crickets for my spiders on the way home? They’ve had a rough day…”

Simon huffs a laugh, glancing down at the cage of spiders with a short smile. He looks back up at his daughter and winks, exiting the office and leaving behind a shaking, sweating, helpless Headmaster Archer.

“Anything for you, my little devil.”

VOTE IN THE LATEST POLL (NOV 4-5)

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[yawnderu]

Simon ''Ghost'' Riley — Masterlist 💀🖤

cr: @ave661

Simon Riley Moodboard | Smut Masterlist | Bimbo!Reader Masterlist | Dad!Ghost Masterlist

This Masterlist only has the material I've created in 2024. To explore older works, you can check my Main Masterlist, or use the tags #Simon Riley x Fem!Reader or #Ghost mw2 on my profile to access all my works!

Do not translate, post, or put my content into AI tools.

Ongoing Series Lorelei

Synopsis: Aware of the way his lifestyle doesn't align with your dream life and unwilling to quit his life as a soldier, Simon breaks things off with you. It isn't until a year later that he sees you again, a tiny carbon copy of him held in your arms.

K-9

Simon Riley and his pathetic efforts to get close to the new medic will earn him a scar or two

or

Simon Riley is in love with an uninterested, tired medic.

Angel

Synopsis: Afraid of giving you the same destiny all his loved ones met, an emotionally unavailable Simon does his best to pretend being in love with you for one night, later deciding to introduce you to the one person who can give you the love you want; John Price.

Smut

Silly love-making

Simon's obsession with pornstar!reader

Sex on camera

No man could act this good

Using his naked body for art purposes

Love-making

FWB!Simon cucking your hookup

Tattoo Artist!Simon

Prettiest girl in Edinburgh

Hybrid cat!Reader tag teamed by Simon and Johnny

Soul-crushing devotion and medical emergencies

AI!Reader gets a physical body

Neet!Reader jerks him off

Hybrid wolf!Simon x Catgirl!Reader

Sleep-walking, but fucking instead

Simon becomes vocal when you give him blowjobs

Rimming him

Monster fucker

Dick headcanons

Catgirl in heat

Drabbles

Gym bros Johnny and Simon

Creature!Reader

Tag team 🌶️

Simon Riley is a stray, roughed up cat

Seduction goes against the rules

Nymphomaniac!Reader

Immortal!Reader

The phrase ''the wife'' is always in Simon's mouth

Choking🌶️

Cock warming🌶️

Lipstick marks on his cock

Neet!Reader sniffing his armpits

Milf!Reader drives Simon insane🌶️

Military high ranked!Reader

What turns him off

I have no faith, but I believe in you

You and your daughter love his tattooed arm

Simon is a furnace

Creature!Reader cuddles

Asking for sex after he had a bad day

Cumming too early🌶️

Wearing a white wife beater

Girl dad

Raccoon

Simon makes weird faces under the mask

Juiciest ass in the Task Force

Bulking

Dating a MILF

Naked cuddles

Relationship similar to Batman and Catwoman

Work Song

Cumming on your glasses🌶️

Touch starvation

Fluff & Hurt/Comfort

Expensive presents

Displays of trust

The most broken man turns to religion when you're hurt

A man without big pecs is like an angel without wings

Simon Riley was made for soul-crushing devotion

Broken man in love

Cuddles after a bad day

Simon is a giant black cat

Ai!Assistant Reader

Ai!Assistant Reader bothering Simon

Second chance at being an uncle to your niece

''I'll be the weapon when he needs protection''

Moody catgirl

Red panda hybrid!Reader

Hiccups during sex🌶️

First relationship

Angst

Emotionally unavailable

Immortal!Reader doesn't come back to life

Angel - Part I | Part II

[dammn-dean]

Unexpected Pt. 2

Pairing: Simon Riley x Female Reader

Words: 2700+

Warnings: Pregnancy, vague birth talk, mild panic attack, if I missed anything sorry

(Honestly I have given birth in a hospital, but it was complicated so I didn't get to experience a normal after birth situation. So if this is incorrect, sorry!)

Here is part two🖤 Hope you all enjoy it! It's a bit short, and sweet. I do plan on doing some blurbs/continue eventually. Thank you all for reading!

Part One

Beautiful art/rendering from @ave661

The next few moments are a blur to you both, for different reasons. Simon parks the car in front of the emergency entry, barely allowing for the car to come to a complete stop before he’s out of the car. You barely register as he slides on a black surgical mask when he comes around the car to open your door. Next thing you know he’s leading you inside, talking to a woman at the front desk and getting you into a wheelchair. You are filling out some paperwork as you are wheeled through the hospital, in between contractions that are consistently spaced apart now. 

Simon keeps murmuring small words of encouragement to you, but he’s scared shitless. Pretending to be brave in this moment for you, yet he feels anything but brave. 

There are a lot of questions that you give answers to as best you can. Simon can barely keep up… there is so much moving around and plans being spoken between nurses. The next thing he knows you are in a hospital bed, donning a gown, being told your doctor should be here within 5 to 10 minutes. 

“I’m going to check your dilation now, okay?” A young and sweet woman that is apparently your nurse for now speaks up. 

You just nod your head, watching as she gets the stirrups ready for your feet to go in. Once ready she guides your feet to the correct sport before reaching for a pair of gloves. 

You glance up to Simon, who is as quiet and still as a ghost. Standing to the left of your bed, fists clenched so tight you wonder if his fingers are going to lose feeling soon. 

“Si?” You question. 

That breaks his stone resolve. It was like a switch flipped in him, as he forced his mind to catch up with what was happening. 

He finally tore his eyes away from the nurse as her hand began to disappear under your gown. When his eyes fell to you and your outstretched hand he immediately grabbed your smaller hand into both of his large ones. Kissing the back of your hand through the material of the mask. 

“You ‘kay love?” Simon was gentle, from his touch to his tone. 

“Yes… just a little uncomfortable,” you said just above a whisper. 

“I bet so sweetheart.” He brought a hand to brush some hair back from your face. “You are doing great,” he encourages you. 

“Looks like you are about 5 centimeters dilated! Great news mom and dad.” The nurse tore off her gloves and put them in the trash before typing away on the computer in the room to update your chart. 

Simon felt all of the air rush out of his lungs. Dad?? How did he not think before that he was about to be a dad. Sure… he understood what was happening, but there was something about hearing this nurse call him dad that struck a chord with him. His ears filled with static and he stiffened all over again. 

You watched as his pupils shrunk, he pulled his hands from you and stood straight as a board beside you. 

“Simon?” You softly called to him. Nothing. 

His eyes were trained on the wall behind the nurse who was innocently typing away on the computer. 

You called for him two more times, watching his chest speed up with more and more rapid breaths. You said his name one more time quite loudly, which got the nurses attention. She looked up at him, staring past her and noticed the signs of a panic attack blooming in him. 

Simon wasn’t in the room with you now, his mind lost on his past. 

“Sir?” The nurse gently started working her way to him. 

Before she could fully make it to him, a contraction started up for you again. You wailed out in pain, and as quick as Simon zoned out and started panicking he stopped. Hearing your pain pulled him from his dark mind. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, truly embarrassed. 

“It’s okay sir,” the nurse spoke softly. “Would you like to sit down for a moment?”

“I’m fine, just make sure she’s okay.” He left no room for argument. 

Resuming his spot at your side, ignoring whatever that was just happening to him. He gently kissed your hairline through the mask again while speaking to you sweetly until the pain subsided. Once your breath had started evening out your tired eyes fell onto Simon. The nurse nodded at him before finishing typing what she needed and mentioned the next steps that would be happening before excusing herself from your room for a moment. Her words went in one of your ears and out the other for you.

“You okay?” You asked, squeezing his hand this time to comfort him.

“Don’t you worry about me, love,” Simon said apologetically. 

You gave him a nod, but internally you were freaking out about his reaction. Your mind rolled back a few moments before he started panicking, trying to figure out what happened. 

Simon has had a few moments in your time together where certain things trigger him, which is beyond understandable. The memory of the nurse calling you mom and dad moments before finally registering with you. That small thought had your heart instantly feel heavy, and not in the best way. 

You felt your eyes get glossy, this same feeling of shame bursting through your chest. Your mind reminding you how unfair this all is to him, he never got the choice about IF he wanted to be a father… hell you didn’t even give him a notice that he was going to be a dad. Your brain was all muddled, but the only thing standing out to you is that you can’t remember why you never told him. It all seemed so silly now, who cares if you had an argument. Who cares that he was working. It was your responsibility to tell him that you were pregnant, to let him know that he was going to be a dad, and especially to give him the option to be involved or not. 

You gently removed your hand from his, allowing it to fall into your lap with your other hand. Eyes falling to your lap, unable to stop the tears from falling and trying your best to shield them from Simon. Even though you knew he would notice, how could he not?

“Are you hurting? Want me to call for the nurse?” Simon got the words out quickly, reaching for the button to call the nurse.

“No.. I’m okay,” you whispered with a shrug.

His brows frown down at you, clearly you aren’t okay. Your small sniffles provide proof of that. Simon’s spine straightened, eyes taking you in as his mind moved a mile a minute trying to come up with a solution. 

“Do you remember at the apartment, the promise you made me?” Simon asked softly.

You sniffled out a small “Yeah..”

“That if you have something you need to tell me, you will do it. Yeah?” 

You nod your head softly before meeting his eyes briefly.

“What is it baby?” He asked, hand reaching into your lap and interlocking your fingers together.

“I’m just so sorry,” you respond quietly. “And I know you told me to stop saying sorry but I truly am.”

“Love,” Simon began, but you cut him off. “I didn’t give you the opportunity to come to terms with all of this. I just sprung it all on you, and-”

Simon knelt beside you, making him eye level with you. 

“Do I wish I would have known before? Sure love… but mainly because I hate you have done all of this alone. It eats me alive. I am supposed to be the one taking care of you, but I was selfish. Never made sure you knew what you were to me. I will never let that happen again, okay?”

“Then what just happened to you?” You whisper. His hazel eyes squint a little, but they never leave yours. 

Simon was silent for a while which heightened your anxiety. That’s when the beginnings of another contraction started. Your hand squeezing Simon as you rode through the pain. You barely register his voice, soft and sweet, talking you through the pain.

“Don’t you worry about that sweetheart, but after this. And we have our baby… I will be sure to explain everything to you okay? All you need to know is I am here, and I can’t wait to be a father to our child.” Simon knew he owed an explanation, but now wasn’t the time.

Simon tugged his mask down enough so he could press a kiss to your hairline while using his free hand to wipe away the last few tears from your wet cheeks.

“Good evening,” your doctor enters the room and announces himself. 

Simon gently clears his throat as he straightens the mask on his face before standing up to take his proper place beside you.

You didn’t feel 100% better, but knowing he would explain more. You fixed your mental state as much as you could, you knew this way was about to be the toughest thing you have been through. 

There was some small chat between your doctor, Simon and you. Talking about the birth plan, checking your dilation, planning the next steps as well as you could. Before you know it you are pushing, and pushing. Simon is next to you the entire time, feeding you ice chips and doting on you constantly. “You are doing so good, lovie.” - “There you go, my strong girl, you got this.” - “You are so perfect, sweetheart.” - “Almost there love, you are doing great.”

Somewhere between the tears, the pain, the constant pressure and with help from nurses and doctors. You hear cries. Your body feels instant relief, and the joy that bursts across your chest is unlike anything you have ever felt. Your eyes fall to Simon, he’s standing stiff as a board. Eyes never leaving the newborn as the nurse gently cleans the baby’s body as the doctor finishes up with you. Before you know it they are gently laying your baby onto your chest.

“Congratulations mom… a beautiful healthy baby girl!” The nurse whispers excitedly to you as she pulls your hands back, ensuring you have the baby. 

You can’t hold back the few tears that fall, “She’s a girl.” 

Your nose taking in her smell, your lips gently brushing her head. A perfect baby girl. After a few moments of silence, you look for Simon. His hands shoved in his pockets, standing to your side, eyes on your baby girl. 

“We have a baby girl, Si.” You can’t help the smile on your lips. 

Simon’s chest rose and fell rapidly, taking everything in. He was a father to a baby girl. 

“She’s so small,” Simon comments softly. 

“She sure is,” you praised. “And perfect.” Your finger found her hand, letting it wrap around your finger. You looked at the small amount of hair on her head, her eyelashes, her cheeks, her fingers, just taking her all in. After about 5 minutes of silence, a nurse speaks.

“Congratulations you two, would dad like a turn holding her?” She asked politely as she reached for your daughter.

“Here Si,” you encouraged. Gently handing the baby to the nurse. Watching her carefully as she took the baby from you, walked around the bed to Simon and she patiently stood in front of him. 

Simon of course wanted to hold her, but she was tiny. He had only really ever been around one baby before, his nephew and he couldn’t for the life of him remember him being this small. His blurred eyes took in her features, she was beautiful. 

“I uh-” he cleared his throat. “I don’t know if I can. She’s so small and I’m so-” he gestured to himself. Clearly uncomfortable with the idea of his hulking frame, meant for killing to hold this sweet innocent baby. His sweet innocent baby girl. 

“You can hold her, just trust me, you can do it” you encouraged. “Look at me Simon.”

He almost had to force his eyes from your daughter so he could look at you. Your sweet face, eyes tired but shining happily, encouraging him. You almost took his breath away, beautiful as ever. If you believe in him, maybe he should believe in himself.

“I love you, you can hold her. Look at her Si, our daughter, she wants her daddy.” You swallowed hard, not entirely sure if that is what he needed to hear or not.

Barely a moment went past before he held his hands out towards the nurse. She showed him exactly what to do, she never let go of the baby until she was certain that he was ready. Before you knew it there he was, as still as he had ever been, barely even breathing as he held her. 

You couldn’t believe it, seeing her tiny body being held by such a mass, that is Simon. A singular hand of his is almost the size of her whole body. You felt warmth bloom across your chest watching him with her. The way his stiff shoulders eventually relaxed more. How he leaned into her, smelling her tiny head, followed by whispers you couldn’t hear. 

“I can’t believe I have a daughter,” Simon chuckles out with a wet laugh. “I am so proud of you baby.” He then turns to you, “You did amazing.” 

Brown eyes filled with unshed tears hold onto yours that are allowing tears to fall freely. “We did amazing, Si…” you said truthfully. “Just look at her, she’s as much me as she is you.” 

Simon pulled his eyes back to the sweet baby in his arms. “Yeah I guess so, huh?” He could even see that the tiny wisps of hair on her head were definitely the exact shade of his. 

It was then the nurse popped back up, “And what are we naming her mom and dad?” She asked innocently. 

How have you both forgotten you need a name for the baby? 

“Uh- well we haven’t quite decided yet,” Simon answered quickly. 

“That’s perfectly okay! No rush,” she responded politely. “Let’s finish getting her and mom all cleaned up. Then I’ll get you to your room. How does that sound?” 

Simon looked at you, you nodded at him with a grin. 

“Sounds great, thank you.” He responded politely. 

The nurse went back to him to grab your daughter, hands out waiting. Only Simon didn’t budge. His eyes were solely focused on the baby in his arms. 

“Sir?” She questioned gently. 

Simon almost startled before looking at her, then down at the baby again, and back to the nurse. 

“I just need her for a little bit, then you can have her back. How does that sound?” 

Simon actually grumbles, no words, just grumbles. 

Fuck, you love him. “Simon,” you almost laugh. “Let the nurse have her baby.” 

He doesn’t give in immediately, a minute or so passes before he huffs and gently hands her over to the nurse. 

“Thank you…” the nurse smiles at him. “The doctor will be right back to assist you with another nurse. I’ll meet you both in your room.” She turns to you. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you say to her, eyes not leaving the baby. 

A moment goes by and you turn your head to Simon to find his eyes already on you. Nothing but pure adoration for you. 

“You’re going to be the best daddy ever,” you whisper to him truthfully. 

“I can only promise you that I will give it my all,” Simon says honestly. Hand nervously touching the back of his neck. “I only wish to give you both the best life possible.” 

Both of your eyes are unwavering, holding each other trying to convey emotions you can’t quite say out loud. You aren’t naïve, you know this will be hard, of course raising a human together won’t be easy. If there was anyone in the world you would be willing to go through this with, it was Simon. 

“I know this was all… unexpected, but I don’t think I have ever felt happier than I feel at this moment. Right now.” 

“Ditto, love.” You can hear his smile. “Ditto.” 

Tags: @daemondoll @mileyraes @axoleos @arminarlertssword @wawuwe @cxltblood @mrflyingbanana03 @itsmytimetoodream @arminarlertssword @mrssabinecallas @babygirl-riley @gplol @yuly

Thank you for reading! If you have an idea or request for where they go from here, feel free to send 🖤

[mvctavish]

idk if u do platonic requests but can u write like a drabble of simon riley and a daughter!reader where she has separation anxiety

𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐗𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐘

pairing: simon "ghost" riley x daughter!reader

notes: hi!! this is my first request ever, so tysm! i love this idea and platonic requests are more than welcome ^-^ i do have to say a quick disclaimer: i am not an expert on separation anxiety, so don't take any of this as fact or advice.

summary: during your childhood, simon often noticed how clingy you were. it wasn't necessary a bad thing (since it ensured you'd never wander off or get lost) but it seemed abnormal. as you got older, it became abundantly clear that you suffered from separation anxiety. it was tough, especially when he had to be deployed.

cw: daughter!reader, my bad writing, descriptions of anxiety and anxiety attacks, reader cries, angst, hurt/comfort-esque fic, mentions of riley (the dog), reader's age isn't specified, word count: 1.3k

SIMON RILEY never thought he'd be a good father. It was in his blood, he told himself, destined to be a grade-A asshole like his own dad. However, when you came along, his whole world shifted. You were the product of a one-night stand and entirely unexpected, but you quickly became the most precious part of Simon's life. From the moment he first held you in his arms in the hospital room, he knew he could never, ever hurt you. You were his perfect baby girl, and he'd gladly die and kill for you if it meant you'd be safe from harm.

Raising a kid on his own wasn't easy by any means. Who would've thought a hardened lieutenant would spend his afternoons playing tea parties and barbie dolls and beanie boos? You were the one thing that kept him going. Whenever times got tough, whenever Simon found himself in a grueling situation on the battlefield - you were what lingered on the back of his mind. He had to make it home to you.

As you got older, and your personality warped into a unique soul, one thing stood out. Your separation anxiety. You tried therapy and journaling and breathing exercises and just about every coping mechanism under the sun. It helped, but not on days when Simon would leave. His work kept him away for months at a time, leaving you a nervous wreck that rarely left your room.

Simon hated leaving you, knowing just how much distress it caused you. But unfortunately, life wasn't fair, and he had to make sacrifices. His job was one of those. After years of dealing with your anxiety, he'd learn the best ways to cope with it. Telling you days in advance of his deployment never helped, as you were stuck stressing yourself out and marking the days on your calendar like a countdown to the end of the world. Simon preferred to tell you the day of his departure. It was at least a little easier that way.

The door to his bedroom was left cracked open so Riley could enter and exit as she pleased. The old German Shepherd often made rounds around the apartment, so Simon didn't think much of it as he packed up. He'd only been home for five days, but a call from Price let it known that he'd be needed soon. Simon always, always hated leaving you, but he knew it had to be done.

His black duffel bag sat atop his freshly made bed, unzipped and being filled up with clothes and other necessities like his toothbrush and whatnot. It was still early in the morning, the sunlight just barely beginning to filter in through the half-opened blackout curtains on the window. He hadn't even started to brew his early morning coffee, head fuzzy from sleep. It was quiet and peaceful, for a few passing moments.

Simon's trained ears quickly picked up on a soft gasp of breath. He froze his movements, waiting (it wouldn't be the first time his mind was playing tricks on him). It wasn't until the sounds of shallowed, sharp little breaths did his heart sink. He knew that sound all too well. You were standing in the doorway, clearly having caught your dad packing up for deployment.

“Dad?”

Your voice, small and shaky, is what finally made Simon step into action. He crossed the bedroom in a few long strides, quickly taking you into his arms as your eyes well with tears. This was exactly why he hated leaving. It made his chest ache, his heart hurt, seeing his child so torn up because of him.

“Shhh, it's alright, yeah?” His voice is uncharacteristically soft, a deep timbre taking on a gentle tone made for you alone. One hand cradles the back of your head, fingers delicately brushing through your sleep-tousled hair. The other rests on the small of your back, his hold on you strong and tight but not suffocating. He'd done this dance a thousand times before, comforting you when you need it most. “I'm right here, sunshine, I'm not going anywhere.” Yet.

Hazel eyes darted down to look at you. It's then that he realized your gaze was still focused on his duffel bag, tears trickling down your flushed cheeks in thick globs. Simon was leaving. Your dad was leaving soon, but you needed him home. You were shaking, trembling hands clutching onto the front of his wrinkled sleep shirt. It's quiet. He counted your breaths, coming in and out far too rapidly. Your heart was aching, and your chest felt too tight, making each breath painful. You couldn't get enough air in your lungs, even as you let out a pitiful sob.

Simon's heart shattered at the sound. His daughter, his sunshine, was in pain. You hadn't had an anxiety attack this bad in months. He clenched his jaw as he carefully dropped to his knees, knowing the smallest of movements could startle you. “Look at me.”

When you don't listen right away, his hands, calloused from years of training and military work, come to cradle your cheeks. His touch is soft and tender, handling you like a porcelain doll. “Hey,” Simon speaks again, the single word sounding just a bit more serious than before. Sometimes, a firmer hand is needed. He gently guides you to look at him, teary, red eyes meeting his own. His grip on your cheeks keeps your head in place, not allowing you to look anywhere but at him.

“Take deep breaths, baby,” Simon coaxed, inhaling deeply through his nose and exhaling through chapped lips, hoping you'd soon follow suit. His thumbs gently brushed under your eyes, collecting your tears and wiping them away. He keeps up the slow breathing. “I'm here. I'm right here. You're not alone, sunshine. It's okay.”

“I don't-” you choke on a breath, more tears replacing the ones he'd just wiped away. Another sob falls from your lips. “I don't want you to leave.”

God, the sight of you nearly breaks him. He's a soldier, but you're his weakness. Your brows furrowed, eyes widened, and your chin quivering. Simon feels his throat grow tight as you gasp and struggle for breath. “I don't want to leave, either,” He states, thumbs rubbing the apple of your cheeks to try and ground you. Your hands reach up, gripping onto his wrists. If it weren't for his focus of trying to calm you down, your nails digging crescents into his bare skin would've been painful. He didn't mention it. If that's what you needed, then let it be.

“But I have to, baby. I swear to you, I am always comin’ back home to you.” His thumbs keep working, wiping away each tear they can manage. “You need to calm down. Deep breaths.” And Simon continues the breathing he'd done before.

“I can't-”

“Yes, you can.”

It was easier said than done. The anxiety you felt swallowed you whole, trapping you in a headspace that was hard to escape from. It occupied your every thought, tainting each happy moment and turning it sour. Despite your doubts, you did your best to breathe, chest heaving and hiccuping until you managed. All the while, Simon held you and whispered gentle praises.

“There we go,” Simon whispered, wiping away the remainder of your tears. “Good job.”

Your cheeks were wet and splotchy, sticky tear streaks staining your skin. The rims of your eyes were red and puffy, and your breath still stuttered every once in a while, but you had managed to pull yourself up from the throes of your anxiety attack. Simon remained in front of you, thick brows furrowed in worry as his hands left your cheeks, resting on your arms. His hands rubbed up and down, soothing you completely and keeping you present in the moment.

“I know you don't want me to leave, I know you're scared,” Simon continued after a few beats of silence. “It's alright to be scared, sunshine, but this is something that I have to do. You won't be alone when I'm gone, and I'll call you and text you every day as many times as I can. How's that sound? Good?”

When you nodded, his lips twitched, forming a brief remnant of a smile. “Good.” He repeated and nodded as well. “Now, what d’you want for breakfast?”

[crystlizabeth]

TwinDad!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley with his girls!

The twins are OC’s!

.˚₊‧ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ‧₊˚.

- dad!Simon who was left with his twin girls while his wife was at work.

- dad!Simon who had to tell Zhuri her mama will hurt him if he took down her hair because she wanted to wear it a different way.

“Zhuri you cant take your hair down love.”

She gave him a hard glare a glare that seemed a little familiar coming from her face, she was his after all. “Why not” she huffed her arms crossing looking up at her father with a dirty glare her hip popping out in a sassy manner.

He Tsked at his daughter his hand coming to his hip “Because your mother will hurt me.” He answered simply.

She uncrossed her arms dramatically her little foot stomping as she threw her head up, “but I d’ wanna wear pigtails daddy!” She huffed.

“Zhuri ila, drop the sass.” He spoke trying to sound stern but couldn’t help at the helpless kid.

-dad!Simon who honestly had no trouble with his other daughter with her hair but with her shoes…

-dad!Simon who had to comfort little Sa’diya as she cried because she couldn’t tie her shoes laces now but could do it when her mommy was home.

“Sy sweetheart let me help you..” Simon said crouching down next to the little girl who wiped her teary eyes.

She shook her head, “Nuh uh I can do it! Mama show me yesterday.” She snuffled her little lip quivering.

Simon who hated seeing her this so he talked her through tying her lace Sa’diya telling him she knew what she’s doing every time he point a to her shoe.

-dad!simon who deals with his hellion Zhuri as she tries to start a WWE match with him as he helps her twin sister. But it end with the girls getting at eachother.

“Stop it Zhuri!”

“Your not the boss of me ‘Diya!” Zhuri shouted hanging on her father trying to pull him back.

“Did you brush your teeth I can smell your breath from here smelly.” Sa’diya said glaring at her sister.

Zhuri responding by blowing a raspberry at her.

-dad!Simon who thought okay maybe breakfast will be easier wrong. leaving them to eat as he collected their school bags the twins began to argue again.

-dad!Simon watch Zhuri show her sister her chewed food and Diya threading to throw her scrambled eggs at her and ruin her hot pink hello kitty shirt.

“You wont.” Zhuri said.

“Bet I will.” Sa’diya replied.

“You wouldn’t.” Zhuri dragged on.

Simon watched as the oldest twin grab some of her eggs in her hand getting ready to throw it as her sister “Sa’Diya Jovonnie. Put. The. Eggs. Down.” Simon spoke sternly from the kitchen counter, knowing if he let this go on he would be cleaning up egg and have a crying child because her favorite shirt had egg on it.

He watch as she dropped the egg back on her plate glaring at Zhuri who sat across from her with a cheeky grin on her face. “Listen ya little shit keep at that with ya sister imma let her have it at ya.” Simon spoke out knowing Zhuri was taunting her sister.

“What! I’m not doin anything daddy!” Zhuri protested turning around in her chair a grin still plastered on her face her little dimples popping out.

He hummed in response.

-dad!Simon who finally got them him his truck in their booster seats. The girls for once this morning not arguing but talking about a little art project they had.

-dad!Simon who had to walk his girls to their class because no is never an option with them. Carrying both pink and purple backpack on his shoulders his hands being held by the two girls at the walk him to the front of the school.

-dad!simon who watches Zhuri look up at him telling him to stop before they get all the way up knowing how he is with his face.

“Daddy if you want your mask you can put it on.” She whispered smiling at her father.

“It will be alright darlin’ it doesn’t bother me like that love im with you two alright.” He smiled lightly at the girl pulling her into a small hug in his crouched down position.

Simon giving her a kiss on the side of her face causing a fit of giggles.

-dad!simon who knew this was not ‘Diyas favorite place once he got to her classroom he little hand griping on to her father’s jacket.

-dad!simon who watched her eyes fill with tears because she did want to be here.

“Do I have to go in..” she mumbled.

Simons hand who tilted her head up looking down at her with a reassuring expression “it’s alright love, I promise. I’ll be here to pick you up this afternoon as well,”

She nodded lightly “will mommy be with you?” She asked. Sy was a mamas girl for sure not that she didn’t want Simon around but Zhuri was the same way with him. He leaned down kissing her forehead “that’s from yer’ mama she loves you lots and we’ll see her tomorrow morning okay luv?” He spoke softly.

A small sniffle and she nodded “you got this Sy, your strong, confident girl, you can do it right.” He said still looking down at her little brown eyes her lashes wet from tears.

“I can do this, I’m strong and confident.” She said. Simon chuckled.

“Atta girl.” He kissed her head once more watching her as she walked into her classroom.

-dad!simon who now had to deal with his hellion and her teacher who liked him. But Zhuri always shut her down.

“Why are you talking like that to my daddy?” Zhuri crossed her arm’s sassily looking at her teacher who had started lightly flirting with Simon.

“My daddy doesn’t like other girls besides my momma, and me obviously.” She grinned.

Her teacher got quiet but let Zhuri know that she should say goodbye to her daddy, Zhuri who gladly tackled her father hugging his torso Simon who laughed picking her up “you’ll get points from your mama with that one.” He chuckled kissed Zhuris cheeks setting her back down.

“Bye Daddy!”

“Bye ya hellion don’t cause trouble.” He said.

“Cant promise anything!” She grinned.

-dad!Simon who always come back to the thought that he would never have children or family but now he stood here with his girls. Learning to do their hair. What foods they like and dislike. Going through a phase where he would call them each others names to the point they started playing tricks on him on who’s who. Now he sat at gymnastic meets, softball games and whatever those girls wanted to do may it be soccer, basketball ball, swim. Simon was right there, he would sit with them playing tea party and doctor. He would let the girls color in his sleeve when he needed them quite.

-dad!Simon who when her first held them his whole world lit up. And he knew that he would do anything for them. He would kill for them.

.˚₊‧ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ‧₊˚.

[tojisteddy]

Photograph | the soft, mushy, fluffy shit with meanie!simon

Simon Riley who despises having his photos taken.

There’s a reason why there’s no pictures of him on file, something Price’s assistant is still too fucking adamant about getting their hands on. There were no pictures of him or his family around the house either, the few lasting pictures in a box locked away in another box in the basement.

But then there was you who had about 5 cameras laying around the house, always ready to take a picture of something.

You’d purse your lips, high pitched babbles leaving your lips to get Simons attention as if he was a baby, trying to get them to focus on the camera. With no hesitation, he’s playfully mushing your camera out of his face, or blocking the view of himself right when you got a good shot of him. And you’d chuckle through a groan, falling all over him like you always did, resting your chin on his shoulder.

“My mom still takes pictures of everything, so you have to be good ‘nd let me take my portion Si.”

“….mmm… Fuck no.”

But when the house is quiet, the dogs in their cages, and you’re deep in slumber for the night, he’s right there in the kitchen by the stove light. Hunched over the counter because of his tall frame, looking through the scrap book you so meticulously put together. Pages filled with pictures of you, off guards of Simon you craftily took, the dogs, little stickers, paper cut outs from magazines or things you wasted his printer ink on, silly miniature drawings, notes about when the pictures were taken, and those god damn the blurry photos you took of the older man. Face covered by his mask or his hand, in an attempt to hide himself—

Was it shyness? Shame? A mix of both, not wanting to reveal the scars on his face that’ll be stuck there for the rest of his life— those permanent proof of events that would be etched in his brain. He hated recalling past bullshit, it makes his stomach turn, his palms sweaty, irritated. He wasn’t used to it, not like he ever could, how much you really, truly cared about the brute.

How you saw the beauty in him, the tattered man that was Simon Riley— he couldn’t understand it.

But then he continued flipping through the book, there’s that photo you took while he was completely knocked out, bare chested, bed head of blonde hair showing of his body covered in tattoos and markings— the more than healed gun shot wound from an incident a couple years back on his left shoulder, the knife wounds, the burns— but you’re there.

Face buried in his chest, eyes smizing at the camera while your other fingers graced right at the mark on his cheek you always touched— content. Content with being with him.

Then another, you’ve got that stupidity cute smile on your face as Simons got your in a playful headlock, it makes your cheeks chub out like a chipmunk, curls covering your face and just barley— you could see Simons lips curved up— laughing at how dumb his baby looked.

Another, one that he took this time, and it’s shit compared to the the ones you take. But Simon adored it, you’re right on the hood of his truck, arm propping you up as you give him that classic smirk with one of his shirts you’d swore was yours, nipples peaking through the material. Fucking gorgeous, incredible being you were.

God damn it, you were his precious baby. Ghost’s heart swells because he’d be damned if he couldn’t continue seeing you taking those annoying photos and putting them together like it was some final award winning project. Simon would probably never admit it aloud, but you and those memories were his treasure, he’d do anything to keep it in his grasp.

a/n: ending is shit but whatever, no one’s reading this. But this being my first fluff(ish) post about simon, woah.

most recent masterlist

[lxvvie]

Whenever Simon gets sick or injured, it's a canon event. For Beanie, that is.

'Cause Princess Daddy isn't supposed to get sick. Or get booboos. Ever. So when he does, not only is the whole world ending, but Queen Beanie is also thoroughly disappointed in her beloved papa.

Of course, you've told her countless times and in so many words that Daddy will be fine. No, he's not gonna die, and sure thing, she can sleep in his spot in the bed if he does, but it's not gonna happen. Regardless, your baby has a mind of her own and lets her imagination run wild, but if there's one thing you know your daughter will do well, though, it's help take care of her daddy.

"Doctor Queen Beanie reporting for duty!"

And even though he feels like shit, Simon can't help but be fall in love all over again with his little girl. She's there with you every step of the way, helping whenever she can, keeping him company, covering him in bandaids (pink might as well be his favorite bloody color at this point), feeding him even though he doesn't really need the help ("No tactical treats 'til you're all better, daddy!"), kissing his forehead because she believes they'll heal all the booboos (and because she watched too much Sleeping Beauty and Snow White), and just... being there. Just being Beanie and reminding him every day of his blessings in you two.

You can't help but be proud of your little girl.

Especially when she tells Simon that if this happens again, it's off to the timeout corner for him. You laugh, and Simon rolls his eyes.

"Won't happen again, sweetheart."

Atta girl, Beanie.

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Ten: silent night

tw: gore

You’re dreaming of your dad again. 

Crooked fingers grip the steering wheel in front of him as he sits in the driver’s seat, maneuvering through swirling streets with faceless pedestrians. You’re cuddled in the back seat, covered in heavy blankets that weigh you down like you’re chained in a prison. They’re tight, serpentine binds. So much so you find it hard to breathe. Fat snowflakes flutter past the window as the engine revs, speeding through London with no regard for traffic lights or stop signs. If there were other cars on the road, your dad would have crashed long ago. 

Quiet megrim suffocates you as your ringing ears attempt to make sense of the song playing on the radio. Static drowns the notes, fuzzies them until you can barely hear it. Your dad hums the tune in a different key. Sweet, and off beat. He’s always been tone deaf. 

“Silent night, Holy night.” 

The acrid scent of blood fills your nose the moment you find his eyes in the rearview mirror. Thick patches of it stain his face, crusting around fat lacerations on his eyebrows, lips and nose. It dries; flakes off his skin just to be replaced by a fresh stream. Pulled stitches fray at the ends as they protrude from his skin like grotesque teeth, being devoured from the inside out by wounds he can’t outrun. Wounds that will never heal. 

“Comfortable?” he asks. 

Your legs squirm as you try to shift but the cocoon of blankets grows tighter around you, hugging your limbs close as if you’re trapped in a straightjacket. It’s so crowded that your ribs have trouble expanding, and a breathy cough leaks from your mouth. It burns, like smoke in your lungs or mint on your tongue. 

“You should slow down,” you warn him. 

“Silent night, Holy night.” The song repeats. You don’t think you’ve heard it make it past the first stanza. A bent record, forever scratching, doomed to repeat a song and never finish it. 

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he assures you. 

“Dad, please slow down.” 

The engine sputters and quiets down as the brakes engage with a gentle tap. Wheels dwindle and slow until the car halts in the center of the road. Traffic suddenly dashes by with quiet whooshes, as cars appear out of nowhere. Maybe they’ve been following you the entire time. They’re all black—like a funeral procession. Exhaust mixes with iron. The concoction is enough to turn your stomach as the scent sears your sinuses. 

“Silent night, Holy night.” 

“Are you afraid I’m going to end up like him?” your dad asks. Disfigured, bent, and disgusting fingers still grip the steering wheel despite the motionlessness of the car. You try not to stare, but the horror of it has you transfixed. “Like Aelin’s dad?” 

Your bottom lip juts out and trembles. “You already did.” 

He laughs at you, and it’s warm like velvet. Comforting just like it used to be when you were a kid. It reminds you of when he would read you stories before bed, keeping his tone even yet engaging—just calming enough to get your eyes heavy. Your skin itches to throw the blankets off of your body and wrap yourself in his mirth instead, but as usual, you are not strong enough. 

“I’m right here, darling,” he chuckles. “I know the accident was hard on you, but it’s not your fault. It could’ve happened to anyone. You don’t have to be afraid of it.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snap. 

“Silent night, Holy night.” 

Leather seats shift under your dad’s weight, and his eyes no longer look at you in the rearview mirror. You want to ask if he looks away in shame, but the question doesn’t quite reach your tongue. 

“Are you mad at me?” he asks softly. 

You swallow. “I don’t know. I just… wish you didn’t leave me like that.” 

“But I didn’t leave,” he assures. 

“You did! You died! You’re dead and now I have nothing,” you retort. 

There is no denying that you are aggrieved. Betrayed in some aching way that still haunts the marrow of your bones and the ridge of your spine. He smiles and speaks as softly as he did when he was alive, but your father’s shadow looms over you, heavy and thick like a brume you can’t outrun. You’re not sure there has ever been a moment of your life where it hasn’t followed you. 

You’re not sure it will ever stop. 

“Silent night, Holy night. All is calm, all is-” 

The radio dies just as the engine does and a wave of tinnitus rings so loud you’re certain it can’t be coming from inside your own head. Someone else must be hearing this agony; it can’t just be you. You blink and witness in abject horror as your dad twists in his seat, hands leaving the steering wheel, torso turning so that he can fully face you. 

He looks just like he did all those years ago. Clothes perfectly pressed, dress shirt steamed, cuffs neatly creased. He always joked about how the first time he would ever wear a suit would be at your wedding—instead, he wore his first suit at his own funeral. They did a good job at making him look normal. Human. At covering the abrasions and scratches. At setting his fingers and nose straight. Still, there’s something wrong with his skin. There’s no fresh blood, it’s all pooled in his body. Heavy. Weighing it down. 

The mortician did a good job, but no amount of wax can fix the chuck of bone and flesh missing from the side of his skull. 

“Dad, please,” you beg. “I don’t know what to do.” 

“Sorry, darling,” he says, but his voice is warped. Wrong. Gargled like his vocal chords decayed long ago. “There’s not much you can do. Not anymore.” 

Your only solace is the alarm on your phone. 

It vibrates next to your head where it echoes throughout your box spring mattress like a hollow cavern. It kickstarts your heart until it pounds so violently in your chest that you’re certain your sternum will shatter. You need it to stop. Need it to shut up. Need to kill it. Sucking in a shuddering breath, your hands fumble with your phone as you tap on the screen, shutting off the alarm and plunging your apartment into silence. 

Throwing yourself on your back, you stare at your water damaged ceiling as you try not to deliquesce into the bed. You can already feel it happening. Muscles convulsing until they liquify, bone marrow seeping out from your pores, soft duvet soaking up the essence of everything that once made you human. You feel the pillow beneath your head and the cotton of your pajamas as you try to ground yourself to the earth that threatens to crush you everyday, but your mind is always stronger. There is nothing you can do to free yourself from the heat of a car engine, or shattered glass in your lap, or the gunshot pop! of an airbag—

Once more, your phone buzzes. It’s soft, and non-intruding. A gentle nudge that pulls you back into your bed just as the heater kicks on with a quiet hiss. You breathe in the scent of your apartment. It’s stale. Stagnant air and old dish soap. You’d like to invest in a candle or wax warmer—like the ones your mom used to have. Maybe that way you could pretend that you’re still with her, if only for a moment. 

Everything feels lighter when you force your mind to remember where you are. That doloriferous anxiety wanes until it’s nothing more than a dormant beast in your chest. Sighing, you twist your body to grab your phone. It’s just before eight in the morning, and a text from Simon has your heart fluttering. 

Good morning sweetheart. I’ll be there in an hour. Need me to pick up anything for the trip? 

Not even the primal terror lurking in your chest can stop the small smile that pulls at your lips as you read his message. Always so proper. So kind and considerate. For a moment, you forget all about crooked fingers and half formed skulls. You swallow back any tremulous sensation as you type your response back to him. 

no thanks, should be good (: excited to see you

You push your anxiety into submission—it’s Christmas Eve, and you have somewhere to be. 

A quick shower is all it takes to get your mind functioning properly again. Lukewarm water washes away the nightmare sweats and leaves you with a clean slate. Fresh, untouched skin. There’s a draft that seeps through the gaps of the bathroom window, causing your skin to prickle and tighten as you dry yourself off in front of the foggy mirror. On windy days, you can hear it whistle as it seeps through the gap. The cold prompts you to get ready with a sense of urgency, and it isn’t long before you’re swaddled tight in comfortable clothes as you shove last minute items into your travel bag. 

Simon arrives just when he said he would, and you can’t tell if your eyes are playing tricks on you, but his jumper seems to hug tighter around his shoulders than usual. Muscles shift in his shoulders as he rolls out the morning tension, and you find your greeting tumbling out of your lips on a tongue that suddenly feels too fat. He stares at you with careful eyes, always assessing you like the good worker he is. He soaks up the buzz tingling through your nerves as you fiddle with your travel bag. Heat drenches your skin so thickly he can almost feel it from where he stands. 

Smirking, he reaches forward, fingers brushing against yours as he slips the bag out of your hand, leaving you no choice but to relinquish it. He keeps the straps firmly in his hand as he steps back, gesturing to the stairs. 

“After you, sweetheart.” 

Breakfast and warm tea brewed in a to-go cup waits for you in Simon’s car. It’s the very first thing you notice when he opens the door for you, and the sight has you biting into your lip. You try to mutter something about how he shouldn’t have, but he only shushes you as he ushers you inside. Really, it makes a good distraction. Focusing on trying not to leave crumbs as you devour a bagel sandwich leaves you little time to worry about why he didn’t bother to get anything for himself. 

It’s good. Better than good. Perfectly toasted bagel, melty cheese, seasoned avocado—it’s something too fancy for you to have ever ordered on your own. The tea is still warm by the time you hit the motorway, and a comfortable silence settles over you as the engine hums along the road. Towering grey buildings dwindle into quaint homes which then shapeshift between natural scenery and city views in the distance.

You try to remember the last time you left London. Escaped the prison that’s held you by the throat for the last few years, even if it were only temporary. Nothing comes to mind, and you feel your blood sing in excitement. 

Simon shifts in his seat next to you, and your eyes dart over to him. He’s only adjusting himself, getting his legs comfortable for the long ride ahead—he mentioned something about arriving around one—but your eyes can’t help but wander. You glance at the roll of his hips and the way his thighs fill out the fabric of his jeans. His stomach is soft, and it expands slightly as he sighs. His lips sit in a tight line while his eyes scan the road ahead, one hand on the steering wheel, thick fingers wrapped around the edge—

You blink and they’re crooked. Bruised, bent, and wrong. Compound fractures—bone piercing flesh. Jagged knuckles, fingers like the ridge of a mountain; you feel your stomach twist as that nightmare continues to haunt you. 

Before its tendrils have the chance to wrap around your spine, your hand dives into your pocket. Frayed string brushes against your skin, and you hook it like a fish on the end of your line before yanking it free. It’s the same distraction you always end up running back to. It keeps you moving and your mind focused on formations as you twist them into designs—always flowing, never stagnant. 

Even now, you can hear your father’s voice. You can feel his hands guiding you just like he did all those years ago when he taught you how to play. Move your left hand. They’ll cross if you don’t.

You move your right hand, and it knots; candle sticks now a cross. 

“Cat’s cradle?” Simon asks. 

As you unwind the string from your fingers to begin again, a nostalgic smile creeps on your lips. You don’t think you’ve ever had someone recognize it before. “Yeah. I play it sometimes to keep myself occupied.” 

“Didn’t know you could play it by yourself,” he admits. “Always thought you needed someone else.” 

“You can’t do as many moves as you can with another person, but it’s still fun,” you chuckle sheepishly. 

He hums as he adjusts the position of his hand on the wheel. His free arm rests on the center console next to you—his fingers twitch. “You should teach me.” 

A breathy laugh escapes your lips; you think he’s joking. It’s a stupid game with string. Nothing that means anything. Yet when you look at him and find his eyes flickering to you—his dark hue reading your expression—you realize he means it. 

You swallow, then smile. “If you’d like.” 

He shifts once more, leather seat creaking beneath his weight. You try to ignore the way your heart hurts at the sound. “I’d like doin’ anythin’ with you.” 

The whole ride feels warm after that. Bubbling mirth lurks beneath your skin, lighting it on fire, heating your cheeks and the tips of your ears until you swear you can feel the skin melt from your bones. It’s that same feeling that afflicted you the previous week after Christmas shopping. This fervor. This want. It continues to fester and metastasize until it lurks deep in your brain where it whispers. The susurrus gets louder the closer you are to reaching Manchester as the reality of your situation hits you. 

You’re going to be meeting his family. 

But as a friend, or something else? 

That question plagues you as Simon pulls up to a small home with effulgent lights lining the rooftop. They illuminate the sparse layer of snow that coats the city in crystalline sparkles, and for a moment you’re convinced you’re seeing stars. A thick evergreen wreath adorns the front door, and the sight of it is so nostalgic it nearly hurts. A tremble ails your knees as you climb out of the car, useless joints turning into jelly as you watch Simon retrieve both of your bags. Your hands reach out, ready to receive yours, but he raises his eyebrow as he closes the door with his elbow. 

“C’mon,” he urges. “Freezin’ out here.” 

Your legs shake with each step you take up the stairs to the door. A TV drones from somewhere inside of the house as quiet chatting mixes with whatever programme is playing. Giggles blend seamlessly into faint music and fuzzy, Old-Hollywood dialogue, and a faint sillage of cinnamon bleeds through every pore of the house. Voices cease as Simon clumsily knocks on the door, bags hitting against the wood as he attempts to balance everything on his own. A high pitched gasp bleeds through the door, followed by what you think is someone asking for Uncle Simon. 

You swallow your heart thudding in your throat as the door swings open and you’re met with a mess of bright blonde hair. Simon was right—Tommy isn’t bigger than him at all, yet he still towers taller than most. He grins at his brother, crooked teeth and all, as he slaps his hand on Simon’s shoulder. 

“About time you showed up. Joey’s been beggin’ for you all morning,” he teases, though he can’t quite mask the way his eyes flicker to you as you stand meekly to the side. “C’mon in. We just started a game of Candyland.” 

The moment you and Simon step through the threshold of the house, you’re enveloped by the aroma of fresh cinnamon and the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas. A fat evergreen tree sits in the corner of the living room next to a coffee table that sports board game pieces and snacks strewn about its top. You recognize Joseph and his mother, Beth, who sit next to the table on the floor, rug cushioning their knees from the wood. The very moment his eyes land on Simon, little Joseph bolts to his feet. 

Suddenly, it’s a reunion. Everyone stands on their feet to exchange hugs and kisses while Simon attempts to return them with his hands occupied with bags. The walls echo the laughter shared between everyone, and your left ear buzzes and rings. Still, you stand there with a quiet smile, soaking in the familial love as you stay out of the way. Joseph clings to Simon’s leg, white teeth on display as he looks up at his uncle, and you swear you’ve never seen Simon smile or laugh so hard before. 

“Simon?” a voice speaks up from the kitchen. 

You turn to find a grey haired woman drying her hands off on a lighthouse themed tea towel. She’s short; surprisingly so for the two boys she’s brought into this world. Rose tint dusts the apples of her cheeks as she slowly crosses into the entryway, arms spread wide to envelop her son as best as she can with her frail frame. 

“Missed you, mum,” Simon whispers as he returns the hug. 

“It’s always good to see you,” she says, pulling away to look up at him. Her lips tighten as her fingers squeeze the side of his arm. “My sweet boy.” 

It isn’t long before her eyes begin to wander. They’re drawn to you, and she doesn’t even bother to fight against the magnetic pull. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think she was eager to see you. She removes herself from her son as she approaches you, hands reaching for yours as she pulls you away from the door and into her home. 

“It’s so good to meet you, Chip,” she says, hands patting yours. 

She already knows your name. 

You swallow. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Riley,” you stutter back in response. 

Everything falls into place after that like a perfect line of dominos. Simon vanishes for only a short moment to put your bags away in some unseen room, and he returns just in time for Joseph to drag the two of you into the living room for a board game. There’s hardly any time for proper introductions as Joseph directs the game all the way down to what color pieces everyone uses—both you and Simon are assigned green—and despite your apprehension, it’s like you’ve been here the whole time. Instantly welcomed and assimilated into the Riley Family like you’ve never belonged anywhere else. 

So much information is shared in such a short amount of time that your brain begins to throb with the knowledge and fatigue. Questions are thrown about as everyone takes turns drawing cards and moving pieces along the board. You learn that Joseph’s favorite color is red because it reminds him of his mother’s hair, and how Beth works with school aged children as a teacher. Tommy works as a mechanic and is one of the reasons why Simon has a motorcycle, and the two brothers can banter well enough to go pro, especially with one another. The table erupts into laughter and playful cursing more often than not. 

They ask questions about you, too. They gently poke, prod, and peel back the layers you try so hard to wrap yourself up in. They don’t allow you to hide, and after a few hours of games, snacks, and movies, you start to think you might not want to anymore. Tucked into Simon’s side, lazy arm around your shoulder as he chuckles and laughs with his family, you start to realize this is the most at home you’ve felt for a long time. 

You attempt to remember the last holiday event you attended that you enjoyed, but the memories that emerge taste sour on your tongue. 

Halfway through How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Simon squeezes your shoulder. It’s soft—a gesture that warns you he’s going to move well before he does. He removes his arm from around you, body shifting forward on the couch, yet he makes sure to replace the airplane themed blanket on your lap that Joseph gave you because you look cold. You blink at him with heavy lids. 

“Gonna step outside for a smoke,” he assures. 

“Okay. Well, I’ll keep our seats warm,” you smile as he stands. 

Manchester is bitter and dark when Simon steps out into the backyard. His skin tenses and trembles through the fabric of his jumper as he lights the cigarette sitting between his teeth with a shudder. A hiss bleeds between his teeth as he exhales, hands burrowing deep into his pockets to stave off the cold. 

Truly, he is happy to be home, but those walls make his skin crawl. Old scars burn and itch every time he sees those photos hanging up on the walls, or when the wood floors creak a certain way. No amount of pine tree pollen or holiday cinnamon can fully cleanse the stale alcohol that permeates every pore in that house from shattered bottles and spilt cans. Each time he visits, he tries to override the memories. He tries to erase them and let them decay—create something new from the lingering pain. He’s tried to convince his mom to let him buy her a nicer place, or at least fix that damn bathtub, but she refuses every time. 

He swears that he’ll one day tear out every tile in that bathroom. 

A squeak sounds behind Simon as the sliding glass doors open, then quickly shut. He hurriedly exhales the smoke in his mouth before turning around, not at all surprised to find Tommy approaching him with his arms hugged to his chest. 

“Tryna bum a smoke?” Simon asks as he shoves the cigarette back between his lips. 

“What, and have Beth maul me in my sleep?” Tommy chuckles as he jams his thumb over his shoulder. “Been clean for nearly six years, and I don’t plan on throwin’ that away any time soon.” 

Dead grass crunches beneath Tommy’s feet as he approaches, but Simon’s chuckle drowns it out. “Good man.” 

Tommy hums as he stops next to his brother, still a good distance away so as to not get the stale scent of nicotine on him. Blue eyes keep flickering to the door where you, Beth, and Joseph continue to watch the movie, idle chatter filling the gaps of the film you’ve seen a million times over. He smirks, and it looks an awful lot like Simon’s 

“Didn’t realize you were bringin’ a girl,” he admits. “No wonder why mum seemed extra adamant ‘bout cleaning. How long have you two been together?” 

At that question, Simon takes a particularly long drag. It expands in his lungs; fills the space until there’s nothing left. When he exhales, it’s slow. Long. “We’re not together.” 

“Oh?” Tommy questions with a poorly restrained grin. “So, you just brought this completely random bird home to see the family? Nothin’ more?” 

“It’s complicated,” Simon deadpans. 

“Ah. Complicated. Bullshit,” Tommy retorts. 

The brothers fall silent as laughter bleeds through the doors behind them. Both men turn to find Joseph wrapped in Beth’s arms, swaying side to side as he points at the TV. You cover your laugh with the palm of your hand, but Simon catches on to the way your shoulders shake with the movement. 

“When are you gonna settle down? Start a family of your own?” Tommy questions, eyes still on his wife and son. “Sure mum’ll appreciate you gettin’ married before she’s too old to know where she’s at.” 

In an attempt to hide his laugh, Simon chooses to scoff instead. “I couldn’t do better than you ‘n Beth.” 

“Couldn’t you?” Tommy challenges. 

For a moment, Simon entertains it—the thought of a family. The thought of you. He’ll admit, he thinks of you often, but he can’t determine if it’s because he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame, or because he’s still trying to solve the mystery of you. Of Andrei, of your reclusiveness; of everything. He can’t tell if his heart quickens because of you, or what might be chasing you. 

What a silly idea. With his line of work, and your obvious anxiety, he’s certain you’d want nothing to do with him if you ever found out what he does for a living. 

He doesn’t think he’d see you again if you ever caught sight of the blood that stains his hands. 

“I mean it,” Simon says, standing firm. “Buildin’ the life you did after everythin’ you went through, findin’ an amazing woman and havin’ a good son… I’m proud of you.” 

Tommy scoffs at Simon’s adulation like he’s about to spew something sarcastic at the man, but instead his lips pull into a reverent smile. Nodding, he sighs, breath spewing out in a fit of frost that’s quickly smothered by the bitter air as it rises and vanishes. An airplane flies overhead, its lights gently winking in the distance. 

“As the older brother, I think I’m supposed to be praisin’ you but… yeah. I’m proud of myself, too,” he admits. “To think about all the shit I had gotten caught up with. Fuck, surprised Beth ever saw anythin’ in me. Nearly got myself killed over drugs. Over that stupid fuckin’ debt. Needed my little brother to come save my arse. Still, I’ve got them. Somehow… I have them. Wouldn’t change that for the world.” 

Hot embers begin to burn too close to Simon’s fingers, and he discards the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and stomps out what remaining life it has left. He looks up at Tommy, but his eyes are focused on the smoldering remains of ash at his feet. 

“Do you run into him at all?” Tommy asks. 

“Who?”

“Marco.” 

Ravenous acrimony eats away at Simon’s chest at the name alone. Memories resurface—an overconfident prick with beady green eyes. He rubs at his knuckles as if he can still feel the way they split all those years ago. He presses against his fingers until they shift; their crack echoes dully off the dead grass and glass door. 

“If I did, he’d be fuckin’ dead,” he assures. 

Tommy chuckles, clearly caught off guard by his brother’s bloodthirst. “Well, I wouldn’t ever ask you to go that far, but… the cunt would deserve it. Besides, with your line of… work, I reckon it’s not too difficult to make people vanish.” He coughs, clearing his throat of any lingering second-hand smoke before he continues. “Speakin’ of that… does Chip know?”

“Know what?” 

“That you run with Price? That underground shit? The fuckin’ mafia?” Tommy clarifies. Simon’s silence is the only answer he needs. “You haven’t told her?” 

“It’s complicated,” Simon reiterates. 

Some facetious response dances on the tip of his tongue—Simon can see it in the way his mouth twitches—but Tommy stays silent. He sighs, then nods before looking back through the door. Their mother is on her feet, slowly maneuvering around the living room in a slight waddle in order to open the door. 

“Yeah. I know it is. Just… be careful,” he mumbles just as the door slides open. 

“Dinner’s ready! You two should come back inside. It’s freezin’ out here,” their mother urges. 

Both men glance at one another with a curt nod before trudging through the grass back to the house. The very moment they step back into the warm embrace of their childhood home, everything else seems to fade away. It vanishes the moment Simon looks at you—still curled up on the couch, ready for a cat nap. Any worries—any sour memories and old scars—all of it lingers in the backyard with the smoldering remains of Simon's cigarette; unimportant, and long forgotten.

[maskosis]

copper sutures, open wounds

Simon Riley x Reader

You've always belonged to each other even when you weren't sure what it meant. 

Back when you'd shove clumsy fingers into your panties after he'd call, uttering awful, terrible, heart-aching things like been thinkin' 'bout you, pup and fuck, can't stop thinkin' 'bout you, pup.

Words meant for the ears of a lover, not you.

But the lines between the two have never been parallel, have they? Even when he was just an idea tucked inside gyri. A stranger that weaved in and out of your life: a haunting spectre on the edges of your periphery. Intangible. Each one an inchoate pin added along a growing, nebulous surface; pointillism in hindsight. The evolution of semelparity. 

He's yours and that's all you've ever known. The rest just doesn't matter.

OR: two people who were probably lovers in a past life end up as siblings in this one. except. it doesn't really change much.

DDDNE—incest. smut. dirty talk. shame. slight bully!Simon. slight breeding. size difference. slight coersion. dubcon. mean dom Simon and the lil sister he bullies

You've always been close.

Something that strikes people as odd considering he's been gone for the majority of your life—military dog that he is—but despite the distance, the age gap, it's easy to wrap yourself up in him. Copper sutures over open wounds.

And that's what you are. Wounds. Gaps, gashes. Deep canyons of cleaved flesh, severing muscles and tendons, chipping off bone.

He wears his as scars, an eerie blankness in his eyes—flat, stagnant water. Crocodilian. Predatory. Black humour. Vile jokes whispered in your ear—what d'you call a dead dad? anything you like, he can't 'ear you. Disappearing when things got too real. Too serious. Not running. Not Simon, no. But a strange, untameable thing—becoming a ghost again. Drenching himself in mission after mission. Icecold distance in his eyes. Polynyas. Arm's length is too close. He needs an ocean of space to sew himself back together. Lap at old, aching lesions until the taste of iron subsides into peatsalt flesh.

It's something you have to wait out. Return to some sense of normalcy without him—because even when he's gone, he's always watching—and struggle through the loneliness until whatever is metastasizing inside of his head is clawed out with the tips of his fingers, and he crawls home to you, bloodstained and hungry—

And you patch him up. Feed him. It's what you do best. How you wear your hurt—becoming the caregiver you wish you had. Taking on roles too big for yourself, for your trembling knees. Hefting him up on the shaking legs of a girl in over her head. Treading water even when you know the person clinging to you is going to be the reason you drown.

You just can't let go.

And you wonder, sometimes, if he knows that.

Simon is a lot of things, and almost none of them are good. A part of you does lay awake at night wondering if he's purposefully pulling you down.

The sea, you know, is a hungry, untenable thing. Voracious is her appetite. She's greedy with her dead, clinging to old bones even when they turn into vapour under her daunting weight. Smothered by a mother's everlasting love.

You can't blame her, though. She let you go, crawling out of her womb until your feet touched soil, leaving her empty and aching. Mother without a child to feed. And when she pulls you back, it's only because she doesn't know any better. Can't, in her unerring elation, understand that your time apart from her arms has turned gills into lungs, and when she tries to nurse you, it's a smothering, deadly thing. Too big is her bosom. Too tiny are you. Choking on the milk she offers until your ghost glides inside her waves.

And Ghost—

Sometimes you wonder if he ever left her womb at all.

Even if he was, though—you made your bed when you were eighteen. When he came back from deployment and met you as an adult, not a small, impish little child who hid behind Tommy's legs. Too afraid of your own shadow to even say hi. He was too big. Too intimidating. A monster of a man—something that made his marred lips curl up in an ugly smirk when he heard you whisper this into Tommy's ear.

But like most things in your life, it started with a cut.

Thirteen and tiptoeing through the grass to sneak back into your bedroom window. A rusted nail sliced the bottom wide open. Tommy was at work. His wife sleeping after staying up all night with their baby. You sat on the porch and clutched the bottom, holding the skin together until he happened to find you. Curled over yourself, biting back whimpers.

It wasn't bad. Not really. But he just crouched down, grabbed your ankle in his massive hand, and grunted. Seen worse, pup. Ain't gonna kill you.

You didn't ask about the wounds no one could see. The ones that ached in the middle of the night when you heard Tommy yelling from behind closed doors. Body tensing for something you can't remember—muscle memory, maybe. You escaped the worst of it. It's something everyone around you is so quick to say.

But he doesn't. Not even when you sink your teeth into your knuckle as he prods at the torn skin. He just looks at you, impassive and distant—this massive man folding his body into a curled fist held low to the ground, accommodating—and hums.

"don't ruin your pretty skin, pup. Got enough scars f'the both of us."

Your fingers were pulled from your lips. His own slipped between the gap of your teeth, too thick for the split of your mouth. Tasting bitter—saltpetre, ash. Sweat. Iron. Works with his hands. Smokes reds at the dinner table with Tommy until the scent of smoke, cheap tobacco, is heavy in the air. Had to breathe. 

"Go on, chew on me if y'need to. Must be teethin'."

When most people spoke down about your age, it made you bristle. Made you sneak out at night and hang around bars you shouldn't have been. Talking old men into giving you and your friends sips. A drag of their cigarette. Got anything stronger? I'm not a kid—I can handle it.

Still. You haven't learned to hold your tongue yet and as he lays your heel on his thick, hard thigh, and pinches the sore, swollen skin between his thumb and forefinger, rifling around in his pack pocket for a needle and thread, you can't help the petulant huff that spills out, reedy around the bulk of his knuckles. 

They slip free when you move back, but he chases. Hand twitching back towards you, like a babe seeking warmth. 

"I was out,” you bluster, swallowing down the tang of seawater and loam that clings to your tongue. “Partying."

Tommy would have been stupefied. Mad. His face turning blotchy red, purple. Listen 'ere, I might not be the best goddamn guardian f'ya, but y'can't jus' do what y'want—y'grounded, alright? Grounded!

But he isn't Tommy. The look he levels you with is flat. Even. But something sparks in those murky depths. Humour, you think. Leonine pleasure. A well-fed lion pawing at a gazelle just to see it kick. 

"I know, pup."

You don't ask how. You think, even then, that you knew.

Simon’s hand moves again, pressing cold, spit-slicked fingertips against the soft give of your lips. You part for him easily, the bravado cracking under the pressure of his deep, unfathomable insouciance. 

Cowed. Docile. Or maybe—

Absumed. The tension inside of you—this near constant state of hyperarousal, innate; congenital—is dimmed, snuffed out, under his big, warm hands. A lonely child lulled into a latibule. This clawing, aching thing inside of you, hunger, is a lacuna. Filled, suddenly, by his ferric touch. 

The silence that lapsed between you became a staple, a constant, in your evolving relationship. Neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, it just is. Quiet. Words unsaid. Actions learned. Understood.

You communicate better in silence. Shared looks. Touches. And when he brushed his thumb over the tender slit in your heel, you hear the things he won't say. Sewn up with spare wire, a needle. Sterilized with the worn, red Zippo he kept in his back pocket.

Wound knitted back together.

A trick he taught you with fishing wire and a needle (—burn the tip jus' like tha' and thread it in deep, birdie—)

Something about you both just clicks.

You were seventeen when you moved into his lonely apartment (one o' many, he grunts; but the safest one he has). It's closer to your school. You're older, mature. You've been making your own decisions since you were thirteen—things like therapy and custody, and signing off on restraining orders to keep your parents away. Not that they bothered about that much anymore—not when Simon came around and threatened them. Dad dead, but mum—she hovers. Floats in and out of your life; a poltergeist that slams doors and kicks over furniture, sews discord just because it's the only measure of control she ever had.

("'nore her," he grunts into your ear when he finally calls after disappearing two weeks ago. Mexico, he rasps. Need'ta know. "She ain't gonna touch you if she knows what's good f'her."

"I know," you murmur, shivering at the brittle char in his voice. You miss him but you won't tell him because he already knows. "Bring me back something from Mexico. A souvenir."

"'ow 'bout a muzzle? For that smart mouth o'yours."

"only if it's pretty."

"fuckin' hell, pup. Gonna start makin' me wish I never left.")

You take care of yourself. Always have. And he—

He takes care of you.

It's easy to slip into these roles. Shedding skin. Dutiful college student, diligently studying away to careening headfirst into a proper, working adult meandering through life that passes too quickly now that you're older. Happy little sister. Dedicated auntie. You know how to contort yourself into these shapes. Let them live and breathe around you, through you, until you both stumble into his dark, quiet apartment. Your feet ache from wearing heels all day. His hands itch from holding himself back.

But here, in this quiet space, nothing matters.

And when he presses your back against the door, chest heaving from the pent-up desire brimming in his dark, unflinching gaze, you know nothing ever will. Nothing ever could.

Except—his eyes on you at dinner. Rapacious. Unnerring. Even as Tommy nudged his arm, brows furrowing as if to say, whatcha starin' at, mate? Almost did, too, when the topic of your boyfriend (this mysterious, phantom figure you spun lies about since you were eighteen) came up and he growled, deep and dark over the idea of you moving in, sometime soon, with another man.

(Something has come between you, you suppose—)

And it leads you here.

Dot, dot, dot. 

But his face is a perfect mask of neutrality. Carefully blank. Marred skin carved into marble—impenetrable. Unknowable. But you can feel his anger humming through the whipcord spooling between you. Moonglade you trace with the tips of your fingers, feeling the taut pull of his shoulders when you rest your hands on corded muscle. 

In typical fashion, he doesn't say anything about it. Leaves it to rot as he bends down, lips fastening against the heated apple of your cheek—more teeth than affection; nips flesh, and groans. 

His hand is big and broad when it slips up your thigh, chest rumbling with a quiet purr when he finds your skin already slick, slippery.

"all f'me?" He grunts, dropping down onto his knees in the foyer, rucking your skirt up to your belly button, a harassed 'old it, pup, tha's a good girl tumbling out. Eyes drilling into the apex of your split thighs, darkening with a desire so thick, you can taste it on your tongue. "Been like this all night, 'ave you?"

Huh? He demands, angry now. All fuckin' wet thinkin' 'bout my cock, pup?

"Simon, please—"

His fingers slip into the hem of your panties. Yours tighten around the bunched fabric of your skirt. It's always so electric when he touches you. Illicit—

But that's just wishful thinking, isn't it? Because nothing about the way Simon feels is wrong. Verboten.

It was there long before you were aware of it. 

(—skin of mischmetal just waiting for the oxidized iron and magnesium of his touch to ignite. Little pyrophoric heart stuffed inside a tinderbox.

Inevitable.)

You've always belonged to each other even when you weren't sure what it meant. Back when you'd shove clumsy fingers into your panties after he'd call, uttering awful, terrible, heart-aching things like been thinkin' 'bout you, pup and fuck, can't stop thinkin' 'bout you, pup.

Words meant for the ears of a lover, not you.

But the lines between the two have never been parallel, have they? Even when he was just an idea tucked inside gyri. A stranger that weaved in and out of your life: a haunting spectre on the edges of your periphery. Intangible. Each one an inchoate pin added along a growing, nebulous surface; pointillism in hindsight. The evolution of semelparity. 

He's yours and that's all you've ever known. 

But at the time—it was just that. Words. Needles in skin. Thread closing the wound. 

You're not sure when it, when this, started. When it changed. 

Gone half of your life, and then blinking in and out like a phantom. A spectre. An idea. Half-formed in childish nightmares. In glossy, wet teenage dreams. Fingers slipping over your mound, his voice in your ear. A needy ache in the pit of your chest whenever he had to leave. Goodbye to don't go. Don't go to come home quick.

The lines didn't really blur because they were always there to begin with. Innate. Congenital. The first brush of your lips against his—him, stiff and unmoving; watching you with those flat, predatory eyes as you shuffled closer, peeled back the balaclava he sometimes forgets to take off, and pressed your mouth to his. Chaste. Damning. To this.

Him on his knees, pulling your damp panties down. Rocking on his haunches to shove his face into the seam of your cunt, breathing in deep. Gulping down the scent of you. Nuzzling his chin into your flesh, all hot and tender and aching for him.

"gonna eat this pretty cunt, pup," slurred into the wet, slick folds he parts with the crooked, hooked tip of his nose. "been starvin' for it all night."

At one point, you think you tried to stop it.

This morbid, twisting thing growing inside of you. Swallowed down anything to kill the mass that tightened up in a needy, aching knot whenever he was around. Poison. Medicine. Carving it out yourself. But it was all palliative. Quick remedies to soothe the burn, but nothing healed the damaged skin.

Holy places, prayers. Men, boys. Ethanol. Bad choices.

But he never let you go too far.

(how'd you know?

m'always watchin' you, pup. remember tha'.)

Tidied up the mess you made. Helped you into bed. Lied to Tommy about where you've been and what you've done. Scoured the blood from your nails, the viscera from your skin. Listened to you bable about shame and disgust like it was a phantom limb. A third man. Never you—just a friend of a friend. Said nothing as you curled around the mass, shaking in your bed. Just set his hand on your head, and let you heave it out. Expelling all from within.

"go t'bed," he'd say whenever you tried to bring it up, talk around this thing eating you alive. "Talk in the mornin'."

But that never happened. He was gone when you woke. A ghost seen only in the middle of the night. The corner of your room. He had to have known, though—

"s'wrong, pup," he'd said after the kiss, but he still let you pull him down into the sheets. Let you push his hand under the hem of your panties, groaning in your ear when you urged him on so sweetly touch me, touch me—

Somewhere in the tangled, muddled mess of feelings and silence and touch, it just started to make sense. To fit. He belonged to you, and you—got my goddamn blood, don't you? 'course you're mine.

Wounded beings bleeding out, riddled with coagulopathy. It just makes sense to suture them together. And that's what you do—just like he taught you. Copper wire. Golden needle. Dress the wound. Hide it.

But here, in this dark apartment that smells like you, like him, home, you rip the bandage off and let the wound breathe.

Your hand sinks down, nails raking over his shorn scalp. "Then do it," you whine, curling your palm over his crown. "Eat me up, Simon."

"Fuck, pup—tryna make me pop in my goddamn trousers?"

It startles a giggle out of you, breathless. Wanting. "You said you were hungry."

Simon buries his face into your inner thigh, groaning low in his throat. Humid breath ghosting over your heated flesh, dampening skin. "Cheeky fuckin' thing," he drawls, teeth shaping the words against your twitching muscle.

It's little nips, beestings, just enough until the playful laughter in your throat is smothered under the weight of desire. Burning kindling in your belly that pops, crackling sap blistering in the heat each time his marred, mangled lips brush closer to the slick, sensitive crook where leg meets groin. A sliver of flesh the width of a thumb. A hidden valley between tendon and the sloped fold of your cunt. He licks there. Scorching. Wet. Tongue soft as he laps the slick from your skin.

Moans, a little, at the taste. A mangled noise echoing in the broad expanse of his chest. Throaty. Wanting. He nips there too, sinks his teeth into the skin until you whimper, hand grasping futilely against his buzzed scalp, sliding over welts of raised skin, scars.

"Simon—" it comes out reedy. Petulant. "Stop teasing me or—"

"or what, pup?" Huh? He adds, mocking. Mean. Nose scraping over the shape of your sticky, wet fold. His eyes are bedrock. Solid obsidian. So dark, so deep, you think one slip and they might just swallow you whole. "What are you gonna do?"

"I'll—ah—" he sucks your labia into his mouth, sawing softly teeth jagged teeth. "Ah, Simon—I'll go back to Tommy's."

It's a hollow threat, empty words, but his eyes narrow like you uttered a promise. Held a knife to his throat. A gun to the back of his head.

"That so?"

It isn't jealousy that strips his tone raw, has greed dripping down glazed charcoal, staining midnight black green, but something far hungrier. Even though it's his younger brother, even though Tommy is nothing to you except kin—older brother, guardian, the man who gave up his life to raise you after your father was killed and Simon barely made it home in time to save your mother; all things that Simon knows very well—Simon has always been a selfish, possessive bastard. Hackles rising at anything that even hints at taking you away.

This, you know, is no different.

And when he sinks his teeth into the meat of your thigh, eyes narrowed at you the whole time, you suppose you deserve it.

Comeuppance doesn't stop you from keening at the fresh, hot spread of pain when his canines pierce flesh, draw blood. From digging your claws into his scalp, dragging them over his skin until he groans, eyes fluttering at the taste of your blood on his tongue, the feel of your nails scratching his head.

His maw drips with it when it peels back, rocking on his haunches to stare up at you with a renewed fever in his eyes. A sharp want that cuts a jagged line down the middle, bleeds black when he tips his head back, exposing the thick of his throat, and hums when he swallows the taste down. Letting you see for yourself the shift and pull of his muscles as he drinks you down. Blood—inside and out.

"s'tha' what you're gonna do?" He mutters, head still tilted back. "Gonna run from me, pup?"

The look in his eyes makes a shiver drip like hot oil down your spine. "N-not if you touch me—"

It's waging a deal with the devil. Taunting a basking saltwater crocodile. Sticking your hand in the maw of a lion. Danger. But in that—

A thrill.

"Jus' want me to touch you, huh?" He coos, mockingly plangent as he tightens his hands around your hips, holding you steady as he rocks forward until his mouth is a sliver away from your slick, throbbing flesh. His hot breath ghosting over your wet slit makes you keen, all low and pitiful. Whining in the back of your throat. "Need my mouth on ya? Wanna hump your needy little cunt all over your big brother's face?"

His name stutters out in a warbling cry—the coalescence of shock and shame that bubble inside your chest, frothing over at the hideousness of it all, but cowed (and secretly pleased) at how easily he can say something like that. Rough and gritty. Scree raining down—sharp stings. Little bites. Embarrassment and elation an ugly, mouldering thing in your belly.

"Don't—don't be crude," you hiss out instead, catching his crown once more in your hand to give a warning squeeze. Mouse nibbling on the toe of a lion, all he does is huff, blowing warm air over your drenched cunt.

"Crude," he mocks, but lets you lead his head to where you want it most. Buried between your thighs. Long, thick nose pressed tight against your pebbled clit. But you should have known better—his compliance always comes with a cost. He carves his pound of flesh with the sharpened edge of a mean smirk, dropping his mangled maw to let his tongue snake out. Just a taste, a tease. His tongue flattens against your parted seam long enough to coat the tip before he pulls back, your wetness glistening on his lips. "Ain't nothin' crude 'bout eatin' my baby sisters, pussy. 'pecially when she's beggin' for it so bad."

"Simon—!"

"s'where 'er big brother belongs, ain't it? Buried between these sweet thighs."

He cleaves his tongue up your slit—aching, drenched hole to swollen clit—and huffs when you yowl, back arching against the door. His mouth has always been an awful, awful thing. This is no different. Sawing it roughly between your folds, groaning at the taste of you. Peeling back long enough to dart his gaze upward, cutting, until you meet his stare. See the wetness around his chin, covering his lips. Pale pink lips turning blood red with how eager he devours you, eats you up.

Simon swallows again. Tongue flicking out to catch the drying droplets of your blood still tucked into the corner of his mouth.

"Want my mouth, pup?" He demands, words mangled in his throat. Raked over coals. "Want your big brother to eat your sweet pussy?"

You're not sure how he says these things so shamelessly—and that's exactly what they are: without shame. Drenched in desire. Want. He glares up at you, heaving, hands flexing around your hips as you war with the part of you that still likes to pretend he's a stranger sometimes. Waiting.

He won't touch you again until you give him what he wants.

But what he wants—

Well.

You're not sure there's enough of you left to give away.

"Simon," you try, angling for needy because that's exactly what you are: wanting. Hungry. Sick with the same fever that burns through the palm of his hand. Desperate. "Simon, come on, please—"

You try tugging him. Pulling his head back to your aching, empty cunt. Arching your back. Rolling your hips. But he stays, impassive and immovable as ever despite everything you try.

"Please, just—"

"Thought you wanted to go back to Tommy's?"

"Simon—"

"Tha's what you said," he trails his fingers down your hip, dragging the tips through the slick smeared over your mound. Featherlight touches. Chaste kisses. Slides his hand over your cunt until it's cupped in his palm, long, thick fingers pressed against your rim. Heel on your clit.

It's torture. It isn't enough—

"I won't go," you heave, panting when he starts to stroke his fingers over your fluttering, empty hold. The movement pushing the ball of palm into your clit that sends little frissons of pleasure down your spine. "I won't leave—"

"Wha'd'ya want, pup?"

"You—"

His hand on your hip flattens over your belly, stopping the desperate rolls you make with each brief, not enough touch. It's mean. You whine that to him, pouting when his lips pull up in a vicious smirk.

"Can stay here all night, pup."

You don't doubt him for a second—awful, awful man—but it's hard to breathe around the shame sometimes. This polluted feeling in your chest. Tarlike. Oozing from the wound you left to rot. Infectious. Greedy.

He knows it, too. Listens to you bable out your worries to him in the dead of night, and only ever when he's gone. Spitting up the ugliness that festers in your chest is easier to do when there's an ocean between you. Words that are swept up in the morning—forgotten. Bad dreams.

Finite maladies. Bloodletting. Something that recedes when he's here, holding the fraying sutures closed with his hands. Keeping you together.

And it's fine. You need him. Can't separate yourself from living inside the heat of his hands. But it's easy when he lets you pretend. Let's you act like the stranger, the girl he picked up off the street and brought home. Little stray out in the rain that no one wanted tucked inside the pocket of his coat. Live inside the parallels where he's just a man. Flesh and bone. And not—

Blisters on your fingers. Gonna teach you 'ow t'fight back, pup. Get some claws on you yet. A gash on your foot. Too clumsy f'your own good. Skinned knees. Bruises on the apples of your cheeks. This is Simon. You remember 'im, don't you? 'course you do. He's—he's family. Dancing around the behemoth in the kitchen bent over a warm beer. Eyes sliding in every direction until they landed on you. 'smatter? Scared of your older brother? Don't worry—red eyes, indents in your bottom lip; he never asks who did it, just says—I'll hurt anyone who touches you, pup.

And it's a fact. Truism.

The next morning: coffee instead of a beer (s'not black, Tommy whispers in stages, half conspiratorial, half pleading please, please love him back: "he takes wif' three sugars. Gots a sweet tooth;") but still hunched over the table, eyes gliding around the room—the exits. Muscle memory, he'll bite out three years later when you finally gather the courage to ask. Habit. Normal—

His knuckles are bruised. Bloodied. His hand stiff around the mug, fingers too swollen, cut up, to close. Catches your gaze over the rim, but you don't bother pretending that he hadn't known you were there the moment you walked in. Gives you a wink.

"told you, didn't I? I'll hurt anyone who touches you, pup."

You think about that time in the kitchen and wonder if that was when these parallel lines started to collapse. Cave in.

Run into the ground. Into this.

Or was it this inevitable. A statement of fact. Something meant to happen regardless of blood.

"Simon."

"don't keep me waitin'," he says your name then. Not pup. Not birdie. Your name. "Tell me what you want."

Words unsaid, you think. Tell me what this is.

"I want you." It comes out shakier than you want it to. Your nails rake over his crown. Hips twitching futilely in his iron hold. "I want you, Simon."

"Gotta be more specific than tha'. What do you want me t'do?"

It feels like dancing along the edge of a precipice. The canyon floor is a vertiginous drop some several hundred feet below, stopped only by jagged rock. Exposed travertine. Rocky terraces. Stepping off the ledge and into the chasm is a daunting task even though you've been flirting with the abyss long before you even knew what the fear of falling was.

Words well, swelling over your tongue. It's easy to whisper them in secrecy, in cloaked darkness. Buried beneath blankets of a Stygian night. Tenebrous folding hands over your eyes. Make-believe on worn, cotton sheets that smell like heady musk—animalic. Arctic Angelica. Geosmin. Wet copper. An old, dirty cloth stained with guncotton. Sex. Loam. Stale sweat. Simon.

Your tongue is looser when he's been gone for a while. Willing to give in to his whims, the ugly shape of his mishappen desire.

And you know it's not about the substance. Not at all. The taboo doesn't rankle down his spine the same way you—just you—do.

This is a manifestation of his greed.

Like your loving seamother, he isn't content with halves or quarters. It's bones, blood, and viscera: all or nothing. Life or death. You can't cleave the limb to save the body with him.

Just like you can't pretend he's something he is not. Flesh and bone. Blood.

All or nothing.

But there's a difference between uttering those words when he lets you hide your sins from the world, tucked under the bulk of his body. Protectively cradled in the dark. And this—

You still smell Tommy's cologne in your nose when he went in for a tight, consuming hug only hours before. The taste of gin and pot roast on your tongue. Wapish barbs thrown back and forth like darts when Tommy's wife pried into your life—when are you movin' out on your own? Si must be tired of ya, ain't he?—and how it felt like the floor was dropping out from under your feet when he kicked his foot against your ankle, eyes prairie fire, feverish, and waited to see what you'd do.

Simon doesn't seem to care much for decorum.

"clawed my way outta the dirt to get back 'ome, t'get back t'you. This," he stamps his finger into your chest, laying claim over the thudthudthud of your trembling heart. "Ain't gonna change nothin'."

You thought of that then when you glanced down at the overcooked potatoes leaking a river of golden butter into the marshy peas, and rolled your shoulder. "I pay rent. It's cheaper. It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?" He'd said, dangerously low. Thick arms folded over his broad chest.

You should have known then that this was the inevitable conclusion. But—

Wounds. Sutures. Second skin. Copper solder.

Your head thrums with the aching pulse of a low-grade fever. Thoughts sluggish through the want.

And god, do you want.

Tactile: his hands, his mouth, on you. The way he pushes into you, filling you so perfectly that you always weep. Body on yours, crushing. All heat. The way he kisses you when he's about to cum, teeth and tongue, sloppy and wet. Chest rumbling with the groans he smothers against your lips. Hips working, pounding into you. Filling you up. Pulling on the threads, the seams, keeping you together. His rough voice in your ear (gonna cum, pup and—lips glued to yours, eyes burning in the dark—beg me not to do it inside o' you, not to cum in this sweet pussy). The pulse of his cock when you try to push him off, hands shoving against his broad, thick shoulders as you whimper beneath him, pleading just like he asked. Don't Simon, don't—not, not inside and, tears in your eyes, please don't cum inside me, Simon, please—

His groan in your ear when he does just that because nothing—not even you, pup—will ever tear him away from this perfect little cunt.

(his perfect little cunt—)

And impossibly: him. His hand in yours. Leaning over to steal kisses from you when Tommy isn't looking. A house you together without questions like when are you going to stop depending on your older brother, grow up, settle down—

You just want him.

The rest—

Doesn't matter.

But it can't stay like that, like this, whispers in the dark. Vespertine. Not with the sheer vastitude of his unerring appetite for you.

You huff, hand curling in the damp fistful of your skirt. Gripping tight. All of nothing.

"I want you, Simon," you plead, and a liquid heat fills you when his eyes flash, widening a touch before his kids droop down, half-mast. Listening. Waiting. Bringing out a shiver when the hand cupping your pussy possessively twitches, the tip of his finger dipping inside just a sliver. "I want—" you swallow down the shame that prickles in the back of your throat, keeping your gaze fixed on him as you tremble through the unease and let the feverish pin of his stare pull you in deeper. Flay you alive just to stitch you back together again. "I want my—my big brother to eat, eat my pussy—"

When he groans, it sounds like you've gutted him. Vivisection in the dim foyer where you can still smell reality on your skin. Tommy's looming disgust, his anger, that snakes around your neck because Simon doesn't do quarters or halves. Flesh, blood, bones. All or nothing. And the next time the shadowed lover comes up, he'll pounce. Staking his claim on you. Laying ownership down in the shape of his spare dogtag he makes you keep around your neck. The next best thing to a ring.

(already go' my last name—)

Awful man.

He lurches forward. Springing like a tiger in the underbrush, all thick, corded grace. Muscled agility. Snatches his jaws around you, canines digging in. His face against your mound, breathing in deep. Fingers pushing, pressing into you. Tongue laving over salt-slick skin.

The thick line of his cock lays flat against his thigh. A terrible sight, really, considering you've only just learned how to take him to the root without clawing at him to get away. An impossible stretch that leaves you feeling achy and sore—the onset of a fever. Waking up with a bellyache and soaked in sweat. Him behind you, pushing his cock inside again, desperate for you ("go back sleep, pup—I jus' need your cunt—") despite the burn. Making room in a place that begs for clemency, crying out: he just doesn't fit.

Pleasure and pain are tetherbound with Simon. Tidally locked. You can't have one without the other, and slowly, slowly, he's teaching you how live around this paradox. And that's what it is

Two fingers stretching you. His mouth sealing over your clit. The sting soothed by the wash of his tongue. The hard, tight suck quelled with the graze of his knuckle over a cluster of nerves inside of you that make your vision blur.

Quiddity: hurt and bliss weaving together, sinking deep into bathic depths; becoming this ineffable thing shared between the two of you. Demersal. Subsumed deep in your marrow. Mother's embrace. Your own special temenos.

You wonder if he knows. If he feels it when he grips your hip tight, feasting on your cunt. This urgency. This need. This gnawing ache in your belly that wants, wants, wants—

"c'mon, pup," he grunts against you, brontide. "Ride my face 'til you cum."

He rives his tongue through your folds until your knees quake, threatening to buckle. Pulls your clit into his mouth, laving it with the flat of his tongue in tandem with the thrusts of his fingers. He knows your body perfectly. Renders it into a finely tuned instrument, strumming between his fingers and tongue. That mangled, awful mouth.

Pleasure thrums down your spine.

You can't do much, can't even move, when he lifts his hand and curls it under your thigh. Wrenched it up, hefting your leg over his shoulder. Opening you up wider for him.

His name spills out. A choked whisper, distant and ignored, under the noises he pulls from your body. The squelch of your cunt swallowing his fingers to the knuckle. So wet, so wanting, it puddles on the floor between his knees—

Makin' a fuckin' mess, pup—

And you are. His face is soaked. Covered in you. It drips down his chin, but he just licks his marled mouth and dives back in for more. Stroking against that spot inside, a lacuna he carved out himself, until you see stars.

Deliquesce in his hands. A pretty ringdove with his fingerprints around your neck, cooing for him as he tugs on your seams. Unravels you with too much teeth and tongue, fingers pistoning inside of you as you break into pieces in the foyer. The lights are still on. 

There's no hiding in the shadows. No playing pretend. 

It's Simon on knees opening you up. Glaring at you through cracked obsidian, naked hunger spuming in the ink-filled depths: heavy drapes of amorphous clouds, nimbostratus, that rumble through the room, closing in around you. Inescapable. Tangled in this nebulous web that spools around you—

Copper wire. 

His tongue feels electric when it rakes through your folds again—from rim, stretched around two thick, long fingers, to your pebbled clit—and the hot, clenching pulse behind your navel intensifies, coiling into a tight knot. A balled fist.

Simon groans into your swollen cunt, jabbing the tips of his fingers cruelly into that spot inside that makes your knees feel weak, liquid. Over and over and over—

“Come on,” it's barked out between sloppy licks over your clit, fingers rubbing, rubbing. “Be a good little sister and cum all over your brother's face—”

The knot breaks. Bursts into a series of gut-wrenching, bellyaching throbs. Pulsing molten as your nails dig into his scalp, body tensing with the viciousness of your release. Less unrelenting pleasure and more relief because when it rips through you, pulsing and throbbing like a heartbeat, a bellyache, there's a thread of pain woven in. Hewn against the clench of your muscles, the spasms that burst behind your navel. 

Made worse when he doesn't stop—

Fingers pushing, shoving. Mouth sloppy against your cunt, grunting into your wet slit about how he can feel your pussy squeezing around him. S’tight, pup. Feels like you're tryin’ t’strangle my fingers, but he keeps forcing them into you, bullying through the vice-like clench to rub over your spasming flesh, merciless and cruel. Tongue laving over your clit, sucking it into his too hot, too sharp mouth. All jagged teeth, and—

Too much, too much—

Giving a messy, slurping suck, then ducking down to shove his tongue into you, sliding it between his spreading fingers, drinking down the thick, syrupy taste of you until it aches. Burns—

“S–Simon, please—can’t—”

He peels away with a grunt, ugly and bullish, and the relief is so sweet, you nearly weep. Whining in the back of your throat when he blows over your heated, swollen cunt. The tears spill when he leans over, rubbing his wet, sticky face into your inner thigh before opening his maw and sinking his teeth into your skin. Claiming. Branding. 

It's different from the times before even though you know it's the same—same shape, same teeth, same spot. Something about it sits on your skin, digs into your flesh, differently than before. Less subtle. Less—

Restrained. 

Carnivorous. Possessive. Even if the press of his jowls fits like it always has—a tattoo you'll keep for a few weeks before it heals; open wound, scab, shiny new skin. Ephemeral. 

But maybe it doesn't have to be. 

In the malformed face of this engineered, coerced epiphany, he stands in a fluid motion. 

Your thigh slips down his shoulder before getting caught by hand, trapping it against his waist as he pushes against you, fingers locking in a bruising grip on the meat of your thigh.

Simon cages you between his body and the door. His other hand trails wet fingers over the column of your throat, wrapping around the vulnerable slope until the heat of his palm is pressed tight against your jugular. Holding firm.

Possessive.

It's a reflection of the look in his eyes as he gazes down at you, mouth wet. Pinked from heat, from the smothering clench of your thighs as he buried his face between them. The sight blisters. You want to taste yourself on his scars.

"want all o'you," he rumbles, timber low and fried. A brassy rasp that tickles your ears, and blooms fresh heat in your belly. Leaves scorch marks over your skin. "Get that, pup? All o' nothin'."

All or nothing.

Your legs are shaking. Natant. It feels like being eaten alive. Swallowed whole by the sea, dragged down, down— 

“Got it,” you breathe when he gives a little shake of his hand. A pinching squeeze. Eyes on me, birdie. Don’t you ever fuckin’ look away. “All or—”

His mouth is on yours, stealing the words out from between your teeth. Half-formed, inbred. A hitching gasp, a quiver. He eats it whole.

And that’s how he kisses you, too:

but it's never really a kiss so much as it is being devoured. Eaten alive. The same way he gorges himself on you whenever he's between your thighs. Hunger. Famine. All consuming. Immutable want. 

It’s in this kiss—sharing spit, sharing blood—(or this mockery of it) that the tendrils of his ravenous desire manifest, growing limbs. Teeth. Bites the hand that feeds it. 

Hindsight blooms in the black clots of hypoxia, screaming this:

Tommy’s approval (and surefire lack thereof) doesn’t matter, has never mattered, because in Simon’s head, his family is dead. Died in a massacre some eighteen years ago. Living ghost—

(Ghost, is that what they call you?

Why are you so curious, pup? Wanna try screamin’ that out tonight instead, huh? Call me Ghost when I go’ my cock buried deep inside that pretty little cunt. Go on, then. Let’s give ‘er a go—)

—and out of that, the ashes, the blood on the cigarette-burned carpet, you were the one he reached for, grabbed onto. C’mon, pup, ain't gonna lose you too. 

The you too in that has always been a mystery, the misshapen shape of a bad dream because the reality is that it’s impossible for you to remember, isn’t it?

And yet—

You have the most vivid memory of him pulling you into his arms, tucking your face into his chest. Breathe, birdie. Ain’t done with you yet. 

Like now, when he slips his fingers over the curve of your asscheek, following the slick seam until his knuckle is pushing against your sore, tender hole, slipping inside with a groan that tickles along your tongue where it’s trapped tight between his teeth. Ain’t done. Two fingers, knuckle deep. Swallowing the whimper you make, canines digging into the soft give of your flesh until the kiss turns from loam—the salt-soaked, algae-like tang of your pussy on his lips—to iron. Blood.

(But really—

A little more between you never hurts.)

He holds you to his chest, smothering. Suffocating. Playing god, tempting death, with just a kiss. Eyes open. Staring at you. 

And you: 

Eyes open, staring back at him. 

He sinks his fingers deeper, hooking them into your abused flesh until you whimper into his mouth, pulling away with a sharp cry. Don't and stop on your tongue, leaden, but he follows you, breaking them between his crooked teeth before they form.

“Come on, pup. Gimme one more.” 

But it's never just one more with him. Never sated. Never full. He groans into the soft skin under your lip, nipping there when you drop your head back against the door, panting. Breathless. Dizzy. So full of him, you don't remember what it's like to be empty anymore. 

“Simon, Simon, please, just—”

“Gonna gimme this pretty cunt instead, birdie?” Gonna ride your older brother, huh? Make ‘im cum inside you. He slips is other hand between your bodies, fingers dancing cruelly over your belly. Little circles. An oval. Some macabre pastiche of a heart. “Ain't safe,” he drawls, all bark, bite. “Could knock you up—”

All or nothing, you think suddenly, something whitehot burning behind your navel. Promise me that, pup. All or nothing, yeah? 

Sometimes, he really makes you sick. 

“What?” He taunts, breath rolling over your cheek as he digs his fingers into that spot inside that makes your knees turn liquid. The space below your hips melting. Natant. “Cat go’ your tongue o’ somethin’? Gone all quiet on me. Gonna make me think you don’t want me, pup.”

“Want you Simon,” you slur, dizzy. Delirious. As long as he keeps petting that place that makes everything sound a little fuzzy around the edges, that makes the space between your thighs feel syrupy with heat. Pleasure. “Want you so bad—”

“Then beg.” 

It’s cruel. Mean. But even so—

You think of his hand on your foot, pinching the wound closed. Copper sutures. Jus’ like that pup. Jus’ me an’ you.

“Go on an’ beg your older brother not to knock you up.”

The words form, moulding on your lips. They taste of seawater when you flick your tongue across their shape; ichor and salt. Blood, maybe. You remember the adage, fill the rest in: thicker than water. It comes out like a plea in the back of your head. 

You make it around please and Simon, before he bucks into you. Cock hard—a mallet. Battering ram. Inescapable. 

“Oh, pup,” he coos, strumming against that dizzying spot until you clench tight, unravelling around his fingers. Awash in pure white. Fuzzy around the edges. Cotton in your ears—

Sinking deep below the surface. Back in mother’s arms

But it’s just his lips against your skin, teeth nipping at your cheek, mocking and mean. “Gonna have to beg me better ‘in tha’—”

Tommy will be so disappointed, is the passing the thought as he pulls you down, down. 

The other—

But he's yours and that's all you've ever known. The rest just doesn't matter.