#simon melts into the carpet.

[mymitochondriaforpresident]

I was really looking forward to the continuation of the Wille Sweater storyline, as well as the third installment of the Fish Trilogy. :(

[devil-in-hiding]

something something Simon coming back with his scars for the first time, face hidden by his new balaclava as he sits on your couch, still as a statue as he glares holes into the carpet.

“Simon we don’t have to do this.” You whisper, and he barks out a humourless laugh. “Don’t want face it?” He snarks, but shrinks back at the noise of hurt you make, straightening your posture. “You could never scare me, you know that.” You sigh, taking his hand in yours and running your finger over his veins. “Not like it’s gonna be that much different. It’s still your ugly mug after all.”

“Oh alright stop takin’ the piss.” He snorts, rolling his shoulders and you finally smile, nudging his arm. “C’mon, after that little bitch fit now you really have to-“ Your words are cut off when he yanks the mask over his head, clutching it in his hands, staring at a loose thread, grimacing at the sound of your sharp intake of breath.

Simon struggles not to cover his mouth, to not just flee your apartment entirely, when your hand it gripping his chin, forcing him to face you, and your eyes shine with unshed tears as you turn his head this way and that, touch feather light as you trace the jagged scar that runs down the right side of his face. “Well?” His voice is tight, harsh. You’ve never judged him a day in his life and he doesn’t know what he’d do if-

“I’m so happy you’re home.” You force out between hiccups, lip trembling as you throw your arms around his shoulders, and it’s easy, melting into you, letting all these new worries and responsibilities melt off his shoulders as your nails scrape against his scalp.

“So am I luvie.”

[bi-writes]

Okay but MOB sitting on Simon's lap, cuddling as they watch some movie Simon picked out because it was his turn. At one point she gets up and he thinks she's just going to use the restroom, hands on her hips to help stabilize her. Only instead of leaving, she turns around and sits on her knees between his legs. She bats her eyes at him but otherwise just soaking in how pretty he is. He probably makes a joke, says he loves her and when he still doesn't move figures she just wants a moment and continues to watch the screen.

When she finally works herself up to it, she starts sliding her hands up and down his thighs and just the sensation and imagery alone has him hard and he can't bring himself to ask her to stop when it feels so nice. Eventually her hands wander up further and she begins to play with the button of his jeans. Still not stopping her, even as she unbuttons and zips them down to pull out his erection. When he finally looks down, she stops and stares innocently up at him.

As soon as his attention's somewhat back up on the screen, she repositions herself and licks a stripe up his dick to bring his head into her mouth to swirl around. He doesn't even last that long and she doesn't let him pull her off when he comes.

Or something like that...

mail-order bride (18+)

simon likes action movies. they're his favorite, by far. he likes to watch the over-the-top car races in the middle of metropolitan cities, he likes big, stupid explosions and when the protagonist has their enemy at the end of their gun and says something cheesy like "you're not going anywhere now."

he told you once that he likes the simplicity. the happy endings. the key recovered, a family saved, the epic conclusion of an explosive journey that always ends in the bad guy in handcuffs and the good guy on a beach sipping a mai tai, getting the girl, saving the world.

you think maybe he likes it because it dampens reality. you have seen the aftermath of an op gone wrong; in this way, simon can fantasize just a little. he can pretend that there is nothing wrong with the world for 90 minutes or so.

what's so wrong with that?

he's so pretty.

he ran errands for you today. came back from the store with a paper bag in his hands, setting it down on the counter and unpacking it. you were sat at the kitchen counter, the orange cat wrapped up completely in a burrito of a towel so you could cut her dagger-like claws without risk of retaliation. simon was watching carefully out of the corner of his eye, but as he unpacked the bag, you had all but melted in your chair.

a refill of your favorite makeup remover (you were going to run out tonight, guaranteed). vitamins (ya look right sick, baby, drink y'r juice). your favorite brand of pads (just tell me which ones, i'll get it right, promise). sour sweets (cherry-flavored, of course, sour because he likes the face you make when you pop them into your mouth). when the last box hit the counter, you had dropped the cat, much to her relief.

condoms. fucking condoms.

no, he's not pretty. simon is so fucking hot.

he doesn't budge when you get up to put the empty popcorn bowl into the sink. when you come back in the room, simon is still staring at the television, eyes trained on the spy on screen hopping between rooftops as they dodge bullets. you bite your lip watching him, unable to stop thinking about simon, simon, simon.

he's wearing nice jeans. straight jeans, but even the extra give doesn't matter when your husband is made of pure muscle and fat. you can see his stomach through his shirt since it's tucked in, white fabric showing off that nice pudge that you love laying your head on, your palm, knowing how solid and strong he most certainly is. nghghhhh, and his arms--big, bulging, tattooed, a perfect canvas for colorful markers or glitter or maybe your tongue.

it's subconscious, really. the carpet is soft under your knees as you kneel at his feet, lowering yourself so you can blink up at him big and wide as he keeps his eyes on the movie. he does notice you, however; his big hand slides down his thigh, and your eyes flutter a little when he passes it over your head then down your face, a pretty little pet between his legs.

"not supposed to be on y'r knees f'me, baby," simon mutters, but you can't answer because his thumb slips into your mouth. you wrap your lips around it absentmindedly, running your tongue over the thick pad of it. "tha's my job."

you sit up on your knees, leaning over him, and he gives you his attention finally, a twitch of a smile as he bends his neck a little and kisses you warmly. you steady yourself by putting your hands on his thighs, gripping the meat of them firm as you slip your tongue into his mouth and draw a low grunt from deep within his chest.

"always working for me, simon," you whisper between kisses. "always..."

fuck, the blood rushes to his cock almost immediately. he has such a soft spot for you. taking care of you, doing things for you, buying you what you need--it makes him so fucking hard thinking about fulfilling every need of yours. you deserve nothing but nice dreams, good meals, happy cats, a well-loved pussy, all the love his broken heart can give. he chubs up in his pants every time you ask him for something.

can you carry this for me, simon?

oh, i need some help with this, baby, just here...

can you get me more of this? i'm about to run out.

the zipper is stuck, simon...can you get me out of this?

ugh, you're his walking wet dream. and you're kneeling in between his legs, his sweet girl pouting up at him, and--oh, fuck--

your hands are soft under his shirt. you've untucked it just enough, your warm fingers sliding along the band of his jeans. he hisses a little, his body stiffening, and you smooth a thumb over his belt before kissing him again.

"you're so pretty, simon," you whisper, and he licks over your bottom lip in response, drawing a soft whine out of you. his thighs widen just a little when he hears the clink of his belt, feeling the waistband loosen as you draw it out from the loops and toss it onto the carpet behind you. "such a handsome man you are..."

"come off it," simon growls a little, and you giggle, freeing the button and slipping your hand down. his mouth falls open in a silent moan as you cup him with a hot hand, fingers sliding under his length to fondle his balls.

"mmm..." you follow his sputtering mouth, breathing him in. "actually, simon...i really, really wanna get on it..."

"wot a brat," simon murmurs, clicking his tongue. "can't be fuckin' patient--ahh!"

you pull him out of his jeans with a firm tug before sticking your tongue out and kneeling back down to lick a curious stripe up the underside of him. simon is pulsing, radiating heat and already leaking beads of stringy pre-cum, and as you suck the tip of him into your mouth, you realize just how thick your husband really is.

you've never seen him quite this naked, quite this up close. when he fucked your thighs, he had felt big, but his cock is truly making a space for itself in your mouth--

"ah!" you gasp as he fists your hair and pulls you off, leaning down to kiss you hard.

"baby--"

"i want it--" you whimper, using your hands, letting the spit from your mouth drip down his cock as your fingers spread it wide, pumping him softly. "simon, please! please! you always say...always say i can have whatever i want, please..."

when he lets your hair go, you dive. you suck him into your mouth, practically purring as you press him back into the couch and suck. he tastes like a man should, like a husband should, musk and a little sweat and just enough soap to have you a little light-headed. with the first bob of your head, simon shudders, a big hand cupping the back of your neck as he drops his chin to his chest to watch you. he uses his other hand to push your hair back, his mouth falling open a little as he watches your eyes roll back in your head as you try to fit more of him into your mouth.

your mouth squelches with every bob. spit gathers around the edges of your mouth, little globs dripping out as you slurp and flick your tongue over every vein and soft patch of skin. you're making a mess of him, all soft mouth and wiggly tongue and gentle moans that make him seize up.

it's not even a minute of your soft sucking, and simon is caught off guard by his own release. he wants to apologize, but you look so fucking pretty, coughing a little around his wet cock.

you don't stop then either.

some of it drips down around your hands, his own cum webbing between your fingers and getting onto the front of your shirt and staining his jeans, but you keep your mouth on him. you nuzzle the head of his cock against the inside of your cheek, pull off just enough to suck so softly on the tip of him.

"baby, fuck--" simon chokes, watching you through lidded, hazy eyes. "please, fuck--"

"i want it," you whisper, smoothing a wet hand down his length. he's getting hard all over again, and he nearly cums a second time when you let your eyes find his and pepper kisses from the tip of him all the way to the base. "don't i get w-whatever i want, simon? c-can't i...can't i have more?"

simon chuckles a little. he uses his thumb to swipe a glob of cum off your chin, bringing it up to his own mouth to suck off with a snort.

"you want more, baby?" simon asks, and you sit back up on your knees, pressing your forehead to his as he eyes your lips. they're a tad swollen, kiss-bitten and wet. "wot more do ya want, hmm? wot is it my wife wants so much, huh?"

you smile, wide, those big eyes sparkling. you give him another slow stroke with your hand, and he hisses, gritting his teeth as he watches your smile get just that much bigger.

"i want you to stop playing games with me, simon," you say softly. "you'll never win. so just give me what i deserve."

"wot you deserve?"

"don't i deserve you, simon?" you ask, and when he fails to answer, you swipe your thumb over his cock, drawing a cracked groan out of him. "you won't make me beg, will you, simon?"

"no," simon pants, leaning further into you, pressing his face to yours. "never. my wife doesn't beg for anythin'."

"you promise, simon?"

"my wife gets woteva she fuckin' asks for. olways."

[chaosandmarigolds]

yeah yeah Simon Riley with an equally badass partner sounds great but-

pre-k teacher?

Simon swore he had never seen something so...perfect in his life, and he had seen something pretty amazing things for all of the horrible things

Simon who is pretty certain he isn't good for you, after all he towers over you and whenever he does come by to help Price with a bake sale the kids stare up at him as if he's quite literally...a ghost

Simon and all of his scariness that melted away when you smiled up at him, a sweet thank you on your lips as you took the box to help clean out your classroom for the summer

Simon who told price he would find a way home on his own so he could stay to help you get all of the decoration down from the walls and get everything packed away

Simon who would snatch something he deemed too heavy with a hoarse, 'I gotchit, luv' not even realizing the pet name slipped out because it felt so...natural

Simon even though he tried to make your son sit on the small patch of carpet and keep him entertained with his book- he ended up becoming a playgym and babysitter while you did most of the heavy lifting

Simon who found your son to actually be pretty neat, unlike a lot of other children, telling the kid very censored versions of his time in the war as the little guy sat atop of his shoulders

Simon tried to very politely decline the dinner invitation (plus ride home) once the room was all packed up but gave in when you aptly took his hand and began to drag him to your car

Simon sat in the passenger seat as you apologized for the toy car that lay in the seat as you buckled your son into his car seat, smiling at the small photo that sat snug on the car screen

Simon encouraged the boys to sing along to the obscure children's song while you scolded him for it in the form of a light pat on the leg as you drove to the nearest child friendly restaurant (chick-fil-a or something along those lines)

Simon who paid for the dinner against your many denials and used it as the perfect excuse to hold your hand as he tapped the card against the reader

Simon who watched in wonder as you helped your son get his little boots untied so he could go play in the play area, your delicate hands and smile upon your perfect face...

Simon listened intently to everything you rambled about, from the happiness of teaching and why you chose it to your son and how he was the greatest blessing in disguise you had been given- funny, because he thought that about you

Simon when he heard that you would have to find a nanny for your son for over the summer since you'll need a second job wouldn't let that be for even a millionth of a second

''ll watch 'em, luv."

"Simon, that's so kind bu-"

"No buts, like the lil' guy, no problem."

Simon who does like the little boy you call your son, but who was mainly using the free babysitting as a reason to see you

Like it?? Part two is right Here!

[charliemwrites]

Mean Simon, Part 5

Another thing in the queue done 😎 also plan on reformatting this so it has a proper title and pretty dividers tonight.

Content: Established kidnapping situation, dub-con touching, Fear Play/Kink

Simon and Johnny come home from deployment to you snoozing in the den. The house is clean as always, smells like lemons and linen, but there are signs of you everywhere. A half-finished puzzle on the coffee table, a book on the arm of the couch, a cup left on the kitchen counter. Not the spick and span catalgouesque space they left.

Simon’s a little surprised to find he doesn’t mind. Something in his shoulders eases at the sight of you. A soft thing to come home to, nesting up in his and Johnny’s territory. A novelty that hasn't worn off.

“Oh, pretty girl,” Johnny coos, dropping his bags in the entry and beelining for you.

The sound of him startles you, fingers curling tight into the blankets. You make a nervous sound of protest, disoriented as you blink against the afternoon light. Not that he cares, smothering you beneath his weight and kissing your face.

“Johnny…?” you yawn, slow to release the fabric. Take a moment to calibrate and then nudge gently at his chest. “S’mon doesn’ like shoes on the carpet.”

“That’s right,” Simon rumbles, “so I’m having a hard time understanding why the fuck they’re there.”

Johnny jolts, shoots him a sheepish look over his shoulder. All it takes is a narrow glare for him to skitter away, mumbling apologies and excuses about missing you. Simon ignores him for the moment.

“Here, pet.”

It takes you an extra beat to realize he's talking to you, but then you’re up and padding over to him, rubbing at your eyes. You stop within arms reach (progress, he notes) and peer at him through your lashes.

“Hi, sir,” you chime.

Not quite what he had in mind, but it’s a start.

“Good while I was gone?”

You tilt your head. “Yes? Unless… there was something I was supposed to do…?”

He huffs in amusement. Such a nervous, sweet thing. He pats your head, smirks a bit at how you fluster, hands fidgeting.

“House looks fine,” he says by way of answer.

“Oh, I-I left some things out…” you mumble, glancing at the few unobtrusive items. “Sorry.”

“Just keep it under control, yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

Johnny, just finished removing his boots and gear, wraps himself around you from behind. You place a hand slowly on his arm in return, hiding that you don’t melt into him the way he does to you.

“Are you hungry?” you ask.

Not especially, but Simon’s never hungry fresh off a mission, belly warm with more than his share of slaughter. But the thought of your cooking is appetizing.

“Make something.”

“Okay.” You wiggle a bit and tap at Johnny’s tight arm. “Johnny?”

Simon bites back a chuckle at the helpless look you shoot him.

“Shower, Sergeant. Now.”

“Yessir,” Johnny grumbles, slow to unwind from you. Petulant little shit.

As soon as you’re clear, Simon snatches him by the scruff. You jump, eyes rounding.

“Off to the kitchen, little one. The mutt needs one more run ‘round the yard I think.”

Johnny whines, but Simon’s watching your face, noting the fear that flickers across it while you inch away. Just as he suspected, even seeing Johnny disciplined is enough to shake you.

“Yes, sir,” you reply more fervently, turning on your heel and nearly bolting.

He lets out a breath. One thing at a time. For now, he’s got a spoiled pup to bring to heel.

Simon’s been busy these last two weeks.

Johnny on his own is nearly a full time job. Even after he got you, the pup is high energy and too clever for his own good. A working dog, that one. And finding “work” for him to do (especially since he’s been banned from entertaining himself with your pretty holes) has kept Simon rather occupied during this leave.

Add you to the mix and Simon’s bloodlust has been slower to boil over than usual - too busy to miss his guns.

He’s been acclimating you. The No Touching directive seems seared into your muscles, a good lesson to have, an important rule for your own safety as much as Simon’s preference. But it doesn’t serve him any longer. He’s trying to retrain you to Johnny’s rule, No Touching Without Permission - but of all your apprehensions, this one seems the worst.

You’ve gotten braver about speaking to him. Only stutter over every other sentence rather than every other word. You still pick and choose carefully, tune your voice to the notes of conciliation, but not silent unless spoken to anymore. Simon’s almost proud.

But the touching issue. That’s what he really wants to break.

You can at least share space with him now without startling at every little thing. Curled up on the couch, you’re folding laundry. Johnny’s gone off to shower, busy in the garden all afternoon. The telly is on, a sci-fi movie that Simon isn’t interested in but you seem to enjoy.

You're cross-legged in a loose pair of shorts and the jumper Johnny stuffed you into (with his own name across the back, the little shit). Quiet, calm. He likes the way you fold clothes - imprecise, a little messy. Not the perfect squares he and Johnny make.

“Pet.”

You turn to him, expression curious. Much better.

“C’mere.”

You pause. “Can I finish this shirt?”

He nods. There’s only a tiny shake in your hands as you do. Then you stand and shuffle to close the small distance.

Still not touching.

Lazily, he spreads his knees apart, feet planted wide and beckons you closer with a finger. This time you do hesitate, knee bent to step forward for one beat… two… then you finally force yourself to squeeze between his legs. You don’t even brush against him. It’s almost impressive.

“Told you to c’mere, didn’t I?” he drawls.

You brow furrows, confusion turning your plush lips into a cute little pout.

“I - am I not… here?” you ask.

He practically purrs. “No.” He gestures again. “Here.”

You suck in a tiny breath as it seems to click. “Y-your lap?”

He hums. You open your mouth, close it. Fidget and then open your mouth again. Nothing comes out.

“Not gonna say again, pet,” he rumbles.

You inhale deeply. And then, as if he’s a bear trap about to snap closed, you start to climb over him. Slowly, so slowly, you ease each of your legs over his, hands hovering until you nearly lose your balance and have to use his shoulders for support. You’re straddling him, but none of your weight is on his thighs; you’re up on your knees and trembling.

He meets your eyes. Waits.

“Sir… I…”

“All the way.”

Embarrassed heat radiates off you as you lower slowly, until your soft ass is pillowed on his broad thighs.

“Good girl,” he soothes. “See, that’s not so bad, is it?”

You shake your head, but you’re not able to meet his eyes. He’s starting to see why Johnny fawns over you so much. You make such precious expressions.

“Eyes up.”

You drag your gaze to his - and this time he does coo. You’re all teary and overwhelmed, nearly holding your breath, fingers twitching on his shoulders.

“You’re doing so well, lamb.”

You’re struggling to maintain eye contact, so he takes pity, appreciating the entirety of you on him instead. Admires the round pudge of your thighs and bent hips, the curve of your spine staying upright. He thumbs your ribs, feels your heart rabbiting against them.

“Breathe,” he coaxes.

You inhale sharply, blinking hard. His cock jumps against the waistband of his joggers.

“I-is there…?” You stop. He nods for you to try again. “W-why, um… this?”

“Think you ‘n I could use some exposure to each other, eh?”

You blink. “E-exposure?”

“Mm.” He raises a hand, gradually so you can see it coming. Twists a strand of your hair around his trigger finger - lets it bounce back. Does it again. “Can’t have you skitterin’ about like a kicked dog.”

“Oh.” You blink. “I-I thought…”

He waits for you to finish the sentence, but you just press your lips together nervously. Still a work in progress, then.

“‘F I wanted that, you wouldn’t be up here.”

Never mind the months he spent ignoring your presence and scowling when you got too close. Or the week he made a game of spooking you just before this all began. He doesn’t want that anymore.

You may be Johnny’s toy, but Johnny belongs to Simon. Besides, he got you for Johnny. Only right that he plays with you too.

“Alright, little one. Off you go before the pup comes back and makes a fuss.”

You scramble as quickly and carefully as you can back to your end of the couch. Simon turns back to the telly and lets you be.

Johnny, bless him, doesn’t notice that you’re any quieter than usual.

The next time he has you climb into his lap, he’s drinking bourbon. You’ve cast him one too many glances from your side of the couch, keep losing your place in your book.

When Johnny eventually shuffles off to shower and prep his pretty ass, Simon calls you over again. You crawl across the couch and sit back on your heels at his side, more curious than frightened for once.

“You want a sip?” he asks, tilting the glass towards you.

“…please?” you ask.

He hums. “Tilt your head.”

You only jolt a little when he cups the nape of your neck, urging your head back. Understanding, you part your lips - though you must be expecting the glass. You squeak a little as he seals his mouth over yours, golden drops of bourbon sliding off his tongue onto yours.

He lingers, the taste of you mixing with the alcohol into something heady. Your mouth is so sweet and yielding, tongue shy as it grazes his. He licks across your dull canines, relishes in the noise trapped in the back of your throat, before pulling away.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“It burns,” you mumble, a bit high-pitched.

“You’ll get used to it.”

With liquid courage in your tummy, you make the journey into his lap a little quicker this time.

“What’re you lookin’ at, huh?” he asks, leaning back to watch you through lidded eyes.

“You, um… your jaw. You usually wear the mask,” you explain, flushing.

“Pull it up to eat,” he points out.

“‘M usually eating too, though.”

He snorts in amusement. “Nosy little thing.”

You must hear that he doesn’t mean it because your voice isn’t especially sincere when you mumble, “sorry.”

Your eyes keep roaming what little of his face is available, though. And your twitchy little fingers keep flexing in his shirt.

“Ask.”

“Can I touch?”

He hums. “Ask nicer.”

You blink, consider. “May I please touch your face, sir?”

He grunts the affirmative, mouth dried by the honeyed lilt to your voice. Sugar would taste bitter in comparison.

Your fingers brush featherlight across the point of his jaw. Follow the line of it until you reach a nasty scar from a hunting knife. Trace it twice before creeping along to his chin. You repeat it for the mark there, all the way up to the corner of his lips. He snaps his teeth, making you yelp and jerk back.

“That was mean,” you complain quietly.

“Poor dear,” he croons, flashing his canines again.

“D-don’t bite… please.”

He makes a noncommittal noise, but you still take the chance of skimming those gentle fingers across his mangled cheek. It’s a strange sensation, charged. Sends odd prickles across his entire face, down his spine. Not even Johnny touches him this softly.

Simon’s teeth and jaw ache with the urge to sink in and shake. You’d give like a ripe peach, he just knows it. Would taste just as good. His mouth waters.

“Enough.”

You instantly pull away. Not even a squeak of protest. He flutters his eyes open; you’ve got both hands clearly visible and to yourself. Smart thing.

“You scared ‘o me?” he wonders.

You don’t answer, but the indent your teeth press into your bottom lip is answer enough.

“Good. Should be.”

You swallow, start to lower your hands, intending to get off his lap. He snatches up one of your wrists before you get far, the bones so delicate in his grasp. You gasp quietly, but know better than to try to escape.

“Didn’t tell you to go yet.”

“O-okay,” you breathe.

Eyes on yours, he drags your hand closer, brushes his lips across the tender meat of your thumb. Your fingers stay lax, but your pupils are blown out. Slowly, deliberately, he presses his teeth into the flesh and closes his jaw until you twitch, expression tightening with discomfort. There.

He stays like that for the count of three, then lets go.

There’s a perfect imprint of his teeth in your skin. Might even bruise. Pretty.

He twists his wrist, flattens your palm against his. So much smaller than his, more elegant. More delicate. A much different animal from him, but still you belong in his den.

“Breathe,” he reminds without looking away.

You inhale shakily. Practically squirming now. He drops his hand and presses the bourbon glass into yours.

“One more for the road.”

You take the tiniest of sips. He chuckles at the face you make as you hand it back.

You don’t like the taste as much as from his lips.

First | Previous | TBC...

Masterlist

[kismetlotts]

cw: oral sex, dub con, degrading words, controlling behaviour, breath play, angry sex?

Simon Riley who dates a clean freak, being woken up in the early hours of the morning to the sound of a hoover blaring through the house.

Making himself a cuppa as he pushed by you washing, tidying and putting away the dishes. Making sure each and every one was sparkling clean and perfect.

He’d help occasionally depending on how busy he was and assure you that you were doing a good job. His good little girl working so hard.

It was somewhat degrading how he spoke to you, like you were some sort of maid to him. Some maid that would tidy everything up for him and make sure he was living a clean, polished lifestyle.

Simon Riley who soon realises how much he enjoys it. I mean he worked in the army so of course he had a good little housewife that sat at home cleaning- if anything he deserved it. He was entitled to it. He’d shown you nothing but trust, honesty, love and respect so having you as his personal little tidy-toy was just fair. He was fair- when you were good he’d reward you.

He loved treating you to a nice cosy bath, massaging the muscles you’d cleaned with beneath the water as you snuggled up to each other. The bathtub only just big enough for the both of you but the closeness was comforting. You’d like his hands protecting you and easing you into relaxation.

But when you’d been bad- oh dear. When you’d argued he’d make sure to make life hell for you. That cup of tea he was just drinking? Now a puddle on the counter, the liquid dripping down the kitchen cupboards. His muddy, sweaty work boots that usually stay at the door? Now stuck on his feet with brown footprints traced around the carpet. Smug eyes looming down at you as he sprawled over the couch, watching you scrub out the stains he’d left.

He’d force you to come closer until you were kneeling right between his thighs. Taking out his already hard cock from his jeans and stroking it in front of your face. Your eyes hypnotised by the thick veins spiralling up his shaft-no longer angry because couldn’t process anything anymore; couldn’t stop your mouth from salivating. You wanted to wrap your lips around him, give into him and take him into your throat but you’d wait.

Wait so patiently. Innocent, wide and confused eyes staring back up at him just to piss him off more. To push him over the little ledge he was on until he grabs you by the hair and fucks your throat. Hips near about smacking into your face as you gagged and choked on him. His balls would bounce and slap against your chin too, leaving a quiet slap amongst your gargling and grunting.

If he felt really cruel he’d sometimes squeeze your nose while he thrusted in and out. Leaving you with little to no oxygen until he wanted you to breathe, until he allowed it. Your hot breath and pants of panic warm on his dick, making it twitch and drip infront of you.

He’d spend however long he wanted with you, going back and forth until he felt close. His orgasms barging in and he’d pull out, releasing over your face, in your hair and on the floor. Slapping his dick on your face as he shook his head at the mess, tuts falling from his lips and disappointment on his face.

“See all the mess now?” His gruffly deep, almost sarcastic voice asked but his hand grabbed the back of your neck, gently. Slowly pushing your face towards the cum droplets he had spilled on the ground. Them dark eyes of his staring back into yours, sticking you to the ground like you were melting in warm honey before speaking to you. Sighing while he tells you,

“This is what happens when a silly little slut like you gets distracted. Clean it up.” Before sitting back a bit, and watching you get to work.

[as-is-above-so-below]

The Captain - Simon Riley x Sniper!Reader, Wife!Reader

Blurb 2: Too Fast

I'M ALIVE! Thank you all for your patience :) I've had so many big life changes in the last four months (and in the coming months) - it's hard being an adult, people. I've been traveling (mainly visiting @lethalchiralium a bunch <3), planning a big move, looking to land a new job...all the things. Anyway! Please enjoy. Blessed be, and Happy Yuletide!

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“Si…”

“Hm?”

“He’s getting too big.”

Simon turned his chair slightly away from his desk to peek over his shoulder. In the doorway to their office stood Freyja with a six-month-old Arthur on her arm, clad in a cow-print onesie. The little hood was pulled up over his head, sporting fluffy little ears on top, along with a pair of horns. 

He just about melted when Frey pouted at him and sniffled, rubbing their son’s back. Simon was up in an instant, padding across the carpet to stand by her side, a soft, sympathetic smile gracing his features. He bent his head a little and attempted to get the baby’s attention, gently brushing his back with his fingers “Art. Artie…” he hummed, the last syllable drawn out a bit. “Look at Dada, Art.”

Arthur did eventually turn his head, after a moment, preoccupied with gumming his toy and confused by the interruption. The hood that used to hang over his face and block his vision now sat snug on his fine hair. There was no need to adjust it back to meet his big, curious eyes. 

“Hi, pup.”

Simon wasn’t his preferred parent by any means; that privilege was reserved for his mum. Still, on seeing a familiar face, the baby smiled around his teething ring, and his fat cheeks chubbed up as he cooed and wiggled in Freyja’s hold. He pressed his hand between the two, his palm against Arthur’s chest, and took the infant onto his forearm, his little back against his chest. 

Simon let out a dramatic huff, kissed Art’s head, then patted his belly. “Oh, yeah,” he said, giving his wife a playful look. “Look at those big, manly legs of yours. Thing’s a bit tight on ye, now.”

The baby craned his neck, trying to look back at his dad as he spoke, and quickly getting frustrated and crying out. Simon chuckled and turned him around, supporting his neck and peppering kisses on Art’s rosy cheek. When he was satisfied, he leaned down for a quick kiss from Freyja.

“It lasted longer than I thought it would. He’s nearly busting out of it.”

“Simon!”

“What? He’s six months old, Freyja. He’s been wearing it since he was born. Oversized, might I add.”

“Shut up. It’s my favorite. My little moo cow.” 

“We can buy him a new one.”

“He’s growing too fast. I hate it.”

Don’t I know it?

To Simon, it felt like Artie had only been born yesterday. Where did the baby in front of him, who was sitting up on his own and already using a sign or two, come from? He had no idea, couldn’t say where the time went. God forbid he blinks, and suddenly he’ll be walking and chasing after his sister-

No. It’s fine. That’s what babies do, yeah? They start eating solids, learn to crawl, then walk. Then they go to their first day of primary school, then…secondary…

Stop it.

He settled for a soft, “I know, love.”

Arthur cooed up at him again, a sound known to pull easy smiles from the man. He would listen to it forever, if he could. 

“Yeah? Do you like that idea?” Simon asked, tracing patterns on Art’s back with his fingers again. “Do you want a new cow onesie?” A little smile from Art. “Alright, pup. Dad will get you one.”

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[hopelesslonelyghost]

okay but smoking weed with gaz and soapppp

they’re the only ones who were actually down for it. john said he was too old for it and simon well, he just glared at you when you suggested it. that didn’t stop them from hanging out with you guys, claiming “well someone has to take care of you lot.”

so now here you three were, on the couch in your flat, staring at the ceiling.

“i think i got too high.”

soap grumbled from his position on the floor next to the couch, laying prone, his face stuffed in your fuzzy pink carpet. you think he got too high, too.

gaz was in the kitchen eating a sandwich simon made for him. john was sitting on the couch with you, your legs on his lap watching tv. he was massaging your calves, sending goosebumps up your legs and spine.

soap suddenly got up, stumbling a bit as he regained his balance and walked into the kitchen, “ay l.t.! can i get one too?”

you could tell he was giving simon the puppy eyes and you giggled. john let out a low chuckle.

admittedly, you were hungry too but the way you felt yourself melting into the couch was way too good for you to ruin it by getting up.

“john you’re making me fall asleep.”

the older man hummed, digging his fingers a little deeper, pulling a little moan from you. you’re sure he would’ve jumped your bones if you weren’t under the influence.

“okay i’m ready for another joint honestly.” gaz said as he came back into the living room, sandwich in hand.

you scoffed in disbelief, wobbling a little as you pushed yourself up onto your elbows, turning to stare at your boyfriend, “kyle how the hell! we just finished one!”

your mouth is gaped open. how the hell is he already ready to smoke again? you plopped down onto your back once more, “gimme a bite and you might just be able to convince me.”

kyle scrambled to you, holding out his bitten sandwich. you took a big bite, nodding in bliss, “this is a fucking good sandwich si.”

“you’re just high as fuck, love. everything is fucking good right now.”

[longing-for-the-past-times]

wisdom teeth

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader

word count: 1,472

synopsis: Simon comes home from a mission only to find you in bed, sick and in pain. Your wisdom teeth are coming out and he does his best to care for you

notes: as always, i suck at writing a good synopsis; inspired by this request- not proofread, hope you enjoy :) ; and yes, when two of my wisdom teeth decided to come out in the world last spring I could barely open my mouth without being in pain- I hope no one else has to go through what I did

warnings: a little too self-indulgent? fluff

masterlist

Simon knew something was wrong when he spent nearly an hour nursing his cup of Earl Grey, and you hadn't joined him yet. While it wasn't unusual for you to sleep in sometimes, it was still the morning after he'd returned from a mission and you would usually be fussing all over him. Ghost knew he was being irrational, but with each passing second his mind couldn't help but spiral into darker and darker thoughts. What if he had done something to upset you? You didn't greet him last night either - merely cuddled against his chest when he joined you in bed - was it something he said on the phone? Or rather didn't say? Didn't he call you too often? Or perhaps you might have met someone else..?

"'m sorry, S'mon. I might spend'he day'n…"

A small curse left his lips as he shook himself out of his thoughts. The tea had long gone cold by the time he eventually got up from the table and threw the remnants down the kitchen sink. His stomach was basically growling, protesting at the prolonged hunger it had been objected to, yet Ghost did not head for the fridge or the cupboards: he may have drunk his tea by himself, but, when he was home, he would never have breakfast without you by his side.

So instead, he headed for the bedroom, quietly opening the door and half-entering the room. He had to squint as the blackout curtains were still obstructing any ray of sunlight that might have entered inside otherwise, his expression morphing into a frown upon hearing the faintest of groans coming from the bed.

Traversing the room in two steps, he laid on the carpet, by your side of the bed, gently placing a hand on your forehead. His heart dropped at the foreboding feeling of you having a fever, too focused on the situation at hand to notice the soft way you began to rub your head against the cold skin of his hand.

Ghost, on the other hand, did not realise the cause of your distress. Seeing you in pain was causing him pain too and his tired mind, still set on the military mindset he had instilled during the last mission, was looking for a culprit.

"feels so good, love", you mumbled with your cheek still squished against the pillow, your eyes involuntarily making contact with his.

You've been together with Simon for more than two years and sharing an apartment for a year now, but the sight of his handsome face, unconcealed by any mask or balaclava, still left you out of breath and at a loss for words. That morning was no different, his worried expression filling your heart with even more love and joy towards him, so much that you swore you could feel it burst at the seams. You relished in the soothing sensation of his palm being pressed against your flushed skin, but at the same time, you couldn't help but smile at him in an attempt to reassure him you were fine.

In fact, you weren't. And you forgot that, at least for the last few days, any movements that involved opening your mouth, no matter how minor, were instantly accompanied by sharp waves of pain, coursing through your entire being. So, for the hundredth time that week, your smile was quickly replaced by a pathetic whimper and a hand helplessly pressed against your cheek, as if it would make the pain go away.

"Who did this to you? Just say the word and I-"

His concern was so raw and real that it made your heart melt like it was a chocolate bar left in the sun. You had missed his overprotective attitude and the scary dog privileges it brought with it and in that moment, the realisation that all of it was back hit you hard. So hard that in fact, you started laughing- your loud chuckles quickly turning into sobs of pain as your jaw was protesting against the sudden movements.

Your eyes were closed in an attempt to dull the pain that engulfed your entire face, but you could feel Simon's distress rolling off him in waves. So you blindly reached for the phone and opened the notepad application, typing in what you were unable to say out loud at once:

"Wisdom teeth are coming out."

Stopping dead in his tracks, Simon took a moment to assess the situation. A rush of relief surged through his veins as it was all clear then- the prolonged sleeping periods, the fever, why you couldn't open your mouth without being forced to close it immediately after. A selfish part of him was relieved that it was something he could physically deal with, and his protective instincts really started to kick in.

Pulling the curtains was not a solution as the brightness of the daylight would only make you feel more overwhelmed, but the room still needed some light- and the bedside lamp was not a solution as the bulb would have also been too bright. You would also need something to calm you, but not pills because they would interfere with the painkillers he also made a mental note to get and-

"I can practically hear the wheels turning in your head, love! :)"

He had to squint to process the text when you shoved the phone into his face, his lips curling up at the sight of the smiley face you typed at the end. Urging your face to morph into something that remotely resembled a smile, you extended a hand towards his face and caressed his cheek with your thumb, in what was meant to be a silent confirmation that he was on the right track and nothing that he would or wouldn't do would upset you in any way.

"I'll be back in 30 minutes at most!", he solemnly declared as he pressed his lips against your forehead, a small tendril of hope bubbling in his chest upon the feeling of the fever starting to fade away. "Why don't you try to get some rest until I come back and then we'll see what we can do!"

You could only nod in confirmation as he pulled another blanket from a drawer and draped it over the one you already used, making a show out of tugging you in.

---

When you woke up again, the pain wasn't entirely gone, but the air in the room had somehow shifted. It took you a moment to bounce back into reality, your eyes slightly widening at the faint light that illuminated the previously dark room.

Fairy lights were hanging over your head.

And the soft notes of a piano song could be heard from outside the room.

"How are you feeling, love?", Simon's deep Manchester accent resounded somewhere in your proximity, and you almost jumped out of bed when you realised he was once again sitting on the floor, half leaning against the bed. His mask was, once again, out of sight, and his blonde strands of hair were tousled, likely from the many times he kept running his hands through his hair. Your eyes involuntarily stopped on the faint scar that split the left corner of his lip in half and, for a brief moment, all the pain and distress you found yourself in were gone, your heart filling with an overwhelming amount of love and adoration towards the man standing in front of you.

"So I brought you some painkillers, but before we try them I suggest a cup of this calming tea mix I found at the store-"

The sentence was left hanging in the air as you shook your head in disbelief and cupped his face in your hands, planting a soft kiss on his lips. If Ghost was caught unawares by your sudden display of affection, he did not let it show, but instead, he laced his hands against your neck and deepened the kiss, closing his eyes at the close contact you found yourselves in. Loudly expressing his feelings was not one of his strengths, and deep down he could not believe he had managed to find someone like you, who could understand him so well.

"Welcome home, Simon!"

"I think I'm feeling better already…", you quietly mumbled once you broke the kiss, your lips gently brushing against his cheek. Closing your eyes as well, you grazed your nose against his face, finding comfort in his scent. He may have been home for a day, perhaps he took a shower too, but the distinctive smell of gunpowder, mixed with sweat and cologne, was still there. And you did not mind it at all.

That time your jaw did not hurt as bad as your mouth curved into a smile.

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

.⋆｡Just Like Daddy｡⋆.

Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish x plus size reader

A bored husband and kids in need of a haircut while you’re at work, good thing they’re all so freaking adorable 

Warnings: fluff, domestic humour

WC: 744

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

“Honey! I’m home!” The front door quietly shut behind you as you kicked off your heels and dropped your work bag on the bench next to you. You expected a cacophony of noise upon your return given that there were 4 children in your home (including your husband) but the whole place was dead silent.

You glanced out the front window, confirming that Johnny’s car was in fact in the driveway so he wasn’t out running errands with the kids. Plus all of their little sneakers were lined up against the wall so they couldn’t have gone out to the park.

“Johnny?” After a quick look down the hallway to the empty kitchen, you began to climb the stairs to the second floor. Anxiety curled in your gut, logically you knew that everyone was fine and safe but Johnny’s job was dangerous and came with some very… interesting people.

But then, a baby’s giggle echoed from the master bathroom and your body relaxed. The sound was quickly cut off as another voice harshly whispered. “Shush.” That was definitely your husband.

“But it’s mama.” Your heart melted at your toddler’s words, he was such a mummy’s boy. 

“I know it’s yer mum, tha’s why we’re stayin’ quiet.” You forced down your smirk, preparing a disapproving look for your family and whatever shenanigans they had gotten up to in your absence. Last time, Johnny, at the whims of your eldest, dyed Riley pink while you had been dog-sitting her for Simon. You were scrubbing pink dye out of the carpet for weeks afterwards.

Silently, you crept down the hall and slipped into your bedroom which was suspiciously clean considering the almost violent romp of last night and this morning. The bathroom door was firmly shut but light leaked out from underneath, letting you know exactly where your little clan was.

You slipped out of your work jacket and shimmied down your tights, deciding to let your husband fester in anticipation and his bad decisions for a few more minutes. By the time you had donned your comfy house clothes, you could feel the panic your husband was experiencing.

As soon as your wrist twisted the doorknob, the excited babbles began. “Mama!” Your youngest screamed. The door creaked open and for a moment, everything was dead silent.

Johnny stood beside the bathtub, your 6 year old daughter beside him as the two younger kids, your three year old and one year old, sat in the bath, huge smiles on their faces. Hair covered the tiled floor and it didn’t take you very long to work out where it had come from.

Each and every one of them had matching mohawks, each of them looking like an exact carbon copy of their father.

“Now bonnie, I can explain. See, me hair was gettin’ long so I wanted ta take some clippers ta it but then Maisie said her hair was too long and wanted it like mine and ya know I canne resist those big eyes o hers. And then the babies were upset and-and, it got outta hand.” He nervously rubbed the nape of his neck, a dark blush blooming across his scruffy cheeks.

Callum stood up, sending another wave of loose hair onto the ground, a pout on his face. “Wan look li da.” He said simply as if he were trying to defend his father. His baby sister Ava slapped the side of the tub with a happy screech.

“Ma-“ Maisie started but immediately stopped as soon as your laughter filled the room. You doubled over, clutching your stomach tightly. Johnny chuckled along with you uncomfortably, still anticipating some sort of retribution.

Wiping the tears from your eyes, you straightened up once more. Maisie ran into your waiting arms, her perfectly done mohawk brushing against your chest. Your fingers brushed through her hair that was so much like Johnny’s, pulling out the cut strands still caught in her thick mane. 

“You gave me children some fudged up mullets.” You chuckled and his shoulders dropped, realising that he was finally off the hook.

“I’ll fix em up.” Leaning over your daughter’s head, you met his lips in a delicate kiss which was met by some very frustrated shouts from your children.

“Alright then! I guess we need to get everyone in a bath and maybe some pizzas in your bellies, daddy’s treat.” Four almost identical smiling faces looked back at you, all of them incredibly adorable. 

MW2 Masterlist | Main Masterlist

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Modern Warfare

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[barracks-bunni]

Sunday Snoozes {S.G.R.}

Franchise: Call of Duty (MW II & III)

Character: Simon Riley x Reader

Genre: Fluff

A/N: Hey! So I am suuuperrr nervous to be posting this. I haven’t actually written properly in about 4 years, and I very suddenly got the urge to write this while sitting in my garden this morning. I’m very sorry if it sucks, I’m super duper rusty ): It’s just a soft little drabble, hope you guys enjoy! (: ((oh, p.s. hi, my name’s Bunni 🩷))

~^*^~

It’s 9:42am precisely on a late August morning. The curtains are half drawn in your shared bedroom, the warm morning sun pooling through the gaps and leaving puddles of ecru on the carpet below.

As autumn steadily approaches, the heat of summer had begun to die off and you’re back in skimpy pyjamas as opposed to the weeks of sleeping in your birthday suit. Simon was not overly-joyed the first night you slipped into bed in some teeny tiny shorts and a vest top. But, despite the cooling temperatures, the window remained open through the night to allow the fresh air in.

With it being a Sunday, the roads are a little quieter than usual. Your house is situated just a row in from the main road of the village, meaning you’d still hear the cars, lorries and other vehicles coming through at all hours. The row of trees lining the main road rustle in the warm breeze and the sound carries through to you. With the warmer weather also comes bikers and as the morning kicks into gear, there are a few revs of engines and whines of throttles as people go for morning joyrides.

The duvet around you is warm - tugged up to your shoulder with one of your legs hanging out and your ankle hanging off the edge of the bed. Behind you, a steady wall of scarred muscle and a strong arm snaked around the dip of your waist. Simon’s breathing is steady behind you. His gentle exhales hit the nape of your neck through your hair and send a shiver down your spine with every one. He is just in a pair of pyjama bottoms, chest exposed as he often gets a little too hot in the bed anyways. Sleeping alone in a tiny military bunk for years will really have you needing to reacclimatise to what should be normalities.

You are both awake; that much you are certain of. But neither had mumbled a good morning or anything of the such. It is too nice to just lay quietly listening to the rustle of the leaves and the moving traffic outside. Sometimes the road goes quiet for a little time. In those moments, it’s easier to focus on Simon behind you and his breaths.

Finally, the position gets the better of you and you have to stretch - arching your back and twisting your torso until you feel the vertebrae click and crack. The movement brings a soft little grunt, eyes fluttering shut once more for a moment. Simon says nothing, but as you settle back into the mattress, he presses a gentle kiss to your exposed shoulder. You exhale contently at the feeling. Your body practically melts into him.

“There she is.” His voice is gruff, hears from being his first words of the day. You feel the words rumble through his chest and into your back.

Maybe he hadn’t realised you were awake after all.

“Hi.” Your voice is soft and quiet, a true juxtaposition to the Lieutenant

“Hi, baby.” He presses another kiss to your shoulder before tugging you ever closer.

His chest is so warm, and you can feel the scars and burn marks that run all the way down his right-hand side. They’d never bothered you. Not really, anyway. He’d always be Simon under all the physical reminders of his hardships. When you’d first started dating, he made a habit of covering them up as much as possible. You’d been patient with him, and slowly but surely, he started wearing less and less until he was comfortable roaming the house shirtless. Win-win.

The birds are chirping, an orchestra of mostly pigeons, magpies, blackbirds and sparrows. The soundtrack of the countryside. From the gap in the curtains, you can make out the vibrant blue of the morning sky. There’s a cloud or two sometimes breezing past, but it’s almost completely aquamarine.

In the distance, the sound of church bells begin to ring out. The church is situated on the other side of the village, but it’s a small village so the bells are loud and clear.

Simon hums quietly behind you, snuggling into the crook of your neck.

Your hands move to gently grasp his forearm and you exhale softly again. Being in his arms always feels so good. Especially on lazy mornings like this.

“Someone’s tying the knot early.” Simon grunts.

“Isn’t it just for mass?” Your voice shoots back the question quietly. Simon hums at it.

“Maybe.”

He presses yet another kiss to your skin, this time on your neck where his head is buried and you shiver at the contact. He likes the response, kissing softly again.

“Be us one day,” Simon says quietly, “up an’ early.”

You feel a soft smile break onto your lips and do nothing to hide it. He’s so warm and comfortable behind you. It would be so easy to melt into him forever and ever.

The birds chirp with the bells and somewhere in the distance, a lawnmower kicks into action. You know you should probably get up, maybe make some breakfast. But you don’t want to leave Simon’s arms. And he has no intention of letting you leave either, as he pulls you ever closer.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, piss off the whole village with the bells while we tie the knot at soon as the church opens.”

[mellowswriting]

what we do in the dark pt. 1/2

pairing || Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!Reader

word count || 2.9k

summary || Simon helps you get rid of that post-mission adrenaline. 

content || smut, p in v sex, fingering, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie, manhandling, kinda dom/sub dynamics, a hint of degradation (Simon calls you a whore but like,,, lovingly), fluff, established relationship, Simon is a thorough and attentive lover 

a/n || choo choo bitches, I hopped on the simp train

Main Masterlist 

The first day back is always the hardest. Being home feels… wrong. Your body is so ready to relax, to simply exist somewhere safe and comfortable. Somewhere known. Every inch of your body longs for the soft cocoon of your bed, a bed that has barely been slept in since you got it all those years ago. Exhaustion pulls your skin so tight it feels unnatural. After six straight weeks of putting your body through hell, you deserve the few weeks of mandatory leave time and all of the pamperings it entails.

The only problem is that your mind won’t shut the hell up. Every neuron is still firing like you’re taking effective fire in the middle of enemy territory and desperately searching for a way out. The familiarity of the little apartment you share with your teammate turned best friend turned fuck buddy does little to ease the prickling at the back of your neck. It’s bare bones and devoid of any real personal touch, but it’s yours. You’re safe, you know that. You just can’t quite feel it yet.

That is what keeps you up until the godforsaken hour of two am. The eerie silence of the building makes your footsteps sound impossibly louder than they really are, but you just can’t sit still. Your socked feet drag along the carpet sluggishly as you make your way to the kitchen. A glass of water probably won’t do much, yet another vain attempt to calm your frazzled nerves, but you’re willing to try anything at this point. The next on the list is sitting on the shower floor until the boiling water fizzles out into a chilly stream.

You’re halfway through the glass when you hear footsteps coming down the hall. The sound makes you smile. You know he has the striking ability to move without a sound for such a broad man. You’ve seen it firsthand a million times. He always strives to make his presence known around the apartment, just to avoid startling you. It’s sweet in a ‘two hardened soldiers trying not to trigger each other’s fight response’ kind of way. Two big hands find their way to your waist and you can’t help yourself from leaning back into his firm chest.

“You alright?” The low rumble of his voice and the warmth from his palms soaking into your skin eases some of the irritation scathing your soul.

“Can’t sleep.” You grumble, not bothering to hide the frustration from your tone. If there’s anyone else in the universe who knows all too well what you’re going through, it’s him. There’s something freeing in laying bare the ugliest parts of yourself and not being afraid of any judgment. “Still too wired.”

“So am I,” He sighs. It never takes much talking to get the point across with the two of you. You turn in his arms and smile at the sight that greets you - Simon “Ghost” Riley, in the flesh. All he wears is his briefs and that signature skull balaclava covers everything but those pretty blue eyes of his. It used to be an amusing sight, one you couldn’t help but chuckle at, but you’ve grown so used to it that all you feel is comfort. Simon presses closer until the edge of the counter bites into your lower back and you blink up at him, a small smile growing on your face as you realize what he has on his mind. He leans close, his nose brushing yours. “You want my help?”

The moment you whisper ‘yes’, Simon’s hands tighten on your waist and yank you upward, hauling you over his shoulder as you gasp and struggle in surprise. Your indignant cry of his name melts into disbelieving laughter as he carries you down the haul and into his bedroom. The temptation of smacking his ass is too much to resist, even though it earns you a much sharper one on yours before he tosses you onto his bed.

“You’re gonna pay for that one, sweetheart.” Simon tries to make it sound like a threat, but you know him too well - you can spot the humor in his voice from a thousand miles away. You know his every weakness, every little thing you can do to wear down his will to endure the allure of your body. You flash him that playful grin he loves.

“Bring it on then, soldier boy.” You taunt.

Simon doesn’t waste a second. He drags you down the bed by your ankle, his touch lingering on the black thigh-high socks that hug your calves before he slides them off and discards them on the floor. You can’t blame him - the fabric is soft and pretty. It isn’t something either of you gets to indulge in often. He loves seeing you in anything delicate. That’s exactly why you wiggle your hips, encouraging him to tug your shorts down and expose the black lace underwear you put on just for him. A low groan leaves his parted lips, the sound broken and rough at the back of his throat.

“Fuckin’ hell,” He grumbles. You never fail to mesmerize him. No matter if you’re strapped down with almost 50 kilos of gear and covered in a week’s worth of dirt and grime or dressed in something lacey and fine. You’re so beautiful that it takes his breath away. Simon lets his hands wander, savoring the softness of your skin as his fingers inch closer and closer to the apex of your thighs. The moment his fingertips brush your covered pussy, something feral flashes in his eyes. He can feel your wetness soaked into the fabric. “So wet for me already, huh?”

“Just for you.” You whisper. “Only you.”

The breathy admission snaps him into action.

The darkness of his bedroom is the only place he truly feels safe. The windows are blacked out. The overhead fixture doesn’t even have a bulb in it. This is his domain, the only place he can bare himself completely, body and soul. The only light filters in from the hallway, barely illuminating his body as he shoves his boxers down his thighs. You barely have a chance to admire the sight of his thick cock springing free from the material before he growls out an order.

“Strip. Now.”

You know better than to refuse an order. Those pretty black panties disappear onto his bedroom floor and in the mere milliseconds it takes to rip your tank top over your head, Simon has slipped his balaclava off. It’s a rarity, the privilege of seeing his face. The last six weeks have left you with the tiniest flashes of his lips and chin in those small moments of intimacy you managed to sneak away. Short kisses, rushed trysts in bathrooms. Those are moments you cherish, of course, but they make you appreciate this even more. The sharp edge of his jaw, the distinct ridge of his nose, those dark eyebrows - he’s so handsome that it damn near drives you crazy.

“Don’t you worry, sweetheart,” Simon grits as he manhandles you, flipping you onto your belly with an ease that sends you reeling. The sharp smack of his hand against your ass makes you yelp but that doesn’t slow him down at all; he lands another smack on your other cheek before soothing them both with a slow squeeze from his big hands. All you do is arch your back for more, and Simon chuckles. “I’m gonna fuck you ‘til that pretty little head of yours is empty.”

“Fuck, Si,” You whine, your fingers twisting his sheets. “Please touch me. Don’t make me wait, I need you so fucking - oh!”

Two thick fingers push into your soaked pussy without a second’s hesitation. Simon has always been greedy in the realm of your pleasure; he would do anything just to feel you clenching around him, to feel your slick dripping down his wrist. The suddenness hurts so fucking good, you can’t help but lean into it. Your hips rock back and Simon hums, a dark, filthy sound that you know spells the best kind of trouble. He isn’t the only one who’s greedy.

“That’s right, pretty,” Simon grunts, curling his fingers until he makes you cry out into the mattress. “Fuck yourself on my fingers. Greedy little thing, aren’t ya?”

You want to tell him that it isn’t your fault - it’s all his fault for being so goddamn good at working your body to unbelievable heights - but then he slides a third finger into your pussy and steals your voice altogether. All you can do is whimper a pathetic sound and bury your face in the sheets. You can practically feel the intensity of his gaze burning into your skin as he watches you fall apart beneath his touch. Simon’s hand twists and his fingertips press into that spot that makes you see stars.

“Fuck, Simon!” Your voice breaks around his name pathetically.

“That’s right. Say my fuckin’ name.” Simon’s tone drips with approval and it makes you tremble, your pussy clenching around his fingers, trying in vain to pull him even deeper. His touch never fails to turn you into a debauched mess. He ignites something bright and needy and submissive, something for him to covet and own - and he sure as hell knows it, too. He spreads the cleft of your ass and curses at the sight of his fingers disappearing into your pussy. “Look at that perfect fuckin’ cunt… so wet for me, aren’t ya, pretty? My good girl…”

The rough timbre of his praise drags you closer to diving headfirst off of that edge and he knows it. He can feel it in the quivering of your pussy, in the sharpness of your gasp, in the breathless way you say his name. Simon is an expert in reading body language - and yours is singing to him. Your body is building up to a crescendo of pleasure and satisfaction, backed by the chorus of your voice sculpting moans of his name into something melodious and resplendent. You’re so close, so ready to break for him -

And Simon stops.

A distressed cry falls from your lips but he doesn’t give you long to mourn the loss. Simon manhandles you further up the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he kneels behind you. It’s like instinct; your thighs spread, your back arches, and you purr his name with the temptation of a goddamn siren. Simon growls out some unintelligible curse and that’s the only warning you get before he’s sinking into you until his hips are flush against your ass. The stretch rips the air from your lungs - Simon is fucking big. His cock is thick and heavy and leaves you so full that your mind goes pleasantly blank. All that you can think of is him.

He grinds impossibly deeper and your hips jolt reflexively, trying in vain to escape the intensity. Simon anchors you against him, both of his hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. His hold is inescapable and you revel in it. The strength he possesses is exhilarating, leaves you pliable and all his - and Simon knows it.

“Where do you think you’re going, pretty? Begged for me like a little whore and now you’re tryin’ to run away?” Simon tuts at you in faux disappointment but his hand slips between your legs to reward you nonetheless. Every swirl of his fingers against your clit makes you relax more, your walls fluttering deliciously around him. A low growl rumbles from between his grit teeth and you tremble; he’s finally giving in, relenting to that vicious instinct to fuck and fight and take, take, take. “That’s right… You’re bloody perfect, sweetheart.”

Simon’s hips snap into a harsh pace so suddenly that you scream. The bedframe jerks and groans under his ruthless pace but you don’t fucking care. Nothing matters in the wake of him; in the smell of his skin, the bite of his blunt fingernails against your hip, the indecently slick sounds of his cock fucking you into oblivion. Everything else falls into the background, unimportant. The entire world could be burning down around you and you would never even know. Simon consumes your every thought.

It’s animalistic, filthy. The air is filled with your soft whimpers and Simon’s guttural grunts and the sound of his hips meeting the plump flesh of your ass. You can’t help but roll your hips back to meet his thrusts because fuck, you needed this. It’s been too long since he’s taken you apart like this. You feel starved, pathetically needy, and he loves it. Simon worships your body the best way he knows - with rough, molten pleasure that melts you down to your very core. Each rub of his fingers against your clit sparks the orgasm he denied you back to life, burning low and hot in your belly.

Your bodies move together in this familiar dance, the well-choreographed moves coming without thought, and your climax hovers so close you can almost taste it. There’s no room to be ashamed by the ease with which he makes you fall apart, not when you can tell he’s just as close as you are. The pleasure builds under his desperate touch, climbs and climbs until it has no choice but to finally crash down over your entire body. It pulses out from your belly and throughout your entire body, seizing your limbs and burning through your exhausted muscles. Simon fucks you through your orgasm, doesn’t stop rubbing your clit until your nails claw at his wrist and you beg him to stop.

The spasm of your sex rips a violent sound from his chest. Simon holds you up by your waist as he uses your fucked-out body, chasing his own orgasm as the warm afterglow settles into your skin. Every punch of his hips forces quiet, broken moans from your parted lips. It sends his ego soaring; his stubborn teammate, a vicious warrior that he’s seen cut down entire crews of enemies on her own - transformed into this soft, purring lover beneath his touch. A shudder wracks up his spine as Simon buries himself deep inside your body, his cock shoved against your cervix as he spills his seed inside you.

“Down. Lay down, pretty.” Simon mumbles after a moment’s pause, the low rumble of his voice barely intelligible. He follows you down, threatens to suffocate you under his weight with his chest pressed firmly against your back. You can’t find it in yourself to care. If the way you finally go out is underneath the sexiest man in the world, that’s perfectly fine by you. A respectable death by anyone’s standards.

You have no idea how long he keeps you beneath him. Long enough for him to suck lazy marks into your neck and recover from being the most pussy-drunk he’s been in months. His hips arch into your body, fucking his seed back into you with his softening cock, even as you both shiver from the tenderness of your fucked out bodies. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to - Simon effectively fucked every ounce of energy out of your body. No, you’ve resigned yourself to using your lover as your own personal weighted blanket for the rest of the night.

A discontented groan reverberates from your chest as he finally lifts himself off of your body. The mattress dips under his weight as collapses next to you, just as exhausted as you are. With a long-suffering sigh, you roll onto your back and undertake a full-bodied stretch that hurts so damn good, you can’t help the sinful groan it pulls from you.

“Careful there,” Simon murmurs.  “Tryin’ to get me going again, sweetheart?”

“I think we’re both too tired for that Si’.” You finally look over at him with a sharply pointed finger. “Do not take that as a challenge.”

He just chuckles lightly as he props himself up on his elbow to take in the sight you make. The two of you unabashedly stare at each other, reveling in the rare sight of each other completely bare and comfortable. Fuck, he looks so good it should be illegal. He would be painfully intimidating to anyone else - 6’5, covered in tattoos and various scars, staring down at you with inexplicable heat burning in his eyes. Anyone else would see Ghost, the terrifying soldier that haunts the mind of his enemies. But to you? This is your Simon. The same biceps you’ve seen used to choke the life from enemies now draw you close to his side. His hands hold you with even more care and familiarity than he shows his weapons; his fingers slip beneath your jaw and tilt your face up into a soft, lingering kiss. Just one last indulgence before he lets you bury your face in his neck.

He shifts your thigh up over his lap and your arm drapes over his chest, effectively pressing your bodies against each other as close as physically possible. This is how Simon loves to sleep. Feeling every inch of your body against his, safe in his arms. He never knows a better rest than when he has you like this.

Simon gives your ass a playful pat. “Get some rest, darling.”

The last thing you feel is the warmth of his hand engulfing yours before a peaceful sleep finally takes you under.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

I cannot get the latest major chapter out of my head. I can't wait to see how their dynamic shifts after the escape attempt and Major practically begging to be hurt more so he doesn't try again. I could totally picture Simon doing something like shooting Major every few months to remind him not to run again.

“Yes.” | “Kneel.” | Best of Three | Correspondence | Appraisal | Collapse | Cupcake | Foggy | Cracking | Just Breathe | Urge | Trim | Stupid | Upkeep | Old Defeat

Locks clicking open, the door brushing across the carpet as it swings open. The fibers are damp under Major from the sweat stuck to his skin. He can’t tip his head back to watch Simon’s approach, it would tense his neck and move a muscle in his chest which would pull on his stomach and - if anything around his stomach moved an inch, he would scream.

There is a hand in his hair before Major can make out the silhouette above him. Maybe he should lean into it or some shit. His pride won’t allow for it. Instead, Major just huffs out laborious breaths and squints up at Simon.

Hair tied up neatly now, Simon frowns back at him, one stray strand hanging in front of his ear. The tattoos across his neck seem to swirl. Major blinks hard and tries to focus as the hand in his short hair slides to press to his forehead.

“...have a fever. I was going to check if you healed yourself, but…”

His shirt is peeled up, and every muscle in his stomach tears apart, pulling him to pieces. It feels like that, anyway. Like a handful of melted metal is being poured into his gut. He wants to scream for Simon to stop. All he can manage are short, sharp hissing breaths.

“Okay. You’re okay. Breathe.” Simon raises his hands placatingly, only the very tip of one finger smeared with red. “Just checking the bandage.” Two fingers up under Major’s jaw to get him to focus. “Can you see me?”

Narrowing his eyes, Major tries his best to make out any details of Simon’s face. He just sees an impression of hair, brows, ears, and those dark tats. “Yeah,” He croaks miserably. He’s felt cold for hours, and he never did manage to fall asleep, so it’s been hard to think. Exhausted looping thoughts plagued him through the night. About failing to escape, taking so long to try in the first place, having only a couple months left before he’s thrown out. Even a shit-for-brains healer knows when he’s got a fever, but that didn’t stop the feverish thoughts from swirling. The most persistent hallucination was of being chopped up and thrown in garbage bags, to go out in the trash on Sunday night.

“I want you to heal this.”

Eyes suddenly skittering off of Simon, Major feels heat slide down the side of his nose. Fuck, it’s humiliating that a tear was just waiting in his eye to slide out as soon as he panics. His head lolls to the side and the carpet rubs away the evidence. “Can’t,” He rasps softly.

A hand on his cheek, pulling his head back to focus. Major reluctantly looks up at Simon, who doesn’t look pissed off, yet. Somehow. “You’re allowed. I don’t like this fever. Heal it.”

The sob that lodges in his throat, unvoiced, is painful. Major shakes his head slowly. “I don’t… heal.” Mouth stuffed with cotton, nose dripping snot into his throat, Major sniffles then chokes out a measly cough. “On command. I don’t, I can’t. Please.”

The plea, more than anything, gets Simon leaning down closer in concern. It looks like concern, anyway. Major might be imagining that scrunched brow. “I’m glad you’re finally giving me some backstory, some hints. I get that you don’t like to heal when you’re told to. Now’s not the time…” His hand rests gently on top of the bandaged gunshot wound, and Major’s heart skips a beat, blood draining from his face. “...to start saying no.”

An animal whine is clawing its way out of him. Major lifts a shaking hand, half begging Simon to stop and half waiting for an opening to lay it in place. Once Simon stops pressing on the wound, he lays his own hand over the growing spot of red, magic already glowing in his palm.

“Don’ make me heal,” Whispers Major. There’s nothing he can do except ask for it not to happen. Sometimes Simon gives him stuff he wants, if he just asks. “Don’... make me do this, all the time, I can’t - don’t wanna be a kept healer, I fuck-, I ffh, can’t be that.”

For once, the cursing goes unpunished. Simon sits back on his heals and watches as the wound slowly stops bleeding again. As Major tenses, arches, cries through the painful process. The fever stays despite the infection that caused it melting away - distantly interesting, but not as much as the pain. Simon does his best to memorize the sight without making it last longer.

“Sure, Cupcake. Don’t worry. I haven’t made you heal yourself yet, have I? Don’t try a trick like that again, and I won’t have to shoot you again.” A fond pat to Major’s side as his hand slips away. He undoes the bandages and pats over the new scar. The healer flinches with the smallest hitching gasp. The pain is only remembered, only imagined. “Let’s keep the ones in your legs there for now. So you remember not to go snooping around any windows.” Simon smiles, but Major still looks close to tears, so it doesn’t seem to help lighten the mood.

“...Can’t sleep.” The confession is quiet and a little off topic. Major’s hand isn’t glowing anymore. He rubs the side of it against the carpet as if the burn scars there itch from the tickle of the magic.

He got to satisfy the urge pretty well for today. Simon hums, relaxed. “Okay. Want to come out to the living room, watch something with me? You can have the remote.”

“Can’t walk,” Offers the gruff prisoner, gesturing vaguely toward his legs. And with that, he sets a record for the most requests for help he’s made in one day. Simon nods and keeps quiet about the show of neediness.

“I can’t carry you. Got too much muscle.” He prods at Major’s stomach, which does have some squish to it from relaxed muscle, although a good deal of his old bulk has disappeared in the time it took his dark hair to grow out. “But I can help you walk, if you want to try. It’ll just hurt.”

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy, @apokolyps, @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite, @wollemi-whump,

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees , @whumps-and-bumps , @defire

[starl3ght]

//~Simon Riley hcs~//

A/N: Alr first post🤸‍♀️🤸‍♀️ I’ll be doing a lottttt more. So, requests are open so ask anything, but please do read my request rules. I’m gonna do more hcs on task force 141 and more characters first then one shots. Maybe even series😳 Enjoy this🫶✨

contains: fluff, angst??, sex, mentions of anxiety, trauma, abuse, nightmares

- When you met he was a bit clueless how to process his feelings for you. And he was also clueless that you were in love with him

- Physical affection wasn’t immediate right away. You took time with him because you wanted him to be comfortable

- When you do hug him for the first time he froze in place. He had to process what was happening. He felt relief that he had someone in his life and held you close

- The mask stayed on for a while but when he felt comfortable he took it off. You were shocked he let you see his face. But he feels safe with you

- Helping him put the black paint on his eyes? Hell yes

- You sit on his lap while you apply the paint gently around his eyes. Playfully, he might get some paint and smudge your cheek while you giggle

- His heart melts at your laugh

- arguments oh how it breaks both your hearts. He will never yell though. He’ll walk off because he doesn’t want to hurt you

- You both apologize for your wrongs while you hold each other

- Oh he makes you coffee in the morning. Because I said so and he does seem like the type for me to just bring you a cup of coffee and you watch tv together or something

- He loves how interested you are in your hobbies. Just something about seeing you happy gives him the motive to do the same.

- Whether it’s reading, drawing, or collecting stuff, he loves how excited you are and vows to always protect you.

- When he does make love to you? It’s the best thing ever.

- I don’t see him having knife kinks or BDSM because if it could hurt you he wouldn’t do it.

- Just regular sex. If he’s stressed and you’re there in front of him…prepare to wash the sheets

- When you do have some soft sex, it’s beautiful. He focuses on your pleasure and experience. You both love each other and I’m gonna say, he prefers giving. He can take your core into his mouth with his hands wrapped around your thighs and your shaking form. He always makes you see stars

- The aftercare tho✨ Falling asleep being held to his chest or he takes your exhausted form into the bath. He makes sure to take care of you well

-When he does tell you his story and about what his father did, oh how it breaks your heart

- He was sitting on the carpet floor and you were on the couch behind him holding him and caressing his head while he told you.

- you pushed strands of hair behind his ears and told him you would love him always and how you’d be there for him.

- that was probably a breaking point for him and he let out some tears while he hugged your waist with his face in your chest while you kissed his head and held him

- You comfort him when he has some sort of nightmares or episodes.

- Just hearing his hyperventilating while he’s asleep is sad. You gently shake him awake and whisper his name as to not make it worse. Or just talking to him softly while he’s having a nightmare to stir him back to sleep peacefully

“Shh Simon, it’s alright honey…open your eyes for me”

- When he does wake up he looks for your face immediately and hugs you so tight. You coax him back to bed and you keep him close until he falls asleep again

- He has a polaroid picture of you smiling and takes it with him when he’s out of the country

- And god bless his soul because when Soap finds it he will not shut the hell up with questions about you

“That your lass Ghost?”

“Walk away mate…walk the fuck away and out of my face”

- Soap’s probably gonna tell the rest of 141 and ask who you are and if they know you

- Gaz wonders too but keeps it to himself. Price will tell Soap to mind his own business

-Johnny better sleep with one eye open now

- He brings you back some souvenirs. Like a ring, necklace or bracelet. Anything you might be interested in

- When he comes back exhausted during the night you have his food ready and he quickly takes a shower before heading to bed.

- he probably flops onto the bed in his black boxers and you’re at the door smiling at him. You just kiss his cheek and whisper goodnight and you get into bed with him or go into the living room to do something else to pass time

- I don’t think you go out for dates much. You just stay home spending time together or you do go out sometimes but for walking around in parks or going to the store maybe

- Overall you relationship isn’t SO normal. But it’s something alright <3

[mirouie]

two sides of a coin (2)

simon ‘ghost’ riley x fem reader. | wc: 0.6k

↳ warnings: unedited, sorry if it doesn’t make sense T—T

↳ tags: hurt/comfort, the comfort part lol, fluff, soft!simon, kind of ooc!simon?, he’s a lil desperate

↳ a/n: here’s the part 2! i have mixed feelings about this :’))

↳ part one… here!

—

it’s relief you first see that washes over simon’s eyes; relief, and something else, you’re not quite sure. apprehension, was it? you see it in the way his eyes soften the slightest, the usual sharp upturn of the corners release and droop down into that gaze he always gives you, and only you—as if you created every beautiful thing there is to exist. in retrospect, he was right. you see the apprehension in the way his brows crease, irises darting back and forth as if he’s now realizing that he’s standing on your doorstep with ghost still in his clutches. battered, bloodied, brooding—all the things he’s promised to never let you get a glimpse of.

a dull thud sounds as everything in his hands drops to the ground, shaky steps toward you muffled by the carpet beneath his feet. on any other day, you would’ve scolded him for it, told him to leave his muddy boots by the doorway. you hated having dirt on the floors, but none of that mattered now.

you meet him halfway, slow, cautious strides that are silent compared to his dull ones. the same gaze trains on you, you don’t dare tear your eyes away from him either. even when you have to crane your neck and shivers run down your spine as you stare at the skull that looms over you, you don’t look away. not when your lover’s warm, honeyed brown eyes are filled with a desperation that claws at your soul.

“simon…” a hand snakes to his clothed cheek, you can hear the sharp breath he takes as he all but melts into your palm. you can tell he’s tired, burdened. wanting to rest and be at ease with nothing but you in his arms and mind, but something is stopping him. he’s still tied back to the battlefield, to the deaths, to the suffering. he’s tried to let go of it, to leave it behind the door like he always did, but he can’t, not this time. it’s you who has to sever that string that ties him back.

“simon…”

“come back to me, simon.”

you’re swept off your feet before you can take another breath, soft gasps falling past your lips as he wraps himself around you, pushing you back against the wall. your legs coil around his waist, arms around his neck as he tugs off his mask and shoves his face into your chest. his breaths are sharp, heaving as if it pains him to breathe, and you feel your heart clench at the sound of his small whimpers. he’s tired. he’s had enough. you bury your nose into his tousled hair, taking in his scent that you missed dearly, whispering sweet nothings with fervor. with the way his body shakes, his grip falters, you’re all but determined to bring him back to you, bring him back to his sweet girl.

“it’s okay, simon, i’m here. it’s okay, sweetheart…” you don’t know how long you stay there, held taut in his arms as you utter the same words over and over again. you don’t know how long till his chest stops heaving and his heartbeat slows, till his cheeks are dry from the stray tears that slipped out. you do know, however, that when he places you back down on your feet with utter care and pulls away from you, the softest of smiles etched on his lips, ghost is long gone and only simon remains.

your simon.

he plants a kiss on your head, you return with a gentle one on his cheek. you’re smiling now. “welcome home, simon. i missed you.”

—

↳ taglist: @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore @girlvsghost @salsa-reads-stuff @bloodyquillink-blog @kirasenju @cyphah @keiva1000 @kaelaiscool

© mirouie ; do not copy, edit, or repost my works. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[eddies-ashtray]

eddie learns a new song & you’re interested to find out the reason for his out of character choice |1.4k|

***

the unfamiliar sound of a gentle tune filters through the window to eddie’s room. it was a delightful surprise as you were so used to the heavy, brash sound of his electric guitar. today it sounded like he’d swapped his beloved sweetheart out for the machine that slays dragons—his acoustic guitar. not that you disliked what he usually played, but change is always welcome to you, especially one’s like this. 

when you open the back door to eddie’s trailer—the door closest to his bedroom—the soft song becomes just a little louder and much more clear. so close to the source of the delicate strumming, you’re able to pick out what song it is: april come she will by simon and garfunkel. 

it’s definitely not a song you ever would have thought eddie would have even heard of, let alone entertain the idea of learning to play. but you’ve known him for so long now that you know better; eddie’s full of surprises. even still, you wonder how he knows the song. 

you’re about to enter his bedroom, but you feel like you’re intruding. his door is open enough that you can see him sitting on the floor, his back to you, and he seems so focused. that feeling like you’re invading a private moment increases tenfold when eddie starts singing quietly as he continues to strum his guitar. his voice is deep, but soft as he sings and you’re enthralled by how beautiful he sounds.

april, come she will

when streams are ripe and swelled with rain

may, she will stay 

resting in my arms again

june, she’ll change your-

stumbling where you stand, you cause quite the commotion and grab the door frame for balance.

all at once you’re cursing, “shit-” and the soft strumming and singing ceases as eddie whips his head around in a fright. 

as soon as his eyes meet yours and he calms slightly, guilt melts into your chest and drips down into your stomach. 

“jesus christ, i thought you were here to fucking kill me!” 

“sorry! i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to like-be creepy or anything. i was just-i just heard you playing-” you say, gesturing to the guitar in his lap as you step cautiously into the room. “-and thought you sounded so nice and, so, i wanted to listen and-and i get how that sounds kinda creepy, but-”

“hey, it’s okay. you’re good, i promise. just scared me is all,” eddie reassures, pulling the guitar more securely into his lap now, but not resuming his playing. 

he looks like he’s been caught doing something far more nefarious than strumming out a popular 60s tune. you suddenly feel the need to turn the tables and reassure him now. 

so, you join eddie on the floor, sitting with your legs crossed under you. 

“you really did sound nice,” you compliment sincerely, ducking your head to hopefully catch his eyes again, since they’ve strayed to the ugly carpet beneath you. 

eddie meets your eyes again, unsure as he shrugs lightly and picks at a small hole in the knee of his sweats. 

“i don’t know about ‘nice’.” 

you furrow your brows—typically eddie would take a compliment and run with it, maybe even waggle his brows at you suggestively. but now, he’s insecure—which isn’t a word you’d ever use to describe eddie. the only time he’s ever been sincerely modest about something is when he’s working really hard to perfect a new dnd campaign. when eddie is passionate about something, it has to be perfect—anything less than and it’s not worth it. but why would he be working so hard to make this perfect?

“play it for me,” you suggest. 

“oh, i-it’s not, uh, ready yet,” he claims, looking down at the carpet again. it’s like he’s an entirely different person; he hardly ever gets shy on you, especially when it comes to music (he’s usually overly enthusiastic to play new songs for you). 

“eddie? i really want to hear it. i promise, you sounded really good before. i wouldn’t lie to you about something like that; i know how important music is to you.” 

after a quiet moment of contemplation, eddie sighs and nods, conceding as he adjusts the guitar in his lap and gets ready to start playing. eddie clears his throat before he begins.

the gentle strumming fills the air again; light and happy. the tune is beautiful and when eddie starts singing again, his voice is just as angelic as it had been when he’d sung it the first time. you close your eyes to really focus on his voice. 

august, die she must 

the autumn winds blow chilly and cold

september, i’ll remember

a love once new has now grown old

eddie’s singing had lulled you into such a state of contentment that it took you a moment to realize he’d finished, even after the last notes were plucked on the strings. 

“sweetheart?” eddie says, prompting your eyes open and on him. 

“that was so beautiful, eddie. really, you sound so…so lovely,” you decide, ‘lovely’ being the only word you can think to describe his mini performance. “how do you know it?” you wonder. 

and then, for some odd reason, you think your question sounds insensitive, so you attempt to back peddle and explain. “i-i mean, it’s just not, like, something you’d typically listen to, right?” 

-last week-

as eddie spreads a healthy amount of peanut butter onto a slice of bread, he hums the tune that’s been trapped in his brain for months; an earworm that just hasn’t gone away no matter what he does! by now he’s accepted it as a permanent fixture in his life, but it’s killing him not knowing where it’s from. 

wayne sits in the other room, watching some sports game on the tv. it could be baseball or hockey or basketball,—eddie doesn’t know or care—but whatever it is, the announcers voice fades to mute as wayne turns the volume down. could wayne’s ears be deceiving him? he didn’t think he was that old yet.

when eddie looks up to find his uncle looking back at him curiously, eddie (with a mouth full of peanut butter and jelly sandwich) asks, “what?”

“how do you know simon and garfunkel?” wayne asks. 

once he’s swallowed the massive bite of his lunch, eddie replies, a bit annoyed, “wayne, i’ve told you a thousand times: his name is gareth.”

wayne furrows his brows at his nephew. 

“no, son: simon and garfunkel—they were this, uh, singin’ duo your mom loved,” wayne explains wistfully. still, eddie’s confused, so he continues. “she used t’sing that song t’you at bedtime. april come she will. actually, she used t’tell me t’sing it t’you on the nights i watched ya if you were having trouble falling asleep; calmed ya right down…‘course, i don’t have as nice a voice as she did.” 

-now- 

“so after that, i went to the record store and bought the tape so i could listen to it on repeat and learn it by ear for wayne’s birthday since the song reminds him of my mom… i’ve been trying to learn it for him,” eddie finishes. 

and then, sheepishly, he admits, “and also for me too, i guess? i don’t know, it’s just, like, made me feel closer to her—knowing the song the same way she did, going through the same motions she would have when she played it on the guitar…and, i mean, it was floating around my subconscious, so i must’ve somehow remembered it from when she’d sing it to me as a kid…it just feels important.” 

eddie is full of surprises, but it doesn’t surprise you at all how thoughtful and sweet he is to learn this song because it reminds his uncle of his sister. but of course, eddie also mentioned the other aspect; that he’s learning it for himself too. no wonder he’s putting so much pressure on himself to make it perfect. eddie’s mom wasn’t in his life very long, so of course he wants to connect with her in any way he can. 

he must take your silence to mean you’re judging him because he adds, “i know it’s, uh, kinda lame, but-”

you’re quick to correct his assumption. 

“oh my god, no. i think it’s so sweet that you’re doing this for wayne and it’s great that you’re doing this for yourself too…and something this important to you could never be lame,” you assure him, taking his hand in yours and squeezing for emphasis. “okay?”

“‘kay,” eddie confirms, a little teary eyed as he nods and squeeze’s your hand right back. 

“now,” you say. “let’s hear it again!”