#cod mw2

[joonieskinks]

Simon Riley who detests your current boyfriend.

Sure, some days it’s smooth sailing but on others, they wreck you to your core and it’s up to him to help put your pieces back together.

One day your boyfriend will spend the whole day with you, the next completely ignoring you. He’ll go back on his word, forget to tell you important things and is reluctant to spend time with you when you ask. No, beg.

So it’s Simon who picks you up from the street corner of the restaurant where you waited for over an hour. It’s Simon who you call over the phone at midnight for reassurance. It’s Simon who comes over to your house to hold you, to comfort you, to be the boyfriend he couldn’t be for you.

And he makes this his mission, he is utterly determined to show his devotion and adoration to you. From being there for you, of course, but more than that. To show you how you need Simon, not your boyfriend.

It started off slow with Simon coming to your rescue and rubbing you on the back as you cried next to him on the couch, to then shushing your sobs with his rough lips on yours. His hands cradling your face, his leg between your own as he brings you onto his lap and chests brush each others.

Your clothes on the floor, his tongue in your folds, making you moan his name again and again until it is all you remember. His hands forming purple bruises around your hips from the tight grip, mine, mine, mine, he thinks.

How you trust him to treat you so well, making you come undone on his cock for the first time. How you latched yourself to his body as you went over the edge, begging him to stay close, to touch you, to reassure you he’s always going to be there. Mine, mine, mine.

And so he was, always. He knows he’s the man for you, not him. And Simon will try damn hard to prove you know it too.

Even if it means the now ex has gotta go iykwim.

[dante-mightdie]

what about simon with a bimbo? he’s be a proper grumpy, mean old bastard :( returning things if you don’t use them, making you choke on his cock every time you want something

you look like such a pair <3 him and his all black outfit. menacing tattoos and a balaclava hiding his identity. then there’s you in your mini skirt and pumps. pouty lips and long lashes batting up at him as you cling onto his burly arm

you don’t really understand that he’s a dangerous man. a bad man. you only understand that he’s big, strong, and fucks you good. type of man who grumbles about how much your nails cost as he’s shoving the cash into your hands <3

[harlenia]

Gaz: Nah, I have the fattest ass

Soap: bro do you see this dump truck back here? It’s obviously me.

Y/N: Price

Gaz and Soap: ????

Y/N: have you seen that mother fucker? Just the other day I saw him run and I’ve never seen someone’s ass have so much recoil.

*in another room*

Price: I swear to god I’m going to fucking retire

Nik: can I see—

Price: NO—

Ghost: *huffing*

[lovifie]

A Ghost Of The Past

Prompt 15 - High school sweethearts reunite and find love again from @glitterypirateduck Ghost challenge - masterlist

Cw: mentions of Simon's childhood, some inaccuracies, little idiots in love, oral sex (fem receiving), pinv, unprotected sex, some glazing, cum play, afab reader

Loving Simon Riley was easy. It came naturally. How could you not? 

Throughout every single year of high school, you were seated next to him. Every project was done together. Homework was done together. Study sessions were done together. Everything was done together. 

You were never invited to his house, even though you invited him to yours a thousand times. 

It was really hard to distract him during class, always saying that he had to pay attention during class because he couldn't study at home. Curiosity always urged you to ask the reason for it, but you never did. Not wanting to risk the friendship by sticking your nose where you shouldn't.

Still, as the two of you started to grow; puberty passing by, changes, new problems, harder courses, harder decisions. Simon found it harder and harder to concentrate, his sight constantly trailing off to you. 

He would shake his head, constantly reminding himself to stay focused. To be realistic. You were his friend and you didn't think of him in any other way. 

His movements would catch your attention, your eyes lingering for just a bit more than what would be considered casual on his face, on his frustrated looking face. Lips slightly pouting and furrowed eyebrows making you smile. 

Still, even as you were growing closer and closer; there was also an abyss threatening to open between the two of you. High school was ending in just a couple of months, and it didn't look like you shared the same plans after graduation. 

You were worrying about university, which degree to choose, your exams, where to go and Simon… Simon kept getting to class with new bruises and cuts. And every time you tried to pry in… he would push you back. 

“That looks like it hurts…” You said one morning, your forearm resting on his shoulder as you pointed at his busted lip.

“Well, aren't you a genius?” He harshly said, pushing your arm off his shoulder and making you sit straight so as not to fall. 

“Well, aren't you nice?” You said back, an annoyed tone in your voice as you turned to your notebook. “No need to be a dickhead, I haven't done anything to you.”

“You never do anything.” He mumbled under his breath.

“I heard that.” You say, turning your head at him.

“Do you want a prize?” He said, with a fake smile on his face.

“Fuck off, Simon. Talk to me when you get the stick out of your ass.” You say standing up, picking up your things to leave. 

He didn't say anything. 

What he did, was knock on your window in the middle of the night. The glass shaking in the rhythm of the Jurrasic Park movie theme song. You ran your blinds, coming face to face with a bloodied nose Simon; so you unlocked your window, staring at him as he looked ashamed to be there. 

"Do you mind if I sleep here tonight?” 

“..... c’mon in.” You whispered after a minute, taking a step back to give him space to enter. He swiftly did, silent as ever, his feet barely making a sound when connecting with the ground. 

You grabbed his hand, his first reaction was for him to avoid your touch before relaxing. You pulled him to the bathroom down the hall, trying your best to not make a sound. Pushing him to sit down on the toilet, and opening the cupboard under the sink for clean tissues. “I'm still mad, you know?”

“I know… I'm sorry, things… things have been difficult at home, I'm sorry.” He said, looking up at you as you cleaned the dried blood from his face. 

“You could have just told me… vent a bit, something. That's what friends are for, you know?” You say, throwing the bloddy paper in the trash can.

“It’s always friends with you, isn't it?” Simon groaned before he could register what he had just admitted. “Forget it.”

“What?” You stopped your movements, looking at his face.

“Nothing, forget it.” He said, trying to take the new paper towel from your hand.

“No, I don't want to. What did you say, Simon?” You ask again, putting your hand away from his reach. 

“I like you, okay! There, I said it. You can laugh now or whatever, I don't care.” He grumpily admitted in a whisper, standing up to his full height to drop the tissues on the sink and clean his own nose. An obvious blush flourishing on his face. 

“N-No, I… I don't want to laugh.” You say, standing behind him, looking at the eyes of his reflection. “You… like me?”

“Yeah, no need to take the Mick out of me for it.” He groaned again, his face finally clean of the blood.

“I'm not. I'm not teasing you, I… I like you too, Simon.” You whispered back, but he heard it loud and clear; turning around in a blink.

“What?” He asked, too loud to be hiding in the bathroom causing you to shush at him and make him cover his mouth with his hand. “Sorry… but what? You? You like me? Why?”

“What you mean why?” You ask, chuckling softly, your hand resting over his chest as his hand slides from his mouth, catching yours from pulling away. “I just do…”

You notice his gaze travel from your eyes to your lips and the moment you catch his intentions, you feel your face heat up from embarrassment. Simon looking just as flustered. 

Still, you look up at him puckering your lips slightly and before you can regret it, Simon does the same; pushing his lips forward and closing his eyes tightly before crashing his mouth against yours. 

It's just a second. Maybe even less. But it's enough to have the butterflies in your stomach growing wild, your face more and more red as you realise you just gave your first kiss to your crush. 

Simon feels just the same, like his face is about to explode from how hard he's blushing, like everything was worth it, like getting his nose broken was a good thing… his nose!

“Fuck!” He whispers, clutching his nose when the high from the kiss comes down and he realises he smashed it against your face just now. 

You chuckle at him, handing him more paper when you notice the blood running again. You want to kiss him again, and again, until you lose count. So you wait patiently for him to pull his hands back. 

“Young lady, do you mind explaining what's going on?” Your father's voice makes you jump, taking a step away from Simon. “Simon, what are you doing here?”

“Dad, Simon just-” You try to come up with an excuse before Simon cuts you off.

“Sorry, Sir… I, well. My dad and I had a little… disagreement and I didn't have where to spend the night, I… I'm sorry, I'll leave, I don't want to cause problems.” He quickly says, throwing the blood-stained paper towel on the trash can with the rest. 

“I'm not throwing you to the street, Simon…” Your dad answered, sighting as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Simon wondered for a second why he wouldn't when his own father had no problem doing it. “Just… let's go to sleep, I'll give you a sleeping bag.” 

Simon and you look at each other for a second before turning away embarrassed of getting caught. You are the first to walk out of the bathroom, Simon diligently behind you turning the lights off. 

When you enter your room your dad is setting the sleeping bag on the floor, stealing a pillow from your bed and laying blankets on top. “That's one of my pyjama trousers, sleeping with jeans is not too comfy. Go change.”

He throws the pyjama at him, Simon gives him a quick nod and makes his way back to the bathroom. Once out, your father turns to you as you slip inside of your bed.

“He better not get out of the sack, you hear me, young lady? I'm trusting you two to not make anything stupid, you are too young for those things, am I clear?” He asks, pointing his finger at you.

“Yes, Dad.” You say, dragging the vowel. 

He hums, before walking out, sliding past Simon and telling him to behave too, pointing finger and a scowl on his face. Simon enters the room, the tip of his ears still flushed pink, closing the door behind him and sliding on the sleeping bag. You lean over the edge of the bed, propping your head on your hand as you look at him. “Comfy?”

“Very much, yeah.” He says as he shimmies himself into the blankets. 

You chuckle at him, slightly raising your blanket just to see his reaction. “You don't want to join me?”

He looks at you, utter disgust on his face. “Share a bed with you? What are you planning to do to me?” He asks, covering up to his face with the blankets. Only uncovering his face to say: “whore”

You slap his arm making him laugh, and he grabs your hand with yours. “I'm playing, I'm playing. Let's just go to sleep, I don't want your dad to kick me out.”

“Alright, alright… prude.” You say, teasing him back making him groan as you laugh. 

The next morning, when your mom came to wake you up for school, she didn't say anything about your arm hanging from the bed just to hold Simon's hand.

But this confession, the hand holding, the furtive little pecks here and there, was not enough to fix the abyss pulling apart. Because the argument was not the reason for it, it was something else and you only found out on your graduation night. 

When you were sitting on the curb, having dinner from the first fast food place you both could find; still dressed in your fancy clothes and picking the soda cup off the ground.

“I think I'm gonna go into math” You suddenly said.

“Math?” Simon asked, laughing softly. 

You nodded. “Yeah… that or physics.” You said

“You are such a nerd.” He said laughing, earning a kick to his feet.

“Shut up! Not my fault you can't count.” You laughed back. “And you? What are you picking?”

The smile on his face quickly turned sour, disappearing into a frown, worry growing in the pit of your stomach. “I'm actually enlisting.”

“Enlisting? Like… like in the military?” You asked, looking at him even though he was looking forward.

“Yeah… exactly like that.” He said, nodding, still not looking at you. 

“Why? I thought you hated it, like… Simon, why would you join the military? You don't -” You started to say, food resting on its wrapper on the ground. 

“You said it yourself, I can't even count.” He said, dropping his food too. “At least this way I can be useful… I could actually protect somebody.”

“That's not true, Si. You know I was just playing, you are smart. Don't say that.” You say, trying to catch his gaze.

“I barely passed the exams, and… and I already signed in, anyway.” He admitted, looking at his hand. 

You remained silent for a second, switching to look forward too. “So that's it, no? No point in telling you my mind when you're already in, not that you seemed to care about my opinion.”

“That's not it, don't get it twisted.” He says, trying to grab your hand to make you look at him. “Love…”

“Don't ‘love’ me, Simon!” You say standing up. “When were you even going to tell me? Were you even going to? Or were you planning on just disappearing like nothing?” 

“I was going to tell you, I promise.” He said standing up. “I just didn't want to ruin tonight for you.”

“Well, now is too late!” You exclaim, turning around so he cannot see the tears pooling in your waterline. 

“Love, c’mon…” He whined, walking behind you. “You are thinking too hard, they are not throwing me into the battlefield in a week. I'll train, I'll become a good one, I'll get strong, I'll protect you!”

“You can't protect me if you are dead! And what do you need to protect me from, Simon?! Why are you so obsessed with protecting?!” You say, still not turning as you walk towards your house.

He called your name, making you turn to look at him. His heart clenched in pain at the sight of the tears threatening to fall from your glistering eyes but too stubborn to do so. “You don't… you don't get it.”

You sniffle before talking. “You are right, Simon, I don't! Good luck in the military.”

That was the last thing you said to him, venom dripping from your voice as you did. Before disappearing into your house slamming the door behind you. 

He drifted a week later, without another word being spoken between the two of you. And even though he didn't live a day without thinking of you, he never spoke to you until 18 years later. 

He kept tabs on you, always making sure you were fine, alive and happy. And to benefit his selfish mind, unmarried. 

“We are in the middle of fucking Manchester, Laswell! We cannot simply stay in the open without risking civilians' lives! We need somewhere to hide!” His captain's voice barked into his phone, Laswell's response not loud enough for Simon to hear.

He knows your house is just a couple of blocks away, moving out of your parents' house a couple of years after finishing university. He could visit you, drop by, but it is the middle of the night and he is working… no reason to go to you.

“We are on our own, Laswell can't fly us back until the morning. She said they seem to have lost us, so technically we are not being followed so we are safe, we… Let's find some coffee shop or something.” Price says, putting his phone away. 

Kyle groans beside him. “I'm fuckin’ starving… and peeing myself.” The sergeant complained.

“Just take a wee on the bush, Garrick.” Soap grunted at him, exhausted after the strain of the mission. “I just want to fucking sleep, I'm gonna pass out…”

“Kids! The bunch of you!” Price barks again. The prolonged deployment clearly wearing down all of them. “We cannot just go to a random house, knock a secret code on the door and be let into a warm bed and hot food. So coffee and a chair is all we are getting if we get lucky.”

Except they do. Because even though you haven't heard from him in years, he knows that you will open your door to him. 

“I know someone who will let us sleep in their house.” Simon said, hands resting on his vest. 

“You?” Soap asks, looking at him from the curb he is sitting down on. “Who?”

“A friend.” Simon says after a pause, taking his phone out; looking for your number hidden behind the ‘IT Support’ name of your contact. 

“.... you got other friends?” Soap asks with his eyebrow raised. 

“Shut the fuck up, Johnny.” He grumbles back, his phone dialling. For a moment he expects you to not pick it up, but then he hears your sleepy voice. “Hello?”

“Hey… This is Simon. Riley, Simon Riley.” He says, his fingers pulling at the flap of his trousers pockets. 

Gaz looks at Price, only to be met with the same confused expression. That's not how you talk to a friend.

You take even longer to answer, being just woken up not helping with thinking too quickly. “Simon? ...Si? Where have you- What are you- Why did you- What? Simon, what? I don't-”

“I know, I know, love.” The nickname slipped past his lips like a second nature. “It's a long story, I'm sorry, I know I own you a long, long, very long explanation, listen-”

“Simon, it's 3:00 in the morning, this is…” he can hear you sigh on the phone. “I don't think this is the conversation to have over the phone.”

“That's actually why I called, I'm… I'm back in town for a little, do you… do you think I could sleep at your house tonight? You know I wouldn't ask if I had another choice…” Simon says, biting his glove, unable to bite his nails. 

You sigh again. “You haven't changed, have you? I'll send you my location, it's close to my parents" Simon knows. “Don't take too long, I need to wake up early.”

Before Simon can answer, you have already hung up. He puts his phone away, a smile on his face when it buzzes knowing you sent him your address; and he turns to the expecting men. 

“C’mon, all set.” It’s all Simon says, starting to walk without looking back. 

“Are you going to explain?” It’s Gaz the one who's brave enough to ask. Simon simply looks at him before answering with a deadpan expression on his face. “No.”

Meanwhile, you stay lying on your bed, wondering what to do next. You certainly don't know what to expect next, it's been a lifetime since the last time you saw him.

The scrawny lanky kid that kept talking about protecting you, about becoming strong, about being better… has he been kicked out? Was he simply kicked? Was he injured? Why was he back? 

He doesn't give you much time to contemplate about what can be the reason for his visit before you hear the knocking on your door. You finally kick the covers off, walking to the door yawning; but the sleep gets quickly kicked off your body when you look out the peephole.

Four massive men standing outside of your door, barely able to fit in the steps in front of it. Obvious guns hanging from the straps of their vest, but any of that it’s as terrifying as the skull mask looking right at you as if he could see through the door. 

You can't even see his eyes, only the back voids of shadows; the street lights behind him only hiding his face more. He is the tallest, you can't even see the top of his head, and his shoulders are so wide you doubt he will fit through the door. 

Neither of these men is Simon and suddenly you just want to step back into your bed, away from the danger, call Simon and tell him not to come until these people leave. But the man with the skull mask raises his hand again, and then he knocks on the door; the Jurrasic Park movie theme song sounding loud and clear. 

You hear laughs outside, a gruff voice complaining to shut up, and you open the door, the short chain the only thing keeping it from opening completely. 

The masked man turns to you at the sound, everyone's eyes on you but you can't peel your eyes from him. You hear the alarm bells in your head telling you to close the door, too many stories that start with a dumb decision just like this one. 

But you are not the only one unable to move, Simon's eyes are locked on you. He sees the changes, how you have grown older just like him, but you have just grown breathtakingly beautiful. It has his heart beating on his ears and butterflies turning in his stomach. 

Butterflies? At his grown age? 

But he can't help it, not when your lips look so soft, your hair frames your face like the most perfect frame in a museum, not when your eyes look so… worried? Afraid? You have never looked at him scared before. 

He noticed then how you are almost hugging yourself, using your arms to pull distance and how you frantically look at his face. What are you looking for? What's wrong with the mask? 

…

He quickly pulls the mask off of his head, realising his mistake and seeing your face relax when you identify the dirty blonde curls stuck to his forehead. 

He is Simon still.

You breathe more easily once he takes it off, not completely relaxed at the image of the still unknown men standing right behind him. But you know him or used to, and he is your Simon. 

“Sorry, it is… part of the uniform.” He says, a tone of voice any of the men have heard him use before. You look at them, clearly not wearing the mask and catching his lie. He ignores the look you send him, a bashful smile on his face. “Can we come in?”

He leans his body forward, quickly stopping when he notices you move the door closer and look at the man behind him. “They are my team, it's okay, I'll explain it later. It's alright, they are Price, Kyle and Johnny.”

Calling it an awkward situation would be an understanding, when the guy at the back with the mohawk waves at you like a child you sigh; closing the door to undo the chain and open it back up to let them in.

If they wanted to murder you the door was not stopping them.

“Please, c'mon in.” You say, a slight tone of annoyance too difficult to miss in your tone, but it still makes Simon's heart jump at the sound of your voice. “You can leave your shoes on the rack, and well… everything else.” 

They do a quick work of their shoes, resting them on the rack leaving a healthy space with yours; the dirt from them remaining away from them. They take off their bags, vests and belts next; their size not shrinking in the slightest.

Simon simply remains massive, his t-shirt stretched out over the wide span of his shoulders, growing looser around his waist, hiding under his trousers that are just as stretch-out over his asscheeks and massive thighs. It’s then, when you are staring at his ass that one of them talks to you, catching your attention. 

“I'm really sorry, but can I please use your bathroom?” Is Gaz the one asking, a tiny silly dance of stepping on one foot and then the other as he awaits your response. 

You nod quickly, pointing to the door of your bathroom. “Yeah, that one. The light switch is outside.” He quickly moves past you, making you smile when you hear him dramatically groan as you hear water splashing.

“Garrick, close the door!” One of the other men says, the one with the funny-looking beard. “Apologies, he is usually better potty trained; but it's been a long deployment.”

You lift a hand waving it slightly, letting him know that it is okay. Simon can see how you look at him from the corner of your eyes, still awaiting the explanation. Until the loud noise of a stomach rumbling with hunger makes everyone whip their head to the man that waved at you before; a hand on his abdomen and a little coy smile on his face. 

“Are you hungry?��� You ask as if the sound erupting from him wasn't an obvious sign. 

“It's okay, I'll live, don't worry.” He quickly says, not wanting to abuse anymore of the hospitality. 

You stare at him, unsure, until his stomach screams again and you move to the kitchen, opening the fridge. “Any allergies?”

You get a group “no” as an answer before you make quick work of the cooking. Simon walks in, coming to your side and asking. “Can I help?”

You shake your head. “It's okay, go wash your hands. All of you.” He nods quickly, instructing your orders to the rest as they quickly move back to the bathroom. 

You throw the premade garlic bread on the oven, throwing an obscene amount of pasta noodles into boiling water as you work on the sauce on a pan. You already struggle to measure pasta for yourself, how do you measure for four men built like a brick house?

The oven dings, throwing the bread back onto the plate with your bare hands quickly. You leave the plate on the counter, throwing the noodles on the pan; almost spilling out of it and mixing it quickly. 

You pick two of the plates, turning to leave them on the tiny table in your kitchen; almost sending them flying when you jump, not expecting the four men sitting and waiting at the table surprised with how silently they moved.

“Bloody hell, almost shit my pants.” You mumble as you put the plates in the middle of the table, letting them pick their favourites. You turn twice more to pick the rest of the plates, and once everyone is served you sit down too. “Hope you like it, sorry if it's too poor.”

The one who was the hungriest looks at you like you just insulted his mother before diving in, being fair; after living on MRE for months, a warm plate of food is priceless. 

You smile when they eat happily, making you wonder if you did too little. You let them eat, standing up to go out of the kitchen; but Simon grabs your hand as you walk past him. You turn to look at him, catching how he swallows hardly the half-chewed bite, before asking. “Where’re you going?”

“To get the beds ready.” You say, smiling when he offers his help again, refusing it. He lets you go, his eyes glued to you as you walk.

“So… a friend.” Johnny says, moving his eyebrows up and down. “I think Sisi has a crush…”

Simon turns to him, his usual stoic expression back on his face. “Shut up… We… we used to be together when we were kids, that's all.”

“Wait… So she's your ex?” Gaz asks, looking at the hall where you just disappeared.

“Lower your voice, will you?!” Simon shouts in a whisper. “It was 18 years ago, it doesn't… it doesn't even count.”

“It counts if it has you blushing.” Johnny says with a singing tone.

“I'm not blushing.” Simon grunts, but he rests his head on his hand, trying to discreetly cover his red ear, making both sergeants chuckle. 

The sound of you puffing as you lay down on the sofa has him turning his head, his eyebrows furrowing when he sees you lay a blanket over you. He stands up, walking to you; the three men at the table exchanging a knowing look. 

“Hey, lovie…” Simon says as he leans over the sofa, smiling when he sees you yawning. “Long day?”

You nod at him, rubbing your eyes and looking at him. “And a long night… will two beds be enough for the four of you?”

“Why are you sleeping here, luv? You should be in your bed…” He says, unconsciously moving your hair out of your face. 

“Because none of you would fit in the sofa… besides, it’s easier to clean the sheets than the sofa. No offense but you are all stinky.” You say, digging your pointer finger into the muscle of his ribs making him smile.

“Sorry for invading your house like this.” He says, his hand moving to caress your cheek with his thumb.

“That's okay… my doors will always be open for you, Simon.” You say looking up at him, your hand moving to rest on his arm. “Even when you come back looking unrecognisable.”

“What do you mean unrecognisable? I look exactly the same.” He says, cocking his head with a fake confused look on his face making you chuckle.

“You look like you have eaten the Simon I used to know, have you come back to eat me now?” You ask without thinking before talking. “Wait, no, that came out weird.”

Simon barks a laugh, making you laugh again as he peels your hand from his arms letting it fall; an offended look on his face as he mutters. “Whore.” Earning himself a slap on his arm just like 18 years ago.

Still sitting at the table, the three men smile to themselves. Seeing a new face of their lieutenant, leaning over the woman and almost waving his imaginary tail like a happy pup.

It's hours later, after they all finished eating and you told them to leave the dishes on the sink and that you would clean it in the morning. 

After you told them where the rooms were, and Johnny jumped at Gaz to share the room with him. 

After they all said goodnight to you and went to sleep.

It's after all that, that you get woken up by the sound of dishes moving on the sink; sitting up to look at Simon in the kitchen looking at you and groaning when he realizes he woke you up.

“I told you to leave them, Simon.” You say, voice hoarse with sleep as you stand up.

“It isn't fair, you already cooked.” He says, turning to keep cleaning them. “Plus, I couldn't sleep.”

“Why?” You say as you walk up to him, sitting on the kitchen table. 

“Price snores like an old car going up a hill, and he is way too close to ignore.” He says making you smile. “And I didn't like you being down here alone, the door’s too close.”

He closes the tap when he is done, grabbing the towel to dry his hands as he turns to you. You sigh at his words, rubbing your eyes. “You really haven't changed, have you?”

He steps closer, standing between your legs and resting his hands on each side of your body. “Can't say I have, no.”

You stare at his face, at some point after you fall asleep he must have washed his face, the black paint that covered his eyes before now gone.

You let your arms rest around his waist, leaning your chin on his chest and looking up at him as his hands rest on your back. “You still need to explain yourself, Simon.”

“I know.” He says, his eyes taking in every spot on your face, the way your hair falls over your shoulder, the way you wet your lips; so he doesn't miss the way the tear rolls down your cheek. His hand quickly moving up to dry it with his thumb. “Hey, hey, what's wrong? Why are you crying, love?”

It's there, engulfed in Simon's embrace that every worry for his wellbeing in the last two decades comes down on you. No matter how hard you tried to lie to yourself, there wasn't a day that you didn't think of him, of what he was doing, if he missed you, if he was still mad at you, if he was fine.

“I thought you died, Simon… I thought you died hating me, because I was an asshole that didn't want to listen to you.” You admit, rubbing your eyes with your hands to hide the tears. “I was afraid of something happening to you and losing you because of it, and I was an asshole that pushed you away, I'm sorry.”

“No, no, no, love.” He says shaking his head, his long-ignored heart cracking at the sight of your tears. He hugs you again, making you bury your face on his chest as he leans his forehead on your crown, his own tears threatening to spill. “I should have told you better, I should have talked to you the day after, or anytime in the last 18 years. Something. I was the asshole, love, I should have done better.”

He feels you shake your head, pushing back to look up at him from under. And god damn if he can't feel his heart beat at the sight of your wet face. “You are not, we… we were kids, it was no one's fault.” You say wiping your face with the back of your hand. “We were kids.”

“We are not kids anymore.” Simon whispers, his hands moving to cup your face as your hand moves back to his waist. You can see on his face that he is waiting, for a sign, a word, a something, to let him know that it is okay to go ahead. 

Is like all those years ago, in your parent's house’s bathroom; when you had your first kiss. But so different at the same time. He is not the young boy with the broken nose, he is the grown man with the bump on his nose from where it never healed. 

And instead of just pushing your lips out, waiting for him to move, you lift your hand, catching the dog tags hanging from his neck with your finger and pulling him down. 

There it is. 

The sign he needed.

So he leans down, your face still between his hands, and softly presses his lips against yours. 

His warm dry lips, dancing along your salty wet ones. Butterflies in his stomach doing twirls and crawling up the walls. Your hand on his waist digging your fingertips pulling him closer, your tongue probing at his lips and Simon groaning against your lips when he finally tastes your mouth. 

It stops being an innocent kiss, not with the way his tongue pushes inside of your mouth, his hands moving down to your hips to pull you closer, his thighs so wide you let one of your legs between his. He groans on the kiss, his fingertips digging into the softness of your body making you groan back at him.

It’s when you move your leg, reaching his groin and causing him to grind his hardening aching dick against your thigh that he pulls back; suddenly unsure of how far you want to take it. “Sorry, I didn't mean to-”

You slap his chest, grabbing the fabric of his t-shirt as you do and pulling him close again. “Don't you run away from me again, Simon.” And with the look of absolute lust and hunger in your face, he can't help it but crash his lips with yours again, your legs circling around his waist and your hand pulling his face to keep him close. 

Every inhibition, every second thought, every doubt, easily kicked out of the equation. Everything getting replaced by the need to feel the other, closer, harder, and nothing else but the other. 

The only thing that can be heard inside of the kitchen is the heavy breathing of both of you and the filthy sound of your tongues dancing. His tongue reaches every corner of your mouth, your hums reaching the back of his throat directly. He pulls back once again, resting his forehead in your as he sucks in a breath. “Are you sure you wan-”

“Fucking hell, Simon. Yes, yes I wanna.” You chuckle looking at him with a beaming smile on your face. 

“Thank goodness for that.” He says stepping back, helping you on your feet and lifting your shirt; groaning at seeing your naked form. He leans down, his lips catching your hard nipple and sucking it in making you hiss as you pet his head. 

His wide tongue moves flat over your ribs making you shudder at the feeling, using your hand to lean into the counter. “How have grown so fucking beautiful, sweetheart? I should have come back so long ago, come back to you, my sweet girl.” He slowly turns you around, moving his lips as he kisses up your back; goosebumps erupting as he moves higher, kissing up your shoulder and behind your ear, kissing your ear and biting your lobule. 

His massive hands rest on your hips as he grinds his own, making you feel his hardness against the flesh of your ass making you whine in anticipation. His hands move, his thumbs getting under the waistband of your shorts and your underwear; pushing them down and letting them pool at your ankles. His lips move lower again, following the line of your column down your back, you sigh at the feeling, leaning forward and letting your body lean on the counter.

After the torturous couple of minutes, Simon takes to come face to face with your cunt, you don't have to worry about the man teasing you or making you wait. Not with how desperate he is to feel your taste melt into his mouth. 

So that's what he does, as soon as his knees touch the ground he's pushing his face forward, burying his face between your folds. He slides his tongue down, pushing your hood back to suck your pearl making you moan as your hips buckle at the hard suck making him chuckle. 

He kisses your skin, all around your folds, in circles that grow smaller and smaller as he gets closer to your needy clit. He kisses it last, a soft kiss just like he kissed your lips just a minute ago before the kiss turns nastier; tongue moving out of his mouth to rub it against it, drool falling from the tip of his tongue, sucking your clit softly making you moan his name as you bite your lip. 

He moves back, licking up the juices that have spilled from your entrance, drinking them up as he moves closer to its source, slipping his tongue right inside making your walls grasp his wet muscle and pushing it deeper. He groans at the feeling, at feeling your tightness around his tongue, at the taste invading his mouth, making his taste buds fall in love with it,  and at the delirious sounds falling from your lips. 

Your hands move back, looking for him and grabbing his hand resting on the side of your hip while his other hand pulls your cheeks apart to bury himself deeper. Moaning loudly and shamelessly at the way his face glides easily against your glossy folds with your arousal. 

The thumb from the hand on your cheek moves closer, slowly sinking into you making your mouth fall open on an O shape. His mouth moves up again on your entrance, thrusting his tongue deep along his finger into you, making you mewl at the slight stretch. 

But the restraint of his hard cock against his zipper has him struggling to focus on how pretty his name sounds when it falls from your lips, unconsciously looking for friction and grinding his boner against the back of your leg.

The hand that is not holding yours moves lower, undoing his belt with it and his button to keep his raging hard-on covered only by his struggling briefs. You look down between your legs, catching the way the angrily red tip of his aching dick pops out of the confines of his underwear when he thrusts forward. 

Your head moves back up as you moan when you feel him switch his thumb with his index and middle finger. It makes you arch your back, slightly moving back to meet the movements of his wrist. The squelching sound of your cunt sucking his fingers in only urging him forward, scissoring his fingers to stretch you further. 

He can taste your arousal dripping down on his welcoming tongue, his fingers impossibly sticky with your juices. He peels his face away, moving back to stand and using his hand on your hip to push you back up, hiding his face on your neck to whisper. “Are you going to let me in, hm? Are you going to open your legs for me just like you open your door, sweet girl? Gonna let me repay you fucking you silly? Are you gonna let me get up to here?” He asks, resting his hand on your lower stomach on the last question and when he pulls his fingers back you can't help but whine, missing the feeling as you part your legs. 

“Please…”

“Please what, darling?” He asks, kissing your neck sloppily as he wraps his hand around his shaft, pulling it off of his underwear and rubbing his leaking tip against your clit. 

“Please… Fuck me, Simon, please.” You whine, looking up at him from over your shoulder when he pulls his head back. 

He hums, satisfied with your response and probing at your soaking entrance with his bulbous tip; rolling his hips to fill you, stretching your walls to accommodate the girth of his member. He kisses your lips once more, not caring about the awkward angle of your neck as he does so, making you moan inside of his mouth as he pushes forward; groaning when he finally bottoms out. “That's a good girl. Taking me in so well… fuck, you fit like a glove, love… chocking my dick so tightly, shit…”

Your hips are pushed against the counter, his strong arms holding your upper body; almost floating with how tight he is holding you to his chest. The roll of his hips is slow, making you feel every vein and crease of his rigid cock as he drags against your walls clamping down on it, only for him to push it back inside making you mewl as you feel it hit deeper than you have ever felt. 

And even though he is lifting you, you can still feel the weight of his body behind you. The strength being held back in the way his muscles tense under his skin, the control of his body with how calculated his movements are and the way he seems to have already lost himself with the way the praises and promises constantly fall from his lips. 

“You have always been so fucking good to me… I always loved you more than anyone else on this bloody planet, love. You always treated me so nice, fuck!” He moans into your neck. “I'm gonna pay you back, sweetheart. For every kind word, for every kiss, for every fucking everything. Fucking hell…” It’s such a raspy moan, that you can feel the vibrations of his chest when the deep voice leaves his mouth. 

He leans forward, letting you rest your body over the counter as his hands move lower, caressing the sides of your body as they come to rest on your hips. He admires your body for a second, before coming down to press his chest against your back again. 

His hips push against yours as tight as he physically can, the light push of his body enough to make you land your feet over his; making Simon fight his inner urge to move his feet only to make you sink lower. 

He moves his hands towards yours, keeping your palm flat against the surface of the counter as he interlocks his fingers with yours. Mouth open kisses on your nape making your brain turn fuzzy as his length keeps hitting again and again the lovely spot that has your knees buckling. 

“Simon, please… harder, please.” You whine, needing him to give you more, to touch you more, to move more, faster, deeper, harder, anything, but more. And when Simon chuckles deeply behind you, making you realise how something switches on him. 

He peels himself back from your back, carefully brushing your hair back into a make-do ponytail; making sure to braid his finger between the locks of your hair. “The Princess wants more, doesn't she?” He whispers against your ear making you bite your lip in anticipation. “Well… anything she wants, I'll get it for her.”

He leans back once again, except this time he doesn't let go of your hair making you arch your back. His hips rolling once more, his painfully hard cock sliding easily between your fold drenched in your arousal; his pace slowly rising making your breathing turn into whiny moans as the tip of his dick keeps pushing the breath out of your lungs with each thrust. 

But your moans are not the only ones in the kitchen, his low moans slowly growing deeper as your cunt sucks his dick in, groaning when he sees the white creamy ring of your arousal form around the base of his shaft, pushing him to keep going. To keep thrusting deep, fast and hard even when he feels like he is going to combust at any moment. 

He only worries when he feels you clench around him, worrying about missing your face of ecstasy as you finally come around his shaft. So he turns you around, not even pulling out and twisting you around making you look at him with wide eyes. 

“I don't want to miss the way you look as you cream my cock, doll. I just know you are going to sing like the prettiest of the birds, love.” His hands move to rest on the back of your head, keeping your eyes locked onto him as his dick keeps drilling into your crying cunt, begging for the release you so badly need. 

It can be heard loud and clear the sound of his skin slapping against yours, a harmony of moans falling from the two of you, but still, there is a whiny tone to your moans that rubs Simon the wrong way. “What is it, love?” He whines back, half-mocking you. “What does my pretty girl needs?”

“Simon!” You moan, making him close his eyes to make sure it was engraved into his memories the sound of his name being moaned by you. “Touch me, please.” 

“How can I say no, hm? When you ask so nicely, sweetheart.” He says as he moves a hand to rub your clit with his thumb, though little circles sending shockwaves up your back. “That's what you wanted? For me to play with your tiny little clit, hm? Such a greedy girl…”

“Fuck, Simon, yes!” You moan loudly when you finally feel your orgasm grow closer. “Please, don't stop, Simon, please… I'm so close, please don't stop.”

And Simon could get shot in the back of the head right now and his body would keep moving, nothing could make him stop right now. Not with the way your thighs are pulling him closer and your cunt is sucking him in.

He feels you try to throw your head back, eyes closing as you open your mouth on a silent cry. Your orgasm hits you like a bucket of warm honey being spilled over you, sticking every fibre of your body and making you hold onto Simon as your strength leaves your body. 

You still manage to keep your thighs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer and deeper, your mind still buzzing with your climax and little white dots still on the margins of your vision.

Your legs are not the only ones clinging to him, Simon groans, furrowing his eyebrows as he feels every rib of your velvety walls wrap around his length like a vice; making him whine when he finally manages to pull out. His heavy balls pressed flush against your spasming cunt as thick ropes of his sticky white seed spur over the soft skin of your tummy. A puddle of his spend threatening to spill over the sides of your body with your laborious breathing; wrapping his hand around the base of his twitching cock to milk every single droplet left inside.

A groan leaving his throat at the sight of your soft body, all pliant and shattered by the pleasure of the orgasm still flowing through your veins as his essence lays calmly over your soft skin. 

He bends down, collecting the salty substance with his tongue, keeping it inside of his mouth just for the second it takes for his lips to reach yours; spilling it over your tongue. The taste of his seed coating your taste buds makes you moan at the feeling. He pulls back, smiling and hiding his face on your chest as he chuckles realising what just went down.

Then, weighing out the options and to prevent the awkwardness to take over the situation, he moves back; letting you rest on the counter as he picks the rag he used to dry his hands before wiping the remaining of his spend from your stomach. 

“I used that rag to dry my dishes, Simon…” You say looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

“What? Afraid my cum will end up in your mouth?” He chuckles when you slap his hand. He finishes wiping it off and helping you get dressed again, easing you down the counter and walking hand in hand with you towards the sofa. 

He lays down, pulling you on top of him, resting your head on his chest and he throws the blanket back over your body. “You still haven't explained much, you know…”

“I know… I need to order my thoughts beforehand, though… there is just so much I have to tell you… but let's just sleep for now, alright?.” Simon says, petting your head as you yawn while nodding..

“You won't disappear again, will you?” You ask, your eyelids falling close with exhaustion but still awake enough to feel his arms tighten around your body. “No. Not again, love.”

The next morning is a bit of a blur, Simon gets shaken beside you waking you up too. “Helo is picking us up in 20 minutes, get dressed.” A gruff voice says over you that you associate with Price. 

Simon groans rubbing his eyes as he stands up, letting you lay on the sofa for a bit more before walking towards the entry. You frown when he doesn't walk to the kitchen, realising in that moment that Simon didn't even take his clothes off last night, his face, hands and dick the only skin you saw.

You sit up, watching how he puts his boots on; swiftly putting back on the vest and the belt, his mask hanging from the back pocket of his pants.

The three men are already around, any of them seemed too bothered by catching Simon sleeping with you on the sofa. Simon walks towards you once more, sitting down next to you and holding your hand on his lap. “You have my number now… I'll call you as soon as I touch ground, okay?” He asks, his other hand brushing your hair out of your face. 

You smile at him nodding, and before you know it, the loud noises of a helicopter touching ground come from outside your door. You stand, as Price opens the door, waving at the pilot and turning to you, shaking your hand making you smile at the formalities.

“Thank you for your help, love. I'll make sure you get something sent as a proof of gratitude” He says, with an honest smile on his face. 

“There really is no need.” You answer, moving to let Soap walk.

“I think she would prefer Simon to deliver it to her personally instead, Cap!” Johnny says as he chuckles to himself, Price slapping his arm as he passes.

Gaz chuckles to himself, trying to cover it as a cough as he passes to walk after Soap. “Thank you for the dinner and the bed, lass. Nice to meet you, I'm sure we'll hear from you soon.” 

Simon rolls his eyes at the sergeant, not a droplet of mean feelings in the gesture before he turns to you once you are alone, an apologetic look on his face. “I think we don't have to worry about them hearing us last night.”

“Nah, they probably didn't, don't worry.” He says, the two of you chuckling again. Until you look up to him, your hand resting on his chest. “This is not the last time I will be seeing you, right, Simon?”

“No, love. A week, two tops before I'm coming back to you.” He says, kissing your forehead and resting his over yours. “Will you wait for me?”

“I have waited 18 years and you are asking if I can wait two weeks?” You ask and he nods, completely serious about his words. “I'll wait another 18 years for you, Simon Riley.”

He sighs as if he was afraid of other possible answers.

“You won't have to wait that long.”

“I better not.’

“You won't… I promise.”

“See you in two weeks, Simon.”

“See you, love.’

And with that, his lips kissed you one last time, before rolling his mask over his face and walking to the helicopter. Waving at you before closing the door and disappearing into the sky until the next time you saw him.

Half a life living with him, followed by half a life living without him; and now, after all those years, finally the promise of spending the rest of your life living it with him by your side, like the time apart never happened. 

Like Simon Riley never left your side. 

And with the promise that he would never do it again. 

This was. the longest single-chapter fic I have written before. So please, if you liked it leave a comment and reblog it 💚💚💚

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[cntloup]

a relationship with simon would be mellow and quiet.

of course it would have its own turbulences, but for the most part it's silent.

there are no big gestures or loud words, but soft murmurs and tender touches.

he's always got a protective hand on you when you're out and about, not out of toxic jealousy or anything like that. he's too mature for that. he's confident and he trusts you.

he does it to keep you safe, so no creep would even dare throw a wrong glance at you, let alone get too close or touchy and make you uncomfortable.

it also comes from the need to feel you at all times. he needs to make sure you’re still there and you haven't vanished from his life, turned to dust like all the good things have in his life.

he always keeps an eye on you especially outside when you're going about your business, perusing around different shops at the mall.

it comes from his protectiveness, also from his flaming love for you that engulfs his heart. he simply can't take his eyes off you, his gaze softened and adoring as he looks at you being happy and giggly when you find something that you like.

he always keeps you safe in a quiet way, but you feel it. you always feel safe in his presence.

all his love and devotion seep through his actions, even the littlest ones.

he makes sure you’re always stocked up on all your favorite food, beauty products etc. and always is there to keep you from hurting yourself clumsily. all in all, he always tries his best to make your life easier.

he quietly shuffles under the blanket when he returns late at night and whispers 'i love you' before kissing the crown of your head and pulling your body closer to his, fully flushed against him. and he sighs in relief, he's home.

now don't get me wrong when i say mellow and quiet. it can still be intense at times.

especially the ugly parts that you both try to avoid, but can't help as it seeps through the corners of your relationship anyway.

he needs his space when he returns home from a deployment. and you've learned that the hard way.

he's lashed out at you from time to time. even though he had fought hard with himself to keep that side away from you.

and a heavy silence settles in the room after the shouting and occasionally throwing stuff have taken place.

not the comfortable silence you're used to when you're together, but a thick, suffocating atmosphere.

he starts cursing and grappling with himself after slamming the door to his office shut.

and you curl into yourself on the couch while uncontrollable sobs escape you and you feel paralyzed by his venom.

that's exactly what he was trying to avoid all along, all throughout your relationship. he tried so hard to keep that part of himself away from you, from poisoning you as he interprets in his mind, but to no avail. the demons won. and he can never forgive himself for letting them.

but that's where he was wrong. you tried to convince him that he doesn't need to hide any part of him from you. you love him and you love him entirely, all of him.

even though he still needs his alone time as everyone does, he tries to open up more and talk to you about what haunts him instead of bottling it up to the point of explosion and taking it out on you.

and you've encouraged him to attend therapy again and promised him that you will be there every step of the way with absolutely anything he needs. and of course he accepts. for you and himself. for his family.

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 13)

first chapter >> last chapter

-

You could just tell him. 

You consider it at least once a day, particularly in the mornings when John sits up on his side of the bed and hesitates briefly before rising to his feet and going downstairs to start breakfast. You can feel the way he wants to lean over and touch you, and the way he holds himself back. The way he pulls his hand back at the last second from where it hovers over your prone body.

He leaves you in bed with an ache in your stomach so deep that you swear it’ll swallow you whole. But you have no choice but to sigh and sit up as he shuffles around downstairs, the morning well on its way in. There’s nothing to do now but move forward.

The atmosphere in the house is tense. You walk on eggshells around each other, unsure of how to bridge the divide. The eggs jump in the pan and brown at the edges, and outside the feather reed sways in the breeze. You’re weary of each other and yet hardly capable of being apart.

Maybe that’s just on your end. 

You’ve taken to watching him from afar in recent days. In the absence of his physical touch, which comes sparingly now, his hands always curled into fists like he’s holding himself back from reaching out and touching you, you’ve resorted to the only thing left to you: the visual realm. That’s what you glut yourself on now, and while it doesn’t fill the hole in you, it soothes the ache. 

You watch him with the horses in the paddock, always confident and sure-footed with them. Suspenders straining against the muscle of his back and his shoulders, sweat running in rivulets down his back, the sun golden on his face. At dinner, he collapses into his chair, exhaustion written into every corner of his being, and you drag your eyes over the jut of his stomach, the layer of fat over his muscled core. Hairy forearms braced against the table while he eats (no manners, that one). 

Any thought of bolting in the night now seems unwise. Your previous aspirations of freedom seem foolhardy in the light of day. You give it some consideration. Say you had succeeded in escaping—now where would you be? Alone wandering the mountains, parched and starving? Drinking from the ravine? Eating poisonous berries and hawthorn leaves in desperation to have something in your belly? Or hogtied in some bandit’s tent, enduring a fate worse than starvation or death? 

You shudder to think of it. 

In the days since John brought you home, you haven’t seen hide nor hair of Graves, nor anyone else in pursuit of a woman from back east. No bounty hunters, no officers of the law, no rogue agents. It’s as if they came, found nothing, and simply wandered on through.

You should’ve just waited them out. It’s clear now, what you should’ve done, but who can argue with the past? You’re sick of telling yourself that there might’ve been another way. It doesn’t change the way things are now. 

There’s nothing to do now but move forward.

The routine is the same. You head into town every morning and try to say as few words to each other as possible. You glance at each other when the other isn’t looking. The glances grow longer with the days, the stubborn sun refusing to set until well into the evening hours, and your own eyes refusing to part from his form. When you catch him watching you in turn, his eyes are always heady, filled with something like longing.

Outside, the sky is cornflower blue; clouds bulge and drift away. 

Life returns to some degree of normalcy, despite the sense of something unresolved hovering in the air. John’s deputies come over again for supper, and with them they bring better table manners this time. At least Soap doesn’t belch at the dinner table and Kyle leaves his hat at the door. Simon is taciturn as always, but that comes now as a comfort.

The men play cards in the living room until even the fireflies go to sleep, until the night is a thin paste spread over the world, the sharp edge of the knife scraping over the craggy limestone peaks and ridges and spreading it evenly. You go to bed alone, the bedroom door cracked open enough to see the flicker of lamplight against the wall, their shadows weaving in and out of it. 

He must come to bed at some point because his side of the bed is warm when you wake up the next morning. You put your hand there to soak up his warmth until you can’t excuse lying in bed any longer. Breakfast is, again, quiet, but you feel the compulsion to break the silence bubbling up in your chest. You think if he stares at you even a moment longer, you’ll have no choice but to belt it out. 

The brittle morning is interrupted by the arrival of one of John’s deputies. When Simon rips open the door and barges into the house, you nearly scream, watching with wide eyes as he charges towards the back, looking for John. You flit over to the window to watch him go. He finds John out back mucking the stalls in the stable and there’s a brief moment of intense conversation before you watch as John throws the pitchfork against the wall and hurriedly shuts the stables up, following Simon back towards the house. 

It’s a flurry of motion after that, John throwing on his clothes haphazardly, not even bothering to properly button up his shirt. You unconsciously follow him up the stairs to the bedroom.

“John?” you ask, uncertainly. 

He doesn’t answer you right away. The tension creeps up the length of your back the longer he goes without responding, his mouth set in a flat line. 

“John?” you repeat, more force behind your words this time. “What’s wrong?” 

“Passenger train up east is about to be robbed,” John finally grunts out in reply, checking his rifle to see if it’s loaded. “Simon got word.”

“How’d he know before it even happened?” you ask, stuck on conversation because you unconsciously want to delay the inevitable. Your heart pounds hard in your chest, images of gunfire and bloodbaths searing the backs of your eyelids. 

“Informant. He’s got ‘em all over the county.”

Not once does he slow down or pause to take a breath. You follow him back downstairs and through the house, watching anxiously as he loads his gun and tightens the belt of bullets around his waist. He plucks his hat from where it sits hung up beside the door and then exits out of the house, you trailing along helplessly behind him. The porch creaks ominously under his feet as he makes his way down the stairs towards the horses, where Simon already has John’s other horse saddled up and ready to go.

“When will you—” You can’t finish it. It hangs uselessly in your mouth. He doesn’t answer you. 

You follow him to the horses but stumble to a halt when he reaches them first, taking over from Simon and fixing the straps in place. Simon gives you a curt nod when your eyes meet before turning to his horse and heaving himself up onto it briskly, obviously in a rush to get going. 

John turns to you when the straps are fixed in place and he has one foot in the stirrups, brows furrowed deep enough to accentuate all the lines in his forehead. He gestures warningly at you with a finger. “You stay here, you hear me?”

Your brows furrow, affronted at the command. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t fancy havin’ to chase after you for a second time, but I will if you try anything funny while I’m gone.”

“Well, you just see here now—”

“You heard me, darlin’—”

“Price,” Simon growls, cutting him off, and it takes you by surprise to see his usual phlegmatic disposition traded in for something choleric. He’s never been one to talk back or act insubordinately, more of a guard dog than a deputy sometimes. His mouth is set in a hard line though, betraying the tension coiled in his bones. 

John nods and hauls himself up onto his horse.

“You be good while I’m gone,” John says, casting you one last parting glance.

You screw your lips into a scowl. “Don’t you dare die out there.”

That somehow gets a laugh out of him, as jagged as it is. It makes your stomach twist, the goodbye stagnant on your lips. You refuse to say it.

John’s horse whinnies when he pulls on the reins. He gives a sharp whistle, jolting it into motion, and you watch as he circles around and follows Simon down the path, their horses kicking up dust behind them. 

You stand there until their horses disappear over the horizon. Then you linger a little longer.

It dawns on you that John hadn’t said goodbye either. That has to count for something.

Still, you dwell on it over the next hour, hardly able to keep your breakfast down. Any lingering frustration melts away into dread the longer you think about John confronting a train full of armed robbers, his deputies accompanying him or not. The shotguns loaded and strapped to their backs told you enough about what they expected to encounter. The thought makes you shudder.

You try to distract yourself with chores, but that hardly helps. All you can think about when scrubbing the floors is whether someone will have to do the same on the train. You know how hard it is to clean up blood.  

Kate comes over later that morning while you’re still pinning the bed sheets and linens to the clothesline. The sound of horse hooves beating against the dirt elicits your attention first, and when you look down the dirt path leading into town, you see her riding towards you on horseback. A dapple grey gelding, bigger than Buttercup but leaner than the horse that John had chased you down on.

“Morning!” she shouts, still far enough away for it to be necessary. Your hand goes up slowly in a wave, half-shielding your eyes from the sun.

She comes up the path quickly, dismounting before her horse has even come to a standstill. It speaks to an element of comfort on a horse that you haven't acquired yet. Jealousy licks a hot tongue up your innards. 

“Morning,” you greet tentatively. “Not that I don’t appreciate spending time with you, but don’t you have a store to run?”

Kate shrugs her shoulders, sauntering up the walkway. “Folks chip in when they have to—I’ve got plenty of people in town willing to watch the shop for me. Besides, what’s the point of owning a business if you can’t take a day off every now and then?”

You frown, looking at Kate a bit suspiciously. “Did he tell you to come babysit me?” 

You don’t specify who, but it’s obvious enough.

Her lips flatten. “I offered.”

All that does is stoke the flames of your ire. “They seemed in a hurry to leave. Didn’t think John would have time to stop by and ask you to watch his wayward wife.” 

“John didn’t do anything. Simon mentioned that he was coming here to get your man.”

“My man,” you mumble a bit sardonically. Still, her words make you let go of some of your anger. “So he didn’t ask you to come?”

Kate shakes her head, lips finally curling up into a half-grin. “No, ma’am. Thought I’d just get Miles to mind the shop and come give you some company.”

Your frown keeps getting deeper. “Don’t ma’am me, Kate. And I don’t need your company if you’ve just come to make fun of me.”

“Hand to heart—I came only to make sure you were alright.” Her smile grows directly inverse to your frown. “Give me a minute to put the horses in the paddock and I’ll be right back.”

You could almost kiss her for that though. You’d been dreading the thought of having to bring Buttercup out into the paddock on your own, but the thought of leaving her in the stables all day had also felt immeasurably cruel. Since getting lost with her in the mountains, you haven’t felt confident enough to be around her on your own. At least Kate’s presence takes some of that stress away. 

Not all of it though. Stress eats away at you as the day goes on. You can’t seem to go long without returning to the thought of John being shot or stabbed by one of the bandits on the train. Your mind keeps turning to the image of him lying lifeless on the floor, blood seeping out of a wound in his chest, eyes glazed over and far away. 

You chew on your nails until they tear. Kate smacks your hands when she notices.

It’s well past dark by the time John comes home. You notice his arrival first as a flicker of light when you happen to glance out the window. You’d long ago pulled up a chair to settle down beside the window and wait, Kate in a chair on the other side of the room near the oil lamp, flicking through her book, and with the waiting had come a knot in your chest tighter than a fist. A cancerous lump metastasising in your belly, spreading out into every corner of you. 

And then someone riding up the path towards the house holds up a lamp that swings with the rhythm of their approach. Your heart all but stops in your chest, fingers halting in the middle of knitting. It beats a furious frenzy now, alert again, alive in your chest. The needles clatter to the floor when you rise to your feet, dashing over to the door to swing it wide open.

“I suppose he’s—” Kate says, but you don’t hear the rest, already gathering up your skirt to hustle down the porch steps and meet him halfway, heart lodged in your throat. 

When he notices you hurrying out the door and down the path towards him, John brings his horse to a standstill. 

Shadows engulf his form until you get close enough for the lamplight to slash across John’s face, illuminating the deep, sunken troughs under his eyes. He looks exhausted. The top button of his shirt is missing, perhaps ripped out in whatever altercation he’d gone to stop. Your eyes flit over him, looking for any sign of blood or injury, and you find it along the grooves of his knuckles, the skin there torn and bloodied. He hadn’t even bothered to wrap his hands in gauze before coming home. 

John smiles down at you. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

That’s almost enough to make you sway on your feet, lightheaded. You hadn’t realized the toll his sudden absence had taken on you, or the worry that’d been festering in your belly, but as it drains out of you, it almost brings you to your knees. 

“Are you well?” you ask, throat tight. 

He doesn’t answer you. Instead, he shifts his weight and swings his leg over his horse to dismount, eyes on you the whole time. You can hardly pull your eyes off him, not even for a second. His horse, well-trained enough to not wander off without its rider astride it, huffs out a breath but otherwise remains in place while John walks towards you. 

Your heart jumps in your chest when he lifts a hand to cup your cheek and drops a firm kiss to the center of your forehead, the heat of his kiss suffusing through you. The hairs on your arms and the back of your neck lift. Your arms erupt in gooseflesh.

“Never better,” he says when he pulls back. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your forehead when he speaks. It makes everything from your collarbone up go hot.

You hear the door open again. “Hi John,” Kate calls from the door.

“Hi Laswell,” John calls back to her, but his eyes never leave yours.

A heavy silence pregnant with meaning passes. You’re not sure what to read into it, but reading’s never been your strong suit. 

“I’ll see myself out then,” Kate says. “Leave you two lovebirds to it.” Her words make you bristle, but even that isn’t enough to pull your eyes off your husband. 

“Don’t look so put out—Soap’s just down the path waiting to take you home,” John scoffs. Sure enough, when you peek around him, you notice the slight flicker of light that burns at about the height of a man sitting astride a horse.

Kate rolls her eyes. “So chivalry’s not dead. Thank the Lord for small mercies.”

You don’t hear her go around the side of the house, but she must because she comes back a few minutes later with her horse, lead in hand. Her goodbye goes unnoticed by you or John, barely audible over the sound of the crickets in the bushes. You come back to yourself only when her horse takes off down the path towards Soap, and by then your voice is too faint, the words evaporating off your tongue. 

The moment finally bursts when John shifts his weight and winces. You frown. “You’re hurt.”

He huffs. “Just a sore rib. Nothing worth fussin’ over.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Your eyes flick down to his bloodied knuckles. “Your hands need tending to anyway. We should get inside.”

John nods. “I’ll put Chiron away and then come in.”

“Chiron?”

“This boy here.” His horse chuffs when John pats his neck lightly, smoothing a hand down the length. It slots into your mind—another piece of this place assimilated into your being. Another name you’ll never be able to shake. 

You hurry back inside while he takes Chiron around the side of the house towards the stables, the lamp still swinging from his hand. It’s how you track him from the window. It’s too late now for them, but you remember staring off into the distance earlier, watching the fireflies flicker in and out of view, gold will-o-wisps hovering over the fields. Now it’s quiet, and nothing outside moves. Even the moon hides behind dark clouds. 

You wait by the window until you see John come out of the stables, headed back towards the house. Only then do you exhale. 

He sits at a chair in the living room and spreads his legs, forcing you to step between them to get close enough to treat him. You bandage his torn knuckles under the light of the oil lamp in the corner of the room. John doesn’t so much as flinch when you clean them, gently inspecting the wounds to remove any debris that might’ve gotten in. He’s a good patient; hardly makes a sound as you wrap the gauze around his knuckles. 

“Do you want me to call the doctor in the morning?” you ask, then start a bit at the sound of your own voice, inexplicably loud in the relative silence of the room. 

John shakes his head. “Don’t bother. Wasn’t anything too serious.”

You frown. “Are you sure? I don’t want to risk it getting infected—”

He turns his hands over in your loose hold, curling his fingers around yours. You blink at the stark contrast between his and your hands. His fingers are thicker than yours, swollen at the joints, and the skin of his palms is calloused, rough to the touch. You’ve felt them over every part of you—loose at your waist, gripping the nape of your neck, prying your thighs apart. Holding your hand. Sunk deep into your quim. 

You can recall the feel of his touch from memory now. 

“It’s not that bad, darlin’,” he rasps, dragging his thumb back and forth over your fingers. “Y’did a good job fixin’ me up. You’re a good little nurse.”

“I’m no substitute for proper medical care,” you snip, still frowning. 

“Ah, if I die, I die.”

“That’s not funny,” you snap, abruptly incensed, and the joking twist of his lips unfurls at that, the creases around his eyes smoothing out. He looks at you like there’s something new writ large on your face.

There’s a tremble in your lower lip and a tremor in your hands that you hadn’t noticed until now. Once you notice it, it’s impossible to shake; your lip wobbles when you have to pinch back your tears. A stubborn one nearly leaks out until you sniff and blink it away. 

“Now where’s this all coming from?” John asks, voice pitched low and intimate, just for the two of you. 

His voice laps over your bones like bourbon on the rocks, glistening amber in the setting sun. Except it’s dark now and there’s not a drink in the world that could dilute the emotions welling up in you. You’d be a blubbery drunk anyway; you’ve always been something of a sad sack. 

“I thought you might come back hurt,” you whisper. “And you did.” 

His thumb strokes over your unblemished knuckles and he lifts your hands to his mouth to kiss the very same spot he just brushed. “I’m sorry to make you worry, darlin’. I meant nothing by my words. We’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.”

The bur of his beard tickles the back of your hand. His acquiescence brings some of your candor back. “Well, only if you want to.”

“Don’t get smart with me, wife—”

He stops short when you giggle, his eyes widening infinitesimally. You wonder if it’s the first time he’s ever heard you laugh. It’s not something you can help though. The joy spills up from you unbidden. 

John sighs. “We’ve been making a right mess of things, haven’t we?”

You go to say something, but all that comes out is a soft hum of agreement. 

It’s in front of you again. An opportunity to tell him everything, to make things right. To land in the soft sediment of truth and come out unscathed and better for it. All you need do is open your mouth and say it; say that there was a man back east that tried something untoward and you did what you had to in order to protect yourself. You think on some level John would understand that. 

Again you open your mouth. Again nothing comes out.

There’s love and then there’s thinness, words preserved in amber. He takes your whole world in his hands and you want to say, is it safe here? Can I call this a home?

There's love and then there's a heaving mass of recollection. It is an ancient thought: to love and be loved in verity, in one's own sphere of understanding. You don’t yet know if that’s possible for you, but you’re starting to think that maybe here is something close to that. Something gentle like wildflowers springing up from beside train tracks, the sprawling emptiness of the plains on either side. 

Still, it is not enough to make you tell the truth. Maybe now the consequences are different. You think less of a jail cell and more of being deprived of this man that holds your hands tenderly and looks up at you with such clear affection. 

If love has a way of speaking, it is marbles in the mouth; it masticates its own words. It chokes them back out of fear, out of longing to keep things right. 

So instead, you ask, “Can we just put it behind us and move on?”

John lifts a hand and slides it around the back of your neck, drawing you in for a kiss that makes your heart melt in your chest, caramel-rich. You moan into his mouth when his tongue traces over your lips, hands dropping to sink into the lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer to you.

When he pulls back, the folds around his eyes are crinkled, lips pulled up into a fond smile. “Already forgotten.” 

You exhale. This is reconciliation. It comes home limping and bruised, but it comes home to you. 

[shotmrmiller]

The cool air that sweeps over your skin once you board the train feels like a gentle splash of water on a sweltering summer day. The sudden temperature change sends a shiver down your sweat-slick back, the hair on your arms standing on end in sharp relief. You press a hand to your chest, feeling the drumming of your heart against it.

You almost hadn't made it.

Everything had gone awry from the moment your alarm went off. First, you'd snoozed the clock. Half an hour later, your eyes snapped open, the horizon that'd just started to blush with the first hint of dawn giving way to a vibrant, limpid morning blue.

Shit.

You had called a cab while you were hastily getting ready, brushing your teeth, washing your face, only for it to arrive within 5 minutes. Five.

With the honking outside, you quickly threw on the first piece of clothing you found.

As you sat in the car, deliberately ignoring the driver's heated glare through the rearview mirror, you'd patted down your crinkled dress before crossing your legs, and realized—

You've got no knickers on. Double shit.

Whatever. It'll be fine. You were taking an overnight train across the country and even got yourself a private little room to sleep in. All would be well. But you had to get there first and boarding would start in 15 minutes.

Navigating through the aimless crowd of people had been excruciating. Children weaving in and out coupled with elderly folk stopping to chat up their friends with zero regard for foot traffic. Agony.

(You're fully aware that no one is at fault here but yourself.)

Almost hadn't made it but almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

Your heartbeat's still pounding in your ears as you walk down the narrow aisle, arms burning with the weight of your luggage bag and the tote slung around your shoulder. The thought of settling into your cabin and finally taking a breather propels you forward, albeit sluggishly.

The metronomic clatter of the wheels on the tracks smothers that burning sense of urgency you've felt since you woke. Weariness seeps into your bones once your cabin door comes into view. There's no other thought in your head apart from putting your stuff away and getting off your feet as you fumble for the handle.

In your fatigued haze, you hadn't noticed someone already inside. The world, once fuzzy around the edges, sharpens to cutting clarity in your shock. He's a big man. Very big. He looks like he's been carved out of oak— broad and solid. His shoulders are wide, stretching the seams of his shirt. His thick arms are draped along the backrest of the seat. The breadth of his chest— should, probably does— defies anatomy.

He's got legs like tree trunks. And they're sprawled outward, taking up a lot, if not most of the room. There's a bag resting against your seat even though the overhead space is empty. A bulky, grey jacket lays about.

You're tired, not blind. This is definitely the cabin you paid for with your measly income. But you're scared witless at the mere thought of trying to kick him out. He'll eat you. Gnaw your bones with his molars to dust for the offense.

You tug on the ends of the knot that is lodged in your throat, hoping to get some words out, but it only seems to tighten. The man's keen eyes lock onto yours, unblinking. Heavy with a weight that presses down on your back, your shoulders. Even the air itself.

The gentle click of the sliding door shutting behind you has your heart trying to crawl out of your mouth. (Possibly your arse, too, but you're not sure of anything right now, other than you're about to burst into tears because his gaze followed the motions of you shakily hoisting your bag up higher on your shoulder.)

His voice is a deep rumble— rich and resounding. You swear you could feel the air vibrate as he spoke.

"Sit down 'fore ya hurt yourself." It startles you into action, like a starter's pistol before a swim race. Quickly rising to the tips of your toes, you put your luggage bag away, giving it a couple of smacks to push it all the way back.

You mumble out a garbled 'scuse me as you traipse past his outstretched legs, carefully stepping over them, only to brush against his knee. You flinch, he doesn't.

"Sorry." Heat blooms beneath your cheeks. Embarrassing. You shove your tote into a little corner, its humble size dwarfed by his frame. With trembling fingers, you pull the back of your—very thin, now that you think about it— dress down, trying to compose yourself, before taking a seat.

Directly in front of him.

And he's still staring. Vaguely, you wonder if he can see your fluttering pulse beneath the delicate skin of your neck.

There's a lot of people on the train. That unbearably long line you had to stand in to board it was the proof. Yet it's unnervingly silent. Not one distant tinkle of laughter. No gentle hum of murmured conversation. Clinking of spoons against coffee cups.

Just a sharp, high-pitched whistle of the wind outside the window. Even he isn't making a sound. No rustling of clothes, no shifting around. Motionless.

You nervously grab at the skirt of your dress, clammy fingers curling, fabric bunching within your tightened fist, white staining your knuckles. The hem of your dress is frayed, like your nerves at this moment.

Oh no.

You flash your eyes to the guy's face but he's no longer paying attention to you. He's now looking straight at the apex of your legs. Your very naked apex. Amusement dances across his rugged features. His ash-blonde eyebrows quirking slightly, corner of his thin-lipped mouth curling.

The room tilts slightly, a dizzying sensation that leaves you momentarily unbalanced. Mortification pricks at your nerves, gathers in the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill. An ear-grating squeak escapes past your clenched teeth as you jerkily tug down the skirt, the hem settling against your shins.

A tiny hiccup punctuates the moment.

His mud-caked boot taps the outside of your foot, demanding your attention. "Now, now. Nothin' to be ashamed of, birdy," he grunts. Then, with casual ease, he slides it in between yours, this time nudging the inside of them.

A recognizable gesture.

Open up.

(there's no getting a staff member to remove him. they're all half his size. and can he at least shut the blinds on the window????)

[guttednights]

I can't stop thinking about Simon with your kiddo. like you and your baby daddy aren't together cause he was a bad man, then Simon appeared out of nowhere.

at this point, you and Simon had been seeing each other for like 8 months and your kid LOVES him. everytime he comes over,its always "Mommy can imon Plwease come and play cars with me?" "please mommy, I'll even share my urple car"

simon can't help but join in as well. "aye, please mama, he will even share his urple car with me"

of course, you give in every time, all though he came over to watch a movie, you'd rather watch your two favorite boys play cars together.

(ps you've told Simon not to call you mama but he cant resist.)

[hokkeis]

Look at them, sleeping as if they weren't the ones who ruined my mental health 🧍‍♂️

[alexthetrashyracoon]

“Simonnnnnnnn!”

“Siiiiiiiiimooooooon!”

“Come on you lazy ass…”

Oh how much Simon had to love you, to be waking up and not straight up murdering you for taking him from his precious sleep right now. “What is it, lovely?” He asked, still huddled under the blanket, eyes closed. He hadn’t budged.

“If I were …” You cut yourself up with a hiccup. Oh yeah, you had been out with your friends, you had probably one or two drinks too many. What weird question would come now? “If I were a worm…”

Oh yeah, okay, you were clearly drunk.

“I would love you, lovely, if you were a worm. Or a Swiss cheese. Or just an atom, even though that would be hard but I would still love you. Now, why don’t you get changed and…”

“Now you’re mad at me!” You complain and throw your pillow at his face, probably pouting so adorably like you always do.

Simon sat finally up and turned to meet your hazy gaze, you had trouble focusing on anything, always swaying and Simon decided enough is enough, helps you lay down and tugs the blanket over you, he makes sure you can’t move and accidentally hurt yourself. “Darling, I couldn’t be mad at you even if you…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence when he heard the snoring coming from your side. He grinned and shook his head and brushed a strand of hair from your face. “The hungover will be a nightmare tomorrow, love.”

He’s a good boyfriend and grabs you some aspirin and a bottle of water for the morning before slipping back into bed and falling asleep too.

(I am actually out of ideas on what to write atm, so sorry when I don’t post quite as often) (don’t even know why I’m apologizing, bad habit from bad old Twitter times I guess)

[dopanin]

Better times.

[dante-mightdie]

did someone say simon and johnny? (nsfw link)

no but them sending this to you when they’re on the way home from the gym. you and johnny teasin simon, simon saying the pair of you are gonna get it when they they get home 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

[mrsparrasblog]

POLY 141 when you get your period

Kyle: He tracks your period and reminds you of it days before so you're not surprised. He checks if everything is okay when you go outside—you know what I mean. He is very attentive and spoils you with whatever you want. Just please don't make fun of him again by sending him to the store to search for tampons with a glow-in-the-dark string. Pookie didn’t have it and might have argued with the sales associate.

Simon: He doesn't mind blood, seeing it enough at work. For him, it's just extra lube. He has sex with you everywhere to relieve your cramps. He buys you ice cream since he read on Google that it helps. He called you moody once. Big mistake—he was so happy that Price could distract you with his mouth. :)

John: He is a munch and stays a munch even during your period. He doesn’t mind it at all. He is seriously hurt that Johnny and Kyle call him clueless about the female anatomy. He isn’t; he gets everything. The boys should stop acting like he is an old man. He is only 38 and your big Teddy. You don't need a heating pad with him. Normally, you have an arranged cuddle puddle with all of them, but during your period, your whole body lays on John's, and the boys are jealous.

Johnny: He is the most normal out of all of them. He even scolded Price at the beginning of your relationship for asking if you had your period after you screamed at him and then cried because he ate your chocolate chip ice cream. He has lots of sisters, so he gets it. He knows the best ways to overcome period pain, better than Simon’s Google attempts. He gives stomach and back massages to ease the cramps and makes ginger tea. He is the one who buys the pads and tampons for you since the others failed.

[diejager]

I need one of the boys to drunkenly confess to the reader

Cw: getting shitfaced, drinking, alcohol, drunken confession, tell me if I missed any.

“I love you, darling,” he mumbled, his pretty Cupid bow curved into a pout, “You- hic! You know tha-t right?” 

You don’t know how it got to this, his words slurred and voice whiny, his pretty brown eyes dilated so wide that you would have thought he was crying if you didn’t smell the lingering taste of alcohol on his breath. It was supposed to be a short celebratory drink between colleagues before he was dropped home, curling into your arms and smothering you in peppering kisses, but it seemed like he threw away such caution out of the window and went wild with drinks, tequila perhaps. Your pretty boy was shitfaced. 

He slumped into you, leaning his entire weight on you when he crossed the threshold of your home, dragging his feet and mumbling sobbing confessions until the tip of his shoes kicked the curb and his knees gave up. You huffed with a slight strain, supporting him while you waved at Price, wishing him a safe drive after declining his help. All to save Kyle’s dignity after he spent hours whining and singing praises about you to his mates, gushing his deep and unconditional love for the spouse he had waiting at home. 

“I love you,” he moaned, nuzzling your skin, his nose brushing the bruised skin between your neck and shoulder, where he’d covered it with spotted kisses just last night, “Love you s-so much.”

You chuckled airily, shoulder shaking at his small confessions. Dragging him into the flat, his feet unsteadily moving behind him as he tried to walk, failing over and over again despite his persistence in walking beside you and smothering you in love. You found it endearing, his drunken confessions and sloppy kisses on your skin, his wandering hands trying to grasp at you on his shaky feet.

“I know, Kyle,” you smiled against his cheek, kissing the corner of his lips when you rounded the corner of the hall, “We’re married.”

Stumbling into bed, Kyle blinked blearily, staring down at you with an awed gleam. You could see stars dancing in his chocolate hues, wide and starry in such an knee-weakening adoration that made you fall further in love with the man you married months ago. You laughed at him, pushing him to the side and straddling his hips in a soft motion, easily switching your position with a man who was drunk out of his mind to forget you were married. 

“Yeah,” cradling his face between your face, you pressed your lips to his, a soft and tender kiss that made both of you sigh in contentment, “Yeah, we are.”

“My spouse,” he mumbled sleepily, his left hand rising to touch your face, his rough pads gently fluttering over your skin, “My beautiful spouse.”

Your diamond-tipped ring gleamed in moonlight, a brilliant beacon of your devotion to each other, a reminder of your shared vows. Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay; Where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me.(1)

1: quote from Where You Go(I Will Go) by alittlepunkcock 

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce

[mactavishenjoyer]

Soap:"if I died would you be mad at me?"

Ghost:"yes."

Ghost: "you are supposed to take me with you."

Soap:

Ghost:"Slit my throat or something, bitch boy."

[cadetzero]

misc. cod doodles hello cod nation