#CoD Community | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sinkovia · 1 year ago

Text

Attachment

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!Reader

Angst

Your hands tremble as you sit on the toilet, the pregnancy test resting on the edge of the sink. The seconds felt like hours as you checked the timer on your phone, anxiously waiting for the result. Thirty seconds left. You took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart.

The alarm on your phone went off, and with shaky hands, you picked up the test and flipped it over. The two little lines were unmistakable. You were pregnant. It was the third test you had taken, and the outcome remained the same. You were going to have a baby. You began to sob into your hands, overwhelmed by the weight of the situation.

Having a baby and raising a child in your line of work seemed impossible. It would require you to retire, to give up the life you had always known. Your mind raced, realizing you would need to tell Ghost.

But you couldn't bring yourself to do it just yet. You had asked him countless times to retire, to settle down, to start a family together. But he clung to the military life, holding onto it tighter than he would ever hold onto you.

The thought of having a family and settling down somewhere safe was something you had always yearned for, but you couldn't do it without him. You couldn't imagine having an absent husband or father, always fearing if he would make it home or not.

You knew Ghost's attachment to the military life ran deep. For the last three years, you had tried to reason with him, to convince him to retire. You had asked countless times, sat him down and begged him to hear you out, but he always refused. Each time, it was the same answer – he wasn't ready to retire.

His attachment to the military life was unwavering, and it felt as if he had never truly considered your feelings. It was always about him and what he wanted. You were both in your mid-thirties, and you couldn't keep waiting for him to come around. You needed more than the life you were leading, a family to call your own.

With resolve, you wrapped the pregnancy tests in layers of toilet paper and buried them deep in the trash can. Leaving the bathroom, you sat on your bed, checking the time. Ghost was likely finishing up his work out in the gym, he would be back soon.

You contemplated what you were going to say, knowing that you needed to have a serious conversation with him. It was either he retires with you, or you retire alone and move on with your life.

You had reached your limit, and you couldn't keep sacrificing your own dreams and desires for his career. As you heard the door open, you looked up, seeing Ghost walk into your shared room. He sighed and lay down next to you in bed, unaware of the life-altering decision you were on the verge of making.

You felt a sense of frustration building up in you. You had been wanting this for years, and every time you brought it up, it felt like hitting a brick wall. As you sat there, the look on your face showed the hopelessness you were feeling. He knew what you were about to say, Ghost could see it in your eyes, and he was exhausted.

His patience wore thin, and he snapped, his voice raised and sharp. "Damn it y/n, not this again! How many times do I have to tell you, the answer is no!" he snapped, his patience wearing thin. "I'm not ready to retire, and I've explained this to you countless times."

His outburst was jarring, and you weren't used to seeing Ghost like this. He had always been the calm and collected one, but now he was angry and frustrated. His voice carried the weight of his decision.

"Simon. I want a family, a home. I need something more than this. I've been asking you for years, and I thought maybe—" he cut you off, his voice raising.

"You thought maybe what? That this time I'd change my mind? After everything we've been through?"

His frustration became evident. His normally stoic expression twisted into one of anger and exasperation. He'd had enough of the repeated requests and the agony of constantly having to deny them.

"I just thought—"

"Well, don't! I don't want to retire, and that's final.”

"But I thought we could finally start a family and—"

"No! I've told you, I'm not ready for that, and I don't want to talk about it anymore. I've got a job to do, and I'm going to do it."

You were about to speak again, he cut you off with a yell, "Enough! I've had enough of this conversation. When I come back from my next mission in two days, I want you to stop bringing this up. This is the last time we're going to have this conversation."

He turned away from you and walked out of the room, leaving you standing there tears streaming down your face. Your heart ached, and you knew that this was a battle you were never going to win.

Ghost was determined to keep living the life he had chosen, and you were left with the painful realization that the future you had always dreamed of with him was never going to come.

As soon as Ghost left on his mission, you knew you had to tell Price about your pregnancy and your decision to retire. Price offered his congratulations, assuming that Ghost would retire too. However, you explained the situation, revealing that Ghost didn't know about your pregnancy, and you didn't want Price to be the one to tell him.

Price took a deep breath, his brow furrowing as he processed the information. "Why didn't you tell him you were pregnant? I'm sure he would have retired if he knew," concern evident in his voice. You looked from Price down to your hands, your expression heavy with emotions.

"I wanted him to retire for me," you admitted, your voice soft and filled with vulnerability. "I wanted to be enough for him to want to leave all of this behind."

Price nodded and got up from his chair, walking over to you and bringing you into a comforting hug. Your arms wrapped around him, and as the tears began to flow, you found solace in his support.

"I promise I'll keep your secret. I won't tell him," Price assured you as he held you close. You sniffled against his chest and managed to choke out a heartfelt thank you.

The rest of the day was spent packing your belongings. You didn't have much to take with you, mainly cargo pants, plain t-shirts, and a few off-duty clothes. You were planning to donate most of them.

The only sentimental items you packed were your favorite mug and a few personal belongings. You left behind everything that had to do with Ghost in a small box, including photos, his old dog tags, plushies, and matching bracelets. The box sat on the small dining room table with a note on top of it.

In the note, you explained that it was indeed the last time you guys would ever have that conversation. He was either going to retire or you were going to leave. His decision was final and so was yours, you couldn't wait any longer.

You told him that you were starting the life you had always begged him for, and you asked him not to go looking for you. He could live the life he desired, and you would live yours.

As you left the base for the last time and headed to the airport, your heart was a mix of anticipation and nostalgia. You were on a flight back to your home country of Iceland, ready to embark on a new chapter of your life.

You had settled into a cute apartment in Reykjavik, a temporary residence while you figured out where your forever home would be. The view from your apartment window showcased the picturesque landscape.

Your hand gently rested on your stomach. The thought of holding your bundle of joy in your arms brought a radiant smile to your face. It was a promise of a future filled with love and happiness, something you had yearned for for so long.

As you gazed out the window towards the setting sun, the horizon bathed in the soft hues of twilight, you felt a profound sense of contentment and hope. You were finally on the path to having the life you had always dreamt of.

Ghost arrived back on the military base, his fatigue weighing heavily on him after the long and grueling mission. As he made his way down the familiar corridor towards your shared room, a sense of guilt gnawed at his conscience. He loved you, there was no doubt about that, and now the argument he had with you was finally catching up to him.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he had been too harsh on you. Your desire to settle down and start a family was something that should have brought joy to both of your lives, but he had been stubborn, refusing to hear you out. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had kept you waiting for three long years.

He cursed under his breath, berating himself for being such a terrible boyfriend to you. You had never asked for much, always there for him when he needed you, and he couldn't even hear you out about something that meant the world to you.

Ghost decided that it was time to right his wrongs, to sit down and have a serious conversation with you about retiring. You had sacrificed so much for him during your time together, and now it was his turn to make a sacrifice for you.

As he unlocked the door to your shared room and walked in, ready to call out to you, he was met with a chilling sight. The room was dark and unwelcoming, a stark contrast to its usual warmth and coziness.

Ghost's heart sank, and he slowly moved through the room, calling your name. He went into the bathroom, but you weren't there. He stepped back into the main area and noticed the box on the dining table.

Slowly, he picked up the note, and his eyes moved slowly over the words, each line delivering a devastating blow to his heart. It was your handwriting, and the words were filled with finality.

With a heavy heart, he slumped into a chair, reading the note a second and third time. He didn't want to believe the words he was reading, but the truth was inescapable. Regret washed over him like a tidal wave, and his heart ached as he realized the gravity of his mistakes.

He hadn't taken you seriously, and now he had lost the love of his life because of his stubbornness and blindness to your needs. Tears welled up in his eyes as he sat in the darkness of the room that once represented your shared life, reflecting on the choices he could have made differently. If only he had realized sooner.

6 years later...

After a tip from Laswell, Ghost had spent six long years searching the streets of Iceland, ignoring your plea for him not to look for you. He was determined to speak with you, to make things right, even though he knew it was a long shot. He had realized too late the mistakes he had made, and now he was left with a deep regret that gnawed at his soul.

As he wandered the streets, it was as if he was retracing his own regrets, his footsteps echoing the path he should have taken years ago. And then, one fateful day, as he strolled down a street next to a park, his heart dropped.

His eyes found you, disbelief washing over him as he watched a man lean down and kiss your cheek. Your laughter rang in his ears, and his gaze fell on the toddler hugging your leg. A stroller stood nearby, a baby no more than a year old wrapped in a blanket.

Ghost took a step back, disbelief battling within him. But he immediately stopped when he saw you laugh and draw the man in for a kiss. That's when he saw it – the glimmering diamond ring on your finger.

His eyes shifted to the boy who ran out from behind a bush. The child had dirty blonde hair and brown eyes, a stark contrast to the toddler and the man with black hair and blue eyes.

His world came crashing down as he realized the truth. You had been pregnant when you left him, and that was his son. The pieces finally fell into place, and his past words haunted him.

All the times he had ignored your pleas, all the times he had put his career before you, played in his mind over and over again. He watched you and the family you had built without him, the family you had always begged him for.

In that moment, he couldn't help but envision a different life. He could have been the one standing beside you, laughing as you played with your kids. It was a life he could have had, a life he had always wanted, but his attachment to the military had led him away from it.

Ghost took a step back and, with one last look at the son he never knew, and at you, your wide smile etching a permanent place in his memory, he turned away and began to walk away.

You deserved this happiness, the family you had always yearned for, even if it wasn't with him. He knew he could only blame himself for the way things had ended. If only he had acted differently, if only he had put your feelings first, things might have been different.

After that day, he stopped coming to Iceland, letting you have the peaceful life you had always wanted, while he returned to the life that had torn you apart.

He could only blame himself, and he would carry the weight of that regret for as long as he lived, knowing that he had let a life with you slip through his fingers.

2K notes · View notes

duchessbird · 1 month ago

Text

muse!reader x sculptor!simon

500 follower special; 3.5k

smutty at the end; mentions of nudity and wanking; brief descriptions of war and gore; brief mentions of amputation; not proofread

he knows no place of worship like the temple of your body.

Flashing lights breed a violent headache.

Rough, wet fauna blooming beneath him.

A tight grip on his ribs; a vice waiting to crush him whole. No full breath can be taken, this he knows. But it’s no different than normal. He hasn’t taken a full breath since he was ripped from the warmth of the womb — wailing in agony. Scrubbed of blood and wrapped in scratchy material.

Johnny is saying something. Pressing into Simon’s chest with the weight of a thousand men, and this is when Simon summons the strength to push him off. Simon’s body yanks itself sideways and Simon throws up more blood than he knows what to do with.

Johnny shakes him, provoking more blood and bile up Simon’s throat and Simon refuses to go. Refuses to lean into Johnny’s desperate pull.

Because Simon knows what comes after this moment. Simon will sink into himself, and he will cough up blood until his lungs go with it and he will die. His flesh will melt off the bone and he’ll be one with the Earth again. Feeding maggots. The only good thing Simon has ever done.

Johnny’s chest is pumping, aching with an intense fire that doesn’t falter. Johnny knows he has only two options. He will go with Simon, and cross that damned threshold, or he will drag Simon back into the land of the living with him.

He decides on the latter, and he wraps Simon in shaking arms. Simon wants to fight, to thrash and beg Johnny just to let him die. Not to fight Fate, who is holding on so tightly to Simon. But he’s too tired.

He blacks out, hoping it is the last time he ever closes his eyes.

{*}

Simon awakes to scratchy cotton, like he has just been born again. There is an incessant beeping that he cannot unfocus on, and the lights are too harsh. Too bright. He wants to grab the nurse and beg her to inject some toxic into his IV, convince her that him being alive right now is a fluke and she doesn’t need to waste her resources.

But he doesn’t. He just clears his throat, startling the tired little nurse. Guilt gnaws at his stomach, like it always has, and he just turns away. He knows it’s coincidence that he scared her. That him clearing his throat was not the main factor in this. It’s the exhaustion that burrows in her bones, but his stomach churns anyway. It builds onto a lifelong insecurity. That he is too loud, too big, too scary, too harsh, eats too much, and —

“Simon,” Johnny says, jumping out of the armchair Simon didn’t even clock yet and it’s Simon turn to be startled. His voice gets caught in his throat because Johnny’s hair is tousled, and his shirt is sideways — exposing soft collarbone.

“Simon.” Johnny says again, touching Simon now. Firm hands on Simon’s scarred skin, and concerned baby blues lighting up Simon’s soul.

“What?” Simon grunts out, coughing again. There is a fire that burns below his skin, like red ants gnawing at his nervous system.

Johnny just stares. Observing Simon like he’s trying to discern if this is a doppelgänger or not.

“Yer awake.” Johnny breathes out, grateful. Simon nods.

“Unfortunately,” he chuffs. Johnny has to resist smacking some sense into Simon and instead sighs, sinking his weight into the edge of the bed.

Johnny looks between Simon and something else in the distance for a few moments.

“Lift the blanket, Simon,” Johnny says cryptically. His voice is flat. Johnny’s voice has never been that even. Simon’s heart sinks before he even knows what’s under the blanket. But he lifts it anyway, and his breath escapes his lungs.

No, it is ripped from his lungs. Like someone has shoved a vacuum past his uvula. Simon’s fucking left leg ends after his knee. It’s gone. His hands start shaking.

Little does Simon know, this tremor will rarely ever falter. It’s something that will stick to him like feathers over molasses. A sick reminder in the few limbs he is left with of the one he lost.

Simon doesn’t scream. Not since his voice dropped. He hasn’t cried since he stopped using diapers. He has been silent up until this point. A fearful scream rips from his chest, and Johnny acts quickly, muffling the sound in his chest.

Johnny is gripping Simon so hard there are soft little red marks, and Simon is panicking. Because he didn’t make it through this unscathed that he thought he would. Simon is even lesser of himself now, a shell with undeniable cracks.

Even the worst version of himself is not good enough.

{*}

Simon doesn’t truly wake up until he’s sitting in Price’s office, paperwork ahead of him — damning him to a boring fate of being some worthless veteran mooching off the government because he wasn’t careful enough.

Simon’s new prosthetic feels like a stilt. Like a replacement rather than an extension of himself. Chunky metal and more scratchy material underneath. He knows that it will grow on him with time, it has to, but he still gets a burn in his throat at the thought. Tightness rigged by bottled emotion.

Provided housing, alternative projects and disability pay are all buzzwords that don’t even catch Simon’s attention. Some glorified fucking speech Price was forced to memorize when he was promoted to Capt.

Simon yanks the pen away, signing his future away like he has any choice. But he knows he doesn’t. And this contract is forged in blood. Signed in blood.

Johnny takes the next morning to drive Simon to his new flat, a quaint (nasty) little place with an open floor plan (unfurnished), and an eccentric (outdated) design in the kitchen. Johnny winces at the sight of it, and he catches Simon breaking a little bit more.

One of the TF141’s most celebrated veterans risking his life. And this is what he gets in return? Simon oughta stage a coup, Johnny thinks.

But Simon doesn’t. Simon just sets his bag down by the door, takes off his shoes, and sinks down the wall. Johnny does the same, and they just sit together for a while. If Simon’s hit rock bottom, Johnny is at least on his way down.

{*}

The weeks following that are monotonous. Simon ordering furniture and building it. Eating dinner. Washing dishes. Taking walks to ease into his new prosthetic. All things he wishes he didn’t have to be doing. But he does them anyway. Because this is his life now.

Sometime in the monotonous wave of inhaling and exhaling, Simon finds himself in the crafts section of the department store. Looking at canvases and cardstock and oil pastels and charcoal and clay. Air-dry. Well, isn’t that clever, he thinks.

His glasses are on the tip of his nose and his right knee keeps giving out even though he’s just standing there and his hands are shaking and sweaty that he swears he has aged three lifetimes since he was discharged. Idle hands are the devils plaything, he knows this. But his hands are so shaky, he has no choice but to idle. He has nothing to carve into or nothing to sketch. No one to help, no one to hold. Wait.

Simon has an epiphany. Like an earthquake, it is some subtle shifting in his mind before all Hell breaks loose. He will be thirty-seven this year. And he has no one. He was born in this world alone, and he will die all the same.

Somewhere in this time where his brain and heart are stuck in limbo, he buys the clay. Because it’s easy. Because it’s convenient. And the charcoal because it reminds him of gunpowder. And some paper with a rough surface because the old lady at the store said it would do well with charcoal.

And Simon starts out slow. Sketching apples, and the telly remote and his glass of scotch. And throughout this journey, where he tapes his drawings to the walls of his bedroom like a madman, he realizes his hands have stopped shaking. The phantom pain that kept him tied up in bed has tapered off into something manageable and there is a single tear, now. A tear of euphoric triumph that he used to only feel in battle. A soft blooming of the withered rose that was his heart, now alive and beating.

This clay, this stick of charcoal. It stains his hands and rearranges his mind.

He starts listening to music again, sculpting some sort of something that doesn’t really look like anything. And it makes him laugh.

It makes him fucking laugh.

{*}

But the high of the joy mellows out again. Because Simon has sculpted enough apples and poor man’s bowls for a lifetime. And he has drawn enough reference photos on the Internet for a few more of them.

He needs a challenge. A living, breathing challenge.

So he posts an ad. On a Facebook group made for people living in his area. Usually used for selling furniture locally or announcing new corner shops opening, but Simon posts an ad.

Intermediate Sculptor and Charcoal Artist. Model needed. 21+.

Suspicious. Strange. Unnerving. Off-putting. All words that cross your mind as you read over the ad, the supposed address only a block and a half from your flat.

But why do you want to go anyway?

{*}

Simon answers the door. You have your headshots in hand, the ones you had to rush to get taken because he just assumed you had some lying around. A pretty little college bird, is all he knows about you. Plush, barely twenty-two and a smart girl. He stares at you, unblinking and unmoving and you’re thinking he’s regretting his choice.

No. He’s just thinking about bottling you up and setting you on his shelf because you’re the single most divine piece of art he’s ever seen in his life.

He has seen flashes of God in the battlefield, flashes of angles carrying him up in a chariot (and dropping him off by the escalator that only leads down) and yet he sees you and you top all of that.

A yearning burrows deep into his bones, beneath layers of scarred skin and worn muscle. A yearning to draw you in your purest form, wings and halo and all.

“Simon?” You speak up, soft as a kitten’s fur. And he’s melting. Into the floor and his pants.

“C’mere,” he says after a moment, beckoning you into the flat. Immediately, you can tell that Simon is going to do you justice in his art. His hands are covered in dried clay, and there’s charcoal somehow on the back of his neck. And his various paintings and sketches are taped to the wall, the improvement clear over the months. There is a single shelf in the entire flat, and it’s holding all his little clay creations.

“Mm, sit on the stool,” he says gruffly, clearly meaning business. Little did you know, it took all of his courage to speak those words to you. The faster he got this done, the faster you would leave, and the faster he could wank.

I mean, sure, he saw your profile picture. But why were you so … gorgeous? You shucked off your jacket, tossing it on his couch and sitting on the wooden stool.

Your stomach rolled over itself so sweetly, and your thighs fattened as you sat. Simon was white-knuckling his charcoal stick to maintain some kind of composure. Any military type torture training couldn’t’ve prepared Simon for this.

One thing was true, though, you were his new muse.

{*}

Now that Simon knew you, you were all he drew. Photos of you sitting, photos of you smiling or laughing or crying or reading on his couch. Even a few shameful drawings that he would hide away in case you surprised him at his flat.

You had no clue. You just thought he was a gruff, silent artist who liked the way he got to draw you. And honestly? You thought he was hot. The whole silent, brooding thing? And the tattoos lining his body? Mhm. Yes.

{*}

You guys got closer over time. A type of strange closeness festering between you two like a sickness waiting to be shared and spread. You’d come by his flat after a hard day at work or while you had to study for something big for college. Share a drink and sleep on his couch to escape your parents’ nagging.

Simon tells you about all of his tattoos, and why he started doing what he does. And you open up about your body image issues. Simon is surprised about this, because how can you be ashamed of this? He grabs your hip for a little emphasis.

You giggle because it tickles and he leans in further, babbling about how beautiful you are and you barely even notice all the sweet things he’s saying.

“Mm, pretty bird,”

“So sweet I need better dental insurance,”

“Get lost in your eyes, dovie,”

“Can’t do this body justice with just some charcoal,”

You stop laughing and then realize. You’re so close. You’re practically breathing air directly from his mouth. You lean in further, wanting to close this newfound distance (or the lack thereof) but he interrupts you.

“I want to sketch you nude.” He says abruptly, and you blanch.

Nude?

“Why?” You breathe out, eyes searching his face for some kind of clue of anything. His chest is rising and falling softly, and his hand is burning a hole through your shirt as it rests on your waist.

“I told you, birdie,” he starts, his grip tightening for a moment for emphasis. “Can’t never do this body justice, I know, but I especially can’t under all these layers.” He’s so earnest that the request loses some of its shock.

There is a genuine emotion in his honey-colored eyes. He hasn’t stopped looking at you since he asked, and something in his body tells you he’s pleading. He feels like three score years and then some pass before you answer.

“Okay.” You say. He nods.

{*}

You show up a week later, freshly shaven everywhere and rocking on your feet. It’s almost golden hour, per Simon’s request. He beckons you in like normal. But what isn’t normal is him leading you to his bedroom after that.

But you follow, breeze wafting up the sundress you’ve gone commando under.

His bedroom is clean. A mattress with a simple bed frame lifting it off the ground, some dark grey sheets and a large, elegant dresser made of dark wood.

There’s a large window overlooking the city below, and the sun sits on the brink of horizon now, sky turning a pastel yellow.

“Losing daylight, princess,” he raises an eyebrow at you. Because ever since you said ‘yes,’ to this, he’s gotten so cocky. So much more comfortable in the friendship than before. You roll your eyes and shrug.

It’s going to happen regardless, you think. So you unzip the dress after slipping off your little shoes, and let it drop to the floor. Simon’s face is stone as he observes your naked body.

“Lay down, dovie,” he nods to his bed, clad in a dark grey sheet. It’s in front of the window, just like he planned. You lay down on the bed, and he walks over to help you pose.

A hand in the back of your knee to lift your leg, a hand at the bottom of your spine to arch your back, a hand adjusting your arm to tangle your hand in your hair.

He steps back to admire the new pose, and he nods. “Beautiful,” he assures you, and sits down behind an easel to get to work. Unlike his usual sketchbook, he got a larger piece of paper specially for this occasion.

He sketches your silhouette in the window. Soft pudge resting under your chest. Thighs sagging deliciously due to gravity. Simon fucking drinks it up. Like water to a man thirsting.

He takes his time, too, like a cheeky prick. Anatomy that he’s usually proud to admit he’s mastered connecting is now so complicated and just not right somehow.

Eventually, after the second or third pose, he walks over to you with a different kind of energy. His usual sketchbook in hand like he’s already run out of room on the XL piece of paper he attached to the easel.

He did.

“Sit up, gorgeous,” he gruffs out, arms bruised with charcoal and hands stained by hours of blending. The sun has long disappeared from the sky, but Simon turned on a lamp nearby. No worries, birdie, we still got light. Ain’t the 1800s.

You oblige, sitting up and stretching softly. Simon takes a mental picture of that for later reference and gets back to the task at hand. He kneels down in front of you, setting his notebook aside.

He looks up at you, honey eyes searching yours. When he finds no signs of hesitance anymore, he opens your knees. Exposing your sweet cunt.

You swear he makes a noise before going back to business. You feel the heat of the blush on your face seeping in, and you search his face wildly.

“Artists’ eye,” is all he says as he traces your cunt onto paper. Charcoal stains your inner and back thighs from him trying to get all the angles he’s wanting, and you eventually just become pliant.

Once he’s done, he hands you your dress with his hand gloved by his shirt. You nod and slip back into it, making no effort to wash off the charcoal where it stains your skin between your legs.

You’re rocking on your feet again, considering.

“I want your help with an assignment.” You explain. Simon turns to you, eyebrows knitted in confusion. He gestures for you to continue.

“My professor. She wants us to write an essay on the most impactful relationship we’ve ever had. And I want to write about you,” he’s still, unmoving. You’re not even sure if he’s breathing. “You’ve helped me transform the image I used to have of my body. I wore a crop-top the other day. Do you know how insane that is for me?”

He nods. Because of course he knows. There is nothing about you Simon doesn’t know. Nothing about you he doesn’t understand.

“You’ve changed my view of myself. And that’s pretty fucking impactful,” you admit, voice soft with emotion. Simon nods wordlessly, giving his permission. You smile and hug him, mumbling a soft ‘thank you’.

“I love you.” He says, and you blanch. Now you’re not breathing. You pull away.

“What?” You ask, afraid. No, no, no! Why does he love you? You’re just his model. Before you know the ceiling from the floor, you’re bolting.

{*}

It’s been two weeks since you’ve seen Simon. The essay is two, long long paragraphs finished. And you’re starting to realize something.

You love Simon. Nobody writes this kind of passionate essay about someone they feel casually about. You write about feeling like his only object of desire. Who the hell says that?

It’s nearly 2am when you slam your laptop shut, grab your keys and make your way to his flat. He opens the door, half-naked and covered in more ink or paint or something that indicates he definitely wasn’t sleeping.

“Simon,” you breathe out, your chest heaving. “I love you too. I didn’t realize then because I was scared of this becoming more than just me being your model. Or your pose reference. But—”

“It’s been more than that for a while, dove.” He interrupts you, and your brow furrows.

“What?” He drags you into the flat, looking down at you.

“Ever since I’ve met you, you have been my muse. Hell, it goes beyond that, dove. You’re my … my God. I stay up for hours makin’ photos of you just to try and get it right and I never can. I can never get this body right, dove,” he breathes out. “And fuck, I’ll try for the rest of my life if I’ve got’a. If you’d ’ave me. But I don’t know if a thousand years would work, doll. Don’t know if I could ever do you justice. Every fuckin’ freckle and roll and curve, shit, doll, what do I got’a do for it?”

You’re still. Unmoving. Feet planted on the ground firmly.

You speak a soft whisper of something you don’t even comprehend, and before you can think, Simon has you on your back again.

Back in his bed, naked as the day you were born again. Worshipping those folds with a delicate tongue, holding you firmly down by your hips.

“Fuck, got’a make a statue of you, luv,” he grunts between starved licks to slick skin. “Put you in the middle of the fuckin’ country, luv. In every museum. Got’a let everyone see you.” He moans, rutting against the bed just from eating you out.

Simon doesn’t know much. Except that the knee he has left is aching from this angle, and that his hands are shaking from him unintentionally edging himself, but he does know that you’re stuck here.

Etched in the paper taped to his walls, and etched into the indents of his heart.

257 notes · View notes