#Cod AU

[sgt-soap]

Um… so… why do people call you Foap sometimes?

[roneloren]

Young Barkov

[yourstrulyrani]

omg knight!reader x prince!simon !?!?

His Highness

prince!simon riley x f!knight!reader wc: 1460 a/n: omg i love this idea anon?! i've been seeing art of knights and princesses everywhere so i am SO down to write this. i only write x f!reader, so this is kind of mulan-ish in a way. i hope you like it!

You had no choice. Your dad: too ill to fight. Your brother: long gone. You had dreams. Ambitions. Goals. All crushed when a letter was sent to the small cottage you lived in. A letter from the royal family, asking that a man "honor" your family's name for the kingdom. You scoffed when you read that letter a year ago. You barely had enough energy to live and here you were being expected to work for a country that wouldn't waste a second trying to fight for their people. That family wasn't even worth the honor they were asking for. You heard the rumors.

"He's a drunkard, the King. Can't even fight in his own battle even if you gave him proper whiskey as a reward." The man selling fruits said. 

"The Queen never shows her face to the public. She locks herself in that palace so she can drown herself in the jewels she so disgustingly possessed." The librarian ridiculed.

What you heard about their son was nothing better: His Royal Highness, Lieutenant Prince Simon Riley. Next in line for the throne in the Riley bloodline. Back then, you didn't have to see him or even be in his presence to realize just how disgusting of a man he was.

But here you are, guarding his life now. What a hypocrite you are.

'It's not like I had a choice', is something you say to yourself everyday in front of the mirror, right before you put on your armor. The armor was too broad for your shoulders and too long for your legs. The shoes were big enough, so it came to your advantage when you needed to stuff them so you could appear taller. Luckily, you were never expected to show your face, so you always opted to conceal it.

You were doing this because you had to, not because you wanted to.

A year has passed, everyday you continue the same routine. Your life doesn't revolve around the small cottage you once lived in and getting by with small rations of food anymore, but rather around an uncharismatic Lieutenant who lives in a palace just as big as his ego. He walks like he's the king already. His eyes were always glaring at someone and his lips were prepared to spit out harsh words at anyone. Especially you.

"What are your legs made of? Walk faster," The Prince spat at you. It was time for breakfast, marking the start of your time with His Highness.

As a woman, you had to deepen your voice during work so no one would suspect anything. Over the past year, your vocal cords have adapted to the strain, a rasp has now developed, luckily adding a gruff and masculine essence to your once feminine voice. "Your Highness, I have to be five pa—"

"Five paces behind." He interrupts you and that makes both of your hands form a fist. You could never punch His Highness, but you were sure as hell so close to doing it sometimes. His Highness speaks once again, "I'm not daft. I know the rules."

"So then why are you acting like you're daft then, you dolt?"

is what you really wanted to say. Instead you said nothing and nodded, doing what he told you to do. You walked the long hallway to the dining room, hearing your armor clank against the hardwood floor. You entered the vast dining room, the refectory table already covered in breakfast items. You never understood why royal families felt entitled to cover the table with so much food with every meal, only to eat one plate and throw the rest away. This whole table itself could feed a village in this kingdom for a whole month, and one day of food for the royal family could feed that same village for even more time. You position yourself behind His Highness on one side of the doorway while he takes a seat at the table, another knight guarding the other. 

It wasn't long until the King walked in, eyes squinted and bloodshot, hair disheveled, and walking unsteady. All you could see was the back of the Prince’s body, but you saw the way his shoulders tensed up in the presence of his own father. The father and son duo were not that close, you noticed during your time here. After all, who tolerated a father who was always drunk?

The Lieutenant Prince clears his throat, "Commander Graves had advanced forces into our—"

The sound of glass shattering followed his words, making you flinch in the slightest. You cocked your head to where the King was seated, an arm of his hung off the table. The once prepared food on the table was now on the ground along with the china it was plated on now shattered.

The King speaks now, his words slurred and lisped. "You are a Lieutenant," he chuckles sloppily, "and aren’t even acting like one.” The King stumbles over to his son, stepping on the mix of food and glass on the floor while doing so. You tensed up just as much as The Prince was now. You felt your hands grow clammy and your cheeks heat at the tension. You wondered what the King was going to do next. You always thought that the King and the Prince had a normal relationship before your life changed, but that expectation was long gone. You saw the broken bottles of alcohol across the palace all the time. You heard both of the men screaming their lungs off to each other too, so this encounter was nothing new.

♔

The Prince was ticked off the rest of the day thanks to his father. 

He kept ordering you to walk closer, to perform more mundane tasks than usual. You dusted the animal mounts on the walls, walked his German Shepherd, and now you’re in his study tidying up the place. Your arms ache trying to reach the top of the shelves, and you curse the man who started this Kingdom, who’s decisions led to this very moment where you had to clean the study of a prince who is too troubled with his own father. You have no idea at the moment where the Prince was, but you want to keep it that way, cleaning his study alone allows you to finally have some peace anyway. You move to The Prince’s desk, scattered in random files and fountain pens. Until one file caught your eye. It wasn’t beige like the others but a scarlet red. You thought about it. You’re alone. It’s right there. Would it really hurt to just open it up? 

So you did. Each paper of the file was a new operation plan for the army, but only the last page was labeled as “confirmed” and you could almost scoff. What you read was pathetic and it was signed off in red ink by none other than Lieutenant Prince Simon Riley. As this man’s knight you were fuming, you were about to fight for this and you were certain that it would result in failure. As a citizen of this kingdom, you were fearful that if it continues to run like this, it will turn into dust.

“What are you doing?” You jumped at the deep voice that rumbled behind you, quickly swapping the file in your hand for the duster to cover up what you were snooping on the moment before. You knew who was speaking before you turned your head to look.

“Dusting your desk, Your Highness.” You saw The Prince’s eyes squint at you as he adjusted the cuffs of his tunic. His appearance was more disheveled compared to when you last saw him, his brown hair stuck out in multiple directions. His eyes were a tear away from being bloodshot, and his lips were swollen and pink. You almost felt bad for the man until you remembered what you just read.

His Highness walks over to the desk, “Just dusting?” he probes. You wanted him to drop it, but you knew the Prince as a stubborn man. He snatched the red file from under you, scrolling the pages like you did moments before. You look at the royal as he scrolls with a straight face. “You read them.” Not a question, but a statement. He knew. 

Your mouth opened slightly and a nervous exhale left your lips. You knew better than to admit your wrongdoing, so you negated what he said. “Of course not, Your Highness. All I wa—”

“You read them. Don’t lie.” He repeats. His eyes peel off the files to look up at you. You saw the rage behind his eyes, the vulnerability, and the lack of loyalty that you have now created between yourselves.

(っ◔◡◔)っ 💌 thank you all for over 400 followers by the way, i adore all of you💌

[sai-int]

LOW COUNTRY | HEAT WAVE

johnny mactavish x reader

[PREV] [NEXT] [AO3] [MLIST]

18+ | the chokepoint

The days are shorter now, slipping by in a blink, but the nights drag their heels—long, quiet things that seem to stretch on without mercy, like they’ve forgotten how to end.

December 5th. Cold enough to bite. The kind of cold that makes your breath curl in the air like smoke from a cigarette, makes your fingers numb even in fleece gloves. But it doesn’t put out the spark that’s been smoldering between you and Johnny for weeks. If anything, it stokes it, feeding the slow burn until it grows into a prairie fire—untamed and all-consuming, racing through every weed and grass blade in its path before you can even see the smoke rise to the ozone.

In the wake of the barn—of that night—you and Johnny have been nothing but ghosts in the daylight, apparitions, dust particles in the rays of sun that beam through your bedroom windows. A nod here. A shared glance there. Not a touch, not a whisper

—in front of Pa, that is. He still thinks Johnny backed off, like he told him to. Thinks his threat worked.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

What he doesn’t see is what happens the second your boots hit the back porch and Pa’s eyes are off you. You and Johnny turn feral—entirely mad—half undressed in solace you two have built for each other.

You’ve fucked deep in the woods, slammed against tree trunks and logs, hidden in shadows thick with pine and secrecy—howling the other’s name so loud that birds desert their nests in droves. He’s found you in the garage while you’re working on Pa’s truck and turned you into a whining mess in a minute or less, clothes shucked and tossed aside, hearts hammering like brass-knuckles to a cheek. 

He’s had you in your bed after the world went to sleep; while the house held its breath, you clung to each other—gulping down each other’s sounds through open-mouthed kisses, hands interlocked like the world might swallow you whole right there in that creaky bed on the second-floor—like if you ever let go, it’d tear you apart and scatter the pieces like ash in the wind. 

—in layman’s terms, you’ve been fucking like rabbits. And neither of you can get enough.

Though, out of all the places you’ve snuck off to, nothing was better than the old barn. 

You both started slipping away to the rickety thing under cover of dark—now your designated hideaway, the both of you tucked inside, a shared secret in plain view.

It became a ritual, almost holy in the way you both gravitated there—silent footsteps on dew-wet grass, fingers brushing in the shadows, hearts pounding louder than your boots on the dirt. In that quiet, forgotten place, you weren’t Pa’s daughter and he wasn’t your farmhand.

One night, Johnny showed up with an armful of old quilts and pillows he had found in the attic, smirking that devious smirk you’ve come to love as he climbed the ladder.

“Might as well make ourselves comfortable, aye?”

It took a few days, but you built yourselves a little love-nest of sorts in the loft of the barn. Spare blankets and cushions inconspicuously hauled away and relocated to be piled up, forming a mass pile of soft throws and plush pillows—a den, of sorts. You even got a few old oil lamps to work, their warm glow casting everything in a soft, amber haze. Up there, in your hidden world, it felt like time didn’t exist. Just you, him, and the sound of wind whistling through the cracks in the old wood paneling.

And when he ruins you in that loft—again and again—his touch never falters. Always sure. Always precise. Johnny’s got you mapped out by heart: every place to linger, every spot to kiss, every inch that makes you gasp, that makes your back bow like a drawn bowstring. He’s got your number, and he dials it again and again and again.

That night, after you’d clawed at each other—limbs tangled, skin slick with sweat, breath ragged in the dark—Johnny finally pulled back, his chest heaving like he’d just outrun a storm. You were bare, flushed, and breathless under him. He eased himself down beside you, settling his head against your chest like he belonged there. 

You let him, because he does.

You sweetly raked your nails through his hair, scratching rhythmically at his scalp as you let the remnants of your orgasm settle. He let out something between a sigh and a groan, eyes fluttering shut.

“Ye keep doin’ that, I’m never gettin’ up,” he had murmured, voice low and gravelly.

You smiled, pressing your lips to his head. “If only we didn’t run a farm... We still have to eat. Live—” 

“—pretend.”

He opened one eye at ‘pretend’, looking up at you as the gold of his cross glints in the light, dangling from his chest onto your own. “Mm. Suppose we can’t hide forever.”

Johnny’s chest rose and fell, his arm wrapped loosely around your waist, fingers tracing absent patterns on the soft skin of your hip, gooseflesh rising in its wake. You could feel the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the soft puffs of his breath. The faint scent of hay and wood filled the air, mingling with the earthy warmth of him beside you. The barn creaked with the slow rhythm of the night, the lamp’s light flickering like a pulse, casting a shadowed caricature of you both on the wall—the quiet hum of the world outside distant, as if it had all stopped, leaving just the two of you in this small, secret corner of it all.

“We should talk to him—” you said eventually, “Pa—about us.”

You looked down at him, fingers dancing along the sharp line of his jaw, tracing the warmth of his skin. His baby blues held yours, clouded with the same hesitation that curled in your gut—the kind that came from knowing this thing between you isn’t simple. The kind that whispered warnings about ruining a good thing, about stepping back into a world that doesn’t hold the same softness you’ve carved out here, in the quiet cradle of this rickety barn. A dusty little sanctuary that only existed when it was just the two of you.

But you’re not little kids, and real life doesn’t pause for feelings, no matter how deep they run.

Johnny didn’t speak. Didn’t move at first. Then slowly—like the weight of the moment had finally sunk its teeth into him—he nodded, his stubble grazing your palm, grounding you both in the silence.

“Yeah. I know.”

But neither of you spoke to Pa.

 Not that night. 

No, not the one after it, either.

Winter settled quickly. 

For real.

Ice on the windows, breath misting even at the “warmest” times of day—and somehow, every time you both meant to sit down and face what you had intended to just a few weeks back, you’d find yourselves back in each other’s arms—skin to skin, mouths searching, like gravity itself was pulling you together.

The barn. The garage. Hell, even behind the stables once. You lost track of how many times you’d had him, had each other, desperate and quiet (though, Johnny isn’t much of a quiet man—in that regard) and wild.

It wasn’t just lust anymore—it was safety. A secret you clung to like a lifeline. 

Love, though neither of you had dared to speak it yet.

Though, even as the guilt festered, as the weight of the looming confrontation hung over your heads like storm clouds, you kept choosing each other.

Again. And again.

And again.

It’s mid-December now, and the air is biting. The farm's rhythm has slowed on your end with no winter crops to tend to. The only things left to worry about are the onions and garlic, the mulching and soil, which doesn’t take much effort, so you find yourself with a lot of free time on your hands.

You’ve settled into the quiet of the house more than usual, your days filled with mundane tasks that seem to pass in a blur. Though, you’ve become skilled at keeping yourself busy—continuing to fix the old tractor, tinkering with Pa’s truck, even flipping through the new catalog for supplies to order for the spring: mulch, seeds, more fencing equipment, etc. 

You find yourself in the kitchen more often, too, not just at meal times. You’re trying new recipes, stirring pots of stews and baking bread, filling the house with the kind of warmth that doesn’t come from the heater. But through that, your thoughts wander—always back to Johnny. The kitchen feels different now when he’s in the house—when you both are (which isn’t nearly as often as you’d like). The little glances you steal, the way his presence fills the air, the way your hands brush as you pass him a plate. It’s like every moment is a dangerous little secret. 

Just like August

—when everything was new, delicate, trembling on unsteady legs like a fawn just finding its footing. You’ve come so far since then, grown stronger, closer, more certain… and yet, somehow, it feels like you’re right back where you started. Full circle, like the season turning back on itself. Funny how life does that—folds in on itself when you least expect it, like time’s got its own sense of humor.

Johnny’s workload is easier and overall less taxing without the oppressive summer heat, but his days are still spent feeding the cows, making sure they have enough hay and extra bedding to keep warm through the bitter nights. The sheep need the same.

There’s always something with the animals to keep him busy, especially when it comes to managing the animals and their needs through the colder months. He still doesn’t get much downtime, but he’ll sneak away in a heartbeat to see you, if even for a moment.

Or a quick fuck.

—which you’ll never shy away from.

But, with the cold weather driving everything indoors more often, it's almost unbearable to spend more than thirty minutes in the old barn. 

Or the garage. 

Or the woods. 

Or even the truck bed. 

Each place that used to offer an escape is intolerable now. The house is hard to hide in, the walls watching with every glance, every breath, until it feels like there’s nowhere left to retreat except your bedroom after dark.

To cope, you find yourselves walking past one another with the excuse of a shared chore or task. The warmth between you isn’t just the fire in the hearth; it’s the heat of a thousand small moments that no one else can see.

—or so you think.

Like fate, Pa—too discerning for his own good—starts to notice. You’ve all done this dance before, and Pa has never been a dumb man. 

At first, it's just the way Johnny comes back to the house during the work day more often than he should and lingering longer than usual, leaning against the counter as you chop vegetables or hovering while you mend a hole in your favorite Levi jeans. The shared silences on the porch as you sit near each other, the soft, familiar tension in the air. 

Pa doesn’t say anything, but his eyes narrow every time he catches you two in the same space.

You both aren’t as discreet as you think you are, but you both are none the wiser. 

It’s like everything is simmering; a slow bubble, small licks of a flame emanating from just below your feet. The proximity, the longing. Every time Pa turns his back, it’s like the air clears for just a second before it thickens again. No words are spoken, but the unsaid hangs in the room like smoke. It’s impossible not to feel it.

One evening, as Pa dozes off in his recliner—head tilted back, mouth slightly open, a low snore barely audible over the crackle of the tv—you and Johnny find yourselves alone again.

The house is quiet, save for the low hum of the wind outside rattling against the windows. The night has pulled in tight, and the cold settles in the bones of the place, but the house glows golden inside.

You both sit at the table long after Pa’s rushed through his dinner and retreated to his chair. Your plates are still half-full, your conversation nonexistent—but the silence is tranquil, not strained like it was after Pa threatened Johnny the way he did. It’s soft. Familiar. Comfortable.

You keep your eyes on your fork as you push around a piece of roasted carrot, lips tugging up in a barely-there smile as Johnny’s boot begins to brush against your calf beneath the table. A little nudge. 

Then again. 

His ankle presses into yours, and you finally glance up at him.

He’s already looking at you, that quiet little smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, eyes crinkling just slightly. Like he’s trying to hide it. You look back at him with a soft smile of your own, one that makes your chest feel too full for your ribs.

Just like August.

—when he first started looking at you like that—like you were something rare and beautiful, like he couldn’t believe he got to be near you.

Couldn’t believe you were even real.

These stolen moments, these quiet, tender flickers of intimacy when the house is still and the rest of the world falls away—feel more dangerous than anything you’ve done. 

More dangerous than growing up into some disgruntled teenager who rolled her eyes at chores and cursed the small-town sky.

Than hating the farm, hating the town, hating your parents for chaining you to a life you never asked for.

More dangerous than packing your bags with shaking hands and slamming the door behind you, leaving behind the soil and sweat and Sunday suppers for city lights and skyscrapers and something bigger.

Than chasing your dreams all the way to the big and beautiful New York City, teeth bared, chest proud—telling yourself you'd never look back.

More dangerous than coming home to a house that no longer felt like a home.

To a father who’d grown smaller somehow.

To a mother who wasn’t there—

—a mother whose last memory of you was your sharp voice echoing off the foyer walls as you spit, “I’m never coming back to this farm.”

And then you did.

But not in time.

And maybe that’s why it all feels so reckless now—why every brush of his fingers, every stolen kiss in the dark, feels more like a defiance than desire.

Because you've already learned what regret tastes like—bitter and all too permanent.

You’ve already lost too much by waiting.

So when your eyes find his, when you let yourself tumble into him again and again—you do it with full knowledge of the toll it takes. The weight it carries. The flame it fans.

It’s all laced with the knowledge that you’ll never regret, never wait again. The knowledge that if everything explodes once more, this time there might be no coming back—no merciful second chance from Pa.

But for now, it’s just the two of you. No Pa. No watchful eyes. No threats hanging over your head.

Neither of you willing to pull away.

It’s just you and Johnny, playing with fire and pretending it won’t burn you.

The days stack like firewood by the porch—gradual, careful, full of purpose—until the calendar turns to December 24, 1991.

Christmas Eve.

The farm is blanketed in a pale hush, dawn not yet broken, and everything outside the windows wears a soft coat of frost. You haven’t seen real snow down here since you were 3, but the grass glitters silver with ice in the fading moonlight of the morning, the animals are dozing, and the trees sway gently in the breeze. There's a stillness to it all, a peace that feels almost sacred.

—It’s a holy day after all.

But what’s happening inside the house is anything but.

You jolt awake with a strangled gasp, thighs trembling, spine arching off the mattress like a bowstring pulled taut. The room is dark and cold, your breath rising in visible clouds but you’re burning. Everywhere. There's heat pulsing between your legs, thick and molten, curling low in your belly, prickling like electricity across your fevered skin.

and then you feel it.

Johnny.

His mouth on you—hot, devoted. 

Wet.

His broad hands are locked around your hips, engulfing you—keeping you steady, holding you wide open for him like you’re the God he’s worshipping in the hush of morning. 

His grip is firm, grounding, thumbs sweeping lazy circles over your hips like he’s trying to calm you even as he drives you wild.

His breath ghosts over your cunt, tongue working you over with slow, sinful precision—the kind of practiced expertise that comes only from memorizing your every reaction. He knows what you like. knows how you like it. How to unravel you with nothing but his mouth and a little patience. How to take you apart piece by piece and make you beg to be rebuilt.

—though, he's a fixer. Always has been.

And God, he’s good with his hands—

But he’s better with his mouth.

Especially when it comes to eating pussy—yours, in particular. Like he was born for it.

He’s not in any rush. Not this morning. He's indulgent with it, greedy and reverent all at once, tongue tracing lazy figure-eights over your clit, dipping lower to your sodden hole only to come back again, lips slick and parted as he feasts on you like a man starved.

Your fingers twist into the sheets, knuckles white. You’re biting your lip, choking down cries that you know can’t echo off the walls. Your peak mounts fast, too fast, tension coiled like a livewire inside you, pulled hotter and tighter with every drag of his tongue.

When it finally snaps, it shatters you.

Your orgasm rips through you like lightning—white-hot, seizing every muscle in your body. your thighs snap closed around his head, legs trembling. Your back arches into his mouth and away from it all at once, breath catching in your throat as you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, vision flashing with static. You're weightless. Gone.

Johnny groans into your folds as he swallows your release, low and wrecked like he’s the one being ruined by it. He keeps going through it all, licking you gently through the aftershocks of your orgasm, mouth moving slower now, softer. Tender, like the Johnny you’ve come to know.

Then, when your body’s finally stopped shaking and your lungs finally remember how to breathe, he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—like a promise, a thanks—and crawls up the bed.

His face is flushed, chin glistening, eyes bright with heat and admiration. He grins, cocky and annoyingly familiar, and settles beside you, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek as he pulls the blankets up and over your trembling frame.

“Mornin’, lass. Sleep well?”

His voice is low and rough-edged, like gravel and whiskey, but still thick with sleep. He’s half on top of you, shirtless and in a pair of sleep shorts, skin warm against your own, eyes half-lidded and lazy as he leans in to kiss you—slow and open-mouthed, the kind of kiss that still makes your toes curl even after all this time.

“Told you I’d wake ye at five like ye asked,” he hums, lips brushing yours, boyish smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You’re still breathless, grinning like an idiot, flushing high on your cheeks as you taste yourself on his lips. Your whole body hums with leftover pleasure, limbs boneless, thighs still buzzing.

“T-that’s not what I meant, Johnny,” you manage, voice scratchy and sleep-warm, but he just grins wider.

“Worked, didn’t it?”

You swat at his chest half-heartedly, and he catches your wrist with ease, bringing your palm to his mouth. His kiss there is softer than anything else he’s done this morning—sweet, a promise you both don’t dare say out loud yet.

Then he rolls off of you with a groan, laying on his back as he stretches his long frame, one arm flung behind his head. The gold cross at his chest catches the faint morning light as it begins to filter through the frost-laced window, casting soft shapes across his chest and the decades old quilts tangled around your legs.

He looks unfair like this—bare and flushed, muscles stretching beneath tan skin, hair tousled and haloed by the cold breath of morning. The pipes in the house groan quietly, the brisk wind whistling faintly through the trees outside, but here it’s warm, still. Yours.

You linger in bed for a moment longer, drinking him in, letting the heat between you steep before the day begins. But eventually you force yourself to move, the chill of the wooden floor biting at your feet as you rise. Your legs are jelly, hips sore in that satisfying, secret way that you’ll feel for the rest of the day. It makes you bite back a smile.

He doesn’t move much, just lays there with his arms tucked behind his head, shorts low around his hips and the glow of early light gilding his skin. He watches you with those sleepy, satisfied eyes, lids heavy as he looks at you moving about your room.

You pull your robe from the hook and drape it over your shoulders, slow and reluctant, every motion thick with the weight of wanting. Because you both know you’d rather still be in bed—tangled in sheets and each other, skin-warm and love-drunk, wrapped up in the kind of daze that only the cover of night can conjure. 

You cinch the sash at your waist, fingers lingering on the knot, and cast him a look over your shoulder—one last, lingering glance before you break the spell and step into day.

“You gonna stay here a bit longer?”

“Might,” he drawls, voice low and rough. “Sheets smell like ye.”

That earns him a soft snort, but your smile betrays you as you pad back over to the bed and lean over him, brushing your lips against his forehead. “Greedy.”

He doesn’t let you get far. Just as you’re pulling away, his hand flashes out, curling around your wrist and yanking you back down. You gasp, a laugh caught somewhere between awe and surrender in your throat—then he’s kissing you sloppy, all spit-slicked tongues and bitten lips, like your mouth is the only salvation he’s ever known .

When he finally pulls away, his voice is smug, cocky, eyes glinting with mischief. “One hell of a breakfast, if I say so myself… Think I’m still hungry though.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks flushed, stomach bursting with butterflies, “I have to start cooking, baby.”

He grins and lets you go, but not before swatting your ass with a firm pat as you stand. “Don’t burn anything, chef.”

You shake your head, smile lingering, “Never,” and step out of the room, heart still racing.

Downstairs, the house is beginning to stir. The soft hiss of the kettle drifts in from the kitchen, the old stove ticking as it comes to life. The familiar creak of the third step greets your heel on the way down despite the cushion the runner provides, and the scent of pine, cinnamon, and fresh coffee thickens with every step you take.

The old house is awake—sun on the horizon, wood floors cool underfoot, and the quiet hum of a holiday morning settling into your bones.

The kitchen glows with a golden haze—the oven humming low, and the old gas stovetop radiating heat that cuts through the winter chill like a balm. The air is thick with the scent of cloves, browned butter, and roasting meat. Every surface gleams with holiday cheer. Garlands draped over the cabinets, red bows fastened to drawer handles, and an old wreath hangs crookedly over the pantry door—a little lopsided, but charming, nonetheless.

The radio hums softly from its perch on the corner shelf, the signal a little fuzzy—static crackling gently between the notes as “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” plays low and sweet. It’s the kind of sound that takes you back. 

Back to when you were small, helping Ma in the kitchen, watching her time every dish just right with such ease. You’d tug at the hem of her skirt, begging and whining for “just a little taste” of her peach cobbler (one you knew the taste of all too well, already). 

She’d laugh, shake her head, then finally give in—“Can’t be a sour-puss on a jolly day, Bug! Brighten up!”—before popping a warm bite into your mouth and sending you off grinning.

Things changed after she passed. Christmas was never quite the same. Every holiday has an undercurrent of her—even in death.

You do your best to keep it alive the way she would’ve wanted. Every decoration she once loved goes up in the same spot. Every recipe of hers still gets made, just the way she wrote it down. You and Pa never really had to talk about it—you both just know. It’s about honoring her, keeping her spirit close in the one of the only ways you know how.

The house is dressed to the nines, like something out of a storybook. Stockings hang from the mantel, little paper snowflakes stuck to the windows with old bits of leftover tape. The tree in the living room twinkles softly through the open doorway, glowing with mismatched lights, hand-painted ornaments, and a crooked star you made when you were nine years old. It’s imperfect. It’s cluttered. It’s yours.

The season carries weight now. A kind of quiet, aching nostalgia—for you, and for Pa too. It’s one of the few things you have in common with the man anymore.

Most of the tethers you had to him were buried alongside Ma.

You move across the cold kitchen floor, the hem of your robe brushing your ankles. It’s your softest one—worn thin in the sleeves, the color faded from too many washes, but comforting all the same. The sleeves are rolled high, and Ma’s apron is tied snug around your waist atop the robe, cinching you in. Your hair’s twisted up into a loose, haphazard knot, strands sticking out in every direction. There’s already flour on your arms, a smudge of something sweet at the corner of your mouth, and the kind of glow in your cheeks that can only come from oven heat and genuine, bone-deep contentment.

You look a mess—flushed, flour-dusted, a little bit wild-eyed—and you feel fucking amazing.

Could it have something to do with your extra special wake-up call this morning?

Possibly.

Okay definitely.

But there’s no time to linger in the memory—in the ache between your legs. The kitchen demands your full attention.

There’s a ham to glaze, biscuits to knead, soft and golden, rising patiently beneath a worn dish towel. Pies cooling on the windowsill, their crusts puffed and caramelized, glittering with coarse sugar. A pot of collards simmers on the back burner, heavy with vinegar and spice, steam curling in lazy spirals toward the ceiling. Nearby, potatoes hiss and pop in their boiling water, begging to be mashed within an inch of their lives with cream and butter.

By 11 a.m, you’re elbow-deep in the rhythm of it. Your hips sway to the music as you mindlessly sing along to carols, feet gliding across the tile in time with the soft shuffle of holiday vinyl and the crackle of the radio. You hum, half to yourself, half to the house. You taste, stir, season, adjust. Knead, rinse, repeat. The air is thick with warmth—yeast and salt and something sweeter still—and the windows have fogged to milky glass from the heat.

And you, radiant in the middle of it all, apron askew and cheeks smudged with flour, are the heartbeat of the room, just like Ma was. Every spoonful of gravy, every swipe of butter, every dusting of spice lifts something inside you. Something light. Something that feels like joy.

Out there, the wind howls over the hills, stripping the trees bare and rattling the eaves. It’s gray and bitter and biting.

But here—in this little kitchen that smells like brown sugar and rosemary and home—it’s magic.

And Johnny notices.

So does Pa.

Neither says much, not at first. But you catch it in the way Johnny leans against the doorframe occasionally, arms crossed, eyes soft. In the way Pa clears his throat and lingers by the coffee pot, nodding in approval at the bubbling pot of collards like he’s afraid to say more. They can both feel how much today means, how special you’re trying to make it.

What you’re building is more than a meal. It’s a memory in the making.

As it nears dinner, the house thrums with movement. Pa’s been out at Ma’s grave in the freezing cold for hours, Johnny is in and out, still working—boots muddy, cheeks pink from the cold—but every time he returns, he makes a point to check on you. Stealing kisses here and there. Sometimes he just grabs a knife and starts chopping beside you, no questions asked, like it’s second nature.

In hindsight, you’re endlessly thankful for the cooking lessons you gave him. 

 He wipes his hands on your apron, bumps your hip with his, murmurs little nothings to keep you grounded.

And you need it—because you’re barely holding on.

You can only “taste, stir, season, adjust” so many times before your taste buds go numb—utterly blind to balance, dulled by repetition. And poor Johnny, bless his heart, is so whipped you could slip a spoonful of straight salt past his lips and he’d take it like communion, eyes closed, mouth open, ready for more.

Any peace you found this morning has long since vanished—burned off by the trials and tribulations of wrangling a feast into existence, the hours slipping through your fingers like sifted flour, not quite enough despite how early you woke up.

There’s baking powder on your temple, gravy on the stovetop, steam rising from every pan and pot like gunsmoke. You’ve long exchanged your robe for one of Johnny’s sweatshirts and some jeans. You’re a flurry of motion: rolled up sleeves, apron damp with dishwater, sweating, hair falling out of its knot, caked in sauces and water and miscellaneous powders up to your elbows as you dart from counter to oven to sink and back again.

Because tonight isn’t just any dinner. It’s Ma’s Christmas dinner.

You’re cooking her recipes—every single one. Her honey-glazed ham. Her molasses cookies. Her greens and cornbread stuffing—and the cornbread. Her pies, her biscuits, her caramel-slick sweet potatoes, her normal baked potatoes, her mashed potatoes. 

All of it. 

The smells and tastes in each dish are close—so close—but still not quite right, and you’re driving yourself mad trying to pin it down.

It’s only the second time you’ve done this. The first was last year, Christmas after she passed, and it left you in tears halfway through. Nothing came out right because you were just too in your head—too distracted. 

This year, you swore it would be different. You promised yourself it would be perfect.

So when the ham browns too quickly, or when the pie crust bubbles unevenly, or when you forget the damn cranberry sauce in the icebox for the third time, your chest tightens. Your hands tremble a little as you stir the gravy, your eyes sting when the greens don’t taste exactly like hers. You don’t say it out loud, but it’s there in your bones—in your eyes—the fear that none of it will be good enough.

That you won’t be good enough.

Johnny knows the look on your face well by now. Every time he finds you staring off at a simmering pot like it just insulted your entire bloodline, he wraps his arms around you from behind, settles his chin on your shoulder, and says something like, “Smells damn near holy, Hen,” or “Ma’d slap me on m’hind if I said yer biscuits weren’t better’n hers.”

You chuckle as you fight tears, swatting him with a wooden spoon and threatening to cry if he doesn’t shut up. He just grins and tells you he’d kiss the tears away.

Around six, Pa comes back from Ma’s grave. He doesn’t say much—just hangs his coat with a solemn sigh, washes his hands, and starts setting the table without being asked. It’s the first time he’s done that in years. You glance at Johnny, eyes wide, and he just shrugs a little like don’t spook him, let him be.

You’re still flipping sweet potatoes into the serving dish when Johnny slips behind you again, his hands warm on your waist, his voice low in your ear.

“Yer doin’ just fine, baby. Everythin’s beautiful.”

You nod, but your fingers are clenched tight on the serving spoon.

“I just… I don’t know if it tastes the same,” you whisper.

Johnny gently pries the spoon from your grip and nudges it into the dish himself.

“Don’t have to taste the same,” he says. “It’s yers just as much as hers.”

Your throat thickens. You blink up at him and manage a breathless little smile—grateful, nervous, loved.

And outside, the sun dips low beyond the frostbitten trees. Christmas lights flicker on the porch. The clock ticks toward seven.

You put the final touches on dinner with shaking hands and a full heart. The ham is crisped and glistening, the greens are tender, the biscuits golden. It doesn’t taste exactly like Ma’s—you know that. But it’s close. And Johnny was right, it’s yours now, just as much as hers. 

A little sweeter in some places, a little spicier in others. The way she’d make it if she had your hands.

Johnny helps you bring everything to the table, both of you moving in a quiet rhythm, no more rush, no more panic. Just the quiet hum of satisfaction. Of tired pride.

The table is a feast, every dish a testament to your labor, and the house smells like heaven,like rosemary and butter, sugar and smoked meat, like memory itself come home to roost.

Every inch of it is filled—ham, greens, stuffing, candied yams, two kinds of pie, cornbread, gravy in a chipped porcelain boat, the three kinds of potatoes, and somehow more. Steam curls like smoke from a hearth. Little candles flicker soft and golden. The Christmas tree glows in the corner, bathed in sparkling lights and old glass ornaments.

It’s almost enough to make you cry.

You all take your places around the table. Pa at the head, just like always. You settle to his left, Johnny across from you.

For a second, it’s quiet—not tense, not stiff, just… still. The kind of still that feels sacred.

Then Pa clears his throat.

“Alright,” he mutters. “Let’s say grace.”

You all bow your heads.

Pa reaches for your hand with his left and Johnny with his right—his hand is calloused, warm, heavy with time. You offer it, gentle, grounding yourself in the weight of it.

Then you feel Johnny’s fingers slide into your left hand. They’re rougher, warmer, a little clumsy with affection. He gives your hand the most miniscule squeeze, and your eyes flick up just for a moment.

He’s already peeking at you from where his head is bowed.

And for a second, the world shrinks to that small moment—the warm light, the smell of cinnamon and roast, the three of you sitting around this table like the Last Supper.

Pa begins to speak

“Lord, we thank You for this meal, for the roof over our heads, and the hands that made it. For the year that tested us, the ones we’ve lost, and the ones we still hold close. We thank You most of all for the gift of Your Son, born into the world to show us love and grace. For His light that still guides us, even in the darkest of days—” 

“—Amen.”

“Amen,” you and Johnny echo in tandem

You look around the table, at all the food you made, at Johnny’s faint smile, at the way Pa’s face relaxes as he carves the ham.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—the silence around this table doesn’t feel heavy.

Dinner goes… surprisingly well.

The table is full—everything smells like comfort, like memory. Like the holidays used to, back when Ma was still around to hum carols under her breath and sneak you food while the kitchen clock ticked steadily on.

Pa eats like a man who’s been waiting for this all year. Maybe he has. He doesn’t say much—just digs in, his knife and fork clinking against the plate and he goes in for more without waiting for the offer. His usual sternness softens in the glow of candlelight and nutmeg, the quiet hum of the radio in the background crooning “Christmas, Baby Please Come Home”.

Your eyes occasionally flicker to Pa, observing his reactions to the food.

Finally, after scraping up the last bit of sweet potato with his fork, Pa leans back with a long, contented sigh. He pats his belly, tongue running across his teeth, and glances your way.

You blink. Look up at him.

“Just like your mother’s, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and rough with emotion he won’t name.

You damn near melt into your seat. “Thank you.”

“I mean it,” he adds, glancing down at his plate again. “She’d’ve been real proud of you tonight.”

Your chest folds in on itself and you can’t fight your smile. “Thank you, Pa.”

Across from you, Johnny glances up from his fork. Gives you a quiet little smile. One only you catch.

It’s small and secretive, barely there—but it damn near breaks the spell.

You sit up a little straighter. Fold your hands in your lap.

The conversation drifts. Safe topics. Soft ones.

“Cows’ve been putting on more weight than I expected this year,” Pa says, breaking apart a biscuit with his hands.

Johnny hums. “Good feed’ll do that. An’ they’re eatin’ more now that it’s cold. Need the energy.”

“Been thinkin’ about ordering early come spring,” Pa adds. “Seed catalogue’s already half marked up.”

“I was looking at it the other day,” you chime in, grateful for the change of subject. “Saw a new onion variety—yellow granex. Might try it.”

Pa grunts his approval.

No brushing knees under the table. No lingering glances.

You don’t laugh too long when Johnny makes one of his low, dry little jokes about the horses getting too spoiled.

And Johnny doesn’t look at you like he’s memorizing the exact curve of your mouth when you smile.

You’re both trying. God, you’re trying.

But even this quiet, careful choreography can’t hide the fact that something’s changed.

Pa’s watching. More than you think.

And he’s still not as tired as he looks. His eyes flick between you like darts, like a man playing a game of chess with pieces that don’t know they’re on the board. He notices the way your shoulders shift when Johnny speaks. The slight lean in your body that makes you seem closer than you are. 

And then there are the silences.

It’s in the way Johnny’s jaw ticks when your laugh slips out too free, too fond. There’s barely any stolen glances, no secret touches. You barely breathe when he speaks and he’s all yes sir and pass the salt, sitting straight and respectful—utterly overcompensating—like he hasn’t fucked you senseless in the barn and across the property a hundred times over. The way his thumb taps against the table like he’s itching to reach across it and touch you. 

Pa may not say much, but he’s not blind. He’s seen a thousand tiny tells in men trying to keep something hidden. A thousand more in girls when they see something they like.

So when he finally speaks again, the quiet’s been stretched tight as a fishing line between you all.

And it snaps.

Not kind. Not forgiving. Not soft like the smile he gave you ten minutes ago.

And you know the moment it happens—that moment something shifts.

He sets his fork down. Wipes his mouth. Folds the napkin despite his food being half-eaten, before tossing it onto the plate like it’s suddenly too heavy to hold.

Then he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, and eyes the both of you with that quiet, storm-brewing stillness that always comes before a blow.

“You two think you’re slick, huh?” he says, eerily low, not nearly as biting in tone as he is in word.

The sound of cutlery scraping and chewing pauses, save for the faint buzzing of the light fixture above your heads and the soft carolling from the radio.

“Sittin’ there tryin’ to play house like I don’t see what’s goin’ on. Like I’m some kinda idiot— after I said to cut that shit out.”

Your blood runs cold. You don’t move. 

Across the table, Johnny stiffens. His jaw ticks.

“Pa,” you try, soft but warning.

“You think I forgot what I told him?” he growls, jutting his chin toward Johnny. “Think I didn’t notice him sniffin’ ‘round again, all hangdig ‘n sorry-faced like a hound caught pissin’ on the porch?”

Pa leans forward, voice dropping even lower.

“You know your mother used to say the Lord forgives all things,” he asks, gaze locked on Johnny now. “That no matter how far a man strays, he can always find his way back to the light.”

A pause that feels like eons..

Then—

“Well. The Lord may be forgivin’—but I sure as hell ain’t.”

“Dad— don’t do this,” you plead, voice catching. “Please, not today—”

But it’s too late. The air’s already changed—sharp and dangerous, like metal before a storm.

He chuckles sardonically. “No, go ahead. Keep makin’ eyes at him like your Mama ain’t six feet under. Like I didn’t tell him what’d happen if he didn’t leave you alone.”

Johnny shifts beside you, mouth parting like he wants to say something, but you shoot him a look—tight and desperate. He stays still.

“Maybe you oughta be reminded of what happened to her,” Pa mutters. “What happens when you put your heart where it don’t belong, when you make the wrong choices.”

Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor as you stand up, jamming a finger in his face, voice raised before you can stop it.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare bring her into this!”

“What happens when you say things you shouldn’t—”

“Fucking stop! I said not to bring her into this—”

Pa stands too, rising to meet you. “I will, if it means knockin’ some damn sense into you!”

“I have sense!” you yell, eyes burning. “I do everything around here! I cook, I clean, I fix your goddamn truck, I work this land, I bleed for it—and for what?  So you can sit on your ass and tell me who I’m allowed to be with!?”

Johnny finally stands, voice quiet but firm, trying to cool the heat.

“Hey,” he says gently. “It’s alright, let’s just calm down, aye? Let’s all just—”

“Stay out of it!” you and Pa shout at the same time.

Johnny stiffens. His eyes find yours, flicker to Pa, then back. He just nods—swallows hard—and steps back from the table.

“Excuse me,” he says quietly, and walks out the front door, the screen creaking shut behind him.

The silence he leaves behind is thick and suffocating—clinging to the walls like humidity before a storm, curling in your throat like smoke. The heat in the room builds, slow and insidious, rising to a fever pitch. It presses in on your skin, coils in your gut, turns the warmth of the dinner table into something volatile and sharp.

It’s a boiling point.

You can feel it beneath the surface, pulsing like blood in your ears, like the twitch of a trigger finger. A single breath too loud, a glance too long, and it’ll all come spilling over—scalding and irreversible.

The floorboards groan when you shift. The clock ticks too loud. And neither of you move, don’t blink—frozen at the edge of eruption.

It’s not just what Pa said. It’s what it means. It’s what it confirms. 

That you hurt her, and it stayed that way until her last breath—until it was utterly irreversible.

You don’t even feel the tears when they come—just the warmth of them cutting silent tracks down your cheeks. Your shoulders tremble, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven pulls. You’re crying now.

But it’s not grief that grips you.

It’s fury.

Hot and electric, pulsing just beneath your skin like a live wire. It surges through you, clenches your fists, sets your jaw. 

“Fuck this— this isn’t even about Johnny anymore,” you spit. “This is about you.”

Pa narrows his eyes.

You let it all come crashing down. Let it rupture. Let it detonate and scatter like shrapnel—hot, sharp, and unstoppable—landing in the middle of Ma’s Christmas dinner like a tornado ripping through a church. The air in the room shifts, dense with heat and heartbreak.

Your eyebrows knit, your voice cracking open and spilling out louder than you ever thought it could.

“You don’t care about what’s best for me—” Each word slams into the table like a fist. “You care about control. About keeping me here. Keeping everything just the way you want it—tight, tidy, fucking trapped!”

Your chest heaves with the weight of it. The truth of it. And now that it’s out, there’s no stuffing it back in.

He scoffs, loud and bitter, like the sound’s been clawing up his throat. He shoves his chair back with a screech of wood on wood, the legs dragging harsh against the floor.

“You got no clue what I care about!” he snaps, jabbing a finger at you, his face flushed deep with heat—whether it’s rage or shame, you can’t tell. His chest rises and falls beneath his flannel, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.

“You think this is about control? ‘Bout keepin’ things tidy!?” He paces once, twice, then stops short like his boots are glued to the floor. “You don’t know a goddamn thing!”

“I do!” you shout, your voice cracking like a whip through the air. Your hands ball into fists, nails digging into your palms, your body tense, every muscle wrung tight, ready to snap. “I’ve always known! Ever since Ma died, you’ve checked out. You don’t help with anything. You just sit there—drinking, sulking, acting like the world owes you something—” You inhale, gasping for breath—it floods in, sharp like bile—but with every exhale, more words spill out. Tumbling, relentless, like water breaching a dam. You can’t stop them. They’re crashing through, wild and scalding on your tongue, “— it sure as shit doesn’t.”

He paces in short, jagged steps, the tension in his body snapping with each movement. His hand tightens into a fist at his side, knuckles going white as he strikes the dining table with a bang. His shoulders jerk with each breath, chest rising and falling like he's struggling to keep himself in check. His gaze locks on you with a ferocity that could burn through steel.

The words leave him in a low growl, venom coating each syllable. “You think you’re so grown—”

“What’s your job, Pa?” you cut him off, screaming, voice cracking, utterly exasperated. “Tell me. What the fuck do you even do around here? Besides sit on your ass while I break my back trying to keep this place afloat?!”

His face is dark now. Shadowed, rigid. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares.

And then, you let go.

“She’d fucking hate the man you’ve become.”

Silence detonates in the room like a bomb.

The kind that doesn’t make a sound at first—just swallows everything.

Time hiccups. The walls themselves seem to brace. The heat of the moment curdles into something far colder. Something final.

Your breath hitches. His fists tighten.

And for a second, the only thing that moves is the steam rising from the half-carved ham on the table.

You don’t take it back. You don’t flinch.

Because you mean it.

And he knows you do.

The words hang in the air like gunfire, shells still clattering against the floor, even after everything’s gone.

You watch him deflate in real time—right before your eyes.

No anger. No defense. No fire left to throw.

Just… silence.

A still, bone-deep kind of quiet.

Like something cracked and gave away inside him.

You blink, the heat of your own words catching up to you, stunned by what you said.

What you meant.

Your heart’s pounding, loud in your ears and you don’t even realize you’re shaking until you do.

Pa just sits down again like the wind’s been knocked clean out of him, like whatever was holding him up just… gave out. He sinks into the chair like it’s the only thing keeping him from crumbling.

And he says nothing.

A silence so thick it feels like the whole world is holding its breath—you can hardly hear your own beneath the sound of your heart thumping ferociously in your ears; if it wasn’t for that, you’d be convinced that you had stopped breathing entirely

You drop into your chair like your legs have given out. The edges of your vision blur, chest tight, throat burning. Across from you, Pa’s just still. Still and quiet.

His hands are folded together on the table, knuckles white. When he speaks, it’s low and rough, like gravel in his throat.

“You’re right.”

Your head snaps to him and it hits the room like a thunderclap, even though he barely speaks above a whisper.

“I’ve been sittin’ on my ass,” he says. “Been sittin’ in the ruins of this house—of what was—since your Ma died. Let everythin’ around me rot—the fields, this table, you. I thought I was holdin’ on. Thought if I just kept everythin’ exactly the way she left it, maybe it’d be like she was still here.”

He finally looks up at you. His eyes are bloodshot, wet like you’ve never seen.

“But she’s not. She’s gone. And I buried her… And I buried the best parts of myself right alongside her.”

You cover your mouth, eyes burning. He keeps going.

“And you—Jesus, sweetheart—you look so much like her, it hurts sometimes. Every time you walk through the kitchen or laugh when you’re bakin’—you sound like her. You move like her. Some days I could swear I see her standin’ where you stand.”

His voice starts to tremble, cracking on the words.

“And I—I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know how to carry that kinda love ‘n  grief at the same time. So I tried to trap you here. I told myself it was about protectin’ you, but it wasn’t—”

His breath falters when the first tear rolls down his cheek, “—it was about protectin’ me."

A pause. His eyes drift to the tabletop, ashamed as he looks at the feast before him.

“I thought if I could just keep you close, I’d never really lose her. But all I did was push you away. Hurt you. Treated you like you didn’t know what you were doin’, when you’ve been holdin’ this place together better’n I ever did.”

You’re crying now—silent and shaking, the tears spilling fast and hot. Your fists are clenched tight in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your palms. Each breath shudders through you, chest rising in uneven bursts as the weight of it all settles heavy in your bones.

He reaches across the table with one trembling hand, palm up, waiting.

“I forgot you weren’t my little girl anymore,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “You’re a woman now. And— And not just that—you’re her daughter, too—”

“—Brave. Brilliant. Stubborn as hell. And… I— I’m proud of you—”

“—And so was your mother, until her last breath.”

You choke out a sob, your hand flying up to cover your mouth as if you could somehow shove it all back down. But the dam’s burst. The tears come hard and fast now, flooding your cheeks, dripping from your chin. Your shoulders curl inward as the weight of it all crashes over you, grief and guilt and love and everything in between pouring out in a tidal wave you can’t stop.

You finally take his outstretched hand. You don’t think—don’t hesitate. Just reach for him, like you did when you were small. Like somewhere deep down, part of you still believes he’ll make it all okay if he just holds on tight enough.

He squeezes it gently. There’s another silence. Then:

“When you love someone,” he says, voice thick, “you’d do anything for ‘em. Kill for ‘em. Change the world if you have to. I see what that boy’s done for you—he’s changed you.”

“He’s changed your world, hasn’t he?”

“Yes” your voice lodged somewhere deep in your throat—thick with everything you can’t say, everything he might already know.

He gives a slow, paternal, knowing look. “You love that boy?”

You nod as you process the question. Your voice stays trapped behind your ribs, thick and trembling, too heavy to lift past your tongue as you realize it for the first time.

He closes his eyes like the word settles something deep in his chest. He nods.

Then, after a beat, he looks at you again—really looks—and smiles, small and tearful.

“You look just like your mother,” he says. 

“Beautiful.”

He rises slowly, places a weathered, shaking hand on the back of your head. Brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. Presses a kiss to your forehead so tender it shatters you all over again.

Then he straightens.

And without another word, he turns and climbs the stairs—his footsteps slow, the old wood groaning under each step—until his bedroom door clicks softly shut behind him.

You sit there for a bit.

Eyes still bleary, lashes clumped from crying, face warm from the aftershock of everything that just passed.

The explosion.

The apology you never thought you'd hear.

The clarity you never believed would come.

You feel hollow and full all at once, like your soul’s been rung out and laid bare across the dinner table. Shell-shocked. Utterly in awe.

The house is so still now. No footsteps overhead. No wind outside. Just you and the soft creak of wood settling into silence.

You sniffle, pulling yourself upright, trying to find the edges of your body again. Your breath still shakes in your chest as you wipe your cheeks with the sleeve of your robe and glance over the spread still sitting between your elbows.

A comically large feast. Glazed ham, mashed potatoes, gravy gone gelatinous in the chill, greens wilting in the pot. A perfectly browned pie that no one even cut. It all sits cold now, untouched since the shouting started.

Still—

Somehow, it’s beautiful.

A testament to the day.

To your effort.

To Ma.

To everything that just cracked open and tried to mend itself again.

You sit with it. Just for a moment longer.

Then, your heart tugs toward the front porch.

Toward the man who walked out into the cold for your sake.

You take slow, shallow steps toward the front door, your body still heavy with the weight of everything that just transpired inside. Your hands tremble as you push the screen door open, and the cold air rushes to meet you like a quiet embrace. The night is crisp, and the world is still around you.

Sitting on the top step of the porch, boots planted, elbows resting on his knees, a cigarette pinched between two fingers. The amber tip glows dimly in the dark, illuminating the worn lines of his face. He’s staring out at the field, blank-eyed and faraway, but the moment he hears the door creak open, he turns. Stands. Flicks the cigarette away with a sharp little snap.

His gaze lands on you—and softens immediately. He sees the dried tears streaked across your cheeks, the exhaustion, the rawness, the war you just walked away from. And it shatters him.

Without a word, he stands and takes a step toward you. His arms open before you even know what you're doing, and you rush into him. He pulls you in tight, firm, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold you right. His body heat mingles with the cold, the contrast perfect in a way that only you and him could understand.

“C’mere,” he hums, his voice thick with care.

You inhale deeply, trying to steady yourself. “Johnny, I’m sorr—”

He cuts you off, a gentle but firm hand at the back of your head. "None of that, sweet girl. None of that," he says, his voice almost a whisper, the words soft but laden with something unshakable.

You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, and for a moment, the world stops spinning. The weight of everything falls away, like a slow exhale you didn’t know you were holding in. His hands find the small of your back and the base of your neck, clutching you tight, like he’s trying to squeeze all the ache right out of you. The warmth of him is grounding, steady, and for the first time today, you feel safe.

The wind picks up, ruffling your hair as you both stand there, and the windchimes on the porch sing a soft melody in the background. From where your head is resting on Johnny's shoulder, you see them: small, delicate white flakes of snow beginning to fall from the sky. They twirl and drift down, landing on the ground and in the grass.

The first snow in twenty years. 

[whateverdraws1008]

[mctvsh]

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i disappeared for 2 months 💔💔

anyways! knight!simon x princess!reader

cw - maybe a little possesive and suggestive, isn't proofread + probs doesn't make much sense. sowwy!

he KNOWS that the gazes you give him, the touches on his shoulders, or the reassuring smiles you give him mean nothing! but to him, the hard, rough edges that have never known such kindess like yours, take it as more. and he wants more. he wants you and he's sure that he'll get it.

when he greets you in the morning it's with a nod, the most you'll get out of him, the most loyal knight in the empire. the king's right hand. maybe you're a little lucky, you're protected and he has no problem with you checking out his big, hulking body underneath all that iron when he trains. (he says you can watch him only but he likes having you on his back while he does push ups in the garden) some may say it's innapropriate, unladylike for such an esteemed lady like yourself to ever converse with such an unruly "beast." as most say!

when the maids whisper in your ear, tales of their own lovers, you can't help but feel jealous. will you ever find your king? your love? the one you crave in the dark, lonely nights? where the only thing to keep you company is the soft lull of the moonlight shining through your window? but you're not truly alone, are you? no, you've got simon. simon the knight. the simon you touch on purpose. the simon you give loving gazes towards. reassuring smiles. kindness is rooted deep into your bones, rotting them, and maybe rotting away simon's hardened heart.

simon does think he's met his match, though. he thinks your a little rebellious, a lot to handle. it doesn't bother him, not really anyway. maybe a little when you try stupid pickup lines on him, giving him hope before you address him with, "knight," reminding him of his true role. but is it his fault when he stiffens when he sees you roam the halls with a short nightgown and a simple silk robe around you that didn't leave much to the imagination, carrying a single candle in your hand. you're most likely heading to the library, he has your schedule memorized. he says it's for protection, but you both know it isn't.

not when his deep brown honey eyes watch over you as you sleep. lips slighty parted, discarded book in your lap with your legs bent and up, pulled to your chest as your head lolls against the cushion of the seat you were leaned against, the rough carpet a little uncomfortable under your ass but you hold no grudge. especially when you wake up against a rock hard chest and a much more comfortable surface against you.

ok so thats it. uhm i ran out of ideas 💔 lowk sucks but its ok i wanted it out of my head

[lay-z]

CALL OF DUTY AU'S YOU'D BE INTERESTED IN? GO! 🗣

[thisnoah]

Something about unearthly beauty and stylized bottom surgery scars

[cherrisartsu]

Prince MacTavish and his personal knight, Sir Riley, or something like that

[sgt-soap]

this you?

dinnae dae this tae meh...

[priceoftheduchess]

i have baby fever so…

Single Dad!Simon Riley whose daughter is so sweet.

You, a sweet and humble hairdresser in your salon which you’ve bought and built from the ground yourself, having a walk-in appointment with a 6’4” hulking man, and his most precious angel. A black surgical mask covering his jaw, mouth and nose.

His little angel, who you learn to be Amelia, climbs into your chair with the cutest grunts of struggle and eventually a triumphant sigh. Her dad, in his effortlessly silky, gruff voice, explains that her hair is now down to her knees practically and he needs help. Her mother left when she was young and he’s only ever had one brother.

You chuckle softly and nod, and his daughter looks up at you after you explain that you’ll be trimming her gorgeous hair and demonstrating some simple braiding techniques to her father, and in the tiniest, cutest little Londoner accent:

“Thank you for helping my Daddy.” You nearly burst into tears at her shining hazel eyes and her big, toothy smile. You nod and begin sectioning her hair after placing a pink apron over her front. She beams to her Dad, “Look! She gave me pink!” He laughs and his eyes shine with pride. She’s so good at communicating, even though she barely looks five. She’s so adorably tiny, too.

At the end of the appointment, Simon has learned three different braid styles. He’s a natural, you assure him. You curl his daughter’s hair just before she leaves, and she does a little dance around the place in her princess dress. Her dad picks her up, and he smiles at you. Thanking you in that knee-weakening voice of his. He promises he’ll be back with any hair concerns, and he even tips you extra.

Before he leaves, his daughter points at you and asks if he can take you home. He responds, without missing a damn beat:

“Mm, only if she wants to come home with us.” He winks at you for good measure.

You think that maybe that idea isn’t so bad.

[worms-for-brains]

COUGH- COUGH-

(Stumbles into the room gasping for air as I hold this out to y’all)

DEITY AU?!

[bunnysnared]

streamer soap au 🧼🩷

[rip-cod-brainrot]

NSFW

TW: Bondage, gagging, toys

~

Too much. Just too much.

God, they’ve barely even touched you. You don’t even have all of your clothes fully off, your shorts and underwear simply slid off onto a single leg and your shirt pushed up to your collarbone. Your legs are folded and tied, your arms bound behind your back. You’re tilted back up against Price’s warm, hairy chest as he spreads your legs open wider for Ghost, standing in front of you both.

“Such a pretty little sight, doll,” Price hums in your ear, knowing you can’t respond around the gag in your mouth. He’s holding your jaw loosely in one hand, and he uses that grip now to tilt your head down.

Down to where Ghost’s hands and Price’s free hand hold your legs open, keeping you from preventing Ghost from sticking his thick fingers into your hole.

“Very pretty,” Ghost agreed, his rumbling voice accompanying his dark brown eyes flicking to yours and making you shiver. You can only watch his eyes as he lowers his lips to your cunt.

The flick of his tongue against your clit makes you squeal into the gag, and Price has to use his free hand to bar across your stomach, keep you from squirming right out of his lap. “Shhh, doll,” he murmurs, his breath mixing with yours as he leans his head against yours, watches your hips roll.

Panting for breath, every exhale coming out as a moan, you can’t help the way your head dips back to lie on Price’s shoulder. His hand on your jaw suddenly holds you there, and you’re not sure why. Maybe it’s to prevent you from pouting at Ghost as he pulls away, leaving your cunt wet and waiting.

More likely it’s because of the object you feel pressing against your lower lips… one that buzzes to life over your pussy, pushing a keening cry through your lips into the gag.

“There’s a good girl…” Ghost rumbles as he pulls himself up, his knee dipping into the couch in front of your cunt. His eyes are downward, admiring the view of the vibrating wand he’s holding against you. “That’s good….”

You can hear Price chuckling in your ear, his beard prickling your skin as he moves to kiss your cheek. “Always such a good girl for us,” he hums. “Aren’t you?”

[sanriovin]

steamy shower sex with simon.

the man's just come home from a deployment which took you away from him and him away from you for a whole month. a whole month of both of you having no sexual contact with each other, no calls, no photos, no nothing.

so just imagine the desperation and the raw need between the two of you as he stepped foot back into the place that finally felt like home after so many years of trying to find it, dropping his bag to the wooden floor, not even bothering to take his shoes off as his arms found themselves wrapped tightly around your smaller body, holding you close, so close.

"missed you, lovey." his voice was deep, low, as usual, yet his tone was softened, into one of vulnerability, love, desire, and need. one that he only ever used towards you. only you were deserving of hearing and seeing his true emotions, which were hidden behind a cold mask to others.

you insisted he should take a shower, clean himself up from the messy deployment, ease his stiff, aching joints, slowly ground himself back into the domestic side of his life, even if it wouldn't last forever. not yet, at least, one day, maybe.

however, simon didn't want to be alone yet, no, not after he just came back to his sweetheart. so in the end, the two of you ended up showering together. it started as a normal shower, which slowly escalated into more.

which is how you found yourself, in simon's big, well-trained arms, his scarred fingers pressing tightly into your thighs, back against his muscled chest, as he fucked up into you, his fat cock stretching out your pulsing, clenching walls with a slight new found difficulty from how long he was separated from you. but, that just means he has to get you nice and stretched out, doesn't he?

the running water did little to conceal the groans and low moans from him, and the higher, louder moans and whines from you. your head was leaning against his shoulder, eyes barely open, as his tip repeatedly pressed against your sweetest spots inside you, making you feel dizzy from the unwavering pleasure.

rutting his hips up into you, his grip on you tightened, as he slowly lowered his head, whispering into your ear amidst his noises of pleasure and relief. "feeling good, pretty girl? getting close? i can fucking feel you clenching around me so hard. you wanna cum, yeah?"

he was teasing you with his words, as he soon began to simultaneously bring your wet pussy down onto his dick while fucking up into you, but you knew he was just as wanting as you were in this moment.

your moans grew louder in noise, stirring him on to do the same, his groans and grunts of your name and dirty words growing louder and more rushed. your wetness was dripping down his cock, slipping down his bare, marked skin, leaving a trail which almost immediately got washed off by the running water in the shower.

the glass was steamed up, a white sheet of condensation hiding your two bodies away from the outside. the air was getting hotter and thinner, which, along with your current states, didn't really help much. but, none of that mattered in the moment. what mattered was that you were with simon again, getting one of the best sex experiences in your life.

"g'nna cum, wanna cum, pleasee, 'leasee!" you cried out, turning your head, trying to capture simon's lips in a long-awaited kiss. you could see his eyes moving to look down at your lips, as he lowered his head down, capturing your lips in a wet, messy kiss, one with tongue's meeting, fighting for the dominance, which undoubtedly you had lost quickly.

"you wanna cum, huh?" he muttered out, his pace constant, not speeding or slowing down. "wanna cum so desperately? then do it. be a good girl for me and make a fucking filthy mess."

and that was all it took for you to snap, your body jerking and trembling as the tension in your lower abdomen snapped, mind blank, save for simon's name, as your orgasm hit you so intensely, squirting so hard as your body shook from it. your pussy clenched and twitched so much that that in itself was enough to bring poor simon to the breaking point.

holding you down tightly on him, which was definite to leave many loving, reminiscent marks of what had happened, he let out a lusty, heavy moan, burying his face in your shoulder, as hot spurts of his cum shot into you, intertwining with yours, creating a sticky mess between the two of you as it began to dribble out, getting flushed away through the shower water.

it took you some time to gather yourselves; to catch your breaths, come back to reality, to ground yourselves from the orgasms you had just experienced. simon slowly let you down, turning the shower off, looking down at you, as you slumped against him, barely managing to stand on quivering legs.

"well, that shower was pointless, wasn't it?"

but he wouldn't trade these moments for anything in the world.

(author's note: wrote this on a whim, not too proud of it 🤞)

[aethelwyneleigh27]

Villain!Ghost x Pregnant!Wife!Reader

Synopsis: Your husband wants your company..

A/n: GUYS OMG, I know it's been 1 month and a little more since my last official work. I've been procrastinating on this for so long since I only have less than a week till school again.. Also everyone I love on this app is just disappearing, like @ghost-cyphera just deleted her account 4 days ago and I got the notif but didn't see it in time, I didn't even get to say goodbye. Just wanted to apologize to you guys after being gone for so long as well. Also, another villain!Ghost drabble? 👀

Finding it difficult to walk was one of the least things you've suspected you'd be concerned of upon conceiving, always needing your handmaiden's help in such a mundane task was shameful to say the least but your husband insisted.

If it hadn't been the hand maiden then it would've been him instead, you couldn't keep him from his duties from the kingdom as he carried even yours. Wanting you to turn your attention to the health of the babe growing in you and especially yourself..

"My lady.." you were pulled out of your thoughts by the voice of your handmaiden. You took in a breath from the cool air that blew on your face as you stood by the stone railing..

"Yes, Leticia?" You turned to her..

"The prince consort has requested your company.." Leticia announced, you nod as you removed your hand from the cold stone. You glanced once more to the people of your kingdom, going about their day and life before gently lifting yourself off from leaning on the stone.

Leticia offered you her arm to help you walk more efficiently..

...

"You sent for me..?" You asked your husband, he was sat and signing another set of documents and scrolls. You closed the door, palms gently pushing till you heard it click.

"No, I told them to announce my arrival to you. How dare they exert my wife by giving her false instructions.." he huffed to which you laughed. He wouldn't do anything violent about it, as he so usually does with staff that don't comply but he knew it'd upset you if anything gory were to happen to them.

"I am quite alright, I need to move around too. It's proven to be good for our child." You said, sitting next to the graciously comfortable chair next to his working desk that he had someone make for you.

You felt relief from the pressure previously on your back, hand on the bump of your stomach and with that a sigh came from your lips. Peacefully watching your husband, the sound of the satisfying scratching of the quill on the crisp papers.

You felt his hand grasp yours, he pulled it, lips resting on the back. His affection made your heart beat faster and he felt it, the pad of his index finger on your wrist. The thumping made him chuckle as you smiled and leaned your head on his shoulder.

"You should rest for a while, my love. You'd work yourself to sickness at this point." You kiss his cheek softly. He put his quill down, "If that's my wife wants.." he said.

He wrapped his arm around you, the other hand placed on your baby bump. His thumb gently rubbing, you jolted a bit feeling a strong kick..

It made you groan, how restless the rascal is. Your husband adjusted his hand to feel the next kick.. he'd swear it was a girl, not that he'd care for that sort of thing. He'd kill for them either way, especially for you. He could stare at you all day, swollen with his child.

How glowing you looked wrapped in the finest silk and the gold and jewels in your hair and body clicking upon contact with another piece, he wished he could tell you how utterly speechless you'd leave each man by just walking passed them but to him no word is enough to describe you.

At least he could spend these small intimate moments with just you and you alone, free of the world for even just a few minutes as he needed a break from the work he very much was eager to do to be able to receive praise from his wife..

My CoD Masterlist

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