#cod | es

[hai-nae]

😠.

[hopelesslonelyghost]

thinking about simon with an emotional support medic (pt 2 here)

medical inaccuracies ahead, pls don’t mind. not beta read, sorry for any typosss

simon doesn’t know how he ended up where he did. absolutely smitten for the cute medic on base. he thinks it may have happened when he sliced his hand and had to come to you for the first time.

you and your beautiful, bright eyes looked up at him as he gruffly explained his situation. you quickly sat him down and got to work. after gathering all the stuff you needed, you sat quietly next to the ghost and cleaned his wound.

as you worked, you never once forced him to converse with you. didn’t try to poke and prod at him. you just hummed.

after applying some butterfly stitches and wrapping his hand up, you quietly expressed your content, a little ta-dah! slipping out. you took off your gloves as you stood, gently patting his shoulder, “all done big guy. anything else comes up, i’m here.”

ever since then there hasn’t been a day simon strays far from you whenever he’s on base.

tonight you’re staying up later than usual, trying to get all your charts up to date before heading to your quarters for some much needed rest. that is, until you hear a knock on the door.

your head perks up, eyebrows furrowing softly, “come in!”

eyes trained on the door, you watch it open slowly before a massive body is slipping through it, closing the door behind him.

“lieutenant!”

“hey doc.”

you set aside the paperwork you were working on and stand, making your way to him.

“what’s wrong?”

simon crosses his arms and huffs, “can’t jus’ come an’ visit anymore?”

you quirk an eyebrow, “simon it’s-“ you look down at your watch, then back up at him, “-it’s nearly midnight.”

while not uncommon for him to be in your office at this time, keeping you company as you finish up for the night, he had just come back from an op a few hours ago. he’d usually be in his quarters for the rest of the day, that was just his routine.

simon sighs and lifts his arm to go to rub the back of his neck, which he quickly aborts and hisses, arm flinching back down.

you freeze, “simon?”

he turns and goes to sit on the patient bed, “got tackled through a window, shattered it.” as he explains, he’s pulling the zipper of his hoodie down, eyes scrunching up in pain behind his balaclava before fully removing the article, “muppet pushed me into the broken glass. tried diggin’ it out on my own, but can’t see too well even through the mirror.”

shirt pulled up, he’s removing a few gauze taped onto his skin. you look up from where you’d ran to a few drawers, gathering all the stuff you need, piling it on a small cart.

you can see the gauze are red and heavy with his blood, but it appears to be controlled. a large gash is revealed on the right side of his torso, just below his ribcage. it’s jagged and deep. it runs from his ribs down to just slightly above his right hip.

“jesus si, that’s gnarly.” you sigh as you wheel the cart back towards him, grabbing a nearby stool and taking a seat. you glide over to him. you push him to lay back on the bed, pushing a few buttons to adjust the bed so that he’s not laying completely flat on his back.

you slip on gloves and tentatively prod at the wound. simon hisses. you quickly snatch your hands back and wince, “i’m so sorry. here, i’m going to add some local anesthetic, okay?”

he shakes his head, “it’s alrigh’. i’ll be fine without it.”

you make a sound that sounds almost like a whine, “simon.. there’s- there’s no way i’m allowing that.”

you turn slightly, getting the numbing ready, “i’m going to be digging into your side for god-knows-how-long.” you turn back to him and lock eyes, “you’ve already suffered enough. my job is to keep you healthy and comfortable.”

you two fall silent, caught in a silent war. whatever he sees in your eyes must be convincing enough, because he gives a slight nod and turns away.

you nod too, “good.” you open a few alcohol pads, “this might sting.”

•••

two hours later, you’ve successfully debrided, cleaned, and stitched simon’s wound. you’re tightly wrapping bandages around his waist

“remember, keep it dry for at least twenty-four hours, after that, you can take a quick shower. don’t keep it wet. we don’t want it to get infected. antibiotic resistant bacteria is a real threat. don’t forget that..”

“aye aye, doc.”

you finish up with his wrappings and stand up, slipping your gloves off and discarding them on the now messy cart, “come back in the morning so I can take a look at it again, and to change your gauze as well.”

you walk over to a locked drawer and thumb in a code before placing it on a fingerprint scanner. three small beep-beep-beep!’s ring through your office. you fish out a large white container and pop the top off, spilling a few pills into a white paper bag. putting everything back, you fold the bag and staple it shut.

you walk back to simon and hand him the bag, “antibiotics. they’re more of a safety net. take one every twelves hours.”

simon stands, pulling his shirt back down and snatching his hoodie up into his hands, “thanks love. really ‘preciate you doin’ this.”

you smile softly, “it’s my job to look after you, dummy.”

he huffs again, soft eyes locking with yours. he takes the medication from your awaiting hand and shoves it into the pockets of his hoodie, which he already slipped on.

he takes a few steps closer to you, very slowly he brings up his right hand, before its enclosed around the back of your neck and bringing you into his chest. he leans down and places a kiss onto the crown of your head. then another on your temple. and then a final one on your cheek.

“that’s my line, sweetheart.”

you stick your tongue out, “that’s too bad.”

[temeyes]

have some doodlebob c/mms i drew last month!!

[soyaneko]

🔞 NSFW

🖇️ Read it on my AO3

[itsagrimm]

König is a very poetically inclinded person.

However, since he is not a native English speaker and plenty of expressive attempts and phrases translate poorly, he is not as comfortable to speak English therefore leading to him being much less talkative and sounding rather wooden at times among his international peers.

That changes massively when switching into German. König becomes something between chatty and eloquent, not growing tired playing with words, rhymes and references.

The biggest sign of love to him will always be to learn German for him so he can express his adoration much more fluently than English ever could for him no matter his attempts.

[carnivorousmossbeast]

Layover

no content warnings. but this is long. Sorry!

Summary: Ghost and Soap are waiting for a flight to take them home.

There's a delicious ache crawling through his thighs, his veins, settling into his biceps and shoulders in that very delightfully restricting way that reminds him of the exhaustion after a good workout. His arms are leaden and tired, straining against the knowledge that he will have to lift them again, he will have to shoulder his gun and pack and march on with his head held high once they clear customs and get their shit returned, because somewhere higher up someone messed up and forgot to bring them back home. When they had arrived at the airfield, all that was left was a bedraggled looking civilian charter that brought them to the closest long-distance hub, and the only available flight had been fucking Paris. Soap's personal hell in the making. He's sure there are blisters on his heels and under his toes, there's concrete dust and plant detritus everywhere from his armpits to his arse-crack, it's wearing down his teeth and tickling inside his ear where he can't quite reach. And now he's sitting in the gate lounge under artificially white light, waiting for a plane that should have dropped them off four hours ago and instead hadn't shown turbines nor wings. It's enough to make a civilian rstless, but Soap feels a little off-kilter, a little unstable and he's ready to claw the concrete walls apart until he finds a high-voltage cable to chew on – or strangle one of the more annoying flight guests with. There are about five too many that fit that category for his taste, and he knows the odds are stacked against him while their flight gets delayed and delayed again, and they remain stuck on these plastic seats like brittle, dry gum and rubber sole stains.

"You know..." Ghost wiggles his knee gently, touching it against Soap's own sore ones. The heavy duty straps of his thigh holster creak and the thick fabric of his uniform creases and protests the movement. Sand and plant bits fall from his legs, creating a halo of debris at his feet. A distinct trail of destruction, in the realm of violence where Ghost is the embodiment of lust and insanity. It's a temple where Soap has learned to worship, a voice he's grown to trust for guidance in a twisted perversion of their own blood-soaked spirituality. There is no arguing with Catholic priests on the rights of gay men, and it hasn't proven particularly effective once Ghost confirms he has the target locked.

His eyes perceive the world in shades of blue-ish grey and with black and red crosshair markers overlaying the view. Soap has watched Ghost's trigger finger caress cold metal with a deranged sort of care, like he's chasing the sensation of the warmth he's about to terminate. Soap has watched Ghost watch bodies cool from orange-red to green-blue in the limited, grainy viewfinder of thermal tactical goggles. As if Ghost waits for those forgotten, listless souls to be consumed into his domain, never quite remembered after a nameless, faceless terror pierced their cerebrum and left their lives shattered across the field.

"I know a lot of things, Lt," Soap answers Ghost's question dutifully, like any good sergeant would his lieutenant, and lays his head back against the stiff collar of his coat. The plate carrier pushes it up awkwardly, and normally he hates the way it bunches on his nape, the way it feels all thick and restricts his movement, but right now it's like a more comfortable cervical spine collar, a pillow to rest his weary soul. "Mainly chemistry and gun maintenance." He turns slightly to look at Ghost, breathing through the ache that shoots down his neck and past his shoulder.

"Smart boy, aren't you?"

"Yeah well, army didn't put me through college for nothin'," Soap drawls and puts on his best and broadest smile for his Lt. Puppy love, they call it, hero worship. They call Soap a dumbass for attaching himself to Lieutenant Riley like a feckin' barnacle, but Soap likes that he got to burrow into the hard shell that makes Ghost bullet proof, that he gets these moments where Ghost knocks their knees together and strikes up a conversation.

Well. He throws Soap the promise of a kibble and Soap hunts it like a particularly stupid blood hound, tripping all over himself while chasing for whisps of conversation that he can uphold.

"Army put ye through college too, sir? Ye one of 'em rare smart boys from Manchester?"

"Careful, sergeant," Ghost says, easy and gentle. It's not really a reprimand as much as it is a reply, a request for Soap to continue this conversation in the hell that is the Charles de Gaulle airport, where they rest their tired, weary bones on the shitty plastic seats and keep themselves alert with full bladders and shitty airport coffee cart coffee. Ratty old dishwater that tastes like the watered down dirt of plates left to sit in the sink for far too long – at least it doesn't upset their stomachs the way sucking on an old dishrag would.

"Always careful, sir," Soap falls into their banter, imagines the smirk distorting the lines on his lieutenant's scarred face. "So, what about ye, then?"

"What about me?" Ghost asks. He sounds amused, knocks his knee into Soap's again. "Got any more of that coffee, sergeant?"

"Ye want more?" Soap asks.

"Not really. Could go for some grub but..."

"The French have a thing about their sauces. Hollandaise, béarnaise," Soap trails off, uncertain about any other French cuisine that isn't escargot and grenouille – and he has feelings about those. Multiple, and all solidly on the negative spectrum. It reminds him a little too much of staring at rats and geckos and wondering when the gnawing pains in his abdomen turned despair into reason.

"Can't name the four staple sauces of the French cuisine?" Ghost clicks his tongue, mock annoyance colouring the air like a joke. It still tastes like heavy-duty cleaning agents and old sweat, typical airport manure coating their lungs like tar and diesel, the civilian version of military vehicle exhaust and cigarettes. It's sweeter somehow, more pure, more peaceful – everything they can't have and that they chase regardless. The promise of peace coating the wisps of used-up civilian space air, hot and humid and covered in the exhales of fried chicken, chips and cheap booze. There's a thrill in how mundane they are here, in this liminal space, where they can be just as all the others. Waiting, tired, caught in overlays and transits and with overpriced food that barely takes the edge off.

"Mirepoix and rouge," Soap says.

"Close." Ghost's eyes crinkle when he leans his head back, legs splayed open. One knee knocks into the dividing wall partition, the other into Soap's. Despite everything that is said about Ghost, he is as human as the rest of them, and he craves human contact just like any social creature. Even if his way is considerably more stilted, and littered with landmines of dark sarcasm and bone-grinding cynicism. Ghost is a bit of an arsehole like that, but Soap is reasonably certain that it's just a wall to protect Ghost from heartache. "But no. Béchamel, Espagnol, Tomate, Velouté and Hollandaise."

"How do you know so much about French cuisine? And what is Béarnaise?"

"Mum used to uh. She used to cook. Taught me a bit."

"She teach you the difference on Hollandaise and Béarnaise?" Soap tries tapping his heel, but the sharp pains and aches from the long mission have him stop with a pained hiss. Ghost pauses before digging in his chest pocket to reveal what looks like a single use packet of sugar, but ends up being aspirin.

"Take this. It's mostly the wine and Béarnaise is just Hollandaise made with shallots and tarragon."

"And here I thought they were entirely different things," Soap hums.

"They're not." Ghost hands Soap the small bottle of water to chase the aspirin, and Soap nods, grateful to be able to wash the taste of stale powder and citrus from his tongue. "They're both oil in water emulsions. One just tastes better."

"Oh ye are a rocket," Soap scoffs and knocks his knee back against Ghost's. "First thing to do back on home soil?"

"Steak and Stout pie. Maybe some Scotch Eggs, nothing fancy." Ghost works his jaw beneath the mask. "A pint, maybe. Sleeping Giant has a new cook that's halfway decent."

It's not an invitation.

"That right, Lt?"

"Could join me. Pay fer your own drinks, though. They don't pay me enough to make a Scottish liver swim."

This, on the other hand, is.

And Soap pretends not to see the crinkle under Ghost's eyes, but cherishes it anyway as he turns away, hiding the mirth playing over his face from the world and the airline passengers that sit with them on the god-awful plastic chairs in the gate lounge, while their flight is gallivanting off somewhere.

[fiveshelmet]

literally melting

Alejandro has me todo enamorada Y CUANDO HABLA EN ESPAÑOL AHAHA MI CORAZÓN

Gif Version down below 👇

[courtana]

NAH man. Not Valeria's actress from COD being ardently pro-Israel.

Girl, I already did NOT like you or your character.

[dhampiravidi]

simon "ghost" riley's cool-ass tattoo

ok so I was just casually looking over Ghost's tattoo sleeve (uwu) & I realized there's what looks like a small (not teeny, not normal-sized) knight holding a FUCKING Rod of Asclepius-axe!!

I don't think you guys get it. ok I'm a Classics Minor (3rd only to the Classics Major & the Almighty Classics PhD ⚔!) so I'll explain.

THIS is a caduceus. 2 snakes, belongs to Hermes (Greek god of messengers, among other people/things).

Now THIS is the Rod of Asclepius (no laughing). Asclepius is Apollo (yes, that Greek god)'s son who became deified. SO Asclepius is a god of healing. That's why the 1-snake staff represents doctors.

I'm screaming bc Ghost got a healing staff that was MADE INTO AN AXE inked onto his arm. In other words, some badass Paladin or Cleric is on Ghost's arm.

I feel like Simon Riley plays DnD. Or he's into Hellenic/Greek mythology. Or BOTH (in which case, I love him more than I already did). You don't just GET that tattoo from anyone.

♥👻

[samsalems]

I have once again fallen victim to Tiktok making a song seem so much more promising than it actually is

[hopelesslonelyghost]

part 2 for simon and his emotional support medic (protective mode)

part 1 can be found here

tw for assault, choking (the unsexy kind), violence, medical inaccuracies probably

i promise there will comfort, but i just love the idea of simon going feral if anyone ever laid hands on his medic

as always, this isn’t beta read, sorry for any typos. enjoy!

in all honestly, the enemy getting the jump on you while you were crouched and hunched over an injured soldier, trying your best to keep them alive, was a bitch move.

simon was always drilling it into you—

“never turn your back for too long. it leaves you vulnerable, love.”

oh how you should’ve paid more attention then, instead of ogling his huge biceps.

a strangled yelp escapes your throat, but is subsequently cut short when an arm bears down. you instinctively go to grip your assailant’s forearm, digging your nails as deep as you can in hopes they’ll release their deathly grip.

they snarl and bark something in a language you can’t understand. whatever it is they said must have been them voicing their displeasure at your action, because their vice grip tightens around your neck, effectively cutting off your ability to breathe.

that’s when the panic really sets in and you earnestly start to struggle against them. you tried all the moves simon taught you when it came to this exact situation. you tuck your chin into the crook of their elbow, then place your right foot behind his. you can feel your eyes drooping from the lack of oxygen, so with all your might, you bite down onto his arm.

you make sure to dig your canines as far as they can go, the taste of blood floods your mouth. the man screams, gripping your hair as they release you, tugging as they try to free themselves from your unforgiving clamp of sharp teeth. in the process of pulling your head back, you bite down harder and then throw your head back the rest of the way, ripping off a chunk of his arm, spitting it out.

there’s no chance for you to continue your attack before a fist comes flying down, hitting your face dead center and roughly getting thrown onto the concrete ground of the abandoned building you’re in.

despite the attempt to break your fall, your forehead comes into contact with the floor, a splitting pain running from the front, that travels through the nape of your neck and down your shoulders.

“гребаная сука! (1)”

your ears are ringing, but you try to bring yourself to sit up—only to be kicked back down, steel-toe boot burying itself into your ribs.

a groan manages to slip through, a small oof! as well when you fall to your side. it’s your first time able to see your attacker’s face. an angry snarl etched on their face. you feel a little satisfaction build in your chest when you see them tightly clutching their right arm, a stream of blood trickling down their fingers and onto the floor, forming a puddle.

“тебе не следовало этого делать (2)” the man spoke again, letting go of his arm and reaching behind him, a tanto coming to view as he holds it up, twirling it, “я действительно получу удовольствие, разрезая твою прелестную шейку. (3)”

his boot shoves at your shoulder, forcing you onto your back. you scramble to get up, but he’s in much better fighting shape than you are, and he jumps on you, straddling your waist and shoving you back down. your head hits the ground with a loud ‘thud’ forcing a pained whine from your lips. your ribs throbbed, the weight pressing down on your probably broken ribs was unbearable.

you squeeze your eyes shut as you feel the cold metal press against your neck. you did not want your attacker’s face to be the last thing you see before you died. your mind immediately flew to simon. simon and his pretty face. his pretty brown eyes and his pretty blonde hair.

it wasn’t fair. there were more things you wanted to do with simon. you had your whole life ahead of you, and you wanted your sweet lieutenant to be in it.

suddenly the awful weight on top of you was gone. snatched and dragged off. you heard a growl. something so primal and scary. you slowly opened your eyes and sat up, leaning on your elbows as you took in the scene before you.

simon—no—ghost—sat on top of the enemy, just like he had you, thighs around his waist and was viciously landing his fist with all the weight and strength he could muster over and over again. once satisfied the man wasn’t in any shape to get up, ghost stood, unholstered his handgun and fired 3 shots into the bastard’s skull.

you could see his shoulders heaving up and down. his back expanding and deflating with every breath he took. you wanted to so badly wrap your arms around him.

you rolled over on your right side, feet dragging broken glass as you dragged yourself up onto you knees. your hand immediately pressed down on your left side, where the enemy landed that nasty kick. you swore you could feel your ribs shift, breathing getting more and more painful each passing moment.

you hunched over, left arm supporting you up, preventing you from face planting. your pained wheezing must’ve caught ghost’s attention. quick footsteps made their way towards you. from your peripheral you made out a pair of black combat boots, and then he was kneeling by your side.

a gloved hand delicately cupped your chin, moving your head up and to the side to face him. he inhaled sharply.

“jesus fuckin’ christ.”

he dropped your head, going around and coming towards the side your uninjured ribs were.

“cmon love. we have to get up.”

he threw your arm around his shoulder, gently lifting you. you gasp as what you can only explain a lightning bolt ran down your left side.

ghost crooned, shushing you, “i know love, i know. i’m gettin’ us outta here.”

once on your feet, he left go and turned to look at you, “can you walk?”

you nodded, “i can— i can try.”

all you got was a hum of acknowledgment, “grab onto my vest, we’re leavin’.”

•••

ghost and you were the only survivors. the mission was a bust, according to laswell. the intel was false. it was an ambush.

ghost finished up talking to price and laswell through his radio. yours, as you would later find out, was ripped out and stepped on during your fight. shattered into tiny little pieces.

through his sniper’s scope he had seen the enemy make a break for you shortly after rushing inside the building to assist a fellow teammate. he’d raced down from where he was perched, and hauled ass towards you.

“found ya in the nick of time.” he had said. he didn’t see the way you silently winced, the thought that you were mere milliseconds away from certain death.

you two settled inside a safe house, where he stripped you of your gear (and unfortunately) your top.

“hafta see your ribs love.”

after wrapping them tightly, he’d moved on to cleaning up your face. butterfly stitches carefully applied after he’d wiped the dried blood from your face. then came the worst part.

“your nose, it’s broken. i need to set it.”

you think you passed out, because you woke up bundled up on the dusty leather couch. opening your eyes was hard, feeling the effects of your nose being broken as it swelled with broken blood vessels and blood.

sitting on the floor next to you was simon. skull mask long gone, and so was his balaclava. staring back at you was your sweet simon. his face bared for you.

you reached for him, trembling palm making itself home against his cheek. your thumb rubbed his cheekbone.

you swallowed the knot in your throat, “thank you.”

his brows furrowed, “wha’ for?”

“coming for me.”

simon reached up and gripped your wrist, pulling your hand away. his hand moved up and cupped yours, leaning in and kissing your palm. you shivered at the feeling of his lips.

“don’ ever thank me for something’ like tha’.”

you opened your mouth to retort, but he beat you to it, “i’ll always come for you. always.” he shook your hand, “got tha’?”

you felt tears well up. despite the ache in your neck, you nodded.

simon kissed your palm again, “need to hear ya say it, sweet thing.”

“you’ll always come for me.”

he leaned forward, dropping your hand and gently cupping the back of your head, careful not to move you too much, and kissed your forehead.

“‘m proud of ya, you know tha’?” he murmured against your skin. you hummed. “tore off a piece of his arm, could see the bloody tendons.”

you groaned, “i swallowed his blood, si. gonna have to get tested now.”

that pulled soft belly laugh from him, “i’ll be sure to let the medics on base know.” he pulled away from you, pushing your hair away from your face, “rest up. i’ll keep watch.”

you gripped his wrist, “but you’re tired too, si.”

he only shook his head, grabbing your hand and pulling it off his, before kissing the back of it. he stood up, “‘m not the one who’s got broken ribs. rest love, i’ll wake you when we’re headin’ out.”

•••

you were placed on mandatory medical leave for 3 weeks. simon requested leave as well. said someone had to watch after you. which is how you ended up now, laying on your bed on your good side, watching tv that was mounted on your wall with simon laying next to you. his hand was on your hip, drawing lazy circles into your skin.

“you’re gonna put me to sleep if you keep that up.”

“tha’s the point, love.”

you hummed, settling further into your pillow. simon pulled the strap of your top down, allowing him to place a chaste kiss in the junction where your neck met your shoulder.

“sleep, love. i’ll be here when you wake.”

and who are you to say no to that?

“promise?”

“promise.”

•••

translations (done by yandex translate, probably not accurate!

1. гребаная сука! —> you fucking bitch!

2. тебе не следовало этого делать —> you shouldn’t have done that

3. я действительно получу удовольствие, разрезая твою прелестную шейку —> i’m really going to enjoy slicing your pretty neck open.

[indgos]

      bite my tongue, bide my time. wearing a warning sign.                                                   wait 'til the world is  m i n e.

[fante-di-denari]

¿Saben que? Me canse de darle contenido a gente que no habla español, hago huelga, no voy a hablar, leer, escribir mas en ingles hasta no tener el fanfic completo, traducido, con su acento y todo. Ah que nos devuelvan Las Malvinas también.

[onehellofanedgy]

I dedicate the song "Colors" from Halsey to this head canon and König himself. Fits to perfection

König has sad eyes :(

his eyebrows have a natural, slight upwards tilt towards his forehead so they look a little furrowed at all times - even when his face is resting. when he actually knits his eyebrows it’s extremely dramatic, unintentional, but he looks like a kicked puppy when he does it

his irises are an icy blue, almost grey. that, combined with heavy bags under his eyes, makes him look so miserable. they’re gorgeous, but he always looks a little on verge of having tears on his waterline. god forbid he actually cries, big fat tears clumping together in his eyelashes, a red tint to his sclera. and he blubbers, chest raising and falling heavily, big snotty sniffles that leave his throat raw

[itsagrimm]

Königs makeshift uniform always baffles me.

Because if there is one thing german speakers culturally agree on its our willingness to spent crazy money on state of the art tools and gear, preferably from trusted native brands and companies. And it doesn't look that way with Königs presentation.

If Königs helmet is not at least a good ol' Stadler or Fischer helmet with his clothes coming from Engelbert Strauß or something, I don't care what his supposed nationally is. I am sorry but who is that man.

[a-oraculo-loveless]

¿Dónde firmo?

Ok ok ok but like hear me outtttttttttt hear me out on this

Simon Riley who is just,,, touch starved and desperate for any sort of positive attention and affection

Simon who is so built for longing it's not even funny

Simon who looks at you, looks at your photo and can't help but imagine countless scenarios of you two together

Simon who, if he was born in a older time, would have written you sonnets about his love

Simon who settles for scrawling out love notes on anything he can- post it notes and line paper covered in his shakey handwriting

Simon who is in all honesty obsessed with you, who watches you like it's his mission on earth

Simon who remembers your birthday, who takes you to the park and years later gives you a rock from the place where you had your first kiss

Simon who is so annoying you half to play wrestle him for the remote- but really he just wants to hold you

Simon who falls first and falls harder, Simon falling in love is like a meteorite

Simon who's so bad at feelings that he didn't even talk to you at first because he would no doubt blurt out something stupid

I think Simon would only date once he's convinced he's in love, and Simon loves for life.

Simon who really tried to hold back when he finally asked you out, physically strained so he could ask you to dinner

Simon who always seems so… uncomfortable around you, caged despite how open he is with you

All because he's holding back, trying so desperately to not scare you off

Simon who you finally sit down and ask if there's a problem or if he doesn't want you

He blurts out “no” almost as quick as the words leave your lips. “Jus’ tryn’ to not scare you off luv” he almost cumbusts when you tell him that he wouldn't scare you off- that your a little obsessed with him, that you think about him when you sleep, that you had a huge crush on him before he asked you out. That you love him.

Simon who asks if you a really going to be ok with the passion he has.

You love passionate men

So he spills it all out to you, how he thinks about you often, how he knew he loved you before he even spoke to you, about the nights he stays up imaging a nice little life with you, every single thing.

He waits with baited breath for you to sho him away like a desperate stray.

But you don't, you just kiss him and tell him you love him, you love that he loves you so intensely

Simon who from that day on tells you every day how much he loves you, and when he can't on that day- he tells you twice as much

Simon who is touch starved to the max, his callused scared hands are always on you in some way, he play wrestles you because he craves your touch,

He can't sleep without you on top of him, his heavy arms keeping you in place.

Simon who absolutely melts when you go to build a bear (he takes you) and you make the Halloween bear (Skelton bear) with either a black hoodie and gloves or a little kit.

Melts again when you name him “little LT ghost”

Makes a bear that mimics you- dresses it clothes mimicking yours- and then you do something he'd lay awake thinking about

You take one of the gloves off of little ghost and put it on the paw of his bear

He lays awake in his shitty apartment thinking about it, crys a little thinking about how in love he is- first time he let's himself cry in years

Buys a house, small, away from the city out in the wooded country and discreetly asks for you to move in with him- and by that I mean he just asks (read:begs) you to live with him

The second you agree he is moving your things

NSFW

He is nasty and desperate and so so soft

The first time he has sex he is inexperienced

Cums quick- almost the second he get his dick in you

He's big, Simon is a tank of a man. Big lumbering hulk of muscle that softens when he's not flexing and ridged. And his dick reflects that, huge and thick veiny with a bright red tip- always slightly purple from how pale and also how hard he gets

And he get hard often- the touch starved never really goes away and even something as simple as holding your hand can get him bricked

He works you open, his dick hurting but he eats you out/sucks you off with a fever of a man starved, it's everywhere- wet and sloppy mess all the way up your plush tummy- and he doesn't stop

Grabs your thighs and slings them over his shoulders after you cum the first time, tips you back and practically eats you into the mattress with the way he presses you down

And the hickeys- call him a vacuum because he is determined to leave every bit of you covered in hickeys from your calves to your tummy, the less the hickey shows up on your skin the more determined he is to make them pop-

Its not until your basically pleading with him for his cock that he even takes it out and oh boy- trouser snake is a python

He's slow, twitching as his angry tip is pressed against you- and the groan when he finally manages to push inside you, practically bullying his cock past any resistance-

And he cums- he had cum in his pants earlier when he was devouring you

But he cums again- he's embarrassed he came so quick

But he's determined, hips still rutting into you even with the sting of over stimulation

Rubs your clit/cock until you feel him get hard again before boom he's making love to you

His strokes are deep- deep, pelvis grinding against you with every thrust but it's not slow- fast but soft in such an intimate way

And he kisses you like he's never kissed you before

After a while he realizes he definitely has a kink for messy sex, if you aren't covered in fluids and mess- covered in him- by the end of it then clearly he didn't do his job right

Big fan of headlocks

Simon putting you in a headlock but his arm is constricting you-just holding you against him, the thickness of his arm and his broad scar covered chest pressed against your back

He kisses your neck and buries his face into you just to get a taste- a hint of your scent as he absolutely wrecks you with tender loving trusts

He paws with his massive hand on your chest and tummy and thighs

But he is addicted to your tummy, gripping it and pressing down where he can feel the bulge his cock leaves

Hearing you mewl scratches something so deep In his brain

Anyway ghost feral soft sex where he's all kissy and lovey telling you how pretty/handsome you are and how much he needs you and loves you

Meanwhile your covered in spit, slick, cum, and sweat- with Simon rearranging your guts like he's a interior designer