#cod mother

[emmster]

Coloured Laswell

[konigsblog]

a continuation from this post. ;3

baker-könig who puts his cum your food... 🍰🍪🧁

cw: perv!könig, loser!könig. MDNI 18+ 🔞

baker-könig adores your reaction to his baked goods. the sweetness and the tanginess of the tarts he provides and bakes for you, his girthy, hot cock throbbing in the tight confines of his boxer briefs when you comment on the touch of saltiness.

he spends hours in the kitchen, sweat dripping from his forehead and the smell of the warm, sugary desserts catching your attention. what you don't know is that könig has jerked off into the bowl, mixing his bitter and salty arousal into the batter. he's so eager to hear your comments and compliments, getting off later in private to your words playing back in his head.

each stroke leaves könig breathless, his calloused fingers wrapped around his meaty shaft, gripping his large, hung cock firmly. there is flour and sugar all over the countertops, and ingredients are scattered around the kitchen. fat globs of his hot, thick release are spurted from the head of his lengthy dick and into the mixing bowl, his breath laborious and heavy.

he watches as you take a bite of the freshly baked, delicious cupcake, giggling at the perfect taste. you smile at him, telling him it's the best batch you've ever tasted. fuck, your compliments leave könig sexually frustrated, grinning perversely, and eyeing you up as you enjoy multiple of the cupcakes.

only when you suck him off for the first time do you recognise the familiar saltiness in his thick cum...

[cerise-on-top]

Soap actually gets very affectionate when he's drunk. Sure, he's already a pretty touchy man while sober, but this multiplies a hundred fold when he's drunk. While it may be hard to get him drunk, he's nothing but adorable when he gets to that point. Think the r/ambien wife guy (even if you may not be a woman, he's not above pointing out how soft and awesome you are and how much he loves you). In fact, I'd go as far as to say he probably has a reddit account, on which he gushes about you every time he does get drunk. It's nothing but sweet. You're his beloved partner, the light of his life, and he's gonna make it everyone else's problem too. He keeps hugging you, keeps cuddling you, keeps pressing wet kisses on your forehead and your temple as he sits in your lap. There's a good chance you have no clue what he's trying to tell you, but it's probably just another anecdote about how much he loves you. Tears are sometimes spilled when you kiss him back and tell him that you love him too. Yes, alcohol may be involved, but it's nothing short of wholesome anyway. Is probably not even ashamed of all the things he's said to you once he's sober again. He means them, and why shouldn't you know that you're important to him?

[deunmiu-dessie]

(unedited) widowedfather!simon gets help with his daughter. [ connected with this post as an au! ] [ one, two ]

the incessant wailing of the baby seemed never-ending. her plump, delicate cheeks were tinged with a crimson hue, and torrents of tears streamed down her face. simon, standing amidst the formula cans, wondered briefly how such a tiny thing could produce such an ear-piercing noise, the sound grating at his ears, which only served to exacerbate his already troubled state of mind.

he was at a loss, unable to figure out what was causing her distress. simon had just fed her, burped her, and changed her diaper recently—yet she continued to cry inconsolably, legs kicking and arms tucked to her body. it’d been like that, him desperately trying to calm her down while receiving judgmental glares from onlookers (although he couldn't bring himself to care) for the past fifteen minutes.

she misses her mother.

well, she's gone. he was all she had now, and he wasn't much– he knew that. he’d asked price’s wife for help several times after she was born, when he couldn't figure out why she was crying, what to do when she wouldn't go to sleep. simon eventually stopped asking for help a couple of months later, didn't want to inconvenience them any more than he already had. didn't matter if they swore that he wasn't. he was a father, he needed to act like one.

simon had never been annoyed or angry with his child. how could he ever find it in himself to be annoyed or angry with his own flesh and blood? especially when she bore such an uncanny resemblance to his late wife.

no, his anger was solely directed towards himself, anger for not being able to understand her needs quickly, anger for not knowing how to soothe her. doubt plagued his every thought, making him question his capability to raise her properly.

“hi, would you like some help with her?”

taken from his thoughts, simon turned slightly to where the voice spoke, a woman standing just a few feet from him. her grocery cart was filled with food and two children, twin boys, were hanging off the side he realized. they seemed to be no more than five years old, but they were calm; giggling amongst themselves and pointing to what cereals they would eat early tomorrow.

simon redirects his attention toward the woman, her smile is warm, sympathetic, and non-judgmental. she eyes the newborn with starry eyes and a slight pout on her lips. simon shakes his head softly. “s’alrigh, don’t want t’bother you.” he murmurs gently. regardless, even though he declines her help, his daughter continues to cry inconsolably, much like the day she was born.

she waves him off and grins— everything about her was so, motherly, so kind. “believe it or not, i miss the newborn phase. they're like little critters when they hit their tot years.” she whispers the last part to avoid her kids overhearing and sends him a wink. he chuckles, it's small, barely there but she hears it nonetheless and responds with a soft laugh of her own.

the woman takes a few steps forward and gently takes the baby from his grasp, despite his hesitation, before he can decline once more. and a weight is lifted from his shoulders, his body no longer tense from not understanding what was wrong. simon watches as she cradles the newborn, a bright smile adorning her face, before she looks up at him. “she’s just a little gassy, feeding her while she’s upright will help to stop this from happening.”

simon anxiously nods, his heart pounding as the woman gently applies pressure just below his daughter's tummy, causing the gas to escape gradually and the baby's cries to turn into soft whimpers instead. his heartbeat slows, and he readjusts his arms to take the child. the woman lovingly coos at the newborn one last time before placing her delicately into simon’s waiting embrace.

she waves him off once more when he goes to thank her, smiling. “we parents need to stick together,” she says, before she walks back towards her cart and affectionately runs her hands through her children’s hair. “so, where to next?” her laugh is soft and loving as the two excitedly shout, "candy!" she looks over her shoulder at him and rolls her eyes, mouthing: ‘critters’

and simon, since the death of his wife, finally feels something.

[koruga]

I like singing and dancing. I also like walking. When I go on my walks around town, I have my headphones in, and I sing to myself and dance while I walk.

I realise this makes me the target of being stared at. I sort of invite it -- I don't mind if people look at me from their car, it's weird and silly and so am I. People around town know me for that, and that's fine.

However, I don't consent to being filmed while I do it. I won't catch it every time, since I'm not looking in the cars of people who pass me, but for the second time now, I've seen someone poking their phone out of their window to follow me as I walk, and that's really frustrating. I live in a small town, and I'm either a local curiosity or an attraction for the tourists. It's a different beast entirely when I have no control over who sees me -- the internet is a different beast.

I'm sure I'm preaching to the choir here, but don't film people. Even if they're acting weird -- especially if they're acting weird! I don't want to be your viral TikTok. Tourists and locals alike should know better than this.

[deebris]

Seems like destiny

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader

Synopsis: After spending years in the bone marrow donation system, encouraged by the army, Simon was finally notified that they had found a match. He just didn't expect to find out that he would be donating it to his own son, who he had with his teenage love and never knew.

Warnings: Family problems, panic attacks, teenage pregnancy, swearing, mention of diseases such as leukemia, murder, archaic ideas, anguish.

Word count: 3.5 k

Any questions or errors, please let me know.

Simon always remembers how the army encouraged soldiers to be blood donors. There was a great concern within about it, as it was one of the ways the government found to help hospitals and people who depend on transfusions to survive.

Then campaigns for bone marrow donation began, but it was so rare to find someone compatible that after 6 years on the waiting list, Simon thought he would never find someone who would need him. But that changed two months ago when he received a call from the institute informing him that he should go there immediately.

He underwent more medical exams than he had ever done, and although he was a tough guy, he couldn't deny the pain he felt in the weeks following the procedure. Among so many people dying in beds waiting to find a donor, someone could finally heal because of him. It made Simon feel good about himself, as good as he hadn't felt in a long time. That had been one of the reasons why he joined the army: to help people.

Now he could only hope that whoever he donated to would improve. He found himself during the day thinking about it, wondering if in a few years it would affect him as much as it does now. It's not very fresh in his memory, but Simon is able to superficially remember the day he registered on the bone marrow donor list. He had been in the army for a short time, still a soldier, and "Ghost" didn't even exist yet.

He thought this would be put aside. He didn't understand if he would need to donate more often, not really knowing the process deeply. That's why when he received another call from the same institute, he thought there had been some mistake, or that they would need more, but the reason for the contact surprised him.

The recipient's caregiver wanted to meet him and was willing to break the standard anonymity by revealing their identity. Accepting the offer would mean that he would also need to disclose his personal information, which is why he hesitated so much. But as he constantly replayed the woman's words in his head, he grew restless.

"The caregiver wants to meet you," that's what she said. Could the recipient be a child? Or perhaps an elderly person? Or maybe someone who was already so ill that they could barely decide for themselves. He shouldn't have any information about this person, even something as empty as what that lady had let slip.

"You should accept. Everyone would like to have the opportunity to personally thank the person who saved their life," were the words of his Captain, John "Price." And it had been the push that Simon needed to agree to the idea.

Now, standing in front of the hospital room door, Ghost debated with himself whether he should open it. Just a few meters away was the little boy who had been haunting his mind for the past few days. And how did he know it was a boy? He had been directed to the children's oncology ward when he arrived at the reception minutes ago, as soon as he was cleared by the unit director, who already knew about the situation and the breach of anonymity.

Furthermore, the clipboard with the patient's information on the door also made it clear that it was a boy. The name "Lucas" was printed on the paper, accompanied by a surname that was familiar to him. There weren't many people in the UK with that name, which caught his attention.

All that separated him from the family was that door, dividing the cold hospital corridor from the room he could only hope would be less disheartening and empty. He didn't know if he would find a smile on the other side, or if he would be met with the sad gaze of the child's mother.

This woman had contacted him through a letter. On that day, he hadn't yet notified the institute that he was willing to speak with her, so the letter came anonymously since nothing had been filed. He read what she had to say, revealing some things, such as the fact that she was a single mother and was extremely grateful to God for sending him to save her son. Some paragraphs were difficult to read, where she recounted how she had lost hope before.

The little comfort he found in that text was when she talked about the boy. In those passages, her handwriting was less shaky, and he was sure she was happier when she wrote those parts of the letter. He knew that this had been her attempt to persuade him to come meet her, but without her knowing, he had already decided. Simon kept the piece of paper with him and reread it in his spare moments.

That stirred his emotions. He thought he had managed to harden his heart after everything he had been through, but he was wrong. Deep down in his soul, he was more emotional than he let on to others. He hoped that "Soap" would never find out, or he would be eternally tormented.

"Damn," he muttered softly, snapping back to reality. Simon began to bitterly regret agreeing to this. He should have declined and moved on. He could leave, but he was already here, so he mustered up the courage to knock on the wood.

He considered himself presentable in the civilian clothes he wore, accustomed to the heavy military equipment he carried all day at the base, and also missing the mask covering his face. Simon adjusted the collar of his dress shirt, as a way to occupy his sweaty hands, more nervous about the approaching footsteps he heard than his appearance.

Before the door opened, he had already told himself he would remain silent and wait for the boy's mother to start the conversation. If she asked who he was, he would state his name and explain why was there. But as the woman inside was revealed to him, he fell silent not because he had decided to, but because he was speechless. Suddenly, those seconds he spent admiring the child's surname on the door seemed like a scene from a comedy movie to him. How ironic it is considering he was just thinking about you moments ago and, like magic, you appeared?

It seemed like you took a few extra seconds to recognize him, and he doesn't judge you for that. Although you have changed and are now an adult woman, with a more mature face and body, he had changed much more since he was a teenager. Back when you two were in school, he was shorter and thinner, and he didn't have any of the scars on his face.

But it wasn't just that which changed in him. You stared in complete shock at how different the demeanor of the guy you were in love with was. He was more serious, more intimidating, very different from his brother, Thomas, whom you had seen years ago, just a few days before he was brutally murdered along with his wife and child.

Your legs went weak, and your eyes burned with tears threatening to overflow. You wanted so desperately to say something, but nothing could come out of your mouth. Was this real, after all? You withdrew your hand from the doorknob, not realizing you had been gripping it tightly until now, and sat in the nearest chair to avoid collapsing to the ground.

Your blood pressure had surely dropped, as you were sweating cold and seeing black spots. What were the chances, after so many years and after everything you had been through, of finally finding him just when you weren't even trying anymore?

Your memories since you found out you were pregnant began to flood back. You vividly remember your father's reaction when he found out you were having a baby; what he said when found out that the neighbor's son, Simon, was the father of the child; how you struggled to escape him after he took you away to another state, to cover up the shame of having a "prostitute" as a daughter.

You never managed to tell Simon, and when you returned to that town, the town where you two met, he was no longer there. You didn't have a penny in your pocket and only survived that week because of Tommy's help. He gave you a bed to sleep in, food, and clothes, both for you and his nephew. You remembered the perplexed expression he had when analyzed Lucas's appearance, it was impossible to deny that he was a Riley.

It was because of him that you found out Simon was in the army and that he hadn't come home in months.

You never managed to thank him properly. Just two days after showing up there, Tommy handed you half of the money he had in a bank deposit. He told you that a good part of that money belonged to Simon, and therefore, it belonged to your son too. You rented a hotel room so as not to continue bothering his wife, especially since she now had to cook and clean for five people.

You left for the hotel with the promise to reward him someday and continued making visits while anxiously tried to contact his brother on his phone, but Simon never answered. You didn't have a cell phone and couldn't spend the money Tommy gave you so lightly, deciding to prioritize your son's needs.

Several voicemails were recorded, but there was never a response. You felt angry at Simon. You screamed into your pillow, frustrated for not being answered and repeating to yourself how stupid he was. But the possibility that maybe he was dead haunted you. Tommy had told you how complex his work in the army was, that it was more dangerous than usual.

You always feared what you would find when you saw him again. He could have a wife, a beautiful house, and everything you ever wanted to have with him one day but couldn't. He could have children, children who had the opportunity to grow up with him, unlike Lucas. And then when you found out that no, none of that had happened, a kind of happiness flooded your chest, even though nothing in the world guaranteed that he would want anything with you again. The last time you had anything, you two were barely adults, until one day you left without saying anything. You thought he hated you.

That lasted until one time, when you went to Tommy's house, there was nothing there but blood. You still remember how scared you were when you found the broken door and called the police, who surrounded the scene of the violent crime that had just happened. You waited so long, but so long for Simon to show up. What kind of person doesn't attend their own brother's funeral? That's when you decided to forget him and threw away the phone number you had written down.

Some more time later, when Lucas had just turned 7 years old, your life was turning upside down again. It all started with symptoms of a common virus. He had fevers, weakness, and got tired very easily. Then he started losing weight and getting pale. Many pediatricians said it could be anemia or hepatitis, but more symptoms kept emerging. Joint pains came, as did swellings, and after a year of medical investigation, the diagnosis came: leukemia.

You entered a state of denial. Was there something wrong with his diet? Or his lifestyle? It could be genetic, but there were no cases of cancer in your family. Maybe the Rileys had some?

Since that day, your life has never been the same. With each passing month, your son only got worse. You would give all your savings, live on the streets, or even rob a bank if it meant seeing your baby well again. Fortunately, the government offered treatment for free, but some medicines needed to be acquired more urgently than the hospital could provide, and medicines for such treatment were not cheap at all.

The only thing that could cure your boy was the marrow from a compatible donor. You prayed so much that you could save him, but when the tests were done, it was impossible. If no one in the family could donate, it was almost a death sentence. Your last hope was your father. You hoped to never have to see him again, let alone tell him where you had run away to, but now you were no longer the same foolish young girl who depended on his money.

Despite everything, you knew he loved his grandson, and a single phone call was enough to make him come running. In recent years, he had been worried about the two of you, not knowing where you had gone. He never had the courage to admit he was wrong, and apologizing was never his strong point, but he regrets every day what he did. That day he didn't know how to react. He wanted to kill Simon, the brat who got his only daughter pregnant, just as he was afraid you would become a joke in neighborhood for having such a young son. He only managed to think about leaving to avoid a disaster, never asking what you wanted or how you felt.

For the first time, when he saw you so tired and alone, he held his tongue to not say anything that could ruin everything. Instead, he hugged you tightly, and you were so craving someone's company that you curled up in his arms just like when you were a little girl. He was a grumpy and archaic man, someone who made many mistakes, who still makes them, but he still has humanity within him.

Unfortunately, he was not a match either.

You stopped daydreaming, and you didn't realize how bad you were until you saw an adult Simon crouched in front of you, shouting in the hallway for a doctor, but you tried to silence him by grabbing the nails on his rolled-up shirt sleeve, catching his attention. The last thing you want is for the doctors responsible for your son's health to be alarmed, thinking he's worsened. These professionals worked as hard for him as you did. Simon seemed to understand and went to close the door to prevent curious eyes from appearing.

Simon looked at you with sadness, and it crushed your heart. He was afraid you wouldn't be able to breathe properly again; he knew you were desperately begging for air, but couldn't draw it in. He hesitated to touch you, but gave in to the desire and placed both hands on your cheeks. He was incredulous. It was really you, the girl he loved most in his entire life, more than he thought he was capable of loving another woman. Simon had imagined so many times meeting you again, and he had so many doubts.

"Calm down," he repeated in a whisper, locking his eyes onto yours. He knew panic attacks; he had experienced them himself several times. "I know. I know, dear. It's a lot to process."

"You…" your voice tried to come out amidst desperate breaths, while also trying to swallow the lump in your throat. Your hands grabbed both of his wrists, and your thumb smoothed over the skin, feeling his heartbeat. "It's you who…?"

"Yes. Yes, it's me, the donor," he quickly confirmed, even before you could finish the question. "Don't speak. Breathe."

You were managing to calm down and think more rationally. Understanding hit you like a bucket of cold water, and your embrace made the big burly man he had become freeze. The feeling was so strange. Of course, among so many people, the only one who could save your little son would be his own father. The person with whom he shared half of his genes.

"He's yours, Si," your voice sounded like a spell in his ear, the old nickname sending shivers down his spine. Your tone was so gentle that he barely understood the meaning of the phrase. But soon he felt his lips quivering, recounting the events of the past few months and how unbelievable this would sound if he told this story to someone. "I swear he's yours," you repeated as if that made it easier to assimilate.

The content of that letter invaded his mind again and again. He felt horrible.

Simon pulled you closer to him, your bodies almost merging. You were still beautiful, even in your disheveled state, betraying exhaustion. And even after so much time, it was as if nothing had changed between the two of you. He knew there was a small body behind him, sleeping peacefully in the bed, but he didn't dare to look. He could hear the sound of the machines, and then it all came crashing down on his shoulders at once: he had a son with you. By his calculations, the boy should be 9 years old. Wow! He hadn't seen you in over a decade.

"I have so many questions," he confessed with a choked voice, and you don't remember ever seeing him cry before when you were younger.

"I searched for you so much. I called so many times," the last thing you wanted was to make him feel guilty, but hearing that, he felt like he should have kept searching for you too. As soon as you left, he went asking where your father had gone. He worried and tried to find out something, until enlisted in the army, and then all he did from then on was just think about you; never seeking; never trying in any way to find you again because it seemed easier to accept that you had left forever.

You tried to distance yourself, even though you hated it, to look at his face one more time. Simon allowed you to run your fingers over his features until your eyes landed on your son behind him. He knew where your gaze had gone, but he didn't follow it. And of course, you would understand what was happening.

"Look at him," you pleaded with tenderness, but he shook his head while rubbing his eyes, as if they hurt. "You're hurting me doing this, Simon."

The last thing he wanted was for you to think he was rejecting the boy, so he stood up, fighting the weakness in his legs and slowly approaching the bed. The child's face was turned exactly in his direction, as if anticipating he would be there, but his eyes were closed, and his breathing was peaceful. It was only then that Simon realized how he was hyperventilating until he felt your hand gently pushing him closer.

His heart hammered in his chest, overwhelmed by anxiety and fear, as he watched his pale and still son. Each step was a journey through an ocean of uncertainty, each breath an effort to maintain composure in the face of the storm raging within him.

As he leaned over the fragile and inert body of the boy, a wave of emotions engulfed him. His broken heart cried out to stop the affliction that plagued his son, that beloved being he barely knew.

Tears blurred his vision as he stroked Lucas's hand, so small and vulnerable compared to his, so similar to yours. Each touch was a silent promise to stand by him in every moment, even in the darkest and most painful.

He found himself whispering words of comfort, as if each sentence could ignite a spark of life in his son's dormant soul. He pleaded to the heavens, to the stars, to any higher power that could hear, for a miracle, for a chance to see those childish eyes shine for the first time in his life. He was an identical copy of Simon at that age, and it made him wonder if the color of his irises was also the same, the same shade of brown. A sudden curiosity arose: what was his voice like? Would it sound like yours, so gentle and reassuring, or could it somehow sound like his?

There, in that moment, time seemed to freeze, the whole world disappearing. It was as if he were dreaming. There was no way all of this could be true, someone must be playing a prank on him. He wanted to look at your face again, to smell you while he ran his hands through your hair to make sure it was really you, flesh and blood. "He's going to be okay," he poured out the words, even though he knew the danger in promising that, and you dove into them, knowing you didn't have to face everything alone anymore.

[spookypete-94]

Dark Horse- A Mother

Part 2

Reader is a single mother, working double shifts at a restaurant. Father of the child starts to become a problem while reader is at work and Price offers a solution. Slight age gap between reader around 25 and Price around 35.

How ironic it was to be back at home emptying out the lunchbox that had started it all. Feeling petty that you were angry like it had forgotten its own self on the counter. Taking out the sandwich you had made the night prior and throwing it away. Turkey, cheese, and miracle whip. Abel's favorite. Starting all over, your mind trying to find work as a distraction from the entire day’s events. Lunchbox packed and, in the fridge, note on the door so not to forget it in the start of the chain tomorrow. Work finished.

And then the fleeting thought made its way back to you. Engaged. You were engaged. Something you thought would never happen because you have never had time to consider it, let alone dating.

John had passed you his phone number scribbled on a piece of paper. How very old school of him, you thought to yourself accepting it before placing it in your apron pocket mixed in with your tips. It was now back in your fingertips, passing it around to look at it closer. The man had handwriting of a serial killer... Could you be marrying a serial killer?

Shaking your head, riding yourself of such a thought. No, John was not a serial killer.... least not the kind that stalked its prey and killed the next victim- you told yourself, typing what you thought was the phone number into your phone Never really knowing much about him, you could tell he was at least military, but what exactly?

John? the text you sent to the number hoping you had read it right.

Yes? was the single worded answer. Sighing with relief, you were glad it was him, not ready to keep taking the chance of a random stranger.

I could barely read your writing.

Been told it's bad before. And then a time or two after that. He responded back and you can hear the slight chuckle in his voice.

Get the boy in bed? He messaged right after.

Yes, he's sleeping now. Just got his lunch packed.

Good, you should be in bed too. Oh my god, you thought to yourself now worried he was thinking of you in bed. Glancing at the time, after your nightly routine was done you saw the clock on the wall read almost 11:30. He was probably just being practical.

Heading there now, thank you.

For what?

Everything.

Get some sleep, I'll see you tomorrow afternoon.

Yeah, like you were going to sleep after everything that had happened today. Giving it an attempt, you crawl under the covers after starting the washer to try to get a jump start of the home work load. Closing your eyes, making the room dark, you pretended if anything to get sleep.

***************************

"Abel!" You shouted, pulling the clothes out of the dryer you had moved during your insomnia caused by your worry battle. "Time to get a move on." Grabbing a warm towel, you hung it on the hook outside of the shower.

"We're going to be late." You said still trying to usher him. Watching his little hand slip out past the shower curtain, feeling for the warm towel.

"Thanks momma," he said muffled through the towel.

It wasn't shortly after he found you fully clothed with his bookbag and the condemned lunchbox in your hand by the front door. Slipping on his shoes he took the bag, slipping it over his shoulders, standing up shouting he was ready.

Locking the door behind you, he sprinted down to the sidewalk ready for you. Grin beaming almost as bright as the morning sun.

"Will that man come see you again today?" he asked as you walked next to him.

Struggling to find the courage to answer him, you realized he was paying more attention than you had thought. "He is."

"Will he be there when I get there?"

"Probably, and I think we will be seeing more of him overall."

"Why?"

"Well... him and I are going to get married."

"Married!? Like a mom and a dad together?"

"Yes, but he is not your dad. Your dad will always be your dad."

Abel looked down kicking a rock.

"I wish he was better to you, momma." And your heart fractured at the statement. Your hand found his chin, tilting it up so he looks at you.

"I wish he was too," your voice quietly fighting the tears that stung your eyes, "but take it as a lesson Abel. If you ever find love, be sure to treat them better then what you have been shown."

Abel gave a single nod, understanding the weight of your statement. He has always been a kid that is easy to talk to.

Going your separate ways, he gave your middle a squeeze, head buried in your abdomen before saying goodbye. Leaving you alone to finish your walk on your way to work.

***************************

Coffee pots are already brewing, turning on the grill top and fryer for your cook. You were ready to roll.

Morning shift went quick, the restaurant running like a well-oiled machine from your efforts. No phone calls from the school today, further easing your confidence that everything was going to be alright. Abel with his dad like the custody agreement states while you're at work. That feeling of confidence quickly left you though, as Abel's homeroom teacher walked in. Mrs. Karim. Eyes locking with her, you meant her almost at the front door.

"Everything ok?" You asked familiar enough with her to know she wouldn't have been here for nothing.

"Relax," she said with a warm laugh. "Not everything that happens has to be bad." She teased placing a hand on your shoulder making you take a deep breath in. "I came to bring you something," she said handing you a student made project. It was a heart with 2 paper doors that you could open.

"We made these for Mother's Day, and I really wanted you to see what your son wrote."

Each individual line was something Abel had written about you. A scribble that you could decipher with ease, seeing it change and grow as he got older.

I love my mother because:

She makes sure I have food every day.

She makes sure I have a warm towel after every shower.

She walks me to school every morning.

She hugs and tells me she loves me every day.

She tucks me into bed every night.

Instantly the tears are hot on your face and grinning like the Cheshire cat. How much you loved that boy.

"Thank you," you said wiping your tears off with your hand.

"Figured you needed it," she said patting your shoulder again letting on she knew more then what you thought, but not pestering further. "You're a good mom." Making you nod as she left, continuing about her time off.

Turning around, you saw Kate standing leaning against the counter.

"Can we get one day in without you crying?" she teased.

"Fuck off," you chortled. Stepping past her, you saw John sitting at the said counter. He must of snuck in.

"You, ok?" he asked, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee.

"Yeah," you said sliding the heart to him to look at. "Look, his handwriting looks like yours." You teased implying he had the handwriting of an 8-year-old.

Taking it in his hands he opened the doors of the heart, smiling as he read it too. "Maybe you could give me lessons then." Eyes drifting up to yours as your heartbeat faster, rattling your ribs. They look so blue even through his long brown lashes. A simple “ha-ha” left your mouth unable to find anything else back to say to flirt with him.

"Well, hopefully I can give you something else that makes your day," he said sliding a little black box towards you on the counter. You felt almost dirty accepting it, knowing what was on the inside but still did it anyway. Opening it and looking down, before handing it back to John, unsure of where to go from there.

It was a simple pearl on a gold band. "Was my mother's." He said taking it out of the box, hand extended out for yours. Handing him your left hand, you let him slip it on the ring finger. "Figure if this happening, will make it official." Rendered speechless, you searched to find anything to say.

"What was she like?"

"My mother?"

"Yeah."

"A good mother. Lot like you." He said his answer was plain and simple. His thumb stroking over the back of your hand, back and forth over the ring.

It was like you were made of butterflies and birds. The fluttering beneath your skin, in your chest and stomach, rising and lowering. Were you floating right now? Breaking eye contact, you looked down at your feet grounding yourself. Kate is coming up and giving you a light shoulder check.

"Hate to interrupt your love bird’s moment, but the dinner rush is starting."

"Right," you said fingers squeezing John's hand before getting started. Placing an order for his regular, planning to at least feed him for everything he has done, you got to work taking your tables.

As skilled as you were, you had fumbled a few orders. Forgetting things, not filling drinks right away. But the heavy ring on your finger throws off your game. You would stare at it next to the pen and pad as you would take the order. As simple as it was, it was so beautiful. The glimmer catching your eye every now and then as if you were a bird. Something unfamiliar in the familiar. The lack of tips showed for it. Yes, you were floating because you were riding cloud 9.

Streetlights were starting to come on outside, signaling it was now getting close to closing time. Restaurant now empty, John the only "customer" inside. The door jingling open caught your attention as you saw Abel slip in, heading straight for you. Kneeling you hugged him squeezing him tighter than he was you making him laugh.

"What the fuck is that??" Your ex's voice fills your ears covering the laughter. Glancing up you were shocked to see him in your place of work. Generally, he steered clear, letting you at least have home and work to yourself. But after yesterday he apparently wanted to keep whatever his problem was going.

"What are you talking about?" You asked standing up, slipping Abel behind you, and pushing him lightly to the counter. Thankfully Kate was already waiting for him, hands outstretched with fingers waggling to get him away from verbal altercation.

"On your finger." He said pointing before reaching and snatching for your left hand. Pulling it away from him, you cradled it to your chest. The ring pressed as far inwardly as you could get it.

"Hands off her," John said arm in front of you slowly pushing you behind him like you had just done with Abel. Your right hand rested on his waist, letting him know you were still there with him.

"You can't be serious," your ex said over John's shoulder trying to talk to you.

"The way you treat her ends now. You will no longer be speaking to my soon-to-be wife that way. You'll get your time in court." John said taking a step closer, almost chest to chest.

The door jingled again, and you noticed the three that followed John around standing behind your ex. They crowded him, keeping the situation under control, but willing to turn violent if the time came.

"Why don' ya step outside mate, and have a littl' chat with us?" The biggest one wearing all black said, gripping your ex's shoulder and pulling him out the door.

John followed making you call out to him, "John," your voice warned. "He's still the father to my child."

"Not gonna’ hurt him love, just gonna’ lay down some rules," he said pushing the door open with his back, following his other war dogs outside. He rounded the corner out of your sight.

"You have my heart," Abel said pulling his classroom project to him, breaking you out of your thoughts.

"I always got your heart," you said leaning down kissing his head. "Start your homework while I clean and close up," you said roughing up his hair.

"Ugh...." he groaned, but doing as you said opening his bookbag.

After what felt like an eternity, you watched John come back in the other 3 following in behind him and sitting down at the counter.

"Can I feed them at least?" You asked referring to what they had just done.

"You don' feed the strays," he teased looking down the counter at them. "They ain't staying long anyways. Just enough to lock up and me to walk you home."

"You're walking me home?"

" 'Course I am, my ring your wearing wife to be." he bantered back to you making you go red. Using the excuse to have to go back into the kitchen and fill the mop bucket to hide it. Was useless, hearing the others snicker at your embarrassment.

Previous

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Taglist:

@cutiecusp

@lhhlver

[thirstyforsimonghostriley]

Simon (Ghost) Riley Head cannons

Although I am a bit late it is currently 9:41pm on the 12th so it is still Mother's Day and I decided I would write some headcanons about how Simon would absolutely spoil his wife/Gf/Fiancé on her First mothers Day! (PS: This is my first time EVER writing smut so it most likely won't be amazing) (Also as always the Divider is by @cafekitsune) (Also! Fem reader Implied, This includes a reader with Female anatomy)

Like I said there will be smut so 16+ Warning! And yes I write 16+ because in my country that is the age of consent and I am only 17 so it would be hypocritical of me to say 18+

Dad!Simon Would wake up at 6am quietly sneaking out of your shared bedroom as he made his way into the kitchen starting to make a mothers Day Breakfast

Dad!Simon Would Dress his 7-month-old son up in a cute Tuxedo, Walking into the bedroom as you lay there half awake, He would be Holding the baby in one arm and a Breakfast Tray in the other, His muscles flexing.

Dad!Simon Would clean up your Breakfast demanding you to Relax and get ready for the day.

Dad!Simon Would Smirk as he watched you at the Spa Appointment "Your son" Booked you in for the day.

Dad!Simon would Make Dinner for the Night as you sat on the couch with your baby cuddled up in the new fluffy Pyjama set "Your son" Also brought you.

Dad!Simon Would Kiss your neck softly as you stood over your Sons crib watching him sleep peacefully.

Dad!Simon Would lay you down gently on your shared bed, Massaging your calves before slowly moving his hands upwards over the hem of your Pyjama set wrapping his fingers around them and gently pulling them down past the swell of your ass all the way down until he could toss them on the floor somewhere.

Dad!Simon would kneel on the floor with your his over the edge of the bed as he ate you out passionately, Smirking more and more as you became louder and louder with pleasure.

Dad!Simon would mutter into your ear gently as he had you pinned down on the bed stomach down, Your face resting on a pillow as he pounded you from behind grunting gently once in a while.

Dad!Simon would tell you how Sexy you were as he caressed your body while his hips were still pounding into you.

Dad!Simon would kiss your head gently as you would lay on top of his naked chest, covered in Scars and hair while you slept peacefully exhausted from your day.

Again as I said I have literally never written Smut before so I am aware it's a little bleak and not very detailed but hopefully it will improve as I write more! (Also to Any Mothers Reading this *Seriously doubt it lol* I hope you Had an Amazing day!) (Also Feedback is welcomed!)

[temeyes]

young kate, an attempt!!

[fishsinsareacknowledged]

choose your character:

-[Nikto]- [König] [Ghost]

Nikto has tits so big every button up shirt he has, has to be oversized or the buttons will pop off. Everytime he tries something in the fitting room it breaks and he has to pay for it either way so he just buys it while doing an estimate. Nikto who tries them out at home and they expectantly break. Fixing the buttons up before deciding to give it to you. Making an excuse that the fabric just wasn't right for him.

Nikto who comes over just to make sure you still have his clothes. Talking to himself in satisfaction when he sees a whole stack amount of his clothes mixed into yours. Nikto who "accidentally" leaves his clothes in your house for you to keep. Nikto who folds a clean boxer into your drawer of panties, taking one for himself. An eye for an eye.

But also Nikto who leaves a dehumidifier in your closet so the clothes don't smell like shit other than him. Leaving you some scented candles if he notices the smell of your house is "off" cough cough having someone over. Gifting you some bedspray the same as his so he can pretend that you're in the same shitty bed he is on during deployment. Nikto who comes back and the first thing he does is replace and maintain the cleanliness of your house, refurnishing the floors if they're wooden. Replacing the grout if they're old.

Leaving mothballs in your bathroom and closet. Checking on the batteries of your devices. Neatly arranging your cables. Spraying antibug spray onto the walls and floor. Making the house all devoid of life except you. It makes him calmer. Doing the chores and the environment. Just the way he likes it. Clean, sterile and you. He loves you.

Ps: Don't look at the tags.

[nuitnotions]

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

✎ who lets out the warmest little laugh when you fumble for your words, eyebrows furrowing in flattered distress when he calls you his hurrying wind from careening bullets, calling him home short hours into first meeting you

✎ who helps you into your coat as you ready to head home, slyly slipping in the scrap of paper he had dug up into the pocket containing your house keys, his number scrawled on it with a short for when you feel so inclined to spoil me with that smile again, love

✎ who had your mother's favourite flowers delivered to your house after the fourth date (he could somehow cajole the most abstract information out of you without you blinking), texting you post delivery to send his best regards to his mother-in-law, the winking emoji too terribly in character

✎ who is so incredibly torn between hoarding you away from the teasing comments from his close friends and absolutely blabbing about the divinity of you, your smile, your touch, your voice, god your everything that left him yearning something fierce

✎ who inevitably hoards you away for the first five months into your fledgling of a relationship before it's quite frankly bursting out of him, from the change in his walk to the wicked brightness to his eyes, your name gospel when anyone so much as asks what pot of gold have you managed to strike?

✎ who warns the men a dozen times over not to overwhelm you, to at least try and restrain themselves from being foul mouthed bastards, sending one last glare at them (soap in particular) before he leaves the bar to escort you over

✎ who hooks his fingers into the belt loops of your pants to draw you into the semi circle of his muscular thighs as you laugh gleefully at the stories and jokes his close friends share in the rowdy bar

✎ who brushes his lips over your shoulder, circling his arms around you as he smiles against your shoulder, only lifting his jovial eyes to acknowledge soap’s jab of him needin to give you room to breathe

✎ who sits back barely two hours later to watch in cunning amusement as some sorry sod tries to coax a smile out of you, with a reaching hand and overconfident smile, rubbing a thumb over smirking lips as you step back and gesture right to him and shake your head at the gambler

✎ who pushes back his chair to pull you straight onto his lap when you make your way over, offering a sorry mate over your head with a grin that reflects the honeyed rays of the sun off of sharpened daggers

✎ who cannot wait to get you back home, onto a memory foam altar, where he sinks to his knees with whispering, awe struck words, kissing and murmuring as his love reaches a threshold that can no longer be contained within his own body, his words that turn to pleading moans when he sinks into the warm softness of you, praying over and over again make me whole, lovely

✎ who starts looking into the legal process of sharing his life with you until he is laid to rest a little short of two weeks later, not a singular doubt in his mind that you were embedded into his skin and soul for him to keep

[s0fter-sin]

ghost stares at the ceiling, chest heaving in a harsh pant; sweat ice on his clammy flesh and soaked into the sheet he restlessly kicks away.

ears still ringing, his fingertips blindly drift down to trail along his vivisection scar. he half-expects blood to smear in their wake. his own line of solomon, who ordered him split in twain; half of him given to a grieving mother and half left with the grieving to be.

just for both his broken halves to be rejected.

what did it make him that his mother grieved him more than she loved him? that she begged to be relieved of him more adamantly than she begged to receive him? why did his worth spill out with his drawn blood? why was his pain lesser than hers?

his hand flexes, digging into the raised scar like it’ll part beneath his fingertips to plunge into his mangled insides. no one knows the cruelty of reforming the halved; his name, his being, not nearly as important as his body when he was stripped from himself. no one knows the pain of healing and understanding losing pieces of yourself means losing your value along with them.

how many more pieces did he have to lose before he was halved once more? before his very presence incurred grief so strong it was better to be rid of him than cradle his bloodied remains?

did the infant fight himself? did he age always at odds with himself; his halves never truly whole? he hopes he wasn’t, that he was spared the loss of self; the fear that one may be welcomed over the other.

who will he lose when the inevitable comes? when he’s ripped apart again? simon? or ghost? is it better to be cursed with choice just like his mother or live with an aftermath chosen for him? does it matter if in the end, he convinces himself there was nothing of him left to lose?

his head lolls to the side and the wild buck of his chest slows. he watches johnny beside him, his face lax with the rare peace of sleep; his cheek squished against the pillow, his lips pursed as long breaths escape him.

johnny. soap. never torn asunder but two all the same.

he carefully reaches out and ghosts his fingers along the jagged scar on his chin. even in sleep, he presses into his bloodied touch. he’s never fled his half-flesh, never shies away from his gore as it spills unbidden from his cleaved torso. he holds on where his mother let him go; cups his stomach to hold his insides in place and never minds the blood that drips through his fingers.

simon will never let him become his own solomon and cannibalise himself. he will never let him question which half of him has more value; which pieces he can afford to lose before he’s cast aside.

ghost’s soap. simon’s johnny. his.

whole, in any incarnation.

[deunmiu-dessie]

(unedited) widowedfather!simon remembers you. [ one, two ]

he seemed lost, but not in the sense of having lost his way; no, more like he was lost on what to do with himself, with his child. you had noticed that about him the moment you spotted him in the grocery store, standing in the formula aisle.

cradled in his strong arms he held a tiny infant, a baby girl you had realized— and she was wailing, it was loud but familiar; relatable. his furrowed brow and hesitant movements betrayed his lack of confidence, as if he were treading unfamiliar territory. it was as if he was grappling with the weight of the world, unsure of how to provide for this tiny life that now depended on him.

even now he seemed lost, this time in the sense of belonging— after all, he stood out as a towering figure amidst a sea of mothers, with his daughter securely strapped to his chest and his arm tightly clutching her for added reassurance. his broad shoulders and strong presence seemed out of place in this gathering of nurturing figures, and his demeanor hinted at an underlying unease, you could tell that he was anxious, and questioning.

you couldn't help but watch briefly as he observed the other parents chatting animatedly, before lifting from your spot in front of the class, and padding your way over to him, just before he could talk himself out of leaving. this would be good for him, for her.

“we meet again.”

his eyes, brown like deep pools of melted milk chocolate, met yours and lit up with recognition as your warm gaze enveloped him. a subtle change washed over the man, the tension that had once resided in his features began to melt away, replaced by a sense of ease and comfort, though the respite was subtle, it was evident in the way his shoulders sagged, the lines on his forehead softened.

you smile warmly at the baby, softly cooing as you extend your finger towards her, laughing as she latches onto it immediately. finding his gaze again you flash a grin. “welcome to baby & me, i’ll be leading today's session."

you hold your hand out to him, tilting your head slightly. his voice is deep, rough, gravelly, and accented. you can't help but feel a bit surprised for a moment, especially when his grip on your hand remains as gentle as ever. it’s the contrast between his rugged appearance and his gentle touch; weathered hands, adorned with calluses and scars, that makes your head spin.

“simon.”

you flash a smile as you position yourself beside him, gently placing your hand on his arm to guide him toward an empty seat. “i’m happy that you two are here, simon. now let me get you seated before i begin class, hm?”

[deadunderorbit]

You know this scene in modern warfare II where Alejandro says "ehh I can't call Soap Johnny 😔" and Soap answers "Don't. Only Ghost can pull that off"

This scene in polish dubbing is so funny to me because somehow they kind of changed the meaning of this conversation (honestly most scenes in polish dubbing make me laugh)

In polish dubbing the literal translation would be

Ghost: "Johnny [...]"

Alejandro: "eh I WON'T call Soap "Johnny" 😡😤"

Soap: "Good 🙄. Only Ghost can say that"

In english dub Alejandro sounds like he's actually kinda disappointed that he can't call Soap "Johnny" like he knows it's reserved for Ghost (for some reason). But here he's just mad, and nobody even forces him to use this nickname so it doesn't make any sense. It's so silly I love them

and then Soap in eng dub says "Only Ghost can PULL THAT OFF" which suggests that nickname "Johnny" only sounds good? when Ghost says that and nobody else. Like this nickname only works if Ghost uses it.

But in polish dub he just says "Ghost is the only one allowed to say that 😇". Love him for that

I have love/hate relationship with this dubbing. I can't stand Soap's voice actor and at the same time I can't get enough of his voice. This is driving me crazy

[krabzyr]

Practice, Makarov with his mum again.

[shyravenns]

No one else is gonna say so I will:

THIS MAN

Is a MILF