#simon ghost riley

[guhbwuh]

Animal crossing AUs you will always be famous to me

[fludderpy]

Mentally I’m still here… Soap wearing a skull mask and teasing Ghost with it………..

(The full comic is on p4tre0n! ✨🔞)

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Ghost, calling Y/N: Hey, sweetheart Y/N: Jail or hospital? Soap: How could you make such accusations when we are merely trying to greet the love of our life?! Y/N: Jail or hospital? Ghost: Do you really have such little faith in us? Y/N: Jail. Or. Hospital Soap: ...jail. AND WE LOVE YOU! Y/N: *hangs up*

[dmitriene]

curling into the arm that tortures you, into the arm of simon riley, while your overstimulated, exhausted body shudders against the sweat soaked sheets, every punctured, new thrust of his muscular, tense thighs against your backside, skin slapping on skin at every short, deep glide of his cock inside your spasming hole.

your brain unable to fight off, plunged in the haziness that makes you feel high and weak, accepting every single touch, purred croons that whisper about how sweet you look, with your teeth's clattering, and your head lolled against his bulky bicep, jolting plaintively when the thick tip of simon's cock hits, nudges against your spongy spot, making you whine.

simon enjoys your sweet submission, your uncoordinated, needy movements when you press your hips back, meeting his aimed, rough pummels of hips, stretching your thin, velvety walls in the way that makes you drip, stuffed, warm hole oozing pools of slick that squelch everytime he pushes his fat, throbbing cock back, as you curl more.

murmur slurred, weak whimpers of his name, feeling how his pace turns down frantic, brutal, answering to the way your sopping pussy squeezes around him, constricting, gushing wet when you feel every pulsing ridge of his spilling, scalding cock, your tummy clenching with rushing, pooling release, as you arch, slotting against simon's chest.

breathing in the melange of sweat and cotton, your head, muzzy and just laying there, half on the pillowcase and half on simon's bicep, feeling how his palms, calloused and tender, sweep over your curved sides, the clenching tummy, your heaving chest, as he lays his head against your temple, panting mellow nothings, breathing in your scent.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[cicadabeats]

Tis the season to go all out

[vozart]

dual mohawk soap - ghost is flabbergasted

continuation of this <3

[tojisun]

cw: simon riley x f!reader; smut; d/s - collaring

the day that you realized that you liked it was sort of unintentional, that you know at least — simon’s hand climbing up the expanse of your body, brushing past your sternum, copping a feel of your tits, before hooking it around your throat.

that was new; unchartered territory of some sorts. simon’s never been that type of a lover, so used to bearing all his weight onto yours when he is taking you, and making you feel every pudge and every muscle; always skin on skin, meat on flesh, but a hand on your neck as you mount him, riding him with such finesse that he’d been reduced to breathless and trembling moans? yeah, that was new.

not unwanted, though. no.

not with the way your cunt convulsed, walls spasming around his girth, before your squirt was punched out of you. god, it felt so euphoric — stuffing yourself with his cock, gobbling it all up down to his pelvis, while the weight of his touch grounded you, constricting on the press of your throat because like that, just like that, simon was overwhelming.

like sure, you were the one on top, conquering him with a single-minded focus, but the ease in which simon had taken back his power — not that it was about that to him; hell, you know that simon would rather kneel by your feet if it really came down to it, but- but it was for you — so seeing simon work it; seeing simon take it from you with just a heavy hold– it unmade you. it ruined you.

it made your hunger more vicious; armed it with teeth.

it made you want to be—

collared.

.

simon’s thorough, of course he is.

he’s walked you through codes and signs — “green for go, yellow for pause, and red is full stop. if words are too much, three taps means out, okay, baby? no, i need to hear you say it– thank you, sweetheart.” — then told you the collar is a surprise when you asked him if you could pick one out right now.

your nose curls when he said that.

“i want it now, though,” you say, totally not whining. you’re wearing his shirt, legs and pussy still bare and sensitive after he’s fucked you on the couch. the ache is a pleasant thrum, and you feel like jelly with how sated you are down to your bones, but still, you refused even the softest of pyjama pants that simon’s pulled out for you.

he sighs, all patient, and scoops you to his lap.

“a collar’s a gift,” he says. “or, at least, let me gift it to you.”

he softly bites your cheek when your only reply is a pout. “don’t worry, i’ll choose a pretty one. you know that i will.”

you hum, nodding because of course simon will. he always has. the ring on your finger, the necklace you’ve got on, the lines of lingeries stuffed in your drawers, the jewelled plugs — simon knows that you want the pretty things. he knows that you love pretty things.

but the collar is—

you want it to mean something else. you want it to feel vitriolic. to feel dirty. like simon’s fully possessed you and that collar is proof of his claim. like he’s fully got you in the palm of his hand, sitting pretty for him.

that what was lovely was not the collar, but you.

“okay,” you say, still deep in thought.

(you don’t notice simon’s knowing stare or the way his eyes darkened, desire crashing into him with such ferocity. he knows you so well that it still surprises him when you think that he doesn’t. he knows what it is you want.

he knows what this means to you, or what you want it to mean.

what you want him to make it mean.

and simon’s so soft for you; would spoil you rotten if he could, and he will because you’ve promised yourself to him, so let him prove himself to you. let him show you how he will take care of you.)

.

the box is made of this green velvety material and it makes you pause midway through as you remove your coat. it’s on the dining table, stark above the rest of mundane things that belong in the room and on that oak, and it’s placed directly on your spot so it’s for you, you know, but simon’s been quiet since he followed you into the room, wordless as he watched you.

you turn to him, eyes wide and lips twitching with the thousands of things you want to say, but all you could croak out is, “is that—”

simon gives you a curt nod, the ends of his lips twitching slightly.

“go on,” he finally prods when you still remain frozen on your spot, arms still tensed, your jacket still half-slung on. “or would you want me to put it on for you?”

it’s like a switch was flicked on in your mind, like now that simon’s offered it, there’s nothing else that would suffice. so you give him a nod, quiet as you finally shuck off your coat before playing with the hems of its sleeves. he hums, just a soft curl of his deep voice, and ushers you forward, closer to the box. to the—

simon picks it up for you while you move to drape your jacket on the chair but even without baggage, you refuse to take it from him, lying in a limbo, waiting for him to decide for you. because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? this whole thing — the collar, simon’s hand around your throat, something you always fall back to obsessively, stuffing yourself full with your fingers — is because of control.

his control over you. his possession of you.

simon hums, like he knows where your mind has gone, and moves to open it for you. there’s no bloating of tension, simon opens it the way one would rip a bandaid off — quick, unthinkingly, and half-hungry for the sting.

you breathe in sharply at seeing it.

you expected softness, maybe even something pink or purple or anything that was light hues, with lacing and silk that would not chafe. not this — dark leather with thick and heavy buckles, and lined with three metal rings that you know is for nothing else  but a leash.

“fuck—”

simon’s hand falls on the small of your back, his thumb digging into the dimples and rubbing softly. “d’y’like it?”

“yes,” you reply, breathless, not knowing how else to verbalize your desire or that swooping feeling in the pit of your stomach, feeling your heart thudding within your ribs, so deafening amidst the noise of your blood rushing to your ears. “simon, i– yes.”

simon huffs this pleased laugh, and you feel so shaken at feeling him tug you closer, urging you to look up at him.

“want t’wear it now, baby?”

you don’t even realize that you’re already lurching, gasping out your reply, so needy as you whimper out, “yes, please.”

simon doesn’t really murmur a comforting shh but he does act with that cadence — a gentle sort of coaxing as he pulls his free hand away from your back to pluck the collar off the box’s velvety lining. it looks even more beautiful in his hand like that, with the width of the collar almost more than half the size of simon’s palm and you remember the way he’s held your neck, the weight of it pressing on your throat, and god, you need.

you need.

he curls it around your neck, the leather sliding on your skin, and you try your best not to twitch in his hold as he fastens the end to the buckle, sliding until it’s a tight ring. but—

“tighter,” you rasp out, breathing from your mouth.

simon groans, and it’s a pained little thing, and you wonder how you look right now, begging him to tighten it more; asking him to dig it even deeper into your skin, until the collar etches trenches for you to trace in front of the mirror; until the sting forms new bruises for you to obsess over.

the collar is now a heavy press on your neck, consistent as it pinches the skin. you try to swallow only to feel a resistance that was never there before and this—

you have never felt so much freer. so much more desired.

“thank you,” you choke out, almost in tears, and simon looks just as overwhelmed.

he cups your jaw, thumb tracing the edges of your lips, before sliding his hand down to brush his fingers along the collar.

your collar.

“so beautiful,” he whispers, so soft like it was meant for himself.

.

the first time that simon fucked you with your collar was almost too much. it was too good. almost unbelievable with the way it scratches that itch burrowed in the pit of your stomach, unyielding and aching. and now, indulged fully by simon. 

your collar is tight around your throat, a consistent weight that has you panting, mind slipping underneath the fog. your saliva pools in your jowls, and the pleasure burns, leaving you to splinter at the drag of it until you are suspended into that cataclysmic point.

you have never felt so small until that moment; tucked away into the softest of corners, shielded from anything and everything that isn’t simon and his greatness. you are reminded of the ease in which you've surrendered your control and the way he was hungry for it, wielding it as he tugs at the rings, forcing the collar to dig even further into the welts it’s created. 

you are made, then unmade; forced to lick at the backs of your teeths to ground yourself — but why are you trying to?

the pleasure is filling. you do not remember how you used to be taken; how you were fucked without the weight — of simon as he drills his cock into you, the girth splitting your walls apart until they pulse around him as mini-orgasms burst in your core; of the collar, making every ragged gasp of air deliciously painful.

“where did you go?” simon grunts in your ears, his breath huffing out hotly. “come back t’me, love. t’me.”

you whine, split between sobbing out and moaning, and simon tugs and tugs, coaxing you above the fog, telling you when it is right to breach for a gasp. 

“s’right, baby. jus’ like that.” simon is so patient, his words grounded, like his hips are not crazily pistoning, fucking his leaking cockhead further in, in, in, until it is kissing the pucker of your cervix. 

it’s so—

it’s—

“go on,” simon rumbles. “cum f’r me.”

your orgasm is akin to a breaking, to a ripping of reality, like the fabrics that make you are split and turned, leaving you to find ecstasy bursting across your synapses. it feels too good. too much. too unreal. it feels like a fluke, a one-off—

but simon’s hand falls to your belly, pinning you close to him, and you are reminded that you are not done. 

he hasn’t cum yet.

it’s not over yet. 

this pleasure that you can’t really fathom, the one that you can’t even fully name, it hasn’t found its summit. you’re just there, at the throes. 

good. too good—

[punkkture]

any thoughts about how Simon would feel about certain kinks/ habits in the bedroom??

oh em gee, my version of simon is such a gross perv tbh . . .

— simon is infatuated with you looking dumbed down and fucked out of it. he wants his warm cum all over every centimeter of your soft skin. he wants to see you painted in his white hot ropes. and to be honest, that’s really why he never cleans you up. it’s not because he doesn’t care . . . it’s because he cares too much.

why in the world would he wipe his cum off of your face or your pretty tummy? it’s right where it’s supposed to be. he always takes out his phone and gets a couple pictures of the sight.

“my gorgeous girl, so pretty”

— i just know this man has a breeding kink. i know it deep down. it might be because he doesn’t like the fact you’re without him when he’s gone on deployment — or maybe just because he’s never had something so important and special to him in his entire life, he is just infatuated with the idea of having a family with you.

but you can assure that the second he comes home from work, even if it’s only a short week long deployment, he has gotta have you underneath him in a mating press. not missionary, no, he’s gotta have your legs pressed right up against his shoulders while his left hand holds your ankle. his right hand is busy keeping himself propped up because he’s practically folding you so hard.

he can never get enough of your face when he cums so deep into you that you swear you ‘felt it go into your cervix’. it was probably just the overstimulation of his tip bruising that spot inside you, but it made him feel good to hear you say that nonetheless.

“so good baby, take it, i know you can take one more . . jus’ one more baby please”

— simon is definitely an ass guy. he lovesss grabbing and groping you in public. no matter how many times you swat his hand away from your backside, he always just gives a short chuckle and plays it off. only for seconds later to do it again.

he’s got a real thing for doggy because of it. the sight of his cock burying into you from behind and his rough hands leaving red marks and prints on your ass just makes him melt.

“baby c’mon . . . i was just playing i didn’t mean to hit it that hard . . ‘m sorry”

— i’m never going to retire the overall picture of perv bf simon. i think about it all the time and you guys should too. like he is nasty. he has such a thing for filming you when you don’t know. keeping your head shoved in the pillow as he fucks into you from behind with one hand, and his phone filming the sight of you pushing back against him to meet his thrusts in the other.

whenever he’s away on deployment he uses these videos to help himself. he misses you so much. he could easily spend the day going to the bathroom six different times just to jerk off. sometimes when it’s bad, all he needs to do is look at your pretty face.

he has no shame in sending you videos of him coating his abdomen and hands in his cum. hoping you use them to get off just like he does to your videos.

“see how bad i miss you? see what you do to me? god i can’t wait to get home to that pretty little cunt”

[waves-against-a-cliff]

It's Christmas Eve. You're working the night shift. Correction. You've been working the day shift but it carried over into the night shift. Do you have family? Maybe, but bills are looming and holy day cheer does not fill your stomach like food does. Food that you will be getting from this mildly run down diner off the side of a road.

Most of your customers are military men fresh off deployment or rookies who got their first paycheck. Truckers stop by as well and university students who want something cheap. You've seen all sorts of come and go. But the man in the plain balaclava, who always wears those cheeky little skeleton gloves you'd wanted back in high school, is always a mystery. He doesn't say his name, he pays with cash and always tips well. And from the few years you've been working here, he stays here all Christmas Eve and all of Christmas Day.

"It's 24/7 isn't it?" He'd asked when you had suggested maybe he wants to go home after his 6th cup of badly brewed cup of coffee.

So after finally clocking out you slide into the booth with him and eat your dinner/breakfast. You don't ask questions, just keep him company. The silence is finally parted when he looks outside and sees snow starting to flitter down from the sky. "Simon," he'd said so softly that'd you'd half missed it.

"huh?"

"My name is Simon,"

"Oh, nice to meet you Simon," and you tell him yours like he doesn't already know from your name tag.

[notyoucat]

Drawing more ghoap as animals to get over artblock also a good excuse to draw more hyenas

[quarterlifekitty]

cw: death, murder, severe grief induced depression, alcoholism

Undead!Husband!Ghost who stalks his way home just as soon as he claws his way from the damp, heavy soil on top of his coffin.

Pain in the ass. Doesn’t have his damned phone and he has no idea where this cemetery is.

Doesn’t have his keys, either, and it’s the middle of the fucking night. Finds a window open just a crack— his absence in your life shows. He would’ve never left you vulnerable like this. Kitchen is a mess of takeout containers. You haven’t been taking things well. Answering machine flashes a bright red number— 38.

He takes off his shoes and his jacket��� like he’d only stepped out for the day, rather than having been dead and buried for months. Hates the fucking formalwear they buried him in. Ambles his way upstairs.

Sees some fucking stranger in his house. Sleeping in his bed. Right next to his wife. Bruises on your neck.

It was yet another self-destructive attempt at distracting yourself from what happened. The shitheel you picked up at the bar doesn’t even fully wake up before his skull is cracked against the hardwood of the headboard. You barely stir. Simon leans close and smells the liquor on your breath. He tilts your head gently so your cheek is to the pillow.

He digs through the dresser drawers for nearly half an hour before he finds the obscure little corner where you’ve hidden your wedding ring. You tell yourself it’s to make yourself seem available, but really you just couldn’t stand the sight of it. Whose gaze reflected back from the polished gemstone.

It’s slipped delicately back onto your finger. It’s looser than it used to be.

The body is dragged from the bed and deposited on the floor, blood already soaked down past the sheets and into the mattress. He doesn’t care. He’s still covered in dirt and rot and he doesn’t care about that either. He’s so fucking tired.

Crawls in the bed next to you, an arm loosely thrown over your waist.

When you wake up, he’ll cook you some real food.

[peachesofteal]

Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley/female reader

Phoenix looks just like you.

Well, mostly like you. There’s a little bit of Simon there too. A balancing of the scales since Orion has so much of him.

Cami thinks it’s fitting, and as she holds the baby at your bedside, she looks between the two faces, holding it as a small piece of joy.

She’ll take anything she can get, she guesses.

“She was big, of course, though I know it’s not a surprise,” Nix is asleep, cradled to Cami’s chest. She and Gaz have been trying to lighten Simon’s load anyway they can, and today they finally convinced him to take a break. It’s too hard to balance the hospital with home and a brand new baby, too heavy of a weight to carry alone. “At least you had a c-section this time?”

Phoenix is two weeks old, delivered at thirty nine weeks since there was no need to wait for you to go into labor on your own and it was terrible. Because of your coma, Simon wasn’t allowed in the operating room and had to wait for Nix to be brought to him. He was a wreck, still is.

Two parents, unable to be there for the birth of their child.

Cami knows it wrecks him. She sees how his arms shake when he holds Nix, how he’s already grieving these losses, grappling with the possibility you won’t wake up. She’s heard the conversations, the pendulum swinging, like they’re all waiting for a doomsday clock to count down.

Simon is a ghost. He tries, really tries for Orion but it’s so obvious hes dying inside, he’s slowly losing the light, his hope. If you don’t wake up, she doesn’t know what will happen.

She pushes it from her mind. “They’re all being so dramatic, you know? I don’t know why everyone is freaking out. You’re going to be fine. You’ll wake up when you’re ready.” There’s no other option. None. You have two kids, a husband, waiting for you, and you have her. You’re her best friend, her closest, the one she relies on, loves, and vice versa. You’ve always said you don’t know how you’d survive without her, but you never realized how mutual it was. You taught Cami how to survive, how to stay positive during the long weeks, months, when the guys are away. She needs you.

So no, there’s no other option. You’ll wake up.

“Hey love,” Gaz is warm at her side, leaning down to stroke Nix’s wispy hair. “Can’t get over how cute she is.”

“I know,” she’s still asleep, but Cami rock her anyway, at least until she loses it. “She looks just like her.”

“Hey, hey.” He crouches, rubbing her knees. “It’s alright. It’s gonna be alright.”

“I’m scared she won’t wake up,” Cami usually holds it together, but occasionally, with Kyle, she lets herself fall apart. Only because she knows he’ll be there every time to catch her. “What if-“

“We’re not doing what ifs, remember? We’re not going to do that. We’re going to stay positive and take it one day at a time, right?” She rubs her face with her free hand.

“Right.” He presses a kiss to her forehead.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” He squeezes her thigh, and the strokes it, soothing the distress away. “We have Orion tonight. Si is going to take the baby.”

“Alright.” She loves little man, he lights her heart up, and it kills her how traumatized, how scared he is now, constantly looking for his dad, Gaz or herself in a room, lip wobbling when he can’t immediately find anyone. “What’s he want for dinner?”

“His mom’s pasta bake, but he says yours is second place.” Cami smiles, a little weepy.

“Okay, that sounds good. He can have whatever he wants.” She glances at you, so quiet, so still. Chest rising and falling, breathing on your own, but never awake.

She doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know how to make this better or fix it, she doesn’t know anything. All she knows is she’s clinging to Gaz like a life raft.

[grimmroach]

a second bath ghoap has hit the

[lanialania00]

[slater-baby]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

Tags - parenthood, breastfeeding, pure fluff

His eyes shoot awake. For a few moments, he pulls in a low inhale, glancing around the room. Pitch black darkness still surrounds him. The sheets are cool against his skin, and on his right side, you lay, facing away from him, small breaths emanating from your mouth.

At the familiar sight, his heart rate slows, and he feels the clutches of sleep begin to seep into his bones once more. However, just when his head starts to relax into the pillow, he hears it once again.

A tiny, wailing cry from down the hall.

He can’t help the small smile that creeps up over his face.

It would seem that as long as his daughter couldn’t sleep, then her father wouldn’t either. 

Carefully, he comes to his feet, sparing a cautious look down at your face. It’s blissed out and peaceful. He brushes a few calloused fingers through your hair, watching the way you shift against your mountain of pillows before falling back into rest once more.

The gentle cries from down the hall don’t cease. They only get louder the further he walks into the darkened house. Yet, he doesn’t find himself annoyed by it. If anything, he’s more at peace than he can ever remember being.

When you told him you were pregnant, he’d been consumed by a panic. For months, he’d worried endlessly. About you, about himself, about the very relationship that had bore such an incredible love in and of itself. At the time, it had seemed impossible for him.

Impossible to warm a bottle to just the right temperature.

Impossible to hold a baby with the care they surely deserved.

Impossible to look his child—a person born of his own life, of his own flesh and blood—in their beautiful, brand new eyes, and tell them that their father would always be there.

Sleepless nights had transformed into restless days, and he’d nearly bitten his nails down to his cuticles when the time had finally come. For hours, you labored, and he stood fast at your side, hands shaking in your ruthless grip.

But then…

A cry.

The sweetest, softest thing he’d ever heard. And as the doctors had beckoned him closer, cradling the tiny bundle in their sterile arms, he’d laid eyes upon his daughter for the very first time. 

“A little girl,” they’d told him, but their voices were lost in the sea of his mind as they helped him cut the umbilical cord, “Congratulations, dad.”

Dad.

No one had ever called him that before. It sounded weird, hearing it in reference to someone like him. But the moment he’d taken his little girl into his arms, felt her velvet skin, brushed over her wet hair…

It all fell into place.

His hands no longer shook. His mind no longer screamed. His heart no longer raced. No. At that moment, everything fell to silence except for the tiny sounds of her very first breaths wafting against his fingertips. The world dwindled to nothing but the three of you here.

A mother, a father, and their child.

And before he even knew it—before he had even conceived of it—the fear had vanished forever. When he moved to sit at your bedside, hands cradling the baby’s head, just as the nurses had shown him, he finally felt complete. For the first time in his life, without the guns or glory, he was something beyond himself. In her very DNA, he’d live forever…and it was then that he knew he must be there to see every second of it.

A day later, when she’d opened her eyes for the very first time, his face was the first thing she’d seen

“Hush, darlin’,” he whispers, bending over the edge of the crib, “You’re alright. Daddy’s got you now. He’ll stay up wi’ you a while.”

Carefully, he lifts her tiny, squirming body into his warm embrace. A few days ago, you told him that she was so small she looked as though she’d be swallowed up in his hefty arms. Slowly, he bounces her up and down, rubbing the tears off of her face with the flat of his thumb. She’s so small, so precious…the length of his thumb alone seems gargantuan against her delicate face.

Chubby fists wrap around his other fingers, holding onto him tight—almost like she did with her teddy bear. Somehow, she cries even harder. 

“You tired, darling? Can’t sleep without your teddy? That it?” He mutters, shuffling over to grab the old bear from the changing table. 

Without a doubt it was her favorite toy, and in the day time, Simon would often hold both her and the sacred teddy in his arms until she settled down enough for her nap. But alas, the two of you couldn’t well leave the bear in her crib when she laid down for night. It had been a constant struggle to get her to fall asleep without it in arms’ reach.

“See? Teddy’s here, too,” he whispers, “S’not so scary in the dark like this, now is it?”

God, if only his squad mates could see him now…

The infamous Simon Riley, baby talking his newborn daughter and flopping a stuffed bear around like a right puppeteer…

Somehow, he thinks they’d be proud of him.

“No, no—c’mon, darlin’, no more cryin’ now,” he wiggles the fist still wrapped around his finger, “Daddy’s got you. Let’s go see your mum, huh? See if she can’t get us to sleep a bit faster…”

Gingerly, he pads from the nursery and into your shared bedroom. You’re but a lump underneath the blankets, warm and tired after such an exhausting few weeks. If it were up to him, he’d keep it that way. However, there were some things that you were better suited to help with than he was.

“Shh, shh,” he mumbles to the baby, leaning one of his knees against the mattress while he reaches down to gently rouse you. 

“Love,” he calls, “You up?”

At the sound of his voice—his true, deeper voice, not the gentle one he used to talk to her—his little girl looks up at him with wide, surprised eyes. He almost wants to laugh at it, but he hears you groan against the pillow.

“Simon? What time is it?”

“Early. I didn’t wanna wake you, but she’s not sleeping,” he huffs, sitting back down on the bed, “I think she might be hungry.”

“Again?” You question, sitting up as well, “You think she would’ve gotten on a schedule by now…I swear she eats almost as much as her father does.”

“Hey,” he leans over to pass the baby to you, “You callin’ me fat?”

“You’re not,” you giggle tiredly, lifting your shirt to expose your breast, “But this one is. Chubby lil’ thing, aren’t you?”

At the warmth of her mother’s skin—and at the promise of another meal—her tears dry almost instantly. Simon snorts at the sight of it. You do too. She’s grinning from ear to ear, babbling nonsensically, right up until the moment you gently maneuver her closer. She latches on without a moment to waste.

“You’re right about that,” Simon says, brushing his fingers through her sparse hair, “Keep going like this, and she’ll lift more in the gym than I ever will…”

“Well,” you laugh, “That’s what happens when you drink nothing but milk for three meals a day.”

“Hm. Guess you’re right.”

The conversation trails off into nothing. There’s no more crying. No more creaking of the fence gate outside. No. There is only the gentle sound of her suckling, the feeling of your back expanding against his chest, and the sound of crickets chirping in the garden beyond the window. 

He looks down at the two of you—at his two girls. Your skin is hot underneath the blankets, and your body is only now beginning to heal from one too many sleepless nights. Your breasts have become swollen and heavy, laden with warm milk for his baby girl. Looking down at your bare torso, at your reddened nipples and tacky skin….looking at how you take care of his daughter, how you nurture her and love her in a way he’d never have been able to imagine a mere two months ago…

You’re perfect.

The perfect mother. The perfect wife. The perfect partner to have at his side from now unto eternity, or at least until the promise made within your wedding vows finally holds true.

He wraps his arms around your stomach, resting his chin against your shoulder. Your cheek presses into his. You don’t complain when his stubble pokes you.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you, too,” you reply simply.

Quiet befalls all three of you. And before long, the baby’s eyes flutter closed once more.