Nnovacore - Anto - Tumblr Blog

Needless to say i am enjoying the ever loving FUCK out of The Fall of the House of Usher. I went from having a normal day to running around like a rabid dog and shaking my head as i tear apart my favorite chew toy

its october which means its time we all sit and think about these freaks again

Just leaving this here...

I'd be a terrible Jedi.... You're telling me that they were supposed to not have feelings of attachment and yet there were these men walking around the Jedi Temple:

Me internally if either of them looked in my direction:

oh when will anakin pin me down and fuck me within an inch of my life? *dramatic sigh*

this's so cuuuute 🥹🤏🏼

Our Padawan

Pairing: Anakin Skywalker x fem!Jedi!reader

A/N: this has been in the back of my mind for so long, I'm so glad I'm finally writing this down 😃😃 I love you all and hope you're happy and healthy

Warnings: fluff, family dynamic, platonic!Ahsoka x reader, Anakin being the best boyfriend ever

Summary: Padawan learner Ahsoka Tano takes a big risk during a mission: fighting General Grievous on her own. Her Masters, Anakin and Y/N, are ready to protect her from every and any danger; when they get her to safety, Anakin is relieved, but Y/N's fear of losing the young girl gets in the way of being glad that Ahsoka didn't get hurt.

☆☆☆

"They sent the child to destroy my station? The Republic must be running out of Jedi!"

Ahsoka shifted her stance to defensive as she prepared her lightsaber.

To be truthful, this wasn't supposed to be a mission, but Anakin's "do as I say, not as I do" teaching strategy didn't seem to have the best results, and more often than not it ended up in the young Padawan doing exactly as he did.

And now she was facing Grievous nearly on her own, only accompanied by her fellow soldiers.

"You must be General Grievous."

The cyborg cackled exaggerately.

"He's just another tinny, boys. Let's scrap him like the rest." She sassed, lunging forward with her green lightsaber.

Grievous quickly blocked the blow and managed to shove her off. She hit the ground with a pained groan and looked up as the Clones shot at him. He deflected all the blaster shots, killing one of them and slashing two others with his lightsaber. He towered over Rex, who was sprawled out on the ground, and raised his weapon over his head. Ahsoka's eyes widened and she leapt in front of her friend, blocking the General's weapon with her own.

"Sorry to interrupt your playtime, grumpy, but wouldn't you prefer a challenge?"

"That wouldn't be you." As Grievous ignited a second lightsaber, she cringed internally.

Maybe she shouldn't have said that.

...

"Where is the fight you promised me, youngling?"

She was definitely getting in trouble for this.

Y/N and Anakin would kill her. She knew they'd be furious with her for doing this, but there was no turning back now.

She hid behind one of the metal shelves in the storage room, looking out for a way to escape. She used the Force to knock an item down on the other side of the room to distract Grievous, then made for sneaking out.

As if on cue, her commlink beeped. Damn it. She cupped her hand over it to silence the noise before answering. "Ahsoka, it's me, Rex. There are only two of us left. Should we abort the mission?"

"No, complete the mission. Set the charges and rendezvous at the landing bay." She replied as quietly as she could.

Ahsoka cut him off as he tried to protest. "That's an order, Rex. I'll keep the General busy. Ahsoka, out."

She turned off her commlink and silently crawled through the shelves as Grievous' gruff voice rang out again.

"Come here, child, I'm looking for you. So far you have failed to impress me."

The R3 unit found her as she backed up against the wall, flattening her body over the cold metal. "Goldie, over here." To her surprise, the droid shone a light on her, revealing her location. "Goldie, no!"

She gasped as the cyborg pulled the commlink off her wrist and destroyed it, making her miss the message Rex was about to send. "Your friends won't help you. You're stuck with me." His figure towering over her was certainly intimidating, but she slipped through a shelf and away from the General as fast as she could.

She climbed up one of the shelves and watched as Grievous asked Goldie for the report. "That stubby little backstabber." She whispered, feeling betrayed.

"Skywalker has come for his R2 unit?" He chortled. "Go and make sure they do not escape."

A sting of fear pierced Ahsoka's heart. Oh, no.

...

Y/N's brows knitted together as her commlink beeped. Anakin turned to give her a look of confusion, wordlessly asking her a question. "It's Rex."

Anakin frowned, wondering what was going on.

She immediately answered the call. "Rex? What's wrong?"

"We ran into Grievous."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. Fives and I survived."

"Only you two? Where are the others?"

"Three of us were shot down... and Grievous is going after Ahsoka."

"Ahsoka?!" The two said at the same time, worry lacing their voices.

"Y/N, out." She said and ended the call, beginning to walk away.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Anakin hollered, running to block her way. "Where you going, tiger?"

"Where do you think? To save our Padawan's ass!" She snapped, then regretted it as she looked at his face. "I'm sorry, Ani. But we need to move now."

"Come on." He said, trying to give her a comforting smile.

...

Ahsoka climbed down and used her lightsaber to illuminate her surroundings as she peeked around the corner. She then turned it off and relaxed her tense posture slightly, but it didn't last long as Grievous grabbed her by the throat in a second, casting her lightsaber aside.

Her eyes widened in fear as Grievous towered over her, grabbing his weapon.

"Another lightsaber to add to my collection." He said as he ignited it and held it up near her face. "My R3 unit has dropped your precious Masters. When I'm finished with you, they're next." She strained her arm out to try to pry the lightsaber from his grip with the Force, failing. She was tired and her breath was running out.

"That was it?" He cackled. "Do it again. Come on." Ahsoka closed her eyes, reaching out to the Force. The weapon was grabbed from his hand successfully, but not by her. Grievous made a confused noise as he dropped the girl to the ground.

Y/N gripped the weapon tightly as she shoved Grievous away from Ahsoka: she blocked all his blows before successfully tripping the cyborg and hovering over him, her lightsaber at his neck. Ahsoka's eyes widened in shock and surprise as she watched her Master fight, with Anakin standing in front of the Padawan to protect her as she handled the fight, glaring daggers at Grievous while shielding Ahsoka with his body.

"If you ever come near our Padawan again, I swear to the Maker I will rip your teeny face off your teeny skull." Y/N growled, leaning the lightsaber closer to his throat.

"Oh, she's-she's under both of your training..? I didn't know that!" He excused himself meekly, stumbling over his words.

"Leave!" Anakin snapped. That was all it took to send him running away. "Snips, thank the stars you're all right!"

He knelt down in front of her to hug her tightly. He could feel the relief flooding him like a tidal wave as the young girl nestled into his embrace. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head in response, raising her head to look at Y/N. "Masters, I-"

She silenced her with a glare. "You nearly got yourself killed."

"I... I'm sorry..." she said quietly, looking at her feet in guilt.

"Let's go back to the ship."

Y/N walked on ahead as Anakin looked down at his Padawan with a pout, knowing the impact the scare had on his lover.

Her mind was running a thousand miles an hour. If they had gotten there a few seconds later, Ahsoka would have been killed. The mental image was crystal clear: her limp body in her arms, her blood staining her fingers, Anakin's bloodstained hands and arms wrapping around her to comfort her as sobs racked her body-

"Stardust? You all right?" As if he knew whenever she was getting into her own head too much, Anakin's soft voice pulled her from her thoughts. When she clutched onto him for dear life, he swept an arm under her legs and picked her up bridal style, kissing her head before walking away. "Wait here, Snips."

He carried her into another room and set her down on the ground, pulling her onto his lap as she broke down in tears, hyperventilating as she sobbed in his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Ani..."

"Hey, you have nothing to apologise for, love," he soothed, massaging her scalp gently. "Tell me, what are you afraid of?"

She took a moment to regain her breath before speaking. "What if one day we don't get there in time? Just the thought of finding her makes me tremble..." her voice shook. "I love that girl, all right? I love her like a daughter and I can't lose her, Ani... not to this..."

Anakin's heart broke at the words: he already crumbled whenever he saw her cry, but hearing her speak those words in a desperate, scared tone made him want to take her in his arms and kiss all her pain away.

"I know, my love, I know," he hushed, nuzzling his nose into her hair. "Listen, I love her, too, and I certainly don't want to lose her... but she's not a child anymore. She's making her own decisions and learning from them. I know you feel like you need to yell at her until she promises to never do it again, but we need to stop babying her."

"Fine."

...

As they landed on Naboo, Y/N walked out the door first, not looking back as Ahsoka looked at Anakin in guilt. He responded with a sympathetic look, then walked up behind his lover to give her a back hug. She relaxed slightly as she melted into his arms, letting a few tears slide down her face again. He seemed to notice because she felt him kiss her shoulder and then lean closer to kiss the tears off her cheeks.

"It's alright now, my love. She's safe." Anakin whispered in her ear.

She shook her head, trying to push the lingering fear away. "Ahsoka."

The girl took slow, sad steps towards them, looking down at her feet to avoid catching their angry looks. She didn't know whether her Masters had a fight or not, but she was sure they were going to be mad.

"Ahsoka, what were you thinking?" Anakin asked when she stopped in front of them.

"You could have been killed! And what's worse, you put Rex and Fives in danger!" She continued, trying to keep her composure. "Why did you do that?"

"I... I was just trying to be brave like you guys..." she whimpered.

"Anakin and I are only brave when we have to be." Y/N said, her face softening as she looked at her.

"Snips, being brave doesn't mean you go looking for trouble." He added.

"But you guys aren't scared of anything." She said, looking up at us.

"We're scared of lots of things. And we also were today." Anakin spoke.

"You were?"

She hummed in response, tipping her chin upwards to look her in the eyes. "We thought we were going to lose you. We care about you very much, Ahsoka. And if something were to happen to you, I..." She trailed off, her eyes glossing over with tears. "I honestly don't know what I'd do with myself."

Ahsoka walked closer to her and wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, and Y/N sighed as she hugged her back. "I'm sorry I made you feel this way, and I care about you guys, too. I won't do it again."

Her heart swelled at the words and Anakin walked closer to hug both of then, squishing Ahsoka between them. She was surprised to see how calm they were, and honestly she was glad. "Thank you. That's very mature of you."

"Now go back inside, Snips. It's getting cold." He said, chuckling.

"Okay. Good night." She said as she pulled away and walked back inside.

"Eat something before you go to bed!" Y/N called out.

Anakin smiled at her caring attitude and wrapped his arms around his girlfriend once again. She finally smiled in content and leaned into his embrace with a sigh. "You handled that really well. I'm proud of you, my love."

"Thanks." She chuckled and turned around to kiss his lips softly. "I just- I didn't know I loved her that much..."

"Neither did I. But now we have her promise. That only leaves overcoming your fears, doesn't it?" He asked, smiling softly as his blue eyes looked deeply into hers.

"You're right." She replied and pressed their foreheads together, enjoying the moment of intimacy. Because of the Jedi Code, they were forced to avoid public displays of affection, so whenever they could get a minute to just be together, basking in each other's presence in a way they were forbidden to otherwise, they left all cares behind.

"Anakin?"

"Hmm?"

She looked up at him with her big doe eyes, flooding with love and admiration for him. "Thank you for being so supportive."

He smiled, then leaned down to kiss her shoulder. "Don't thank me, my love." Then he pressed his lips with hers in a slow and passionate French kiss. It was when Y/N let out a low moan that he decided to pull away.

"My love, we can't do this right now."

"I know." She mumbled grumpily, making him giggle.

"I promise that'll be the first thing we do when we get home." He whispered sultrily in her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.

"I love you, Ani."

"I love you too, stardust."

DREAMS AND MADNESS | AHSOKA

Sabine and her wolves 🐺

this is so sweet omg 😭

while the whole kaz & inej having a daughter thing is a very precious concept. imagine if they had a son. I wonder if kaz would want to name him jordie. I wonder if he'd look like kaz but with Inej's thick dark hair. there would be so many feelings because kaz would try his hardest not fuck up the parenting since he's scared the child would turn out the way he did. especially if he resembles kaz, I think he'd be terrified. Maybe he would be nervous about holding him for the first few weeks, then he hears crying in the night and tells inej to rest and picks the baby up and looks into his small face and finally realises this is my son. mine. Then the two become inseperable and kaz always shows him magic tricks or takes him on long long walks and reads to him at night because our son needs to be smart, inej. They notice eventually that the kid IS smart as hell and kaz panics because it's sounding familiar but Inej would be thrilled about it. They'd buy him puzzles and games and kaz would answer all his questions of why why why. Basically remember that one time where van eck says to kaz that he wonders what a boy of his intelligence could have done under different circumstances? That. And kaz would look at his son's sleeping face, with black hair curling around his ears, the long lashes he got from Inej, the ridiculous and adorable scowl he inherited from kaz, and think, I'm not leaving behind destruction this time.

Nikolai Lantsov Recommendations

Shadow and Bone/Six of Crows Masterlist

Smut - *

Misinformed*

Wolf Of The Waves

Genuine

Feisty*

Sick & Stubborn

Anchor

Young Royals

Sweatshirt

Stars In The Night

Love Story

Comfort

Teach Me*

A Dare For A Truth

Nikolai Nothing

Healers Duties

Dancing With Our Hands Tied .

If Wishes Cams True

Can’t Sleep

Yours No More .

Healing Hands

The Art Of Presentation

Every Moment .

Coronation .

I Want You, Bless My Soul .

Second In Command - Part 2* .

Cat And Mouse .

It Will Be Enough .

Just Friends* .

Moon Summoner* .

Moi Tsar

😭💘

Touch

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x reader

Requested by Anonymous

Summary: He’s ready…

Seguir leyendo

CROWS SUPREMACY

THE SIX OF CROWS | Shadow and Bone, Season 2

Reader: *struggling to open a jar*

Ghost: *watches from afar, but says nothing*

Reader: Would you open for fucks-

Reader: *gives up and walks over to Ghost, silently holding the jar out to him*

Ghost: *opens the jar with no trouble*

Reader: …

Ghost: …

Reader: I loosened it

Ghost: Of course

Reader: You wouldn’t have been able to open it without my help

Ghost: Didn’t think otherwise

Reader: That’s what I thought…

MW2 + Reader as Images

Listen I was bored and made these masterpieces. I also know they can apply to multiple characters but enjoy it anyway

i just realized—

maybe i have a type:

Ghost: *sips tea*

Y/N: *walks in* "hey ghost i have a question."

Ghost: *nods for them to continue*

Y/N: "If someone were to ride you would that make them ghost rider?"

Ghost: *spits out tea*

weyy idk if ur taking reqs rn but if u are… ik youve already wrote this prompt like twice but can we have more argument angst w ghost 😭😭

simon struggles with anger (you struggle to help him) —tags: brief gore mention, cursing, angst, argument, established "situationship" —a/n: i tried my best to think about his characterization/backstory from the comics. simon is not perfect. i will likely make a part ii.

His fingers find the crest of your waist in the dark, holding you against the side of him as shallow breaths pound in his chest. Your lips are puffy and red. You wipe your hand against your used mouth and curl up into the warmth radiated from the colossal form beside you.

"Fuckin' hell," he murmurs, a low rasp. "I swear... Where'd a pretty thing like you learn all that, huh?"

But, with a flush to your cheeks, you barely have time to part your lips before he grumbles into your hair:

"Don't answer that."

It's a quiet order. One that rumbles low under his heavy breathing. Because Simon is full of orders. Demands. In bed, it thrills you, incites a thrum in your veins, an urge to follow and please him. He will take, and demand— until your legs are sore and your skin is chafed. But sometimes this persona bleeds into life outside of his bed. You try to be patient. You try to understand how difficult it must be to adjust to being just a person, here with you, and not a SAS lieutenant.

Especially for him.

But where Simon is rough and demanding, he is also quiet and thoughtful.

He moves his hand to the underbelly of your jaw. Softly now, he mutters, "Need water?"

"Yes, please," you answer, hoarseness in your voice.

And soon the warmth beside you ghosts out of his bedroom to fulfill your request, leaving you with a few moments to feel the tiredness in your limbs. He'd kept you up longer than you anticipated. He usually did.

But a sharp ding from your phone widens your eyes.

A message.

Your phone— casually placed on his desk in the corner of his room.

You hadn't meant to leave it there, not when his desk was particularly off-limits to you. Another order of his: don't touch my stuff. Even though Simon wanted you over every night, he didn't want you meddling in the crevices of his privacy. You did your best to respect that, but in the heat of removing your clothes, the phone in your pocket had ended up on the nearest surface.

You tug on just your shirt. Bare feet against cold floor. But when you reach for your phone, you carelessly brush a hand against the notebook beside it, nudging it off the desk.

It sits on the floor with the spine propped up, pages parted.

It's terrible, the curiosity that itches from the sight.

You reach for it with your tongue poking your cheek. You shouldn't look. A whisper of warning echoes in your mind. His privacy, his trust— you valued those things. But perhaps it's the fact that Simon is still such an enigma to you, or perhaps the fact that you immediately notice penned sketches on the paper, but you pick it up and can't stop yourself from taking a peak at the opened page.

The inked images stun you.

Only for a second can you bear them.

A brief second filled with... horrid things. Gruesome things. Things you knew, deep down, he'd seen, but you never wanted to entertain the detailed reality of. The sight spurs something in your stomach: nausea, maybe. An unease that twists and churns and urges you to clamp the notebook shut with a gasp.

You shouldn't have looked.

And you're about to set it back down—

But a presence makes itself known behind you.

"What are you doin'?"

His voice is quietly tense. Enough to snap you out of the images brandished in your mind. If the moonlit room is a river, then his words are a stone— splintering the surface.

"Oh, I—" you stutter, looking at the notebook in your hand. "I was just—"

But you can't finish. No— there's a hand ripping it from you.

"Just what?"

In the dark, you turn to face him. He sets down the glass of water on his desk; flicks on the small lamp. The light reveals to you the pits of inky black in his eyes, notebook gripped tightly in his hand.

"I was just trying to grab my phone, Simon," you explain in a murmur.

"Right," a click of his tongue. Animosity presses against his teeth. You see it, you feel it. And you wish you could clamp your eyes shut and return to the moment, not so long ago, when he'd been holding you with warmth.

He holds the notebook up. "Does this... look like your phone?"

"No, it just fell—"

"Liar," he interjects, cold and low. "You were going through my stuff."

"I wasn't," you insist, shaking your head. "I mean... I may have taken a peek but only because it opened—"

"You..." a sharp inhale. "Took a peek, huh?"

"I'm sorry."

"How many times do I have to—" he closes his eyes for a moment, but they reopen with a hollow flame. "You never fuckin' listen, I swear. Do you have a thick skull?”

And maybe it's the way he is staring at you, or the lick of venom in his insult, but you mumble: "Well, maybe you shouldn't have me stay here if you can't handle people touching any of your things."

"No," he grits. "Maybe you need to be more obedient."

He holds your stare.

A presence that nearly smothers you.

But you squint your eyes through the tension. "Obedient? Really? I mean— do you hear yourself? I am human and I accidentally dropped your book—"

"Don't," he breathes through his nose, a flare under the mask. "Don't give me that. Goin' thought my shit when I told you not to. Now you wanna stand here with bloody excuses. You are so..."

"So what?" you snap softly. A hand grips the end of your shirt to properly cover yourself because right now, you're not sure if you want those eyes looking at you.

But he doesn't finish, just pinches the bridge of his nose and stares off at the wall behind you. Muscles beneath the fabric of his mask twitch and ripple and shudder with a curl of rage.

"I told you," he repeats, more to himself than to you. "I told you so many goddamn times. Fuckin' hell, you make me... I want to just— Jesus Christ. Why can't you listen to something so simple?"

"You know, Simon," you retort under your breath. "You have so much to say when you're pissed, don't you?" You huff out a breath. "Somehow you have no problem finding the right words to tell me I've done something wrong. But when it comes time to tell me you care, that's so hard, right? When was the last time you even said it? You can't find the words for those feelings?"

"Shut it," he orders— no, barks. The curl of anger flickers and seethes and looks back at you, staring you down as if you are an enemy who has gotten in his way. His free hand clenches. You regret everything you've said. "Shut up, I swear to God. You went through my shit. You have no fuckin' right to talk about how I feel."

And then he is pacing around, a short trajectory of thunderous footsteps. His chest heaves. Ragged breaths claw up his throat until his voice raises to a level you haven't heard before:

"You want me to talk about how I fuckin’ feel? I feel nothing."

The snarl of his words is loud but easily drowned out by the sound of the notebook hitting the wall. It's a sudden sound that jolts you.

And maybe, maybe now you see it— how much of a lie he has shouted. I feel nothing. But there is so much feeling, so much unadulterated anger and pain thrown against the wall that it causes tears to quiver at the rims of your eyes. And your stomach churns, not with nausea this time but with something else, a feeling that grips your shoulders and tucks you a few steps further away from him.

Because at this moment Simons scares you.

And with all his orders, all his demands, he has never truly scared you before.

And if the fear wasn't there, you might've realized why he felt this way. You might've realized the images in his notebook were pieces of himself he was so terrified for you to see, and it angered him more than anything that, despite his efforts, he couldn't hide them from you forever.

He only snaps out of it when he sees you.

Moments pass, and then Simon is looking back at you with wild eyes. Eyes that flicker over you— your hunched body, your hands pressed against the wall behind you because you've backed up so far, the tears in your eyes.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," he mutters, quieter now. He drags a hand over his eyes. "Babe, I—"

But when he tries to take a step closer, you flinch further.

"Please," you whisper. A few tears escape. "I want to... I want to go home."

I want to get away from you.

"It's late," he argues weakly, still struggling to control his breath. His anger fizzles rapidly, leaving behind a shell of regret and pain and worry as he watches you reach for your pants.

You're tugging them up your legs with fingers that fumble.

"Y/N," Simon swallows, pressing his hands over his veiled forehead. "Don't. I will— Fuck, I'll go."

And you don't have time to protest. With hands that tremble, Simon begins pacing around the room again, this time not in anger. No— something that has him mumbling quietly under his breath over and over: "I'll go, I'll go."

He grabs his keys and keeps his eyes on the floor. "You stay here, yeah? Don't... don't go out so late."

A bob of his throat.

This order arrives in a voice that sounds frail and hollow.

"Okay," you whisper, nodding.

And he leaves. Tugging on his coat and within seconds, you hear the sound of his front door shut. Simon, the man who was just blistered with anger over his privacy, leaves you here to sleep in his own home without him. And you're too shaken, too exhausted, to wonder where he could possibly go for the rest of the night.

------

Simon was always saying he would quit smoking.

Bad for my lungs, pet, I know it. He would mumble against your lips in a kiss that tasted sour. It didn't bother you, but you noticed how the taste turned thicker during those days he'd shut himself away in his room.

Got to help me, pet. He had said one time into your neck, tucking a pack in your hand. Hide 'em from me, yeah?

(The only request for help he's ever uttered.)

But it didn't really matter where you hid them—

—Simon could always buy more.

And when he returns the next morning, the smell is pungent.

You're already awake. A small bag stuffed with your things, but you are quick to hide it when you hear the front door creak open.

A shuffling of boots.

While his footsteps had been thunderous before, a solemn calm now replaces the storm.

Wordlessly, he searches for you. He finds you frozen in place near the bathroom where you'd just been collecting your things— a toothbrush, a tube of makeup. But your bag is placed on the counter where he can't see.

"Hey," he offers a soft, hoarse greeting. "Didn't expect you to be here."

And then he holds up a bagged pastry and a to-go canister of tea. "Got you breakfast, jus' in case."

It shouldn't be so strange. The sight. His large hands gripping food from some nearby cafe. His eyes: red, worn. He looks like he didn't sleep. The air outside is brittle and already wintery: had he just walked around all night in the cold? And even now, with the hollow pit in your stomach left from your crying, a touch of concern finds you when you notice how pale his exposed skin is. A slight pink creeping from under the mask.

"I don't want a pastry and tea."

Your voice. Is it—?

Defeated.

Because your care and concern can only go so far with a man who slips so easily into anger, but with even greater ease, isolates himself from care.

“Right,” he clears his throat. “I’ll jus’ leave it in the kitchen, then. You could have it later.”

Avoidance.

Is he really just going to pretend—?

“You scared me last night.”

The admission slips out in a whisper. But it's enough. It's all he needs to hear for his eyes to dig shut, a visible flinch rippling through his broad shoulders. His avoidance cracks.

A gruff, "I know."

"You were so angry, Simon. I—"

Dark eyes flutter back open. Gently now, "I would never hurt you."

"But you did. You do." A swallow that tastes salty. "You shut me out. I mean— your notebook. It was... You—"

"Think I'm fucked then, huh?"

Hollow words. The shell of a man speaking to you, with only a little boy inside. And you flutter your eyes because the backs of your lids remember the gore you'd seen. But your stomach has already swallowed and digested the sight, whittled it down to empathy.

"No, I don't," you whisper with a firm shake of your head. "I just think you need help. You deserve it, Simon. And I—" Hushed like a secret that rattles with defeat: "I don't know if I can give you that help."

There's just not much else to say.

The look he gives, pitiful and strained, tugs at your reserve. You have to walk away— you turn around to grab your bag. He sees it now. A sharp inhale sounds from his chest as you begin your journey to the front door with your belongings.

He follows. Sets the food on the table.

You don't really know what you want or what you need, but at this moment all you can think of is space.

"Don't," a quiet, rough plea.

A ghost hovers behind you as your hand wraps around the doorknob. A phantom cloaked in guilt and perhaps, the realization that what he'd expected you to do for so long, was finally coming to fruition.

"It's just space," you tell him in a murmur. "Simon, I just need space."

"Space from me?"

"From this."

"M' sorry," he breathes. "Please... I— it won't happen again. Fuck, I swear it. I'm so..."

And he struggles with the words because, fucking hell, you were right. Words of care, words of apology, always seem to evade him. But military jargon and sharp commands come with ease.

"I'm so sorry," Simon finally says, choppy. "I didn't want you seein' all that. But... bloody hell, I overreacted, didn't I?"

Salt lines your vision as he continues, urgently now, because your hand refuses to let up off the knob.

"Jesus Christ. I didn't mean to. You can't just— Pet, please. I'm sorry, alright? So fuckin' sorry, I mean it."

But his apologies don't do much to soothe the defeat in your chest. You can't look at him so you open the door instead.

A touch to your shoulder, perhaps firmer than he intends—

And you pause only because you think finally he might say what you were hoping he would. Something about care. Maybe even, a tinge of hope for— love.

(But no— he'd given you a clear warning from the beginning that he couldn't give that.)

So instead, he just shakes his head and drops his hand back to his side. The words die on his tongue, turned the same color of ash as his lashes, and he lets you leave.

Maybe Ghost Konig and any other cod characters you write for with an s/o who’s very insecure about their stretch marks? Thank you very much

MW2 w/ an S/O who is Insecure about their Stretch Marks

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, No Pronouns used for Reader except for 'You', Implications of Smut, Knife Play, Insecurity, Anxiety/Upset, Minor Implications/Spoilers about Ghost’s Past, Mention of a Strap-On, Brief Mention of Murder/Killing, Angst, Fluff, Possessiveness, Protectiveness, etc.

Ghost:

Has absolutely zero clue as to why you're insecure about your stretch marks.

Genuinely never even thought of them before now, even though he’s seen them many a time.

However, when you expressed concerns over the way you looked - the way you felt - because of these marks, he set about trying to make you feel better immediately.

He’s not the most emotionally mature person; having to grow up as quickly as he did at such an early age definitely stunted his emotional growth, making it difficult for him to feel and express emotions clearly.

But for you, he’ll try his best.

He starts nuzzling into your thighs and stomach more often outside of sex; just tender moments between the two of you, with him showcasing how much he loves you and your body.

He’d try words of affirmation, saying how he thought you looked “Positively spiffing” (he was using the term humorously but meant every word) in your outfit.

Whenever you cracked a smile, he’d feel triumph bloom like solid gold in his chest, casting him in a glow of pride.

Eventually, he’d showcase to you the parts of himself he would never show another soul.

One evening, Simon had his hoodie off, his back and chest fully exposed to you. And all the scars that seared across them. You tracked your finger along them, creeping from one gash to another. All the while, Simon rhymed them off to you: when, where and how he’d gotten them.

You traced one on his shoulder blade. The warm glow of the room belying the horrific means through which the scar was attained.

“Paris, terrorist attack, twenty-ten.”

“I never heard of an attack in Paris then,” you said, tone questioning.

Simon cast a lopsided smile over his shoulder at you. You caught it.

“That’s the point.”

He turned to face you fully, placing a hand on your waist, beginning to hike your shirt up. You placed your hands over his, shaking your head, a wide-eyed expression overtaking you.

“No, Simon,” you said quietly. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. His head tilted.

“Why not?” He said. “Have I done something to upset you?”

At that, your eyes snapped up and found his, dark and gleaming. You shook your head, vehement in your judgement.

“No, God no! Simon, it’s not you, it’s-”

“Don’t say it’s you - don’t you dare say it.” 

The authority in his tone made you ache in places you didn’t want to think about right now. You shifted.

“But…it is me, Simon.” You felt your eyes and throat sting with tears. “It’s always me.”

“Love–” Simon’s movements were stutterish as he took your chin in his hand and inched your face up to meet his. You tried resisting, but he wasn’t going to let this rest. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

There lay a desperation in his voice you’d never heard before, and neither had Simon. You sniffed, and, your eyes shimmering with tears, you looked up at him. Only sincerity painted his features, no trace of condemnation or judgement hanging upon a single point. You swallowed.

“It’s just that…I appreciate what you’re doing for me - believe me, I do ! - but…”

“...But…?”

“But your scars mean something; you got them through protecting people, fighting for them - caring for what matters most–” You choked on a sob, tears starting to roll down your cheeks. “And mine are just…” it burned your tongue to say it, “there.”

Simon went quiet for a moment.

“(Y/N)...” His voice was a rumble of thunder, the cleansing storm rising over the tainted hill. He took your hands in his, abandoning your shirt. He rubbed reassurances into your hands, tracing the veins, the valleys of muscle and the alleys of life which pumped through them. His eyes seemed to turn down at the ends, round, doe-like.

“Your marks are not ‘just there’.” He wiped a stream of tears indenting the heather face of your cheek, and his hand remained there, collecting those which followed. “They are evidence of how you’ve lived, how you’ve survived,”

His hand dropped to your chin, bringing your face up to his once more, shining his moonbeams upon you.

“They show how you’ve grown. How you’ve lived and enjoyed a life you made for yourself. Your marks succeed where mine have failed; yours scream life, while mine whisper death - a life loved, and lives taken.”

Your mouth fell open. You were aghast, unable to conjure anything in your vocabulary that was either expansive or emotive enough to convey all that you felt. Your chest broke out into warmth, the dawn of a new perspective shining upon you as Simon did now.

Before you could form a sentence - as blubbering and elementary as it would be - Simon pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was warm, all-encompassing, musical and low in the ringing silence of your desolate ocean.

He parted, cautiously, lips peeling from yours as if you were attached there, and looked upon you. Your cheeks were beginning to sting with the salt of your tears, vaguely chemical against your skin. You clambered into Simon’s arms, wounded and healing, and encompassed as much of him in your arms as you could.

“Your scars are beautiful, Simon,” you whispered into his chest. “No matter what you think - no matter what you say - I’ll always find them so.” You nuzzled into his neck. “I’ll always find them you.”

You heard Simon sniff, felt his chest rise with the sudden influx of air - emotion. You didn’t look up. You allowed him emotional anonymity.

“And I’ll always love your marks, (Y/N),” his voice strained, whispering and wisping. “I’ll always love them on you–” he pressed a strong, permanent kiss to your head, “--I’ll always love you.”

The evening consumed you, whisking you from the mortal coil to that of the metaphysical, that which was hidden to all but you and Simon, where you joined once again, physical bodies bound in a tight embrace, slumbering, dreaming.

König:

You actually came to König, sliding into his lap as he read a book, unable to keep what was eating you alive a secret any longer.

“Maus?” he said, putting Pride and Prejudice down and turning his full attention to you. “Is something the matter?”

You kept your head down and nuzzled into his chest, hoping his shirt would soak the tears staining your cheeks.

König tried to crane his neck down to see your face, but you hid it further into the cotton of his jumper.

König sighed, then began rubbing your back with a large hand.

“Whatever it is, we can fix it,” he said softly, gently. “No matter what.”

Maye thirty minutes passed, maybe it was only five, and König remained quiet for the duration, occasionally squeezing you and pressing a kiss to your head.

“I hate them,” you muttered, voice muffled by König’s chest.

Immediately, his back was up, like a cat’s. If he had the ears, they’d have been pricked.

“What?” he said, voice hard and thin, like a spear. You jumped in his lap and he sank back down, patting your head, a silent apology for his outburst.

His voice sounded as if it were spread thin, trying to conceal something far bigger than itself.

“Who has upset you so, maus?” He was careful with his words, trying to keep the extent of his bubbling anger at bay.

Finally, you looked up into his large, soft gaze. His eyes widened.

Your face was red in places, a map of countries in a continent called Sorrow.

Your eyes glistened, and König’s breath caught in his throat.

Before he could ask what was wrong, you shuffled off his lap and stood before him. You lifted your top and held it in your limp hand.

König’s eyes moved across your body as if searching for an injury, and when he turned up nothing, he looked you in the eyes.

“Maus, my lovely– I don’t understand,” König said as he shifted to the edge of the sofa, ready to jump up at your command.

You sighed deeply. “Don’t you see?” you said, folding your arms across your chest. “Don’t you see them, König?”

“See what?” His tone was becoming gradually frantic.

You huffed. “My marks, König! My– ugly– disgusting–”

“Hey, hey–” he slid off the sofa and enveloped you in his arms, holding you close to him, “--they are not ugly! Just– listen to me, maus–

“How do you deal with them?” you said, quiet as your namesake. Exasperated. “Your scars, Köni…how do you live with them?” Your voice croaked with tears, and the lump in your throat grew, bobbed up and down. It burned, reminded you of why you were here to begin with.

König thought for a moment, going quiet, his arms still wrapped around you. His hand squeezed your shoulder, fingers pressing soft, repetitive circles into your skin, a cycle of comfort. His warmth - his scent of pine - filled your senses, held you as he did now.

“There was a time,” he said, finally, his voice a whisper, “not too long ago, when… they made me hate myself, hate what I’d become.” He took your chin between his fingers and inched your face to meet his. He smiled, eyes crinkling. “But then I met you, and you told me how pretty you thought they were; ‘like tattoos,’ you said.” The memory tickled your mind and you couldn’t help but smile at the image of you sat on König’s chest, trailing a light finger just below his scars, afraid to touch them - their history - for fear it would hurt your dear König. He urged you to feel them, to make himself entirely transparent to you.

 “And that’s how I have grown to like - to love - them. Because your opinion means more to me than mine does.”

The stinging sensation in your eyes strengthened, and you couldn’t help but let a tear slip. Though, not of your own despair, but of your love for König, and his apparent adoration for you. König could tell your tears were not of sorrow, and he pressed a slow, light kiss to your lips.

“Unless you’re planning on leaving me for another man, I suggest you only listen to me from now on.” His smile made his cheeks round and full, his eyes turn into half moons.

“And what makes you sure I could leave you for someone else?” you said, speculatively, jokingly. Inquisitively. König gave an honest chuckle, taking your face between his hands and squishing your cheeks.

“With a body like that, you could have any man you wanted.” His tone was light yet held a hidden weight, a seriousness, perhaps an insecurity, he didn’t want to address. “I’m just glad you chose me.”

He punctuated his claim with another kiss, deeper, hotter this time.

Soap:

You were turned over in bed beside Soap, who, despite your best efforts to conceal yourself, heard your soft chokes of tears.

His initial, instinctive reaction had been to envelop you in his kisses, slip his arms around your waist and pull you flush against him, to implore you to tell him what had made you so upset.

But, as he lay on his side of the bed, listening to your silken sobs into your pillow, he felt his chest break out into weighted feeling of dread, tree roots digging through the skin and into his very being, tinging his blood with a most negative sensation of blackened lightning.

Empathy, one might call it. He was feeling what you felt.

He couldn’t take it, your tears, your despair, and so he turned, gently, onto his other side and faced your back.

He placed a hand on your shoulder, and you flinched.

“Oh!” you said, patting your face with your sleeve. “Sorry, Johnny– I didn’t mean to wake you,”

Your voice was deceivingly light, airy - a front to throw Soap off your scent.

Soap didn’t bother with the formalities. His only priority now was you.

“What’s wrong, darlin’?” he said. He pulled your shoulder back, willing you to at least look at him.

You didn’t move.

You refused to.

“Nothing, love,” you said, hushed beneath the tension in the room.

You turned, offering only a peak of your facial silhouette, sacrificing it to the sliver of moonlight peeking through the blinds.

It was wet, despite your best efforts to conceal any evidence of your upset.

Soap restrained a sigh and watched you try to burrow your way back into your pillow before he started asking any more questions. Without warning, he forced you to look at him, pulling you so you lay on your back. He sank down on top of you, knees bolted to your sides - one of which sat dangerously close to the edge of the bed, threatening to slip off at any moment.

His gaze was direct and impenetrable as he searched your eyes, hands pinning your wrists beside your head. His strength was unrelenting, unmoving. He wasn’t going to let you off easy on this.

“Now, then,” he said, voice low and dyed an erotic tone of resolution with his accent. “Are ye gonna tell me what’s upset you, or am I gonna have to force it out of ye?”

You knew he was joking, and you shared the knowledge that this was his way of trying to make you feel secure - that you could trust him. But of course, you already knew that.

You gaze drifted down to where yours and Soap’s thighs met, and the weight that had been pressing on you for weeks jumped down onto your chest again, urging a fresh set of tears to emerge. You looked away, off to the side, hoping you could hide the dried streaks your tears had left behind.

“Hey, Sweetie, look at me– look at me.” Soap’s voice grew stern, and, when you refused to cooperate, he took your chin between his fingers and made you look at him, grip decidedly firm yet gentle.

“Angel, baby–” his eyes pleaded with you for an answer. “What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t hold it anymore and burst into tears, trying to keep your sobs quiet. Soap remained atop you, caressing the side of your face. Your tears were thick, almost viscous with all that had caused them, as if they, too, bore the weight of what plagued you.

“My marks,” you said, your voice merely a sound rather than a sentence. Soap’s head tilted as he looked down at you.

“What was that?” he said, unsure as to whether he’d heard you correctly. You sniffed, fortified your voice.

“My marks,” you repeated, clearer now.

Soap looked at you as if you were speaking another language, and you mistook his silence for perhaps the oncomings of a laugh. Or worse yet, agreement.

Soap scoffed alright, but he didn’t laugh. Instead he rearranged so he sat further down your body. He lifted your shirt, which you tried to pull down. He growled and practically tore it off you. And you let him. He stared down at your abdomen, your thighs, and sighed deeply.

“Why on earth are you worried about your stretch marks?” he said, absolute and firm, as if it were the most obvious question in the world. You almost wanted to shrug and apologise for wasting his time, but you remained quiet.

“These marks,” he began, lowering his face to your stomach, “are part of you. You know what that means?” His gaze flickered from your abdomen to your face. When you shook your head, Soap gave a huff of a laugh, his breath hot and circling against your skin.

“It means that they’re not the burden you think they are; they’re not unsightly, or ugly, or anything else you can think to call them. They’re beautiful because they are you.”

Your tears were still welling, and Soap pressed a soft kiss to your stomach. Then another. Then another. He linked a chain of kisses, inching further down your body, reaching the band of your underwear. He looked up at you beneath heavy lids. He dipped his tongue beneath the band, making you jolt. He laughed.

“I mustn’t have been doing a good job of showing you how beautiful you are,” he said, lowly. His hands slid to your hips, hooking his fingers over the edge of your underwear and tugging them down.

“It’s time I changed that.”

Price:

He’d picked up on your off mood every day this week, but he’d wanted you to come to him when you were ready, rather than him chase you up about something you didn’t necessarily want to talk about.

You never cracked, though. Not even once.

You’d kept your thoughts to yourself, yet your body betrayed you.

Whenever Price had initiated something in the bedroom, you’d shied away, putting your hands against his chest and giving a weak, watery smile.

“Maybe another night?” you’d say, and Price respected your wishes.

But, he was growing agitated.

It wasn’t his sexual frustration which urged him to act, but his frustration at himself for not being able to tell what was troubling you.

He was your protector; it was his duty, his pleasure to look out for you in any way you needed him.

And he felt like he was failing.

Eventually, he asked you outright what had gotten you so upset, and when you reluctantly told him it was your stretch marks, Price sat there. Flabbergasted.

“That’s it?” He couldn’t help himself saying. But when he saw how much the topic meant to you after you gave him a stormy look, he changed his tune.

Consoled you well into the night, holding you, burying kisses into your skin, drawing lines against your marks, saying how he found them beautiful because they were “Part of you.”

Never lets you go a day without feeling appreciated - more so than he did prior to this discovery.

“You know, Darling,” Price began, laying in bed with you in his arms, “I can’t remember what my life was like before you came.”

You looked up at him. He nuzzled the tip of his nose against your hair.

“And I can’t imagine what it would be like without you in it.” The smile in his voice was more than a mere tone, but a feeling, deep and sincere, the epitome of love itself.

Your face broke out into a grin, beams shining through the clouded sky. “Oh?” you said, bringing your thigh over his middle. You slid on top of him, knees either side of his waist. You planted your hands on his chest, rubbing slowly. His chest rumbled, the beginnings of a purr. His eyes gleamed, his lips curled up beneath his moustache, pinched as raised theatre curtains

“How about I show you how much you mean to me?” Your request was more foreshadowing than anything else, but, in a plot twist, John gripped you by your thighs and rolled so that he was now on top of you, your wrists pinned beside your head.

He brought his face down beside your head. “Last I checked, that was my job,” he rasped, his beard scratching the side of your face. He slid a hand down to the hem of your night shirt, raising it over your stomach. “And I don’t plan on retiring.” 

Alejandro:

Is on the offensive immediately.

Thinks somebody’s said something to you that made you upset.

“Who was it, mi amor? Who do I have to kill?”

It would take all your strength to keep him from storming out the house and popping a cap in the first person he suspected as being the perpetrator.

You’d have to explain to him that nobody’s said anything to hurt your feelings, and that your insecurity about your stretch marks has been with you since you were young.

“It’s just the way I am, Love,” you’d say, casting a diluted smile Alejandro’s way. “‘Ts just the way things are.”

This shocks Alejandro; sends him into a catatonic state, even.

Not once had he even considered your stretch marks a point of insecurity: not for you, or him.

In fact, he thought they were cool, and whenever he’d show you his scars, he’d smile. “Now we’re matching!” He’d say.

After you’d expressed your insecurities about your marks, he’d never let you go a day where he’d remind you you’re beautiful (though, that isn’t saying much; there isn’t a day that goes by where he doesn’t make you feel worthy and loved. He just tries even harder).

Man’s a body worshiper if ever I saw one (and I have seen many).

When you’re laying down together and he has his head on your thighs, he’ll randomly turn around and start kissing your marks.

Only does this in private, and with good reason.

Definitely the type to use tongue, even if it’s on the surface of your skin.

Will not let you leave until he’s convinced you’re feeling better about yourself.

Tells you that his mission in life is to “Make you realise how beautiful you are in everyone else’s eyes, even if you don’t see it yourself.”

You can definitely use the insecurity card to request - ahem - ‘snuggle time’ with Alejandro.

If you say to him in your whiny voice: “Baaabe, I’m not feeling too good about myself today,” he’ll be on you like a rash.

You may think you’ve got one over on him, but don’t be fooled.

He knows what you’re doing, but he’s not going to stop you.

After all, why would he ever pass up the opportunity to show the person he loves most in all the world how beautiful they are?

“There will never be a day where I will not worship you, mi corazón,” he panted, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your thighs. “You are my god - my religion.”

His eyes gleamed as he looked up at you from between your legs. “My life.”

You screwed your eyes shut and whined when he licked a stripe against your underwear, catching you where you needed him most.

“Alejandro,” you whispered, his name a prayer on your lips. “Please,”

“Say it.” He slid a hand over your stomach, feeling your skin, your marks, beneath his warmth. “Say what you want me to do and I’ll give it to you.” There was no hint of a lie in his words, only the inescapable truth of his undying love for you and everything your body had to offer.

Between glistening eyes and an open mouth, you let him in. “You.”

Alejandro left many bruises and bites on you that night, all borne out of love. And, afterwards, as he looked upon your sleeping form, all he could think was of how ethereal you looked, and how lucky he was to have managed to find someone like you.

Valeria:

She simply won’t hear of it.

She’s quite an aggressive woman, and she expresses her love and adoration likewise.

Therefore, when you end up confiding in her that there is even a single part of yourself you’re insecure about, she flips her lid.

Not at you, of course. At who or whatever has made you feel this way.

She throws her hands up and curses in Spanish, saying how only she’s “allowed to make you feel that way.”

And she means it.

She won’t let you feel bad unless she wants you to (and even then it’s because you’ve whined and moaned for it).

Trust that she’s watching you like a hawk 24/7 after that.

If she finds you looking at your marks with anything less than adoration, she’ll drag you into the bedroom and force you to say you do, otherwise she’s not relenting with that ten inch strap-on.

She’s sensitive, however.

When she can tell that a quick therapy session isn’t going to change your mind, she’ll just sit with you and listen, make you a drink and hold you when you cry.

She’ll come up with the idea to name them - so they “feel like friends rather than enemies,”

Places warm, soft kisses along your marks, christening them with her love when you’ve decided on a name.

If you name one after her, she’ll be honoured.

“Now I’ll be with you forever,” she’ll say, wrapping her arms around your waist. “On you forever, I should say.”

Valeria dragged you into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. One of her men guarded the other side, frightening off other club-goers.

Valeria’s eyes were heavy, dark and all-consuming with a feral rage that only occurred under rare circumstances, those being her jealousy. She gave you little time to protest as she hiked you up onto the counter, the tap digging into your back.

“I’ll murder him,” she said, voice rasping with drink and the need to mark you - to take you. “I’ll kill them all - all those bastards that looked at you.”

“Valeria, please,” you gasped when she cut the lining of your jeans open, making the button pop and recede into a dark, grimy corner of the tiled room. Valeria brought the knife to your throat, her voice snarling and serious as death.

“I am the only one who can look at you.” The tip of her knife began its slow descent to the collar of your shirt, which she separated from your body with a long, ripping tear. Now, chest exposed, you yelped. Valeria forced your legs apart and crouched between them. Her knife sat at the waistband of your underwear.

“You’re mine,” she promised. “And if I need to mark you myself–” she trailed the tip of her weapon along the marks on your hips, “–then so be it.”

Gaz:

Will look at you like you’ve just asked him to recite Pi.

What???

What do you mean you don’t think your stretch marks look good?

Gaz thinks they look perfect!

He can’t imagine you without them; he’s genuinely emotionally attached to them.

You should’ve guessed as much when you felt him tracing them as you lay in bed.

Fr though, Gaz understands why you feel insecure, but he doesn’t understand why, if that makes sense.

He knows certain things get to you, thus making it plausible that you would become upset with something you found on your person, but he doesn’t understand why you’re insecure.

He can feel himself getting angry whenever he hears you talking - or even thinking - bad about yourself.

He’s not mad at you! Not at all.

He’s simply aggravated by the fact that something or someone has made it so you can’t see yourself the way he sees you.

To cheer you up, he’ll start relaying extremely specific compliments to you.

“I’d love you if you were a two foot tall worm with a receding hairline.”

“Uuuh…thank you?”

Though, if he found those didn’t work or, God forbid, made you feel worse-

“So you’re saying that you only find my personality attractive and not my body.”

– He’ll find another way of lifting your spirits.

“I would commit arson if you ever tried to get rid of your stretch marks.”

“...Why?”

“Because I love them and they’re my friends 🥺.”

Btw he’s fr about that - he sees your stretch marks as individual, sentient beings.

And he begins to tell you the backstories he’s made up for them.

And you can’t help but get attached to them, too.

“Hold on, why does Antonio get to be seen today and not Felicity?” you asked, holding the sleeveless vest to your torso. Gaz returned, throwing a pile of yet more sleeveless shirts, vests and other variants onto the bed.

“Because I haven’t seen Antonio all week and I’m starting to think you’re playing favourites.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Poor guy’s probably suffocating under all those jumpers you wear!”

“Oh?” You raised and eyebrow, looking at Gaz in the mirror. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Gaz threw you a devilish smile, the corners of his lips pointing up like horns, sharp and curled. He came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, holding the vest against you.

“Put the vest on and you won’t have to find out.” He pressed a constellation of kisses to your shoulder, up the connecting junction of your neck and shoulder, until he reached your jaw. “Unless you want to.”

Graves:

When you initially told him, he wasn’t sure how to respond.

Genuinely thought money would make all your problems go away.

He threw a wad of rolled-up George Washingtons at you and told you to “Buy something nice - do yourself up pretty.”

Obviously, not the best thing to say to somebody who’s insecure.

And when you didn’t talk to him for days afterwards, he realised where he’d gone wrong.

You wanted reassurance, not a solution.

See, he’s so used to using money to make his problems disappear that he thought it’d be a quick fix for you, too.

Pokes his head round the bedroom door like heeeyyy~ before taking a  seat beside you on the bed.

“Look, I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t realise you just wanted to talk rather than have me fix the problem.”

His wording’s still very off, but he’s working on it with gentle guidance from you.

He genuinely never realised your stretch marks were an insecurity for you, though, hencewhy he’s not so good at the whole ‘reassurance’ thing.

He learns quickly, though.

It starts off with small gestures; putting a hand over your marks, looking at them fondly, telling you how gorgeous you were every single day.

And, eventually, when you’re being more…intimate, he’ll refuse to let you cover yourself up (unless you really want to, ofc).

Trying to hide your marks? Not for long - Phillip’s got a PHD in cloth tearing, and you’re his first job.

“I don’t remember telling you you could do that.”

Aggressive love. Full-on laving his tongue over your marks.

“Just markin’ what’s mine, Angel.”

Doesn’t give you even a second to feel insecure anymore.

Encourages you to wear clothing that reveals your marks if he thinks it’ll make you feel better.

Again, won’t force you to; if you don’t like revealing clothing overall, he’ll make sure to find other ways of empowering you.

Gets very territorial whenever he catches someone staring at you because he firmly believes that, 100% of the time, it’s because they’re checking you out.

Will glower at them with his eyes until they look away, cowering.

And all the while he’s looking at you, thinking God damn, I can’t believe I managed to pull you <3

“Love, why did you stare at that man in the bar earlier?” You asked, not looking up from your book. In the dim light of the bedroom, you saw Phillip’s head turn, looking at you. In your periphery, you saw his cheeks lift. He crept closer.

“Ain’t it natural for a man to want to protect what’s his?” His voice carried with it a weight you recognised as rhetorical. You put your book down on the bedside table and resisted a knowing smile.

“I don’t know,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “Is it?”

A sly smile crossed Graves’ face, and, in an instant, he was on top of you, his weight definite and promising of something. He wrangled your arms, pinning them above your head. And you only smiled up at him as he beamed down at you.

“Oh, I think you know it is.” His eyes gave no way to humour or jest, possessing within their oyster shell colour a pearl of the rarest, most valuable material: love.

Graves leaned down, and, biting the shell of your ear, pressing a kiss beneath it, whispered.

“And you know how much I hate sharin’.”

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously :-)

Masterlist

Masterpost

NSFW ABC - Simon 'Ghost' Riley Edition

Here he is, finally! The man, the myth, the legend! I'll be honest, I actually had a bit of a hard time on this one, and I'm still not sure how I feel about it, but I didn't want to leave you guys hanging for too long, so I sincerely hope you enjoy!

Contains heavy smut elements, so minors stay away!

warnings: senseless smut, detailed descriptions, ghost is a dirty lad but secretly a softie, hinted at female anatomy

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex):

Methodical, but not without warmth. He asks you genuinely if you're ok, if anything hurts, if you want to get in the shower or if you want him to go get a towel to clean you off so that you can lay down to rest, depending on how intense the session was - a little bit like damage control. He might take you to the shower anyways if he thinks it's the best option for you, but he'll do most of the work. He can be quite rough even when he tries to tone it down, so he wants to make sure he hasn't caused you any actual harm in the heat of the moment and he does that best by actually looking after you. He does love it if you wash him off as well, scrubbing over his chest and arms, but he won't really say much. He'll just let out a low, rumbling sigh and lean his cheek against the top of your head and honestly that alone tells you all you need to know. He lets you cup his face and plants all the kisses you want on his face and mouth, simply holding you in his arms and relishing in the moment.

Once you've started cleaning up and checking in on each other in this fashion, any extra rounds is pretty much out of the question. This is to wind down, to relax, to clean off, put on some comfortable clothes, settle back down into bed and hold each other close. Not that Simon can't go on for what feels like forever, but he greatly appreciates the peace and quiet he gets with you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s):

As far as Simon's concerned, his body serves its' purpose well. He doesn't exactly lack confidence, but he's by no means vain, and rarely looks at himself in the mirror unless it's to get a better angle to check on wounds or to clean himself. He's found a certain pride in his arms though, mainly because he can wrap them around you like some sort of boa constrictor and there's little you can do to escape it. He finds a sort of hidden, perhaps slightly sadistic, glee in that you can't do much else but take what he gives you (he's not an asshole, though - should you give even the slightest hint that you were uncomfortable or didn't want it, he'd let you go in an instant and make sure you're ok).

As for you, he is quietly obsessed your hands and your hips. Feeling your hands roam over his body is addicting, because he's not quite used to being touched in the way that you touch him, and your hips fit perfectly in his own hands (and his own hips fit perfectly there, too). But all in all, no matter how much he loses himself in the crooks and curves of your body, it's your eyes that do him in every time. He doesn't want to admit it, but it's why he mostly buries his face in your neck or takes you from behind. Your eyes make him weak. If you look into his eyes and beg him for whatever (to slow down, to speed up, to let you come) or even worse, say his name, you'll send shivers through his entire body. He tries not to let it get to his head, but the effect that you have on him, the way something in him falls apart when your eyes meet... it almost scares him. If you get a chance to take control, even for a second, grab him by the hair and demand that he looks you in the eye when he fucks you. You'll render him not only speechless, but also absolutely feral.

He wants to be methodical about this too, but he loses himself far too easily in you, and cumming all over your lower stomach and hole scratches some sort of itch in him that he didn't quite know he had. He will keep your thighs spread just so he can watch it drip down between them, and will most likely push it into you either with his fingers or his cock, fucking you a bit more until you cum again. If he has it in him, he'll cum in you once more and spread your hole just so he can watch as it leaks back out (before fingering it back into you yet again). Won't say a word during it, but you'll feel his eyes practically burning into your skin.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically):

He will absolutely cum down your throat if you let him and you can take it, keeping a close eye on you so that you're not actually uncomfortable or struggling. Wants you to show him that you've swallowed it all down though, or spit it back out on his cock so that he can fuck it into you.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs):

Before the two of you actually got together, you had a fling with another soldier at the base. Simon never commented on it, but he kept an eye on you in case he turned out to be an asshole or something. He tried not to give it too much thought; he just wanted to make sure you were all right. Totally not because he was jealous or anything, obviously.

He was actually looking for you when it happened, he just hadn't expected to find you in this... condition. Peering around the corner, he froze when found you pinned up against the wall in an empty hallway, with this fucker's tongue down your throat and his hand down your pants, panting and moaning into the kiss. He was suddenly struck by a strong urge to grab that dickhead and throw him out a helicopter at full speed and show you that he could give you something much better than whatever this was. He clenched his fists, thinking to himself that if he had you against the wall like this, he'd make sure you couldn't stay quiet. He'd have you crying out his name, shaking and quivering, gushing all over his fingers. That pipsqueak had nothing on him.

He considered stepping in and interrupting you, some dark voice in his mind telling him to take over, but he settled on simply slipping away quietly, not being able to stop the images in his head of pinning you against the wall, or against his bed and taking you the way you deserved to be taken.

He never told you about how he saw you with that dipshit, or how it made him jealous, or how he's fantasized about you since even before that. But once he'd simmered on it for too long and he got the chance to talk to you, he told you enough for you to know that he wanted you, that he'd wanted you for a while now, and that if you gave him the go, he'd take you then and there.

Safe to say, you gave it to him.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?):

He does have a good amount of experience from when he was younger, but he hasn't really engaged in it in a good while. He has men and women offer themselves up to him at regular intervals, he just 1. never trusts a stranger enough to put himself in a vulnerable position like that and 2. isn't really into one-night-stands, even if it were with a close friend. Before you, he took it upon himself to find relief if he ever felt the need to. Now that he has you, he doesn't need anything else.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying):

He greatly enjoys holding you down in a mating press, caging you in and leaning in close to your face to kiss you or to growl something into your ears. But as mentioned before, he's a bit weaker to your eyes than he'd like to admit, so more often than not, he takes you from behind in some way, like if you're standing or you're on your knees and he keeps you upright by grabbing your arms and pulling you back into him. He prefers pressing his entire body into you though, deep and close, giving you that sense of not being able to escape him. Doesn't let you close your legs, doesn't let you shy away, doesn't let you touch yourself.

If you want to take control, and happen to get the chance, take it. As hardheaded as he is and dominant as he might seem, he molds himself by your hands like the softest clay you could ever imagine, and he wants you to use him even if he's "in charge". If you wrap your hand around his throat, it puts him almost in a daze; you can see his pupils dilate as you straddle him and grind him into you, you can hear a soft rumble in his chest as you pull his head back by his hair and trail kisses and bites along his neck. If you tell him to keep his hands off or you tie them to the headboard or behind his back, you'll see his muscles tense as he struggles against his restraints, be they physical or just in his mind.

He's also a surprisingly big fan of 69 - he likes the combination of the taste and heat of you on his face and your moans on his dick.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.):

He's no stranger to getting a chuckle out of you; you'll tease each other every now and then and he might huff out a breath in amusement at some point or other, but for the most part he's very serious. He's focused on you, how you feel, how you sound and regardless of if this is a session to rid tension and frustration, or if it's a warmer, more tender round, he doesn't want to waste any energy on anything other than fucking you.

He might chuckle when he sees your eyes roll back or when you can't quite form coherent words, and he'll grin when he fucks the living daylight out of you after you've laughed just a little too hard at him for any reason. Some sort of semi-sadistic humour is ever-present, but you'll never hear him laugh outright, and you'll be too far out of it to focus on anything anyway.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.):

He's not a very hairy man, but the hair that he has is mainly light and surprisingly soft, fairly thick and curly-ish. He might give it a trim every now and then for the sake of comfort, usually before heading out for deployment, but other than that he doesn't give it too much thought. He couldn't really care less about the presence or lack of body hair, be it on himself or on you. If you were to ask him nicely to trim it down because maybe you don't like the way it feels, then sure. But if you were to find it yucky for any reason, he'd tell you to grow up. There's nothing to be grossed out about - he's very clean.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect):

He might not seem like it, and he surely doesn't say anything about it, but he greatly cherishes the moments where he gets to lay down with you and relax. There's no need to say anything, no need to do anything; you can just lay in his arms and listen to his steady heartbeat. As rough as he can be, he genuinely loves cupping your face in his hands and kissing you deeply. He's not very vocal about his emotions, but he makes sure to show them to you in your most private moments.

He wants to hold you when he gets the chance to and having you lay on top of him helps ground him. He once told you that he enjoys the weight of you on him and you offered to get him a weighted blanket, but the only weighted blanket he wants is you (also he doesn't want one with him to base or to missions - it sends him into a far too deep of a sleep than what might be safe in a time where he needs to be ready spring to action at any moment).

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon):

He has convinced himself that he doesn't need to. Not that he doesn't get the urge to, because when time away from you has dragged on, he gets... restless. He's usually way more irritable in the last week or so on a mission, and the ever so observant Soap might joke that the lieutenant needs to "blow off some steam" before he blows off one of their heads - "if you need to sneak off for a minute or so, I won't tell the captain." ("Fuckin' shut up, Johnny.")

It's like he's come to the conclusion that he can hold out. He usually doesn't jack off on missions anyway, but it's gotten a bit more challenging now that he knows that you're waiting for him back home. He kind of scolds himself, tells himself that it was never a problem before, so why would it be a problem now? But he remembers you, he thinks of you and he misses you and so it adds a variable that wasn't there before. He tries to keep his thoughts at bay, but the longer he's away from you, the more salacious the thoughts become. He might get off once while back at base and in the privacy of his own room, depending on how much longer the mission is going to last, but if it's just a week or so left, he'll hold off and his teammates will just have to deal with his bad mood. Just be prepared for when he gets back to you, because he will definitely not use his own hand now that he has you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks):

He's not a fullblown sadist, but he does have a little vein of it running through him. Tying you down, blindfolding you and just generally forcing you to be at the mercy of him scratches some sort of itch in him. He's not doing it as a form of punishment though, and it's not meant to be just for his own pleasure; it's more like he needs to prove something to you almost. It's like he wants to give you everything he thinks you deserve, even if it's more than you can handle. If you listen closely (if you even have the ability to still hear him), you might hear him whispering for you to keep going, to keep cumming, to give him more. You will need to establish some safewords with him right out of the gate, because he overstimulates you like it's his only purpose in life.

Because of the great satisfaction he gets from feeling your weight on top of him though, having you ride him in pretty much anyway you can is greatly appreciated. Sitting on his face, on his dick, on his thigh - just any way that he can have you draped over him is top notch. He might actually have more of a masochistic side to him, because he likes it when you scratch him and pull his hair, and he loves feeling like he's practically drowning in you. Overstimulating him might not be an incredibly regular occurrence, but if you get the chance to, do it, and do it well.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do):

Bed. He'll have you anywhere within the confines of your home if that's what you want, but he prefers the bed. That's where he can completely unravel you and it's where he feels it's safest. That's not to say he hasn't fucked you in the shower or on the dinner table, or that you haven't had your moments where you've barely made it in through the front door. You rile him up easily; almost too easily. If you were to undress right out on the street, he'd probably fuck you right there.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going):

For anyone who doesn't know him, it's easy to think that he just never experiences emotions. The deadpan stare, the monotone voice, the way that he just seems generally disinterested in pretty much everything. But you know better. The way he tilts his head towards you, the way he discreetly takes a deep breath when you say or do something suggestive, the way his eyes follow your every move with a hooded gaze, or the way he reaches out to you but waits for you to close the last bit of distance between you. You know it well.

As established before, he has a weak spot for your eyes; when you look at him and tell him what you want or just that you love him, he feels something in him melt. Fluttering touches over his shoulders or chest, nuzzling your body in close to his and wrapping your arms around him are all ways to warm up that supposedly "cold" heart of his.

Keep in mind though, he's a man of action. If you tease him, make sure you're ready to face the consequences - especially if you're in an environment where he can't just have you right away.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs):

As rough as he might be, whether he has a sadistic hint to him or not, he would never want to do anything that would leave scars on you. Bruises, hickeys, scratches, sure. But never anything that would actually leave any sort of permanent mark. Also doesn't want to cause you any actual physical pain; he can overwhelm you, he can leave you feeling sore, he can make you feel like you've been run through a cycle in the washing machine, but he'll never hurt you.

If you tell him that something doesn't feel good or hurts or that there's something that you just don't like, rest assured he'll back off in an instant.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.):

Sit. On. His. Face. Fucking sit on it and do it now. He will give you no chance to escape his grip or tongue, and he will keep you there until you're just shy of passing out. He loves rendering you nothing but a quivering mess, but he also finds it strangely grounding - the weight of you, your taste, your heat; it's like it heals something in him. He'll tell you to get on him whenever he's in a bad mood or stressed out, and you can never quite predict how long he'll go on for, but you often get to see a part of him that you think no one else has ever seen. He practically suffocates himself in you and you'd be more worried if you weren't so lost in your own pleasure. It's almost something masochistic in him that has him drive himself towards blacking out, because if you can manage to look at him the few times that he actually breaks away to breathe, you'll see his eyes roll and his eyelids flutter. He'll take a huge gulp of air and slur out something about how he wants, no, needs more before he dives back in with a rough moan. Doesn't let you pull away when you cum, because he wants you to cum right down his throat.

When you suck him off, he leans back and watches you, breathing deeply and heavily, and lets you take as much of him as you can in whatever pace you can. If you're struggling, he'll tell you that you're doing good and that he's proud of however much you can fit in your mouth. If you're not struggling at all, he'll chuckle and maybe call you a "dirty little one", but he loves it. As mentioned before, he wants to see you either swallow his cum down, or spit it back out on his cock to keep going, but he also loves shoving his tongue into your mouth, letting any residue of him left dribble out onto your chin.

He might not go for 69 every time, but he takes great enjoyment in knowing that you're trying your hardest not to stop sucking him off even if you're losing your mind at the whim of his tongue. Crosses off multiple things on his list, and so when you do indulge in it, he makes sure neither of you are rushing it.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.):

He goes at very steady pace; it's not slow, but it's not fast either. He can speed up to drive you to the edge faster or slow down to draw it out, but no matter what the pace is, you can bet that it'll be deep and heavy. Somehow, it never gets predictable. You joked with him that not only is Simon 'Ghost' Riley an expert at sneaking up on enemies on the battlefield, but also at making you cum when you least expect it. It got a little chuckle out of him (and about four orgasms out of you), but it's true. You don't know how he does it, but somehow he brings you to climax even when you don't feel like you're that close to it. It's like he knows exactly where all your little buttons are - even the ones you didn't even know you had.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.):

He's disciplined and he's headstrong, but he doesn't have the patience or fortitude for quickies - once he's started, he'll be going for a good fucking while. Besides, you need a proper warmup before you can actually take him - he's far too thick otherwise. If you're feeling impatient and like you really can't wait, he'll give you his fingers, but just know that it is taking every single microscopic little grain of him to not just rip your clothes off and fuck you good.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.):

He won't do anything outright sexual in public - at least not that anyone sees or notices. He'll whisper into your ear and sneak a few touches here and there, he'll give you a heated gaze that is gone as quickly as it appeared, and for a while you'll think you're going insane; it's like he's using his tactics against you, to tease you.

Other than that, he wants to keep that stuff inside the safety of your own home for the most part. As far as experimenting goes, he'll give most things a whirl if you really want him to, as long as it's within some realm of reality.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?):

He will practically never be the first to tap out, just so you know. While he might not be able to cum time and time again, he makes sure that when he does cum, he makes it count. You could swear that you've had like 5 rounds back to back, but honestly, it's usually 1-2 rounds that just feel like they last an eternity because he uses practically all of him to make you cum as many times as he can.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?):

Not for him, no. As for you though? More tools to make you cum, pretty much.

He doesn't think he needs them, and he doesn't actually care all that much for them; but every now and then, when he's feeling like a little shit, or he thinks you've had it coming, he'll have you close to passing out if given the chance.

He's not threatened by them. He knows that he can make you feel so much better than whatever toys you have. You're free to use them as much as you want when he's away, but if you use them while he's there, he'll either take over to "show you how it's done", or he'll take a seat and tell you to give him a good show.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease):

It's probably safe to say that Simon is not a very fair man. He'll drive you up the wall when he feels like it, acting like everything is right as rain while you feel like he's already fucked you just from looking at you.

He'll deliberately slow down or pause when he can tell that you're close and grin lazily at you when you complain, he'll whisper the absolute filthiest things to you while passing by before moving on like nothing happened, he'll sneak up on you just to snatch you up and kiss the breath out of you before he just walks away.

So if you can, give him a taste of his own medicine, will you? He deserves it.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.):

Very quiet other than maybe a few sighs, grunts and whispers. Every now and then you might get a moan out of him, but he tends to hold them back. Not because he's ashamed or anything, but because he'd much rather hear you. He'll whisper endless praise and dirty nothings to you, but that's the most you'll get out of him, sound-wise.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character):

This was actually insane, and very unlike him. Well, having you up against the wall and hanging in his arms by the crook of your knees wasn't entirely unlike him - but fucking you in someone else's bathroom definitely was. You had been invited to a little dinner party over at Mactavish's place, and the whole team and some of their older colleagues were there. You were having a good time, and you were sure that Simon was, too, but at one point during the evening, he told you he needed your help with something. You were none the wiser to his plans - he had some stitches on the back of his shoulder and you thought that maybe he just needed you to check on them.

He took you into the bathroom, closed and locked the door and before you could get a word out, he turned to you, unbuckled your belt and pressed you up against the wall as he shoved his hand down your underwear. He covered your mouth with his own, making sure to keep any suspicious sounds confined to this room.

You completely lost your sense of time, but at some point, after fingering you into oblivion, he'd tugged your pants halfway down your legs, hoisted you up and there you were; trying your absolute hardest to stay quiet while you hung helplessly in his arms as he fucked you without even a moment's pause. He didn't say a word, didn't utter the slightest sound, he just stared intently at you and rammed into you with a determination that you'd never seen in any other man before. You didn't know how you were going to explain the weakness in your legs and the sweat and flush of your face once the two of you went back out to the party, but at the moment, you were far from capable of forming any sort of coherent thought anyways, so you'd just give that job to Simon once he was done.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes):

Sits somewhere between 6-6.5 inches, and he's quite a bit thicker than most others that would have the same length. As mentioned before, you need a proper and thorough warmup before you can take him and he's generous with it, so even though you always feel the stretch when he pushes into you, it's never a painful one. It just leaves you speechless, that's all.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?):

While he always wants you near, it's not always sexual. He needs the calm and domestic moments just as much as he needs the more intimate and sexual ones. That doesn't mean it doesn't happen often though; it might not be an "every single day"-thing, but it's not far from it. He's clear to let you know when he wants you, but he likes it more when you initiate.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards):

He actually stays awake for a good while after that, taking the time to simply listen to you breathe and feel your heartbeat against his chest. He usually doesn't like complete and utter silence because his ears are most likely ringing from chronic tinnitus, but the sounds of your sleep are just enough to keep him distracted from it. He also takes this time to commit everything about you to memory (as if he hasn't already). He oh so carefully caresses your cheek, strokes your hair and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, but you never notice, and he'll never tell you. Once he's satisfied and once he's finally convinced himself that you're not going anywhere, he'll finally settle and close his eyes to sleep.

under your skin.

The last walk-in you expected to see in your tattoo parlor in one rainy day was a massive masked behemoth of a man. It came as even more of a surprise when you wanted to see him there again and again; and a final time when he kept coming back.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Tattoo artist reader

rbs greatly appreciated!

WC: 7K

a/n: listen, as a tattoo artist irl, the first thing i did when i discovered ghost had a tattoo was to think how i had to self indulge. i’d kill to tattoo this man personally. shoutout to @117s-girl, @somnibats and Eddie for the tremendous help when i had writer’s block, and @deafeningcat for the amazing beta read as always <3

tags: fluff, reader being horny for ghost, ghost being slightly ooc, mentions at verbal abuse, slightly suggestive and slight angst.

You remember the first time Simon Riley walked into your shop.

It was a cold and rainy day - like most days in Manchester - and you were idling by, doodling on a notebook by the front desk and listening to whatever was playing on the radio without paying it much attention. Glancing at the clock on the wall where the empty loveseat was, you were starting to wonder if you should go get something to eat while you waited, when the bell on the front door chimed, indicating someone had come in.

At first, you thought he was going to rob you, and in a second you were already kissing your expensive equipment goodbye in your head, cursing the fact you had decided to buy that pricey tattoo machine you were eyeing for so long just last week, but those thoughts vanished when the figure just stood in front of you. Silently, you eyed the skull mask and sunglasses that covered his face, wondering what was this guy’s deal, since it was way too grey outside to be wearing any sort of eyewear. Trying not to let his huge stature looming over you be intimidating, you were about to say something when his gruff voice cut the silence.

“You take walk-ins?” 

So he really was a client, you thought. Rummaging through the notebooks in the desk, you quickly glanced at your schedule, seeing your next client wasn’t supposed to come for a few good hours, and decided you were curious about the masked man.

“Well, it depends. What were you thinking of getting?” 

He stood still for a moment, and you wondered if he heard you at all, but suddenly he reached for something in the pocket of his jeans, extending a neatly folded piece of paper in front of you. His voice filled the silence again as you unfolded the paper, and you found the thick accent oddly calming coming from him. 

“I want it to be a sleeve. Covering my left forearm.”

You opened it to find a surprisingly intricate design, and it seemed like whoever did it made it with the intention of actually getting it as a sleeve. Not taking the masked guy for an artist, you found a signature on the bottom of the page, a chicken scratch that read “Tommy Riley”. Usually, you’d make light conversation and ask about the design, especially when it looked important, but something told you not to pry into this man’s business. Assuming he’s this “Tommy” fella, you just smiled politely, deciding you could fit the first session of it into your work day.

“Sure. It should take a few sessions, though, is that alright with you?” He simply nodded, wordlessly, and you decided that was good enough of an answer. 

Leading him into the procedure room after getting his approval on the price, you made sure to give him a consent form for him to fill out and sign while you traced the design to a stencil - making sure to cut the right adjustments to wrap around his visibly huge forearm. You wondered if he was a weightlifter of sorts, or maybe just a gym rat. 

Transferring the stencil to his skin and prepping your materials for tattooing was a completely silent ordeal, and your client seemed more than content in just letting the silence linger for the remainder of your encounter, and even if you were getting antsy by it, you were glad he didn’t comment on how visibly nervous you were when you wrapped your gloved hands around his arm to make the stencil stick - feeling his warmth and the protruding veins even through the latex that covered your own skin. 

“You have any other tattoos?” You asked, stepping on the machine pedal to make sure your tattoo machine was at the right voltage while he got comfortable setting his arm on the arm rest.

“No.” 

“Cool.” God, you felt awkward. “I’m gonna start now, tell me if it hurts too much.”

“Right.” 

You felt stupid saying that to a man that had arms the size of your head and was at least 6,4. As expected, he didn’t even flinch when the needles touched his skin, but you weren’t about to give up on your mission to make conversation with your mysterious client. While tracing it with the machine, you analyzed the design a bit closer.

“That’s some interesting art.” It wasn’t. It was tacky as hell, all missiles and skulls and other edgy elements, but you were not going to say that to him. “You like guns?”

“Something like that.” 

You gave up trying to chat him up shortly after. Even with the weird dad sunglasses on, you could still feel his stare on you, unnerving at best, and you wondered what was up with the mask. In your line of work, you’d met some interesting individuals, and you considered your shop a safe haven for all outcasts and misfits; you’d known, after all you did decide to pursue tattooing as a career. Still, something about this man - Tommy? - made you feel an itch to see what lied beyond the mask - both figuratively and literally.  At least it would take a few more sessions to finish his piece, hopefully he’d say more than five words at once to you at some point. 

It took you two hours to finish tracing it, and you deemed it was good to go and begin shading another day. Getting into professional mode, you gave him directions on how to care for it and asked him to come back after a month to start on shading it, and, as expected, he only nodded to you. Going back to the front desk, he handed the bills containing the price you had settled on, and turned around, leaving without another word. Out of curiosity, you picked up his file. The first thing you noticed was that he had left the “Occupation” space blank.

The second thing you noticed was that the signature read “Simon Riley”.

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

Simon didn’t come back after a month. 

A good few months later, you just figured he’d given up and was now walking around with an unfinished tattoo, or, worse, he had picked another artist to finish the job, and the thought made you angrier than you’d like to admit. Despite your annoyance, whenever you’d organize your clients files, you’d find yourself lingering on his, weirdly curious and feeling like he was a puzzle you were dying to solve.

A long time passed - you don’t know how much, but you’d say it was more than a year - before he showed up again, and, once again, it was unannounced. You were finishing a client’s tattoo when your friend - and coworker - knocked on the procedure room door, and when you’d told her to come in, she looked like she had seen a ghost. 

“There’s a guy in the waiting room asking for you. Said you were doing his sleeve…” She quietly announced, and you just stared at her quizzically, waiting for her to continue. "He 's…Big. Tall guy with a creepy skull mask.” 

She whispered the last part so he wouldn’t hear it, even if he was a good corridor distance away and the metal music coming from the radio would drown it out, and after a few moments you realized she was talking about Simon.  You remember answering something to her and finishing the tattoo on auto pilot before heading to the front desk, and, sure enough, Simon was standing there menacingly, in his whole huge aura, seemingly unbothered by how his height, frame, and mask were making the other clients in the shop regard him with uneasy looks. His eyes met yours once you showed up. You noticed he wasn’t wearing the sunglasses anymore, and his fabric mask had been replaced by a simpler balaclava and a hard skull mask on top that you hoped was made out of a synthetic material. 

Now bare, his gaze revealed its intensity to you, the dark hues following your every move in a way you supposed you could find intimidating if a small, very weird part of you didn’t find it attractive. He seemed tired, eyes cast downwards and with bags surrounding it, and you wondered what had happened when he was gone. 

“Hey.” You breathed, straining your neck to look up at him and completely forgetting about the other people in the room. “Riley, right? I’m guessing you’re here for the sleeve?”

He seemed slightly surprised you remembered his name, but the impression of seeing emotion in his eyes was gone in an instant as he simply nodded at you.

“Yeah. You got time?”

You didn’t. But you’d make it work, you weren’t about to send away the man who had, for some reason, plagued your thoughts so much for the last months. 

“I got a few more clients, but if you don’t mind waiting, i can fit you in?”

You hated how uneasy you sounded, your hands fiddling with a stray loose line of your ripped jeans as you waited for his answer.

“That works.” 

With his gruff reply, he turned and sat down in the waiting area, and you released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. 

The hours went by, the clients came and went to and from your procedure room as well as your colleague’s, yet, every single time you left the room to go to the front desk have a sip of water or check your next client’s name, Simon was still there, patiently waiting, the loveseat seeming oddly small under him, and his all black, dark getup blending perfectly with the black walls of the studio. If anything, it made you even more intrigued, since most people would have left by now, considering how long a tattoo takes and he could just come back another day, but he didn’t show any signs of having anywhere else to be. The people traffic started to wind down, and soon enough, you dismissed your last client of the day as you were the only artist left in the shop and the sun had already hid in the horizon. 

“Glad to see you again. I was wondering if you had gotten another artist.” You laughed somewhat nervously, taking a breather by the glass door while Simon finished filling out another responsibility form, and you had to ignore how nervous you felt when he turned to glance at you with those dark and intense eyes of his.

“Got busy, that’s all.” He murmured, setting the pen down on the front desk and turning to the wall where your flash pieces were displayed. “And I like your work.”

Feeling your eyes widen, you tried to conceal how flustered the comment made you feel behind a cool chuckle, but something told you Simon could see right through you. Going back inside and pointing him towards the procedure room, you briefly glanced at the fresh consent form and realized he filled out his occupation this time, the words “Army” surprisingly not phasing you one bit.

Simon was the same as the last time, quiet as a grave. But, seeing as you were wrapping up the shading quicker than you’d anticipated, you decided this time you would not let this mysterious man walk out of your studio - possibly forever - without at least getting one piece of information out of him.

“So…does it mean anything?” You nodded towards his arm, trying to play it cool. Being in this field, you quickly realized not everyone gets tattoos that mean anything, and most of them are really just for aesthetics, but the signature below the original design had you wondering, even if the newfound information that he was in the military made the over the top missiles and dog tags inked on his arm make a lot more sense. He stared at you from behind the mask for a moment, making you feel queasy under his stare and suddenly very aware of how much you were draped over his arm trying to get the shading on one particular skull to look just right.

“Yeah.” After a few moments he replied, a wave of sudden relief washing over you upon realizing you had not, in fact, crossed a line. “My brother made it.”

“He’s quite the artist.”

“He really was.”

Oh. 

You decided to drop the subject after the implication.

“And what branch are you in?” Not looking at him, you spoke in a low tone, too concentrated on the machine in your hands to realize you were maybe asking more than he was comfortable talking. “You know, uh, in the army.”

“Special Air Forces.” You realized he tensed almost imperceptibly, relaxing once you only hummed.

“Cool. I’d reckon you guys had tattoo parlors closer to base, though.” 

“We do.” He huffed. “But I know the guys. Not nearly as clean as here.”

At that, you chuckled gently, missing the way Simon’s eyes softened at the sound.

You continued the piece in comfortable silence, distantly registering the pitter-patter of the rain that had just started falling on the street beyond the front doors. Finishing it up, faster than you would have liked, you decided the corny design looked good - really good - on him, and he might have been the only guy possible to pull it off, which could have been related to how big and strong his arms looked. Wrapping the tattoo in plastic film and reminding him to not keep it on for too long, you had to focus on acting professional and not let him know you were ogling at the recently inked piece of skin. The long sleeve shirt he had rolled up to his forearms did not help you one bit, nor did the way his eyes followed your every single movement.

When you got back to the front desk - relieved to find the rain had stopped - you expected Simon to just pay and leave silently the same way he did the last time, but he actually lingered, letting his eyes wander through the flash pieces displayed in a neat corkboard in the waiting room - this one with your name written on top. You actually don’t know when he got your name - something told you it was when he asked your coworker for you. He seemed quite interested in one particular design that had been gathering dust for a long time on the board, considering how big it was.

“See something you like?” You followed his gaze, realizing it was a ram skull chest piece you had completely forgotten about; it looked too dark and menacing for most people looking for walk-ins and flash tattoos. “That one was meant to be a chest piece. Works for the back, too.”

Simon studied it for a few moments. What was up with this guy and skulls? Finally, he turned to you.

“When can you do it?”

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

The third time Simon Riley walked into your studio, it was, by far, the most memorable one. 

Unsurprisingly enough, he had decided to set an appointment for the chest piece to be the last one of your day, a week later; whether he enjoyed the night time better or just wanted to not be bothered with other people around, that was a mystery to you. There was a third option in the back of your head, but you told yourself it was delusional, and your fascination with the masked man was, in fact, one sided. That didn’t stop you from greeting him with a cheery smile as you looked up from where you were doodling on your notebook on the front desk, pretty much like your first encounter. However, you didn’t think too much of what exactly the chest piece implied as you headed to your procedure room with Simon in tow. It hit you like a ton of bricks when you freezed for a second, holding up the carbon stencil in your hands.

“Uh, you might wanna…take off your shirt. It’ll be more comfortable for you.” 

Preparing the stencil gel, you tried your best to ignore him and not let your eyes wander too much as he lifted the unnecessarily tight black t-shirt over his head, careful as to not remove the balaclava and skull mask combo, folding it neatly and setting the piece of cloth over your table before standing next to you in front of the full body mirror. 

I’m a professional. I’m a professional. I’m a professional.

If you thought Simon was huge before, that was an understatement. 6,4 feet of pure, naked muscle stood inches away from your much smaller body, and you were extremely relieved to realize that he had, probably out of consideration for you, shaved his chest beforehand - the same couldn’t be said for the faint happy trail very clearly peeking from his jeans, sitting way lower on his hips than you’d like. Scolding yourself over and over for fawning like a horny teenager, you hoped the nervous tremble in your hands as you delicately smoothed the gel over his collarbones wasn’t as obvious as you felt it was. Even through the latex gloves you could feel the heat coming from his pecs, as well as a few minor scars that shouldn’t give you too much trouble. You decided to ignore the very visible and very big bullet scar on his side. As he adjusted his dog tags to hang behind his neck so as to not get in your way, you finally peeled the stencil off, trying to calm your frantic beating heart as he analyzed it in the mirror to make sure it was in the right placement. 

It got worse when he actually laid on the tattoo table - comically dwarfed under his enormous frame. Sure, you had tattooed a fair share of chests along the years - both men’s and women’s - and it never really flustered you, after all, it was your job, seeing skin was a very big part of it. However, as you lowered your torso on the bed and tried to adjust your hand to sit as comfortably as possible on his chest, you thanked the gods it was such a big tattoo; you had no idea how you wouldn’t mess it up if it was a tiny one. But you doubted Simon would ever get a tiny tattoo. Above all, you could appreciate how he maintained his breathing slow and steady and, again, didn’t even flinch as the needles touched him, making you like him as a client even more. 

“I’ve heard you guys in the army got…codenames?” You started, desperate to start some conversation before your intrusive thoughts won. “What do they call you?”

Slowly, you were getting used to his brief silence before answering you. It seemed like his way to decide if your question was worth answering or not, and you were glad he had found them all to be so far. 

“Ghost.”

“Very fitting.”

You were surprised to hear him exhale in a way that resembled a very weak laugh, and you felt giddy knowing you made your ever so quiet and serious client laugh - or something like that. Feeling calmer, you continued the very big piece, strapping in for a long next couple of hours.

They passed quickly, your hand working almost in autopilot as you traced the tattoo’s lineart and made light conversation with Simon - Ghost. You learned he was a Lieutenant, liked bourbon and the mask never came off. Granted, it was mostly you speaking and him answering, but you were glad he was entertaining your nervous ramblings, and you were only slightly embarrassed to admit to yourself his Manchester accent - that you heard everyday coming from other people - was very soothing on his deep, gruffy voice. In turn, you told him a little more about yourself; why you got into tattooing and even a few funny stories from dealing with past clients. 

Finally deciding it was enough strain on his skin for one session, you set your machine down and admired your work, smiling under your mask. Taking a generous amount of the tattooing balm on your fingers, you swallowed your nervousness before gently spreading the substance on his chest so it would heal nicely, not missing the way he relaxed under your touch. If you weren’t so busy panicking by having your hands on such a massive and attractive man, you could ponder on how he seemed to be enjoying that as much as you were. With your approval, he got up to examine the piece on the mirror, and you caught yourself staring into his strong, chiseled, and scarred back, before averting your eyes, choosing to focus instead on cleaning up the inky mess you made on your trolley. You once again went through the now familiar ordeal of him silently thanking you, paying, and leaving into the night.

As Simon Riley left the studio that day, carrying an unfinished piece of your work right on his chest, you realized something clearly had changed in the air between you two. You just had no idea if it was a good or bad thing.

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

The next time Simon showed up, a month later, you were stressed out of your mind.

You were booked, so you didn’t really have any open spots next to closing time the way he liked it, so he had to settle for coming a bit earlier than usual, which meant there were actually other people in the studio for once, including the one on the front desk yelling in your face.

You couldn’t really remember what he was yelling about, just that you were suddenly regretting your decision of working with people and wondering if it was worth it to stoop down low and insult him back the way he was doing to you. You figured the moment he started yelling about his already finished tattoo that it was most likely another scam attempt coming from him, but it didn’t really matter anymore once you zeroed in on the hulking figure that showed up unexpectedly behind your unpleasant client in the form of your masked savior. For a moment, you were scared things were going to get violent, but Simon didn’t have to do much. It took one glower from him, his gaze sharp enough to cut from way above the smaller man, and he was suddenly stuttering apologies and leaving the studio in a hurry. You ignored the looks the other people in the waiting room were giving the two of you, offering a tired, but extremely grateful smile, to Ghost.

“Hey, Riley.”

He was still staring at where the man had left, and the annoyance on his usually so stoic gaze came as a surprise to you. 

“What happened?” 

You were already heading into the procedure room, too shaken to deal with the stares of the people in the waiting room any longer, and shot him a sheepish look from over your shoulder. 

“Just a rude client being difficult. Not the first time he gave me trouble, either, but it happens.” 

Simon didn’t seem too happy with your answer, but he let it slide, for the moment. Heading into the room and closing the door behind you, the air fell into a familiar silence, broken only by the cluttering sounds as you set up your supplies, and, to you, your still frantic heartbeat in your ears by the less than pleasant interaction just a few minutes earlier. It was unlikely, given how observant he was, but you hoped Simon didn’t pick up on just how shaken you were. Still, you took a few moments to calm yourself down as you tested the machine with your feet; Simon had already made himself comfortable on the table, and soon enough you fell into the rhythm of inking him, the same way you had grown used to in those last few months. Focusing on a particularly stubborn piece of skin where the ink didn’t paint as easily, you were lost in thought when his voice pulled you back to reality.

“Are you scared of me?” You heard him ask quietly from above you, instantly knowing he was referring to the way your earlier client had run off on the sight of him. Pausing your ministrations, you looked up from his chest to find him already staring at you in a way that made your heart skip a beat. Since you were currently working on the details on his collarbone, you haven’t realized how close you actually were to his face, and suddenly you were hit with the realization you could feel his breath through both your masks; and an intoxicating scent of cigarette smoke and cologne. Caught in a trance by his dark gaze, you realized a little too late you were gawking and not really answering his question, which made you feel very glad for the surgical mask covering your suddenly very red face and flustered expression. Looking down to continue your work, you tried to find your words once again.

“Not really. I mean, the mask was off-putting at first, but I've had some odd people as clients. You’re cool, though. You remind me of those big, scary guard dogs, but in a good way.” Cringing at the lame answer, you felt like a kid talking to her crush in middle school all over again, and the huff-slash-chuckle that left Simon only made it worse. It seemed like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t, and in your flustered stupor you couldn’t find any words either, so you just let the air around you fall into a comfortable silence over again. If it were anyone else, you’d be wary of the constant quietness, but, for some reason, Simon’s presence was enough to make you content, even if no words were exchanged. 

Blacking out the parts that had to be inked was a piece of cake for you and your enormous needle - which you were glad was being used on Simon, since, most of your other clients would have been crying from the pain only halfway done with the black - and soon enough you were heading out to the front with him, readying yourself to bid him goodbye and, disappointedly, only see him again in the next month, once his tattoo was healed enough for another session, however, as you approached the waiting room, he made no move to leave. You thought maybe he was, again, inspecting your work displayed on the wall, the prospect of continuing to tattoo him after his chest piece was done getting you giddy already, but he was looking nowhere but in your direction, eyes unreadable behind the skull mask.

“I’ll wait until you close. Who knows if that asshole won’t come back expecting me not to be here anymore.” 

Blinking up at him, it took you a few moments to process what he had murmured under his breath, and, in an instant, your heart rate shot up as you tried to wrap your head around the implications. Had it been any other client, you would have laughed it off, telling him not to worry and that you could take care of yourself, but it wasn’t just about anyone. It was him. And for some reason, the fact made you only wordlessly agree with a nod of your head and wide eyes, certain he could now see how clearly flustered and red your face looked. An intrusive part of your brain was screaming at you that he was just being nice, and that the protectiveness was just because of his job and nothing else, but you’d entertain these thoughts later - if ever.

So, much like the second time you’d met him, the rest of your afternoon was spent with seeing Ghost’s massive figure patiently waiting in the way too small loveseat in the front room of the studio, living up to the scary guard dog imagery you had joked about to him, except, this time, in between clients you’d sit besides him to catch a break and make light conversation, the deep rumble of his voice soothing all of your worries in a minute. 

As the hours went by, it was way past nightfall when you closed up, everyone else had already left and you were exhausted after washing the studio on your own. True to his word, Simon loomed behind you like a shadow, quiet and intimidating, refusing to leave until he had walked you to your car in safety. You remember thanking him profusely, and him not making a big deal out of it, and the way your heart thrummed in your throat as you drove on autopilot to your house, trying to ignore the way Ghost’s figure walking besides you on the quiet sidewalk a few moments before felt just right. 

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

It was early August when you woke up in a very good mood that one morning.

Later you’d realize it was because it was the day of Simon’s appointment, but at the time you had chalked it up to just being a sunny day that brightened your spirits.

Business as usual, you went along your day, anxiously waiting for the place to empty out and you’d get your newly discovered favorite customer, not that you’d admit it outloud to him, or even to yourself. It was actually a slower day, with a big break between clients, which you were glad about, so between coffee and water breaks and chit chatting with your coworkers, soon enough the sun went down and the enormous figure of Ghost could be seen crossing the threshold of the studio’s glass door, responding your enthusiastic wave with a nod of his head, eyes relaxed behind the mask. As usual, he followed you inside the procedure room, and you remembered something.

“Lemme see how your sleeve is healing.” Extending your hand, you smiled cheekily at him, giddy after seeing his half-hearted eye roll, and he gave his left forearm for you to inspect. With his busy way of life, you’d have expected to be worse, but it was actually very well taken care of. “Wow, this has healed up perfectly, good job, Simon!”

You beamed up at him, but your smile faltered once you saw his eyes widening at the praise. Oops. He grumbled something in response and you decided to save him the embarrassment, releasing his arm with a chuckle.

No matter how many times he did it, every single time Ghost took his shirt off it made your brain short circuit, but you remained professional and fell into the familiar routine of tattooing him in comfortable silence, only this time it was broken not only by you talking first, but also him. It surprised you to hear him ask you questions first or tell you some non-compromising stories about his job, - making you chuckle a few times hearing about the shenanigans of this “Soap” friend of his - but you weren’t about to complain. You were lost in the familiarity of it all when you realized that you were actually almost done with the shading - meaning his chest piece would end one session earlier than expected. Trying to mask your disappointment, you wrapped it up, forcing a smile to a suddenly very confused Ghost. 

“I thought we were going to need another session but, uh, turns out it was…faster than i expected!” You gave him a slight, nervous chuckle, and you swore you saw his eyes widen behind the mask. 

As usual, you wrapped the ink in the plastic film - finding it very hard to make the masking tape stick to his large pecs - and gave the same instructions in a robotic way, following him to the front desk where he finished paying for his piece, all in absolute silence and with unreadable eyes. As the transaction was finished, he lingered, standing silently in front of you, looming. You couldn’t meet his eyes.

“So, yeah, i guess that’s it…” You gave another chuckle, offering him a gentle smile. “Hey, don’t be a stranger-”

“Do you want to go out with me sometime?” He blurted out, shutting you right up, and that stopped you dead in your tracks. You stared up at him, unsure if you had heard him correctly, and were waiting for him to say something else or even backtrack, but that never came.

“Uh. Yes? I mean, yes, sure! I’d love to!” You stammered, certain you were wide-eyed and a flustered mess, not expecting him to be so straightforward, or, even say anything at all. Simon seemed a lot more composed than you, even if the way he blurted his question out made it seem like he could be slightly nervous. You doubted he ever got nervous, though. 

“Great. Does this weekend work for you?” 

Thinking back on your schedule, you remembered that no, it didn’t.

“I’m booked with work…But, the next one I should be free.” You hated how awkward you sounded.

He nodded, and took his phone out of his pocket to extend it for you, and you assumed he was asking for your number in the Ghost-est fashion possible. You unlocked it, noticing the lack of a password and the factory wallpaper, realizing it was probably a personal and barely used phone, punching your number in and saving the contact. As you returned the device to Simon, you found solace in realizing he probably felt as awkward as you did.

“I’ll see you in a fortnight, then.” 

With a last nod of his head, he left, leaving you flustered, confused, but extremely giddy, and with a heart pounding against your ribcage. 

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

Simon came back a week before he was supposed to.

As usual, you were closing up shop when he showed up, distractedly walking around the front room of the studio as you organized everything for the night, the sound of the heavy rain outside covering up the creaking of the glass door, so when you turned around, his presence startled you. 

“Hi Simon! You’re early.” You chuckled once you recovered from your scare, but he didn’t match your energy. He was just standing there, stiff as a plank, and staring silently at you. Growing increasingly worried, you were about to ask if he was alright when he beat you to it. 

“I’m leaving for a mission. And i’ll be gone for…some time.” 

Your heart dropped, and you could only stare at his mask trying to process his words and find words, but ultimately settling on a quiet and disappointed oh. He finally approached you, and in less than a second he was standing towering over your figure, holding you in that familiar eye contact you’d grown to look forward to so much, even if you'd realized by his gaze that he seemed just as upset as you. 

“Will you…be in danger?” It was a dumb question, but you couldn’t help yourself, everything you told yourself the days about moving slowly and waiting for your first date to decide how much you cared flying out the window as you openly worried for him for the first time. Ghost sighed, and suddenly you were hyper aware of how close you stood.

“I always am.” 

Not breaking away from his intoxicating gaze, your words lowered to a whisper, a plea.

“Be careful. Please.” 

The air stilled around you, thicker in tension that got worse with each passing millisecond, all of those feeling like hours. Simon’s height had never seemed so intimidating, and you never chastised yourself so much before for liking how his intense aura made you feel, something that increased tenfold once he boldly got even closer to you. Opening and closing your mouth like a fish, hoping something would come out eventually, you stilled upon feeling his gloved hands gingerly touching your face - dwarfing you in them - and you swore your heart was about to leap from your chest to your throat in a matter of seconds. His steely gaze flickered downwards briefly before returning to your eyes, asking for permission for something you didn’t even know quite right what it was, but that you’d give him regardless. The rough texture of his gloved left hand reached your now slightly parted lips as he traced the bottom of them with his thumb, moving his other hand to slowly lift up his balaclava just enough to expose his - unsurprisingly - sharp, stubbled jaw and full, lightly scarred lips. You barely had time to admire what you could see of him before his face was merely inches apart from yours, your breaths mingling together from both of your parted lips.

“You don’t even know what I look like.” He mumbled against you. A silent beg for you to stop him now, but you wouldn’t even dream of it.

“I don’t care.” You breathed back, voice barely above a whisper, and that seemed to break his resolve, as in the next moment he was leaning in and finally capturing your lips with his. 

Kissing Simon Riley in real life was so much better than what you imagined. His height made it that he had to lean down an awkward amount to reach you and you actually had to stand a bit on your toes, but none of that mattered as you finally felt his lips move against yours, surprisingly slow and gentle for a man that looked like that, but you supposed he was always full of surprises. He moved his hands from your face to your waist, gripping with a little more force when you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, encouraging him to kiss you harder - it would be a waste not to feel just how strong those huge arms of his could get wrapping around you. Groaning into your mouth, his touch soon became ravenous as he tasted you like a starved man, both of you now knowing it might as well be the last time you’d see each other, but you didn’t want to dwell too much on it, choosing instead to focus on the way he gripped the back of your thighs and lifted you onto the counter as if you weighed nothing, getting even impossibly closer to your smaller frame, never breaking the kiss. You felt like you could stay wrapped up in his arms for hours, but at some point you had to part your lips, keeping your foreheads touching and looking at each other without saying another word.

He waited until you closed up and walked you to your car again; except, this time, as you watched his retreating figure from the rearview mirror, your chest felt constricted, the unsureness of if he’d ever come back alive clenching your throat in fear. 

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

The late june spring air smelled good, and you were in high spirits. 

You hummed contently, cleaning with a paper towel wet with soapy water the last smudges on the inked skin, leaning back to admire your work. The black crow on his upper back turned out particularly good, and you found it amusing how its edgy nature went along well with the other tattoos already on his body. Spreading the hydrating vaseline to wrap the piece up took a little more than you’d take with other clients, since you were busy admiring and feeling up the strong, scarred back beneath your fingertips. 

“All done!” 

The man got up, admiring the crow in an awkward angle in front of the full body mirror, and you couldn’t help but keep staring at the muscular back and pecs that you could see from your position in your chair.

“Quit the ogling.”

His voice sounded gruffy, but slightly amused, which made you chuckle and get up, stopping by his side to lean against his huge arms and stare back at him through the mirror.

“Quit being hot, then.”

Simon rolled his eyes, but you knew he was smiling under the mask and possibly had the slightest red dusting his cheeks - since he was so pale, you’d always notice it when he had his mask off, and in turn, he’d always notice how you’d stare at his face with a smug smile. He looked over the tattoo once more before you wrapped it up, past the stage of giving him the instructions, all of them already second nature to him, considering it had been so many years he started getting tattooed by you.

“You know” You started as he followed you to the front door of the mostly empty studio, the only other sound being the tattoo machine of a single other coworker that was staying late in their own procedure room. “You don’t have to wait for me, you know I still got another client and it should take one or two hours more.” 

Ghost huffed, turning to you with his hands on his jacket pockets, the height difference between you never failing to take all the air out of your lungs.

“Nonsense. He’s not supposed to be here for another half an hour, right? I’ll go grab us some dinner from that place you like and I’ll be right back. I’ll help you close up then we can go home.” 

You shook your head with a giggle, watching as he came closer to you, and were about to protest more but he gave you a look that left no chance for you to be stubborn, shutting you right up. Taking one hand out of his pocket, Simon lifted his mask just enough for you to see his jaw - which you had already admired that morning while he was shaving - and his lips, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on your cheek. You smiled, feeling him murmur just so you could hear it.

“See you in a minute, love.”

With that, he left, leaving you to watch fondly his retreating form from the glass door, as you chuckled dreamily one last time and went back to your procedure room.

The Hightower children x Motherly!Reader

N/a: As you can tell I have mommy issues, comfort, Aegon isn't a piece of shit, Fluff, Hurt almost no comfort.

You were Alicent's nanny . You've sworn chastity so you would never have children nor a husband, best you could do was perform your duties as the Queen Children's nanny.

You helped Alicent when Aegon was born "My Queen, you had a handsome healthy boy" you said as you tried to handed him to her but she looked the other way

After all, Aegon represents her childhood and innocence being taken from her. He was the vivid reminder that she wasn't a young girl anymore but a woman who's duty was to bear children for Viserys.

"Shhh... please don't cry little prince" you said as you tried to calm him "My Queen, you need to breastfeed him" you said as she took him and started to feed him but her face was a blank expression.

Three years have pass and Aegon is now 2 and a girl was born, Helaena.

Then Aemond and Daeron came into the picture. You would treat their sickness and heal their wounds.

"She doesn't stop crying!" A maid exclaimed "What do we do?!" Another one said "I'll take her" Alicent said 2 year old Helaena wouldn't stop crying but the baby didn't ceased "My Queen I can help you" you offered as Helaena's swollen eyes were full of tears "I'm her mother, I can calm her down" you backed up

Helaena's cries were filling Red Keep and Alicent was getting desperate. The baby girl's cries woke 4 year old Aegon, 1 year old Aemond and Daeron.

"(Y/n)!" She called you but you had gone to the market to get some groceries and you'd return some hours later.

"Hello, I'm here" you announce but you saw the castle was a whole mess, Alicent was sitting in her bed edge while massaging her temple

"(Y/n)! Where have you been!" She yelled at you as she got closer with Helaena still in her arms "I went to buy goods" you explained yourself

She handed Helaena to you and the Maids gave Aemond and Daeron to you, you didn't even knew where you had the strength to carry three kids but you did

You instantly calm them down and put them in their bed as you took Aegon into your arms and patted his back "Don't worry my little prince" you said as you caressed his back and his head lay on your shoulder "I'm tired mama, I want to sleep" he muttered with a tired tone "Then go to sleep my prince" you murmured to his ear "You won't leave us, right?" He ask "I will never leave you" you promised as he fell into a deep sleep.

As time passed they all became more attached to you.

You helped them all bathe, 5 year old Aegon, 3 year old Helaena, and 2 years old Aemond and Daeron were bathing together

They were all children so there wasn't a lot of problems and you also had some maid to help you, You massaged Aegon's scalp as he relaxes "I want that too, mama!" Helaena's sweet voice draw your attention to her

You massaged both their scalps as both young boys play in the bathtub. "Alright time to get out" you said and all groaned "Do we have to, mama?" Aemond asked "If you guys listen to me I can make cake later" you said and Daeron got out of the bathtub first.

When Daeron left to Old town you were so sad "Promised me you'll stay here when I visit you" he says as you kissed his forehead and hugged him "You're a very strong boy, you'll be just fine and I'll be here waiting for you" you promised him

When you found out Helaena was dreamer you were so happy

"Everyone thinks I'm weird, my father who is a dreamer as well doesn't know it and my mother doesn't understand it" she said sadly

"You have a very special gift, but many people aren't prepared for it. That doesn't has to bring you down, you're my dreamer and let everyone else think whatever they want. You will be loved by many once they know you" you took her face between your hands and look at her face and she burried her face in your chest

When Aemond was teased about his dragon you were there to comfort him, "But mama, They all make fun of me" he said sadly as you two stand close to each other "A dragon doesn't determine your worth, you're a very handsome prince If you'd ask me" you said subtly to tease him "You think I'm handsome?!" He asks happily "The fairest of them all" you told him as he smile

He still wanted a dragon but he feels better to know that he doesn't need a dragon to impress you

When Aemond lose an eye everything just kept crumbling between the families dynamics. "Mama?" He called your name as you cleaned his scar as usual "Mhmm?" You hummed "Am I still your handsome boy?" He ask as he looks up to you with a teary eye

"You're still as handsome as always, I don't know what you're talking about?" You answered and he smiled "Scars tell stories. You can invent any story about it. The incredible Aemond fought a lion and lost his eye on the process!" You teased as he laughed "My handsome boy" You said with a warm smile.

"I don't even know why mother was mad at me because Aemond lost an eye" he complained to you about it as you heard him

You found Aegon at the castle's stairs pass out "You should stop drinking, Aegon. It's not good for your health" you said as he slowly regained consciousness "Mama, I don't want to be king" he muttered "Your mother won't like what you're saying. Let's help with your hungover" you said

He lay at the tub as you cleaned his hair "Aegon..." you said with a low voice "Yes..." he said "I will departure from Red keep..." you finally said

"You can't do that" he said turning around and looking at you "I can and I will" you stated "King Viserys already gave me his permission" you explained

"Where will you go?! Are you coming back?!" So many questions invaded his head. You couldn't leave them! "My duty here is done, Other children need me. That's what I was raised for" you said.

Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond never reunited for almost anything but this were important matters. You were leaving!

"Why did you never told me you are leaving King's landing?!" Aemond stormed into your room as you read a book "Is it that important?" You said calmly "It's not anyone who's leaving. It's you!" He shouts "You are grown adults already, you don't need me here anymore" you said as he left your room

"Helaena" you called her as you enter her room "I already know about your departure." She says as she looks at her window "Please don't be sad about it" you comforted her "You are my mother, I need you here" she's almost begging "Im sorry my little dreamer but I have to go" you said as you hug her and she cries on your shoulder.

You left for a long time until you were called by your king. Viserys called you privately had a word with you. "I want you to return to Red Keep to take care of my Grandchildren" he said.

It was a surprise and when Helaena saw you she dropped everything she had. She ran towards you and held your face "Is it really you, mother?!" She eagerly asks with tears in her eyes "It is me" you said with a smile.

When Aemond heard the commotion he ran towards it and saw you, he instantly dropped his sword and ran towards you while you hugged him.

"Time to wake up" you said "Leave me alone" he said thinking it was a common maid "That's not a way to speak to me" you said as he recognized that voice "Mama?..." he looked up and saw your face "Hello my little prince" you said as he hugged you tightly with tears in his eyes, he didn't say a word, he just cherish that moment.

Aegon: So you like Aemond?

Y/N: Yes...Thoughts?

Aegon: and prayers, girl what