𝓵𝓲𝓿

☁️*ੈ♡⸝⸝🧸⋆ ♡₊˚ soft-spoken chaos in coffee colors ₊✧ 🦦 ; 18y

[livienatzk]

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆

about me

༄˖°.🪐.ೃ࿔*:･

hi, i’m Liv! (18 - she/her)

i write because something in me won’t stay still — and i like it that way.

this blog is all coffee tones and cold wars, soft calls wrapped in bitter roast.

expect thoughts spilled like caffeine at 2am and stories that taste like blood under your tongue.

➤ what i write about:

✦ mostly Call of Duty — especially Ghost. always Ghost.

✦ sometimes Resident Evil

✦ always whatever game or disaster my brain is currently fixated on

✦ my writing leans toward canon, especially with Ghost. he’s complicated, and that’s how i like him.

➤ what you won’t really find here:

✦ not much fluff (like EXTREMELY fluff) — i prefer quiet moments, messy feelings, and characters still learning how to be human

✦ i don’t write smut (at least not yet). maybe one day. for now, i’m more drawn to silence, tension, and the weight behind a small gesture

✦ if intimacy shows up, it’ll probably be awkward, quiet, and kind of sad — and maybe that’s just how it’s supposed to be

✦ i’m still learning, so be kind. every post is a little experiment in softness and sharp edges

✦ everything is written by me — no AI

also: i like coffee more than other people.

✦ tags:

[livienatzk]

husband!simon who can tie 100 knots but not a single braid warnings!: dad!simon

Simon was finally home after another grueling deployment. Weeks of dirt, blood, and silence had left their marks on him — the stiffness in his shoulders, the dark hollows under his eyes. But here, standing in the warm glow of his own living room, it felt… quieter. Softer.

All he wanted now was to melt into the mundane — to exist not as Ghost, but as Simon. As a husband. As a father.

The first ten minutes were bliss. He let himself sink into the couch, your head resting on his shoulder while your daughter played with her toys on the rug. For once, his body wasn’t on high alert.

But then… he went quiet. Too quiet.

You only realized when you noticed the faint sound of grumbling coming from the living room. Peeking around the corner, the sight almost made you choke on your laughter.

Simon Riley — 6’2 of muscle, tattoos, and scars, a man feared on and off the battlefield — was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Your daughter sat patiently between his knees, tiny hands gripping a stuffed rabbit while her hair… oh, God.

Her hair looked like it had been through basic training. Loops, half-braids, and—was that a bowline knot?

“Simon…” you began carefully, trying to smother the laugh rising in your chest.

He didn’t look up. His calloused fingers—so deft with weapons, so steady under fire—fumbled clumsily with the silky strands like they were live wires.

“She asked for a braid,” he muttered, voice flat but betraying the faintest edge of frustration. “What she got,” you teased, stepping closer, “is a series of tactical knots.”

Your daughter wriggled slightly, making a little face. “Daddy, it feels funny!”

He huffed, setting the comb aside with all the gravity of laying down a weapon. “Don’t move, little love. This is… bloody advanced training.”

You knelt beside him, gently reaching for the poor child’s hair. As your fingers brushed his, you felt the tension in his hands — the same tension that never quite left his body, even here. “She’s gonna look like she’s been deployed, Si,” you said softly, working to undo one of the more creative knots.

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Better. She’ll be the most secure toddler out there. Won’t lose a single hair to the wind.”

But when your daughter’s giggles bubbled up at his words, something in him eased. He wasn’t Ghost here. Wasn’t the hardened soldier. Just Simon. Just her dad.

And for now, that was enough.

[livienatzk]

knight!Simon yearning the princess!reader love

The morning sun spilled gold over Velbrun’s gardens, its light soft and slow, kissing the castle towers and shimmering off the still waters of the royal fountains. Roses—red, ivory, pale as moonlight—bloomed in neat rows, as if the earth itself had woven them for you.

You walked among them. Your hair—loose for the first time—fell in waves over your delicate shoulders. The white brocade dress, embroidered with pearls and threads of gold, whispered against the stone path. Every step sounded like poetry.

Behind you, a few paces back, followed Sir Riley. His light armor bore the wear of years, his cloak shifting with each measured movement. A soldier’s eyes scanned the garden as if the whole world were a threat— Except you.

“Sir Riley,” you said softly, fingers brushing the petals of a white rose. “The flowers seem fairer today, don’t they?”

His head inclined, respectful but with an edge of warmth. “You lend them beauty, Princess. The roses are only trying to keep up.”

You smiled faintly, your eyes still on the bloom. “You speak like a poet. I didn’t think a soldier had such words.”

“Hearing your voice… even a blade would forget itself.”

You laughed—quiet, restrained. A princess couldn’t let her guard down, not even here.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you longed for more than the honor of guarding me.”

Silence. The distant sound of fountains filled the space between them.

His gaze met hers—not like a knight to his charge, but like a man to a woman. “Isn’t it enough? The honor?” he asked. His voice was steady, but something flickered beneath it.

“It’s all we’re allowed,” you murmured, finally turning to face him.

The wind teased golden strands across her cheeks. And for a heartbeat, nothing existed but them—no crowns, no duty, no cruel world to pull them apart.

“If this were another life…” he whispered, so low it was almost lost.

“I wouldn’t wear my hair up,” you said with a sad smile. “And you wouldn’t call me Princess.”

And there, among Velbrun’s roses, two hearts spoke every word their lips could never say.

[livienatzk]

husband!simon who refuses to take medicine

It was a quiet day in your shared home. You were curled up on the couch, watching some nostalgic show rerun. Simon, your husband, still hadn’t woken up.

But the coughing and sneezing echoing down the hallway made it obvious: he was up now.

Of course it was Simon. Who else would it be?

Even if he was the one sick, you knew you would be the one ending up with a headache.

“Simon? Are you okay, hon?” you called, getting up and walking toward your shared bedroom.

“I’m fine,” he rasped from the bed, his voice rough from all the coughing. He was clearly not fine.

“I’ll grab you some medicine,” you said, already turning around.

That’s when you heard the sound of sheets rustling aggressively.

“I don’t need medicine,” he grunted, standing up too fast—and swaying like a brick tower in a hurricane.

You rushed over, catching him by the arm before he collapsed.

“Yes, you do,” you said, deadpan. “And don’t make me force it down your throat, Simon Riley.”

He gave you that look. That Ghost look. The one that had probably made grown men shut up in the field. But you weren’t a grown man. You were his wife.

So naturally, you walked off and returned two minutes later with pills and a glass of water.

When he refused to open his mouth, you didn't hesitate—you straddled his legs, gripped his jaw, and shoved the pills toward his lips.

He caught your wrist mid-motion.

“Are you seriously trying to medicate me like a feral dog?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“Yes,” you replied sweetly. “Now swallow, soldier.”

He looked at you like this was the ultimate betrayal, then sighed through his nose—and let go of your wrist.

“Fine.”

He took the pills, washed them down, and looked at you like you'd just punched his pride in the face.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“I know,” you said, planting a kiss on his fevered temple. “But you love me more than you hate Tylenol.”

Simon rolled his eyes and leaned back onto the bed like he’d just been defeated in battle.

And maybe he had.

You.

[livienatzk]

husband!simon setting up the baby's room warnings!: bad words, pregnancy.

It was a cold afternoon.

You were wrapped up in a thick blanket on the couch, half-asleep, barely paying attention to the TV. The final month of pregnancy had turned you into a furnace of exhaustion, cold, and drifting thoughts.

Suddenly, a sharp grunt followed by a dry curse.

"Son of a bitch"

You flinched. The voice came from the nursery. That’s when you remembered: he was home. For the weekend.

More curses, more wood cracking. You got up slowly and walked to the door.

Simon — or Ghost, because it was impossible not to think of him that way when he looked that focused — was kneeling on the floor, surrounded by crib pieces, screws scattered around, hammer in hand.

You leaned against the doorway. He didn’t look at you.

"This manual was written by idiots" he muttered.

"You said we were gonna build it together, remember?" you said quietly, your hand resting on your heavy belly.

"That was the plan. But the manual’s useless. And I don’t have time to waste."

The sharpness in his voice wasn’t for you. It was frustration, mostly aimed at himself.

You sighed and stepped back. You knew better than to push.

When you came back minutes later, the crib was standing. And... tilted.

Ghost stood up slowly, arms crossed, staring down the crib like it was an enemy target. His fingers tapped against his elbow as his mind scanned for flaws.

"I’m not sure she’ll fit in there, Moonie." you tried, half-joking.

He didn’t answer. Just ran a hand down his face. Then looked at you. At your belly. And for a second — just one — something cracked behind his eyes.

"She’ll fit," he said flatly. But there was something in his tone. Pressure.

You took a step toward him. Then another. Until you stood right in front of him.

"Love... it doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be real."

Simon said nothing. But his hand came to rest on your belly.

You saw his jaw tense, eyes fixed on the life inside you.

"I’ll fix it," he muttered. No drama. No softness.

Just promise.

And even without sweet words or kisses, you felt it.

Felt that, in his own way, Ghost was trying to be a father.

[livienatzk]

husband!simon who can't sleep anywhere else. warnings!: pregnancy, mild angst.

Your pregnancy hadn’t been easy. Pain, loneliness, discomfort, breakdowns — and more pain.

Simon had been there when he could. Even as your husband, he couldn’t stay with you through all of it. He had to work.

The missions started getting longer. But you understood. You loved him. And you’d accepted this the moment you said “I do” in that quiet city hall.

You never complained — because he loved you. And you loved him. At least, he was there for the birth.

After your daughter was born, Simon — or rather, Ghost — went back to routine. Two months home, two months away. Sometimes more. Sometimes only two weeks.

Now, Ghost lay on a makeshift “bed” — a stiff mattress, surrounded by snoring grown men. It stank of sweat, blood, and war-worn exhaustion. Nothing he wasn’t used to.

But sleep didn’t come easy. Not for Ghost. Not for Simon. He’d always struggled with sleeping in new places. Ironic, really.

That night, he’d only slept for two hours. It was 2AM. He glanced around — everyone else was asleep.

He grabbed the disposable phone. Every mission, Task Force 141 got one. He still wasn’t great with tech, but a notification... that he noticed.

A new message.

He opened it.

It was a photo. You, holding your daughter in your arms. You were smiling, exhausted but glowing. The baby asleep, peaceful.

The message read: “We’re okay. Don’t worry. We love you 💕”

Simon — because for a few seconds, he wasn’t Ghost anymore — didn’t know how you’d gotten the number to that burner phone. Didn’t matter.

His chest warmed.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

He stared at the photo for a while. You looked tired. He noticed. And guilt settled in. Your daughter was perfect, in her little white onesie covered in tiny stars.

Simon missed you. Both of you.

He shut the phone off. Closed his eyes.

And that night...

Simon slept more than two hours.

[livienatzk]

husband!simon who eats your terrible cake without hesitation but insults every bite

Simon came home reeking of sweat, gunpowder, and dried blood. The skull mask still clung to his face, the vest heavy on his shoulders. He was Ghost.

But the second he stepped through the door, he let himself be Simon.

“You’re back!” you said, throwing your arms around him, hugging him tight. He didn’t hug back right away. Affection wasn’t his native language. But then his arms wrapped around your waist — heavy, rough — almost lifting you off the floor.

“Yeah.” He grunted, face buried in your neck. You pulled back a little, nose wrinkling.

“Babe… you smell like death. Go shower.” “Later.” “No. Now.” “I’m starving.” “I made cake.”

Magic word.

You headed to the kitchen. The carrot cake with chocolate frosting was still warm, and the glaze slid slowly down the edges.

You cut him a thick slice and brought it back. Simon had already dropped his mask and vest onto the couch like old bones. He sat down, still in his sweat-soaked shirt, looking worn and wired.

You set the plate in front of him. He didn’t even look at you — just started eating like he hadn’t seen food in days. And not to brag, but he even ate the crumbs.

“What the hell did you put in this? Detergent?” he asked, his face twisting mid-bite. “Excuse me?” “This is awful. Rubbery. No sugar. And you clearly burned it.” — he said, shoving another piece into his mouth.

You blinked. “If it’s so bad, why are you still eating it?”

He looked up, chewing.

“Because it’s warm. And I’m starving.”

Then, without a word, he reached across the table and grabbed your hand. His fingers were cold, rough, but firm.

“Thank you.” he said, low — eyes still on the cake.

Your husband was strange. Traumatized. Emotionally numb. Often rude.

But he was your husband.

He was Simon.

Your Simon.

The one who ate your burnt, rubbery cake like it was the only thing in the world still warm.

[livienatzk]

husband!simon who is being tormented with nightmares warnings!: nightmares (if is that even a warning)

Simon Riley was never good at sleeping. After years of trauma, his sleep was light. Broken. Sometimes hours, sometimes seconds.

And it wasn’t his fault. Scars that deep don’t heal right — maybe never will.

He was lying in the king-sized bed you two had wanted so bad, staring at the ceiling. Eyes open. You were asleep next to him. He didn’t want to wake you up.

Sweat. A tight grip on the tactical knife hidden under his pillow — the same one you said was reckless, dangerous. That’s what Simon was right then: A disgusting mountain of sweat and fear.

Fear? Fear of the dead. Of the faces. The sounds. Everything that followed him home from that mission.

Everything that still wouldn’t let him go.

If he could, he’d be crying.

Any normal person would be crying after dreaming what he just dreamed.

But Simon was a soldier. Not just any soldier. One who had seen too much. Too much, too much, to cry like some scared little boy.

A sound outside made his body tense. His grip on the knife tightened.

“Go back to sleep, Simon,” you mumbled, still half-dreaming, half-awake. His breathing had already pulled you from REM.

“I was sleeping,” he growled.

“No, you weren’t,” you answered, curling into his chest.

“I was. You were asleep, how would you even know—”

“Your damn breathing.”

Silence. He was about to argue. But stopped. His breathing… yeah. It wasn’t so quiet anymore.

Fuck.

A soldier, and he couldn’t even let his wife sleep?

“…Okay. Maybe I wasn’t.”

“Deep breath. One, two. Close your eyes. I’m here.”

And you really were.

And you’d never leave his side.