Marina

Blue is the colour of the shirt of the man I love. *NSFW*

[r0m4ncetrash]

Masterlist

Posts with * contain mature themes (NSFW, 18+)

Red Dead Redemption 2:

Arthur Morgan:

*Broken Promises - The bank robbery goes terribly wrong. Arthur breaks a promise, he never thought he’d be able to keep. 

*Shattered bones, shattered hearts - After a long time, Arthur finds his way to the reader’s door. Little do you know, with Morgan comes trouble- and bounty hunters as well. 

[ave661]

"Ghost, do you have Hassan?"

[peachesofteal]

Courthouse

Part seven of the Sassy series

Simon Riley/female reader 2.1k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI (no smut) mentions of blood, brief mention of sex, little bit of angst, fluff, romance. Uncle Johnny, Soft Simon Riley. Note: I wrote this with Haley Reinhart’s version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” in mind. You're the sun.

Wise men say Only fools rush in But I can't help falling in love with you

Theo thrashes in Johnny’s arms, making irritated mouth sounds while squirming his body in a desperate effort to pry himself loose from his uncle’s grip. The man behind the desk gives the lad a kind smile, before turning his attention back to the paperwork fanned out before him, and Johnny huffs in exasperation, his forearms banded around the giant six-month-old who continues his attempts at crashing his head into his uncle’s chin.

“Bleedin’ christ Theo, be still.”

“He wants his mum.” Simon explains, reaching over to wipe some drool from Theo’s chin with his thumb. “She’ll be here in a minute.” He tries to reason, patting Theo’s back to get his attention. He can’t understand him, but you insist on speaking to Theo like he’s an adult, telling him everything and anything about what’s going on at any given moment, so Simon does the same. He trusts your instincts.

The sound of a handle clicking draws his attention and he turns to the two oak panels that slowly part to reveal where you stand on the other side, hands clasped in front of your waist, nervous smile on your face. You’ve left your hair down, a rarity now since Theo has taken to attempting to rip it from your scalp every chance he gets, and your eyes are a little red, like you’ve already been crying.

Your dress is white. A crisp, bright white that reflects the morning sun that streams in through the tall windows. It’s a far cry from your field uniform and tac vest, or the leggings sweatshirt combo that you’ve been sporting around the house. Not that he’s complaining, because he considers every day he gets with you a gift that he’s not sure he deserves, a gift he’s still terrified will slip through his fingers when he closes his eyes. But this, this day, this dress is different. This wedding dress, that hangs delicately at your knees and has intricate lace that flows over your shoulders, is a special, sacred thing that he is still having trouble believing is really happening.

You had been so nervous about it this morning, tutting at Theo while you strapped him into the car seat, anxious to avoid having it smudged or stained. Simon had watched you, indulgently, from behind, as you bent at the waist to give the baby a sloppy kiss, whispering about how much you loved him, how cute he was, how good and perfect he was being, and how he better not torture his Uncle Johnny. You had wrestled Theo into this little dress shirt-pant combo that kind of matched Simon’s, and he had promptly spit up on it during the drive over here, Johnny frantically trying to dab it clean from where he sat in the backseat without you noticing.

When he looks at you now, wearing this dress, he feels like he’s having a heart attack. He thinks he might be dying. Not dying, he tells himself, just getting married.  

Shall I stay? Would it be a sin If I can't help falling in love with you?

“You better get yer fuckin’ hands away unless you’re the one with MD in your title.” He snaps, long strides eating up the distance between him and med tent. The medic, a nervous looking young guy, tries to keep up next to him, hands fluttering uselessly over where you’re bleeding out of your abdomen. Johnny throws the medic an apologetic grimace as a woman, the trauma surgeon on base here, meets Simon just as he’s bursting through the door, two more assists behind her with a gurney. 

“This the gunshot wound?” The surgeon points to the metal transport bed, and he places you down as gently as possible, cradling the back of your head so it doesn’t thunk against the hard plastic. Your eyes flutter open, red stained hand reaching for something. 

“Ghost.” you slur, bloody fingers dragging across his vest. The gurney slides into place in a room, and your body jostles, a ragged moan slipping from your lips at the movement. He glares at the two medics on either side of you, and their faces go white. 

“I’ve got you.” He says, gripping your hand in his, eyes trained on yours. You blink, hazily, mouth moving but no words coming out. Fear, real, shockingly cold terror, snakes through his entire body, and he squeezes your hand so tight he thinks he might be hurting you. A minute, maybe less, passes like this, with him unwilling to tear himself away, until he feels a hand on his shoulder, Johnny’s voice right above his ear. 

“You gotta let them work, LT. They’ll take care of her.”

Like a river flows Surely to the sea Darling, so it goes Some things are meant to be

It’s not an aisle in a church. He’s not flanked by family or dozens of friends. Just Theo, a judge-type official, and Johnny bear witness. He thinks you’re supposed to have a bouquet, or someone walking you towards him, but you don’t have either of those, no one to hand you off, no one to tell you how much they love you before shaking his hand like they approve of this. He briefly thinks of Price, who’s known you longer than he has, who’s served as your captain on countless units, and feels a pang of regret. He wonders, if you thought about him being here with Johnny to witness, to celebrate.

It feels loud, for a moment. Like there’s too much going on, like Theo’s soft babbles are actually screams, like he’s not even really here. He fights the blank, white space that’s burning at the edge of his mind, fractured clips skipping through his skull, mixing with his memories until he’s not sure what’s truly going on.

He’s jolted back into his body when your hands take his.

“Hey.” you whisper with a squeeze of your fingers. “You okay?”

“Shoulda got you flowers.” He mumbles, disappointment tinging the words.

“Why?” You give Theo and Johnny an obvious look before swinging your gaze back to him. “Looks like I’ve got everything I need.”

Take my hand Take my whole life, too For I can't help falling in love with you

“What the FUCK is this?” you shake the stack of papers in your hand, and he sits rigidly in the chair where you’ve cornered him. He doesn’t look at you, focusing anywhere else but where you stand in the tent as your voice changes, the tone hitting high notes of disbelief and anger.

“Can’t have ya here Sass.” He trains his eyes on the wall to your left and resists the urge to bolt or worse, grab those damned papers and tear them to pieces. 

“So, you reported an intimate relationship to Price? Just to get rid of me?” He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to explain it. Yes, no. No, yes. He needs you to leave, before it happens, before you’re lost forever. “Oh my fucking god, Simon.” Your laugh is bitter and it breaks him apart somewhere, somewhere deep and buried, somewhere you should have never touched in the first place. 

“Can’t have ya here.” He can’t do this. Can’t feel this, can’t go through with this, can’t get this over fast enough. His heart feels like it’s burning in his chest. The walls look like they’re going to cave in and crush him, kill him where he sits. 

He stands on auto-pilot, a burning panic searing under his skin. 

“Simon!” He hears you yell; he hears your scream but he’s already walking away as fast as he can, desperate to escape your pain, running like a bloody coward. “Fuck you, Simon Riley.” Your words die on the wind, but he hears them all the same.

Like a river flows Surely to the sea Darling, so it goes Some things are meant to be

“I, Simon Riley, take you-“ he stumbles over your name, voice dangerously close to cracking with emotion. “for my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part…”

“I will love and honor you all the days of my life.” The official prompts, and he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He can’t look away from you, can’t see anything else but you, the memories of your laughter, of your screams, of the way you sound when he’s inside you. Can’t think about anything except how terrifying it is, to have you, to feel the way he does, to know you in the way he does, to love you in a world like this. 

Johnny clears his throat.

He presses down on your hand that he’s holding, just a little harder, and moves his thumb to where your pulse beats. Strong and steady. He takes a deep breath.

“I will love and honor you all the days of my life.”

Take my hand Take my whole life, too

“You,” he hears you say, voice light and sweet, “are going to be so smart, and kind, and strong. You’re going to be able to be whoever you want to be, do anything your heart desires.” He holds his body incredibly still, standing around the corner just so he can see the sway of your hips moving side to side as you rock Theo. “except maybe, don’t go into the military. I don’t think me, or your dad want you to follow in our footsteps. You should do something cool instead. Build rockets or become an acrobat. Anything you want.” Theo babbles and you tap the baby on his nose, causing him to shriek with laughter, little baby giggles seeping into Simon’s bones and warming him from the inside out. 

It’s a sight he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. It’s the sight he knows he’ll see when he closes his eyes for the last time one day. He doesn’t deserve this, that he knows. He doesn’t deserve the happy ending, doesn’t deserve to be loved by you, or Theo, or anyone really. He’s caused too much pain, taken too much, hurt too many people, hurt you. 

The glaring reality is that if he was a better man, he’d give you up. He’d save you from himself. Not push you away because you terrify him, no. He’d let you go, let you be free to find someone else, to build your life away from him and the hell that is his existence. 

But he’s a selfish man, not a good one. You, and Theo, are the brightest point in his world. You’re everything. You’re the sun. 

He can’t live without you.

For I can't help falling in love with you

“You may kiss the bride.”

He cradles your face, thumb smearing a runaway tear across your cheek. You’re crying, but trying really hard not to, and you sniffle with a laugh before his lips find yours, the kiss so sweet, so overwhelming that he loses himself in it, sneaking his tongue between your teeth, sliding a palm down your hip to the curve of your ass-

Theo shrieks. He flails in Johnny’s arms, unreasonable and uncontained, so Simon pulls him into his own, cradling the boy against his chest while you try to hold them both.

“What do you say, want to help dad put this on?” You stroke some of Theo’s wispy curls while Johnny pulls something from his pocket, a gold ring, sized for Simon’s finger. He hands it to you, and you let Theo wrap a curious paw around it.

“I have a silicone one for you too.” You say quietly, lowering the band to his ring finger. “But I thought you might want this, for when you’re at home.” You push it halfway on before pulling it off, eyes widening for a moment. “I uh, forgot. It’s inscribed.” He plucks it from your fingertips to inspect it, and the tiny, engraved writing gleams in the light.

‘I got you. -S.R.’

“S.R?” His initials? 

“Sass. Riley.” There’s a timid smile on your face, and he’s lost his breath, again, for the hundredth time today as he stares down at you, unsure if he’s dreaming or not. You pull the ring from his grasp, slipping it onto his finger the whole way this time, stroking the pad of your thumb overtop the gold.

“Do you like it?” Theo babbles in his arms, swinging a small fist into his chest.

He nods and leans forward, ghosting his lips across yours, gentle and soft as he whispers, “I love it, Mrs. Riley.”

For I can't help falling in love with you.

[loneghostwolf-deactivated202408]

Ghost: Remember, we want Hassan alive, but this is capture or kill

[peachesofteal]

Sunlight

Part six of the Sassy series

Simon Riley/female reader 3.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI (no smut but this fic has mature themes), mentions of violence, blood/injury and bombs, panic attacks, hurt/comfort, PTSD, dissociation, fluff, little bit of angst, comfort, caretaking. Simon was due home four days ago.

The clock reads two in the morning. Your tea sits cold on the coffee table, television droning on mindlessly in the background at a low volume, so it doesn’t wake Theo. You’ve given up the incessant pacing for laying on the couch, the cushions sagging in the middle where Simon usually sits, the creak in the armrest on his side a surprisingly comforting sound compared to the repetitive tick of the clock's second hand.

His bag waits by the door. Theo sleeps in the wrap that has him tied to your chest, his face squished against your skin, long lashes laying flush against his cheeks. 

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” you whisper, notching your fingers into the crook of Simon’s elbow. You apply soft pressure, just enough to draw him closer to you, until he’s standing with an arm around your back, leaning down to nuzzle Theo. 

“I’m sure, Sass.” You swallow a rebuttal, the anxiety of him leaving for an op crawling up your throat, threatening to spill out in the form of unnecessary pleas for assurances that he’ll be coming back. 

Promises that he’ll be coming home. 

Promises that he’ll never be able to make. 

He pulls away with a sigh, cradling your face and tilting your chin upwards, before sealing his lips over yours, parting your mouth with his tongue and tasting you. 

“Only a few weeks, yeah?” his thumb strokes along your cheekbone while he presses a whisper soft kiss to the top of the baby’s head. You nod. 

“Only a few weeks.”

“Where are you, Si.” It’s the fourth night of this, the waiting. The overdue arrival bears down on you, reducing you to a nervous mess, something you’ve never been before Theo, before him.

You used to sit still, sit silent.

Now, you’re pacing holes into the floor of your house, waiting for the missing piece of your family to come home, four days overdue.

Four days overdue. The first night you tried not to let it eat at you. Things happen. Combat engagement, recon, overwatch, anything could take longer than initially planned or expected. The second night, your rational thought started to slip. Worst case scenarios started to play out in your mind, the stress of not knowing what’s going on keeping you awake, keeping you on edge. You’d cuddle Theo for hours, nose pressed to the crown of his head, hand softly patting his back as you rocked him, trying not to watch your phone as you waited for the text from the restricted number. By the third night, you were dread spiraling. Who would make the call? Would it be Price, knocking on your door with regret in his eyes, carrying the news that your son’s father, your partner, is dead? Would it be Kyle? Or Johnny? Fear spread through you like a virus. He can’t be gone. He can’t. He promised. 

Tonight, you were uncertain. It would take a lot to kill Simon Riley, would take even more to kill Ghost. But what if he’s been taken again? What if he’s being tortured? Or worse. What if he needs you? Your stomach flips violently as you freefall through all the possibilities.

“Where are you?”

“Yeah Johnny, I’ll tell him. Be safe.” You hang up the phone and look at Simon out of the corner of your eye. 

“Simon… why didn’t you tell me you took indefinite leave?”

“I told ya I took leave.”

“You didn’t want to mention that it’s indefinite? That you didn’t give him a return date?”

“Didn’t know when it’d be. Didn’t want to commit to anything.” You roll over slowly to where he’s lying on his back, propped up slightly with a pillow. Fingers drag under his sweatshirt and up his stomach, until your palm lays flat over his heart. 

“Are you planning on going back? To the 141?” 

“When he really needs me, he’ll call. ‘Til then, I want to be here. With you.” His fingertips stroke slowly over where your belly is covered by the blanket, until he’s moving it aside and the heat of his skin is against yours.

You’re not sure what time it is when you wake. You sit up, blanket pooling around your lap, blindly groping for your phone when the mass of a shadow shifts just at the very edge of your line of sight. Almost like it’s not there at all.

It takes you three, maybe four, seconds before you rationalize everything. Your eyes adjust, and you can make out the lines of his body, the extremely dim light from the hallway illuminating the balaclava, the way his shoulders are hunched forward, hands curled atop his knees.

“Simon?” your throat scratches. He doesn’t respond. You stretch to the side, pulling the chain on the end table lamp, and the light dances across his face. You blink in surprise.

He’s still wearing the paint. 

“Ghost.” The call sign comes out more like a command, but calm, and his muscles tense under his clothes, fingers digging into his legs. You reach for his hand, keeping your touch as light as possible.

“Don’t.” he snaps, jerking backwards. You can hear the harsh line of his breathing, the tense crackle between his lungs.

“Okay.” Your mind is cycling, your own memories gnawing at you until you refocus, and then your phone vibrates in the spot where it’s fallen between the couch cushions. He lurches. “It’s just my phone.” You keep your voice soft, nearly as gentle as when you sing to Theo. A beat passes, and then he nods. You breathe a very small sigh of relief. He’s in there. “Do you want to take the balaclava off?” you coax, and he grunts out the first words you’ve heard him say in weeks.

“The paint.”

“We can take that off too.” His eyes flick up towards yours, and you see him, Simon, for only a second before he’s shuttered again. “Will you come with me?” He doesn’t answer. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. “Okay. Wait here.” You instruct, pushing a little more authority behind your voice, and step away slowly.

After you dart to your room to grab some sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, both Simon sized, you plug the sink in the kitchen. This will be easier than trying to get him up the stairs. Your first step is to get the balaclava off, and then the paint, if he’ll let you touch his face. If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to get him out of his clothes and into the clean ones.

You’ve seen this before. Not often, not enough that it’s comfortable, but enough that you know more or less what to do, so when you duck back into the living room and see he hasn’t moved, you square your shoulders.

“I’m going to bring you into the kitchen. You’re going to take my hand and follow my lead.”

“On you.” He rasps, and tears smart at the corners of your eyes.

“On me. I’ve got you.”

“We’re moving on second location. Sassy, what’s your status?” 

“I’ve found the bombs.” You don’t elaborate, too busy studying the heap of melted plastic. You think it’s Semtex, or some form of it, but can’t be sure. It barely has the odor, the one you can usually smell nearly half a mile away, and the rubber casing is green, not red. “Captain, I’ve got a situation. Gonna need more time, over.” 

“Copy. We’ll give you all we can.” You pull the gun from your shoulder and put it on a table before crouching before the greenish blob. There’s a small cut in the casement, and you lift it with slow fingers to reveal a square piece of metal, blinking with a red light. Detonation. 

“Nice and easy,” You mutter, disconnecting it from its power supply and watch with satisfaction when the light dies. “No explosions here today, folks. All-“ There’s a click, and a hiss, and then yellow fog explodes directly into your face. “What the fuck.” You choke, hands shooting forward. Your eyes begin to burn, and you frantically try to pat away whatever it is with your sleeves. 

You blink a few times and try to focus, pushing past the stinging sensation and the tears that are dripping down your cheeks. Your body felt fine, you weren’t experiencing any major pain that could be associated with injury, and you still had feeling in all extremities. You could hear the rumble of the HVAC system in the building, and the echo of shots coming from both inside and outside, but your vision was still dark. Black, like someone had flicked the lights off. 

A blackout. It was like you were in a noxious, corrosive blackout. 

Your mind starting turning. Not good, this was not good. This was worse than not good. You were physically blinded. Alone, in hostile territory with no way to navigate an escape route. 

A sitting duck. Ripe for the picking. 

“Captain-“ your finger releases the button and you take a shaky breath. “Price. I need extraction. I’ve been hit with something. A chemical. It’s critical. I won’t make rendezvous on my own.” 

“Stay your position, Sassy.” The answer is immediate, and you breathe a very small sigh of relief. 

“Copy.” You hold your hands out in front of you, one high, one low, and walk slowly in what you think is the direction of your gun. One step, two step. Right, left. Your fingers slide along the edge of the table, moving across the top until you feel the cool metal of your weapon and take it into your hands. You try to remember the layout of the room, where the door was, how many tables and chairs, but your panic is starting to bear down on you, and your thoughts are growing more erratic, clouded with fear. 

The sound of metal on metal, the door banging open into the wall, startles you.

 You swing, unsure where it is you’re even looking or even pointing. 

“Sass! Lower your weapon.” A voice barks. His voice. 

“Ghost.” You croak. The word sounds broken. 

“Bloody hell. What’re you doing?” You can barely hear his footsteps, but his voice is moving closer. Damn stealth operators and their light feet. 

“I can’t see you.” you try to explain, try to make it make sense but even saying the words seem ludicrous. “I can’t see anything. The… the Semtex, it gassed me, or something.” 

“Let me see.” Big, gloved fingers hold your face, turning it from side to side. “Can’t see at all?” 

“Nothing.” You gulp. “I’ve never… I’ve never had this happen, it was a chemical, I don’t know what-“ Blind. Poisoned. It could be permanent. The air in the room suddenly feels thin, and then the gun is being pulled from your grip. 

“Simon.” You say his name with a gasp for the first time since Belize and he draws a sharp breath. Your own is coming in frantic gasps, the taste of panic souring on your tongue, compressing your spine until it hurts. Blind. You’ve been blinded. 

“Sass, hey. Sass! Listen to me.” The only thing you can hear is your harsh panting. Blind. Poison. Blind. Poison. “I’m right here with you. I’m going to get you out.”  

“You’re g-going to get me out.” 

“That’s right.” He pauses, and you hear fidgeting, the clink of metal and rustling of something you can’t place. “I’ve got you, Sass.” You sink into the grit and grain of his voice, settling your wildly thumping heart, and a rough, calloused hand takes yours, thumb stroking over your knuckles. “I’m going to take lead. You’re gonna hold onto my vest and stay right on my heel, yeah?” 

“O-okay… Hostiles?” 

“Negative. All clear.” He guides you to a strap at his side, and you grip as tight as you can. You hear him shifting and then the comm clicks. “Price. I found Sass. Making our way to exfil now. Out here.” Another pause. “Ready?” 

“Yeah.” A hand squeezes where you’re latched onto him, and you nod, even though you don’t have a clue if he’s looking at you or not. 

“On me. I’ve got you.” 

“On you.”

He sits stiffly in the kitchen chair that you’ve dragged over to the sink.

“I’m going to take the balaclava off.” He nods once, in acknowledgement, and your fingers find the edge of the fabric. It’s hard, crusted with something, blood, you assume, and you roll it upwards, careful not to make any sudden movements. When he doesn’t jerk away, you give him an encouraging smile, pulling it up past his mouth, and then over his head as gently as you can. “That’s good, Simon. You’re okay.” You tell him, and the corners of his eyes soften a fraction. You dip the washcloth into the sink, below the surface of the lukewarm, soapy water, before squeezing it out. “I’m going to try to get some of the paint off now.” You narrate every step, grounding him, guiding him through your actions so that he knows what’s coming, so he can prepare in all states of his mind. “You’re doing really well, Si. Really good.” You soothe, pressing the cloth gently to his skin, dabbing the paint away slowly and timing the pace of his breathing in your head.

“Have you seen LT?” Soap slings an arm your neck, pulling you in for a half hug, and you try to push him off. He’s still sweaty and gross, and a little bit bloody, while you’re freshly showered and bandaged. Why he waits so long to get cleaned up, you’ll never know. 

“Nah, haven’t. Did you check his room?” 

“Thought you might want to.” He raises an eyebrow and you cut him a glare. He’s been onto the two of you since the 141 left Belize two weeks ago, and he’s smug about it.

“Shut up, Soap.” You silence him, but unease gnaws at you like it’s burning a pit in your stomach. Where is he? “If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.” You assure the sergeant before he gives you a mock salute and takes off. 

He isn’t in his room after all, he’s in yours. Still in full tac gear, hard mask on over the balaclava, he sits like a stone on the edge of your bed. 

“Hey, Johnny was looking for you.” you say, kicking your shoes off. Your muscles scream when you bend to pick them up, your body sore from a forty-three-hour op that felt like it was never going to end. “Hello?” you push when he doesn’t answer you, turning to study him. His muscles are coiled, everything so tight that he looks like he’s a second from breaking apart, and he has his eyes trained on the wall, on the blank space between the closet and the bathroom. What is happening? 

“Simon?” you hedge, but he just stays shock still. “Hey…” you step a little closer, leaning down to get into his line of sight. He doesn’t even blink. “Ghost?” you try, and it ripples through him like a wave, his jaw shifting, molars grinding against one another slowly. Okay, you breathe deeply. Okay. Should you go get Johnny? You look at him again. Yeah. Johnny will know, Johnny will be able to-

“Sass.” His voice sounds different. It’s still the same, deep gravel that you dream about, but something about it is lighter. Unsure. “I… can’t get the paint off.” You frown and try to cover your confusion. The paint? He’s still in his combat gear. You study him again. His body is still frozen, like he’s stuck, and you chew on a lip. Something is very not right here. 

“Okay. Let’s take care of that then.” You keep your voice even and smooth, moving slowly. He closes his eyes when your fingers brush against the sleeve of his shirt. “I’ve got you.” you whisper, arm snaking around his back to unbuckle the pulley strap on his vest. He nods, nearly imperceivable to a civilian, but to you, someone who knows, who understands that every muscle, every fidget is accounted for in combat, it’s enough. After you get the vest free, you skate along the hem of his shirt to where the balaclava lays, and then up to the edge of the mask. “I’m going to take the mask off.” You release the clip that holds it in place, and let it fall into your waiting hand, revealing the black paint spread around his eyes and across his nose. He blinks, a harsh breath coming from his now shaking body and you still, fingers hovering in his line of sight. “It’s alright.” You voice wavers but you shove it down, adopting a firmer tone, something more commanding. “Let’s get the balaclava off, yeah?” His hands flex on your mattress, and you glance over the sight of the blood crusted in the creases of his knuckles. “I’m still right here. With you.” you remind him, pulling it up his face and then over in one movement, not eager to draw it out. The tendons in his forearms pulse, but he doesn’t move. “I’m going to go get a… cloth. Or something. For the paint. Okay? Everything’s… gonna be okay.” He gives you another miniscule nod, and his eyes flicker to yours for a brief second before returning to the spot on the wall.

“I’m right here, I’ve got you.” You smile, and he starts to relax more, the harsh lines at the corners of lips easing.

“The sunlight.” He says, and you glance at the window where the first rays of morning are peeking through the pane.

“Yeah, must be close to dawn.” You can feel his muscles turning soft underneath your hands, his shoulders gradually sinking lower and lower, the tension in his face melting away with every second.

Theo cries from his room.

Simon’s eyes flash, and his hand darts forward to wrap around your wrist, thumb pressing to where your pulse beats.

“It’s just Theo.” At the sound of the baby’s name, his stress decreases, but he doesn’t release you. You reach for your back pocket, where your phone is, thumbing the screen open to your photos, scrolling through the favorites until you find the dimly lit picture that the nurse snapped for you the night Theo was born. You turn it towards him, and his brows crease slightly, realization, recognition working its way through his mind. “It’s my favorite.” You insist, pressing the phone into his palm, while pulling free from his grasp. You watch his pupils contract and dilate, his lips parting when he sees himself, stiffly holding his newborn like Theo is actually a bomb. “I think we got all the paint.” He makes a noise in his throat, thumb swiping to another picture. It’s one from when Theo was three months old, and Simon is shirtless, asleep on his back in the bed, one arm propped behind his head. Theo is also asleep, snuggled in the crook of his dad’s arm, empty bottle discarded on the pillow. Your face is in it, tired eyes lit with mirth where you positioned yourself in the frame of the selfie, little grin tugging your mouth to the side.

“Yeah.” He’s still staring at the picture.

“Can you get undressed so I can wash those?” He doesn’t answer, just pulls you into him, pressing your palm to his lips and closing his eyes. You count to five, taking long deep breaths in sync with his, before you point to the clothes on the table. “Get changed. I’m going to go get Theo, okay?” You try another question, hoping you’ll be able to switch out commands and to your relief, he clears his throat and gives you another ‘yeah’ before you step away. He reaches for you one more time, face fixed towards the sunlight before turning his gaze back up into yours.

“I love you.” His voice breaks. Your eyes start to burn with tears again.

“I love you too, Si.”

[beeabart]

the sillies

[minacoleta]

We all just become shades of grey

[billy-crudup]

THE LAST OF US 1.09 HBO show | video game

[lovebugism]

the "you're cargo" to "it's okay, babygirl" to "it wasn't time that did it" pipeline goes so fucking crazy bro

[lovebugism]

joel noticing that ellie's been acting quiet and trying to make it up to her with chef boyardee and boggle and letting her read her "shitty puns" just to make her smile is easily the most dad thing he's ever done

[stevenrogered]

It’s so gorgeous, and just true. And then the look on Bella’s face, as Ellie, realizing the enormity of what he’s saying, and the fact that it hadn’t even occurred to her. That this whole time, he’s been this person that she looks up to, and this person that saves her, and this person that she wants to save, because she wants that father in her life. She needs this connection.

But never did it occur to her what she meant to him. It was always, “What do you mean to me?” And when a child hears something like that, it is overwhelming to them. And you can see her struggling to process it.

I think we wrote this in the script, like literally, “This is how they say I love you.” They don’t say I love you. How they say I love you is they talk around it. Without saying I love you, she says, “Well I’m glad that didn’t work out.” - Episode 9, "Look For The Light" | The Last of Us Podcast

[ajthebumblebee]

This seems to be what I've learned.

[loneghostwolf-deactivated202408]

[deadbranch]

Oh...

[peachesofteal]

First Sight / Chapter 2

Chapter 2 of 2. Part five of the Sassy series. First chapter here. Your interactions are cherished by me. 🖤

Simon Riley/female reader - soft dad Simon Riley 4k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI, PTSD, PPD, mentions of blood and violence, reader is a new mom, tenderness, fluff, complicated feelings, mentions of Percocet (no addiction or abuse), feelings of fear and anxiety, emotional hurt/comfort. Simon is here. Theo is here. There is nothing to fear.

The house is quiet. Practically silent, except for the ebb and flow of Simon snoring, the broad expanse of his chest combined with the crook of his elbow making a very comfortable sleeping spot for Theo apparently. It’s like white noise, you guess. You've heard of babies being lulled to sleep by the sound of the ocean, or rain, or even a vacuum cleaner, but you didn’t have to resort to any of those, the crackle coming from Simon’s nose more than enough.  

Which is great, because you’re exhausted. Or at least, you think you are. It’s hard to tell right now. Your abdomen is still sore, giant incision finally starting to close after six long weeks, and your brain never turns off, the darkness pulling at the edge your mind dragging you through hell almost every day, the bright spots few and infrequent. You feel haunted. You feel like a husk.

Ten fingers, ten toes, ten pounds. You stare at Theo in awe, his little face perfectly serene while he sleeps in your arms, and you lower your own to the crown of his head, skimming your nose across his tiny tuft of hair. You hold him close, pointer finger tracing as lightly as possible across the apple of his cheek, back and forth. It’s hard to believe he’s even real. Or that he’s here. That the two of you made it through, and that he now has a birthday, a name, ten fingers, and ten toes. 

This, whatever it is, is the strongest concentration of love you’ve ever felt in your life, that you’re sure of. Things that mattered before, don’t anymore. Things you were worried about in the past, don’t exist. The only thing that’s real is this baby in your arms, your baby, Simon’s baby, and you blink rapidly to hold back tears at the realization. 

“What do you think, mom? You ready for some pain relief so you can get some sleep?” The nurse asks, and Simon nods but doesn’t speak. You know he wants you to get some painkillers, that he’s having a hard time watching you wince and bite your lip to the point where you draw blood, but he also wouldn’t dare speak for you, even though you’re sure he wants to take over, take charge and make sure you get what you need. 

You did just have major surgery, and the other drugs have worn off, leaving you with searing pain in your stomach and cramps in your legs. 

But the idea of taking a Percocet makes you nervous, lights some uneasy fire in the back of your mind, and irrational but completely real fear buzzes in your nervous system. If you’re drugged, you’ll be loopy, and it makes you want to say no. The amount of pain your body is in fights against the resistance, and you glance at Simon hesitantly. Like he’s reading your mind, he reaches out to place a gentle hand on your thigh. 

“Nothing is going to happen if you take a pain pill. I promise.” He says encouragingly and you relent with a sigh. 

“Okay, yeah.”

“Sass?” It’s Simon, standing in the doorway, Theo in the sling that is his giant forearm. He sits comfortably there, perfectly snuggled against his dad, and it makes your heart clench. Simon is looking at you warily, like he doesn’t recognize you. Which is fair. You don’t even recognize yourself. “What’re you doin’ out here?” Where? You blink, processing the question. Here? Your toes wiggle, in grass, and you look around. Why are you in the backyard? At night? 

“Oh. I don’t know.” He’s holding his hand out to you, large fingers reaching for yours.

“Come inside.” He presses his thumb to your wrist, eyes closing before speaking again. “I think you should call the shrink.”

“No.”

“Sass. There’s nothing wrong with it, if you need to talk to someone.” You laugh weakly.

“That’s rich, coming from you.” You spit, tone edged in an eagerness to fight, and he tenses. Fuck. “I’m sorry.” Your shoulders slump. Stop being such a bitch. He’s doing practically everything for you right now. “I’m sorry. Really. I’m just… out of it.” You step closer, leaning your forehead into his chest, blinking down at the wriggling baby in his arm. Your son. You feel Simon’s nose in your hair, and then a heavy palm rests at the small of your back.

He inhales deeply.

“I know.”

Ten fingers, ten toes, ten pounds. You repeat it over and over for assurance, even though your son is sleeping comfortably in your arms, safe and healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes, ten pounds. It’s hard to believe you’re a mom now, someone who has a tiny, defenseless little human depending on you for everything. 

Well, not just you. 

You eye Simon, asleep in the chair less than a foot from the bed, head tilted back, mouth open. There’s a large white spot of baby vomit on the front of his black sweatshirt, and he’s sporting some serious undereye circles from being up with Theo as much as possible. He doesn’t let you lift a finger, which is fine considering you can’t even really get out of the bed without help, your giant incision still wrapped up and body still exhausted from surgery, two days later. 

On top of everything, something felt off. There was this feeling, a dark, lonely thing pulling at your limbs, trying to wring you out over and over, dragging you down into the dark of the deepest waters. You were frightened of it, the cycle of thoughts spiraling through your mind every time you closed your eyes, the inky blackness of dark feelings overtaking you from every direction. Were you going to be a good mom? Would you be able to take care of Theo? What if Simon wasn’t here? What if something bad happens? What if you die? What if Theo doesn’t love you? What if Simon leaves? What if you don’t like your own baby? What if you can’t bond with him? What if you suck at this? 

Theo gurgles, a small noise, and you try to shift to alleviate some of the pressure on your back. Pain zings through you, the sting of your muscles seizing, and you gasp, loud enough that Simon is jerking awake, eyes scanning the room until they land on you and your hopeless form. 

“Need help?” You nod miserably, and he lifts Theo away from your body while you try to get situated. You watch him rock the baby easily, settling into a natural rhythm like it’s nothing, and try not to feel irritated. He’s a natural. How is possible that Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley is so good at this and you’re a failure? Tears prick along your waterline, and you slam your eyes shut, but not before one escapes down your cheek. “Hey, what is it? What’s wrong?” A big, warm hand envelopes yours, and your emotions surge inside of you, sadness and love and anxiety swirling in your heart until you’re sniffling. 

“I’m sorry.” You sob and he looks stricken. 

“Sorry for what?” 

“For being such a mess.” 

“You just had a baby, Sass. And you have a huge wound in your stomach. You’re gonna be a mess for a bit.” 

“Yeah, b-but I can’t even take care of my… my own baby,” The words are slurred, pieced together through tears, and you try to catch your breath. He folds his hand around the back of your neck and leans forward, bringing Theo between your two bodies while your face nestles into him. “and you’re being so nice to me.” You cry aloud. 

“Shhh. It’s alright, sweet girl. You’re okay.” TWO babies. There are two babies in this stupid hospital room. You take a deep breath through your nose while Simon rubs your back, Theo blinking up at the two of you silently. “Did you get any sleep this morning?” 

“N- no.” He sighs as he pulls away, lips dragging across your temple gently and then up to your forehead to press a kiss there, soft and slow, lingering as long as he can. 

“I think you should try to get some sleep,” you shrug and wipe your eyes. “I’ll turn out the lights.”

“Wait.” Your hand shoots out to latch onto his in a panic. “Si. I- don’t go anywhere. Please?” 

“We’ll both be right here.” He assures you, folding your hand back into your lap with a squeeze before moving to flick the light off. “We’re right here, okay? Close your eyes.” He slides the reclining chair another half a foot closer to the bed, easing down into it with Theo secure in one arm, holding your hand with the other. He traces a thumb over the skin of your knuckles, and your eyes slip closed.

You’re home. You’re not in danger. Simon is here. Theo is here. There is nothing to fear. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, the straggly ends of your hair, the rise and fall of your chest beneath Simon’s t shirt. You’re home. You’re not in danger. Simon is here. Theo is here. There is nothing to fear. Your head is pounding, a headache ripping across the front of your brain, your stomach churning like you’re going to vomit up the breakfast you ate this morning. Your legs feel weak, or maybe it’s your body that feels heavy, but either way, you can hardly stand, leaning against the bathroom countertop for support. You focus on your breath, in and out, counting inhales and exhales, but there’s a buzzing sound in your ear, and the room suddenly feels dark, like your vision is cloudy.

When you close your eyes, you see a teenager walking towards you, a bomb wired to the vest he’s wearing.

You see Soap’s blood on your palms, you feel it slicking your skin up your forearms, you hear his grunts of pain as you pack his wound.

You see Simon outside the tent after you left, staring up at the helicopter as it took you away. You remember the unadulterated rage that coursed through your veins, the overwhelming feeling of anger that consumed your entire existence.

You see the faces of the first infantry troop you deployed with in the desert. The fresh-faced lieutenant, begging you to make sure his wife and kids get his death benefits while he dies in front of you, torso blown open, organs shredded by bullets. The private, from Louisiana, whose parents were long dead, but he told you about how sweet his baby sister was while the two of waited for a field medic that would be way too late.

You see your dad, the last time you ever saw his face, putting you on a plane to a country you knew nothing about while you screamed, your mother crying in his arms. The silver of the cross around his neck glinting in the afternoon sun.

You’re home. You’re not in danger. Simon is here. Theo is here. There is nothing to fear. 

There’s a knock on the door and you snap to attention.

“Sass?” You fix your face in the mirror as well as you can before answering.

“Yeah, coming.”

It’s the familiar ring of a facetime call that wakes you, your head foggy with the cotton of deep sleep. You squint at the caller ID, Johnny’s name popping up across the screen accompanied by the soap emoji.  

“Hi.” You answer, voice still a little groggy. Simon is already lifting Theo from the bassinet, depositing him on your chest gently, and giving your shoulder a squeeze before he slumps back in the chair. 

“Sassafras, look at ‘im.” Theo’s just visible in the screen, and Johnny is grinning, hand partially covering his face because his eyes are suspiciously wet. “You did a grand job lass.” You smile at him in thanks, and Simon grunts from the chair right next to the bed. “Where’s the big guy?” 

“He's here.” You angle the camera, and Simon cracks a small smile under the mask. 

“Hey Johnny.” 

“Ghost! Yer a lucky man, LT.” Simon looks to you, something soft shining in his eyes before it disappears. 

“Yeah.” He reaches over, hand laying gently over top yours where it rests on Theo's back.

“He’s ready to meet Uncle Soap, whenever you get leave next. Feel free to come over this way.” You chime. “We, uh actually wanted to talk to you about being his godfather...” 

“No, we don’t.” Simon barks but you shake your head, moving the camera back to you. 

“Yes, we do. Ignore him. It was his idea, Johnny.” You shoot him a look. 

“Ah you two, I’m honored.” There’s a noise in the background, something loud, and Johnny looks away quickly, before returning to the screen. “Gotta run. Miss ya Sassy, and the grumpy bastard.” 

“Bye, Soap. Be safe, stay frosty.” Theo cries just as Johnny hangs up, and you pat his back slowly, murmuring above his ear. 

“What is it?” You soothe. “Hungry?” You bounce him slightly, all you can do from the bed, before looking up at Simon imploringly. “Si…” 

“C’mere” He pulls the baby from your arms, tilting him onto his back at a good angle for the bottle, before settling down next to you on the bed. “Like a champ.” He says proudly, and you can’t help the grin that tugs at your lips. 

“He’s got a good appetite.” You push your finger into his tiny fist, and he grabs onto it reflexively. “Like his dad I guess.” You tease and Simon smirks, leaning down to plant a kiss across your cheek.

Theo is screaming on the monitor. Both of you jolt awake, and Simon is out of bed before you can even say anything, hall light flicking on and floorboards creaking under his feet.

You glance at the clock. 3:32 AM. Well, at least he made it three hours. There’s a beeping sound inside your ear, and you cringe, shaking it away as you fully wake. Anxiety immediately blooms in your mind, and you take deep breaths to calm your heart. You’re home. You’re not in danger. Simon is here. Theo is here. There is nothing to fear. You sit up slowly, shifting your hips until you’re fully upright, and Simon comes back.

“Hungry, I think.” He’s got Theo against his chest, blanket over his shoulder. His hair is all a mess, like the baby’s, and the sight of them together nearly makes you start crying. Your boys.

“Here.” You clear your throat. “I’ll take him, you grab the bottle?” He rubs his face sleepily and you rock Theo, trying to get his cries to calm down while you wait for the formula. “Shhh.” You make the hushing noise near his ear, to no avail.

The song comes easily. It’s not a lullaby, and you’re a shit singer, but since he was born, singing works better than humming, though you’re not sure why. You rock him in time with the beat you’re conjuring in your head, closing your eyes and imagining your voice is not terribly off key.

“I am not the only traveler, who has not repaid his debt. I’ve been searching for a trail to follow, again. Take me back to the night we met.” Theo cries, but more softly, a little hiccup shaking his chest. “And then I can tell myself, what the hell I’m supposed to do. And then I can tell myself, not to ride along with you.” You press a kiss to his forehead, stroking across the baby soft skin of his cheek. “I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you. Take me back to the night we met.” He’s gone silent, just looking up at you with big wide eyes now, and you smile down at him in the dim light of your bedside lamp. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, haunted by the ghost you. Take me back to the night we met.” 

When you look up, Simon’s standing in the doorway again, bottle in one hand, burp cloth in the other, frozen to the spot, staring at you.

“Hey.” He startles, like he was off somewhere else, and takes big strides until he’s sitting at your side, handing the bottle over. “Thanks.”

“Y-yeah.” He stutters, and you frown.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just tired.”

“I can put him back in the crib, if you want to lay down.” You gesture to his side of your bed, but he shakes his head.

“No, no. ’s fine.”

“You sure?” Theo sucks the bottle down with ease, and you prop him on your shoulder over the burp cloth. Simon leans forward, and presses his lips to your brow, hand resting on Theo’s back. He holds himself there, for a second, then two, and three, until he pulls away to touch his forehead to yours.

“I’m sure.”

The woman says your name, nodding at you from where she sits to the left of your bed.

“I’m Dr. Moreno. I’m a resident psychologist here, but I also do work for the VA.” You fight the urge to tell her to get the fuck out and choose to smile politely instead. “I understand you have some concerns about postpartum depression.” 

“Yeah.” Suddenly, you wished you hadn’t been so painfully honest on the questionnaire your OB gave you. 

“Are you currently receiving any treatment for your PTSD?” 

“No.”

“Are you interested in receiving treatment for PTSD?” 

“Not really, I’ve done therapy before.” She nods thoughtfully. 

“Did your doctor go over everything with you about C-section recovery?” 

“Yeah, she did.” Somewhere, in the very back of your mind, something tells you to be more forthcoming, to be more open with this shrink, but it gets shut down before it can become a full thought. 

“Okay. I am going to give you my card. It has my office number on it and my email. You can reach out to me anytime you need to.” You give her another polite, lackluster look. She sighs. “Being a new mom can be hard, even for those who don’t have histories of trauma. There is no shame in needing help.” 

“I know. Thank you.” You hold the card up like its proof that you’re listening, like you can be trusted to call if you think you’re in trouble. She gives you a sympathetic smile as she makes to leave, reiterating that she wants you to call her if you need to. 

A heavy knock sounds on the door, and then Simon is standing in the room, medical mask on his face, sleeping baby cuddled against him. Just the sight of him holding Theo cleaves your heart in two, and you hold your arms out to them both, anxious to be near them. He gives the doctor a look when she passes, and then raises an eyebrow at you. 

“You alright?” Theo cries and you motion with your hands so you can hold him. 

“Yeah. Just usual shrink stuff.”

“Alright, come off it. It’s not that funny.” Simon’s jaw flexes as you try to hold back the laughter and fail. It hurts your stomach, but at the same time, it feels great. It feels real.

“Oh my god. I’m so- sorry. For laughing, it’s just-“ you stare down at the mess of burnt food in the pan, eyebrows creasing in sympathy when you look back up at him. “You’re so sweet. Thank you.” He scowls.

“I’ll order takeout.”

“No, no you don’t have to. We can make something else.”

“No.” He turns to stalk away, and you’re hit with a wave of emotion out of nowhere, so strong that it nearly knocks you off balance, almost steals your breath. It feels familiar. It feels like Belize, and every second afterwards until he sent you away, it feels like waking up in the hospital to his face hovering over yours, it feels like watching him press his ear to your belly when Theo was still inside you. It feels like that night when the two of you sat on the roof of the safehouse in Belarus, after the botched extraction mission, the one that left him with twenty stitches in his thigh and you got that really bad burn on your arm. The roof where the two of you traded secrets, where he told you about his dad and you told him about yours. It feels like the night in Uruguay, when you and Johnny and him all went out and found a bar, when you got drunk and he pressed you against the brick wall in the alley, your legs wrapped around his waist, his face buried in your neck, whispering words you couldn’t quite hear under his breath. It feels like watching him cry in the operating room when he saw the baby for the first time, watching him become a dad, watching him beat the vicious cycle of trauma and abuse right before your eyes.

You wrap yourself around his waist before he can get too far away, molding your body to his back, and his hand comes down to where yours rests on his stomach.

“Sass?”

“Don’t. Just, stay here. Like this. For a minute.” He shifts, turning while keeping you pressed against him, until you’re resting your cheek on his chest, and he’s rubbing your back.

“You alright?” His voice is gentle, he’s always gentle with you now, and the realization makes the feeling grow even stronger.

“Yeah. I’m… Simon. I-“

Theo cries on the baby monitor. Insistent. Bossy, as Simon enjoys telling you, like his mum. 

You step away with a sigh.

“I’ll get him.” He kisses your forehead before heading up the stairs.

When he makes it back down, you’re scrubbing the pan out, charred food already deposited in the garbage can.

“There she is.” Simon says from behind you, and you turn to see Theo blinking in your direction, eyes wide and making little garbled cooing noises.

“Hi baby.” Simon shuffles him into your arms, and you sway side to side slowly. “You’re hungry.” You deduce, and he agrees with you, making an impatient crying sound, tiny fist swinging into the air. “I know, I know. Hang on.” You soothe. You settle yourself on the couch with a bottle, brushing against his cheek lightly to trigger the rooting reflex before plopping it in his mouth. He drinks greedily, eyes trying to slip shut once he’s had his fill, and Simon laughs from where he sits next to you.

“You’re good at this.” He says quietly. You balance Theo on your shoulder while you burp him, and then look at Simon like he’s off his rocker.

“Me?”

“Yeah, Sass.” He pauses. “And ya look good, holding my baby.” Your cheeks heat, and something clenches in your stomach. You shoot him a look and he grins like a fool, real happiness stretching across his face in spades. It’s beautiful, he’s beautiful, and you- “I know you’re struggling right now,” he pulls you out of your train of thought, eyes pensive, grin morphing into something bittersweet. “and it’s been hard, but… I’m here. For you. For Theo. I want us…” he trails off when Theo burps and you shift, cradling him back into a sleeping position. “I don’t know… what will happen, in the future, and I know I still got a lot, of making up to do. But I want this. With you. I want us to… be a family.” You study his knuckles, fingers bunched together with tension, the height of his shoulders under his ears. You expect to feel the unraveling force of your anger, the swell of rage towards him that has been lurking under the surface for so long, but it never comes. It simmers in the distance, cool and unprovoked, sitting silently and uneager. You wonder if it's temporary, if you’ll ever feel it again, the way you used to.

Instead, when you look at him, all you see is Simon. Theo’s dad. All you have is that feeling, the strong emotion that makes your head spin, and while you can’t get your mouth to form those three words, you feel the full force it when you look up at him with softness in your gaze and say,

“I think we already are, Si.”

[r0m4ncetrash]

Love love love love love love

[miyku]

Red Dead Redemption II | ▶ dev. Rockstar Games

[vanity-complex]

[miggsboson]

It hurt, but I don’t regret it.