like a daydream

so call it what you want to ♡

[sunkissedjedi]

"Keep me alive, keep me believing. <3 That now is the time to take it or leave it."

Hi there! ♡ I'm "Fi". | she/her | late-twenties

Simply here to reblog and comment on fics that I’ve read, along with some writing prompts etc. Feel free to say hi ♡ but this is a sideblog so I can't follow back. </3

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Multifandom, but my current faves are:

COD (esp. Ghost) and Superman (David Corenswet's Version)

[levanswrites]

𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫

“Your what shower?” “My everything shower.” “The hell's an everything shower?”

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: gator tillman x reader 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: established relationship, touch-starved!gator, soft!gator, grumpy x sunshine, suggestive content, domestic fluff, mostly non-sexual nudity, hair washing, massaging, grumpy man gets exfoliated against his will, angst if you squint 𝐚/𝐧: shoutout to this ask for pushing me to finish this!

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

“What the fuck is all that?”  

The question stops you halfway through the bedroom doorway.

You nearly lose your grip on everything at once. Three different bottles wobble dangerously in your arms, your oversized tub of vanilla sugar scrub pressed against your chest hard enough to leave an imprint. A fluffy white robe hangs from your elbow, and the container of hair mask is clenched between your teeth because you made the mistake of thinking you could carry just one more thing.

From the bed, Gator stares at you like you’ve just walked in hauling tactical equipment.

The room is dim except for the glow of the TV, some hunting show droning quietly in the background, forgotten the second he noticed you. He’s sprawled out on top of the comforter in gray sweats, one hand shoved under his shirt while the other holds his phone against his chest.

His eyes drag slowly over the pile in your arms.

You've been caught red-handed. 

“It’s... for my everything shower.” 

“Your what shower?”

“My everything shower.”

“The hell's an everything shower?”

You walk farther into the room, dumping everything onto the dresser with loud plastic clacks. “It’s my full routine. Hair mask, exfoliating, shaving, skin care. The whole thing.”  

“A hair mask,” he repeats slowly.

“Yes.”

“You put a mask on your hair.”

“Well, it’s basically just deep conditioner.”

“But y’call it a mask.”

“Yes, Gator.”   

He squints harder, visibly trying to work through the logic of that.

Honestly, you can’t even blame him. 

You’ve seen your boyfriend's shower routine. 

Well, calling it a routine is generous. 

One sad, dented bottle of cheap 3-in-1 shoved in the corner of the tub with the label peeling halfway off. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, face wash—it probably doubles as dish soap and engine degreaser too. You once asked him what face cleanser he used and he looked at you like you’d started speaking French.

You walk over to the bed with a sigh, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his sweats.

“C’mere. I’ll show you.”

“I know how showers work.” 

“Do you, though?”

“Real funny.”

Still, he lets you tug him up. Peels off the mattress with a groan, warm and sleepy, hair sticking up everywhere from laying around all evening. His shirt rides up when he stretches, exposing a strip of skin and the soft trail of hair disappearing beneath his sweats.

He follows you toward the bathroom, scratching absently at his stomach while he grumbles under his breath. 

“You women use too much shit.”

“Yeah, and you use dish soap to wash your whole body.”

“It cleans me, don’t it?”

“Mm, debatable.” 

He snorts, stepping behind you as you twist the shower handle. Water blasts against the tile, steam already beginning to curl through the air. The bathroom warms quickly, mirrors fogging at the edges while you line up bottles along the shelf with practiced precision.  

Gator leans against the sink watching you.

The second your shirt hits the floor, he goes dead silent. 

You feel it before you even turn around—that heavy, heat-soaked stare settling low on your back and dragging slowly downward.

You glance up toward the fogging mirror and catch him watching openly, head tipped back while his eyes track the slow slide of your shorts down your thighs.

Teeth catching on his bottom lip, pupils gone dark.

There’s nothing subtle about the look on his face.

By the time your shorts pool around your ankles, he’s already pushing lazily off the sink.

You barely get half a breath in before his palm cracks sharply against your ass.

The sound echoes off the tile.

You jolt with a gasp, shooting him an unimpressed look over your shoulder while he just stands there grinning crookedly at you.

“Gator.”

“What?” he smirks, all fake innocence, though his voice has already dropped rough around the edges. His hand lingers where he smacked you, fingers spreading possessively over the curve of your hip. “You standin’ there lookin’ like that... ain’t my fault.”

You turn away before he can catch you smiling.

By the time you step into the shower, the room is thick with steam. Warm water pours over your shoulders the second you step under the spray, heavy enough to make you sigh. Heat slides down your spine, loosening every tight muscle in your body.

A second later, the shower curtain jerks open.

Then:

“Oh—jesus CHRIST—!” 

You burst out laughing as Gator physically recoils the second the water hits him, one hand slapping against the tile wall to keep from slipping on his bare ass.

“Why the fuck is it so hot?”

“It’s not that hot!”

“My skin’s peelin’ off!” 

“It’s just warm.”

“Goddamn, it’s like Satan’s asshole in here.”  

You laugh harder, grabbing his wrist before he can escape.

“C’mere.” 

“No, wait—hang on, hang—babe—”

You yank him fully under the spray.

Hot water drenches him instantly.

His hair flattens against his forehead, dark strands dripping into his eyes. He squints through it with a look of genuine betrayal while the spray beats against his shoulders.

“Shit—” He jerks slightly, hissing through his teeth when the water hits the back of his neck. “Y’tryna boil me alive?”

“Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”

“I’m serious.” His hands land on your waist like he needs support through this deeply traumatic experience. “I’m literally cookin’ in here.”

The heat has already flushed his skin pink across his chest and up into his cheeks. Tiny beads of water cling to his lashes every time he blinks, steam blurring the usual sharpness of him—the hard set of his brows, the tension around his mouth.

He looks so soft like this.

Prettier, somehow.

Especially with those flushed, perpetually pouty lips.

You can’t help but smile.

“You’re such a baby,” you coo softly, reaching up to smooth his soaked hair back. “C’mere, you big baby.”

He grumbles something vaguely offensive under his breath, even while leaning into your touch.

Your palms slide over warm, wet skin, fingertips tracing through the damp hair over his sternum before your arms curl loosely around his neck. Water streams between your bodies in hot sheets, slicking your skin together every time he shifts closer.

And he is close now.

Chest pressed against yours, big hands spread over your waist. He’s radiating heat under your palms, muscles slowly relaxing despite all his complaining.  

You cup his face in both hands, rubbing your thumbs affectionately over his flushed cheeks.

He sniffs once, still pretending to pout, though his eyes have already started drooping heavier from the heat. A bead of water slides down the bridge of his nose before disappearing against his mouth.

God, he’s gorgeous like this.

Dripping wet, hair hanging in his face, lips pink from the heat and pulled into that stubborn little pout he gets whenever he wants attention but refuses to ask for it directly. 

You kiss him before he can start complaining again.

And, for all his dramatic huffing and bitching, a quick press to his baby-pink lips is all it takes.

The second your mouth touches his, he melts.

A low sound rumbles deep in his chest as his arm snakes tighter around your waist, hauling you flush against him beneath the spray. The kiss starts lazy, warm and lingering, and he sighs into it like he’s been waiting for it since the second he stepped under the water.

“Mm,” he mumbles, mouth curling against yours, “So this ‘everything shower’ thing…”

You already know what he’s about to say.

“…that include me bendin’ you over in five minutes or...?”

You laugh into his mouth.

“Gator.”

“What? You said everything.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“False advertisin’, then.” 

He steals another kiss before you can answer, smiling into it this time, all smug and pleased with himself. His hands spread possessively over the curve of your waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles against your hips.

When you shove lightly at his chest, he barely moves.

“Focus,” you tell him. 

“I am focused.”

“On the shower.”

“I can multitask.”

“No, you cannot.” 

He grins against your temple, pressing one lingering kiss there before finally loosening his grip enough to let you move around him.

Barely.

Even then, his hand stays planted firmly on your hip while you start reaching for products. 

And despite all his whining about how hot the water is—despite the way he keeps distracting you every thirty seconds by kissing your shoulder, squeezing your ass, groping your tits, dragging his hands over your stomach whenever you lean forward— 

He’s fascinated.

You can see it all over his face, clear as anything.  

His eyes follow every little thing you do. The loofah hanging from the hook. The jars lined neatly along the shelf. The soft clicks of lids opening and the thick, sweet scents blooming through the steam one by one: vanilla, cocoa butter, orange blossom, lavender.

“So what’s all this shit for?” he asks eventually.

“Language.” 

He snorts and picks up one of your body oils carefully, turning it over in his massive hand while water drips from his wrist.

“Why’s this bottle so fuckin' tiny?”

“’Cause it’s expensive.”

“How expensive?”

You hesitate.

His eyes narrow immediately. “How expensive.”

“…Thirty dollars.”

“For that tiny-ass bottle?”

“It’s good oil!”

He looks genuinely horrified.

“Holy shit. You could buy, like… a car part with that.”

“Yeah, because those are definitely comparable purchases.”

He rolls his eyes, turning his attention on the scrub jar in your hand.

He squints at the label through the water dripping into his eyes.

“Sugar scrub?”

“Yeah.”

“The hell’s that mean?”

You grin instantly. “Hold still.”

His eyes narrow with immediate suspicion. “Why.”

“You ask too many questions.”

Before he can move away, you scoop a handful into your palm. 

It’s your favorite scrub too—the ridiculously overpriced strawberry pound cake one that smells good enough to eat, warm brown sugar and whipped vanilla frosting.

You rub it over his forearm without warning. 

He flinches immediately. “Ow, what the fuck—"

"Relax."

Sugar crystals drag slowly across his skin while your hands work over the hard muscle of his arm. The scrub softens beneath the heat, turning slick and grainy between your fingers.

His brows pinch together while he watches you.  

“…What’s it even doin’?”

“Gets rid of dead skin.”

“I don’t got dead skin.”

“Everybody has dead skin.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure, babe.”  

He eyes the scrub suspiciously while you keep going. "Is this gonna make my arm all... glittery, or whatever?"

“...No.”

“You hesitated.” 

“No, I didn’t!" you insist, laughing. “I do have a glitter shower jelly though.” 

“A what.”

“A shower jelly.”

“The fuck is a shower jelly?”

The grin spreading across your face makes him immediately point at you.

“No.”

“Too late!”

You twist around beneath the spray, reaching behind him toward the crowded shower shelf. Your fingers close around the little plastic pot wedged between your body wash and conditioner. It jiggles in your hand when you pick it up—golden and translucent, packed with tiny flecks of glitter that catch under the warm bathroom light. 

You plop it directly into his palm.

The jelly slips against his skin, wobbling in his hand like a living thing, and his entire face twists in genuine alarm.

“What the fuc—why’s it doin’ that?”  

You dissolve into laughter, doubling over against him while he stares down at the jiggling soap with genuine distrust, holding it out at arm’s length like it might suddenly grow teeth. 

“This ain’t right,” he mutters, poking it cautiously with his thumb.

“It’s just soap!” 

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes while you hide your face in his shoulder, laughter shaking out of you in muffled bursts against his warm skin. His chest hitches once beneath you, reluctant amusement creeping in despite himself.

When you finally manage to pull back and look at him, his expression has changed completely.

Water slides slowly down his face in shimmering trails, gathering at his jaw before dripping down to his chest.   

He’s not looking at the shower jelly anymore.

He’s looking at you. 

Hazel eyes much softer than you’re used to, focused in a way that makes your laughter taper off.    

It still manages to catch you off guard, even after all this time.  

Because Gator’s never been good at saying things straight out. He jokes, he deflects, he fills silence with anger and attitude—whatever comes easiest.

But sometimes, when he looks at you like this, it feels like he doesn’t need to say anything at all. 

You’re still peering up at him when he blinks, huffing as he tosses the shower jelly toward the shelf without even looking where it lands. 

“Thing’s fuckin’ haunted.”

Then his hands settle on your waist.

Big, warm palms slide around your hips without hesitation, dragging you forward until there’s no space left between you.

You squeak when you lose your footing against the slick tile.

“Gator—!” you gasp, grabbing his shoulders to steady yourself, laughter spilling out of you again even as your pulse jumps.

“What?” he says, mouth curling into that lazy, knowing grin.

“I almost slipped,” you breathe, trying to find balance against his chest.

“Nah.” His smile widens. “Got you.”

Then his nose nudges along your neck, inhaling deeply.

“Why’s all this shit smell like food, huh?” 

You huff a laugh, squirming when his lips skim the damp skin just below your ear.

“Jelly,” he mutters between kisses. “Sugar scrub. Vanilla frosting. Coconut whatever… what’s next? Rotisserie chicken lotion?”

That gets another laugh out of you, helpless and bright, the sound buried as you press closer into his shoulder. Your arms slide up around his neck, fingers threading through the damp hair at the nape.

“I’m serious,” he mutters, though you can tell he’s smiling too. You hear it in the lazy drawl of his words, feel it in the way his chest vibrates beneath your cheek. “Like I’m showerin’ inside a damn bakery.” 

You love moments like this.

Doing nothing else but being close with one another, swaying under the steady press of warm water, cocooned in steam while the rest of the world falls away.

His hands move absentmindedly over your back, gliding up and down your skin in a comforting rhythm.

Then, naturally, his grip slides lower on your hips.

You feel the shift in him before you even see it, his grin turning cocky in a way that always spells trouble.

“So…” he murmurs, voice dropping low in his chest. “Can we fuck now?”

You snort, pushing lightly at his shoulders so you can look at him properly.

His expression is completely shameless, nothing but open, unapologetic confidence.

You wouldn’t expect anything less from your boyfriend.  

“No,” you say flatly.

His expression sours. “No?”

“We still have to exfoliate.”

Gator rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he doesn’t injure himself.

“You’re killin’ me.”

But he doesn’t let go. 

And honestly, the longer this goes on, the less he even pretends he wants out of the shower.

Especially once your hands slide higher over his shoulders.

The second your thumbs press into the tight muscle at the base of his neck, his whole body jerks beneath your hands. 

“Jesus…” he mutters under his breath.

“Too hard?”

“No,” he says immediately. “Just... keep goin’.”

That alone makes you smile again.

Because two weeks ago this man would’ve rather thrown himself into traffic than let something pink and strawberry-scented anywhere near him. 

Now he’s standing beneath scalding water while you rub sugar scrub into his shoulders, massaging the tension out of him like a spoiled housecat.

You take your time with him, working your thumbs into the tendons there. 

God, he’s tight everywhere.  

The muscles across his shoulders feel hard as stone beneath your palms, thick bands of tension packed so tightly they barely move under your touch. Every time your thumbs drag across another knot, his breathing catches slightly.

Your smile fades little by little.

“Baby,” you murmur quietly, “when’s the last time you relaxed your shoulders?”

“Uh, dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugs, though even that movement looks stiff. 

“Never really think about it.”  

Your fingers drag slowly down the back of his neck again, pressing into another rigid knot there.

“Gator,” you say softly, brows pulling together, “you’re hard as a brick back here.”

He snorts quietly at that. 

You roll your eyes, but the innuendo doesn’t land quite the same now. 

Because once you really start paying attention—really feeling him beneath your hands—you realize how tense he actually is.

Every inch of him feels wound tight.

His shoulders sit high even while he’s supposedly relaxed, thick muscles rigid beneath your palms no matter how much steam fills the shower or how hot the water runs over him. 

Like he’s always bracing for something. 

The realization tightens something in your chest in return. 

And maybe he notices the shift in you, because after that, he goes unusually quiet.

No more smartass comments. He just stands there under the spray while you finish working the scrub over him.

The pink sugar crystals melt gradually beneath the water, dissolving against warm skin while your fingers work over the hard planes of his chest and shoulders.

Gator watches your hands more than anything else.

You notice it every time you glance up.

His eyes tracking the slow circles of your palms, the drag of your nails lightly scratching through the damp hair on his chest. The way you smooth water over his shoulders afterward. 

You catch yourself wondering, briefly, if this is something he’s ever really experienced before outside of sex—outside of anything physical and fleeting. Being touched without it carrying an expectation, without it needing to lead anywhere else or turn into something more.

His shoulders begin to drop first. Then his jaw loosens. Then the permanent little line between his brows eases until he stops looking so guarded all the time.

"Kinda feels nice, I guess,” he admits after a while, voice quieter than usual.

You smile to yourself.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.” 

When you reach for the shampoo, he tips his head forward without being asked.

You work the product through his hair slowly, fingers sliding into damp strands as the scent of citrus and jasmine fills the steam around you. It lingers warm and clean, cutting through the heavy sweetness left from everything else.

Then your nails scrape lightly across his scalp.

And the sound he makes is... well.

Your gaze lifts slowly.

Gator’s standing completely still beneath the spray, eyes shut tight, brows pinched together while a slow breath slips through his parted lips. 

“Gates, was that...?”

His eyes snap open. 

“No.”

The denial comes way too fast.

You stare at him for exactly one second before laughter slips out of you.

“Oh my god, it was!”

“It was not.”

“Yes, it was!”

“No, it wasn’t. Shut up.”

You bite back another laugh at how seriously he suddenly sounds about it.

His cheeks are already flushed pink from the heat, but now the color creeps higher—up the tips of his ears too.

Interesting. 

Purple-tinted shampoo runs in slow trails down his temples as he glares at you through wet lashes, mouth twitching while water streams down the sharp slope of his nose.

“You’re annoyin’,” he murmurs. “I’m leavin’.”

“No, you’re not.”

To prove your point, you drag your nails lightly against his scalp again.

A gruff noise slips out of him before he can stop it this time, low and helpless, pulled up from somewhere deep in his throat. His eyes squeeze shut and his hands tighten briefly at your waist.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “I hate you.”

“Liar.”

He makes no move to leave.

If anything, his grip on your waist tightens when you start rinsing the shampoo from his hair, angling his head toward you so you don’t have to reach so far.  

You’ve known Gator long enough to understand how big this actually is.

Because for all his flirting and constant touching, genuine softness doesn’t always come naturally to him.

Not receiving it, anyway.

He’s good at grabbing your waist to pull you into his lap while you’re trying to cook dinner. Good at kissing your neck in the kitchen while murmuring filthy things against your skin just to hear you laugh.

He knows how to want, how to take up space. 

But this? 

Standing still while somebody takes care of him?

That’s different.

And for the first time since he stepped into the bathroom, he looks completely calm.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him be this still for so long.

Usually there’s always something twitching in him somewhere—a bouncing knee, fingers tapping against his thigh, shoulder bunched up to his neck and his jaw locked tight like he’s perpetually gearing up for a fight. 

But right now, he just looks tired.

Like he doesn’t feel the need to bury it, for once. Safe enough to let the exhaustion sit in him without pushing it away.

So you keep touching him gently. Combing your fingers through his hair while water pours through the strands in dark rivulets, nails scraping softly over the base of his skull until he shivers.

By the time you finally finish rinsing him off, Gator looks completely wrung out.

His cheeks are flushed deep pink from standing under the heat too long, damp hair sticking up in uneven directions, his eyes gone heavy-lidded in that sleepy way they get late at night. 

You step out first, wrapping a towel around yourself while he stands there dripping on the bathmat, rubbing absently at his own forearm.

His brows furrow thoughtfully.

“Huh.”

You glance over while tightening your towel. “What?”

He rubs his arm again slowly, fingertips sweeping over the skin where you used the scrub earlier.

“…Feels different.”

The smile that breaks across your face is immediate.

“Right?!”

You sound so aggressively excited about it that he snorts quietly, shaking his head.

Still, he keeps touching his arm. 

Testing the skin with obvious confusion, thumb brushing over the softness there.

“Huh,” he says again, quieter this time. 

Then, because he physically cannot allow himself to sound too impressed for longer than thirty seconds, he shrugs and reaches for a towel.

“S’fine, I guess.”

Which, translated from Gator-speak, is basically a standing ovation.

You grin to yourself while he drags the towel roughly over his hair—

Then immediately shakes his head like a dog, spraying droplets all over the floor.

“Oh my—Gator!”

...

Afterward, you settle onto the bathroom counter in one of his oversized shirts, rubbing lotion into your legs while the room stays thick with leftover warmth.

Everything smells sweet, vanilla and strawberry sugar lingering heavy in the humid air. 

Gator sprawls across the closed toilet seat nearby in a fresh pair of sweatpants, elbows planted on his knees while he watches you through heavy-lidded eyes.

You try not to stare too much at how pretty he looks like this too, softened and comfortable, relaxed enough to practically fall asleep upright. 

You hold up a bottle.

“This one’s toner.”

“Uh huh.”

“This one’s moisturizer.”

He gives you a flat look.

“Yeah,” he drawls slowly. “I know what moisturizer is, babe.”

You ignore him.

“And this one’s hyaluronic acid.” 

“You put acid on your face?”

“It’s not that kind of acid.”

His skeptical hmph makes you laugh quietly while you pat serum into your cheeks.

And even though he’d rather chew glass than admit it out loud, something about all of this clearly gets under his skin in a way he doesn’t entirely hate.

It's starts small at first.

Lingering in the bathroom doorway while you do your nighttime routine, pretending he’s only there because he’s “waitin’ for you to finish the hell up already.”

He picks up random bottles in the meantime, squinting suspiciously at labels.

“What’s body butter supposed to be?”

“It’s moisturizer.”

“So lotion.”

“Thicker lotion.”

“That’s stupid.”

Three days later you catch him using it. 

Only because, apparently, “my hands are dry as shit.”

Then he uses it again the next night.

And the night after that. 

After that, it stops being occasional. 

You start catching him using your products without even asking first.

Rubbing lotion into his hands while standing in the kitchen. Swiping your expensive lip balm across his mouth while pretending not to notice you watching him.

And honestly, you think part of it stops being about the products pretty quickly.

You think he likes the familiarity of it. The closeness.

Smelling your body wash on his skin. Coconut lotion rubbed into his knuckles and vanilla sweetness clinging faintly to the collar of his shirts.

Little pieces of you following him around. 

It becomes most obvious after rough days.

The kind where he comes home exhausted down to the bone, shoulders slumped, smelling like sweat and engine oil.   

Sometimes he barely makes it through the front door before he drops, collapsing face-first into your chest with a groan. His forehead presses into your shoulder while his arms wrap loosely around your waist.

And when you run your fingers through his hair and murmur, “Everything shower?” he’ll let out a long exhale against your neck before mumbling a tired little, “Yeah,” into your shirt. 

Some nights he’s too drained for anything else. 

He just stands beneath the spray with his eyes closed while you wash his hair slowly, his hands resting heavy on your waist more for grounding than anything possessive.

Other nights, though, he’s more awake. 

More opinionated.

“Wait,” he says one evening, catching your wrist before you grab a scrub jar. “Not that one.”

You blink over your shoulder. “What, this one?”

“Nah.” He points lazily toward the shelf. “The other one.”

“The cotton candy scrub?”

“…Yeah.” 

You can’t help it—you grin a little, slow and knowing. 

“What? It smells better than that strawberry cake shit.”

Soon enough you’re rubbing cotton candy and shea butter into his skin, pink suds sliding down his tattooed bicep while he stands there acting like this is all one giant inconvenience he’s tolerating for your sake. 

And in return, he starts taking care of you too.

Not always gracefully, and definitely not innocently.

His hands wander plenty, soap-slick palms gliding over your hips, sudsing up your tits and ass under the excuse of “helping.”  

Sometimes it’s worse when he’s half asleep. Distracted kisses pressed against your shoulder while you’re mid-sentence, mouthing lazily along your neck as he absentmindedly drags the loofah across your stomach.

You’ll be talking about your day and suddenly realize he stopped listening five minutes ago because he got distracted kissing your collarbone.

But underneath all the flirting and grabbing and constant horny commentary, something softer grows there too.  

Comfort in the repetition of it.

In knowing that no matter how exhausting the week gets, eventually there’s this: warm steam, your skin pressed up against his, the familiar clutter of bottles lined along the shelf and your voice explaining what each one does while he pretends not to care—even though he remembers every single one.

It becomes yours. 

This quiet little thing that belongs only to the two of you.  

Most nights, things do escalate eventually. Slow kisses wrapped up in steam-heavy air, wet skin sliding together while his mouth finds your throat and your fingers tangle in his hair.  

But sometimes he’s honestly too tired for any of that.

Sometimes it ends exactly here. 

With dryer-warmed towels and sleepy silence afterward, the bedroom dark and cool against freshly showered skin while Gator stretches across the bed with a groan, head dropping heavily into your lap.

You scratch lightly against his scalp, carding your fingers through his damp hair while he drifts in and out of sleep.   

His arms slide around your waist eventually, a little clumsy with exhaustion before settling properly. He pulls you closer until his face presses into your stomach, breath warm through your shirt. 

“Mmfh…” he mumbles, words blurred heavily by sleep. “You’re the… the best thing that ever happen’ to me, y’know that?”

You know there’s a good chance he won’t fully remember saying it tomorrow.  

Not because he doesn’t mean it; just because honesty comes easier when he’s too exhausted to keep it buried. 

You smile, fingers never stopping their slow rhythm through his hair.

“I love you too,” you murmur back, just as gentle. 

And you think, as he drifts into sleep in your lap, that he looks most like himself when he stops trying to be anything at all.

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

[sunkissedjedi]

i respectfully don't know who Gator is - but I saw Keery so gave this a read - and this is one of the most BEAUTIFUL things I've ever read!!! 🥹 It made me so happy, smiling like a fool and almost in damn happy tears near the end of it. This was just so precious and sweet and loving!!! 😭💖💖💖

[aspinny]

leon kennedy (re9) is the kind of man that kisses his wife while shes asleep when he wakes up early to go to work.

he’ll wake up and get ready dreadfully, silently cussing under his breath because he could’ve been sleeping right next to you all warm and soft.

as soon as he’s done he gets closer to the bed and leans on it so he can reach you for a kiss on your forehead.

you shift a little, opening your eyes a little but still in a sleepy state, and hold on to his cheek as he smiles and catches your hand with a kiss between his shoulder.

ultimately, he gives you a kiss on your lips and promises his return soon, right next to you.

and he does, he never breaks a promise.

a/n who here wants more of him bc i do

[harbours-lighthouse]

leon s. kennedy as your mission partner, and all he wants to do is kiss you but there's never any time & it's just not the right time - so he has to make do with pecking your temple or cheek.

he needs to check something? okay, but wait! he has to leave a quick and tender kiss on your cheek before running off. you've both just narrowly avoided certain death and are hiding in a corner to catch your breaths? yeah, leon's cupping the back of your head to press a swift kiss to your forehead.

the only time he's ever kissed you on the lips during a mission was after a particularly gruelling fight with too many close calls to count. that's when he decides that, screw it, an extra second to kiss you properly is worth it, so he does :)

but also, also. these small kisses aren't overly common, so when he does leave behind those small pecks on your face, it's basically like having the reclusive & slightly gruff neighbourhood cat decide that it likes you and bumping its head into your leg to show affection.

[amaranthinespirit]

husband!simon riley when you've gotten comfortable

before you got married, you always demonstrated the more polished side of yourself. dolling yourself up for dates, wearing the prettiest outfits, and doing your hair in your favorite styles. you kept lipgloss on you at all times, the plumping kind so you'd always figure out when simon got to curious and tried it for himself (he always had to pocket it for you).

simon loved that side of you. the soft, feminine and put together side of you. the one that simon wanted to protect because more often than not, he looked more like a guard dog rather than your boyfriend.

but things changed when you married and moved in, and you weren't put together all the time. you wore baggy clothes you'd stolen from simon, your figure lost in the fabric that fell to just above your knees. your hair tied lazily, or most of the time just a straight mess. your skin void of any makeup, and you just lounged around the house because simon paid all the bills.

and simon fucking loved it. seeing you in a natural state that you trust him with turns him on more than he can admit. he's the type of guy to pause as he passes the couch, shake his head with an accusatory finger jab, mumbling "you tempt me," and walks off like nothing happened.

more often than not, he's taking you to bed. splitting you apart on his cock while you wear his shirt, hair getting even more mussed against the bedding. all while grunting and groaning about how you tempt him every time he enters the house, resisting the urge to bend you over every available—like he doesn't already.

[adelineriley999]

you loved shopping. but you loved showing it off to your husband even more.

The door shuts, and this time you don’t even try to be subtle. Breath heaving as bags hit the bed with a thump. You kick your shoes off and fix your hair. As you move around the room in a hurry, you catch your reflection in the mirror and pause.

Ohh Yeah. This wasn’t just shopping baby ,this was strategy.

You prep yourself as if you were about to enter a warzone. knuckles cracking , you peak into the living room.

Simon's home. Of course he is. Sitting somewhere like a statue that decided violence was a hobby.

You rummage through the dumped bags on the bed, heart doing something annoyingly dramatic, and start pulling things out. Outfits. Wayy too many outfits. This was supposed to be “just a quick trip.”, Sure. A few minutes later, you step into the living room, heart giddy.

Simon’s on the couch, leaning back, arms crossed, mask off staring at the literal wall like he hasn’t moved in hours. His eyes flick up the second you enter. “You rob a store?” he mutters in that gravel like voice.

You spin once flicking your hair away , a little dramatic. “Fashion show. Sit properly.”

He doesn’t move. “…Please.” you pout at him , half knowing he would definitely fall for it.

A beat.

Then he shifts, eyes narrowing ,elbows on knees now, attention locked in. “Go on then.”

"that's more like it!", you chime as you lean in to leave a peck on his cheek, earning a low grunt.

Outfit one.

Something casual. a low cut top and flared jeans. You do a small turn, trying to act confident even though you can feel his gaze.

He tilts his head slightly, leaning back against the couch.

“hmm...nice,” he says, low and approving and absolutely dangerous for your ego. You practically run back to the room , trying not to smile, already excited for the next one.

Outfit two.

You get your hands on the flowy dress. it was more body hugging , more...appreciative of you.

You step out again, slower this time. His eyes drag over you, jaw tightening slightly as you turn and yeah, okay, that reaction was worth every dollar you probably shouldn’t have spent.

“Turn around love.”, he drawled ,one arm stretched along the couch. And you do, slower than necessary.

“… oh yeah...,” he mutters, almost to himself. That does something to your brain chemistry, raising goosebumps across your exposed skin.

you hurry back to the room , trying to hide the blush creeping in.

Outfit three.

This, was the final one. The one which would decide your fate, knowing you would end up being fucked either on the couch or if you're lucky....bent over on the table. And oh did the lingerie piece add fuel to the fire.

You walk toward him this time instead of staying across the room, the skimpy red fabric accentuating every dip and curve. You stand little closer, practically between his legs.

Simon didn’t say anything immediately. Which is worse, because his eyes were saying plenty.

You stop right in front of him. “Well?”, your voice coming out more breathy than expected.

His hand comes up, slow, grazing your hips ,resting at your waist. The weight of his hands just...there.

“Think you bought too much,” he mutters, drawing slow circles on your exposed thigh.

You blink rapidly ,“Excuse me?” ,did he not like the show that you put on for him?

His thumb presses lightly against your side, massaging you through the cloth. your breath catches.

“…or maybe not.”

“So?” you say, softer now.

He looks up at you, eyes dark, unreadable in that way that’s somehow worse than obvious.

“Keep all of it.”

“ That good of a show huh?” you tease, earning a rare smirk from him, already feeling him slide your panties down.

“Best one I’ve seen.”

Which was impressive, considering the man probably has seen actual combat zones and still decided this was the most intense experience of his day.

Honestly. You win.

oh, and you did end up getting your brain fucked out on the couch.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

inspired by a fanfic i read the other day , where my cod community at?? not proofread💔

[sunkissedjedi]

MY GOODNESS YES !!! I love this scenario SO MUCH (ugh, if I was an artist, I would draw it!) This made me so ridiculously happy !!

[biscuit-buddy]

soulmate first words au where Simon grew up with the words “oh my god, please, don’t.” plastered across his arm in dark black ink. since the moment he could read, he’d been terrified of what that meant. he’d heard those words from him mother enough times when his dad came home drunk and swinging fists towards anything that moved, he’d heard them in back alleys while undercover, some poor woman being groped by a man twice her size, and he’d even heard it once or twice from the poor fucker he’d put a bullet in after interrogations gone wrong. Every time he flinches, wondering if that was his one shot at something good he’d just killed in cold blood. Fitting, for a bastard like him, or so he told himself.

It wasn’t until a night off with the team in some sweaty, sticky bar that he runs into you. As much as he tries to ignore the girl on a shitty date who keeps pushing the man’s hands off her ass and fake laughing at his boring jokes, it grates at him for reasons he can quite grasp. Later, he’ll catch the tail end of a screaming match outside the bar. One that has your date storming off, and you sinking onto the grimy concrete in your nicest outfit. He’ll watch from the shadows, flicking the ash off a cigarette before finally saying, “Want me to kill him for ya?” and when your eyes shoot up to the stranger in disbelief he tacks on, “free of charge.”

He almost can’t make it out through your laughter, wet with lingering tears. “oh my god, please, don’t.” you chuckle, “i wouldn’t last a day in prison.” between the burning on his arm, exactly where those dreaded words are, and the way the air feels like it’s been punched straight from his lungs, simon can’t muster up a reply fast enough.

You, on the other hand, have a smile slowly forming as you rub your own burning mark. “Do you know how worried my parents were when they saw what this said? They put me in preemptive therapy and everything. Thought I’d end up in a gang or something.” The man reaches a hand out, offering to help you stand. “You’re not are you? In a gang I mean?”

Another puff of smoke leaves his lips in what you think might have been the beginning of a laugh. “No, military. Close enough, though.”

Dusting yourself off, you sneak a closer look at the shadowed stranger. your soulmate, a voice inside flutters with childish glee. “Well damn, there go all my mob wife aspirations.”

He sighs, and steps closer to you, just within the light of a flickering street lamp. Now, you can make out his features. Scars cover every inch of exposed skin, twisting and mangling what might have once been a fair face. Under your gaze, he waits cautiously, “Sorry to disappoint.” A double meaning you catch immediately.

You motion back to the bar the both of you had been in earlier, then close your fingers around his with a tug, “Make it up to me, then?”

[sunkissedjedi]

the GASP I GASPED !!! I could read a whole book of your Simon and reader, oh my goodness! 💖

[rubikqiub]

cw: smut, mdni +18, Simon Riley x reader, fluff intimacy, sleepy and drowsy consensual intimacy.

Simon gets angry the day he finds out his missus has been craving him at night, sleeping damp and aching. And she won’t wake him just because he’s tired and already asleep.

—____, you’re damp— he groans as he touches her ass to cuddle closer. He was already asleep, but the feeling of her clothes so wet was enough to have him fully awake now.

—not important...

—How wouldn’t it be? You’ll get an infection like this...

He groans before sliding down her panties and positioning himself over her.

—How long has this been going on?— she looks away shyly.

—Two weeks or less...— she mumbles.

Simon sighs, more concerned than annoyed, his hand resting on her hip.

—You should’ve told me…— he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to her skin before sliding inside her. Not that he needed to prep her when she was practically dripping, her hips already shifting against him in quiet need.

She whines softly.

—Why didn’t you wake me, bird?— he groans as he slides deeper.

—You looked tired, Si... didn’t want to be a burden— she whimpers as he keeps moving.

—How would this be a burden, dove? I bloody love being inside you...— she hums in contentment as he moves slowly into her. —Wake me next time you feel needy. I’m never too tired to make love to you.

She barely manages to nod before Simon speeds up.

.𖥔 ┈ .・

Ever since then, ____ would no longer deny her own needs. Now, almost every day, she would wake Simon in the middle of the night to have him inside her.

—Si...— she barely mumbled his name, already shifting against him. He guided her on top of him almost instinctively. Moving under her with a sleepy expression, hands on her hips, holding her like it’s second nature to fuck half-asleep.

At this point, it had become a routine.

When she was too sleepy or tired to move anymore, he would make her lean beneath him so he could finish the work. He would lovingly pepper kisses all over her face, brushing the damp hair off her forehead. He always smiled at the sight of her sleepy, contented expression. So cute and vulnerable under him.

So trusting of the rough soldier he was.

Once she had her release, Simon would carry her to the bathroom so she could pee and get cleaned with the wet towels he had to buy more frequently these past weeks. Then Simon would slide clean, dry panties onto her.

Once back in bed, she would curl up against him, finally tired and satisfied, falling asleep in Simon’s embrace.

He would chuckle softly at how innocent she seemed after waking him up just minutes before to have him inside her.

He adored her just like that though.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

I hope this doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable. I wanted to explore themes of trust and communication through Simon’s character. Feel free to let me know if anything here feels off <3

[sunkissedjedi]

"I hope this doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable." excuse me, how? cause like this is one of the most beautiful sm*uts I've ever read - OH MY GOSH !!!! 😭💖 "wanted to explore themes of trust and communication..." and you did just THAT because MY GOODNESS, this was an art piece of words instead of paint !!!! I AM SHOOK. ABSOLUTELY SHOOKETH.😭😭😭💖💖💖💖

[skyrigel]

simon swears it's something about you, he has never stopped the elevator for anyone—he would very much like his quiet, to be left alone. but then he sees you, running with a hand outstretched and he already wants to stand next to you.

he is wanting you come inside the small space, panting as you are, glowing under the hot white light.

“Thanks,” you grin, and he thinks, you have a nice mouth—which is weird—because simon doesn't particularly think much about mouths, or cheeks, or moles, and yet he is already thinking you have a nice face.

simon gazes back down at your lips and realises you are speaking to him.

“—damn so cool. I always wanted to get a tattoo myself.”

Oh yes, tattoos.

simon has many considering he is an tattoo artist himself, owns a studio with his friends. He wears a mask tuckin his nose and jaw, and his throat is covered in ink, the criss cross scar over his arms laced with small ones. some are dates—his ma's birthday, the day he found his dog: ghost, some are names and some are just things he likes here and there.

he clears his throat, “I...I do tattoo.”

if only the earth could swallow him. ‘I do tattoo’ how could he even say that? The tattoo ancestors would disown him. Make him choke on ink if they heard.

But you sparkled up, eyes very curious, “you made them yourself?!”

“some of em’ yes, where I can reach.” he speaks and founds himself speaking very gently—softening every word, and without even trying. everything is happening on its own, his fingers are digging inside his pockets to handover the business card. simon who has only once given it over to another person—navy veteran, almost an year ago. he generally kept with doing the regulars and avoided new people at all cost.

“come over, anytime.” he says and means it very much. simon can almost imagine himself eyeing the reception, searching for you, wanting for you to show up, wanting for his hands to touch and see for himself. Is that mole raised or flat, he cannot tell from here...

Your fingers brush feathery against his, taking the black card and turning it over to read. the elevator opens and he realises it's time for you to go

“will I get discount too?” you are lingering, teasing or smiling, he could not tell, but what he could tell is how beautiful your eyes are. “since we live in the same building?”

simon does not live here, Johnny does, but he knows which floor he will be renting in as fast as he can.

“Ofcourse,” he says, his heart racing wild. “second number on da card, tis' mine.”

you are halfway outside, pausing to look at the card again, and say “simon riley.”

simon doesn't think there is an way his own name could sound so sweet to him. yes, he nods, the door closes. you are getting a hundred percent discount, simon thinks, and smiles to himself for a long time.

Years later, when you are tracing your own name sleepily next to his heart, he knows it was something about you.

masterlist

[sunkissedjedi]

THIS is one of the MOST INCREDIBLE things I've read !!! 🥰😭💖 and you're writing is so lovely; the sweetness just can't be contained in this piece!!

[bittersweetlyblue]

lt!simon ghost riley who’s always seen you around as the bases nurse but never actually seen you until you had to tend for him after a particularly difficult mission

lt!simon ghost riley who’s grateful for the mask that he believes covers his intense gaze as he stares at you, gazing at the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his entire life

lt!simon ghost riley who comes a lot more to the infirmary - and insists that the injuries he’s accumulated has absoloutely nothing to do with you attending to him every time

lt!simon ghost riley who earns a sigh from his friends, price and soap, every time he opens his mouth because they just knows it’s about you

lt!simon ghost riley who does not stop thinking about you and your gentle hands

lt!simon ghost riley who finally musters up the courage to speak to you the next time you’re bandaging up his arm and says, “wha’s yer name?” and when you tell him, you’d think he’s just won the lottery

lt!simon ghost riley who has no idea how he manages to keep the conversation going, praising himself for how collected he’s been

lt!simon ghost riley who accidentally blurts out, “yer a goddess, yer know that?” and finds your blush to match his own as he realises what he just said

lt!simon ghost riley who, at the end of the session, somehow manages up with your number in his phone and won’t stop telling price and soap about the interaction for the millionth time in a day

lt!simon ghost riley who leaves flowers for you with a “hope you like em, someone told me theyre your favourite” and awaits your response

[sunkissedjedi]

CRYING. THIS IS BEAUTIFUL

[rubikqiub]

Simon Riley feeling like shit because he just returned home to find his lovely bird sick to hell, shivering under the blankets they share.

He would get mad because she didn't mentioned it days ago when he got a single phone call to home.

Noticed something was odd just from her voice but thought she was holding tears as usual. Not to worry him.

Well, now he was fuckin' worried.

—I'm okay Si, it's just a silly fever.

—…could be a fricking scratch and my heart would still die with you— he mumbled in a grunt while putting some of his big-ass socks into her cold feet.— Thought we promised not to hide a shit to each other

—Yeah but this was nothing…— she weakly reached his chin to make him look up.. — this is nothing sweetboy…

Simon sighs before pecking her now covered toes. Giving a long loving kiss at her knee while sweetly lookin' up at her.

—I know u think I'm a big tough bastard… but i hate to see you in pain too…

____ draws a small smile.

—You are too sweet when I'm vulnerable. It seems… maybe I should get sick more often..

—Not fun— he hisses before settling next to her on bed. Tenderly caressing away the wet hairs off her forehead.—…called Price to stay a week.

She hums in both contentment and ache as he caressed her warm reddish face.

He coos sweet little nothings.

About how she didn't have to worry anymore…that he was there and wouldn't leave until she was healthy and happy.

That he loves her and will take care of the most valuable soul in HIS world…

And after so many sleepless nights, ____ finally found the security and care she had been craving.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

I wrote this while desiring to be yn while shivering like a chihuahua T_T. Being sick makes me so emotional guys.

[btw I got so enthusiastic I animated the drawing jsjsjss MARRY ME SI!!]

[sunkissedjedi]

you actually - you actually ARE SO RUDE for this! for creating such an emotionally WONDERFUL masterpiece!!! 🥺😭💜💜💜 AND ART TOO? WTF this was amazing!!!

[daydreamingwishes]

its late.

really late.

simon walks in the house a quarter till four in the morning.

you had waited for him as always but waiting got to be too much. you migrated to your bedroom, still in your day clothes but eyes closed.

your breathing was even, much too soft. simon stared at you softly before heading to the drawers. he picked out your favorite pajamas and set them on the bed.

he gently started to undress you, starting with your pants.

he tugged them off and slid on your sleep shorts. then his hands worked up to your shirt, trying not to wake you. he pulled the shirt up almost the way before you woke up.

your eyes were blurry, confusion on your face before realizing it was just simon.

you lifted your torso off the bed for him to pull the shirt off all the way. he stared at your face for a bit, eyes barely awake.

"go to sleep, lovey." he whispered, hands coming to your waist, warming your skin. "i'll be in bed in a bit."

all you could do was hum as he slipped your pajama shirt on. he helped you under the covers and kissed your forehead before pulling away from you.

he undressed, tugging his work clothes off, leaving him in just his boxers. he slid under the sheets and pulled you close.

his skin was warm against you. you nuzzled closer and fell back into your deep sleep.

simon massaged your scalp softly and shifted a bit more comfortably before letting sleep take over him as well.

[sunkissedjedi]

i need a moment

[daydreamingwishes]

your daughter immediately ran into simons arms as soon as you opened the door. she had a hard day at school today, eyes puffy and cheeks flushed.

she was in her first year of middle school but it seemed like it was hell for her. her friends left her and she felt lonely.

she jumped into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist as she hid in her father's neck. he felt like security.

simon held her tightly, his eyes meeting yours with concern. his hands patted her back softly as she sobbed into his neck.

you watched them with a soft expression.

when you were pregnant simon was terrified of becoming a parent. he freaked out everyday of your pregnancy, even after you had her.

but his worried faded when she started growing up. she loved him more than anything in the world. she was a daddys girl through and through.

she loved you, yes, but she leaned more towards simon. he was her security, her safety. you didnt mind. not when you saw the softness in simons eyes. not when he took her to her room after she fell asleep in his arms.

he came back, a concerned expression on his face. you wrapped your arms around his waist.

"she'll be okay, si. its middle school blues."

simon huffed, his hands tangling in your hair.

"she doesn't deserve that."

"i know." you whispered softly. "she'll find the right friends eventually."

simon nodded. it was silent for a few seconds until you suddenly heard a small sniffle. you looked up.

tears fell down his cheeks.

"are you crying?" you asked softly, hands coming up his cheeks.

"no."

he sniffled again. eyes turning a soft red. his nose flushed as well as his cheeks.

"i just cant see her crying like that. shes my baby girl."

you hummed, pulling him closer.

"its the harshness of life. but guess what? she has you. she just wanted you from the moment i picked her up. the only thing you can do is be there for her. you're her home, si."

simon smiled softly, a tiny chuckle leaving his lips. "i look silly, hm? crying over something so small."

you shook your head. "you look like a good dad."

"yeah?"

you nodded. "mhm. the perfect one."

simon smiled, lips pressing on your temple as he pulled you close.

"wouldnt be here without you."

[sunkissedjedi]

you shook your head. "you look like a good dad."

"yeah?"

you nodded. "mhm. the perfect one."

[daydreamingwishes]

it started off as a movie night and turned into a soft and intimate make out session.

the pizza was sitting on the table getting cold as simon held you in his arms like you were an angel. his lips were on yours, tasting your sweetness and saying words he couldn't express.

your fingers were scratching at his scalp softly as he poured his love into you. his hands ran across your back to make sure you were real, that you were truly there and what he was feeling was real.

simon had always been alone. he was the listener, never the speaker. he never felt seen, never felt wanted, but all it took was for you to turn his world upside down.

he'd ramble about random facts he knew and he'd teach you how to fight. just in case, he always said.

he just never knew how to talk about his feelings, he'd show them instead.

slipping your favorite drink in the cart at the grocery store, making you breakfast on mornings you have to go to work early, drying your hair after a shower and singing old love songs with you.

you were simons everything. you were his world.

every kiss shared with him was a special one. his hands always pulled you close, he'd mold you into him till it was physically impossible.

sometimes he'd open his eyes just to see you up close. you looked silly but to him silly was beautiful.

your silly smile, googly eyes, and heated cheeks. you looked at him like he was the only one in the world.

for once he felt seen, wanted, and heard.

simon pulled away from the kiss, panting softly as he looked at you. his eyes were dazed, a lazy smile tugging on his lips.

you looked like a mess. your hair was a mess, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, but to simon, that was beauty.

not just from the outside but it radiated from the inside.

"pizza's gonna get cold, dove." he gave a tease filled warning.

he couldn't help the smile that spread on his lips, nor could he hide the flushed hotness on his cheeks.

"this is better." you whispered, eyes still on his like you could only see him.

his cheeks flushed even more, not from being flustered but from feeling wanted. his whole body felt hot, as if this is what it felt like to finally feel loved.

"then should we keep going?" he asked, his eyes already closing.

you didnt have to answer, your lips on his was enough. the kiss was softer than before, slow and deep. simons hands met your cheeks, caressing the skin under his touch.

he moved one hand on your waist, pulling you closer till you could feel his heartbeat against your chest.

his hand slipped under your shirt, feeling your warm skin against his palm. he pulled you even closer, his thumb rubbing softly on his back.

he stopped the kiss but he didn't pull away. he kept his forehead against yours, his lips still touching yours, he just needed a moment to take you in. to feel just how real you were.

to simon you were an angel. his angel who changed everything he knew and made him see who he truly was.

words werent enough to express his gratitude and love he felt for you.

[sunkissedjedi]

this is actually one of the most beautiful things I've ever read?!!! I'm brought to tears!!! How do I even move on after reading such a thing?? Oh my goodness, this was love through words!! And for our sweet Simon!!! 😭💖💖💖

[withluvmia]

𓂃 ࣪˖ ཐིཋྀ Simon approaches his lovie after a fight

♡ Ghostxreader ♡ requested ♡ hurt/comfort ♡

a drabble how Ghost approaches the reader after a fight? ty -anon

Simon doesn't do big apologies. He doesn't waste his time with a long monologue about how he was wrong. He believed that action spoke louder than words. However cliché that might sound, it's all he's ever known. He's seen his father's empty promises towards his mother before the inevitable bruise on her cheek would bloom again. He saw how his mother cried herself to sleep after daily screaming matches.

This fight was particularly bad. It wasn't a screaming match like he's used to from his childhood, no, he refused to engage in that scene. He'd rather cut off his own hand, put a bullet in his knee than to treat his lovie like that. This was a cold, clinical argument from his part after she tried to communicate about something upsetting her.

When Simon gets upset, he turns cold, not open, he withdraws. He shuts himself like a door and let's Ghost take over.

And god did it make things more difficult. His lovie tried her best to be reasonable, to understand where he's coming from. That's the part that hurt the most, the fact that she still tried to take his feelings and habits into account. He tried to shake it off, to dismiss his actions with a "won't happen again" but she didn't let it go. She needed to talk it out, she needed to address this after many instances of him being cold and refusing to communicate.

So she did and he shut her down like always, which led to her raising her voice in frustration. It shattered him when her tears fell, when something broke behind her eyes. He could still see it, repeating the scene in his head as she walked off defeated. Arms wrapped around herself as she tried to hold herself together, retreating to their room, leaving him in the aftermath. The silence was loud. It weighed on him like a sickening rot forcing him to face what he's been avoiding. If he wanted to keep her, wanted this relationship to work, he's was going to have to start opening up.

What's worse is that she didn't ask for much, she didn't lay out a long list of unreasonable demands. She simply wanted him to talk to her. His fists clenched at the thought, he did this, he hurt her to the point of retreating. To the point of giving up and deciding that walking away was better than trying. He didn't blame her, he knew it was his fault, he drove her to this point. And thus later when he quietly pushed open the bedroom door he felt his last resolve crumble. His heart, whatever's left of it squeezed painfully.

She sat there against the headboard, silent. Emptied out with dried tear marks on her face, eyes glazed over as she replayed the argument. She looked done and this revelation wasn't kind. It was brutal. If she left him because he was being emotionally closed off, he would have no one to blame but himself. So Simon approached her quietly, slowly as if approaching a wounded animal, something fragile he didn't want to scare off

And when she looked up at him, those glassy red eyes, it made him drop to his knees in front of her, desperate. "I'm sorry" came his words, gruff but laid bare and for a moment there was silence. Her eyes widened slightly in suprise yet the disappointment, the expectation that this would be yet another loop of hurt lingered, plaguing her mind. He saw it. He refused to let her drown in it, refused to let her form this image of him.

"I fucked up." He continued plainly, there was no point in sugar coating it, "I've let you down lovie. I know I'm not the best with words or... feelings" he forced the words out, putting years of reformed persona aside and kept his eyes on her. One thought ran circles in his mind.

'Fix it or lose her'

There's little that scared Ghost but this filled him with dread. His voice took on a pleading tone, "Give me another chance, let me try again" he doesn't demand forgiveness but instead asked for grace.

"I know I've been difficult but I promise, I will work on it. I'll try to express myself more. I won't shut you out, not anymore" he dropped his head onto the mattress beside her leg, "Please. Don't leave me. You're all I have. I'll never forgive myself for driving you away" his throat tightened. For the first time , Simon Riley, Ghost himself felt small. He was at the utter mercy of someone he loved deeply.

He waited, bracing and prepared himself for the inevitable rejection. His mind already accused him of going too far, that he messed up, that he pushed her away however when her hand stroked through his hair softly, his world stopped. He looked up almost disbelieving as she whispered "okay". He didn't wait, his arms wrapped around her and pulled her off the bed into his lap. He embraced her, caged what was his. His heart flooded with relief so fast it almost took his breath away.

He won't make this mistake again. He knew how close he came to losing the one thing that made this life worth living. That made his cold heart beat with love again.

There you go bubs! Hope you enjoyed it x

Divider credits @pixopix

[sunkissedjedi]

OH. MY. GOODNESS.

that's all i can say. i'm at a loss for words because this is just ... amazing. 🥺❤❤❤

[clinquantribbons]

the shop’s all but deserted when simon pulls into the nearest parking spot, the faded, handwritten sign taped to the door telling him he has ten minutes to get in and get out. it isn’t much, but far better than his luck at the last three places he tried, which were all closed by sunset. apparently, no one’s too keen to work on valentine’s day, would much rather be tangled up in the sheets, or drinking themselves to oblivion. besides, most people were smart enough to prepare their gifts ahead of time—unfortunately for simon, and for you, he was flown out on an annoyingly last minute assignment last week, and only just got back.

if he was given the chance, he’d have done something significant. he could’ve brought you out to dinner, at least, or found a gift worthy of you. instead, he’s left scouring the ransacked isles of the convenience store down the street from your flat, keenly aware that you’re waiting for him, grabbing any and everything he reckons might bring you the slightest modicum of joy.

bags of sour candy, a heart-shaped box of chocolate, a bottle of wine that’s almost too cheap to trust, a glittery card with a winged cherub on the face, and a pitiful bouquet of roses that he openly cringes at. it isn’t much, it’s far less than you deserve, but it’s the absolute best he can do with three hours left of the day.

it isn’t like you’re a particularly superficial person, your relationship is not built on hallmark holidays or obnoxious displays of affection, but simon works hard to be good to you and for you. that includes things like this, as juvenile as it may seem.

the cashier, a girl no older than twenty, who looks about as thrilled to be there as simon is, gives him a downright filthy look as he sidles up to the till.

“cutting it close, huh?”

he grunts, staring back unblinkingly. he’s not about to argue his case to an underpaid teenager, especially since she has a point. he knows it doesn’t look good. it isn’t good.

fortunately, she doesn’t badger him, sans a snarky “good luck,” once he’s swiped his card and gathered his measly findings. he, graciously, ignores it.

he makes it home in no more than ten minutes but sits in the parking lot for another ten, filling out the card with an oversized, blue sharpie, having forgotten a pen. it bleeds into the leather of his centre console and the message, despite his best efforts, is near illegible, but, as the masses say, it’s the thought that counts.

when he finally musters up the courage to go inside, taking the stairs rather than the elevator, just to prolong his own misery, he’s met with dinner on the table, steak and veggies, and a woven basket filled with goodies, with his name on it, on the coffee table. the sight makes him almost sick with guilt.

you’ve got a heart too big for your brittle ribcage, it’s one of the many reasons he fell in love with you, but tonight it has him feeling like that poet with the corpse under his floorboards, like its gentle rhythm will drive him mad.

“si!” you don’t even bat an eye at the grime on his clothes, or the bag in his hand. the second you see him, lingering in the threshold like he fears he’ll be turned away, you throw yourself at him, clinging as tight as you can, peppering kisses to his cheeks without any qualms about the pale, grown out stubble on his jaw.

he wraps his arms around you on instinct, almost crushing the wilted flowers in the process. “baby,” he sighs, pressing his lips to the top of your head in hopes it’ll mask the crack in his voice. “what’s all this?”

you pull back just enough to look at him, your grin impenetrable, not offended, but patient. “it’s valentine’s day—i wanted to do somethin’ nice for you. what’s wrong?”

he swallows hard against the lump in his throat, obviously having not concealed his distress as well as he’d hoped. you’ve always been able to see right through him. “it’s nothin’. you’re real sweet to me, y’know that?” finally, he extends the plastic bag to you, stomach churning as he does. “nowhere was open ‘cept that shop down the road, and they hardly had anythin’ left, but… i didn’t wanna show up empty-handed.”

your eyes go wide, and the thrill you exhume is so potent he thinks he can taste it. “oh, simon,”

the way you react, one would think he dropped to his knee with a ring in hand. you cry when you read the card, though he can’t fathom how you managed to decipher it at all, and even go as far as to pin it to the fridge, and fuss over the flowers, fluffing them and displaying them in your prettiest vase, as if they don’t have one foot in the grave already. you’ve always had a soft spot for broken things—simon’s living proof.

you outright scoff at his bashful apologies and vows to make it up to you, arguing that he didn’t have to anything—“all i need is you, baby,”—and reminding him that, come morning, everything will be half-off, and you’ll have plenty of fun raiding the candy aisles with him.

the shame doesn’t fade entirely, not by a long shot, but he can’t bear to dwell on it when you’re so eager to see him smile. he wouldn’t dare disappoint you anymore than he already has.

“wanna shower with me before dinner?”

“mm. you still have that gun i gave you?”

“yeah? what about it?”

“if i ever say no to that question, i want you to blow my fuckin’ brains out.”

“simon!” he doesn’t wait to hear you scold him, instead grabbing you around the middle and corralling you towards the bathroom, laughing as you giggle and squirm.

this part, at least, he’s good at.

[sunkissedjedi]

i am smiling so hard my mouth HURTS

your writing style tho - i felt like i was watching this rather than reading it! 💕 if I were an artist, i'd draw it!

[sylithrasworld]

Cop Simon Riley x reader

How they meet

 Summary: You move in with your cop boyfriend, Simon Riley, who surprises you with a German Shepherd to keep you safe.

 It doesn’t take too long before you start to date Simon and move in with him, who, despite his gruff exterior was the sweetest man ever. He bought you flowers from time to time and even with his tight schedule as a cop, made time for you, always taking you out on dates and showering you with gifts. 

One day, he came home a bit earlier than expected, so you were surprised but happy and ran to the door to greet him like you always do, when you suddenly saw him holding a puppy — a German Shepherd. Confused, you asked him “who is this puppy?” he chuckled, “This is our new dog, what should we name him?” He said it so casually… “What do you mean our new dog?” He looked at u again “You know, I’m not always home, and I can’t protect you if something happens to you while I’m away, so I got you this puppy”. You looked at the puppy; it was the cutest puppy you had ever seen in your life, and you didn’t have the heart to say no to him “Aww he is so cute. Hm we should name him Donut”. Simon looked at you confused, “why exactly Donut?” you chuckled. “You know….cops are quite famous for eating donuts” He rolled his eyes, of course you would name the puppy Donut because of that fact, “all right, we shall name him Donut.” 

[sunkissedjedi]

"all right, we shall name him Donut."