simon has a staring problem.

or, maybe problem is aggressive. but when you’d wash the dishes, read on the couch, sleep in his arms, his eyes are there. a habit he never explained, but you grew accustomed to. complacent- receiving as his eyes trail wherever you went, and his body would soon follow. his gaze the precursor to action. the “I” before “I love you”.

or something like that.

you ask him, one day. “why are you staring?”

simon only blinks. “can’t help it, sweet’eart,” kisses the top of your head, and goes back to his coffee, “guess I just can’t get enough of you.”

Gaz meditates, but you wouldn’t be able to tell with how quiet his breath comes out. Johnny, unironically, counts sheep- a trick his brother taught him for stormier nights. Price doesn’t sleep. 

Simon, though, counts scars. 

In his head, like he often is, before bed. Reserved for when the heater is too loud or the cement is too cold. When his sparse apartment feels empty, and the bed isn’t nearly uncomfortable enough to convince him he’s earned the right to rest. 

Snaggle teeth on the back of his calf, a lightning bolt down his arm, tree grain over his chest. Each a distant reminder of a folly, a man, a death. He never touches them, afraid the tissue will catch on the end of his finger and spread to whatever he touches next. Midas, if gold was pain. 

When he met you, he had fifty seven. 

You adopted his habit, once you began burrowing yourself into his itchy covers. Sat in his lap, running your fingers over the puckered skin. He’s surprised that when they dance from arm to shoulder, the scars don’t follow. Then again, your hands are nothing like his, are they? Soft. Clean. Warm.

“You miscounted.”

“What?” His broken nose scrunches.

“You said fifty seven. But here,” your hand comes to hold the back of his neck, just before blonde meets winter pale, “You have one more.”

You pull away to kiss his forehead. “It's beautiful. They all are.” 

That memory finds him bitter now. Almost a decade old, before the marriage, the son, the divorce. The weekend visitation, for the weekends he’s home. Before his son grew behind his back. Before you started looking at someone else the way he had once looked at you.

Before the empty bed got too cold, too loud, too uncomfortable for his back and his head. 

Just before it all, you asked him if he’s collecting scars. He said he’d stop at one hundred. You called him a liar. Said he’d never stop. And you’re right. That's why you left. 

Today, he is fifty eight years old. He sleeps alone. 

He can’t bring himself to count them anymore. 

your hands are soft.

palms made of candle wax, burning over his abdomen as you sew the skin back together.

barely awake, and yet simon has been here enough times that his body answers “where am i” before his mind can. a well trained dog and the bed they lie in. the master they return too.

“you’re awake. don’t move.”

you don’t look at him. he can tell your angry- you have that crease between your brows that crinkles the beginning of your nose. he scoffs.

“wasn’t plannin on it, swe’teart.”

you send him a sideways glance. “never know with you.”

“been here enough times to know-“

“and that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

simon and words. cw. abusive father mention.

simon was born quietly. never a crier- but not much of a smiler, either. it unsettled his father.

"speak up, boy," he'd say, "be a man."

speaking never made the punches land softer, though.

so simon didn't have much use for “talk” in his youth- a trend that continued as he aged. military valued silence, "stealth". learned languages he'd rarely speak. combat boots on snow were louder than his own mouth.

this is a longwinded way of saying simon isn't good with his words.

doesn't know what to say when you stand in autumn’s morning and the yard light plays with your hair. or when you slip your hand into his under the dinner table. when you smile and he stares.

when you hold him in bed like he's drifting somewhere else but sleep. when he knows, wants to tell you, that wouldn't ever dare to.

he grows sick of these moments passing by silently. so he begins to spell it out.

with soap studs on your back as he bathes you. tapping the table while you both read. his breath as your sleeping hand rests on his chest. maybe it’s in his heartbeat, too.

tonight, he spelled it out with his tongue as he ate you out. you came before he could finish.

tomorrow, he proposes. he’ll use his words, this time though.

“i love you.”

the “missing” eats you every midnight.

it’s always the small things, like the feeling of his hand resting on your stomach as he slept. laughing at his own awful jokes- that had you laughing, too. boot tracks on the porch- something you’d get mad about, make him clean.

wished you let it go, last time. coming home from his funeral was that much harder without the reminders that yes, Johnny McTavish hadn’t always been a dead man.

so like any grieving wife, you fill these spaces in the ways you’re familiar with. cooking, cleaning, working, but never talking.

and sometimes, it’s with men from the bar who look suspiciously, despicably, like him. the worlds favorite reminder to you, that Johnny still barely exists, in loud laughter and good sex.

recently, it’s been your husbands best friend, Simon. who takes his tea plain, who doesn’t talk about it, either.

the closest thing you’ll get to Johnny aside from his grave.

you begin to meet earlier, and for longer. you wrote your first letter to Simon on the 9th month anniversary of Johnny’s death. the response came a week later.

and simon knows what he is to you. knows, because he’s doing the exact same thing. keeping an ugly love for a dead thing alive in the soft thing that married him. that loved him, too.

knows that when you fuck in the morning, it’s like fucking a ghost.

simon watches the tea cups he got as your wedding gift shake on the counter. wonders if they were always going to become his again, anyway.

if he picked them out knowing that. hoping he’d end up drinking from them. with Johnny- with you.

the unspoken truth. the elephant in the room, that has the name of the sergant the both of you loved, lost, and can’t quiet let go.

for all of theses reasons, when you accidentally call Johnny’s name as you come, Simon lets you.

because where else is he going to hear it?

“si its gone.”

“mama-“

you’re a heartbreaking vision. silk nightgown hangs delicately over your pregnant belly. hair mussed and face bloated from hours of poor sleep. eyes glossy, sleepy, and sad- as they lock on the razor in his hand.

its been a heavenly 3 weeks. home, to help you through one of the worser swells of the pregnancy.

but he goes back tomorrow. and his hair has grown rapidly. and just like him, it has to go.

you, clearly, aren’t taking it well.

queue a sniffle. “why?”

he’s on you immediately, gently swiping the fat tears with his thumbs and cupping your face. “baby you know how it is.”

“its dumb.” you say.

“I know” he replies.

you finally look him in the eyes, but only for a second before looking back at his hair. your face contorts into a sob, and simon sighs, pulling you into a gently hug.

he feels the baby kick, and it almost make this whole ordeal worse on his heart.

“once I’m back home it’ll be grown out.”

“the baby will be here.” its muffled by his chest, but he hears it, and suppresses a grin.

“mm. our little girl, huh? gets to see me with a full head of hair.”

“lucky.” that brings a laugh out of him.

he pulls away, only to gently take your hands and place it on his head. you run your fingers through the short hairs, and Simon sees the smallest of smiles begin to spread your lips.

“there she is. knew you’d still like it.”

you purse your lips to hide your smile, like it wasn’t already too late. “I like it longer.”

“I know.” he kisses your forehead. “soon.”

Simon is back home two months later, although the next time he sees you is in a hospital bed.

you smile big and tired when you see him in the doorway, and say, quietly, gently, as to not wake the sleeping baby,

“you let it grow out.”

pushing yourself away from simon because its

“too much- si, pleasuh..”

and he’s balls deep in your cunt, gripping your hips until he leaves marks the look suspiciously like his fingerprints. pulling you back in against the current of your body and ignoring its need for respite.

“stay wit me baby,” he coos, feigning gentle as he rolls his hips forward, earning another cry from behind your teeth, “doin so good, can’t stop now.”

and that’s only partially true. he could probably pull away.

but it’s all mechanical.

he’s bred to kill, forced to swallow his own blood and taste oil. to bend his metal for the whims of other rusting tinmen. to know nothing but death by animosity and apathy.

but here, with you, he feels purposeful. separate from his obligations and in a place he’s allowed to want.

the metal melts and the oil dries when he’s back with you, kissing something so fragile and mortal until his armor is a memory and he too, is human.

he can’t help it. can’t help you. can’t help the wanting he’s never known and will never let go.

you sob when you cum, and he finishes promptly after. and when you begin to pull away, he slides you back to him, kissing your forehead as you beat his chest,

“just one more baby, can’t help it,” he’s smiling and you hear it, “like you were built for me.”

He’s looking at you. 

He is meters below, an arena across- and yet his eyes find you. 

Fish tongue vomit sits next to the wine drunk fools who sponsor your fathers ego. Everything smells like sand and blood you do not bleed but you mourn. Your necklace bruises the space above your heart as he stands there, half dead, locking eyes with you. 

And you can picture them, even from here. The dirt when it finally rains, the color of the sand when his shadow passes over. Deep, ghoulish, gory. Fixated on the one thing he cannot have.

Your father scoffs next to you. “Lucky Bastard.” 

As he walks back to his chamber, his eyes never leave you.

You don't want them to.

it’s early enough in the night where heat still lingers. syrupy warmth that drools over the truck windows. twilight paints with dusty fingers across a violet horizon.

simon has been awake long enough that none of it phases him.

apathetic to what’s objectively beautiful. the dusk, the shine of the other cars, the grass and the peculiar way it unravels into dirt and sand as he drives forward.

which is why it catches him by surprise when he only slows for you.

a disheveled looking shadow, at first. but then everything focuses. the shape of your face, the color of your hair and the dirtied state of your clothes.

when he rolls to a stop, he finally sees your eyes. blown wide, frantic. vulnerable.

and suddenly he’s not tired anymore.

“is there a town nearby?”

“should be.” there isn’t.

“can you take me there?”

“sure.” he could. would mean letting you go- and doesn’t know if he wants that yet.

and you trust him. so easily, for such a fragile, soft thing. enough to tell him about your car breaking down, and your boyfriend yelling, things he could only assume cause the tear stains on your flushed cheeks. things that make him, a stranger, irrationally angry.

the rest of the ride is quiet. you fall asleep, and as he carries you to the motel check in, he knew the only time he’d take you to the nearest town was to put a down payment on a house.

and then you stir as he lays you on the bed, a get skittish when you see there’s only one. but he assures you that he’s much to tired to try anything anyway.

awake, that is.

you feel it in your core first, the way his chest presses against your back, and the greasy hand than lays still right above your cunt.

smoke break.

it’s like clockwork.

it’s 9:43 PM, with an early autumn breeze that still smells like summer breaking through poorly sealed windows. the sky is blooming in violets. there is barely anyone left in the office. it’s silent.

and then four pairs of heavy footsteps break it.

its always the same order, too. johnny’s first, hands in his pockets. his shoulders shrug as he braces for the cold. kyle follows. he always itches his knuckles before holding the door open for simon, who walks behind him silently. price, unsurprisingly, brings up the rear.

his hand always digs into his back left pocket before the door closes.

and you, every time for the past 2 months, have ignored them. but curiosity is a ceaseless, immortal creature, isn’t it?

it got the best of you, today.

because one day, he looks in the mirror, and the resemblance is gone.

at least, for the most part. his eyes are a different shade of brown. softer than they were a decade ago, and certainly darker than his fathers- that cool liquor amber in the dark. sees them in his night terrors, but not in this mirror.

and he’s tanner, too. spring time leave. playing with the kiddies in yard sale sun. burns off layers and queues sweat. freckles too. a birthmark he never noticed appears on his jaw. his father didn’t have that either.

absolutely a bigger man- probably twice his fathers size in some aspects. he blames your cooking and his frequent proximity to death. thick, wide, resembles a tank from the right angle. sounds like one too- does his best to soften it when his daughter’s sleeping. does his best to soften all of it, actually.

yesterday, his son drew a family portrait. gave simon yellow hair, with scribbles of light brown over it. when simon asked why, his son replied,

“because you’re both, daddy!”

the drawing is hung on the fridge, until his son makes another to replace it.

this time, simon’s hair has grey, too.

it was an innocent prank. that’s all it was supposed to be anyway.

folded over your bed, listening to the familiar sound of fabric and metal clashing in simon’s hasty effort to get his cock free, an idea sprouts before you have time to cut it.

the joke is notched between your teeth, and you hide your smile in the sheets when you feel his hips crowd your ass. try your damndest to take his inches while relaxed, minimizing your flinches when he eventually bottoms out.

then, you croak, “is it in yet?”

a sadistic pause. you feel the air short circuit, frayed ends of electric wires making the hair on your back stand up. immediate regret when you feel a hand grab your jaw, turning your face to look over your shoulder.

his features are calm, but the look in his eyes reveals boiled frustration. your courage drops to your stomach, and runs out straight out your cunt when his nostril notches.

“don’t feel me? let me help you.”

and suddenly you’re on your back, knees by your head. there is no warning, only a cock that digs straight into the gummy walls of your cunt, tip knocking the consciousness from your cervix. lightening shoots up into your throat, forming a plea,

“f-fuck simon- deep.”

he grunts, an annoyed version of a laugh, before continuing to ruin your cunt with the insatiability and aggression of a man challenged.

“feel me now, sweet’eart? or do i need to go deeper?”

you spend the rest of the night as a sore loser, with a sorer cunt.

the way to the his heart is...

if you make johnny laugh, he’s in deep trouble. intentionally or not, bringing a chuckle out of that man will have him asking for his grandmothers ring. think he’s used to being the comedian of the group- almost always the one breaking tension, or carrying the conversation. and frankly, part of him can’t help it. but if you allow him, at least for the length of a joke or a retort, to be on the receiving end of laughter? he’s a goner.

traditional in nearly every sense of the word, john’s stomach and heart are essentially the same organ. cook him a meal and he’s renovating his kitchen so you’ll have more room when you move in. especially loves taking brown paper bags you make him to the office, and softening at your sticky note hearts. missed it dearly when deployed, but he’ll follow the smell of baking from across the world if it means getting to tell you “love it, darl’” over dinner one more time.

simon isn’t the first person you’d pin a comforting presence on, so imagine his surprise when you start searching for it anyway. running your nails across his neck as you slowly wake, holding his arm on a crowded train, returning from work and burying yourself in his chest. the microscopic, subconscious efforts to be as close as physically possible to him makes him melt. don’t even know you do it, but the fact your first instinct when searching for calm is to find him forces his hand and puts him on one knee.

the first time he caught you wearing one of his shirts, kyle thought he might just propose then and there (it had been 3 weeks). finds the ‘getting ready’ routine to be extremely endearing- especially if he’s involved. dressed in his sweats, peeling off the morning and swallow another day. there’s a specific vulnerability in it- allowing him to see you both at your start and your end. pulls him into the other room without resistance when you offer to fix his jacket.

COD.2

simon “ghost” riley

drabbles

johnny “soap” mactavish

drabbles

inevitable ༅︎ •

kyle “gaz” garrick

drabbles

captain john price

drabbles

choices •

poly/multi

drabbles

you work at a men’s department store. unusual, next to the large mannequins and suit sets- dressed in heels and tight skirts with a measuring tape to tie it together in a centimeter marked bow.

but the pay is nice, and for the most part you’re a service for gentleman. heavy wallets. wandering eyes, but hands that stay in the pockets you alter.

it’s summer, a slow season for cotton suit jackets. but on your evening shift, you get an appointment notification. he’s polite over the phone, if not a little curt. normal.

the first thing you register is his size. tank of an individual. swings his shoulders when he walks due to their weight. a height that slouches his neck. wide arms.

the second is his suit is extremely worn.

tattered, ripped seams, thinning fabric. criticism tears it to bits when he reveals the event is a wedding. you send him a gentle look from behind your lashes.

“are you…sure you don’t want to buy a new suit?”

he scoffs, but doesn’t respond. you sigh.

“at least look at some of the options.”

and then you’re measuring him, and bless your soul it’s hard to keep yourself professional. hands following the thick ropes of muscle to get his wing span, around his arms to get his shoulder. realizing when you kneel in front of him to get his thighs, just how fucking large he is.

and then the bastard adjusts his pants.

hands pulling at the trouser waist band, thick fingers in the belt loops. and horrifically, just as you look up, you catch the imprint of his fat cock settling between his legs.

swells behind the fly zipper. you feel light headed when he lets go, and it bounces before disappearing. teased. you swallow thickly.

the corner of his mouth twitches.

“what do you think, sweet’eart. need a different size?”