SHE’S AN ANGEL!

the denial comes quick. "no- john, i-"

john tells you that you don't have to deny it. that you don't have to lie.

"i love it," john murmurs, a satisfied preen coating his words. he nuzzles his scruff against your shoulder, nipping at his baby's flushed skin because vulnerability is closing in. "i love how you love my body, baby."

you cry, cumming weakly at john's confession and throughout the tremors overtaking you, john holds you tight. he humps into you shallowly, trying to coax one more orgasm, and you do give a weak squirt just as his cum fills you, and it is thick and hot and delicious.

Didn’t hate them – he just didn’t get them. Didn’t get how people melted over something that screamed, drooled, and stared at him like he was a nightmare in human form.

Kids always screamed when they saw him in his balaclava.

He took it off?

Worse. Way worse.

That was why he never showed at team dinners. Soap’s kids, Price’s kids – he didn’t want to be the reason they cried. Didn’t want to see that look again.

He’d seen it once before.

A kid on the street had stared at him too long and blurted out,“Mum, he’s uglier than a monster.”

The woman had grabbed her son and practically run, fear all over her face.

Ugly. Monster. Scarred. Scary.

So when it came to his baby girl, Simon was fucking terrified.

“No,” he said flatly the first time you suggested it.

You’d barely finished your sentence.

“She’s our daughter, Si,” you said gently. “She should see your face. Her father's face.”

“She doesn’t need to,” he snapped. “Mask stays on. End of it.”

He’d sit with her for hours, mask firmly in place, huge gloved hands impossibly gentle as he played with her. And she adored him —giggled every time he spoke, squealed when he leaned close.

“Yeah, you’re proper hard, you are,” he muttered one afternoon, bouncing her lightly. “Big strong girl. Gonna knock yer old man out one day, eh?”

She babbled back, fingers grabbing his crooked nose through the fabric.

You smiled from the doorway.“She thinks you’re pretty, Si.”

He scoffed. “Don’t talk shite.”

“I’m serious.”

“She’s a baby,” he muttered. “Give it a second. Soon as this comes off, she’ll scream her head off. I’m not doin’ that to her.”

Days later.

Steam still clung to the bathroom door when Simon stepped out, towel slung low around his hips, one hand scrubbing roughly at his face. Bare. Exposed.

You froze.

Then grinned.

“Oh no,” he muttered immediately. “Don’t you dare.”

Too late.

You stepped right into his path, your baby balanced on your hip. “Hi, love.”

“Absolutely not,” Simon barked, panic sharp in his voice. “Now’s not the time. Move.”

“Simon.”

He turned toward the wall, shoulders tight. “I said no. I’m not lettin’ her see me like this.”

“She deserves—”

“She’ll cry,” he snapped. “And I’m not havin’ that. So fuck off and let me get dressed.”

You reached for the towel. He tightened it instantly. It was heartbreaking seeing such a well trained soldier and more than capable man hiding himself out of fear of hurting his baby girl. Making her scared of him...

“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t push me.”

Silence stretched - thick, painful. You didn't like this side of him. The side that hates himself so much he ends up hurting you.

Then–

The loudest giggle you’d ever heard.

Your baby shrieked with laughter, burying her face into your neck, shaking with it.

Simon froze.

“What…?” He turned slowly, confused.

She peeked out.

And saw him.

Her smile vanished for half a second–tiny brow furrowing, eyes studying his scars, his broken nose, the harsh lines of his face. Who was this man...huh...

Simon swallowed hard. “Sweetheart…” His voice cracked despite himself. “It’s me.”

That was it.

Recognition hit her like lightning. Her whole face lit up, mouth opening in a toothless grin as she squealed and reached for him.

“No! wait!!” Simon protested, panic flaring again.

You didn’t hesitate. You placed her straight into his arms.

He went completely still. Every muscle locked. Braced for rejection. A scream, a cry.

Instead—

She laughed harder.

Her chubby hands smacked against his scarred cheeks, fingers exploring every line, tugging his nose like it was her favourite toy. She pressed her mouth to his cheek and slobbered happily.

Simon let out a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Oh...fuck,” he whispered.

Tears welled, spilling freely as he smiled, really smiled, for the first time in years.

You crossed your arms, smug through your own tears.“Told you.”

She babbled at him, patting his face like she was soothing him now. Little chubby hands awkwardly patting his cheeks and eyes.

He kissed the top of her head, breathing her in like she was air. Then he pulled you into his side with one arm.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured thickly. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry. Thought I’d scare her. Thought I weren’t good enough.”

You leaned into him. “She loves you, Simon. Mask or no mask.”

He spends days afterwards apologizing, doing everything he could to make you happy. But you already were the happiest seeing your daughter shriek with laughter as her daddy makes funny faces to feed her.

And begs you to make little skull patterned mittens for her. To match of course.

Simon Riley’s baby loved him more without the mask.

She grew up thinking she looked just like her dad. And that made her proud.

MASTERLIST 🍎

A/N: Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated. Luv u all 🍓

And then there’s pounding footsteps behind you, a hand snatching the back of your jacket, and suddenly you’re yanked off your feet and hauled backwards against a stranger’s chest. There’s a gun jammed up under your chin and some asshole is kicking at your dog.

Your dog- your rescue dog- bolts, leash slipping from your fingers, and the blind panic that hits you has nothing to do with the weapon under your jaw or the group of very armed men who suddenly appear in front of you barking orders.

“Put the gun down!”

“Let them go!”

“Hands where I can see them!”

There are like, a plethora of different voices shouting, guns raised, tension sky high, and all your brain can process is: oh my god this is going to set him back so bad in his recovery.

You’re squirming in this guy’s grip, not because of the gun, but because you are furious. that’s your baby. your abused, soft-eyed, loud-noises-are-still-scary baby.

The shouting ramps up, your annoyance ramps up with it, and finally you just snap, throw your head back and slam your skull into your kidnapper’s nose.

He screeches, his arm jerks, there’s a deafening crack of gunfire from someone in front of you, and a hot spray of blood hits your face as the guy drops. You slip in it, hit the ground hard, ears ringing.

And all you can think is: oh my god my dog is definitely freaking the fuck out somewhere.

You’re probably a little in shock because your survival instincts are nonexistent. instead of crawling for cover, you suck in a breath and start yelling at the top of your lungs. “GHOST! GHOST, COME HERE, BOY! IT’S OKAY, YOU’RE SAFE! MOMMY’S OKAY!”

The armed men in front of you actually jerk back in surprise.

You scramble to your feet, still wobbling, spinning in circles as you cup your hands around your mouth.

“GHOST! COME HERE, BABY! IT’S OKAY, SWEETHEART, YOU’RE SAFE, MOMMY’S RIGHT HERE! ”

“Uh… Ghost?” one of the men asks carefully.

You whirl toward him, wild eyed. “Yeah, that’s my fucking dog. My good boy who has been doing so well in his recovery from being an abuse victim, and now his progress is probably going to backslide because some jackass decided to play hostage taker- GHOST! C’MERE MY WITTLE BABY BOY, MOMMY WILL TAKE CARE OF YOU- ”

Three of the soldiers are doing that nervous side eye thing at the fourth one- a hulking mountain of a guy in a skull mask- who has gone absolutely, completely still with a very real, very noticeable bulge forming in his cargo pants.

You, meanwhile, are still cupping your hands and cooing into the empty street: