#cod fluff

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 🍓

It's not that he thinks it's stupid for a grown man like him to ask for something so...childish like cuddles and kisses. What is he? A five year old? He rarely got hugs and kisses from his own mum, he doesn't need it.

It's not like he'll die without it. He'll just wait for you to initiate, like you always do.

Except you're way too busy right now, too caught up in whatever you're doing to even notice he's been standing there and staring at you for the past five minutes.

He's been debating the whole time if he should just ask you for a kiss, but his feet and mouth refused to cooperate with him, leaving him hanging there to stare at you.

"Hm? Did you need anything?" You ask, finally noticing him as you wonder how long he's been there. Must've been a while.

He shook his head instinctively, but his lips formed a thin line and his face held a displeased look. It looked like his words were trapped in his throat.

Luckily for him, you could read him like a book now. It wasn't easy since it didn't come with some sort of manual or tutorial, but it was definitely worth it since you knew that this meant he wanted a kiss from you.

"Do you want a kiss?" You ask again, looking up at him expectantly.

God, you don't think you've seen anyone nod that fast.

Larger than life, the sheer size of him only more exaggerated by the fact you've always been on the short size. You hear almost everyday how difficult it will be, your supposedly giant baby. Honestly, you're worried too, though you suspect konig is the most stressed.

"I broke the record in my hospital, schatzi. Fifteen pounds. Schatzi, Do you hear me." Which. As one would predict, only served to make you more nervous.

Then the day comes and....they're...small.

Tiny, little babies. Twins, how the hell it was missed it beyond you. Your husband is well over six feet, weighs a solid three hundred and some pounds, and his two new babies can easily be held in one hand each.

As the shock of everything settles in, you both learn that your babies will absolutely scream and wail if konig attempts to hold them normally, only settling properly when curled up in his hands. He's practically crying all the time from how fragile they are compared to him.

Seeing the tiny pairs of socks he sews for them has you crying, too. He loves them so so much.

Your favorite memory is watching the little ones, now a bit older but still so small, snuggling together on konigs back while he naps, enough space they can't easily roll off.

——————

You make your way to the back, rush hour finally slowing down enough for you to decompress.

“Simon?!” You call out, his response immediate.

“Yes, love?” He inquires, poking his head around the corner.

You’re a bit shy about it, but your stomach protest louder than you think as he eyes your middle before dragging lidded eyes back up to yours.

“Could you make me a sandwich, please?”

He silently nods, turning back to the sizzling stove, your sandwich the only thing on his mind. The others before could wait, his favorite waiter was hungry…

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.

You know Simon fell in love with you always in baggy clothes, he’s only seen you in tighter outfits a handful of times. And although Simon will give you that hungry look when you're just in his shirt, the look he gives when he can actually see your body is something similar to a starved man. And with your anniversary coming up it gives you an idea. 

now, since price took an early retirement few years ago, he had been eating well thanks to you. at first he availed his free time to fix as much things as he could in your house, renovating your yard and building your pool like he promised you when he was still working. but now that all of this was done, he became a professional in couch rotting.

he absolutely hated it, even as you assured him over and over that he was perfectly fine, and that he needed it, he still felt useless.

to not make it any better, john noticed that he was slowly loosing his muscles and a pouch of fat was starting to be noticeable in his lower abdomen. he was slower than before, wincing when getting up from the couch and he now necessarily needed his glasses to read.

however, he couldn’t help but love your delighted expression as you came home, happy to see him healthy and alive, clearly traumatised from all the years you spent waiting for him to come back from deployment. you'd hug him tightly and sigh contently at the feeling of his heartbeat against your temple.

You tried to sleep. You really did. But you were just so… uncomfortable. Every time you shifted, your sore breasts would too. And make it impossible to sleep. You don’t want to wake up Ghost, so you try to suck it up.

“Want to tell me why we are both up at three in the mornin’ without sleepin’ a wink, baby?” Simon asks, his voice gruff and thick from disuse in your ear.

You tense, not knowing he was awake—the movement makes your breasts hurt again. “Si,” you murmur, “I didn’t know you were awake.”

“Well, lovie, every time you move—which is often—you let out a small huff of breath.” He says. “Should I be worried? I’m pretty sure I know my wif-“

“I’m fine.” You interrupt, hormones causing you to get angry. Regret washes over you and you shift to face him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Just tell me what’s wrong.” He says softly in understanding. “I can help you with whatever it is. Please just tell me.”

You knew he was desperate. Simon? Saying please?

“I’m just… sore.” You admit. “I’m going to start my period soon. My hormones are going wild—which is no excuse—and my breasts hurt. It’s impossible to sleep.”

He nods, expresses softening further. “It’s alrigh’. Let’s just find you a more comfortable position.”

“I’ve already tried!” The sob tears from your throat. You regret it but can’t stop. “I’m so tired, Si! I just want to get rest…”

He doesn’t even flinch, reaching up with his big, calloused hand to stroke your cheek.

A few minutes pass like that in silence. Before you know it, you’ve fallen asleep. Simon grins softly and pulls you closer.