you just asked for a glass of water - you had spent all night bent over wrapping paper and presents and enough ribbon to wrap the house twice, and all you wanted as you laid down to sleep was water. and of course, the sweet man he is, he got up and left to get it. twenty minutes ago.

maybe he fell asleep on the way there, you didn’t know, but you still slid into your slippers and tied your fuzzy robe tight. quietly escaping your bedroom, shuffling down the stairs and towards the kitchen when you hear a giggle. every muscle in your body froze, your body suddenly and silently flush against the wall as you peered towards the sound.

winnie’s curls bounced as she pressed a bow to a wrapped present, using her whole body as momentum. the huddled figure beside her made your chest squeeze with so much love that you thought it would burst.

simon, neatly wrapping presents, quietly spoke to winnie, “be gentle with mama’s presents. we don’t want santa to be sad if they’re messed up, do we?”

“no, daddy.”

“thank you, duckling. now, can you write ‘to mama’ on there? it would help santa so much when he gets here.”

your daughter instantly sprung into action, scribbling on the wrapping paper as your smile mirrored hers. you could watch them wrap presents all night - simon’s gentle direction and winnie’s endless happiness. instead, you turned around and retreated back upstairs. didn’t want to ruin the surprise that simon and santa’s little helper were creating for you.

I’ve turned back to reading oneshots on Tumblr and AO3, and I know I haven’t been consistent with my content, so this is a chance to just send me asks and requests. Ask me about my favorite movies, about what I dislike about online schooling; request some Iplier Ego stuff and I will also write some Septic Ego stuff too! I want to at least take your mind off of the world burning!

So ask me dumb questions and send me requests! I want you guys to have a moment of time to get to know me and get a new thing to read. Time wasting is the best way to get your mind away from worrying.

Since I am involved in many fandoms, here are the ones I will write Reader Inserts for (and occasionally Character x Character):

Detroit: Become Human

Death Stranding

Markiplier (obviously 😂)

Jacksepticeye

Marvel Cinematic Universe

Smosh

Now I can’t promise they will all be sourced from here, since I do have other blogs for some of these fandoms (if you haven’t guessed already, Mark-Dark-AndMore is a side blog off of my main blog, @avengednightmare . I have a blog for Death Stranding, @lethalchiralium and one for Smosh, @starrysmosh . I will most likely be making blogs for my Jacksepticeye writings and my DBH writings.)

In conclusion, I love you! Feel free to bug me, stay safe and eat a good snack since I don’t know what dinner is!!!!

(Don’t mind me tagging my mutuals because I love them)

His head is either back on his pillow, eyes staring at the ceiling or he’s looking at you. Baby monitor on his side of the bed, wanting you to take more rest. I’ll be awake anyway, he says. Damned sleep schedule, he says. He’s asleep ten minutes after you are.

He sleeps second best when his head is settled on your stomach. Hands cradling your lower back, eyes drooping as the TV hums from across the room. Your fingers in his hair, your body wash lingers on your skin. He rubs his cheek a bit on your stomach, just to make you smell like him.

He sleeps the third best with the dog pile - Mellie on his chest when you finally allow her to sleep in the bed, Winnie tucked into his side in a ball, and your head on his shoulder and hand gently settled on his belly button - near Mellie’s socked feet.

He doesn’t sleep much when he’s far from home, far from the woolen blankets, loud laughs and soft cries. He can’t rest when you aren’t beside him, holding him through the nightmares and the dreams that make him cry silent tears. He doesn’t sleep well without knowing his home is safe, that his girls are asleep soundly - whether they’re in his bed or their own, all three of his Riley girls are safe and sound.

only when he’s home with you and the girls, no one else. he’s not a five star chef by any means, but when the food is served, everyone’s bellies are full and warm of food that tastes like home.

he’s happy with his beef stir fry, his mac and cheese (a recipe he only learned to charm you), and his lemon butter chicken and rice. winnie always asks for seconds, mellie doesn’t throw it on the floor for the cat, you always wipe your plate clean.

he doesn’t like how his chicken pot pie comes out, or the shepherd’s pie, or any of the fruit pies he has tried to make for you. you three still demolish them anyway. anything he thinks doesn’t look good or won’t be good in general, his family is still happy to eat because he made it.

he’s proud of providing for his family with more than just money. he’s proud to provide love, security, and bellies full of a home cooked meal. he’s proud of himself for being the husband and father he wanted to be, the man who gives his family his all.

His teeth nipped at your neck, a little giggle escaped your lips. Hands holding his head and back as he pressed his own grip into your hip. Your smile was small, trying not to entertain him while waiting for one of the girls to wake up from their naps.

“Simon, I mean it-“

His forehead pressed against your jaw, slick with sweat as he panted, “Five minutes. Five minutes and I’ll be quiet too.” You didn’t have to look at him to know his desperate gaze, the way his bottom lip would be swollen from your teeth chewing on it a few moments earlier.

Your nails scratched his scalp, his body involuntarily shuddered. “The girls will be up any moment-“

His nose pressed against your pulse, the knee in between your legs pressed up a little bit - you gasped, gripping your husband’s head and back like your life depended on it.

“Y/N.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re not letting yourself relax again.” His forehead rose from your skin, his dark eyes met yours with a gentle gaze. “We don’t have to fuck but it’s not always about the kids. Sometimes it’s about you.”

You let a huff escape your nose, eyebrows furrowed and your eyes rolled. A smile tugged at your lips.

“Five minutes.”

He kissed your cheek. “Gotta remember you need time for yourself too.”

“And for my needy husband.”

He kissed your nose and lips, the lips he was tracing with his tongue a few minutes prior. “You can always kick me off and call it a day.”

You shook your head, your nails dug into his back. “You’re so sure they won’t wake up.”

“Door’s locked anyway.” He smirked, pressing his lips with fervor. You tilted your head upwards, deepening the kiss and feeling your husband’s hands dip underneath your waistband. He pulled away after only a second, mischievous and greedy. “Tell me to stop if you need.”

Well, it’s not that he lies often, but he does do it and you have no idea unless it’s with the girls. Getting them to sleep by telling them that they’ll get candy in the morning instead of eggs, telling them the tooth fairy has the day off on Fridays, and even telling his toddler that he goes and saves puppies some days instead of the world. He lies, but not without reason.

But as he follows you around as you shop, he feels the need to lie. Tell you that you look good in an ugly color dress just to get you to laugh. Deny that your grip on his hand hurts. Say that he doesn’t want another leather jacket, even though he does. He wants the one you keep showing him - nice detailing, shiny silver zipper, and thick lining to keep him warm. One that wasn’t ripping at the seams, has cigarette burns, or holes that dotted its worn flank.

“Simon, please, I just want to buy something nice for you.” You say, looking at him with those sweet eyes and genuine care.

He hates himself at that moment when he lies.

“I’m alright with what I got.”

The nod of understanding, knowing that pushing will not get you far, distressed him. He knows he shouldn’t be this way, that he should bend at the knees every time you even begin a sentence. But the leather jacket is something he can’t do that for, and he can’t stomach telling you the reason.

You pull out pretty dresses and tops to show him, he always agrees with the ones that make your eyes pop. Your hand squeezes his every time you walk back and forth in this little boutique and he knows quite well that you’re purposefully passing this perfect leather jacket multiple times. Exposure therapy.

He doesn’t like upsetting you. He knows you want him to have nice things instead of the worn down clothes he has, but he cannot allow himself to have better things when the money should be going towards his children and their needs. He can go without a new leather jacket, even if you had saved over the course of a year for it. He’d rather buy Winnie the dollhouse she really wants, buy Mellie the beanbag she always has him look up online, maybe even something for the baby like a new high chair. He could buy you a nice ring with that leather jacket money, even though you’d say no.

In a way, you two are the same.

You finally stop the games and stand next to the jacket, hand squeezing his impossibly tight before loosening. “Do you not like it?”

“It’s nice.”

“Then try it on.”

He shakes his head. “No, ‘m okay with this. We can use the money on you.”

Your shoulders droop, his heart hurts, and you softly murmur, “Why aren’t you letting me do this for you?”

He feels the need to lie, the itch that takes hold of his throat and shakes it. His head dips down, his eyes level with yours. “Because this jacket means a lot to me. Don’t want to start over with a new one.” Another lie, it doesn’t mean a lot, it means everything.

You stare at him for a while, digging in his eye with such a disappointed glare. Stiff, aggravated, but still docile. “What’s so special about holes and torn seams?”

“I first met you with this on.” He confesses. “First met Winnie with this on. Mellie fits in a wrap in it like a glove, and it was Tommy’s.” His hand comes to rest on your bump where the baby kicks lazily, your forehead rests against his.

In the back corner of a shop, he tells the truth. Says a prayer as he kisses you, thanks God when you finally see the ratty jacket for what it truly is - a symbol of loyalty.

Another kiss pressed against his lips before you move away, your hand brushes his hair away from his forehead before cradling his jaw. “That’s all you had to say. No more lies.”

Simon is a liar, it’s sometimes all he knows. A second skin, a way to protect the keloids made from wounds he suffered forever ago. But when he looks in your eyes, cradles your belly that grows his baby with a ring on his hand that matches your own, and lets you in his marred head, he can’t bring himself to lie to you.

the bet, college fraternity edition. five thousand dollars to the man (out of the four) who could pin you down for a date, a fuck, and make it as a date to one of your sorority events. you were one of the only single sorority girls on the whole campus, and one of them confessed to you being hot over drinks one night. so, the bet was born - the only catch was, if you denied one of them, they couldn’t ask again until the rest had a hand at trying.

soap goes first, he’s arrogant and way too headstrong, he gets laughed away by your girlfriends at lunch.

gaz is more suave, taking an interest with you as you browse the public library. he chats you up, asks for your number when you politely decline, saying you had a boyfriend.

price takes more of a reserved route - bumping into you at coffee shops, at the library you study at, and occasionally at the dining hall. he’s always polite, nice, you start to build a friendship with him when he asks you to join him at his favorite coffee shop, blandly suggesting a study date. but you shook your head, saying you’ve got a midterm to study for.

simon goes last. he’s more upfront, he walks up to you at the library to ask you questions. he’s adjacent to your major, you’re widely known as the smart girl, it’s often that you get asked things in your realm of knowledge. he actually befriends you, bringing you coffee when you’re studying late, offering you come of his crisps. it’s just when he asks you if you’d like to get a drink with him, you decline. again. stating you don’t drink.

“but thanks anyway, riley.”

“what for?”

“i just won my bet.”