Thinking About Simon Going To His Local Animal Shelter After Retirement Because His Therapist Recommended

Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley / female reader - 18+ brief suggestive content

"Why are we stopping here?"

Vacation was great. It was everything you needed, he needed, a perfect slice of memories now engrained in his brain, moving pictures tucked away for him to think about when he's trying to fall asleep alone on a cold, threadbare safehouse mattress.

Not to mention the hundred photos he took of you in that bikini.

But now, it comes to an end. Now, he's about to blindside you with painful, shocking reality.

He didn’t plan it like this, not really. The town is outside of the place he chose for vacation, but not close enough that it’s in a travel path. It’s far enough away from town, tucked into grassy hill, but still close enough to civilization. He’s not a monster, after all. He knows you wouldn’t appreciate being cut off from the world.

Plus, Price and his wife live a few clicks to the east.

"Simon?" He finds your hand, shutting the passenger door and leading you to the walk. “What is this?”

The words stick in his throat, and you watch him warily. “It’s… let’s just go inside.” The keys feel like an anchor in his pocket.

“What?” Your face twists in confusion. “Go inside?” You let go of his hand, and the sapphire sparkles in the sunlight. He reaches out of instinct.

“Mama-“

“Don’t ‘mama’ me… tell me what is going on.” You shirk out of his grasp.

“This is our house.” Your jaw drops.

“What?!” You shriek. “Our what?”

“Our house. I bought it, for us. F'you, and Orion.” You're standing a pace away from him now, too far for comfort, shuddering. When you clap a hand over your heart, his body goes cold. Stress. Stress can exacerbate your condition. "I need to keep you safe."

"I... I don't know what to say. You bought a house without asking me?" You're waspish, and he's too fast for you, too tactical. You're in his arms in a second, his fingers pressed to the artery below your jaw. It's too fast.

"Take a deep breath." He murmurs. "Try to calm down, everything is going to be fine."

"No!" You jerk backwards and he lets you go, bereft at the loss of your warmth against his chest. "You don't just get to blindside me with this and then think everything is going to be fine."

"I know. 'm sorry. I just... I need to keep you safe, sweetheart. You and the baby. Your flat is great but-"

"But nothing." You hiss and stomp away, before turning back, slicing through the air with an open palm. "My flat is great. It's my home! Mine and Orion's." You sniffle. "I thought it was yours too." Fuck.

"It is. It has been. But it's not safe. It's too exposed, there's no security, your windows face the street. The neighborhood is too difficult to disappear into and away from. It's too populated."

"Gaz and Cami live there." Not for long. He doesn't tell you about Gaz's long term plans, the ones that involve a house just over the hill. He doesn't think it would do him any favors right now.

"Will you just come inside and look at it, at least?" You shake your head. "It's not a bad drive to the beach. You could take Orion as much as you want. Teach him to swim. We could take as many vacations as you want, as a family. Please, give it a chance. That's all I ask." You cross your arms over your chest, but after a minute, nod.

"Fine."

The house is a blank slate. He didn't have time to get anything done, but he tries to pitch it as a selling point. "You'd be able to do whatever you want." You raise an eyebrow.

"Like paint the kitchen pink?" He swallows.

"Sure." You're trying to test him, punish him, but he's not upset. He can already tell you're starting to entertain it all. The house is triple the size of your flat, with three bedrooms, a sizable kitchen, even a garden.

He follows you around, your finger trailing over the walls, window sills, trying to hold his tongue, allowing you space to work through it in your mind. "What if I have to go into the office?"

"You said you never go into the office. You're completely remote." You glare.

"And how are you going to get here? It's so far from your base."

"There's a small airport to the east. We'll get in and out that way. It will be quick."

"We?" Shit.

"Ah, Price and his wife live, kind of close by." You blink, and then laugh out loud.

"You've got to be kidding me. Is this your plan? Some sort of weird commune for special task force wives?" It's the first time you've said, called yourself his wife, and his cock swells beneath the zipper on his jeans, possessive instinct flowing freely. "Don't."

"Don't what."

"I know that look." Still, you don't move as he stalks closer, close enough you're backed up against the windowsill in the master bedroom.

"What look mama?"

"The caveman look you get. Me husband, you wife." You try to imitate his accent, and he chuckles.

"I love you." You roll your eyes.

"I'm pissed at you." There's fire in you, one that burns too bright to be quelled by most, but he's made it is business to know you so well, he can tell when there's something simmering beneath the surface.

"But you like it." Your skin is satin soft, and he strokes your cheek.

"I do. I'm really mad, but I do like it. You... you did a good job."

"Gonna forgive me?"

"Depends." You smirk. "Are you going to earn it?" He presses himself to the inside of your thigh.

"How can I do that?"

"Want to christen our new bedroom?"

Price: Y/N, you'll be working with Soap and Ghost Y/N: Alright! My fantasy threesome! Price: Gaz: Ghost: Soap: Y/N:...Of people on a team

this happens to me at least three times on a daily basis

Thinking about professor!Ghost and his stupid motorcycle, abs how he definitely isn't stalking the hot Anthropology professor but he does notice she hasn't left the parking lot at her usual time so he goes to check what's up with that. And when he finds out someone let the air out of not one but two of her tires, thus rendering her one spare useless, he offers her a ride home. Something he never does, because he doesn't like carting people around he likes going fast and not worrying about cargo, but he settles next to Love's car and offers her a ride home. He does tell her to stay put while he runs to his office for his extra helmet and when she finally gets it in her hands she tells him,

"Its pink," with a sort of soft smile that melts his heart, he just grunts and responds,

"I thought you liked pink."

Which is immediately met with laughter like bells and a smile that feels a lot more genuine as she pulls the full face helmet over her head. She steps close to the bike and Ghost stops her to check that the helmet is on right, his gloved fingers skirting under her chin to make sure the strap is on tight. He offers her a hand, holding the bike steady as she climbs on behind him, and he's maybe a little too eager when her arms wrap around his middle and squeeze.

Ghost's never liked feeling a helmet against his shoulder, but somehow when it's her it's tolerable. Somehow he doesn't want to go as fast, meandering down the streets until she taps his thigh and Ghost feels all his blood rush south. He stops in front of her flat and helps her climb off, staring a little too much at the way she swings her leg over his bike until she's fiddling with the helmet and again he reaches out to help.

She shakes her hair out with a smile as soon as it's off and offers the helmet back. Ghost doesn't have a good reason to tell her he got it for her, so he takes it back and watches her make her way inside. He can still feel the squeeze of her arms around him. Maybe he should make a move.

Ghost, to Gaz, drunk out of his mind: Garrick thinks he knows everything but he has no idea I'm in love with Y/N Gaz: You're in love with Y/N? Ghost: Oops, sorry, my bad Ghost, leaning over to Y/N: Garrick thinks he knows everything but he has no idea I'm in love with Y/N Y/N: You're in love with me? Ghost: Ghost: Where the fuck is Johnny when I'm talking to him?

hold up, I wanna hear that miniature hobbyist ghost au. (totally not bc I obsess over making little dolls and miniature dioramas for the dolls) care to crack open that can of worms?

Ghost is a miniature hobbiest who is well known for his (autistic) attention to detail as well as the monotone(deep and sexy) voice he uses for his extremely limited voice overs. His videos are edited incredibly ameteurish, but the actual content speaks to years of dedication. He will occasionally drop the most devestating lore in an Instagram caption showcasing a seemingly benign model. (No one recovered from the tiny birthday cake model only captioned with "would've been 10 today")

He is also, notably, obsessed with one doll hobbiest. His likes on Twitter are filled with their posts, and he comments on every instagram/tiktok/Tumblr post they make. Very niche bjd sculptor that makes one of a kind dolls purely as a hobby and posted one time about how they had to use their body as a reference to get certain proportions right, which had Ghost shelling out too much money for a doll he didn't previously care about, just so he could see you naked(or see the doll naked at least). He's a full on creep, stalking your private accounts for every selfie he can find and screenshotting them to add to his collection. His absolute dream is to have you buy some of his minis and display them with your dolls, and he's even made some in the right scale just to try and tempt you when you complained about never finding one specific prop on etsy(it didn't work).

You do not know this man exists. Somehow that makes you hotter to him.

[commitments]

⤷ simon “ghost” riley x f!reader; established relationship, porn with plot, oral sex (f!receiving), facesitting, jealousy, slight slander to blondes (sorry blonde friends!), simon being a good boyfriend, waxing poetry about simon's trauma, not beta’d

⤷ summary: between you and simon, which one of you is more likely to get jealous? spoiler alert: it’s you.

(w.c 6.1k)

Simon, by all means and methods of measurement, has always been a man committed to his goal—both on the field and off of it. It’s a feat he served life and limb to before he even understood what it meant.

A boon thrown to him when he was on his hands and knees, beaten and kicked to the ground for his simple existence. Some devil watching with a bated smile as a small boy with bruises and scraped hands held on tightly and forged an inner resolve in hopes of a way out. Commitment fortified the fragments of his heart; It strapped him with stone, created a manolith out of a boy. The devil whispered hauntingly into the boy’s ear, a knife to Simon’s palm in silent question, while his own dripped with blood; Asking him to shake his hand, demanding him to survive.

It kept him upright when his father’s grasp strangled him and rendered him bloody, when Tommy felt inspired by the man and decided to take part in the torture. Found him in the late nights when he would work past closing at Old Man Winston’s butcher shop before heading to the warehouse for the overnight shift at fifteen, just so he could scrounge up enough to leave. When exhaustion and burnout crept between the spaces of his bones, and the edge of the bridge he passed on his way home from the end of a twelve hour shift seemed too enticing to pass up, that wiggle of commitment, the desperation of escape, would start him anew.

The forces gave him a freedom that he excelled well in—almost too well. Tough and fast, he moved up within the ranks with a drive and commitment that was unlike the others. He was formidable, resourceful, and could take a hell of a beating just as much as he could give one. Amidst the carnage that the job provides, he was absolved from the life that took from him and disappeared into this new one. Ghost—not the devil he once knew, but something close to it.

He doesn’t thank his youth for making him this way, certainly doesn’t thank his father, but it’s not necessarily his to own, either. It just is. This commitment to the tethers of the long forgotten is one that burns hot within him—whether he wants it to or not. It’s half the reason why Tommy is still alive, the bastard. Doped up on drugs and a baby on the way, Simon is less inclined to attribute his leading of his older brother to reformed behavior as a good deed and more of the bond to an idea of family that he just can’t cut. 

It isn’t all bad, though. There is some good to this quaint affliction of his. A pleasant caveat to selling your soul.

Simon wouldn’t have you had the claws of desire not dug into his shoulders and drive him forth in want. If he hadn’t capitalized on the pulsing streak of interest that burned within him upon seeing the curve of your smile and heard the lilt of your giggle when you introduced yourself, if he hadn’t made haste toward the beating heart of hope that you gave him, if he hadn’t committed himself—mind, body, and soul—to making it work with you, then he wouldn’t have this.

An enthralling love; Finally, a home to come back to, where stone crumbles beneath your guiding touch, melting into a bubbling magma that heats the hearth of the home. Choking on breaths, not because of hands but because of the surge that clouds his gaze and transfixes him to you. A love where he cares, not because he has to, but because something within him wants him to; A love that reduces him down to a boy, finally being cared for in the way that he has always wanted but could never admit. Chaos and all of its ugly siblings that have dictated his life thus far falling into absolution with you. Rendered to little nothings when next to the hum of your breaths, the lulls of your voice, the sweetness of you. 

He sinks himself deep into you, taking root and letting fidelity sprout selfishly. Unable to convey himself appropriately with words, but better with actions. Letting you become all consuming of him. There is never an intentionally missed phone call, and if there is it is shortly returned. He listens, eagerly, swallowing every detail of the mundanity of your life as though it were the great retelling of the epics.

(“My work is boring. Why don’t we talk about you?” The static of your voice rings through his phone. He settles into his cot, pressing the phone closer to his ear, as if that would pull you closer despite the seven-thousand mile distance. “You must be so tired of hearing about this.”

“Never. Quite like hearing about what you’ve got going on. Especially when it gets you mad.”

“I swear, Si. If I get one more email from her where she misspells my name, I’m going to end up in jail.”

He huffs a breathless laugh, falling further into the bed and for once, comfortably. “Fuck ‘er.”)

He’s never been doted on before, and yet, you do it with such ferocity, such intensity that there’s hardly a chance for him to tell you no. You crocheted him a scarf—not because of an impending holiday or a birthday he always avoids, but because he made an offhand comment about his next assignment being set somewhere cold. It’s a gray accessory accented with stripes of maroon that you present with wringing fingers. 

“It’s not the best. I messed up one of the cross stitches but realized it too late so this line is a little wonky.” You tell him, pointing out the error in the stitch. His eyes remain fixed on the scarf in his hands. “I just know it’s going to be cold, so… If you don’t want to wear it, it’s fine. I just wanted you to know that when you’re cold, I’m hoping you’re not.”

Time stills, his eyes wandering over the loops woven by your hand. He’s held captive, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to do anything but stare at the item in his hand. This great treasure, this prized possession. 

“So? Do you like it?”

He’s never been gifted something just because before. An old fling once gave Simon an antique lighter in the wake of a post sex discussion where she tried to dig her fingers in and pry him open. The conversation ended as quickly as it started, a hard glare sent her way and an ask for a light had her chucking the item at his chest and telling him to fuck off. It wasn’t until after he’d been sent overseas for a duration of months that she reached out asking for it back. 

And he did, because he could feel a pair of eyes staring at him from over his shoulder and the scissors just aren’t strong enough yet to have him cut through whatever sense of loyalty he has. 

His eyes finally tear, looking up to your nervous ones. Voice softer than he intends it to be. 

“Yeah, love. I‘ll wear it everywhere.”

(“Yer fuckin’ whipped, LT.” Soap laughs as he watches the man try to—discreetly—snap a photo in the moving truck of the gray fabric around his neck. The Andes Mountains looming largely behind him. 

“And warm, Johnny.” 

If the Scotsman sees his superior officer pull the scarf up to his nose and inhale multiple times throughout the deployment, he doesn’t mention it.)

And home, sweet home, is no longer four walls of a spartan apartment with an unpacked duffel bag sitting beside the door. It’s yours, now. Or rather, he lives in your home these days. Filled with warm lights, and lively decorations, and a bed with an actual headboard, filled to the brim with pillows. He can’t possibly fathom what they’re all for, you only ever use one anyway, but they’re all so pointedly you that he doesn’t feel the need to discuss it. They’re nice enough to tuck underneath his back when his spine decides to reveal the ache that years in the force can bring; Relieves enough of the building pressure before you mother hen him. 

They’re even nicer to tuck underneath your hips, tilting you up and open for his consumption. 

You’re urging him these days, insisting that he take part in your remodeling efforts since you’re here enough as it is, might as well make it your own, too. It’s a slow convincing, but soon enough your closet also becomes his. Your drawers fill with his t-shirts and joggers, his boots sit tucked by the door next to your sandals and his body leans against granite countertops as you feed him another spoonful of the soup you’ve made for dinner, gently advising you of the need for more salt. 

This home is an undeserved one, but in the silence of the late nights when the sound of your sleeping breaths and the whir of the fan is all he can hear, he thinks that this must be it—the endless tug for survival has led him to his final resting place. This is where he is meant to die. 

Cause of death: strangulation; The familiar ache of fingers against his throat. Not from his father’s hands as he once expected, but yours. Your palm held over the lump in his throat where the I love you seems to be lodged. You know it’s there, you find it so easily. In the meeting of your eyes, in the sweetness of your touch. You know how he feels even without him having uttered the words, but it's crippling all the same. He once felt the need to fight this, to run far away from the things you brought up in his chest that made him feel sticky, and unnerved, and entirely too unworthy.

But now, in the safety of your kiss and the laughter of your eyes, he’s all too convinced that this would be a good way to die.  There’s no question about it. He makes a point to ensure that there is no question about where he stands on this. 

(It’s your call, really. He’s already laid the cards on the table about his intentions. Thought about them ad nauseam, made the contingency plans, looked into the paperwork that would need to be filed, the kinds of protections that would be needed for the kind of work that he does. He’s just waiting for your green light. 

When you’re ready—when you’ve finished the last of your classes for your graduate degree, or when you have a chance to discuss the logistics further with your family—is when it will happen. 

He already refers to you as his wife. It’s only a matter of time until it truly happens.) 

Which makes this all the more peculiar. It’s hard to fathom where this could possibly stem from, considering he doesn’t understand what this is. You’re his good girl, his bird and equally, he is, and always has been, yours. Almost two years and conceptualized tattoo ideas of your birth flower on his rib cage have never made him more sure of something. 

It happens on Friday date night— a tradition kept alive and well when he is home between deployments. It was his turn to choose, and his decision to go to the casual bar that he used to frequent was one made with well intentions. 

Lowlights and tucked corners made for his favorite evenings with you, where his cautious gaze gets to rest from wandering over exits and new customers and instead settle on you. Where he gets to sit close to you in the booth, knees touching yours as you lean into him, elbows on the table and the tendrils of a smile playing on your face. Leaning into the padding of the seat, his hands enjoy the obscurity the table grants him and gets to sit high on your thighs. His thumb rubbing the fabric of your dress back and forth, teasing the skin that each ministration of his fingers reveal. 

It’s a silent question for more, of which you eagerly let him explore. The sweet and alluring grin on your face turning dangerous under the faded lights. His favorite kinds of date nights—where your hunger seems less directed at the food and more for him. But—

The waitress has made… attempts.

Simon is—acquainted, he insists and you roll your eyes—with her. She used to be at the bar, serving him the drink whenever he stopped by in the olden days and has since picked up shifts as a server. 

(“Oh goody.” You say dully and Simon’s eyes fill with amusement.)

“Simon!” She initially greeted, her tone a bit too excited and breasts a bit too out for your liking. You’re positive she pushed them out upon seeing him at the table but you try to tamper the thoughts down before they start running wild with tidings of bitterness. You’ll admit that you’re prone to irrationalities—who isn’t? Particularly when said causes of irrationality are conventionally attractive blonde servers that bat their eyelashes rather innocently at your equally attractive blond soldier. (Shoe scraped off the underside of a boot, you are not; But your lover is an English man and they are known to have their… preferences.)

You swallow the acid that threatens to be spit, trying to convince yourself that this is all a part of your imagination. That you’re just territorial over the man who came home only four days ago, starved of your time with him and desperate for more. She is just a kind server who is also pleased at the return of your the soldier and is reminiscing in their shared history. 

Yes, that must be it, you lie to yourself.

Her eyes slide over to you and there you see it; the slight edge of resentment that glints in the iris. “And… a friend!”

You force your lips into a sweet smile, hiding the canines that you run your tongue over, lest she know that you bite.

“Joy.” Simon greets in turn, and you suppress the urge to roll your eyes at the irony of her name. He nods his head to you, “This is the missus.”

“Oh!” Joy smiles—and it’s too wide, too fake— as her eyes quickly dart down to your left hand. In search of a ring. There’s a smugness to her voice when she finds your hand empty, looking back at Simon, she puts a hand against her mouth as she mimics a whisper, one that you can hear rather loudly, “She’s rather pretty! Was wondering when someone would take one for the team and snatch up that ugly mug of yours!”

And that’s when it begins. 

The tectonic plates shift, the ground splitting beneath your feet, Hellfire escaping from the core of the earth and into the depths of your soul. Heat licking up the column of your throat and poisoning the smile that used to sit so nicely on your face.

“Oh,” You say, mustering as much niceties as one could afford, “You’ve been serving Simon for a while, then?”

“Been taking good care of him all on my lonesome for years now. Know his order by heart, love!” She laughs loudly, her eyes settling on Simon too comfortably. Your own twitches. “Tried for years to set him up with some girlfriends, but he never took the bait. You must be quite the special lady.”

Canines dig and the copper taste of blood spreads onto your tongue. You hum sweetly despite it, “Mm, quite.”

Finally tearing her eyes away from him, she sends you a wink—obnoxious and pointed. “Just remember, I had him first!”

And that’s when Simon sees it. The night goes downhill, quickly, from there. 

She takes your drink order shortly thereafter, in which you pointedly order a glass of the most expensive red wine. Simon attempts to order his own before Joy completes it for him— Bourbon. I haven’t forgotten, Simon. When she walks away, there’s an exaggerated sway to her steps and you both tear your eyes away from the sight. You in unbridled anger, him in disbelief.  

A silence befalls the space at the table interrupted only by the rhythmic tap of your nails against the hard surface. You have since separated yourself from him, no longer leaning into the press of his body against yours, but instead sitting erect and upright. A glance to you reveals a grimace that has your glossy lips turned downward and your eyes that held such twinkle before practically set into slits.  

This is… new. He’s never seen you behave so viscerally. Usually it’s him with the moods and stretches of silence where you’re rational and emotionally mature. But this bug of jealousy, this streak of possession, that has dug its fangs into you and made you so intense is quite the sight. 

He’s content to watch you stew from the corner of his eye, grateful that the black surgical mask hides the smile that pulls against his lips. It’s when Joy begins her trek back to the table that you finally break the stillness.

“Return the drink.” Your voice is low and serious, it almost makes Simon balk. 

“What?”

“You heard me.” Your eyes look to him, fire burning in the sea of your irises. “Give it back. Tell her you want a whiskey instead.”

“What for?”

Your eyes narrow, “Because I’m your girlfriend, and I think you should drink whiskey.”

He’s curious, really. There’s no competition to be had, no point to be made when it comes to you. Joy was never an option when he was single and she could never be one now where you’re concerned. But a challenge has been presented, a command rendered that you’re demanding he follow. New turf, for once. 

“Or would you like to sit here and drink bourbon with your other girlfriend?”

Truth be told, he rather likes it. His sweet and caring girl suddenly cold and threatening; Venom all but spewed out as her territory is encroached on. 

A charge ignites the air, one that settles thick on his tongue and jolts the tether held between you two. The string of affection that holds you so tightly to him, that allows for the moments of silent communication and the likes that belong to you and he, vibrates ominously. Pulled tight and taut in anticipation. 

Your eyebrow quirks upward in challenge, and Simon finds that his lips are pulling upward into a smirk without him even realizing. There is no sense of play, no flirty conquest that you bait him to rise to within the burn of your stare, but it’s all so intriguing, nonetheless. This is pure, unadulterated determination that scorches the ground beneath you, has you lit violently beneath the rustic lowlights in a dress Simon hasn’t been able to keep his hands away from. Steel infused in your heated glare as you make it abundantly clear that date night has become less about you dating each other and more about the fact that he’s dating you.

Joy returns to the table, placing the glasses on the table. “One red and a special bourbon for—“

“Actually,” Simon begins, eyes trained on you, “Grab me a whiskey instead, would you.” 

She stands affronted, “Oh… well, I can leave the bourbon here. Just as an option for you?”

“No need. Not interested.” 

The approving quirk in the corner of your lips shouldn’t thrill him, but it does. Especially when you turn to grab your glass of red wine, smug victory painted beautifully on your face as you peer up at the woman before you.

Your hand grabs his underneath the table, placing it on the inside of your thigh. His pinky finger brushing against the crease of your thigh. 

“We’re ready to order now.” You smile, innocently.

—

Dinner passes by with much less of a hurrah—much to your pleasure and Simon’s chagrin. 

Joy quickly retreats from her place of familiarity into one of passive service, taking your orders without much of a second glance either of your ways. She’s not quick to return back to your tables and you make Simon switch meals with you, not entirely convinced that she hasn’t spit in your food. Simon throws a handful of bills on the table once you declare your desire to leave. He hardly looks back, much too transfixed on your backside to even consider sparing a glance to the disgruntled waitress. 

The night is cool, but your temperament hardly seems affected by it. If anything, you continue to radiate burning heat. Your heels click across pavement in quick steps, anger driving you forward to the car park, muttering all the while. 

“I cannot believe that bitch—” You spit as your hand yanks on the door handle once, then twice, your anger now directed to the car door that Simon has yet to unlock. 

“Easy. It’s over now.”

“If I ever catch you over there again, Simon—” You turn quickly in your place, manicured finger pointed directly at him as he approaches you and your side of the car. 

You pull on the car handle once more in emphasis and Simon levels a deadpan stare at you. “Fat chance.” 

Approaching you, he pushes your hand away from the door before clicking the key remote to unlock the car. Opening the door for you, he gestures his head inside, hardly affected as your bothered stare bores into him. He gives no further explanation and while you don’t seem content by that decision, you accept it nonetheless. Entering the car, you keep your gaze straight ahead and a tight lipped expression on your face that conveys the depth of your displeasure. Simon shuts the door. Entering on his side and taking off to home, the car ride is submerged in the tension of your silence, one that he lets you sit in. 

You’ll talk when you’re ready. Or, so he hopes. 

-

Your mood is… pervasive. It follows and fills the entirety of your home like a slow rolling fog. Biting at ankles and hiding feet. Simon finds himself at a loss of where to step—not that he’s much good at navigating emotional waters in other circumstances, but this one is particularly jarring considering he didn’t really do anything. There’s nothing to apologize for, despite the nagging thought in his head that he probably should. 

(For what? He doesn’t know. And if you know that he doesn’t know what he’s saying sorry for then that runs the risk of making the situation even worse. Women.)

He leaves you be, despite the unending realization that he doesn’t like your silence. You move through the apartment like a phantom, from living room to bedroom to bathroom, quiet as you engage in the nightly routine. He passes by you on the way to the bathroom, but you seem almost conscious to avoid touching him in the cramped space—bypassing him where he fills the room with his presence, ducking under his arm and exiting the bathroom. He leaves the door open, a silent invitation to join him as he showers, but you don’t. 

Even as he settles into his side of the bed, you remain elsewhere. He keeps himself attuned to the sound of your movements, when you put your heels in the hallway closet, as you throw a load of laundry into the wash, as you brew a cup of tea and then drink it in the kitchen; He’s fixated on how much your displeasure makes you avoid him.

It’s when you’ve decided to do your skin care after your bath in the bathroom instead of on your vanity as usual that he’s decided he’s had enough. 

“Come here.” He calls for you and he hears you pause. A hesitation before you finally make a choice, face the music of your actions, the sound of your feet shuffling along tile before you emerge from the bathroom. Dressed in your nightgown, face fresh from makeup and wet with products, a small pout on your face as you meet his eyes. 

You wait for a moment before moving forward to him, coming around on his side of the bed and standing before him as he sits waiting for you. It was you that told him to never go to bed angry about an argument, he finds it rather ironic that when it's you that’s angry, your advice is one with the wind. 

“Don’t tell me you’re still worked up about it.” His hand lands on the outside of your thigh, gently stroking the exposed skin as he coaxes an answer from you.

You let out a heavy sigh before you sheepishly say, “She practically admitted that she was in love with you.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon huffs a breath of amusement, “When did she say that? I must not have been listening.”

“She said it in the way that girls do. Admitting it without admitting it. If you asked her out she would say yes.” There’s an earnesty in your eyes that he can’t place and he finds himself chuffed. 

His girl, his sweet girl, uncomfortable and bothered by her jealousy. 

“Good thing I don’t care to.” He says simply and your head tilts, still unsatisfied. 

“If the roles were reversed, you would have killed someone.”

And while he doesn’t deny it, it’s hard to imagine much of a labored reaction to it. The stray thought rolls around from time to time, the occasional wiggling insistence that you deserve better, but he’s much too selfish to let them fester for long. Truth be told, there are men better suited for you,—softer ones, men who are readily forthcoming with their thoughts, better equipped, more capable— this is a truth he recognizes. It’s not a defeating one though, if anything, it becomes a fortifying one. Festers toxically within him, a fermenting poison that bolsters him forward. There cannot be a man that infringes if you don’t notice them. 

Three fingers in your pretty pussy and heavy kissing on your neck works well enough to distract you from that particular truth. It would take quite a person to barge into Simon’s space and threaten his presence considering Simon does a good job of making sure there’s no reason for you to even look anywhere else. 

(And while this is true, let it be known that there is much more to the captured eye and long lasting relationship than a man’s pleasing of the carnal desire. But, these are truths that Simon refuses to attribute to himself, luxuries that he believes he is incapable of despite reality dictating otherwise. Despite your continued loyalty and affirmation to him asserting so.)

So, he says, “I know what’s mine, love.”

Something flickers in your eyes, then. You inch yourself closer to him, settling in the space of his spread legs, his hands soothing over the fat of your smooth thighs lovingly. The discomfort, the distaste, the jealousy, that poisoned your mood dissipates in a single second, replaced with something else the moment the word fell from his lips. 

Mine. 

It’s heat that swims within your gaze now, the same one that you gave him before the night was so rudely interrupted. 

“Well,” You say after a moment, voice sultry and low. Your hands lift to rest on Simon’s shoulders, your fingers gently tracing an electric pattern onto his bare skin. “Maybe I need a reminder of what’s mine.”

Simon’s eyes fill with an amusement that he doesn’t dare show on his face. He gives a gentle pat to your thigh, “I can help with that.”

Leaning back on the bed, he lays on the comforter with a confidence and satisfaction belonging to a king reaping the spoils of his war. He gestures you upward, beckoning you to straddle him. “C’mon then. Take what’s yours.”

He’s giving you the reins of direction, content to play the evening by your own rulebook. And while he’s happy to give you whatever it is you may ask for, he’s quite elated when your straddling efforts do not stop over his groin, but instead you shuffle up and up and up. Until you’re hovering just below his chin, the soft of your nightgown dancing across his jaw. Heat and determination settling in your eyes as you peer down at him in silent question. His answer is an eager one, his arms wrapping underneath your thighs and pulling you closer. 

He’s pleased to find that you’ve planned for this, or at the very least anticipated something, as beneath the nightgown, there’s no underwear. You pull the satin fabric up, letting it bunch around the spreading of your thighs and expose the stickied petals of your core to him further. You’re slick with anticipation above him and ready for his consumption. 

(And he’s beyond pleased, really. Ecstatic, more like. Desire coursing through him, heat flicking straight down to his groin as he practically salivates for you. The happiest Simon ever finds himself to be is on the receiving end of this kind of smothering affection, where he wants to be choked and starving for breath. Your thighs on either end of his face and his tongue straining for more.

And when you want it, too? He’s ready for death.)

Like a starving dog to a meal, he’s quick to get his first taste. He pulls your core down to his mouth and laps a wide lick through your folds, tip of his tongue tasting around your entrance and through until it reaches the hard pearl at the apex of your thighs. Your clit is budding with arousal and the taste of you blossoms in his mouth, and Simon becomes a man on a mission. Drinking in your essence, licking you at a steady pace as the wideness of his tongue stimulates you and his lips wrap around your clit with a hard suck. 

You whine above him, your hand immediately finding the close crop of his hair and pulling him upward and closer, if even possible. If anything, it presses him harder into you, your hips finding a rhythm of their own against his mouth as you grind a pressure against him and into you. The short stubble of his mouth rubs into the skin between your thighs and each pass of your clit against the tip of his tongue or the bump of his nose pulses a jolt through you. 

With your eyes closed in bliss and your hips picking up a rhythm against his mouth, you whine a delectable sound into the air, “Simon—”

Soon enough, Simon’s tongue stills entirely and his eyes remain fixated on you, letting you use him for your deserved pleasure. 

And he wants to tell you everything that races through his mind—how sexy you look grinding your cunt into his mouth, how delicious you taste, how fucking hard he is as you use him for your pleasure, a reminder to you both that his favorite place in the world is in between your legs— but all he can afford in this moment are his own hums of approval. His chin is coated in you, all he sees, tastes, and feels is you. His hands roam around the outside of your thighs, gripping the fat and delivering a harsh smack to your ass to encourage your riding. Another moan of his name tumbles from your mouth. 

There is a second in your using of his face where you hold him close to you, his nose pressed deep into your mound and he takes it as a sign for it to be his turn. He flicks his tongue quickly against your clit, his thumbs reaching around your thighs to split your folds wider for him. 

And its direct pressure, a white heat that builds its blinding feeling into you. The repeated motion, the delightful jolts. It’s a rising tide, your orgasm on the precipice that when he dips his tongue in a quick second down to your opening, rubbing against the lit nerve endings then back to your clit, you twitch in shock. 

You try to stave yourself from the low burn that coils in your stomach, especially as you realize that almost two minutes have passed with you pressing Simon’s head into your core, and lift yourself—only to let him breathe, because really, he’s no use to you passed out— but he only yanks you back down. His mouth chasing your pussy, a disgruntled growl muffled against you. 

“Don’t fuckin’ move.”

He continues his ravaging. Tongue swirling up and down then side to side, repeated motions building you further along the precipice. Your breath quickens, and it’s harder to find air than it is to exhale it. Your head grows dizzy, lost in the clouds as the lack of air and Simon’s expertise in plucking you like a string escalates you higher and higher. Your thighs shake, the burn of their strain leaving you one step closer to collapsing and suffocating him.

And you try to compose yourself, but it’s Simon. Simon, who has studied your body and all of its idiosyncrasies. Simon, who takes such good care of you, loving you in ways that you hadn’t thought possible. Never one to speak but to show you what it meant to be devoted to, devoured whole, pedestalized and adored for simply being. Simon who never makes you want or question his intentions, a clear example lying in how he’s handled this evening. Your pity party stemmed not from any sense of disloyalty on his part, nor any inferiority to the waitress who ruined your date night, but instead comes from the unavoidable issue that your man, large and imposing as he is, is not invisible. He is looked at despite being trained to blend in, and he is both unfortunately and fortunately, a handsome man. And the disrespect a waitress showed you, that you’re quite disappointed to even be thinking of as you are in the midst of the throes of passion, was enough to have the entirety of your night off kilter. Insecurity about worth and beauty and unvoiced thoughts ringing loudly in your ear. 

But as Simon brings you to the brink of pure bliss, as he consumes you and looks up at you as though he wants to do more, it puts it all away. A glance downwards reveals that he’s already looking at you, blue eyes beckoning you further as he puts his all into tying your coil further.

It’s all you need for the final push.

You reach peak at that moment, coil snapping, flood rushing out of you as your body convulses under his ministrations. His forearms wind tightly around the plush of your thighs, his mouth moving in time with your jerking hips, hardly sparing you a moment to reach a plateau with the licking of his tongue. A low burn boils within you, guided by his tongue that has moved from its ferocious beckoning to languid strokes. 

Sweat pools on your lower back, cooling as the slow heat of your organs slowly comes down. A low whisper and beg for him to stop finally has him relinquishing his hold on you. You lift your lower half up and off of his face with a pleased sigh, but not before he follows you up once more, wrapping his lips around your folds for a harsh suck before he pulls away with a smack of his lips. 

His face glistens under the lowlights of your bedside lamp and his mouth pulls into a cocky slant, a happy tune to his words, “Better?”

You don’t have the heart to dignify him with a jest like you usually would. Instead you give him a tired nod, drunk from desire you lean down to capture his lips in a wet kiss. It’s sweet and slow, the meeting of your lips against his as you imbue as much love and gratitude to him as you possibly could. The taste of you melding from his tongue and onto yours. He trails his palms up the curve of your spine, rubbing a soothing stroke into your cooling skin.

You slump into his awaiting hold, your head falling into the crook of his neck as you depart from the kiss, desperate to be held by him, and he eagerly provides. Holding you tight to him, hardly upset that he strains tightly against his sleep pants and that your breaths begin to even out into a steady cadence from your place atop of him. He’ll get up to clean and take care of himself later. 

His girl was in need of a gentle reminder, and what is he if he’s not committed to doing just that?

 a/n: happy valentine's day! i am starting a series with this prompt of: between you and each of the cod men, which one of you is more likely to get jealous?

up next is johnny!

ghost who’s cock is so big he sits in bed with you for hours, just rocking his hips happily back and forth as you watch your movie on the laptop just so you can learn to get used to the size of it.

‘s’just practice-‘ is always his excuse, and you can’t blame him. it does infact feel good when he just crumbles atop you and practically kills you with his big body, cock gently sheathing in and out of your cunt.

it’s easier to get used to, afterall.

Hngggggg. Nikto being balls deep inside you, face buried into your shoulder, murmuring in Russian about how perfect you are, how tight and warm and loving. Made for him. Reparations from the universe for all his pain and suffering. He’ll never leave you, never. He is yours and you are his. He doesn’t care if he has to chain you to him and throw away the key.

subsimon is like…all i’ve ever written. like there’s just something so sonic about being a sub. he’s a crier. he cries during it and humps your thigh when u feel too sore or you’re denying him. he growls but also whimpers and buries his head into your neck.

Ghost cries those thin silent tears, glares the whole time he does it, like you're in the wrong for forcing them out of him. If you keep pushing though, he'll break. You'll get those big heaving sobs out of him, the kind that mean sex is over and you need to hold him for a while. The sort that mean you've pushed past whatever was bothering him into catharsis. The sort that mean he'll fall asleep on top of you, and you'll have to struggle to tug the blankets up over you both while pinned. Don't bother trying to move him, he'll pull you back like an octopus.

He'll hump your leg, sure, but you can also make him lay back and hold his heavy cock up, make him squeeze the base tight so he doesn't come as you rub yourself against him. Your hips moving fluidly as you drool against him, giving your own sweet sounds a chance to shine, each buck of your hips dragging your sensitive parts against his cock. And he just has to stay there, hold himself steady like the good little sniper he is as you chase your own pleasure. He doesn't need to come does he? No... no this is for you, his cock is only for your pleasure, he knows that. That's why he's such a good boy letting you do what you like with it. That why he lets you come on his cock and thanks you for it, why he asks if he can come and begs so nicely when you take him in your hand.

He needs some level of control, needs to feel like he's participating, but he also needs you to tell him what to do, how to do it. Needs you to look him in the eye and say sweet things, tell him you love him and that's why you're using him. You don't have to love him like a person, you can love him like a pet, or a toy, he can be a toy. He just wants to hear it. "I love you Simon, my good boy," makes him come no matter how many times you say it. You might be conditioning him at this point. That's fun.