Y’all Wanna Talk With Me About The First Time Price Cums In His Pants With You? Embarrassed Because

TF141 reactions to "want me to paint your nails?"

PRICE has never been asked that question before

knee-jerk reaction is no. because he is a man.

but he knows better than that, too; it's just an assumption he was raised with and he's lived too long and seen too much to care about other people's judgement.

he leans over and watches you paint yours. seems harmless enough.

he allows you to paint one (1) pinky nail.

you do as neat a job as you can. very deliberate strokes. sliding one of your unpainted nails around the edge of his cuticle to catch a smudge.

you say "there you go :)"

he nods, seems pretty unaffected by the whole thing. just indulging you, it's a good captain thing to do. fun is allowed sometimes as a little treat.

if you catch him looking down at that one painted pinky nail in thought, in meetings, running his thumb over it in thought, no you didn't.

GHOST balks. acts like that's a stupid question. this is a lie.

even if you shrug and say okay, your loss, he feels kinda tingly about it in the stomach for a minute.

but if you were to just... maybe reach over and pull his hand in anyway, he wouldn't stop you.

he just lets you paint his nails. all of them. just sits there like it's not happening.

activates the monkey grooming part of his brain. not only are you doing a nice thing for him for no reason, you're touching him.

like, you're holding his hand almost. that shit is intimate.

his touch-starved ass starts having pavlovian reactions to the smell of nail polish after that.

GAZ says yeah. asks you to show him.

you lean in and show him the hand you're working on.

when you pull his hand over to do his, he pulls an uno reverse. flips your hand over in his.

plucks the nail polish brush out of your hand and starts painting the thumbnail of your non-dominant hand.

he's just doing it as an excuse to have your hand in his. he does not deny it when you point this out. no, he's not letting go.

his grip is secure. you protest and he counters by asking you how long it takes to dry. how many layers. if this is your favorite color. how to clean up that dot he just made on your fingertip.

he is so coolheaded about it that he flusters you the more you try to argue. you eventually have to just shut up and let him work. and answer his questions.

he is smirking.

after that, he makes a point to grab your hand whenever you're not wearing gloves and check your nails. if they're chipped, he quips it's time for him to fill you in.

SOAP says sure >:)

do not trust him. this is a mistake.

the minute you scoot over to pick his hand up, he yanks you over and wrestles you to the floor.

pot of nail polish? spilled. your freshly painted nails? ruined. done for.

you should've known. like this is seriously your fault. you know him.

he gets your nail polish on his fingers by accident. then happily smudges it wherever he can reach. 

he loves wrestling :) and playing too rough on purpose

eventually he will apologize for ruining your manicure.

helps you repaint them. you're awed when he does a better job than you could.

he has steady hands. part of his demo skillset. and he likes sketching, so

you don't have to clean up any of the nails he paints.

he even uses your detail brush to draw a little something on your accent nail to remind you of him. you think it's just something to make up for his bullshit, but now whenever he sees it (and that thumbprint of nail polish he left on the back of your shoulder and didn't tell you) he feels like he signed you <3

[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!

john price and clicker training

simon has a scorpio moon, i know he does, i heard people with scorpio moons means their mother had a hard birth/pregnancy and it makes sense to me. also a libra sun maybe???? he’s a big justice guy i feel

going by his birthday on historicawiki he’s a Scorpio Sun and Cancer Moon (jfc the “emo” jokes were not jokes!!). his chart is ALL water and fire *sweats nervously*

but you’re on to something bc Scorpio and its aspects or House placements can indicate strong ties to death, difficult birth, or rebirth 👀👀👀 Scorpio is INTENSE!!! I just KNOW this man has the most astronomically fucked up Eighth House (death/transformation) 😭 of all time… and Twelfth House (secrets, psychic power) and Fourth House (family, home life) 😭😭😭

other thoughts:

-Sag Venus sextile Scorpio Pluto. you’re never getting out of his bed #rip. combined with his Sun, we can safely assume that sex/intimacy is everything to him. it’s his most natural form of communication. it’s his main drive, he seeks the power from sex that he can easily wield over others

-Sagittarius Venus = when he loves you he wants to crawl inside your brain and live there. combined with all his strong Scorpio placements you are simply Not Allowed to keep anything from this guy lol sorry

-who headcanon-ed the Ghost distribution system?? like he’s a cat? more correct than we could ever know

-plus a Capricorn Mars? square Pluto?

(tolerates it from ONE person and that respect goes to our Libra stellium king John Price 🙂↕️)

-surprisingly level-headed, I’ll be damned

-the stars also agree that he’s a jokester!

-wouldn’t mind being submissive! is a romantic at heart! unfortunately he has too many trust issues to even consider it :(

-now you might THINK his Saturn is wrecking havoc on his chart— and it is, but we’ll get to that later— but for those who persevere through hardship, Saturn rewards you many many many times over

-Chiron (minor asteroid, healing) has gotta be working overtime

-that secret psychic power, btw: Simon has the power of optimism. I shit you not! push him far enough and he will bend and reshape his reality with the power of hope. I CANNOT make this shit up.

you and soap kissing around ghost's tip, spit slicking both your lips and chins as you make out desperately while ghost is staring down at you both, all flushed and softly panting, pupils blown wide as he watches you both and rolls his hips at the feeling of your tongues as you kiss before he finally has enough, grabbing both your heads and pushing you together so both of your lips are flush with his cock, tongues pressed against each other as you and soap stare into each others eyes and ghost thrusts his fat cock between you two, groaning about how good you both are for him, how it feels so good, such good toys for him to play with before he pulls away slightly so he can cum over both your faces

you know what keeps me up at night? that Gaz only has 3-4 skins (i think) while Ghost and König have like a million...

put those big brown eyes away dude now is NOT the time

YOU AND GHOST MAKE UP AFTER A FIGHT

I uh...kinda got carried away on this one. 18+ minors dni.

➼ you're fighting over something stupid, but both of you are stubborn as hell and won't let it go. the walls of your apartment shake as you slam the door behind you, and you can hear Simon's exasperated groan even through the door as you storm down the stairs

➼ it's late when you come back, the living room and kitchen empty. the door to your bedroom is closed, and the lights are dimmed. you debate sleeping on the couch, but fuck it, it's your bed too

➼ though simon doesn't look up from his book as you close the bedroom door behind you, you can feel his eyes dragging over you as you pull your shirt over your head, drinking in the bare skin of your back, the curve of your waist where it flows into your thighs. you hear a strangled mix of a sigh and a hiss leave his mouth as you pull your pajamas on, his eyes snagging on the lace hem when you turn to throw your clothes in the hamper

➼ you forcefully pull the sheets back, slipping into bed and tightening your jaw. simon glances up from his book, the left side of his lips pulled up, and you send him the darkest glare you can muster.

"this doesn't mean anything, simon," you snap, rolling away from him to switch your lamp off, "it's my fucking bed too." simon only chuckles, marking a page in his book and turning off his lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

➼ you lay in silence angrily, as far away as you can get from simon. you take deep breaths, trying not to revel in the warmth that simon exudes. though you hate to admit it, it's colder than you thought without being wrapped in his arms.

➼ you hear sheets rustle and suddenly, simon's chest is pressed against your back, head tucked in the crook of your shoulder, stubble scratching your neck.

"missed you today," he whispers, hands settling on your hips, dragging higher and bringing your top with them, "missed you so fucking much angel." you set your jaw again, hating how only the brush of his against your skin could get you so riled up, could get your resolve cracking.

➼ you don't respond, but your body sinks back into his, goosebumps erupting across your ribcage as his hands travel higher. you knew where this was going the second his fingers reached the hem of your shirt, but you still gasp softly as his huge, callused hands cup your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers.

"fuck you, simon riley," you try to hurl the words at him, but they come out as whine, your back arching as you lean towards his hands, chasing the stimulation. he groans, cursing under his breath as he slips his bare leg between your thighs. "i know," he groans, "i know, i'm sorry, lovie, let me make it up to you, please..." his voice his low, husky, desperate, one of his hands trailing downwards to land on your hip.

➼ his hand guides your hips as you roll them against his thigh. it's slow and messy, his low voice and the darkness only making you leak harder on his leg. you're moaning freely now, clenching desperately around nothing, head thrown back, landing on simon's chest. he's not in a better state, rutting against you, unable to stop the groans and swears that leave his mouth.

"you're a piece of shit," you gasp as you turn around, pressing your lips to simon's. he kisses you back desperately, still moving your hips against his as his tongue sweeps across yours. "i know, i know," he gasps against your lips. his hands are shaking as he pulls your shirt off, pulling you close to his chest, letting your nipples rub against his faded t-shirt. but it's not enough. "off," you moan, pulling at the hem of his shirt. you pull it off together, relishing in the skin-to-skin contact. you loop your arms around his neck to give you better leverage, rolling your hips harder. simon's lashes flutter as his head drops back, mouth falling slack.

➼ his hand creeps underneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, cupping you as you rut against his hand. he thumbs your clit, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as your thighs start to shake, a blush creeping down your neck and chest.

"si," you gasp, and he bites his lip at the sound of his nickname, "think- think I'm gonna-" "cum for me," his voice is halfway between a growl and a whine, he's so desperate, he's about to cum in his boxers like a fucking teenager just from grinding against you and the thought only makes him whine, ducking his head into your neck.

➼ you cum hard, all over simon's hand and wrist, thighs trapping him between your legs. he drags your lips into a messy kiss, thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit until you whine from overstimulation and push his hand away. he brings his hand to his mouth, eyes rolling back in his head as he sucks you off his fingers.

➼ you lie there together in silence, one of simon's arms thrown over your waist as you catch your breath, forehead resting on his scarred chest. his fingers toy with your hair idly.

"i am sorry, you know," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. you look up at him with a soft smile on your lips, pressing a kiss to the back of his free hand. "i know," you whisper back, "i'm sorry too. it was a stupid fight." simon tilts your chin up, huge hand cupping your jaw as he kisses you, slow and soft and sweet. "though," you start, speaking against his lips, "if this is how we make up, maybe we should fight more often." simon throws his head back and laughs, a true, full-bodied laugh. you press a butterfly kiss to the tip of his nose before pushing the blankets back and padding to the bathroom. simon groans, both at your absence and at the glare of the bathroom light, propping himself up on his elbows and throwing an arm over his eyes. "come back," he groans, blinking in the harsh light. you shake your head with a little hum, starting the shower. "nope. we both need a shower. a clean, sinless shower," you emphasize as simon pulls himself out of bed with a smirk, making a face as he pulls off his ruined boxers. he wraps you in his arms, tucking his head into the crook of your shoulder as steam starts to fill the bathroom. his hands are greedy as they trace over your bare skin, and he drinks in your giggles like wine. he can't believe how in love he is. "no promises," he whispers in your ear, tucking a strand behind it and leaving a kiss on the arc of your shoulder. you playfully shove him back into the shower, laughing harder as he pulls you in after him.

➼ all in all, it's a pretty good way to make up after a fight.

who put feelings in my porn????

BTW if you've unlocked simp!simon then good luck trying to get out of bed.

Once he leaves the tough guy act around you you got yourself a 6'4 leech with abandonment issues. Bro is a boa constrictor in bed, NEEDS to touch you somehow to sleep no matter the temperature otherwise he'll puke, and don't get me started on nights he got flaring anxiety from the nightmares, which are often.

Man will wake up and walk with you to the bathroom like a kicked kitten if you gotta pee on a bad night. And if you want any privacy you gotta kick him out to wait by the door otherwise he is standing next to you the whole time half asleep cuz he's a weirdo.

If you tend to wake up earlier than him for whatever he refuses for you to do your morning routine somewhere else. You're chilling on your phone, putting makeup on, stretching, that's fine, do it in the room. If you try to tell him that you're loud or that you need music in the morning no argument works. Play your music as loud as you want, turn on whatever light, open the windows, his sleep doesn't matter he needs to see you around in the morning, there's no talking him out of it.

If anything it's his favourite time. To be woken up by you doing such mundane tasks, feeling all safe. If you're passing around the bed he'll sneak an arm out and snatch you for a couple minutes (actually half an hour wake up early or you'll be late) cuddle.

just want to have a brown-eyed, broad man pull the covers over the two of us in bed, and say, “hi,” in that way where their eyes crinkle and my face breaks into a grin—before he asks me if I’m okay, and hugs me because he knows I’m not.

you know?