Endymi0ns - A Thing Of Beauty Lasts Forever.

baby blues

John Price + the panic of fatherhood x reader

pregnancy. babies. soft. sappy. angsty. slight allusions to rough sex. John being possessive and smitten. allusions to childhood trauma. the fear of children is somehow more potent than the fear of god. girl dad John. mentions of Price's divorce lmao

Most assume he'd take to fatherhood like he'd been born for the role; handcrafted to cradle a swaddled babe in his arms. The perfect father figure. But as he hovers over your sleeping form, the little bundle nestled in the sleepy bracket of your arms, he's overcome with a sense of dread that punches hard enough to shatter bone.

The reality is this: Price doesn't understand kids. He wants them. Covets them with a viciousness that almost immediately sets alarm bells off in the heads of those who were opposed to the idea of children, parenthood. Giving birth. But when it comes to being a dad, a role model, an effigy to siphon wisdom and knowledge off of, he flounders. Hesitates.

All he has as an idea of fatherhood is bruises laughed off by the neighbours as him being a clumsy boy. A man who drank in the living room, silent in his fury, his belligerence, until something—anything, really—set him off. He always seemed like he was itching for a reason to punish.

And god, was he ever fucking good at it.

If anger issues are hereditary, then Price picked up the generational slack of his seething ancestors. 

It's this, and the plethora of scars and burns that decorate his skin (well hidden, tucked away like a dirty secret because if Old Man Price was anything, it certainly wasn't stupid; he knows how to hide the ugliness of himself away, and how to turn a boy into a punching bag without causing too much damage, too much alarm) that make him ache something fierce when he sees his chubby little child for the first time. 

Price doesn't know how to be gentle. All he has are worn, rough hands and a constant stench of smoke. A voice that makes grown men tremble. An ire unmatched thus far in his life. 

Until you. Little spitfire. His hellion. You stood on the tips of your toes just to tell him off for being a stubborn pig! and then taught him how to hold you. How to be tender. But even now, he can see the wear on your skin from his bites. His propensity for violence that he morphs into desire. Into lust. 

How is he supposed to be a dad when he's this caustic? This mean? 

The answer doesn't come. All he gets is the rhythmic sigh of your breath as you sleep, well and truly exhausted after giving birth to their child. All alone. A constant in your lives, it seems. Aloneness. His work takes him away, throws him into dangerous situations. And you carry the brunt of it. 

It caused the rupture of his first marriage and is a needling fear he carried with him when you started pursuing him some odd years ago. To think that he'd be standing here now, gazing down at you with your heavy eyes and your soft cheeks, rounded with the additional weight you gained during your early trimesters. A plushness he's trying to keep on you for good—all softened edges, flesh that gives when he touches you, marshmallows out between his fingers when he squeezes.

You look good like this. Motherhood, despite your misgivings (it took three years of him hinting and hounding you before you'd relented with a sure, what's the worst that could happen? We're terrible parents and raise a terrible kid? Or we end up the catalyst for a list of psychological issues and get reamed out during their therapy sessions later on in life?), suits you. Fits you like a glove.

A fact you'd been quietly overwhelmed by in the first few months, grieving the loss of something he couldn't ever understand, or experience. A piece of yourself morphing into the mother that raised you. A kaleidoscope of feelings that you choke on when he asks, unable to render them into coherent words. 

But you're good at that, aren't you? Good at culling expectations, at superseding the limits others place on you. Even him. 

Especially him. 

When he'd said, don't know what you're gettin’ yourself into, love, you took it to the chin like he challenged you to a brawl, and set out to show him why you knew what this was, what he was, and why it didn't matter much. 

Even now—

Giving birth all alone. Overcoming the isolation of being shackled to a man who married his post first. Sisterwife to his career. Second in all things. 

Even this. 

He was in Iceland when he got the call. Laswell, of all people, was on the other line telling him his own wife was in the delivery room. Water broke. Baby is on the way. 

And you—

Don't worry, old man. Just do what needs to be done and we'll be waiting. Always. 

—well. You certainly are. Alone in a hospital room with the curtains drawn to blot out the sun as you sleep, cradling this thing he made with his fingers shoved deep into your mouth, uttering foul under his breath as he crushed you to the bed, rutting you like an animal—the most tender he could ever be—and he's suddenly all too aware of his own inadequacies. His shortcomings. Failures. 

He's not a dad. He's not the sort of man people think about when they think healthy father figure. He likes cigars and whiskey, and sometimes aches for a mission that will let him cut his knuckles on teeth—bloodletting; exorcising his demons out on the people he's sanctioned to kill. How is he supposed to guide a child when he threw a man over a railing without a second thought—

The bundle stirs. Wrinkled, red face scrunching up tight. Little thing is just like you, huh? All softness and give. All—

They cry, and it's shrill. Loud. It jars him.

Not the sound, but the anguish he feels piercing through his chest as they bellow out their confusion to the world, this lost little thing. Strapped with a father who was beaten black and blue and told to be a man when he cried. 

But right now—anger is the furthest thing on his mind. He can't fathom that emotion when his child is whimpering in your arms, chubby little fingers grasping at the air. Seeking comfort. 

Waking you feels cruel when you've spent the better part of two days awake. Four, really. You couldn't sleep when the contractions hit, wide-eyed and worried about everything. What if something went wrong? If they hated you? What if you hurt them—

Worries he tried to assuage, but couldn't deny he felt them, too. 

All he knows how to do is hurt. But as he reaches down for this little thing squirming in your arms, he tells himself to be tender. To be the man his dad never was. 

And they're soft. So fuckin’ soft. Tiny, too. His hands dwarf them, engulfing them completely. He tries to blame the way he trembles on the denial of nicotine for so long, but the mist in his eyes, and the burn in his throat, call him a liar. He doesn't know what to do. Even with all the hours spent thumbing through manuals and books and scoffing under his breath at the parenting courses you dragged him to (but paid rigid attention to every word the heavily bangled woman said to him), he feels lost. Unsure. The ground is shaky. Control slips. And that's maybe the crux of it all—

Babies can't be controlled. And it's the loss of this, what makes him whole, keeps him steady, that has him feeling rubber-limbed and fawn-like. 

“Quiet, now,” he murmurs, and then winces at the rough drag of his voice in the silence of the room. Too firm, too forceful. All the gentleness he has in his bones was devoured by your greedy mouth when you cracked him open like the legs of a snow crab, marrow slurped up until he was hollow. Empty. His tenderness rests inside your belly. What else does he have to give—

But the warm bundle in his awkward, clumsy hold stops their shrill cries. A girl, he remembers you saying. Crying. Sobbing into the phone when he called, all ugly and gross. He heard you sniffle, snot undoubtedly dribbling from your nose as you wept to him about how fucking cute their baby was. Their little girl. 

She's soft. Smells of a newborn, too—something powdery. Sweet. Warmed milk, fresh bread. The clinical books that made you squeamish, the ones that outlined every anatomical and chemical change to your body, mentioned that newborns smelled distinct to each parent. A phenomenon meant to encourage protection and bonding. 

It made you shiver, muttering my little parasite under your breath, even as your hand curved possessively over your bulging belly. 

He knows that's what this is. Chemical. His mind is evolving, shifting. Changing. And it's then that he feels something hot thicken in his throat. Something ugly, and bitter. The scars on his knuckles, the cigarette burns on his fingers are a sharp reminder of what his father felt and ignored. 

He scoffs, then, irritated at himself. He's a grown man and still—

Still thinks of him. 

“Won't be like that,” he says, still rough. Still firm. She blinks up at him, eyes rheumy and wide. “Not with you.” 

Never. Never. He pins the word to his pericardium, letting it rot his tissue. He'd rather die, he thinks, than ever hurt this little girl. But despite that, he knows he will. Inevitably. Just like he does everything good—or bad—in his life. Leaching from the goodness of others, sucking them dry and letting them moulder. A disappointment everywhere except the battlefield where he screams himself hollow and rents the air with his ire. Incorrigible. Immovable. An object of cruelty. Unforgiving in all aspects. A curse that follows him home, into his marital bed when he pins you down, and makes you profess your love for the beast inside of him. Never satiated, never quelled, until you're shackled at his side. Tucked away from the world he knows is too cruel to people like you who end up a corpse he has to step over on his way for empty retribution. 

He thinks, too, about all the ways he's going to ruin this chubby little thing in his arms, and wishes, suddenly, he was a better man. 

“Gonna hate my fuckin' guts when you're sixteen, aren't you?” In response, this little thing just opens its red maw and blows bubbles. He huffs. “You're gonna be nothin’ but trouble, mm? Steal my car. Crash it because your mum's gonna teach you how to drive and she backed into the garage six times already. Gonna gang up on me. Both of you. Little nightmares.” 

He's not sure what else to say, and thinks, already, that he said too much. Bared his belly to her too soon. She'll have this memory, buried down in the deep recesses of her psyche of her father falling to pieces while he held her. An impossibility, he knows, but can't shake the feeling that this, in itself, is an epoch. A marker for what's to come. All the ugly, the hate. The screaming matches that make him curl his hand into fists as she levels his failures at him. Not to hit. Never to hit. But to stop the tremble that won't stop. That has already started. The shake in his joints that tell him to run before he hurts. Before he ruins this precious mass of his blood and your tissue in his arms. 

“Gonna—” he isn't crying. Isn't. But there's a thickness in his throat as he thinks about how quickly she'll grow up. Age marked in the crows feet that gather around your eyes. The laugh lines. “Gonna be a fuckin' menace, and I'll—” he chokes, then, when she reaches up with a pudgy, red fist and snags the strap of his vest he didn't even bother taking off before he fled here. Fat, tiny fingers curling into the spot he grabs to ground himself from lashing out. “Fuck.”

He'd burn the world for her, he knows. Sacrifice everyone and everything just to keep her warm. Both of you. It begins and ends with this little thing that has your eyes and his nose. 

But he doesn't know how to translate that into love. Into affection. 

It comes out caustic. Abrasive. Possessive. 

And he is. 

Now that he has her in his hands he knows that nothing else will ever compare. That they'll never be empty because she'll always fit in his palms no matter how big she gets. There's only ever been enough space in his heart for you. Chiselled into with a fuckin’ pickaxe because you wouldn't wait for it to grow on its own. 

But there's give, he realises. This domicile you carved yourself has a room attached. A place for her. And she fits like a glove. Sliding inside. Cocooned against his pulse. 

He loves her. Endlessly. Forever. She deserves better. More. 

But when he tells her this, she makes a noise and it sounds like a giggle. 

“Laughin’ at me already, mm?”

She giggles again, and he likes that her laugh is a little ugly. A little mean. 

“Scarin’ the wits outta me,” he confesses, shifting her weight as she occupies herself with the clasp of his vest, disinterested in the man that breaks into pieces around her now. “I don't know—fuck, I don't—”

You come to in a panic. It starts as a slow roll to the side before your eyes flash open, wide and furious even as sleep congeals in the corners, pawing at the empty spot where the lingering warmth of your child presses into your chest. Anger, fury, darkens over your brow, and the apoplectic rage that simmers in the gaps of your dread, your fostering panic, softens him. Makes him melt. The burn of your ire, your fear, liquifying his bones. 

He falls in love with you a little bit more at that moment. When the snarl rucks your upper lip up, up, teeth bared to the world as you whip your head around in frantic, desperate dismay, searching for the little girl he knows you, too, will burn the world for. 

“I've got her,” he says, whisper-soft and low. Cadence even, clear. Tries to quell the howl he can see hammering its fists against your throat before it rips from your lips and scorches the world around you in a hail of horrifying anguish. “She's safe.”

It says something when you immediately go still at the sound of his voice, muscles going lax, slack, as you slowly turn your head toward him, blinking against the fog clotting your vision. Something that cuts him to the core. Rents his chest in halves. One side for you, and the other for her. Nothing left to spare. 

This feeling brimming in his chest sweetens when you startle at the sight of him, them, lashes shuttering like an old camera as if you were trying to sear the image in your head forever. Branded on the back of your eyelids. (A sentiment he knows all too well considering the stream of photos added to his camera roll of you and her nuzzled together.)

“You—” your voice catches, breaks from sleep. Fatigue. You swallow, slowly licking your lips. “When did you get in?”

Your eyes are glued to them. Unblinking. Widened with pure affection, the intensity of which makes him want to touch you, hold you.

“A few hours ago,” he murmurs, glancing down at his—

It cuts a jagged line through his chest. Knicks his bone with how deep it goes. False starts pressed tight to his heart. 

—his daughter. Fuck’s sake. 

He's choked. Strangled. Rendered mute, immobilised. It guts him, this. Daughter. The ring of it echoes in his head, filling the recesses of his mind. Embedding itself within his head. Congealed over. Fixed in place. 

“I have a fuckin’ daughter,” he breathes at length, the air knocked from his lungs. He's not sure why this is what breaks him, but it does. And it's you, then, holding the fracturing pieces together, hands reaching out—in a startling mimicry of his daughter, and fuck, doesn't that just eviscerate him—and curling against the heaving brackets of his ribs, boxing him in. 

“John,” you say, but your voice wobbles. Wavers. When he peels his eyes away from the sleepy yawn she lets out long enough to look at you, there's tears flooding your lashline. Threatening to break. “Fuck,” you say, crass and beautiful, and he's overcome with the urge to tuck you into his other arm, keep you both cradled in his hands. “Don't make me cry or my stitches will tug.” 

“We've got a daughter,” he says again, just to hear it uttered aloud. We. Yours. His. It messes with him. Bludgeons into his core. “We've—”

“She's beautiful, isn't she?” 

Your words shatter him, but the pinch of your hands on his waist keeps him from buckling. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice thick. Ugly. It's mangled in his throat. All fractured and raw. “Just like her mother.”

He shows his affection in the burn of his embrace. In the way he holds you tight, refusing to let go. Keeps his words callous and firm. Soft utterances, declarations of love, tucked away in the sure, greedy way he clings to you in his sleep. Yields to you like no one else. Lets you in. 

And he supposes he ought to say it more often if the way your face crinkles up just like his daughter when she cried, tears spilling over your rounded cheeks. 

“Don't,” you heave, ugly and brittle, and he thinks you're the prettiest thing he'd ever seen in his life. “Don't or I'll rip my stitches—”

He huffs. Nods only once, and then steps toward you. “Do you want—?”

“Keep her for a little while,” you mutter, leaning back into the bed, eyes lidded by fond. So in love with him, the picture they paint, it's almost sickening. “She likes you.”

He snorts. “She's only three hours old. Give her time.” 

You're quiet for a beat. Pensive. Mulling something over. It's never a good thing when you're silent, and the unease that grows in his belly is justified when you heave out a long, tired exhale through your nose. 

The way you look at him is raw. “You're not your father, John.” 

And isn't that just the worst lie he'd ever heard.

He scoffs, then. Shifts his weight, still cradling his daughter tight to his chest. “Mm, 'dunno about that.”

“I do.”

“Jus’—” leave it. Keep going. Keep feeding him lies as he stands here and pretends that he wasn't a horrible bastard for wanting this from you. From taking it. Strapping you with a man who's always, always, one foot out the door—

“No.” You say, soft and sure. “You're not him. I know you're not because you're still here.”

“So was he.” 

You don't acknowledge the interruption. Content, it seems, to rattle off lies and half-truths into the stifling air. Your eyes close, the curve of your lashes leonine. Breathtaking.

“Do you want me to take her?” You ask instead of the multitude of things he can see piling behind your eyes. Some of the ugly. Jagged glass. Others powder soft. 

He shakes his head. “You need your rest,” it's a half-truth. Fatigue clings to you still, swathed in the purpling of your skin. The slow, heavy blinks you take to try and fight the tug of an artificial sleep. 

But the real reason is this:

He's just not ready to let her go. 

Thinks, viciously, suddenly, that if he does, this moment built between them in budding, liquid blue will cease forever. Severed too soon. She'll carry the same resentment in her heart he feels for his own father, and he'll die in a shallow pit thinking about how badly he wanted just a second longer. 

Generational, right? Trickle down hatred. Ancestral rage. It's what your grandma talks about sometimes over tea and fried bread, half disbelieving you brought a white man into her home, and making a show, a facade, of wisdom even though he spotted the how to raise a child notebook she hastily shoved into the kitchen drawer when you arrived. Taking over in place of your own mother, stepping up. And yet—

She just doesn't get it, you said, rubbing your hands over your belly when she steps away after another long-winded conversation about traditions, spirits, and dead languages. Raising a child like yours in a world like this. She's just. I don't know. Ignore her. 

(He doesn't. But you don't have to know that.)

So. He clings to her a little tighter. Holds her a little firmer. Brings her close to his chest and hopes she can hear the echo of his heartbeat and know that this tired, old song is just for her. 

(The heart itself for you—)

And maybe—

Maybe he's not quite ready to see you be a mother. Some perverse part of him is already trembling at the promise of watching you nurture and feed her, the tantalising whisper is enough to make the air in his lungs turn humid, sticky. Tar, you remind him sometimes, having seen the ugly spatter of black in the grainy photos the doctor in Hereford likes to shove at him. Never too late to reverse the damage, John. 

Or maybe he wants you for himself just a moment longer. An hour. A day. When you're still you, shackled and bound to a man who reeks of stale tobacco, and started sneaking cigarettes in the dead of night like some pimply, awkward teenager when you first came to him, cheeks wet and eyes wild, and said:

“John, I'm—”

Pregnant. 

He did it, of course. Put that baby in you. Made it with his teeth buried into your throat and your hips canting up to meet him, taking everything he had to offer. Animal aggression. Nothing tender in the way he chewed you up, made you beg him for it. But still—

Wanting and having are worlds apart, aren't they? 

Faced with it, the consequences of his actions, he's at a standstill. 

You hum, and when your eyes slide open, he feels the mallet against his head. Cracked open. You fossick about until you find what you're looking for. Cheeky fuckin’ thing—

“Fine. Just pull up a chair before you keel over, old man.” 

“M’fine,” he grouses in that voice that serves as a dice roll between making you feel hot or homicidal depending on the mood he catches you in. Muttering something under your breath that sounds like a whispered plea for guidance (“tss, gimme strength.”)

But even with the waspish denial, he's inching closer to the spare chair left in the corner, looping his ankle around the leg to slide it closer. The squeal of rubber on aluminium makes him grimace, eyes darting down to his sleeping girl, nestled in his arms. Her brow pinches in the same way your grandma’s do when she's annoyed by the news. Her bingomates. The way he refuses her offering of burning tobacco and lemongrass whenever he goes away for a while, unable to really commit to this little, broken family that feels more like home than his own ever did. 

(“aint my place,” he says, and she scoffs. 

“fuck, s'matter wit’cha?” is her counter, the harsh line between her brows now perfectly superimposed on his daughter’s face. “tss. ain't yer place, eh. are you tryna piss me off? fuck, you make me mad—”)

He sees that spitting anger in you. Generational, he knows. The same inherited attitude his daughter will inevitably have. The one that singles him out as an outlier. Outnumbered. Three, now, to one—

There's got to be a reason why his chest bubbles, innervated by the thought of a Sunday dinner when she's old enough to watch her grandma make intricate bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and pins with thread and glass beads as you, her mother, cuss at the stove that doesn't burn as hot as it used to, flipping over golden dough in a sizzling pan. 

Orange juice in old cups your grandma kept since the nineties. Something soft playing on the radio. The peeling, waterlogged wallpaper flakes off the wall when you slam the pan down too hard. The way the spill of the sun through the rusting window rents the room in half. Pale yellow and oak. Little orange blossoms in soft pink above the speckled granite countertops. Everything awash in a gossamer of sleepy-eyed affection. 

Just like it is now. But—

He looks down at her, head full of lead. Cotton. 

Complete, maybe. 

“Don't know how to be a dad,” he confesses to you, and thinks of how much easier it is to slam a sledgehammer into a metal door than it is to peel back the veneer sometimes. “Don't want to mess up.” 

“You'll be fine.” 

The crinkle of the plastic mattress, the scratch of the sheets sliding across the bed is louder now than it was before. He cuts the gentle sounds with an abrading hum that clicks off his teeth. 

“Get some sleep,” he says again instead of the awful truth that buoys in his throat. Things like you don't know and I tricked you this whole time into thinking I'm a good man and look what you’ve let me do to you. “You need it.” 

Another noise. In his periphery, he watches you lean back against the upright pillows, lips parted on a soft sigh. He feels—

Small, then. An oxymoron considering he has to duck his head to get in and out of the room, towering over most he meets daily. But the inadequacies gut him. Vivisect him. He should be more comforting to you, he knows. This whole thing has been difficult. Tiresome. Cut into and having the life you grew inside of you cut out—

“Did good,” he rasps, still staring down at her even as he pulls the chair as close to your bed as he can get. “With her.” 

You snort. It's inelegant. Ugly. Brittle, like you're holding back tears. 

When he glances up, he finds that you are. “You're strong,” he adds, and knows he should have started with this first. “Doin’ this all on your own.” 

“I had help.”

It's awkward trying to adjust himself in the seat with his daughter perched in his arms, but he finds a way. Settled, then, with her still sleeping away, he lifts his hand from her back, keeping her cradled in his arm with the other, and reaches for you. 

The starchy sheets catch on the bramble of hair on his knuckles, the back of his hand, and the static jolts tickle against the rough scar tissue thickened over his knuckles, some still fresh, scabbed from the latest mission he'd been deployed to. You watch him, misty-eyed and tremulous, as he draws nearer, eyes flickering like a pendulum between the bundle nestled on the thick of his arm, to him, watching you back. Greedily taking in every spasm, every blink. 

Something inside of him cracks. Softens. He thinks, breathless, that you've never been as beautiful to him as you are right now. Bubbles of snot in your nose. Eyes reddened, dropping from exhaustion. A dizzying mess. The sort that speaks of tireless work, of physicality. Muted pain brimming in the backs of your eyes when you pull on your stitches. 

“Got a pretty wife,” he says, and it's not enough. He knows it isn't. Looks away before the fracture lilt to his tone breaks him in two. “And—” it's hard to say. He forces himself to. “And a beautiful daughter.” 

The tears stream down your face at this quiet, clumsy admission. 

“Don't—” you sniffle, hoarse. “Or I'll tear my stitches.”

“M’not doin' anythin’, love.” 

“Fuck you, John—”

He leans back in his chair with a hum, eyes slipping shut. A brief respite amid the panic still clinging tight to his ribcage. “Love you too.” 

It's quiet. Nothing but the soft drag of each breath his daughter takes, the tremulous sniffle you give as you try to dam the tears sliding down your cheeks. His heart hammering in his ears. He commits it all to memory. Glueing it to the fibrils of mind where it'll stay, embedded in tissue, for as long as he is of sound mind. 

Much like the grainy, black-and-white ultrasounds stuffed in his breast pocket. Tucked inside the drawer of his desk where he keeps the pictures of you. Keepsakes he's unnecessarily possessive over, elbowing the rowdier men who try to needle him for sparse information on the little wife he hides at home and the baby they'll never meet. Something just for him. Unshareable to the rest of the world because they don't deserve you. 

The feathered snores tell him you're finally asleep, and he thinks about resting for a moment as well—the bone-deep exhaustion he feels jetting from Iceland to home, to the hospital catches up to him with a vicious kick to temples—but the weight in his arm keeps him awake. Hyperviligent. 

There's this urge clawing at him, making ruins of his chest, and he answers its worried insistence by opening his eyes just a sliver to stare down at the little bundle in his arms only to find she's staring back at him. Eyes wide. Comically too big for her chubby face. 

She has your complexion, but his dark curls. Her eyes, though, are the perfect equilibrium between pools of sapphire, burnt blue, marbled with the dark gleam, that vibrant shade of yours that he's so fond of, the one that's often accompanied by a smart-ass remark. Seeing it gaze up at him with such incipient adoration knocks the air from his lungs. Has his heart shuddering in the brackets of his chest. 

It's love, he thinks first. Instantaneous. Apodictic. And then, cold, callous—

Chemical. 

Just to hurt himself, maybe. Just to let it cut deep. Scar. Because as he stares down at her, he knows it doesn't matter. No amount of hatred, of anger, will ever rip her away from him. His daughter. His family. His.

Like her mother. The root of it all. The catalyst. The start. 

Shackled to this gaping chasm that devours endlessly, never satiated. Always starving. 

Needy. Full of greed. 

Because even now he covets. Craves. Muses to himself about how he can convince you to have another the moment the opportunity arises and you're healed. Whole. Aching for it. 

He wasn't joking when he said he wanted a football team. 

But for now—

The soft sighs you make in your sleep, ones that almost sound like his name, and the comforting weight of his daughter in his arms are enough to make the beast inside purr. Preening under its own conquest, its own victory of successfully turning your body into a home he can rest his weary head on. Sacrosanct. 

He looks at her, then, and feels the dread ease into pride. Into elation. An emotion he knows should have come first, but it's here now, and that's all that really matters.

“Gonna be trouble,” he grouses, watching her pink mouth gape wide, blood-red maw grinning up at him in delirious glee only babies can imbue. Unhindered by the ruination of the world around them. Unfettered. 

Something he couldn't protect you from, but knows you're both on the same wavelength when it comes to her. At all costs, you'd said, hand against the burgeoning swell. And he kissed you until he couldn't feel his lips anymore. Until all he tasted, all he knew, was the taste of you.

“Of the best kind, though, mm?” 

In response, she coos. And he hews the sound into his chest where it sits beside the brand of when you first said, i love you, too, John. 

So, he relaxes. Whispers soft, conspiratorily. "Think you might need'a brother, mm? What'd you say about that?"

And she giggles.

“I think you’re very likable, Simon.”

The man in the skull mask instantly jerks his gaze up to connect with the other man’s face, as if it’ll be obvious he was just joking.

Ghost’s therapist looks evenly back at him, blinking innocently.

“What,” the masked man finally grits, annoyed that he won’t even acknowledge the joke.

“You’ve convinced yourself that you’re scary enough to keep people from wanting to get to know you. I hate to tell you this, but it’s not working. I’ve liked you from the first session.”

The masked man glares down at his own scarred fingers, entwining them slightly atop his knees. “You’re paid to like people.”

“Something I find interesting about you is that you have, by your own words, a little gaggle of people in your life who won’t leave you alone. Follow you around everywhere, talk to you when they don’t have to, support you when you need it. What do you think is more likely, that lightning has struck you that many times, or that you might be a little bit likable?”

Ghost sits with that for a minute in silence, trying to manufacture a scenario in his own mind where different kinds of lightning just happen to strike the same spot, purely by nature of the infinite possibilities of the universe.

“I don’t like you,” he finally tells his kneecaps.

The therapist inwardly smiles. There it is again.

love me some big mean simon but love me some big INSECURE overthinker simon even more. simon who's so big and awkward and out of place, certain he's not deserving of such a sweet sweet girl like you and somehow still gets to dig his grubby fingers into you, bruising you like the soft skin of overripe peaches, sinking his teeth into you. you're so smitten with him meanwhile he's convinced that he's the scum of the eart, undeserving to be the dirt beneath your feet. dreamy sigh.

I won't lie daddy. kitten is a little worried

the floorboards creak under his weight, his knees burning n his joints aching from the weight of his muscles being pressed against the hardwood.

“baby,” his voice comes out low, but not low with its usual rasp and usual deep tone, its whispery and whiney. you can see the pout in his lips from where you sit at the edge of his bed, the slump of his broad shoulders, he looks so pathetically desperate.

“what is it, si? hm?” you cock your head at him, the gloss of your lips shining under the dim bedroom lights as they tug into a sweet unknowing smile.

he sighs, eyes slipping downward n he fidgets with his fingers softly fighting to come up with words. simon can feel his cheeks burn in a blush, embarrassment trickling into his bloodstream.

“give me something, anything,” he laughs, voice cracking under the need that stirs low in his stomach. “please, i need you.”

you nod slowly as if processing his sweet words, yet you know exactly what he deserves. and he’s not going to like it very much, but what comes easy? without pain there’s no pleasure.

“come here then, love.” you grin, eyes never leaving the big hunky man kneeling at the floor.

he’s a good boy, palms pressing against the wood as he crawls his way to you slowly. his knees drag the floor, neck arching to peer up at you as he continues his journey forward.

you can see the tendons in his neck stretch and flex, and with the way his lashes flutter you can’t help the excitement that fills your belly and soaks the cotton of your panties.

“right there’s perfect, honey,” n on command simon comes to a stop a couple feet in front of you, settling back on the heels of his feet as he watches you impatiently.

“unbuckle your belt.” he follows your instructions, hands pulling and tugging until he can feel the material hugging his hips untighten. “show me yourself.”

his jaw ticks as if he was shy, but course he listens and pulls his jeans under his ass letting his cock fall free and brush against the pretty blonde trail that lines under his bellybutton.

“being so good for me today,” you giggle softly letting the words hang in the air between the two of you. “touch yourself, simon.”

his smile from the sweet praise falls, brows falling into a deep furrow that wrinkles the skin between em. “w-what? no, no-”

“do it.” you warn slicing through his voice, the soft of your voice turning stern as your lips scowl ever so slightly.

his face reads nothing but disappointment but he’s a good boy n he’s going to listen no matter what, even if the night took a terrifically depressing turn of events for him.

his hand wraps around the length of himself slowly, shoulders dropping in a deep breath as his begins to stroke his cock slowly. he can’t help the way his skin warms under your eyes, this is deeply embarrassing, yet he complies and continues.

his free hand balls up against his thigh, eyes fluttering as he catches your gaze within his. his eyes flicker across your face, the pretty red of your lips, the lively look in your pretty eyes and its sad how he can already feel the twist of his stomach.

his stomach collapses, chest rumbling as a soft groan purrs off his lips. his head drops back slowly, eyes rolling into the back of his head. he’s been pent up all day and the feel of finally being able to get off has him folding.

you watch his hand speed up, pretty pearls of precum beading up at the angry red tip of his pretty cock. you unbutton your shirt slowly, the fat of your breasts concealed under the thin lace of your bra.

“look at me, simon.” you whisper and he complies, head falling forward wide eyes scanning down the tanned skin of your supple tits and the smooth skin of your belly.

his lips curl as he chokes out a sweet whimper that hits your ears and tickles in your lower stomach. “fu-huck… you look so beautiful.” his mind is all over the place, picturing and painting pictures that have his balls drawing up with an impending release.

“goddamnit, please, baby. help me,” his pretty begging makes you laugh softly, you can tell how close he’s getting, hand moving quickly against himself, from tip to base with soft squelches that follow his rapid hand.

you pull your bra under your tits, letting them spill out for his greedy eyes before you set your perfectly polished foot along the length of his flexing thigh. his fingers wrap around your ankle before you can feel his nails pierce through the skin, leaving small crescents in the wake.

“i’m so close, c’mon,” his words come out in a deep growl before they end in a pitch that heightens into a sweet whine. “let me cum, mama, please.”

you can’t say no to whiney begging that leaves his bitten lips, eyes darkening as you peer down into his flooding eyes, tears lining his waterline. “go on, baby, you gonna cum for me?” ⊹˚ ₊‧ 𝜗𝜚

think sum1 needs help… ✌️

[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!

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...

Simon Riley’s love is a terrible devotion. Hell maybe even a curse for just how much he loves. He loves with his whole self no matter the pain, you’re burrowed into his chest whether you want to be there or not and he will sew himself up so you can never leave him

Simon Riley knows pain like no other, knows what’s it’s like to take it and give it, and he etched himself into the very being of your life, inescapable, ever present, unending

This man is the threat of love. He will take care of you even when you don’t need it, you don’t want it, and he does so with all that he is, looming over you like the inevitable guillotine. He will love you but he will not do it delicately—if he could swallow you whole, lock you away, take all that you are into him than he would if it meant that you would be forever safe, forever his

His to love, his to adore, his to never leave

Simon riley loves with every bit of his being, even the parts that are broken and fractured and dusty and still buried and he does so like a stray dog that will follow you to the ends of the earth

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