I Need More Photos From This Angle. Like On The Ground Looking Up At Him Doing The Tippy-toe Hip Tilt.

Simon/Price x fem!Reader

Simon Riley wasn’t a man of many words, but his actions spoke volumes. And right now, those actions consisted of him sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, arms resting on his thighs, watching you like a man utterly engrossed in the most intense thriller of his life. His sharp, brown eyes followed every single one of your movements with laser focus—so much so that you had to stop and arch a brow at him through the mirror.

“You’re staring,” you mused, dragging a cotton pad soaked in toner across your skin.

Simon didn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say?”

A slow shrug. “You do this every night, and it still feels like watchin’ a bloody mission unfold.”

You snorted, shaking your head at his dramatics. “It’s just skincare, Si.”

“To you,” he countered, tilting his head as you reached for your serum. “To me? It’s an operation. You’ve got phases, precise steps, different solutions. Looks like chemical warfare.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Simon, this big, lethal man, who faced warzones and threats on a daily basis, was utterly captivated by something as mundane as your skincare routine. He never complained—not once. In fact, you were convinced he could sit there for hours if given the chance.

As you dropped a few dots of serum onto your cheeks, his fingers twitched. You caught it immediately. “You wanna do it?”

He exhaled through his nose, pretending to contemplate, but the answer was obvious. “Yeah.”

You turned to him, holding out the dropper. “Be gentle.”

His bare hand wrapped around the bottle as he squeezed out a tiny amount. His touch was surprisingly delicate as he smoothed the serum over your skin with slow, deliberate motions.

“There,” he murmured, voice low, like he had just completed something of grave importance. “Good?”

You hummed, leaning into his touch. “Perfect.”

Simon nodded, satisfied, before leaning back to watch the rest of your routine unfold. His girl, in her element. Nothing in the world could pull him away from this.

The door slammed open—well, as much as it could with Simon catching it at the last second, his reflexes kicking in. You stumbled in, barely managing to toe off your heels, giggling at absolutely nothing. The room swayed around you, the effects of one too many drinks wrapping around your mind like a thick haze.

Simon, ever the patient man, just sighed. “You’re pissed.”

You blinked up at him, your pupils blown wide. “M’not.”

“You are.” He exhaled sharply, stepping forward just as your knees buckled. One strong arm wrapped around your waist before you could faceplant onto the floor. “Alright, c’mon, love. Let’s get you sorted.”

You melted against him, cheek pressing against the hard planes of his chest. “You smell good,” you murmured, voice muffled.

Simon huffed out a small chuckle. “Yeah, yeah.”

He guided you toward the bed, setting you down with an ease that made you feel weightless. As soon as your body hit the mattress, exhaustion washed over you in waves, your limbs heavy, your mind sluggish. But just as you were about to succumb to sleep, Simon’s voice cut through the haze.

“You gotta clean your face first.”

You whined, attempting to burrow into the pillows. “Don’t wanna.”

“Doesn’t matter.” There was no room for argument in his tone, but there was something else there too—something soft, something… fond.

Through half-lidded eyes, you watched as he disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of cabinets opening and closing filling the space. When he returned, he had a small cotton pad in one hand and your bottle of micellar water in the other. Your sluggish brain could barely comprehend what was happening as he crouched in front of you, his touch unexpectedly gentle as he cupped your jaw.

“Hold still,” he murmured, voice low, as if afraid to startle you.

You hummed, too dazed to do anything but comply. With careful precision—like he was handling something fragile—he pressed the damp cotton pad against your cheek, wiping away the remnants of your foundation. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he was performing some sort of sacred ritual.

The cool sensation against your skin was oddly soothing, and you sighed, leaning into his touch.

Simon shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “Didn’t think I’d be doin’ this, but here we are.

You smiled sleepily. “Taught you well, huh?”

“That you did.” His thumb brushed over your cheekbone before he continued, working his way down to your chin, your forehead, even swiping a fresh pad over your lips with the utmost care.

When he reached your eyes, he hesitated. “Close ‘em for me, love.”

You did as he asked, feeling the gentle sweep of the cotton against your lids, ridding them of mascara and eyeliner. His touch never faltered, never rushed.

By the time he was done, your skin felt fresh, clean, and your body… impossibly heavy. Sleep tugged at you, lulling you into a warm, blissful state.

Simon sighed, brushing a few stray strands of hair from your face. “Alright, bed.”

You barely registered the blankets being pulled over you, barely noticed the way he lingered for just a moment longer, watching over you like a silent guardian.

But just before sleep fully claimed you, you mumbled, “Love you, Si.”

A beat of silence. Then, a quiet, barely-there response.

“Love you too, sweetheart…”

something something johnny very seriously asking you to put him in a cock cage two weeks after his vasectomy because he doesn't think he has the willpower to not cum in you for 12 weeks and the cock cage was closer than the near empty box of condoms in the bottom drawer of the beside cabinet something something

I really don’t care if I’m considered an annoying luddite forever, I will genuinely always hate AI and I’ll think less of you if you use it. ChatGPT, Generative AI, those AI chatbots - all of these things do nothing but rot your brain and make you pathetic in my eyes. In 2025? You’re completely reliant on a product owned by tech billionaires to think for you, write for you, inspire you, in 2025????

“Oh but I only use ___ for ideas/spellcheck/inspiration!!” I kinda don’t care? oh, you’re “only” outsourcing a major part of the creative process that would’ve made your craft unique to you. Writing and creating art has been one of the most intrinsically human activities since the dawn of time, as natural and central to our existence as the creation of the goddamn wheel, and sheer laziness and a culture of instant gratification and entitlement is making swathes of people feel not only justified in outsourcing it but ahead of the curve!!

And genuinely, what is the point of talking to an AI chatbot, since people looove to use my art for it and endlessly make excuses for it. RP exists. Fucking daydreaming exists. You want your favourite blorbo to sext you, there’s literally thousands of xreader fic out there. And if it isn’t, write it yourself! What does a computer’s best approximation of a fictional character do that a human author couldn’t do a thousand times better. Be at your beck and call, probably, but what kind of creative fulfilment is that? What scratch is that itching? What is it but an entirely cyclical ourobouros feeding into your own validation?

I mean, for Christ sakes there are people using ChatGPT as therapists now, lauding it for how it’s better than any human therapist out there because it “empathises”, and no one ever likes to bring up how ChatGPT very notably isn’t an accurate source of information, and often just one that lives for your approval. Bad habits? Eh, what are you talking about, ChatGPT told me it’s fine, because it’s entire existence is to keep you using it longer and facing any hard truths or encountering any real life hard times when it comes to your mental health journey would stop that!

I just don’t get it. Every single one of these people who use these shitty AIs have a favourite book or movie or song, and they are doing nothing by feeding into this hype but ensuring human originality and sincere passion will never be rewarded again. How cute! You turned that photo of you and your boyfriend into ghibli style. I bet Hayao Miyazaki, famously anti-war and pro-environmentalist who instills in all his movies a lifelong dedication to the idea that humanity’s strongest ally is always itself, is so happy that your request and millions of others probably dried up a small ocean’s worth of water, and is only stamping out opportunities for artists everywhere, who could’ve all grown up to be another Miyazaki. Thanks, guys. Great job all round.

every loser with their h*gwarts house in their bio owes a british trans person $700

office siren kyle

and when i say kyle ‘gaz’ garrick,,

Military duties aside, TF 141 would all lift for vastly different reasons and ya'll can fight me on this.

Ghost lifts for self punishment. Gaz lifts for physique. Price lifts so he can pick people up. Nikolai lifts so he can pick Price up. Roach lifts so he has the stamina to be a menace. And Soap?

Soap lifts so he can fight god.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

If i send you my @ do you unblock?

depends. i block blank/ageless blogs, minors, pro-censorship/anti-darkfic blogs, and AI chat botmakers/users. if you fit into one of these categories, i won’t.