Ch13 Something Borrowed Something Blue (mafia!price X Simon's Sister!reader)

there's just literally nothing better than having that man push you down to bend over a table so he can grind his clothed cock against your ass. making sure you can feel the way it bulges against his zipper and presses hot where it catches between your legs. wiggling your ass to try and get it positioned where you want it, just to make your breath catch in your chest and your stomach warm with each bump against your sensitive slit. then hearing that voice behind you growl that he knew you wanted it??? swoon

it’s hard for simon to focus on anything other than the way water glides down the expanse of your softened hips, your curves swaying with each move you make.

the man is literally drooling when you bend over to place your bar of soap back where it belongs, breasts bouncing, glistening in the lights of the bathroom when you straighten. residual soap drifts down your arms, legs, the top of your chest, down the planes of your round tummy.

and it’s when you turn that simon realizes you’ll be the death of him.

he knew this from the beginning of course, honeyed eyes watching the curl of your lips when you first graced him with your smile, the sun peaking out from behind the darkest of clouds.

but it’s now, you standing here swollen with his child, that he feels those rain clouds disperse. the final puzzle piece sliding into place.

you turned, eyebrows raised in question as simon looks down at you, his eyes mimicking that of a man starved.

“si? is everything alright?”

he was sure he looked like an idiot, smirking down at you in such a boyish way while he placed his hands at the dip of your hips, one hand snaking down to squeeze the plump of your ass. he was met with a squeak and a playful smack to his arm as you leaned into him, breasts flattening against his chest.

he didn’t mean for his voice to sound so full of hunger, but it was hard when you looked up at him under those fluttering lashes of yours.

“s’nothin’, mama. just thinkin’ ‘bout what i want for dinner tonight.”

Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter Twelve: anamneses

tw: minor violence, blood

By the beginning of December, Simon has fully moved in with you. 

It’s an easy transition, considering he only has a few items to his name. Dusty hobby items and required necessities. With a few cardboard boxes and plastic totes shoved in the boot of his car, it only took one trip to your apartment to move everything over, and then only two hours after that to settle his things in with yours. Mismatching cutlery, plain and chipped mugs among your themed ones, a new toothbrush resting next to yours—it’s effortless. A gentle weaving of the threads of life. 

Each morning that you wake up with him by your side, you feel those threads begin to knot. Inseparable, ends mending until the fibers are indiscernible. He’s always on his back, snoring in the middle of the night when you find yourself rousing. You watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest and decide to make it your pillow. It wakes him. You know it does because his snoring stops, but he never speaks. Never kvetches as you nestle your skull just beneath his collarbone. There is only a soft sigh, and the resting of his hand upon your head before he’s back to snoring again. 

He rises well before you do in the mornings, always managing to slip out of bed without stirring you and vanishing deep into the apartment. Usually, you find him in the living room with a mug in hand as he watches the news, or hunched over a book. In the beginning, he tried to make you breakfast but kept managing to burn the toast, so he’s given up that chore and left it to you, but your dishes are always done and the fridge never empties. 

You love having him here—your little ghost. You enjoy the fresh redolence he leaves behind after he showers in the bathroom and the heat he brings to your bed on cold winter nights. Even when you’re at work he still visits you, withdrawing money from his account and always leaving you a tip in the form of something for lunch or a bottled drink. 

Before long, all the wretched scars Eric left behind in your home have long faded. Simon patches over them tenderly with his boots by the door and his mouth on yours. 

For him, you have become a new constant in his life. A curious creature with odd routines of movie watching, long baths, and humming to music when you cook. His little bird, always chirping with fluttering wings, nesting into his side deep in the night, eating out of the palm of his hand and cooing his praises. Simon never thought he could be loved this much simply for existing—for providing such simple amenities like care and arms to hold you with. 

Still, there are old habits that the grey matter of his brain refuse to relinquish. 

His dreams being one of them. 

“Faster! Faster!” 

Pearly white teeth flash down at him as Simon’s arms extend high in the air, stubby legs and arms wiggling in the air as he holds his nephew up. His hands stiffen to a point, elbows attempting to lock as best as they can as he mocks engine noises and fluttering propellers, though it isn’t long before giggles interrupt his facade. He demands that Simon move faster, wiggling in his grasp, more worm than he ever is in an airplane. 

“Go easy on your uncle, Joseph.” 

A warm voice bleeds into his memories, and he instantly recognizes it as his brother’s. Tommy. He sits next to their mother on the couch with the soft lights of the Christmas Tree diffusing around him, illuminating the strands of his blonde hair. His smile is jolly as he leans back on the sofa, torso arguing against the Christmas sweater that looks roughly a size too small. 

“It’s alright,” Simon assures while he places his nephew back on the ground. The boy giggles once more as he keeps his arms straight and takes off running around the small living room. Chuckling, he steps back and watches the boy play, arms crossing over his chest. “You’re a lucky man, Tom. I’m proud of you.” 

And he is. Truly. There is immense pride that swells in his chest whenever he thinks of his brother’s battle with addiction—how he broke the cycle their father had long kept himself trapped in. It took true strength to pull himself out of that hole; more than Simon could ever dream of obtaining. 

“When are you going to stop saving the world and settle down?” Tommy asks. 

Simon can only smile at the floor. “Hm… Couldn’t do better than you ‘n Beth,” he admits softly, unable to look his brother in the eyes. 

“Simon?” And there she is. Looking up from the floor, his eyes find his sister-in-law. Beautiful auburn hair kisses her shoulders as she smiles, jamming a thumb behind her. “There’s someone at the door for you. A yank.” 

He knows what comes next. It’s always the same. An echo that refuses to fade. Still, Simon keeps that smile on his face as he weaves past Beth, fists clenching at his side as his dream twists before him. A figure stands in the doorway, a soft incandescence casting a warm glow on their body, but it’s different than what he expects. It’s wrong, twisted and morphed from something he should hate into something that he loves. 

It’s you.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Simon says like a warning—a threat. Voice low and caught deep in his throat; it’s foreign. Something he’d never say to you. 

Despite his menacing tone, your cheerful smile remains unwavering. “You were the one who brought me here,” you wittily retort. 

Eyes glazing over, you look past Simon and into the living room where Joseph continues to run around, arms spread wide and mouth still blubbering airplane sounds. His mother’s rocking chair creaks beneath her weight as she taps her feet on the ground, mouth opening but no sound escaping it. 

“You can’t stop it. You know that, right?” you ask, gaze still locked behind him. 

A hand absentmindedly rises to your neck where you play with the bead necklace around your throat, but it’s wrong. That comforting green is nowhere to be found, instead replaced with a bright crimson with beads that drip and morph down your throat like liquid—like blood. It’s too tight. Constricting. Choking. Taut fingers on your windpipe, fat palm crushing the cartlidge. 

“I can. I have to. They didn’t deserve it,” Simon chokes out, voice weak. He feels sick. Like he can’t get his vocal cords to resonate loud enough to make a difference. 

“No, silly,” you say with a patronizing giggle. “I’m not talking about them.” 

You don’t look at him when you laugh. Your eyes don’t light up the way he knows they’re supposed to; the way they always do when you’re with him. His chest collapses in on itself, ribs perforating lungs until they’re nothing but useless, mangled bits of flesh within him to feed the rot. He needs you to look at him. Desperate hands reach out to cup your cheeks, tilting your head so that your gaze would fall on him, but no matter how firmly he holds you, your eyes stray. Landing anywhere but on him, they wander, never focusing on him. 

“Look at me,” he says, grip becoming so firm he can feel your skull creak beneath his strength. Still, you refuse. “Look at me!” 

“It’s okay,” you assure him, voice soft. Cataracts cloud your eyes until they’re dull like stone. He can’t peer through it. He can’t get to you. “Ghost, it’s okay. You’re okay. You can’t hold onto me forever.” 

Finally, you look at him. He thought it would make him feel better, that it would feel like home, but it doesn’t. It’s a grave six feet deep with no company but a corpse. It’s maggots wiggling between his fingers, flies sizing him up for their next meal. All breath leaves his lungs, ripped straight from his chest, never to return. 

Why are you looking at him like this? Like you’re forgiving him? 

“Come on, you have to let go,” Tommy speaks up from behind him with a chuckle. A pair of arms snake their way around his torso, constricting his chest so tightly he nearly coughs. “You can’t do this forever, Simon.” 

But there is no flesh to cover his brother’s arms. There is nothing but bone and tendon, milky white and decaying; a skeleton dragging him backwards into the crypt that’s become his childhood home. Simon’s hands fall from your face as he attempts to push his brother off of him, but the iron grip is unrelenting. 

“I told you, Ghost.” It’s you. Voice gurgling, and choking, standing in front of him with a pained smile. There’s blood. Viscous splatters stain the wood at your feet as it seeps through your shirt, blooming like a flower in spring through the cotton. Your hands press over the wound, but there’s not enough pressure in the world to save you. How long have you been like this? “You can’t stop it.” 

Simon tries to scream, but when he opens his mouth nothing but a simple, pathetic push of air leaves his throat. More hands and arms assault his body, dragging him back, heels leaving long scratches in the floor as he’s separated from you. He’s helplessly frozen in place as he witnesses the blood continue to spill from your body, all while the mangled voices of his past coo in his ear. 

“You knew what would happen.”

“Did you really think it wouldn’t go wrong?”

“You killed her the moment you entered her life, Simon.”

“It was always gonna end up like this, kid.” 

When Simon wakes, you are not in bed. 

He sits up with a start, hand flying to your side of the bed where he finds that the sheets are still warm. He’s lost something—recently. It lingers. A hole in his chest. The space in the bed. 

Simon doesn’t bother to don a shirt before he’s thudding down the hallway, bare feet slapping against the solid floor in heavy, intentional thumps. His trigger finger twitches until he wanders past the bathroom door. A cascading waterfall emanates from the shower where he hears the stream interrupted by your swaying body. Through the noise, he hears your humming. A gentle melody—something made up, meant only for you. 

Stopping, he stares at the solid wood door before placing his hand on it. Steam warms it on the other side, seeping into his palm. It’s a pale imitation. A mere mimic of the beating of your heart. 

It’s enough for now. 

Going back to his roots, Simon decides to cook breakfast. Meat. Bacon and ham. Eggs. In another life, he was a butcher. Long ago when scars hadn’t yet marred his skin. When he was still an uncle. A brother. A son. As the food cooks in its pan, he can still perfectly recall the name of the cuts and how it felt to make those same carvings for himself. These days, he tries not to think about how similar swine is to the humans he slaughters on the battlefield, or how burning flesh always smells like barbeque once the hair is done singeing. 

You exit the bathroom with wet skin and a smile that’s too bright for the thoughts lurking in his brain. Not even your jokes or gentle hand on the center of his back can rattle them into submission. He tenses beneath your touch, wordlessly moving food onto plates and holding one out for you to take. You look at him knowingly, as if you’ve traced the spine of a book, knowledge soaking into you without so much as an utterance.

The two of you silently decide that it’s going to be a lazy day. Cuddled on the couch beneath blankets thick enough to stave off the drafty window, eyes focused on the television, attention long lost and drifting into space. Simon will be leaving again. Soon. Just after the New Year. Gone on the other side of the world, whispering sweet nothings to you through an old flip phone whenever the time difference allows. 

As you fall asleep against his side, your Saturday cat nap getting the better of you, he wonders how many times life can take something from him. What the capita is. If he’s paid his debt with the flesh off of his back yet or if life wants something more tender still. Something pure.

Someone like you. 

“Are you feeling okay?” 

As you look up at him, legs still curled over his lap, Simon can’t help but think how he doesn’t deserve you. He’s a stain in this apartment; in your life. Something rotten attempting to feed the roots of an astonishing flower. But he’d never admit it. He’d never willingly see himself out. He’s much too selfish for that. 

“What?” he asks, voice rolling off his tongue with a hum. 

“It’s just that you seem a bit more quiet than usual,” you note. You squeeze his forearm, fingers curling into his skin as if to pull him back home. 

“Yeah. I’m fine, sweetheart.” His assurance comes with a kiss to the crown of your head before he’s back to watching the television, eyes dull, staring through the screen as if he’s trying to decipher the tiny cracks in the wall beyond it. 

You don’t challenge his omission verbally. Instead, you lean into him as your leg twitches, fingers massaging the muscle of his arm. He tries to wander, but you won’t let him. Dragging him back, leaving behind nothing but claw marks in your wake, pulling him beneath the waves, smothering him until he’s painfully present in the moment, far away from war and death and the blatant disregard for all things sacred. 

“Do you wanna go for a walk?” You propose the activity as if you’re talking to a dog, voice pitchy and sweet. He supposes that, in some way, maybe he is. A dog. A bloodhound. Something to attack with foul teeth and no remorse.

Still—it’s all he really is. 

Once he agrees, you waste no time springing into action. You bound forward, shutting off the television and pulling him into the bedroom to change into proper clothes. It’s not late at night, but the season steals away the sun earlier and earlier in the evenings, leaving behind nothing but small puffs of orange that line the horizon. You share your excitement to see the lights, how your mother always enjoyed this time of year because of the decorations and how she wished they would keep them up year round, turning London less into a cement jungle gym and more into a creature that breathes something other than odor. 

It doesn’t take long for you to suit up in your scarf and hat, thick coat ensuring that you won’t be troubled by the unforgiving breeze too much. Still, you talk. You fill in the silence that would otherwise devour Simon. You always do. Humming your songs, sharing your stories—you cut off bits and pieces of you and share it with him, anxiously waiting for him to taste, to see if you’re palatable. 

And he does. Simon savors it. Hands on your shoulders, pulling you closer until his lips are on yours, tongue in your mouth, silencing your rambling, more than content with the flavor. You’re a treat he knows he shouldn’t indulge in, but he’s always had a sweet tooth. 

“Ready, sweetheart?” He’s pulling his balaclava over his face, obscuring his lips, denying himself the only thing he yearns for but knows he doesn’t deserve. 

When you smile, he nearly bites through the fabric to taste you once more.

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Every time a “came back wrong” post about Soap is written, an angel gets its wings. God I love that deranged man.

AHH YES

Thinking about Alpha!John Price x Beta!Reader today.

John, who leans always a little too close, presses himself into you ever so slightly, murmurs “Johnathan for you, love” and noses at your neck, coaxing out the faint soft smell of yours. Perfect darling for him, blushing so deliciously, hissing when he allows himself too much. Keeping him in line.

John Price whose hands are somehow always on you, thick fingers hooking in the loops of your jeans and dragging your hips to his, broad chest of his pressing into your back when he whispers “got you, sweetheart”.

He kisses you behind the ear, always lingering just a little to savour the taste of yours that he manages to swallow being this close to your scent gland. Licking air and not yet your skin, because you keep pushing him away, keep glaring at him like he is a dumb beast too keen on the idea of eating a local bookshop owner instead of looking for royal offspring. As he should have.

Dumb beast who is not realising that he shouldn’t rub his scent into you, that lingering pinewood and cigars kill all your chances to get a proper date with someone.

John, who hums when you protest and gently bites your neck, just holding you between his teeth, your pulse pounding into his lips.

Why’d you need dates with some boys, love? Don’t you have him? Isn’t he the best there is to get?

John, who keeps coming back just to chat you up, always with excuse to touch you, worming his way into your life until you don’t even notice that his thumb has been stroking your wrist for the last 10 minutes of your conversation.

He comes back after every deployment and rubs himself on you, smiling when you hiss and wiggle out of his grip. Feisty first thing after so long apart. He knows, sweetheart, he missed you too.

John who comes back once and has to swallow back a low growl, sound starting in his chest, his teeth itching because you don’t smell like him and you don’t smell like you.

He circles you around before pressing himself into your back, bracketing you against the counter, his nose diving into the neck of yours, beast in his head snarling when he finds someone else’s hickey there.

Kept yourself busy, didn’t you, love?

He’s been gone for too long, his scent got too weak.

John admits, he should have come back sooner, should have pulled you under a long time ago.

But he liked your little game of push and pull, he enjoyed the tag so much that he forgot he isn’t the only one playing.

An oversight, not a good thing for a captain.

John who is still hazy with the blood from last deployment, urge to tear another throat out simmering right under the surface when he presses his hips to your ass, slotting against you like perfect puzzle.

If he knew you’d get impatient, he would have taken proper care of you, sweetheart.

But he won’t make the same mistake again.

John Price, who takes leave of absence so he can stop taking suppressants for the first time in years.

Rut of his pounding in the back of his head, spreading through him like an infection, dripping under his skin like poisonous honey.

Sticky sweet, molten with yearning, hungry for blood.

Hungry for you.

John Price who clicks his tongue at you to stay behind your counter, as he locks the doors behind him and lowers himself down. On his knees, nudging your stance to widen.

So he can pull your jeans down, tongue sliding between your thighs, big hands holding you open for him.

No need to thrash, love. He isn’t letting go now. He isn’t backing away either, not anymore.

His rut makes you hazy, his rut clouds your head and makes you slip, bracing your forearms on the wooden counter, his ‘good job, sweetheart’ dripping slick between your thighs.

John eats you out until his knees ache, until your hips roll into his mouth, until the sweet faint scent of yours blends in with his.

Your whole bloody shop is going to smell like you have a man, love. Like you have John.

There is a low dangerous rumble in his chest when you try to pull away, to stop him from eating you out into overstimulation. Because where do you think you are going, sweetheart? You need to be nice and slick to take all of him.

You need to be soft and pliant for John to feed the thick length of his cock to your greedy hole.

“Goin’ to fuck attitude out of ya, lovie.”, John breathes out, biting your ass until you whimper trying to get him off and until the indent of his teeth is a red mark on you. First out of many. “Any bloke in this bloody country would be able to tell you are taken. Anyone who takes a step inside will know I was here.”, he growls, grinding on the plush of your buttock.

Not going anywhere now, love. Never again.

John Price who clicks his tongue when you whimper about condoms, because that’s just silly, sweetheart, you won’t need any of it with him. How are you supposed to feel his knot if you won’t let it in?

That just won’t do.

John Price who bounces you in his lap, thick calloused fingers holding onto the meat of your hips, slamming you down and pulling you up, until the knot of his pops inside of your hole, plugging you in, binding you to him for the next half an hour.

John Price who holds you in full Nelson, arms under your knees, teeth grazing your ear when he bounces you on his knot, pulling just enough so you’d feel the stretch, so you’d start whimpering for him, so you’d scent become sweeter for him.

Naughty fucking thing, you like him being mean to you?

John who lets the rut take reigns, so he can press you into the counter, biting all over your shoulders, snarling “mine, always mine, only mine” when you can’t help but arch. Whether to pull away or to press into him, he’s not sure.

John who licks the scent gland of yours, teeth itching to sink in, dumb beast in his head pulling him to rut into you. And Lord, you are slick and warm and perfect, squeezing him like you never want to let go, milking him for all he’s worth.

Perfect mate.

He humps into you like a feral dog, heavy thick hips of his pressing into yours, not letting you close your legs. Not when he’s folding you into the mating press and sinking his teeth in the crook of your neck, popping the untouched and unmated gland there. Binding you together, blending himself into you, drinking you in so your sweetness is always in his scent from now on.

Won’t be anyone else, love. Not for him. Nor for you.

John Price who presses your face into his neck, rasps out “bite, sweetheart”, his knot popping back inside of your hole — your legs twitching above his shoulders. Sweet thing, he’s too much for you without much of a preparation. But it’s okay, he will be better next time.

He will take you somewhere soft and warm, he will feed you meat and fruit, letting you lick juices off his fingers, he will suck on your tender sensitive parts until you are crying.

You just gotta bite, lovie, just sink your teeth in his gland, will ya?

John Price who licks his lips when you nuzzle in the crook of his neck, your teeth grazing his gland, your jaw trembling. Rode you ragged, didn’t he, love?

It’s okay, John will help, just open wide, aye?

John murmurs, voice half a growl when he presses your head into his neck, when he closes your jaws down on his gland, shiver running down his spine, everything clicking in place.

This is right. This is how it’s supposed to be.

John who kisses your face pulling you out the crook of his neck — your eyes gone, pupils blown wide and jaw slack when he ruts into you again.

Just one more orgasm, sweetheart, just one more. He knows you can do it, you can be good for him.

You can give him his reward for being so patient, you can thank him for not tracking down your now irrelevant suitor and not presenting you bloke’s fingers as a courting gift.

You can thank him proper and you will, won’t ya, lovie?

Come on, one more time, he rasps in your ear, fingers prying your mouth open and stuffing it until you are drooling messily all over him. Pretty thing, see how easy it is? Just had to come to your Johnathan and he would have taken care of this greedy hole.

He would have made it better. And from now on he always will.

Till death do us part, sweetheart. If he has to say anything about it.

prev. | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but your apartment is the last place he visits before being sent off on an assignment.

‘Jus’ need somethin’ to tide me over, yeah dove?’

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but when he’s away, his rugged and calloused hands don’t feel like yours, can’t get off unless he pictures you.

Above him. Below him. On your knees. On your back. In your mouth. Buried in your cunt.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but your apartment is the first place he visits when the mission is finished, doesn’t even bother going home.

And you answer, despite it being three in the morning.

“There’s my girl.” He breathes. Relieved. Dropping his bags on the floor before lunging forward to cup your face in his palms.

The claim makes you whine quietly, digging your fingertips into his wrists, arching on your tippy toes to meet his lips halfway. It’s ravenous, leaves your breath ragged, and lips thrumming with swelling blood.

He hoists you in his arms, burrowing his hands under your thighs and ass, pinching the flesh so hard it’ll bruise, but he can’t help it. He’s greedy. Selfish. Hasn’t quite coaxed himself down from the harsh realities of being ‘Ghost.’

“Ah—Simon,” You whimper, huffing hot air against his lips, “You’re hurting me.”

“Sorry, baby,” He smooths his hands, petting the backs of your thighs, “I just-”

The ‘missed you’ dies on his tongue, stops it from rolling off and filling the empty space between the two of you, but you know.

That night when he asks you to repeat him, tell him you’re all his, you don’t respond like usual. He tries his best to coax it out of your pretty lips orgasm after orgasm because he needs to hear it, but you don’t give him the pleasure.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, so he has no other option but to accept it because you’re not his. The lack of acknowledgment eats at his skin, brutal talons gnawing at his flesh when you slowly stop responding to his texts.

Shows up at your doorstep anyway because you don’t get to tell him when this stops. When you answer the door, you’re all dolled up, a tight little skirt hugging your figure, lip gloss smeared on your lips like you have somewhere to be other than on his cock.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, glaring at him, “I’m busy.”

“With what?”

You frown, “I have a date.”

He snorts, pushing past you, making a show of taking off his boots and placing them next to yours, has no intention of leaving.

“Simon,” You sigh, closing the door behind you, “I don’t have time for this right now. He’ll be here any minute.”

The statement alone pinches his temples with irritation, but that’s when he sees it, one small hickey adorned on your neck, just below your ear. His vision narrows, tunneling red, nudging you against the wall with one swift movement, tilting your jaw to get a better look at it.

“The fuck is this?” He snarls, runs his thumb over the bruise, and makes your breath hitch slightly.

“Nothing.” You mutter quietly.

“Your little date give you this? Huh?” He grits through clenched teeth, grip tightening on your jaw, drawing dimples in your skin.

“None of your business.” You spit back, but it’s far too gentle to have any real bite like it always does with him, pup with baby canines.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he seethes at the idea of another man inside of you, another man marking you as theirs when you’re his.

Sinks his teeth around the stupid mark, dragging sharp fangs against your delicate flesh, and sucks the skin viciously. Covers the ugly bruise with his own claim.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he presses you right up against your front door, so your date can hear him fucking you in two when he comes to pick you up.

‘Can yer little boyfriend fuck you like this? Huh, baby? Did he know jus’ how you like it?’

Fucks you messy and pretty, until your cheeks are tear-stained and your breaths are wrecked, hiccuping over your moans that’s he’s so mean, so cruel, asking you to say you’re his when he doesn’t even have the courage to say he missed you.

‘Be a good girl f’me, yeah? Tell me you’re all mine.’

And when you do finally say it, he carries you to your bed, fucks you slow and deliberate like he always does, like he really means it, and whispers the words against your skin.

@bbygirl9 @ailanbutterfly @amberbalcom14 @h0lydrag0ns

To me, Simon has the dumbest hair 90% of the time because he just buzzes it himself (I cannot believe that man pays money to one, do something he could theoretically do himself, and two, spend time with a stranger). The other 10% it's good -- when he first cuts it, an eighth of an inch of pale fuzz left behind, and when it just starts growing out, that's fine. But a lot of the time, especially when he's at home, he just lets it go.

And you, his next door neighbor, will never not give him shit about it.

"You look so goofy," you tell him when you see him in the hallway, one arm holding your groceries and the other fiddling with your keys. "Just cut it, Jesus Christ."

He rolls his eyes or tells you to fuck off, because you've known each other long enough for that kind of thing. He's lived in the building for years, never having seen a reason to leave, and you've been there for a few yourself. You're friends in the way that you may not call or text or schedule time to hang out, but you can scarcely think of anyone you see more often.

"Seriously," you go on, unlocking your door and speaking louder so he can hear you when you go inside. "It's just like two inches sticking straight off your head, why are you walking around like that?"

"Doesn't bother me," Simon answers, moving to lean against your doorframe and watch you as you put up your things. "Seems to bother you an awful lot though."

Your back is to him while you move around your kitchen, but you can tell he's smirking, and you scoff.

"Yeah, it bothers me. You get a face like that and you go and screw it up with the dumbest excuse for a haircut I've ever seen."

It's not the first time you've flirted with him, or even the most direct time, but it still gives him pause. He doesn't wear his mask when he's not working, most of the time anyway, because he thinks it draws too much attention and he'd prefer to just slip into the shadows wherever he goes. But you seeing him, and you letting him know that you like what you see, it does something to him, every time.

"You cut it then," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're the one so torn up about it, you fix it."

You snort, finally turning back to him, saying, "I'm not a barber, stupid."

"No, you sure seem like a coward though."

A few minutes later, you're both in Simon's bathroom. He's got his shirt off, straddling the toilet so you can reach his head, and you're behind him with clippers in your hand, looking down at him. You've never seen this much of him, never even seen the place where his tattoos stop on his arm, and it's a lot to take in.

You want to take your time, commit every scar, every freckle to memory, but he turns his head, smirking again.

"Told you you were a coward."

Without a word, you turn on the clippers and get to work.

It's not hard, it's just a buzzcut. The hard part is in touching his ears, gently pushing the lobes down to trim around them. It's in sneaking glances over his shoulder to watch his chest as it rises and falls while you work. In trying not to notice the tiniest little hitch in his breath when you lean in closer and rest your hand on his back while you get the hairs on the back of his neck.

The worst part though, is the beauty mark that sits perfectly in the place where his neck meets his shoulder. Specifically, the worst part is the strong, almost uncontrollable urge to bite it.

When you're done, you turn off the clippers and set them on his bathroom counter, then dust off his shoulders for him. Just before he stands, you can't deny yourself any longer -- you won't be able to reach it when he's not sitting so perfectly like this -- and give a quick, soft kiss to the mark.

During all the time you've known Simon, he's barely responded to your flirting. To you, he doesn't seem interested, and to him, you don't seem serious. But a kiss, faint as it may have been, is different, and before you can register it, he's on his feet, turned and standing over you.

"Hair looks better," you say softly.

He grunts in response, and before you know it, his mouth is covering yours, hot and insistent. It's a heady feeling, having him so close, and before you can get used to it, his hands are on you, first on your waist, then on your hips, then on the backs of your thighs as he lifts you up and holds you against him.

He maneuvers you both out of the bathroom and towards his bedroom, where he unceremoniously tosses you on his bed. You look up at him, letting your eyes trail freely over his body now, going down when you see him place his hands on his belt.

"Not so mouthy now, are you?"

Realized I have free will and WILL be posting every thought I have!

Simon Riley, the lieutenant in charge of training your batch of new recruits, who absolutely despises you. Every time you fall over from exhaustion on a 10 mile run, he’s always screaming in your ear and telling you what a useless slag you are. The moment one of your bullets misses the very center of the target, he’s down your neck telling you to pull it together before tea time or he’ll have you running laps until noon. The constant pressure and seeming disapproval from the man you look up to so much has you breaking down in tears one day when you sprain your ankle scaling a ten foot wall. It’s only when he’s by your side, big and rough hands gentle on your calf as he surveys your condition that he notices the fat tears rolling down your face and realizes his mistake.

“Love, I know this is hard but I need you in good shape if you’re going to be on my team. I ain’t letting you anywhere else but by my side. Now let me patch up this ankle.”

You ever think abt Ghost casually adjusting his dick in his jeans bc I do