chamomiletealeaf

[chamomiletealeaf]

So cute omg

my mans running animation only got two frames

[chamomiletealeaf]

Oh my god…

When you blow johnny and just keep gagging and choking he'll most likely laugh at you. But because you don't just let things slide–that man needs to be put in his place anyway–you pull out one of your dildos, and tell him to suck it. He laughs incredulously at first, though not totally opposedto the idea. But once he saw the expression on your face he knows you're serious. And he was never one to turn down a challenge.

Safe to say he's gagging like a bitch. Can barely take half the thing without tears stinging at his eyes. And if you're mean you tell him, "well, that's pathetic, baby." In a mocking tone. (lt makes his cock twitch dw) and if you're even meaner you decide to 'help out'. Forcing the toy down his throat with your hand. Do it over and over. Like he does when fucking your throat without consideration. He's a mess by the end, sweaty, eyes red with tears flowing from them, drooled all over the toy, down on himself like some mutt. But some time during it he came without even being touched.

He doesn't make fun of you again.

[chamomiletealeaf]

TMI warning ig? Idk.

Masturbation talk lol

God I just fucked myself so good imagining Simon fucking me instead…

Didn’t realize how much I needed a good dick and a few orgasms cuz I was crying from how overwhelmingly good it was after all the stress of finals week 🫠🫠🫠

Haven’t felt that good and happy in so long god. Now all I need is him to cuddle me now…

[chamomiletealeaf]

Big, scary guy and small, frilly dog is such a powerful combo. And you're completely right that Simon would be swimming in pussy. As a dog lover I would absolutely be kneeling down to greet a darling Cavalier, bombarding Simon with a million questions.

"What's her name?" "How long have you had her?" "Oh, she's so well behaved. Such a sweet girl." "She has such a nice coat, you must take good care of it." "Do you usually walk in this neighborhood? Maybe I'll see you two around!" "I swear I could just eat her up! If you're not careful I might steal her and bring her home with me."

Meanwhile, Simon is standing there looking as intimidating as ever as I fuss over his dog.

You see him walking around the neighborhood, stopping in the same shops in the evening, the same cafe at night. Always with a little copper Cavalier trotting beside him, little pink bows on her ears matching the thin pink leash that's hooked lazily around his wrist. Sometimes he has a shop bag in his other hand, sometimes not, but always the god walking beside him. Her little legs tip-tapping as fast as she can manage to keep up with his long strides.

And every evening when you pass him on your way home you stop to coo over the little dog. "Commander," he'd told you when you first stopped to scratch her tiny head. You figured it was one of those compromises that men often have with their girlfriends, "you can pick the dog but I get to name it." Choosing something that felt masculine to make up for the frou-frou dog. It didn't matter to you, it was easier to let your guard down around a man you assumed was already taken.

Crouch to scratch the dog's tiny chin, giving Ghost a nice view down your shirt. Never once thinking twice about bending over to pet her little head, or smiling at the big man in the skull printed mask.

"What a good girl you are," you coo at Commander, as she leans into your hand, "I could just eat you up, you're so sweet."

"You like sweets, pup?" Ghost rumbles, deep voice sliding thick down your spine.

"I bet you do," You squeeze her little face in your hand, "I bet daddy gets you pup cups when he goes to the cafe, doesn't he?"

"Wasn' talkin' t'the dog." You glance up at him, heat flashing over your face as you meet his eye. "Gonna keep callin' me daddy, pup, or d'you got somewhere t'be?"

[chamomiletealeaf]

Simons large fingers squishing my cheeks together to kiss me would be so healing tbh

[chamomiletealeaf]

Need this so bad

I take public transportation and would hate this irl but if it’s Simon??

😍😍😍😍‼️‼️‼️‼️🙏🙏🙏🙏

Umm, okay. Kind of a fucked up thought but I’m thinking about Simon’s 6’4” ass using public transit when it’s packed. Sits next to a bird, he’s trying to relax so he doesn’t have any ill intentions. Manspreads because otherwise he’s gonna trip people up. But the bird next to him? You’re not having any of it. Put your hand on his thigh, and his face goes pale under the mask. Looks at you with wide eyes. “Oh, what, is this making you uncomfortable?” in the most patronising voice possible.

Simon immediately goes into a silent crisis. Heart rate spikes like he’s under sniper fire. His brain is throwing up red alerts, but his body? Frozen. His training doesn’t cover this. Not the warmth of your palm seeping into his thigh, not the casual dominance of your tone, and certainly not the way you look at him like you know exactly what you’re doing. He doesn't know if you’re flirting, humiliating him, asserting dominance, or all three, and that’s exactly what fries his system. There’s a perverse part of him that likes being caught off guard like this, being rendered speechless by someone who doesn't fear him.

And maybe he hasn’t answered for a minute, so you prod further. “Well?” You could be asking him anything, really: is he gonna move, is he gonna stop you, is he gonna be a good boy. And your hand moves higher instinctually. He tenses, alarm bells blaring in his head.

Then—he speaks. “Wha— I, uh, I don’t, uh—”

He fucking stutters. Simon “Ghost” Riley—ghost story of the battlefield, monster in black, legend with a thousand confirmed kills—stutters like a schoolboy caught looking at porn in the library. All because a bird decided to have a little fun with him on the tram.

And as though that wasn’t enough, his dick decides to add insult to injury. Saw danger, and said, “Cool. Time to stand at attention.” He doesn’t know whether to adjust his pants or propose.

[chamomiletealeaf]

Let Johnny join too ‼️🗣️

cw :: semi-exhibitionism, crying, simon a freak

lieutenant simon ‘ghost’ riley who lets his birdie sneak onto base. newlywed and just can’t keep hands off each other. 

he guides you carefully into an empty room, looking over his shoulder for any snitches before locking the door and keeping you to himself. so long, too long since simon’s been able to hold you, kiss you, love you. you can see it in his eyes, his face now uncovered with his mask tossed. 

slamming lips together, you pull at his gear and rough fit while he pulls you impossibly closer, his sweet girl’s been restless at home. all alone, so when you call him in the middle of the night, desperate for any touch of him, he just couldn’t resist. he pecks quick and messy kisses on your lips as you roll grinds against his body. 

“need you–si–oh god, pleaseplease–!” he shushes you gently, taking your weak hand and kissing it lovingly to calm you down. 

“i’ll give you what you wan’, dove. don’tchu worry.” you hold onto his shoulders as he undresses you both minimalistically, drop of your jeans and a quick slide of your panties while he fishes his cock out, hot and throbbing. simon keeps a longer kiss on your pouty mouth as he slides himself in, trying to keep you as quiet as possible. 

but he finds this hard for himself, groaning deeply into your neck and digging calloused fingers up past your shirt and his other hand holding your leg up. the cold metal of his wedding band hits your sensitive skin causing you to yelp. he grits his teeth and fucks right into you, the unstable position letting his creamy tip pound right into your gummy heaven, more important your g-spot. 

“quiet, stay quiet f’me, lovie. be my good girl, shhh.” he gets you to comply and you push your mouth closed, your clit jumping at how he pants short breaths against your ear while fucking you. 

his blunt fingernails practically stabbing into your waist, his hips grinding up and cock massaging your needy-cunt, the friction making you jolt and writhe against him, dangerously close to your orgasm. the way simon grunts and groans in your ear, almost shuddering when he hears his scottish sergeant in search of him behind the door—it’s too much. too much going on and you can’t even moan your man’s name. you grip tightly on his shoulders and let big fat globs of tears stream past your face. your lips shake and your only idea of support is your huge fucking husband, the only way of any release is by sobbing silent cries. 

simon sounds almost concerned, “aww, fuck baby what’s wrong? ‘ts too much?” you nod, you love it so so much but feel like you’ll pass out if you don’t let it out, and he just smiles. kissing and licking at your salty cheeks, regaining some sort of comfort as you lean forward on him, crying quietly. his pretty baby can cry all she wants but she certainly won’t leave him without a few orgasms first!

masterlist

[chamomiletealeaf]

thinking about simon riley and how he gets worried when he gets his labs back from medic!reader:

"Bloody hell, Doc. You could include this in my dossier if you wanted."

You let out a chuckle at his words when you saw him skim through his blood work, a whole packet worth of vital information, from the number of red and white blood cells he has, a basic metabolic panel, and so much more. He skims through the information, every row a new test and labeled with a green "normal" on each one.

Until he reached one of the rows: testosterone.

A red "above average" was next to his testosterone count and you could see the panic in the man's eyes but you didn't know what caused it. You decided to let him speak up about it.

"Hey, doc?" You could see the stress manifest into a physical form the way you saw his thumbs clutch the packet of paper tighter, causing the paper to crease upwards in submission at his grip.

"Yeah, Ghost?" You turn around, your body language evident that you are all ears for what he has to say next.

Ghost had to collect himself before bringing this up. He knows this hormone is a normal thing in males, but why is his so abnormally high? He clears his throat before speaking up, "My testosterone," he pans the packet to face you now, "the lab says it's quite high. That's not normal."

"For you, it is."

The man's eyes squinted behind the mask.

"What? It says 'above normal' right..." he points to the row with a gloved finger, "there. What do you mean for me it's normal?"

You walk closer to him, gently taking the packet out of his tight grip. You turn around and sit next to him, and because of the height difference, Ghost noticed the way your shoulder grazed his bicep.

"It's normal for you because of your muscle mass, sir." You point to his muscle mass percentage. "More muscle means more testosterone in the body. Testosterone helps to support your body in maintaining the amount of muscle you have. If you had a man's average amount of testosterone, you wouldn't be built like a tank."

Ghost snickers at the last remark. "I'm a tank now, Doc?"

"Have you seen yourself, sir?" You scoff. You point to his weight on the paper, "Your muscle mass is also why you're technically obese. You're 6'4 and 250 pounds. But nothing to be worried about. You have more muscle than fat, and muscle weighs more. So I can assure you, you're perfectly healthy."

Ghost at the moment thought the way you nerded out on all of these medical technicalities was quite hot. You were smart, he always knew that. But it was something about the way you were talking in person about all this health and medical stuff that got to him. It didn't help either that you looked even more professional with a white lab coat and scrubs on. You adjusted the glasses on your nose while you looked down at his labs and Ghost swore he felt six inches of some of his muscle and fat twitch.

"Perfectly healthy, Doc?" He repeats your words.

"Perfectly." You skim over the paper once more. "If anything, you have the highest muscle mass and testosterone in the task force."

Ghost felt his pride swell at that statement. Not only did you say he was perfectly healthy, but you basically just called him the most ripped out of all the guys?

"I'm trying to be modest abou' this whole thing you know. You're not helping." He replies sarcastically and you giggled, throwing your head back a little. "I'm serious."

"Well you can thank your hard work on missions and the extra hours at the gym." You nudged his arm with your shoulder, causing Ghost to tense at the sudden contact but he surely didn't mind. The cute little medic that works for the task force just touched him, how could he possibly complain about that?

After that encounter, Simon took no time in bragging about his "abnormally high" testosterone and "obese" weight to the group chat that consisted of him, Price, Gaz, and Johnny.

He sent a picture of his labs with the message: "Not only did Ms. Medic tell me I'm built like a tank but told me I'm more of a man than you all can ever be ;)."

Johnny replied with, "You mean "the missus"?"

Gaz replied with, "You better snag her before I do, Simon. I didn't see a ring on her finger last visit."

Price replied with, "It's only because of my age, you know. If I were in my prime I would have more testosterone and muscle mass than all of you combined."

(lol i love these men)

~ yours truly, rani ♥︎

[chamomiletealeaf]

OMG OMG OMGOMGOMG YOU FOLLOWED ME BACK OMG HIIIIII

- Biscuits 🌺

I’M SURPRISED I WASN’T FOLLOWING YOU BEFORE OMGGG LOL HIII

[chamomiletealeaf]

This would heal me

“I want two boyfriends! And I want the boyfriends to be boyfriends!”

Short ~lil~ ghoap thought…

Johnny who absolutely adores you in the most outward of ways. Fingers always intertwined with yours, kisses to your forehead, hand occasionally (okay all the time) sneaking down to your ass. Featherlight kisses ghosting over your cheeks and neck, even as you both sit with Simon on a massive picnic blanket in the park.

Simon who still shows his love when out and about, but he does this by following you and Johnny closely wherever you go, clocking any potential threats, and being constantly on alert so that neither you or Johnny have to be. A large hand to the small of your back whenever Johnny had to step away — couldn’t leave their sweet angel without a small touch.

While Johnny might be a soldier too, Simon has spent his whole life constantly on alert. He doesn’t mind giving the Scot a chance to just relax, and be happy with their bonnie lass.

And their sweet girl who always ensures they both feel equal love, even when they each show theirs differently. You’ve learned how to provide for each, in the way they love best.

(PS. I know there’s probably rough grammar, I do apologize! I just rambled this out of my head. Also I’m mid tax season so after April 15th I’ll be much better!!)

[chamomiletealeaf]

Of course inspiration hits during finals…

But I need a really reallyyy slow makeout session with Simon.

Like imagine straddling his lap on the couch, one of his hands gripping your thigh and the other at the nape of your neck while you cup his face with your hands.

It’s just so slow but passionate, soft but rough at the same time. Mouths opening and closing painfully slow to taste each other’s tongues.

Like it’s just so fucking hot. Taking your time with each other. Letting yourselves indulge in one another. It would definitely start to get messy but it’s just such a dirty, nasty make out session with how slow and deep it is…

And him eating you out the same way…

Taking his time, slowly sucking and lapping you up, leaving long, drawn out kisses to your clit. Him pulling back from sucking on your folds with a “pop” noise to admire your pretty pussy before going back to suck and lick you nice and slow…

Can you tell I want to kiss suck and fuck Simon Riley so good and passionately it actually soul bonds us forever…

[chamomiletealeaf]

Ok but him saying something like “this is all I can afford rn. Not used to anything else really.”

And you literally lose your mind needing to take care of him.

So you invite him over for dinner, making him a roast, pasta, salad, potatoes, anything he wants, praising him for finishing his plate like a good boy which makes him hold back a whimper.

And good boys always get rewarded, so what better way to reward him by using you pretty hands to jerk him off while you whisper praises in his ear, or blowing him so good with eye contact he just can’t look away from.

Or riding him while you praise him for “being so good for mommy”, kissing his flushed cheeks.

Or maybe he wants to thank you! Your legs over his shoulders while he eats you out on the couch on his knees while you run your hands through his hair, desperately needing you to cum.

God I need to take care of him so bad… He deserves to be well fucked and fed.

Simon Riley, who discovers (and accepts) that he has a raging Mommy kink on a random Saturday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly as he checks out the new flavours of Ramen noodle cups.

And his spine goes rigid, when you address him directly.

"Big lad like you needs a proper meal," you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. "In my humble opinion." You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.

Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.

His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a "Have a good day, love." and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.

By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.

And he doesn't quite now what he's feeling in this moment, but he puts the Ramen back into the shelf, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.

Oh, Simon's going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping you'll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.

[chamomiletealeaf]

Need 300 chapters of this right now

Simon Riley, who discovers (and accepts) that he has a raging Mommy kink on a random Saturday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly as he checks out the new flavours of Ramen noodle cups.

And his spine goes rigid, when you address him directly.

"Big lad like you needs a proper meal," you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. "In my humble opinion." You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.

Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.

His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a "Have a good day, love." and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.

By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.

And he doesn't quite now what he's feeling in this moment, but he puts the Ramen back into the shelf, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.

Oh, Simon's going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping you'll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.

[chamomiletealeaf]

God FUCK 😩

Part Two of Cop Simon Riley!

When Simon starts putting on his uniform, he recognizes immediately that something is not quite right. He wears the damn thing enough to know exactly how it fits, but now the collar feels just a little too tight, and the sleeves don't reach his wrists. The pants thankfully seem ok, long enough but perhaps a little snug in the thighs. But it's clear that somehow he managed to shrink it a bit. Not enough to make it unbearable, but enough to make him annoyed.

It's his last clean uniform before a few days off, and it's not like he's a stranger to being in a bad mood at work, so he just acknowledges that he might be a little more of an asshole than normal and hops in his squad car to start his day.

After a while of cruising around, writing tickets and being generally grumpy while he waits for a good call, finally something pops up, something about a bar fight, and he's on it.

He hightails it to the bar, and when he strolls in, he hears yelling. There's a man by the bar with a bloody nose that catches his attention right away, finger pointing and curses flying, and when Simon looks over to find the focus of the man's fury, he can't help but chuckle.

Because it's you.

"—Little fucking bitch," the man seethes, apparently on the tail end of some rant, and you laugh.

Simon scans over you quickly, not seeing any injuries, but he does see that fire in your eyes he saw the first time he met you, wasted and indignant at another bar. He steps forward, making his presence known, and when you see him, you groan.

"I didn't do anything," you tell him quickly. "This asshole —"

"The fuck you didn't do anything!" the man interrupts, taking a step closer. "You probably broke my nose, you fucking cu—“

Simon moves in front of the man, putting a hand on his chest to stop him, muttering, "That's bloody well enough of that."

But he doesn't seem to have any sense of self-preservation, because he presses forward in his anger, trying to get around Simon to you. There's another name, another threat, and with more force than necessary, Simon slams him against the bar, slapping his handcuffs on him.

"What the fuck?" the man asks. "I get assaulted and I'm the one getting handcuffed?"

"Didn't see any assault, but I did hear you making threats," he says. He thinks about pulling the "assaulting a police officer" card again with the way he tried to shove past him to get to you, but he doesn't want you to think he's only got one move.

"I need medical attention," the man insists. "You have to get me medical attention."

Simon smirks, then radios in for backup. On most days he'd have a little more fun with an asshole like this, but he's got a different plan in mind tonight.

While he waits for another officer to arrive, he turns to you, eyes sweeping over you again. You stay put, but your jaw is clenched, obviously still heated. He sees you flex the fingers on your right hand a few times. It’s an in, and when he unloads the guy you hit off on another cop, he takes it.

“There’s the little troublemaker,” he taunts softly. “Let’s have a look at that hand.”

“My hand is fine,” you scoff, but you don’t argue when he takes it and lifts it to inspect.

Your knuckles are swollen, he can tell they’ll bruise. He tuts, then drops your hand and says, “Come on then."

"But I didn't do anything," you say quickly, and he laughs.

"Didn't bloody that poor bastard's nose? You'll have to do a bit better than that."

You roll your eyes, and it's clear than even though you're not as drunk as you were the last time, you're still just as bratty.

"I did," you admit, "but he deserved it."

Simon smiles, a bit warmer now, and says, "I don't doubt that. But I'm not arresting you, pet, just want to get some ice on that hand."

He takes you to his car, letting you sit in the front this time, which you seem suspicious about. It's fair — he’s obviously giving you special attention. But the way you look at him, a little nervous but ready to lunge if needed, like some cagey animal with its teeth bared, it does something to him. So he presses on.

He takes you to his place.

Your hackles are still up when he unlocks the door, holds it open for you to enter first then locks it behind him — a habit, nothing more, but your eyes are trained on his every movement. Without commenting, he leads the way to the kitchen, opening the freezer and pulling out an ice pack. He takes your hand again, then holds the pack to your knuckles.

“Hold it there,” he says quietly, though he makes no move to let go.

After a moment of silence, your eyes scan up his uniform, then you meet his eyes, just a bit shyer now that he has you alone.

“Why do you look like that?” you ask him.

“Like what?”

“Like a stripper version of a cop.”

He laughs, a bit surprised by your commentary — he’d forgotten about the shrunken uniform. But looking down at himself now, how the buttons of his shirt seem to be holding on for dear life as the fabric stretches across the muscled expanse of his chest, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, he can see what you mean.

“Nobody ever taught you to respect authority figures?”

You snort derisively, and his cock actually twitches in his too-tight pants.

“I respect people who earn it,” you tell him. “Not people who think they’re owed it just because they have a dumb shiny badge, Officer Riley.”

The way you address him with his title is rude, undoubtedly, but there’s a twinkle in your eye now. A challenge.

Simon loves a challenge.

Without another word, he backs you up until you hit the wall, and when you don’t pull away, he presses his free hand against the wall, leaning down and caging you in.

"This seems unprofessional," you tell him, your voice just above a whisper. "Like an abuse of power."

"You ever shut up?"

"Not really."

He likes the honesty, but what he likes even more is thinking about all he ways that he could be the one to shut you up. He has a few solid options in mind, but he starts off simple: by closing the distance between you with a kiss.

It's not exactly soft, just a bit tentative, but when you slide a finger between his belt and his waistband, yanking him a little closer, he stops holding back. The kiss turns consuming, and he drops the ice pack, barely registering the heavy thud of it hitting the floor as he brings both hands to your hips, holding you in place.

Simon moves his kisses towards your neck, pushing your head back to run his tongue over the column of your throat. He wants to taste you, feel you all over him, so much that he —

"Quit slobbering all over me," you mutter, tugging him by the collar back to your lips.

"Fucking hell," he chuckles, kissing you again. "Somebody ought to teach you some manners, pet."

"Wouldn't take."

"You don't think so?" he murmurs, his hands moving down to bunch your skirt up around your waist, slowly. "Don't think you can be trained up to behave?"

He can see it in your eyes, how much you still want to mouth off, but still, your legs part, just slightly. Enough for him to fit his hand in the space between, cupping you firmly as he speaks, his lips brushing against yours as he does.

"Lucky for you, I've got a little bit of faith in you."

[chamomiletealeaf]

God I need this so bad

Part two of the one where Simon lets you move into a room in his house You tell Simon that you have at least a few weeks before you need to move out of your apartment and into his spare room, but he doesn't see the point in wasting time. The day after he offers to let you move in, he goes shopping, and the next few days are spent putting everything together. The bed, the dresser, two matching nightstands, some shelves — he makes sure everything is solid and sturdy for you, and he hopes you wouldn't notice how new it all is.

He cleans, too, every inch of the place. He's not a particularly messy man, but he'd bought the small two-bedroom house years ago, and he's not one for company. So he goes over everything, and he does what he can to make sure that his home is a good place for you, from the small stepstool he buys and sticks in the corner of the kitchen to the way he organizes his shaving supplies in the bathroom so you can have half the limited counterspace.

When you tell him you're ready, he brings his truck to the bar to pick up you and your things, and his heart aches, just a little, when he sees that all you have is a couple of bags slung over your shoulder. Without a word, he takes them from you and carries them out, and he tries to shrug off the slight disappointment he feels when you open the passenger door before he can do it for you.

"It's not much," he tells you on the short drive back. "Two bedrooms, just the one bathroom. I'm gone a lot. Stay as long as you like."

"What do you think for rent?" you ask. "I've got a little bit saved, and I can —"

"I meant what I said, love. There's no rush."

He hops out quickly after he pulls into the driveway, opening your door for you this time. He takes your bags and carries them in and into the room that's now yours, setting them carefully on the floor before turning to you, sticking his hand in his pocket and pulling out a key.

"Same one for both doors," he says. "Not much in the kitchen, but help yourself to anything you like. And let me know if you need anything at all."

The first few days, you don't see each other much. He stays in his room more than usual, not wanting to crowd you or make you feel uncomfortable. You pick up an extra shift at the bar, trying to make that rent he keeps telling you not to worry about.

One night during that first week, he comes home late from the gym, and he's pleasantly surprised to see you sitting in the living room, watching tv and having a snack.

"Oh, sorry," you say immediately when you hear the door open, like you'd done something wrong.

He smiles, just a bit, and nods for the couch, wanting you to be comfortable — maybe liking the idea of you warm and cozy in his space a little too much.

"Nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart," he says, stepping closer.

You nod, and slowly sit back down, but on the edge of the cushion now, tense.

He doesn't care for it.

"What's on?" he asks.

"Oh, just this show I watch sometimes. It's a dumb reality thing ... I can check it out on my phone later."

You minimize yourself constantly, he's noticed that for a while now, but it's never been so clear as it is now, with you perched on his couch like you're waiting to run for cover. He still doesn't know your story, but in the moment, he'd love nothing more than to find whatever or whoever it was that put this innate fear in you and destroy it.

It's a war in him, a fight between keeping to himself and wanting you not to do the same. This particular battle is decided when he takes a seat on the other end of the couch and forces himself to tear his eyes away from you to look at the tv.

"Tell me about it."

You do. Nervously at first, but you slowly relax. He gives a small, satisfied smile when you scoot back to sit on the couch more comfortably and start to speak more freely, and he fights back a wider one when he really takes you in, bare feet and a loose t-shirt, lounging around at home. His home.

Yours too, now.

After that night, things get a little easier. You don’t sequester yourself in your room, and he warms up to you a bit more. It starts feeling natural, having you in his space. You fall into a rhythm.

Nearly a month in, he comes home one day to find you in the living room, pulling on your shoes, and he asks you where you're headed.

"We're headed to get some groceries," you tell him.

The directness is new, but certainly not unwelcome, and he follows behind you gladly as you lead the way to the store.

Grocery shopping with you makes him feel like a kid again, but one who had someone to dote on him. You walk by the produce, asking him carefully what he likes. What's his favorite kind of apple? What kind of berry does he prefer?

At one point, you actually tell him, "Simon, you have to get some vegetables," and he can't help but laugh at how you stare up at him pointedly, like he's supposed to know he's worth being cared for.

"What's your favorite dinner?" you ask him as you walk through the aisles, carefully scanning for prices before you put things in the cart.

"Don't know," he mutters. "Never really thought about it."

It's true, sort of. He eats, of course, and he has preferences, but it's never really been something to take pleasure in. There's never been some meal he craves, or some kind of food tied to a good memory. He mostly just wants to see if you'll say his name again.

But then he thinks for another beat and starts walking.

He puts a can of beans into the cart, then goes to another aisle and gets a loaf of bread. He doesn't say anything, but you nod and smile at him.

After you buy the groceries -- more specifically, after he buys the groceries, using his body to block the card reader while you laugh and try to wrestle your way around him to pay yourself -- you walk back home. He sets the bags on the counter, and together you put up all your purchases, but he notices you leave out the things he'd picked out.

"Hungry?"

"Generally."

Simon watches, arms crossed, as you heat the beans in a saucepan you'd pulled from under the stove. He doesn't move when you stand close to get to the toaster, and he watches your throat as you swallow when your arm brushes against his to put the bread in.

"You know, I would have made you anything," you tell him as you wait for the toast. "And this is what you picked?"

"Just had it a lot when I was a kid," he mutters, not offering more.

With the look you give him, a glance that's quick but still penetrates, he knows you understand the reluctance to get into the details. It's not the easiest thing to explain, how one can find comfort in the soft lulls of a tragedy. How oddly soothing it can feel to remember any bit of kindness from hands that ripped you apart.

You give him a plate first. Beans on toast, straight from his childhood. He takes a bite and nods, appreciative, and you grin.

A few bites later, you reach your hand up and swipe off a bit of food from the corner of his mouth, and seemingly without thinking, you lick it from your finger. He keeps his eyes on you for a moment longer, then sets his plate down.

Simon moves slowly, agonizingly so, giving you every chance to stop him. He puts his hands on your waist first, high and respectable, and when you just look at him, waiting, he drops them to your hips.

"This ok?" he asks, and when you nod, he dips his hands lower, over your thighs and to the back of them, lifting you up and dropping you on the counter.

"You didn't have to make me dinner, love," he says softly, working his body just slightly between your knees.

"You don't want me to pay any rent either," you tell him. "I can't just stay here for nothing."

The idea of you bringing nothing to this arrangement is laughable, but he keeps a straight face. He studies you, every fleck of color in your eyes and every line in your skin, maybe too intensely, but you just sit there, and you let him.

"You can tell me to stop," he finally says. "Won't be offended."

"I don't want you to stop."

With that, he brings his lips to your cheek, placing a gentle kiss there, then plants one on your jaw. When you still don't object, and even lift your hands to grasp onto his shoulders, he kisses your mouth.

He doesn't want to rush this, and he doesn't want to ask for something more than you want to give. He doesn't want you to feel like you owe him, but the idea of kissing you like this has been loud and persistent in his mind for longer than he cares to admit. He tries to bridge the two thoughts with his carefulness, but when he feels you start to kiss him back, he snaps.

Not visibly -- he doesn't shove his tongue down your throat or grope you with rough hands. That's not how Simon loses control. For him, snapping is internal. It's in realizing how good you feel in his arms and letting himself feel the weight of that.

He's not sure if it's the dinner you made him or something more innate, but when he kisses you, you taste like home.

In the moment, he can admit that to himself. But he's not ready for you to know. Not yet, anyway.

[chamomiletealeaf]

And then we all got in the tub and made out.. the end.. 😁😁😁

Simon gets the idea that he wants to buy you a house. You gave him a new life, it's the least he can do, right? And he has plenty of money, never really having had anything to spend his salary on, but he's not just swimming in cash. So he finds a fixer-upper. Something he can make special, just for you. His darling wife.

He thinks he can handle it, the work, and for a while, he can. Things like holes in the walls, ripping up old carpet, that's easy. But when the jobs get a little more intricate, like when he has to take out the old bathtub and put in a new one, he's a little lost. And when he's lost, he goes to Price. Always.

Besides the instinct to seek out Price's help, ingrained in him since his early days in the military, Simon knows the man has some more in-depth knowledge about home renovation, having done it a time or two for his own wife. The wife is gone, but craftsmanship in Price's home, the one he pays a hefty alimony to keep, remains.

So Price starts coming over to the new house, helping Simon out, showing him how to do this specific job. Together, they put in a beautiful new tub, a big one with jets, room enough for both you and Simon. Price notes that last part with a small, tight smile and a gaze that stays on his lieutenant for a beat too long.

They finish up the rest of the renovations together too, but when everything is done and the house is ready for you, Simon shows it to you by himself for the first time. He takes you from room to room, letting you know all the blood, sweat and tears that went into everything. The house is like his love for you made visceral, and he's so proud to give it to you.

Price is proud, too. He's happy that he was able to help Simon out like this, and glad to know that you'll have a solid, sturdy roof over your head, thanks in no small part to him. When he comes over for the first time, just for a drink so you and Simon can show him what you've been doing as far as decorating, he puffs out his chest a bit.

And when you get to the bathroom and he mentions how you have that nice new tub because of his handiwork, how much you must be enjoying it, how lovely you'd look lying in it, his blue eyes almost leering, there's no reaction from your husband.

Simon never learned how to be jealous. Before you, he never had anything that was just for him, something to fight for. But what he has learned, from a very young age, is to respect his superiors.

[chamomiletealeaf]

Trying to break simon out of his smoking habit by not kissing him after he's had a smoke. Just straight up dodging him if he goes in for a kiss. And you keep doing it until he stops smoking 🥰

Simon gets in his feelings until he catches on to what you're doing. Look at you trying to help him, sweetheart. Made of good stuff, you are.

He has another, perhaps more helpful idea.

Every time he's around and he gets the urge to smoke, he'll just make you sit on his face. He gets his fix and you get your cum, and look at you two, killing two birds with one stone. Or something like that. Fuck if he knows.

But it sucks (pun intended) that he's a bit of a chain smoker, eh?

Oh well. Happy cunt, happy grunt and all that fuckin' jazz.