I’m a 21 year old college student, new tumblr user, and a painfully southern annoyance.
On top of being obsessed with a bunch of military men from a game I’ve never played, I also spend far too much time listening to Hozier—don’t even get me started on that. Or do. (Please do).
Okay, I just can’t stop thinking about John Price honestly. Especiallyyy after he’s *retired*!!
Here is a little drabble (is that the right word? Can’t remember, I’m new here). It gets a little 𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 (18+) towards the bottom but nothing crazy. F!Reader
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﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉ ୨ᰔ୧ ﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉
✧.* Because sure, big buff military man who’s puffin’ more smoke than a chimney is cool and all. But give me sleepy, squishy, human teddy bear Price. Give me Price who’s perpetually exhausted after carrying the weight of the world on his back. Price that just wants to hibernate for a while with his luv.
✧.*Im thinking he’s all softened up around the edges. All that muscle mass doesn’t disappear over night, but as time passes and he’s no longer on an extensive workout routine, it ain’t sticking around forever. Big ol’ pecs that you can squish your face against, a little padding to his stomach. Hold on, stay with me now 🤤
✧.* Of course, he’s still got that grizzly sort of appearance. All mapped in scars and maybe the occasional burn from those late nights spent at his desk with a cigar between his fingers while he’s drifting in and out of consciousness with exhaustion. The damn workaholic! Hairy too; least we forget—that beard and those arms. Oh lord.
✧.*Maybe one day you realize in that post retirement laze of his (which is well deserved, mind you. Don’t give him a hard time now) that he’s looking a lil’ extra scraggly. You sit on the bathroom counter, and with a delicate hand and a very distracted focus, you give his beard a shave. All cute and romantic, the room still steamy from your shared shower…
BAD. Mistake. You both agree to never let it happen again. An angel just lost its wings!! Leave his beard alone 😭
✧.*Treat this man so good, he deserves it. Whether you like to cook or not, you find yourself gravitating to the kitchen on occasion to make sure he’s eating well at least some of the time. Some home-cooked meals to cancel out all those shitty MREs he’s consumed in his lifetime.
✧.*Bet he will reward you for it too; he’s got a soft spot for good girls. He is tired of yelling commands and barking out orders, he’s too worn out to deal with a brat. Be a sweet little thing now and show him some love. Offer to climb into his lap and take over when his bad leg starts acting up, see where it gets you.
✧.*Rolling your hips to a steady rhythm only you hear, he lets you have your fun until he’s ready to set the pace. Big hands pawing at your waist, clutching at you just tight enough his fingers are going to leave red marks for him to soothe away after. He doesn’t even have to roll his hips up against you, he can just move you as he pleases with his strength.
✧.*You don’t even have to try to give him a show—he drinks in every little reaction you give him. His heart skips a beat when you mewl, your eyes threatening to roll back in sheer bliss. The sticky sound of your thighs, drenched in arousal, meeting his skin. The way your lips meet his neck and shoulders, kissing and nipping love bites against his body. The mattress springs squeaking from underneath you two. It’s a performance, and he’s dedicated to appreciating every moment.
✧.*He’ll send you melting with his words, too—
“Mmm, is that good, little luv’?”
“You like that, baby? My darlin’?”
“Such a good girl—doing so well f’me.”
“F-fuck lovie, do that thing with your hips again~”
✧.* Aftercare is top-tier with him too, no questions asked. He may have gotten a little lazy in his retirement, but never when it comes to you. Water, a snack, a quick clean up. Him putting his entire weight over you like a human weighted blanket. Whatever you need, Lovie.
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Wrote this quickly after doing an online job interview, I don’t think it went very well bc I have awful RBF but wish me luck :,)
Should I do a full fledged fic about this? Anyone interested? Okay, bye <3
“This has left him with the ultimate juxtaposition; the innate desire to not allow close proximity to the remaining soft, vulnerable parts of his soul, and yet the desire to claw his fingers into those he cares about to shield them from the very heat that’s ruined him.”
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Simon Riley would have never considered himself a caring person, would never bother to bat an eye at someone else’s dilemmas in most scenarios. His mind is a worn and withered place in which he has created an apathetic mask over his thoughts. One that mirrors the very bit of fabric that covers the marred surface of his face—haphazardly stitched, rough around the edges. If you tried to take it apart and understand its inner workings, it would unravel in your hands in a way that would leave you wondering how it was staying together in the first place.
This is, seemingly, a coping mechanism developed over years of being hardened by the lengths to which he's been dragged through hell and back. The flames have hardened his exterior and charred his heart in a way that's somehow left it both cauterized yet raw. Sifting through all the soot will display that something is still pounding against his ribcage, still defining that he’s not completely a ghost.
This has left him with the ultimate juxtaposition; the innate desire to not allow close proximity to the remaining soft, vulnerable parts of his soul, and yet the desire to claw his fingers into those he cares about to shield them from the very heat that’s ruined him.
He's not a saccharine lover, not able to produce a syrupy, sweet display of flowery love language. But you have managed to turn him into a man whose shell has been slowly eroded over time while he has come to concede that not everyone needs to be held at arm's length. There are things worth stowing in his heart despite the vulnerability of letting something reside in such a resting place. But it’s like constantly having a hovering finger over the trigger of a firearm; one wrong move can shatter you. In a way, he doesn't trust himself to keep you whole in the palm of his hand.
Not that there is a sadistic streak that would ever flare in his brain around you; oh no, rather, he'd assume any pain in the universe if it meant you didn't have to harbor it. Even when things have been accumulating, weighing on his broad shoulders that are used to bearing guns and injured teammates and the burdens of a world that has beaten him down with a cruelty that would make the devil wince, he would carry your burdens too. You fuel that singed heart in his chest that would otherwise want to tenaciously depend on spite and adrenaline.
Perhaps that's the reason Simon keeps you so carefully concealed from the life he lives when the mask is pulled over his face. From the person that he becomes when his identity is stripped and replaced with Ghost. Of course, there would be no conceivable way for him to never indulge you in a sparing sample of the nature of his career when it houses so much of his attention and livelihood. But he prefers to keep as much as he can from tainting you. From turning your mind into the same somber chamber that his has become to house what he’s witnessed, what he’s done.
The feeling of relief as he steps over the threshold of the building that houses you is like a breath of air after being submerged underwater for far too long. He doesn’t care where he could end up; no place satisfies his desire for home like wherever it is that you happen to be. There’s a pair of fluffy house slippers near the door; he kicks his boots off beside them. An odd little pair of soft and welcoming ones next to his own, tired and worn. The mask is long gone by now, discarded before he even reached the driveway—here he’s never anyone but Simon to you.
It’s late, far too late; he doesn’t even bother taking the time to check the clock. He knows you are going to be awake regardless, up waiting to catch a glimpse of him, and he will give you your scolding for it in the morning. For now, he makes his way down the hall, hand wrapping around the doorknob to a bedroom that lately houses two. A split second of hesitation runs over him, just enough for that sinking sensation to crawl back up through his mind. That feeling that maybe he shouldn’t, that he should go sink into the couch and keep his filthy, wretched hands that just spent so many lives away from you.
His presence and uncertainty must both be palpable to you, even from behind the door, because he hears a soft call of his name. No, you need him; you need him just as much as he needs you. The weight of the past few weeks can reside with Ghost for now, so he can just be Simon. He turns the knob and opens the door with an echoing creak, swearing under his breath and making a mental note of his new project for the morning involving a bottle of WD-40. Damned this house seems to be, even with an angel waiting just a few steps away.
You can barely hear his footsteps across the hardwood, but the bed frame creaks and the mattress dips under his weight. He manages to settle down between the valley of your legs, his large hands pawing at the plush of your thighs to make room for his frame. You scoff lightly at the way he's grumbling due to the sheer inconvenience it causes him when wasting those precious milliseconds getting into a proper position—though there’s no real heat or annoyance behind the action, because you know he’s just grouchy by nature. He’s been waiting to indulge in your sweetness for far too long now, with an ache so strong it makes his teeth hurt. Like the overgrown, frustrated mutt he is, he sinks them into your skin to soothe the sensation.
“Simon!” You yelp, a sharp little cry that’s mostly born from shock.
“Hmph,” he grunts in return, ever so eloquently.
“Scared of’a nip now, are we darlin’?”
Though it’s enough to make him feel a bit of shame for hurting his sweet thing. He presses his slightly chapped lips against the ruddy imprint his teeth left behind, a wordless apology you will never hear. He doesn’t like wasting time and is impatient to a fault if he doesn’t have an explicit command to hold out any longer. Before there is time to scold him—if you could even find the words to do so—he’s got his fingers curled around the elastic waistband of your sleep shorts and is tearing them away as if they were a personal offense.
Trying to keep him away from his love, that slip of fabric, ain’t it? He hears the satisfying snap of the stitching coming undone down the leg as he rips, chuckling as they get tossed to the side haphazardly.
That’ll teach ‘em.
You seem to have found your voice then, just in time to defend the pair of pajamas. They were nice and new-
(“Sorry, doll. Ya’ know I’ll getcha new ones.")
Gentle simply isn’t the name of his game. Though he can try, and try he might when he’s so afraid of crushing your lively little soul in his calloused, bloodstained hand. It just doesn’t come to him naturally, the way he tends to want to grab your hips and hold you flush to him. But at this moment, he dips his head down until his forehead meets the smooth span of your abdomen, resting there for a moment. Simon’s breathing tickles against your skin, a slow and steady pattern that’s a far cry from all the adrenaline that’s been pumping through him. Your hands gain purchase within the locks of his cropped hair that you can catch between your fingers. His voice is rumbly, a deep growl from low in his throat.
“Missed ya’.”
It’s about as close to singing praises from the heavens as he can offer you, and you greedily drink in every last minimal word he gets out. If he had the capability of belief, he’d be thanking any higher power out there that he’s returned home to what must be the only blessing he was ever offered. Your hands want to wander, want to run down his chest, then lower, and lower—
But he stops you with a silent shake of his head before your desires are executed.
“Just you tonight, luv.”
You know better than to question it—the way he may give but then pull back with intimacy. Some nights he can relish the way you roll those hips on top of him, low moans permitted to spill from his mouth and a tight grip on the back of his oversized t-shirt you tend to be wearing. Others end in a lit cigarette and an hour alone on the porch, scarred figure illuminated by the flame as he tries to wave off your concern. Lost in his mind due to the unwilling thoughts that want to follow any bit of bliss he tries to chase. It’s easier to let him slip and slink through your fingers as he pleases, letting him warm up to you like a feral creature who’s slowly been domesticated.
Delicate, delicate, delicate. He tries to run his thumbs in gentle circles over your body while fighting the urge to press down just hard enough that it will make little purple marks bloom like flowers against your skin, to prove that blood still runs warm through your veins. He doesn’t do it; you deserve to be treated delicately. It earns you a kiss for every intrusive thought he has over the matter, and he’s rewarded in turn with every breathy noise you make from them.
Simon is a man who’s been starved, has been depleted of his life source up until now. The way he ravishes you seems to fit the gnawing hunger he feels accordingly. His actions are desperate and unrefined following the very first taste of your sweetness on his lips. He licks a stripe against you to hear the way you squeal and see how your legs will twitch and shake for him.
“Pretty, pretty,“ he murmurs, not afraid to speak with his mouth full of his favorite meal. What a gift to be engulfed by your beauty when he spends so much time involved in all that’s corrupted and vile.
“And it’s just f’me?”
All of you, that’s what’s for him. Every square inch of your very being, and then whatever else he can find to clutch onto, too. If you give it to him, he’ll slowly return such an offering, piece by piece of the inner workings of such a complicated and complex mind, fragments of that hidden heart being unearthed.
“Yes!” You sob, a choked noise that’s reflective of how long he’s situated himself in this very position, never feeling that he’s had his fill. “Yes, yes, yes-!”
Wave after wave after wave of pleasure, he will give it all to you if you ask. He cramps a few of his thick, calloused fingers inside your warmth, crooking them with expertise gained from attentiveness to what’s *just for him*. He croons as you spill once more, not letting any of your nectar go to waste with a low chuckle at your overstimulated gasps.
There isn’t anything he wants in return as you pant for breath and flush ruddy with exertion—or so he claims. But you know him better than that, guiding his head to lie against your chest. The quick beats of your heart lull him to concede, and the way your hands soothe over his shoulder blades and tattooed bicep certainly doesn’t deter him either. He wants a hand through his hair and your nails lightly raking against his back and you certainly know how to deliver. Making sure to take caution over the raised scar tissue of his marred skin. Those get traced delicately, as if you are connecting stars to create new constellations.
“Bath?” You mumble, the word feeling heavy on your tongue as exhaustion dares to finally try and seep into your bones.
And, well, he wouldn’t say no to that, either.
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Thanks for all the support on my first post! Still learning how to format and improve. TBH I only write when I’m not feeling well or sleep deprived or intoxicated so hopefully this is decent enough lol
Also this was my first attempt w/ writing anything x reader or gender neutral specific so if I did anything wrong plz lmk. Okay thanks byeee
He's got a bit of property out in the countryside with a little house sitting on top of it. There is something too suffocating about sharing walls with strangers in the city, toe to toe on the sidewalks and windows facing the uncomfortable civilian normalcy that runs outside. Especially for someone who is off-put by unnecessary social interaction, not looking for the unwanted small talk and advances of others.
It's a bit of a fixer-upper that he hasn't accomplished a lot of repairing to, at least, not on the outside. Who does he have to impress? It's got running water and electricity, the means to keep out the elements, and a king-sized mattress in the bedroom. Simon Riley is satisfied with the simplistic, bare minimum of survival and doesn't need much outside of that. (Yes, that king-sized mattress should be considered the bare minimum of survival for a man his size, thank you very much.)
His house isn't some farmhouse with a white picket fence and wrap-around porch, finished with a wife and 2.5 kids. Those kinds of luxuries stay far out of his reach, away from the contamination that his sickened soul brings and the destruction that seems to trail in his footsteps. So, who cares if it's covered in a thick layer of dust and grime when he finds time to step foot into it, the air heavy and stale without a window opened in months? The refrigerator is barren and defrosted, yet when he searches for the drawer with a couple of haphazardly stored cigarette cartons he’s rewarded for the effort. A little gift from his past self to the present in anticipation of the unsettled nerves that occur here.
He takes the filter of one between his slightly off-kilter teeth and lets the heavy coating of smoke stain his lungs and fill the void. The flame that flickers from his lighter illuminates the tips of his fingers as he pulls the cigarette back. For a moment, he could swear he saw the stain of red under his nails, despite how hard he scrubs his hands under water. Maybe he needs something a little more holy to cleanse away what lies beneath the surface of the calluses and scars embellishing his skin. He runs a hand through his cropped hair, swearing under his breath and making disingenuous mental declarations that he will at least plug that damned fridge back in tomorrow. However, there is no haste in him stepping foot back into town to fill it up.
There is an appreciation for the controlled environment that this seclusion brings, but not necessarily the silence. It's jarring when his ears constantly ring from the consistent cacophony that surrounds the line of work he's a part of. Maybe he constantly has music playing or the TV running—anything to deplete the quietude enveloping him. His joints and muscles ache from the shitty military accommodations coupled with the nearly innumerable old injuries from circumstances long ago: old fractures and breaks, bullet wounds that leave tender sites, and the consequences of several concussions that tail you. It's only after the sun sets and the sky starts to bleed into an inky emptiness that he tries to stretch his legs and breathe anything other than nicotine mixed with the stagnant must of an unexploited house.
It's not that he necessarily needs the curtain of darkness to conceal his incognito here in the middle of nowhere at all, but he has come to be accustomed to it. The dirt and gravel road under his boots don't deter the unexpected lightness and stealth of his gait, though the smoldering red cherry of his next addition to the chain-smoking he is performing pulls focus to his looming silhouette.
He draws the attention of a mangy little creature, half-limping near the desolate road. It comes darting out of a nearby field, and his hand instinctively moves towards a holster no longer strapped to him. But it’s just a dog, one that is certainly not much of a sight compared to the dutifully designed Malinois K-9s he’s been around. It’s likely got fleas, with a lingering stench that’s far from pleasant, yet it marches up to him with an air of certainty as if it’s a prideful show dog. Simon eyes it with a glare that’s withering in his best attempt, but the animal is unfazed by his unapproachable nature, not afraid of his marred face.
“Scram, ya’ filthy mutt.”
His voice is raspy and raw with the disuse it faces off base, from the stretching silence he spends mostly in his head. It just barks back at him in return, a reflection of his own persistent nature. Somehow, the damned thing thinks it’s a good idea to trot along home with him. And somehow, Simon just lets it happen. He hoses him down on the side of the house with a less-than-enthusiastic expression but still throws down a pile of old blankets so that it can rest its weary head. He’s not a fan of having something that’s completely reliant on him- a fragile being that requires a nurturing hand he doesn’t believe he has. The best he can extend is the bare minimum of survival he grants himself currently.
The dog can’t stay forever, like most things in his unpredictable existence. A fleeting reminder of the way that more often than not he’s surrounded by death rather than life. He is more familiar with how to take than to give; his fingers cocked ‘round a trigger. But perhaps he will make that venture out to town tomorrow, the dog hanging its head out the passenger window of his truck. He’ll get something to fill his fridge and something to fill the dog's bowl, the solitude will be a little less consuming.
For now, he scrubs under his nails a little harder.
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First Tumblr post disclaimer. ^^
Well, a re-upload of it with some editing. Hope this is a bit better.
