A Bit Judge-y There Simon.

pricexghostxreader is just thee dynamic to me. ghost only trusting price to be any level of vulnerable around, needing price to 'vet' any pretty bird they think could help temper their combined fire with her softness. he has a hard time trusting good things, needs price to reassure him that the pretty soft thing waiting in their shared bed really does just want simon as much as she wants john.

price, who wants the traditional wife waiting at home with a baby on her hip, but isn't willing to give up his right hand, his best lieutenant, his good boy. simon is his long-term project, a soldier he saved from himself and molded into the perfect attack dog. his loyal pet. the bond they have goes deep, and price will not, under any circumstances, give up that heady sense of power he gets when simon just submits, all

both of them requiring an 'anchor' to the civilian world, a reminder of what they do the work for- because they know that when a soldier's whole life is absolutely nothing but the job, that's how you create weirdos like nikto and kreuger.

that's what sets john off hunting for their fat little wife, someone who can keep a home ready for them, who can keep one busy while the other's deployed separately. someone who will give them a soft, warm respite from the hard lives they've been leading.

the dynamic between price and simon is rigid, with price calling the shots always... but ghost isn't a lieutenant for nothing. he needs someone to train, to lead, to mold to his wants the same way price molded him. (and if he's honest with himself, he'll realize his wants and prices wants are damn near the same).

their soft little plaything may not be at the top of the pecking order, but she's so vitally important to keeping them grounded that she may as well be on top. they both need her tenderness and devotion in order to feel like they have worth beyond being killing machines, that what they do in the field has real meaning beyond fulfilling orders from on high.

and their sweet, soft girl who has no clue how vitally important she is, who assumes she's the needy one, living off their combined wages in a house whose deed doesn't have her name on it (yet). who loves and dotes on sir and daddy, who's desperately afraid one or both might not come home and she'll be left alone, forced to leave the house she's worked so hard to make a home for them.

ahhhhhhhhhhh fuck i love this dynamic

Cw: depression

Soap comes home one day expecting his wife to greet him at the door with his favorite meal and a kiss on the cheek. He hadn’t been gone long, only a few weeks, and you knew when he was coming home.

The house is dark when he opens the door despite it being evening. It smells faintly of unwashed clothing. Shades drawn tightly over the windows, the residing plants wilted and dying. Not dead yet, he notes.

“Honey?”

Johnny hates the way his voice cracks slightly when he calls out to you.

Making his way through the house, he eventually reaches your room. He knows then, from the clothing all over the floor and the pile of books on the bed where you are. He knows from the forgotten glasses of water on the dresser and the empty wrappers of miniature candy where you’ve been. In your head.

He finds you in the bathroom, sleeping in the bathroom tub. You wake when he lifts you, silently leaning into him. Despite his exhaustion and his hunger, he strips you of your clothes and runs the water warm. Kisses upon your shoulders as you remain silent, dark imprints under your eyes showing your own fatigue. It’s only when he has you lathered in bubbles and running his hands through your hair to make sure it gets clean that he dares to ask what happened.

“It got bad again, Johnny.”

His hands don’t pause their work through your hair, simply moving down to massage the muscles in your neck.

“I got you now.”

Getting into a verbal spat with a nearby stranger (Soap) over something inconsequential when you’re forced to overhear the loud, very confident, and horrifically wrong point he’s trying to make to his buddy.

He seems quite annoyed to be interrupted at first, but then he actually gets a good look at you, and suddenly he’s more than happy to engage with your criticism—you’re tenacious. The topic far too stupid to deem either of you the clear winner beyond personal preferences, so it ends up being a fight to see who can outlast the other, and neither of you are willing to let up.

You’re jamming your finger into his puffed out chest, missing the dangerous glint in his eyes that he gets as the digit makes contact with his shirt when an uninvolved party jeers at the two of you to get a room.

Your eyebrows nearly fly off your face when your Irritating opponent snaps back with a frustrated “-ah’m tryin’!”

In poly!141 I think it’s so funny for them to send Ghost in first. Not because Simon is actually the best at dragging in a pretty little thing, but because if they’re looking to share, Simon is typically the hardest to get through. Simon is scary guy with gruff and morbid humor. If you can tolerate him, and he can tolerate you, the others can move in and secure you in place. It’s infinitely funnier for the reader to decide that Simon is her little wet dog and he puts up with it to piss off Johnny who desperately wants to lay in your lap.

'I always wanted to fuck him' caption under a picture of a dark room with nothing in it

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.

You always find Simon in the same spot—sitting on his couch with a mug of tea in one hand, the TV on but the volume low, like he’s watching it just for background noise. He barely moves when you come in, just shifts his head a little like he was expecting you, even though you never text to say you're coming.

“And then she rolled her eyes at me,” you say as you drop down next to him, letting out an annoyed sigh. “Like I was the one being unreasonable for asking her to hold the door.”

Simon doesn’t react right away, which isn’t unusual. He lets a second or two pass, like he’s thinking it through, even though he probably made up his mind as soon as he heard your tone. Finally, he hums quietly and says, “She’s not worth your breath,” while reaching over to pat the top of your head in that way he always does.

You don’t even bother hiding how much you like that. You lean into his hand just a little, and for a moment you let the annoyance melt off your face.

It’s always like this between you and Simon. You walk in, already mid-rant about something that annoyed you during training or some dumb argument someone had in the mess, and he just listens. Or, well—he sits there while you go off, mostly quiet, only chiming in with a few words here and there.

But he always makes it clear he’s paying attention. The way his eyes shift to look at you when your voice tightens. The way he’ll hand you a blanket or a snack before you even ask. The way he remembers the tiny details you forget you even told him.

You joke sometimes that you adopted him. That you took in this emotionally unavailable soldier who barely likes people and decided that he’s your best friend now, whether he wanted that or not. He never complains. He never tells you to leave. Even when you steal his cookies or fall asleep on his couch, he just lets you stay.

He’s quiet, sure, but he’s also dependable in a way that makes everything feel easier when you’re around him. You can talk to him for hours and he won’t interrupt, won’t judge, won’t try to fix it unless it’s something he can fix. And when it is, he usually does—without making a big deal out of it.

So when you started seeing that guy from base, Simon didn’t say anything. You thought maybe he just didn’t care, or that he wasn’t the type to get involved in stuff like that. He didn’t ask many questions. Just nodded and said, “He treatin’ you right?” in that low voice of his that didn’t give much away.

You smiled and said yes, because at the time, it felt like the right answer.

He stayed the same after that. Still your go-to person for venting. Still the only one who ever made you feel like you could talk without holding back.

But every now and then, you noticed something shift. He wouldn’t look at you as much when you brought up your boyfriend. He’d change the subject quicker. And when you said something like, “he forgot our plans again,” Simon would just sigh and hand you tea or cookies or whatever he had nearby, like he didn’t want to say what was really on his mind.

You remember one night clearly, when you showed up outside Simon’s door after a long shift. You were quiet, which was rare, and you didn’t even try to hide the frustration in your eyes.

“He forgot again,” you mumbled, pulling your knees up onto the couch. “Said he’d pick me up, and then just... nothing. Not even a text.”

Simon didn’t say much in response. He just handed you the remote and tapped your shoulder once, like that was his way of saying you deserved better without actually having to say the words out loud.

But the breaking point came later. One night, you showed up to his room without even thinking, your eyes red and puffy, your hands trembling a little as you wiped at your face. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to. He just stepped aside and let you walk in, like he’d been expecting you again, like he knew this was coming.

“He cheated,” you said, and the words felt so bitter and small in your mouth that you almost didn’t believe them yourself.

Simon pulled you into a hug before you could even finish the sentence. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to offer advice or tell you what you should’ve done. He just held you, solid and quiet, with one hand pressed between your shoulder blades and the other smoothing over your hair. You didn’t realize you were crying until your face was already buried in his shirt.

At some point, he moved you to his bed. You weren’t even sure how, but you ended up under his blanket, wrapped in warmth that didn’t come from the sheets, and you felt safer than you had in weeks. His voice was low when he whispered, “Don’t worry about it,” like he was promising to carry the weight of it for you.

You didn’t know it then, but he didn’t sleep that night. He stayed up until you were out cold, then got up quietly, left his room, and came back a few hours later like nothing happened. What you also didn’t know—what he would never admit unless you asked him directly—was that he had counted every single tear that rolled down your face. Every shaky breath, every time your chest stuttered with a sob. He remembered the number. Kept it in his head. Then found your ex and hit him that many times. One punch for every tear you cried.

A few days passed, and word started going around base that your ex hadn’t been seen. Missed duty. No one could get ahold of him. You didn’t ask Simon anything. You just looked at him across the mess hall, saw the way he was nursing a cup of tea with a blank expression and fresh tape wrapped around his hand, and something in your chest clicked into place.

You didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, and he looked back, and that was enough.

Later, after things calmed down, you found yourself back in his room. Same spot on the couch. Same blanket. Same you and Simon. But this time, out of nowhere, he said, “I’m in love with you.”

It wasn’t dramatic or emotional. He said it like it was just a fact—like he was finally telling the truth after hiding it for too long.

You blinked at him, not even sure you heard him right. “What?”

He shrugged a little, like it didn’t matter if you believed him or not. “Figured you should know.”

You didn’t know what to say right then. There was too much in your head. But a few days later, he took you somewhere quiet, away from base, with a folded blanket under his arm and your favorite cookies packed in a tin. He made tea and handed you the mug like he always did, and when you sipped it, it was just the way you liked it—strong, with that little bit of honey he adds even when you don’t ask.

You sat next to him, legs stretched out on the grass, shoulder pressed against his. After a while, you turned to look at him and said, “You’ve been looking at me like that for a long time, haven’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Like what?”

“Like I’m your whole world.”

Simon didn’t answer right away, but the look on his face said more than words ever could. Then he reached over, patted your head like he always did, and said, “Yeah. That’s about right.”

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@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212

fun date idea: you come over and we watch a video essay about saltburn and i pause it every 5 seconds and explain in excruciating detail why i disagree with everything the video is saying 😄

For the next omegaverse snippet I present to you — alphas who also lactate regardless of their sex, omegas who run hot and betas who can display traits of both under specific circumstances.

Why? Because I feel like sucking on König’s tits and John Price swallowing me whole.

Snippet in question>>

something very interesting to me in rdr2 is how arthur is repeatedly referred to using more “feminine” like terms, usually in a negative context. like the most well known one is when he gets called “pretty boy” in the fight with tommy, but emmett granger also calls him “girlie.” both of these times, it’s men who are actively provoking him, masculine men, who are telling him this. however, whenever arthur is talking to algeron wasp, a much more “feminine” man, and wasp asks him if he’d like a corset, arthur’s only real complaint to the idea was that he rides horses and that the whale bone would dig in.

now, arthur’s masculinity is something that he clings to heavily in the game. as progressive as arthur’s ideas are for the time period he’s in, he still holds the basic idea that women need to be protected and cared for, that a man should more of the heavy lifting, etc. in chapter six, he overcomes this idea a good bit, especially with sadie adler and charlotte balfour, but it’s still a core part of his character because it’s the year 1899. arthur’s masculinity is something that he uses to make himself appear, in the words of hosea, “big, dumb, and angry.” he uses this idea of toxic masculinity to make himself appear tough, as one of the gang’s enforcers, as the debt collector, as the one who yells at a grieving family because they’re in his way. arthur hides his journal, one of the few things that shows his softness, which could be perceived as “feminine,” and never lets anyone touch it until he dies. even his art could be considered “feminine,” because, in his eyes, it’s an expression of softness.

then you have charles. charles, who has extremely long hair that he takes great care of, and who i, personally, believe is just a little bit vain (which isn’t a bad thing). charles, who talks about his mother and her people and everything that he loves about both of them. charles, who lived on his own for years and had to take care of himself, be both mother and father for himself in his late teen years.

charles is masculine, yes. he’s tall, and broad, and takes care of others, whether that be through doing brunt work or through more violent means. however, he expresses his own softness frequently. how he only kills when he has to. how he believes arthur isn’t as tough and dense as he acts. how he isn’t afraid to show appreciation for others, shows his appreciation towards animals while both hunting them and caring for them, express his opposition towards dutch as early as chapter 2.

now, back to arthur. as the game progresses, arthur slowly moves away from this idea of toxic masculinity and becomes softer towards others. still masculine, still thinking about the women and children first, still strong (even as he grows sicker and sicker), but softer. he comments, both in his journal, that charles is one of the best men he knows. i think that charles was one of the key points of reference whenever arthur was trying to become a good man. that, even though arthur had it in him the entire time, he still looked to charles as a grounding perspective.

i think that, had arthur lived, maybe he would’ve been able to become that much softer in age and in settling down. maybe even branch out towards more “feminine” traits, take greater care of himself, if only he was told that those things weren’t shameful, if he was told that he wasn’t just big and dumb.