#cod fanart

Soap with dogs!

Gaz with dogs!

Price with dogs!

Part 1 of a little comic for mershark soap and pirate ghost :)

🐻PRICE🐻

Simon doesn’t drink much. Everyone knows that.

Which is exactly why it’s a bit surreal seeing him like this.

He’s slouched back in the chair across from you, mask pushed up just enough to drink earlier and now sitting crooked on his face. His hair’s a mess, the short blond strands sticking up like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times.

You swirl what’s left in your glass, watching him.

Simon’s staring at you.

Not in the usual guarded way, either. No tension in his shoulders, no scanning the room like he’s expecting someone to kick the door in. Just… looking.

“You alright there, L.T.?” you ask.

He hums.

Not a word. Just a low little sound in the back of his throat as he keeps staring.

“Simon.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re staring.”

“Am not.”

“You are.”

He tilts his head slightly, considering that like it’s a complicated tactical question.

“Maybe a bit,” he admits, voice rougher than usual.

The alcohol’s gotten to him just enough to loosen his tongue. His accent’s thicker now too—northern vowels heavier, consonants a bit lazy.

You lean your elbow on the table.

“What’s so interesting then?”

Simon shrugs slowly, gaze dropping for a moment before lifting again.

“You,” he says simply.

You snort.

“Right. Sure.”

“Serious.”

The way he says it makes you pause.

There’s no teasing in his tone. No usual sarcasm. Just blunt honesty.

He drags a hand down his face, fingers catching on the edge of his mask before letting it fall back against his chin.

“You ever think,” he starts, voice slow, “about how you’ve got everyone wrapped round your little finger?”

“That’s definitely not true.”

“Is.”

He gestures vaguely at you with his glass.

“Price listens to you. Soap does whatever you ask. Gaz too.”

“That’s called teamwork, Simon.”

“Mm.”

He doesn’t sound convinced.

A quiet beat passes.

Then he leans forward a little, elbows on the table.

“Reckon you’d be good at bossin’ people around,” he says.

You blink.

“I already do.”

“Nah,” he mutters. “Different kind.”

Your eyes narrow.

“What kind?”

Simon squints like he’s trying to decide if he should say something.

The whisky clearly makes that decision for him.

“The kind where you tell someone to stay put,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Or get on their knees.”

You nearly choke on your drink.

“Simon.”

“What?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Little bit.”

He doesn’t look embarrassed in the slightest.

If anything, he seems thoughtful.

“Think I’d like it,” he adds.

“Like what?”

“Being told what to do.”

You stare at him.

He’s completely serious.

Simon Riley—six-foot-something, terrifying in the field, the man half the task force is scared of—is sitting at the kitchen table casually confessing he’d enjoy being bossed around.

“Right,” you say slowly. “We’re definitely blaming the alcohol for this conversation.”

Simon chuckles under his breath.

Low. Warm.

“Probably.”

But he doesn’t take it back.

Instead he leans back in his chair again, tipping his head toward the ceiling like he’s thinking hard about something.

“You’d be good at it though,” he continues after a moment.

“I’m not entertaining this.”

“Just sayin’.”

He looks back at you, eyes half-lidded but focused.

“Got that voice, y’know.”

“What voice?”

“The one you use when you’re givin’ orders.”

Your face feels warmer now.

“That’s my normal voice.”

“Mm,” Simon says, unconvinced.

Another quiet moment passes.

Then he mutters, almost to himself—

“Wouldn’t mind you tellin’ me to stay still.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“You’re literally my superior officer.”

“Technically.”

“Simon.”

He tilts his head again, studying your reaction like this is fascinating.

“Just talkin’.”

“You’re talking about being dominated.”

“By you.”

“Simon.”

“What?”

He doesn’t even look apologetic.

Instead he grins faintly, the expression small but genuine.

“You’re actin’ like I said something weird.”

“You did.”

He hums again.

“Alright then.”

He rests his cheek in his hand.

“Hypothetically.”

“No.”

“Hypothetically,” he continues anyway, ignoring you completely, “if someone—say you—told me to lie back and behave…”

You push your chair back slightly.

“Simon Riley.”

He keeps going.

“…maybe sit on my face a bit—”

“SIMON.”

He blinks at you.

“What?”

“You cannot just say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because we work together!”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re drunk!”

“Also yeah.”

He considers you for a second longer before adding casually—

“Still mean it though.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“Please go to bed.”

Simon lets out a quiet laugh.

“Bossy.”

“That wasn’t an invitation.”

“Shame.”

He pushes himself up from the table, swaying just slightly before steadying.

As he walks past you toward the hallway, he pauses.

Then he leans down just a bit closer, voice dropping into a conspiratorial murmur.

“Y’know,” he says softly, “if you ever did want to boss me around…”

You groan.

“Simon.”

He grins again, eyes bright despite the alcohol.

“…reckon I’d behave real nice for you.”

Then he strolls off toward the bedrooms like he didn’t just detonate the most unhinged conversation of your life.

And judging by the smug little glance he throws over his shoulder—

he might not be as drunk as he’s pretending.