﹙ ¹⁸⁺ ﹚ ₊ ❜୧ A QUICKIE WITH YOUR HUSBAND SIMON.
you're sorting through what feels like the millionth tiny sock when simon comes up behind you, large hands settling on your hips. "kids are occupied," he murmurs against your neck, and you can hear the suggestion in his voice.
"si, i have to get this done," you protest weakly, but you're already leaning back into him. wash day waits for no one with three kids, and you're drowning in tiny clothes. "and they won't stay distracted for long."
"exactly why we should be quick about it." his hands slide around to your stomach, pulling you flush against him. you can feel he's already hard, and your resolve wavers. "been thinking about you all morning, luv. watching you bend over sortin’ laundry..."
"you're terrible," you breathe, but you're already turning in his arms. seven years of marriage and three kids later, and he still looks at you like he wants to devour you. "we have maybe ten minutes before someone needs something."
"can work with that." he's already lifting you onto the washing machine, hands pushing up his sweatshirt that you wore around the house. "fuck, no panties? you trying t’kill me?"
"it's wash day, baby," you remind him, wrapping your legs around his waist. "everything's in the dirty hamper." but your explanation dissolves into a moan as his fingers find you already wet.
"fuckin' convenient," he growls, working you open with practiced efficiency. there's no time for slow and sweet; not with three kids in the house. "always ready for me, aren't you, swee'eart?"
you bite your lip to keep quiet as he replaces his fingers with his cock, pushing in with one smooth thrust. "simon," you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. "fuck—w-we have to be quiet."
"then you'd better keep that pretty mouth o’yours shut," he says, setting a punishing pace immediately. the washing machine rocks with the force of it, and you have to brace yourself against the wall. "can't have the little ones hearing what daddy does to mummy."
the filthy words in his rough accent make you clench around him. he notices, of course he does, and smirks against your neck. "like that, do you? knowing i'm fuckin’ you while our babies play down the hall?"
before you can respond, there's a loud bang on the door. "mommy! mommy, open!" your five-year-old's voice cuts through your haze of pleasure. "need you!"
simon doesn't stop, if anything going harder. "mummy's busy, swee'eart," he calls out, voice impressively steady for someone currently railing you against major appliances. "go play with yer sister."
"but mommy!" another bang. "daisy took my doll!"
you try to answer but simon chooses that moment to hit that perfect spongy spot inside you, and all that comes out is a strangled sound. he covers your mouth with his hand, eyes dark with amusement and lust.
"mummy's folding clothes," he lies smoothly. "she'll be out in a minute, go tell daisy t'share."
"don't want to!" your daughter whines, and you can hear her stomping her little feet. "want mommy now!"
"ella." simon's voice drops into what you call his lieutenant voice — gentle but brooking no argument. "go play. we'll be out soon."
there's a moment of silence, then you hear her stomp away muttering about simon being unfair. the second she's gone, simon removes his hand from your mouth.
"such a good girl," he praises, but you're not sure if he means you or ella. "keeping quiet while i fuck you senseless. though i bet y’wanted to scream, didn't you?"
"simon, fuck, please," you gasp, feeling your orgasm building embarrassingly fast. the combination of his cock and the thrill of almost getting caught has you on edge. "i'm gonna-"
"i know, luv. she's fuckin’ squeezin’ me." his thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles. "c'mon then. cum all over my cock before another one starts bangin’ on the door."
as if on cue, you hear your two-year-old calling from somewhere in the house. "mama?"
the use of your married name plus the perfect pressure on your clit sends you over. you bite his shoulder to muffle your cry as you cum all over his cock, whole body shaking with the force of it. he follows right after, groaning low in your ear as he fills you.
"mama!" your toddler's voice is getting closer.
"shit," simon pants, pulling out and quickly fixing his clothes. he helps you down, steadying you when your legs wobble. "y’good?"
"just peachy," you breathe, smoothing down his sweatshirt. you can feel his cum starting to leak and clench your thighs together.
"though i'm going to need to shower before i finish this laundry."
a/n: This was a request from @fandomfanpage and i enjoyed writing this sooo much, i hope you enjoy! My apologies for getting it to you a little later 😖
• Due to having a hard time keeping eye contact, Simon will either move to where your looking or he’ll gently hold your face to keep you looking at him.
•When you first came to base you refused to talk to anyone. It was actually Simon who came up and talked to you, because no one else would.
•He punishes his recruits if he hears himself of him someone else tells him that they’re making fun of you. Simon won’t stop making them run till they throw up or pass out.
•Simon knows you hate when your routine is changed or messed up, so when it is, he tries his best to make it as normal as he can.
•Anytime you see a rock you like, you’ll take it and bring it back to Simon.
“What’s this, Luv?”
You hand him the rock with a smile.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
He places it with his mini collection of rocks from you. He has them out on his desk in his office, as a reminder of you. He also has two of his absolute favorites in his room.
•You always notice on days where Simon isn’t himself. On those days where he’s easily irritated, you avoid him. Typically, he’ll find you towards the end of the day.
“Hi sweetie, haven’t seen you all day.”
“Saw you were mad, didn’t want to annoy you.”
“You could never annoy me.”
———————————————————
“So i took my three ideas, and i tried them. When i tested—“
“Dude. You’ve been talking for 45 minutes about the same stupid project. Nobody care.”
You freeze. A pit begins to form in your stomach. You nod. After staying for another twenty minutes, you decide to go outside. You sit on a bench, fighting the tears from falling.
“Hey..” You turn and see Simon.
“I care.” He sits by you. You don’t say anything.
“I’m open to listening, if you’d like to keep talking. I’m interested.” He pauses. “And, i have some ideas on what happened.” He wraps an arm around you.
cw: it started cute and sweet and then horny dammit 😔 reader & 141 reader x ghost idk.
imagine giving the 141 forehead kisses as just like a little thing. Always Kyle and Johnny, so sweet and happy to take them.
Price chuckles and allows it.
Ghost you normally just make a little *smooch* noise in the air above his head.
Well, it seems Ghost didn't appreciate the non-commitment. Because this time he grabs your chin, surprisingly careful with its force, and brings your lips to his, rough fabric of the mask between you.
"All or nothin'," He says. "G'night, sweet'eart."
You don't move, just stand there, above him for a stunned two seconds. You can see the smirk in his eyes though.
And then you scoff. You swing your legs over his and hold his face in both hands, straddling him on the couch. You press your lips against his through the mask again, pressing your tongue against the fabric, tasting the sweat and then his own saliva there as his tongue meets yours. Finally past the startled freeze.
It's over as fast as it starts, pulling your head away as his chases for a moment more.
"Good night." You say, sour-sweet venom on your tongue. "Sweetheart." And push yourself back up.
You feel his eyes on you like a branding iron until you close the door with just enough slam.
Thinking about ghost who would literally eat anything and picky eater!reader...
Of course, ghost first realized how bad your eating habits are while out getting dinner with you. Yes, dinner, a small payback-maybe-date after he rescued you from your broken down car at 3am.
"Uhm...I'll just have the chicken tenders. From the kids menu, please." You refuse to make eye contact with the waiter or ghost, stomach twisting that none of the more adult options were anything you liked.
You braces for the comments from ghost, having heard plenty from his teammates. Gaz snorting about what he's dubbed "your one vegetable a month" whenever he sees the only sub you eat lettuce with. Soap, too, makes comments about how you should try home-cooked meals instead of your store bought meals. Even price has chuckled about "dessert for lunch again, love?" When literally all you could stomach that week was sweets.
When you doesn't comment, you stubbornly stay staring at your hands "I know it's embarrassing eating with me...sorry."
"Wot? Yer eating, aren't you?" Ghost raises his brow at you, shoveling another giant onion ring into his mouth. "Not my fuckin' issue. If you don't want it, give it to me."
And...really you should have expected this.
Ghost, the man who lived on literal scraps in his childhood, who ate everything he was given because he had no choice. Of course he wouldn't care what you eat, so long as you eat.
"Oh...uhm." You're not sure what to say. You're used to always feeling some level of embarrassment about your diet. "Thank...you."
One dinner turns to two, turns to shared lunches and weekend brunches. You gravitate towards ghost because he doesn't care about your eating habits. If you order something and find it tastes different than expected, ghost will happily devour your dish while you ask about crisps.
You realize you've never been able to eat freely with another person before. It's...really nice.
While Kate doesn't love providing support over comms, given the stress of the job, it has it moments.
Like hearing a grown man, a sergeant, accidentally kick a step when talking and picking up the quiet mutter, "Aw, ya wee fuckin cunt."
Kyle's softly spoken, "S'a fat pigeon," before he catches himself and focuses on what else is in front of him, obese birds not included.
She comes to recognise John's 'trying not to lose his hat' grumble, rarely followed by his 'hat is now on the ground' grunt.
Simon has an self satisfied huff that he seemingly forgets they can hear when he says something just twisted enough for someone to call him vile, or a dirty bastard.
ghost stops just a few feet away from you. you don’t even bother to turn, still sterilizing your metal tools.
“no,” he grunts.
only then do you turn, give him a weirded out look as you eye him up and down.
“why are you following me?”
he doesn’t answer.
you hold back an eye-roll and continue to place the sealed bags in the autoclave.
when you’re done, you turn and he’s still there.
he doesn’t shy away from the eye contact and it’s bit a nerve-racking. his face is blank—not that you can see it underneath that mask— and his eyes are almost cold.
to be expected of the infamous ghost, you suppose.
but why is he following you around?
after a few minutes, you get tired of it. you spin around suddenly and he doesn’t startle- like he was expecting it.
“seriously, what is it?!”
a beat of silence and he speaks. “nothing.”
“then why are you following me? did I do something to you- are you plotting some sort of revenge? Are you stalking me?”
simon looks down and then looks at you, clearing his throat. “you look pretty today. I just wanted to tell you.”
you jaw goes slack.
after a few unconvinced blinks, you realize he isn’t playing a joke on you and you clear your throat. “oh… uh… thank you.”
you want to tell him that he could’ve told you before making you think he was plotting your death, but you’re too shy to get the words out.
he hums and gestures to the autoclave and you quickly remember what you were doing in the first place.
“oh, right..”
he watches you diligently and this time you don’t complain. this time, you shoulders are relaxed and you’re moving slower.
the corners of your mouth lift when you turn and he’s still staring at you unabashedly.
it's always a pleasure going back to my origins and writing for dbf simon because i'm a big slut who can't get over this man
had a can of monster, had bad cramps, pulled an all nighter and this came up
and also i'm celebrating this blog turning 3 years old if anyone cares
✧.* summary: your father always warned you about soldiers, he just forgot to specify which one.
✧.* wc: 5,9k
✧.* pairing: dad's best friend!simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader
✧.*warnings: kinda mean!simon, implied age gap, praising/humiliation kink, face fucking, unprotected sex, choking, slight dacryphilia ?, minimal waterboarding (?, reader has major daddy issues, no use of y/n, not exactly proofread (was too tired to go through that many words at 5 am)
• MDNI | NSFW under the cut •
Being raised by a father who's in the military along with the absence of a mother figure made it feel like you had enlisted too.
Everything was a strict routine, from waking up before sunrise to going to bed at night. There was a time and place for everything: breakfast, studying, chores, coming home, hell, even answering his calls. Needless to say, spontaneity was a foreign concept in the household. Sometimes you actually wondered if your father forgot he was raising a daughter and not commanding a platoon.
It wasn't really intentional how he micromanaged your life and treated you like a little girl you were long gone. Actually, unbeknownst to him, you were an adult! A grown, functioning adult! Who maybe still lived under his roof just so he'd have someone to get home — when he decided to come home. Not like he much deserved it either way, but he had lost important people in his career, so you played along.
You weren't sure how Simon really showed up in your lives, like he’d just surged out of nowhere to bring a bit of joy to your father's life, at least. He was his buddy, mate, friend or whatever term they endorsed over headquarters. It's not like you cared enough.
He showed up a few times over the last year, mostly to discuss a thing or two with your dad over a six pack of beer and football, and it pained you how boring it all sounded despite from a few good army stories.
Dad believed you didn't have many friends, and honestly, he wasn't that far off. What he was believing at this moment was that you were back at home studying while he was on duty, when you were actually at the bar, waiting for your friends to arrive.
You sat down on the bar, waiting a bit anxiously for your friends when a familiar voice pulled you out of trance.
“Didn't expect to see ya here.” Simon slid his glass on the counter, taking the empty seat next to you. He could see it from your expression how you'd tensed up at meeting him here. “Relax, won't tell your father.” He added with a small grin, finishing the remaining bourbon in his glass.
You could tell he was already slightly drunk, the kind of drunk that came from sitting alone in a bar, trying to drown the feeling of one of those nights. He looked different tonight, also. The man who was always an imposing presence looked less dull around the edges, you couldn't pinpoint why, though.
“Suppose you can buy me a round if you want me to trust you.”
“Shouldn't this be the other way around?” He scoffed at your boldness, looking down in his glass and then shaking his head.
He signaled the bartender silently, holding two fingers up, one for a refill, and another glass for you. His fingers ran over his face and he scratched his stubble, as if contemplating what life was throwing his way tonight.
Before he could overthink it, the bartender slid both drinks his way, and he slid yours across the counter. Bourbon wasn't really your strong, but again, he was paying for this one, you wouldn't really complain.
He lifted his own glass slightly in salute before taking another slow sip from it, you silently saluted him back with your own liquor.
“What brings you here?” You asked, attempting to break the ice. He took another pull before answering properly.
"Same reason everyone else is here, I s’ppose. Needed somewhere to be.”
The bar noise swelled around you, the laughter and clinking bottles fading in the background while silence stretched between the both of you. He noticed how you chewed the inner part of your bottom lip.
“You ever been here b’fore?”
His question hung in the air for a brief moment, you had to blink your way back to reality.
"Once or twice with the girls." You said. "Don't usually go out a lot, but one of ‘em just got the job she wanted so we're celebrating." You added, raising your glass in the air like you were toasting with them already. "Or… should be." You looked around, not seeing them there yet.
Simon followed your gaze, scanning the crowd along with you, even if he didn't know what your friends looked like. He also noticed your uneasiness.
“They're late, huh?” He grunted under his breath, sounding more like a statement than something else.
“Maybe I'm too early. Like always.” You said with a bit of resignation, trying to sound cheerful, but failing as it came out sharper than intended. You groaned as you took the first sip of your bourbon. “How's work?”
He caught the edge in your voice, and glanced at your frown for half a second before answering. “Work’s work.” He said flatly. “Same shit. Different day.” He looked down as he swirled the liquor around. “Spent six hours staring at satellite imagery of some godforsaken stretch of desert trying to spot targets.” He scoffed humorlessly into the liquid, tilting the glass against his lips.
“Thrilling.” You added, then glanced at the time in your phone, and frowned again due to the lack of any notifications from your friends.
“You mad at them?” He didn't try to pry, he was just trying to keep up a conversation.
"No- not really." You said, failing yet another time to sound nonchalant. "I mean, I'm used to it by now."
This next sip felt like now you were the one trying to drown the feelings of one of those nights. The bourbon burned down your throat, almost comforting in its own way.
Silence stretched longer between you two, Simon didn't say anything, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he could see right through you.
"I am. A bit." You blurted out. "Why can't they just get ready earlier? Does my time matter less than theirs?" You said, irritation slipping into your voice before you could stop it.
"Sorry, I'm ranting again." You chuckled helplessly into your glass, taking the last of the bourbon.
Simon didn't react to it, didn't show pity or sympathy besides raising his empty glass to the bartender again, who brought both of you another refill almost immediately.
“Time matters. Yours, theirs.” He said simply, then nudged your glass with his index finger. “Drink up.”
You took a sip from the new glass of bourbon sitting in front of you. "Fair point." You tsked.
You rested both elbows on the bar counter, letting yourself sink slightly into the seat.
Another sip followed in silence, a little bigger this time. The frustration was still there, but it wasn't really about your friends being late anymore. That was just the first and easiest thing to blame.
There was something else bothering you that you couldn't quite put into words.
Simon noticed. Again. He had always been observant, but he wasn't about to push. He just sat there beside you, quietly nursing his drink. Maybe that was why the question slipped out.
"Why don't you have a wife?"
You turned your head to look at him, resting your cheek against your hand as you waited for his answer. It wasn't meant to be teasing, but you couldn't help it after it came out.
The bourbon caught him wrong, and he gave a quiet cough trying to clear his throat. It was probably the first time you'd ever seen him look caught off guard.
He stared at you for a moment, like he was trying to figure out whether you'd actually asked him that. He then slowly set the glass back down.
"Wife?" The word came out quieter than expected, almost like he was testing it.
A small, breathless laugh escaped him, sounding more like disbelief than amusement. He shook his head slightly, looking away for a second before meeting your eyes again.
His fingers tapped once against the bar, the usual steady rhythm slightly off this time.
"I'm not exactly..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Husband material." Another small scoff.
"I work too much. Spend most of my time somewhere I probably shouldn't be. Come home smelling like shit." He glanced down at his drink, turning the glass slightly between his fingers. "Not exactly fancy.”
"Suppose that's true." You nodded slowly, content with the answer for now, but your curiosity didn't go away, if anything, it only grew.
Your father had spent your entire life warning you about the military, the people in it, the things you supposedly needed protecting from, but never actually told you anything about that world.
"Is it true about the women there?" You asked. The question made Simon pause.
"What do you mean? Like officers? Medics?" He frowned.
"No, I meant..." You hesitated, trying to find the right words. A quiet sigh escaped you as you looked down at the amber liquid in the glass.
"I wanted to join the army back in the day." The confession sat between you two for a moment.
“Dad talked me out of it." You traced your finger along the edge of the glass, avoiding Simon's eyes. "Said something about how a pretty girl like me would end up as a bunny?"
You frowned slightly, almost embarrassed by saying that out loud. "I never really understood what he meant."
“Bunny?" The word came out slowly, like he was making sure he'd heard you right and he wasn't hallucinating. "Like in ‘barracks bunny’ bunny?" he repeated. The disbelief in his voice was palpable. "The fuck's wrong with your father?"
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the reaction, now assuming how bad this term could mean.
Simon had tolerated your father's opinions for quite a while. The old-fashioned comments and the closeted misogynist way he saw the world, yet he didn’t think that would extend into the way he saw you.
"You really don't know what that means?"
You shook your head and a humorless breath left him as he rubbed a hand over his jaw.
"A barracks bunny is what some people call women who hang around military bases and date soldiers. Usually in a pretty damn disrespectful way." He paused, watching your expression change as you processed it.
"Oh.” It came out quietly. "Oh."
The realization settled in slowly, and then all at once. You stared down at your glass, almost like you were waiting for it to make more sense. Like there could be any other explanation you had missed.
His fingers tapped once against the glass. "Your father thought that was something you were destined to become just ‘cause you’re pretty?" He shook his head slightly, clearly irritated. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry. That's a reflection on the way some men think.”
A bitter laugh escaped your lips. "Of course." You shook your head, disbelief turning into something else, something sharper. "Yeah. That makes perfect sense." Your fingers tightened around the glass.
"Pretty girl like me, right? Obviously I'd just become a slut the second I got around military men." The words tasted bitter coming out of your mouth, yet they were the truth, your father's truth.
You took another large sip, the bourbon burning on its way down.
"Of course my decorated father would use some disgusting, derogatory term like that to his innocent little girl just to keep her away from the military." You let out another humorless laugh. "Because apparently I couldn't possibly have enough self-control to exist around men without throwing myself at them."
The anger was no longer hidden now, mixed with the anger of also being ditched by your friends tonight. It had been building for years, buried beneath every rule, restriction, every lecture about “could”s and “couldn't”s.
And suddenly, yeah, it all made sense now. It was never about protecting you.
You looked up at Simon, and something in his expression only made the frustration burn hotter, churning low in your gut.
"You know what?” Your voice was quieter now, but somehow more determined. "I'm tired." You swallowed. "Tired of his rules, of pretending to be someone I'm not just because that's the version of me he can swallow." You finished the rest of your bourbon and placed the glass back on the counter with a sharp clink.
"I'll prove to him how wrong he can be." Your eyes zeroed on Simon. "Are you doing anything after this?”
Simon’s breath caught, enough for you to notice: a brief betrayal from someone who was usually so impossible to read.
His eyes widened slightly, fixed on you like you'd just pulled the pin from a grenade and casually placed it on the table between you. For a few seconds, he genuinely didn't know what to say.
"Sweetheart." It came out slower than usual, like a low warning coming from your father's best friend.
He lifted a hand, placing it flat on the bar between you. He didn't touch you, instead, he created a distance that suddenly felt very deliberate. "You're pissed." His eyes flicked briefly to the empty glass in your hand before returning to you. "Not thinking straight.”
"I asked you a question." Your voice came out sharper than you intended as you crossed your arms over your chest.
The noise of the bar seemed to fade into background static. The music, the conversations, the clinking glasses, it all dimmed.
There was only him and you at that damn bar. And the stubborn hand still resting between you like a line he refused to cross. "No."
You stared at him, but he didn't look away.
"I’m not doing this." His voice lowered, meant only for you. "You're drunk both on bourbon and rebellion right now." His tone was nearly scolding. "And I'm not going to be whatever reckless decision your father warned about." The words landed harder than you anticipated.
His fingers tapped once against the bar before he pulled his hand back. "Get a cab home.” He scratched his stubble.
"Fine, then I'll get a cab home with the first man I get my hands on in this bar." You watched him carefully, waiting for a reaction, hopeful you'd strike a nerve. "Or..." You tilted your head slightly. "You can take me home."
Simon went still, every instinct in him making him snap into focus. Nothing would be able to hide the irritation in his expression as he clenched his jaw.
He slowly exhaled through his nose, attempting to ground himself.
"Sweetheart." The nickname sounded like a warning, like he was hanging from the last thread of patience his body was capable of having.
In one smooth movement, he stood. He pulled out his wallet, dropped enough cash on the counter to cover the drinks and a generous tip, then turned back to you.
In silence, he simply reached for your elbow, guiding you through the crowd. You complained, but his grip was firm as he guided you toward the exit.
He opened the passenger door and guided you inside, roughly, to say the least.
He was annoyed. At you, at himself, annoyed because he knew exactly what you were trying to do and tagged along anyway.
The drive was silent, but somehow worse than if you two were arguing. You stared out the window, the heat of the bourbon fading into something else momentarily. You felt tired, embarrassed, hell, maybe even a little pathetic.
Because somewhere in between trying to prove your father wrong and trying to prove you weren't the person he thought you were, you were inclining towards proving him absolutely right.
You noticed the way Simon kept his eyes locked on the road, jaw tense, his grip was steady on the wheel like he was trying to control himself more than usual. Though the faint smell of bourbon that lingered in the car couldn't be ignored, because neither of you should have been driving right now. And both knew it.
Yet, there he was, by your left side, risking both of your lives to get you home in safety. Ironic.
When the car finally stopped in the driveway, Simon shifted into park and looked over at you. "Home."
You looked towards the house, then back at him. "But I don't wanna go in alone, it's so dangerous."
You crossed your arms like a stubborn infant, putting on the most exaggerated pout you could manage. You cringed a little at yourself, but fuck it, you were drunk, you might as well commit to the bit.
“Get off my car, woman.” He ordered, truly being a gentleman, yet there was something almost disbelieving about the way he said it.
He had dealt with hostile situations, difficult people, impossible orders, and, apparently, you refusing to leave his passenger seat was where his patience was tested.
When you didn't move, he simply stared at you, then he let out a quiet breath. He turned off the engine, unbuckled his seatbelt with a sharp click, and stepped out of the car.
A moment later, he opened the passenger door. The night air hit you as you looked up at him. The house was dark and quiet, your father obviously still at base. Simon stood there, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking like an irritated guard.
“Out." And again, you didn't move. He shook his head. "Unbelievable."
He reached in, grabbed you firmly by the waist, and lifted you out of the seat before you could protest. A man used to problem solving, removing the problem from his vehicle.
Your feet hit the pavement, and you immediately looked up at him in disbelief. He completely ignored the look.
"You're welcome."
The dry remark almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself he hadn't just carried his best friend's drunk daughter out of his damn car.
He shut the door behind you, locked it with a beep from his keys, and nodded toward the house. "Inside, young lady.”
"That is no way to treat a woman!" You called him out, rubbing your side where he had so effortlessly moved you out of the car, getting only a stern look in return.
He reached into your bag, found your keys, and started unlocking the front door with the kind of confidence that suggested he'd done this before, except never while dealing with a drunk, stubborn woman complaining at him.
"You are no fun." You yelled, following him up the steps, still annoyed. "Just like him."
The words made him pause for half a second. "Just like every other soldier." You added, and scoffed, walking past him and into the house. "Don't even know what the big deal about you guys is!"
For a moment, he stood there, your comment clearly landing differently than the others. But he just sighed quietly, stepping inside after you and closing the door behind him.
The house was exactly how it always was: quiet. Nearly painfully familiar.
The faint smell of your father's cigars still lingered in the air, mixed with the sterile neatness that seemed to follow him everywhere. Everything had its place. Everything was controlled.
You kicked your shoes off harder than necessary and made your way toward the couch.
Simon went straight to the kitchen, you watched him from the corner of your eye as he turned on the tap, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water.
A few seconds later, he walked back over and placed the glass down on the coffee table in front of you like he was making a statement.
You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms and legs as you looked up at him, motionless. Simon stood there, towering over you. "Drink it."
The command was simple, and for some reason, that tone sent an unfamiliar shiver down your spine.
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
You swallowed in hard, refusing to let him see the effect it had.
"Not thirsty.” You shrugged, looking away like you hadn't just challenged him.
“You really don't know when to quit.” He said, taking matters into his own hands. Quite literally.
Before you could realize what was happening, he was straddling your thighs, effectively trapping you against the couch. Your attempts at pushing him away were futile as he held your wrists above your head with one large hand, and tilted the glass of water to your lips.
You tried facing away, but he gripped your jaw, forcing your mouth open.
“Ah, ah, you're drinking it all.” He demanded.
You blinked quickly, trying to understand why he was doing that but mostly, trying to understand why the fuck was that turning you on.
He poured it a little too aggressively, causing you to choke. You coughed, spat a little and tried pushing him away again.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” You yelled, hitting him square in the chest.
He held you by the jaw again, tilting the glass once more. You tried chugging down faster this time, and choked another time, coughing.
He set the glass down on the coffee table again, but didn't leave your lap.
“You're insane. Completely mental.” You said, voice a little bit hoarse, trying to sound irritated to hide the fact this little stunt made you realize something about yourself today that you would rather have not.
There was some serious staring going on. Your cheeks were flushed red and you were trying so bad not to seem that affected. Still, he saw right through you.
His lips crashed against yours in a searing kiss, both of his hands cradling your jaw as he allowed himself to get lost in the heat of the moment for once.
The kiss was hot, messy, and apparently, wet from how he'd nearly waterboarded you into soberness, but it fit so much with the idea you had created of him in your mind.
His hand yanked a good chunk of hair in the back of your head, and pulled you right onto his lap, making you wince. His strength made it look effortless.
“You're gonna prove to your daddy how wrong he is about you by being a good slut to a military man, sweetheart?” He asked, placing a lock of hair behind your ear, eyeing your kiss swollen lips. “That's your brightest plan?” He scoffed, already leaning into his mean side, enjoying mocking you. Oh, he would make you suffer for it.
“Shut up.” You muttered under your breath, capturing his lips in another breathtaking kiss. Except it was slower this time, a small contrast to the things he had whispered, like he was mapping every inch of your lips with his.
His hand stayed locked in your hair, and the other one squeezed your ass so tight you groaned into his mouth.
He broke for air just enough to whisper against your lips again. “Can you handle it, darling?”
It sounded like he was mocking you again, but you shook away that thought almost immediately, replacing the embarrassment with need.
“Yes, fuck, I can handle it.” You moaned against his mouth once again as he ground you down on his bulge.
“Then be a good girl, go down on your knees f’ me and suck me off, would ya?” He grinned.
You helplessly nodded, sitting on your knees in between his legs as he worked his belt off slowly.
Once he fully freed himself, your mouth salivated at the sight. He was so girthy, veiny and fucking hard when he pumped himself a few times before guiding you down by the hair.
“Prove it to daddy.” He grinned mischievously.
First thought, gross? At least, your body should be thinking that it was icky! Still, not even a guillotine could pull the head you were about to give this man.
Second thought, you were contemplating if he was calling himself daddy or just genuinely enjoying messing with your unresolved issues. Either way, it was working.
Your tongue was flat on the slit of his tip, lapping on the bead of precum his body had already carefully created for you. You moaned against his skin, licking the underside, from base to tip.
He groaned, unable to resist your teasing anymore. It pained him to have to control your head the way he wanted to, it really did!
He fucked into your mouth with no warning, using your throat as his personal toy until you were a drooling mess over his lap.
“Sorry, m’ dear, need to make sure ya could be a good bunny.” He hissed through gritted teeth, smirking like the bastard he was.
You tried pulling away, and he could see it in your eyes how angry you had gotten, but it only fueled him further. He held your head down, effectively making you choke on his cock. Your body rejected the foreign object impaling your throat, and you felt like you were either about to puke or pass out.
He pulled you away and you gasped for air, grasping on his thighs for support, like a silent plea for redemption. He smirked once again, caressing the hair away from your face, before pushing you back down on him.
The wet sounds of choking and gagging were downright pornographic in the living room. His hips jerked upward, each thrust forcing his cock deeper into your throat until tears pricked at the corner of your eyes.
Oh, he absolutely loved this.
He loved the way you looked right now, lips parted around him, beautiful lipstick getting smudged, your eyeliner and mascara melting on the corners or your eyes.
“That's it, take it all, sweetheart.” His voice was ragged, tightening his grip. “Oh, fuck, you're such a good little bunny. Good. Little. Fucking. Bunny.” He punctuated each word with a thrust, enjoying taunting you with this nickname now.
You pulled back, crying prettily from the constant abuse, gasping desperately for air.
“Don't think ya could be a good bunny, ya can't barely keep up.” He grinned, chuckling in a teasing tone.
What he didn't expect was the sudden wave of devotion and the need to keep proving yourself washing over you.
“No, I can, I can.” You stuttered, scrambling to kiss his messy, drool covered cock, peppering it with desperate little pecks. “I can, I promise, I'll be a good bunny. I promise, please.”
Your pathetic pleas made him chuckle, dark and mocking. He let you kiss his throbbing length, admiring your teary doe eyes. His hand cradled your jaw, tilting your chin up just so he could land a sharp slap to your face.
Irritation flared your nostrils again, but there was nothing you could say to a man that simply didn't care. And frankly, you were right where you wanted to be.
“Prove it.” He demanded.
He slapped his cock against your face, smearing your own tears and saliva across it, and you took it without complaints when he pushed it past your lips.
The same thing happened again, he used your mouth like your throat was nothing but a fleshlight. He was so close, but he couldn't bring himself over the edge so soon.
It didn't take long for you to pull back abruptly, gasping for air another time. He grinned, hand still in your scalp, and tossed you aside on the couch with no finesse. Your face met the cushions and you could finally attempt to breathe properly.
“I am really not sure you can keep up, sweetheart.” His chest heaved as he yanked your hips up, pushing your skirt up your hips, inhaling the scent of your weeping cunt through your underwear.
He grunted almost animalistically against your skin, landing a sharp slap to the plump skin of your ass.
He slid your panties aside, “God, you are so fucking wet.” He chuckled, low and gravelly. “It's even pathetic how desperate your cunt is to be fucked.”
His tip glided in between your slick covered folds, smearing your sweet arousal over your clit. This shouldn't feel as good as it did, he was your father's best friend, for God's sake, but still, the embarrassment of being called out by him burned low in your stomach.
He pushed your face deep into the couch cushions, one large hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you pinned as he pushed himself inside with no mercy.
There was no sweet talk to ease the searing pain of him stretching your pussy with his aching cock, so tight you could feel every vein from his length as it dragged tortuously in and out.
Simon’s rhythm was brutal, unrelenting fucking keeping you teethering on the edge of overstimulation already. Each snap of his hips slammed into that spongy spot inside you with enough precision to make you see stars.
That angle had him hitting it every single thrust. Your broken moans muffled into the fabric of the couch gave away how wrecked you already were. His breath came in harsh pants above you, a hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave indents in your skin, the other one bracing against your back for leverage as he plowed into your tight heat.
"Ya like being treated like this, don't ya?" He smirked, never stopping his pace, a low growl escaping his throat at the way you clenched around him. "Ah, there’s no denying, sweetheart, you'd be a great, great bunny."
His words were filthy, possessive, even, and they electrified straight through your body. The smirk was audible in his voice as he kept pounding into that perfect spot, each thrust punctuating his praise like it was a reward.
"Fuck- look at you," he rasped, leaning over your back to bite your shoulder. "Taking my cock so well... gonna make such a pretty little bunny for me."
The hand on your hip made its way to your clit, his chest now leaning against your back as his fingers drew agonizing circles across your folds. "Oh, ya gonna be a good, good girl." He whispered against your ear as he played with your clit. "Wanna feel ya squeezing real tight as ya come, sweetheart. You can do that, can’t ya?" He added.
You moaned loudly in return, managing a stupidly minimal nod, this new combined stimulation doing nothing but keep you on the edge.
“Please.” You groaned. “Don’t stop, please, Simon… so close…”
A string of pleas escaped your mouth as you begged, clenching around him so tight it ripped a low groan from deep down his chest. “That’s right, honey, cum f’ me, be a good girl.” He encouraged you.
The moan that left your throat was downright obscene, a wave of arousal crashing right over you, an orgasm hitting your lower body like a freight train. Your pussy formed a small white ring around his cock, a warm, messy rush resulted by how turned on your body was. And holy fuck, did it make his hips stutter, yet not quite enough to lose focus.
He rode out your orgasm with relentless thrusts, dragging every last spasm from your oversensitive body while chasing his own.
"Yer daddy was right 'bout ya." He grunted, keeping a steady pace. "Ya'd be such a famous little bunny in the barracks, sweetheart, can see why it’d hurt his pride." He groaned. "With the way you clench around me like this, I might want fo fuck ya every day from now on."
He tilted his head back, both hands on each side of your hips, pulling your body against his.
Simon’s voice was wrecked, raw with a mix of pleasure and a possessive pride at fucking you.
His hips rolled in steady, deep thrusts, each one pushing him further into your oversensitive cunt, the stretch bordering on too much but also so damn good at the same time. "Fuck," he hissed through clenched teeth, "could keep ya in a collar too, let every bloke see what a good pet you fucking are."
His words were filthy. Degrading. Yet he said them like he was worshipping your body in his own twisted way.
Simon’s thrusts grew rougher, less controlled, more primal. This sick barracks fantasy playing in his head was clearly affecting him in a foreign way to him.
He leaned over your back, one hand splaying across your stomach to pin you against him while the other gripped the couch cushion. His breath came in ragged, hot bursts against your ear as he fucked into you with that same punishing rhythm.
One arm hooked under your chest, yanking you flush so he could haul you upright against his chest.
"Love how ya take it," he panted against your ear, voice gravelly with exertion and lust. "Hope I ruin any other man for ya after this..." His teeth grazed your neck, nipping and sucking on it. His arms locked around you like a vise, one forearm across your neck, the other low on your stomach, as he kept pounding into you from behind.
His hips stuttered as he got close, and he had a flicker of hesitation. Guilt should’ve stopped him, he shouldn’t be doing this to his friend’s daughter. Hell, fuck him, he shouldn’t be doing this out of respect to you. Yet, he was fucking you raw on the couch like some reckless young recruit breaking every rule in the book.
The guilt should have stopped him, but it didn’t. Instead he buried his inner turmoil deep inside your cervix.
He thrusted harder, as if trying to brand you both with this sin before reality caught up to his senses again. He came in hot and thick spurts of cum, filling you up to the brim, panting heavily as his body collapsed on top of yours.
His massive frame pressed down as he tried to catch his breath, forehead resting between your shoulder blades. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of two people gasping like they’d run a marathon.
His release had been a very intense one, every pulse inside you feeling almost too much after how hard and deep he’d taken you.
Post-coital haze was thick in the air between you two. He didn’t pull out immediately. Didn’t say anything either. He just breathed like his brain was finally rebooting from pure animal instinct back to human who knows he just fucked up spectacularly.
"Guess ya really couldn't control yourself around military men, young lady." He said, forcing himself to pull out and to fill that awkward silence. He smirked as he tossed himself on the couch.
"Doesn't.. prove anything." You said, scrambling to sit down, completely fucked out and disoriented.
"Hm. It does, though." He grinned again like the bastard he is. As if he was trying to turn this whole situation against you as if he wasn’t one to blame either.
Simon leaned back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling. "...I've made some questionable decisions in my life."
“He’s gonna fucking kill ya, that’s for sure.” You said it.
Both of you chuckled at the absurdity of what just happened, and somehow, that sounded like the beginning of a much bigger problem than either of you had planned for.
Ghost would never willingly see a therapist for his own mental health, but he would go to marriage counselling in order to subject a third party to him and his wife "arguing as foreplay" kink
sitting on the couch beside her in the marriage counsellor's office and genuinely getting a hard on because his wife keeps bitching about how he's never home because of work, doesn't respect her boundaries, probably has untreated ptsd, won't let her sell any of the junk in their garage because he's a hoarder, and keeps trying to knock her up even though she's still trying to build her career. and he's just like wow. i really did marry the love of my life, no one else gets me like this.
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