Lieutenant Riley has a reputation for being mysterious. Somehow, you've managed to avoid his reportedly tempestuous demeanour for your entire career at the base infirmary; that is until he's dragged himself in one day with a wound to the thigh. Even though he's uncooperative and brutish, you come to discover that his impassiveness is just like the mask he wears and as time moves on you find yourself ambitious to take it off.
tags. eventual nsfw so mdni. afab/female!reader x simon 'ghost' riley. nurse!reader. some oc charas. slow burn. mentions of ptsd, scars, trauma, mental health issues etc. smoking and alcohol use. non-canon compliant (fuck canon!). wc 5k.
a/n. christ you guys are so thirsty for this ship...honestly i can't blame you. i am so excited to write this series and share it with you all you guys have no idea! based on a few silly drabbles and endless conversations with @stckrz (thanks love, couldn't do it without you) it's now become a planned out story which even has me gripping my chair. i can't thank you all enough for the endless amount of support i've received so far, it means a lot. i have put the taglist link (and other links) to join it at the end.
CHAPTER I. DON'T HESITATE.
âBeds three and four are ready for discharge if their workups come up negative,â Matron tells two of the other girls beside you at the nurses station. The infirmary has been suspiciously quiet in recent days, and you canât help but be fearful for whatever the next wave of chaos is going to bring. With only a few soldiers who need attention, you find yourself with more time than youâd like. Filling up supplies and mopping the floors over and over againâyouâve been itching for something new.Â
Your name is called and you dart your focus up from where youâre sitting at the computer updating some files. âI need you to go see whatâs going on with Lieutenant Riley in room two,â Matron's voice is perfectly authoritative, honed with years of experience and wisdom and in this moment you know sheâs frustrated. âDarn Lt.'s never bloody say what the problem is.â
âYes maâam,â you respond, logging off the computer and grabbing a clipboard with paperwork on your way to the private rooms. Not knowing what to expect, your footsteps are light and unhurried until you come across the window of the room you know the lieutenant is in. The blinds slightly obscure the sight of himâabsolutely massive compared to the table beneath himâbut then you see it and your heart drops into your stomach.Â
What was once a walk turns into a hurried jog as you push the door open to see a crime scenes worth of blood pooling around the large gash on his leg, the black soaked fabric simply torn apart by the lieutenants own bloody fingers as he pinches the wound andâ
Pluk.
Like a lunatic, heâs got the medical staple gun pressed against the agitated skin, making a sloppy attempt at closing the wound. Your heart is thumping in your ears, and you stand there with the stupid clipboard like a deer in the headlights as you watch him adjust the gun slightly lower, pulling the trigger again. Even without any kind of numbing cream all that slips past his lips is a low grunt.Â
âWhat the hell are you doing?â Your voice is strained, the question just slipping over the lump in your throat as you think about the amount of paperwork youâll have to fill out.Â
âYou was takinâ a while,â he doesnât even give you the grace to look in your eyes, just takes a sharp breath in and fires the thing again, crimson pooling under his fingers. âI ainât got all day.â Youâre dumbfounded for a moment longer until your body is moving on its own, striding over to his side and grabbing his wrist before he does more damage.
âStop that,â prying the gun from his hands is useless, not when heâs double your size like this, practically looming over you. You move your hand away so he can put it down himself, a heavy breath of relief falling from your lipsâless paperwork, no arguments. âYouâre fucking crazy,â itâs not meant to be said aloud, itâs barely even a whisper really, but when itâs only the two of you in the room itâs deafening.
Heâs still masked, the familiar skull hanging over his balaclava. Itâs the only thing you know to identify him byâGhostâhis name always making the rounds at the nurses station. âHeâs massive,â one of the girls would whisper, âstood next to him the other day and I couldnât even see his face when I was looking straight!â Matron would always somehow manage to interrupt the conversation at the perfect time. âLadies, back to work.â
Even concealed, you can feel the way his eyebrows raise at your words and you can also feel the sudden pit of fear rush through you. His voice is like gravel, condescending when he scolds you. âWatch your mouth. âM still your superior.â
So much for superior, you think, heâs supposed to be intelligent but here he is stabbing himself with staples. Itâs unlike you when you bite back at him, the whole situation igniting something fiery in your veins. âIâm the one trying to stop you from getting an infection,â you step back so he can see your face, disrelish written all over it. âOr sepsis. Which seems to be what youâre going for with the way youâre handling this.â
The lieutenant glares at you through the mask until his bloodied hand is snaking to his neck, tugging the woven fabric up his face. His nose peeks out from beneath him and even though you really shouldnât, you let yourself look at the forbidden skinâscarred and broken from years of service, lip split just ever so slightly.
He coughs awkwardly when youâre staring for a little too long, embarrassment clawing at your hot cheeks. âIâll be quick if you comply,â you provide, trying to cut through the unsettling tension between you two. It doesnât take you long to snap your gloves on and assess his injury, diligently cleaning off the thick blood and preparing the site for stitches. âWould you like me to explain or just get on with it?â Only after you ask do you realise that it was pointless.
Nonetheless, he offers you a low grunt about the latter and you're starting the procedure with careful precision: a shot to numb the areaâalthough youâre not sure if he really needs itâtweezers to pull out the messily punctured staples, and then the needle is in your hand closing the skin together. Your work is slower than his, but itâs neater and you amuse yourself with the thought that heâll be more grateful when he walks out with no infection and a smaller scar.
âIf you could stand up please,â you watch as the muscles of his exposed leg ripple, stitches pulling a little more taught. âDoes it hurt to put pressure on the leg?â
âNo,â he pulls the balaclava back over his chin, hiding away the skin you're sure any of the nurses would kill to see.Â
âIf you sit back down but scoot towards the edge of the table,â you say, reaching over for the ointment and bandage roll as he does so. You notice the way his trousers are soaked with blood, instinctively grabbing the scissors to cut the dead weight off.Â
âWhatâr you doing?â He asks before you can make the first cut.
âIt needs to go if Iâm gonna wrap it.â Youâre unhesitant as you try to snip at the fabric, suddenly more eager to get yourself away from the lieutenant. Ghostâs hand catches your wrist, almost painful with how easily he keeps it still, calloused fingers pressing into your veins. âYouâre not cuttinâ it.â
âWhat does it matter? Theyâre gone anyways.â
ââM not walking around the base like a clown,â he snaps, releasing his grip. âDo it without cutting it.â
Now you understand why the Matron has a vendetta against the lieutenants. So goddamn stubborn. While arguing with him and getting your way would quench your thirst, you decide that itâs below yourselfâand your pay gradeâto do any differently than what he commands.
Itâs clumsy work, fingers awkwardly trying to wrap the bandage around the back of his thigh without dirtying it with blood or grime, having to fiddle with the mesh as you pass it around without really being able to see. You try to hide your frustration and annoyed puffs of breath for the sake of professionalism, but deep down you want him to know heâs ridiculous. Thereâs a lot of things you'd do to see his ego knocked down a notch.
Before he can retreat you have him sign papers which he barely glosses overâjust rolling his eyes and murmuring curses about 'damn medicsâ. When he stands to readjust himself as you begin cleaning up after his mess, his eyes roam over your figure, almost glaring at you with menace.Â
âYou ever talkât me like that again and Iâll have you doing laps with the recruits.â The lieutenant's voice is stern, almost cruel with how he towers over you, turning to the door and pulling it open, leaving the infirmary with a limp as the door slams shut. The room suddenly feels more quiet than before save for your light breaths, something steady thrumming in your chest as you watch his fading figure from the windowâbig, brutish, looming. Only once heâs completely disappeared does âyes, sirâ fall from your tongue.
The months drag on, and too soon itâs November.
During the winter the infirmary becomes packed with flus and colds and injuries. Youâre stretched thin across your work, the shifts become longer while the days are shorter and you lose the time to even think about your interaction with Ghost.Â
You barely see the lieutenant in the time that passes, only in brief flickers across halls and med bays. Youâll catch his eye for a brief moment only for him to be distracted by something elseâa call of his name or being shuffled into an office. The nurses continue whispering about him, always giggling and teasing you about how you dislike him for one simple interaction.
âOh come on. Heâs just like that because he has a reputation to uphold,â Katie laughs while youâre having lunch. Still sitting at the computer and stabbing at your salad, you try to reason with her yet again. âJust because heâs got a reputation doesnât mean he needs to be an ass.â
She hums, eyebrows raising as she slides herself over on her chair closer to you. Glancing over at your screen, she pulls just slightly away. âYou're trying to apply for the training to become a junior doctor right?â
You look over your shoulder at her amused expression, uncertain of what sheâs going to say next. âYeah, but I donât see what that has to do withââ
âYouâre not that dense, honey,â she smirks, that sickening nickname making you cringe. Trying to ignore her, you turn yourself back to the seemingly endless amount of words on the screenâeverything you need to study up on if youâre going to even be considered for training. Despite your ignorance, she continues on anyway. âIf youâre going to be considered you need someone to put in a good word for youâŠâ She trails, waiting for your response which never comes. âSomeone who everyone respectsâŠâ
It clicks in your head far too easily, spinning yourself on the chair to face her. âYouâre not serious.â
Katieâs wide, toothy smile and passionate nodding tells you otherwise. Too quickly you find yourself rejecting any possibility that he could have anything to do with your future. True, he was a bit of an ass when youâd first come across one another, but you also willingly moved your foot across a line which never should've been crossed. You donât think someone of lieutenant Riley's reputation would pardon an encounter like that.Â
âStop overthinking it,â she demands, taking the fork out of your hands and puncturing a quarter-slice of tomato on the metal. âWhatever happened, Iâm sure itâs all smoothed over and you never know, maybe he liked that you had a bold character. I think it might even help you with your application.â Her lips wrap around the fork, chewing and swallowing your food. âNo one needs a doctor who canât make their case.â
Those words flick through your head for the rest of the week as you consider the possibility of getting the lieutenant in your good graces. It couldnât hurt and from what youâve heard from your friends his reputation exceeds anything you can imagineâeveryone knows who he is, everyone knows that he has good judgement. As much as he seems like an uncooperative brute, you canât fool yourself into thinking Katieâs idea was a bad one.
Your only issue comes with going through with itâgetting him in your corner and seeing your drive to do this. From what you know heâs unreachable to someone like yourself, always busy, always away on one mission or another. A respected man is a wanted man. But youâre nothing but determined. If heâs the guy you need in your corner to get what you deserveâwhat youâve been working your ass off forâthen gods be damned youâll do what it takes.
Within a small amount of time you come up with so many plans in your head youâve almost exhausted yourself from thinking about itâthe longer shifts and shorter days have you lethargic and achy anyways, but somehow without even properly becoming involved with him, heâs managed to drain you of your energy.Â
Youâre almost out of ideas when Matron comes along the next week and serves you your ticket to him on a platter. Youâve never loved pre-mission check-ups more.
âKatie if you could look over Sergeant MacTavish,â her grey hair had almost glowed silver and gold with the fluorescent lights of the infirmary, a halo formed over her headâyour very own angel. Calling out the names had dragged on for so long, until finally sheâd said who youâd been assigned. The only one left: âI need you to tend to Lieutenant Riley.â
Itâs like deja vu when you walk over to the same room where youâd first met him, everything so familiar except for your new ambition. You flick through his record in your hand, pushing the door open with your back as you turn your gaze up to him.
His whole figure is nothing but impressive, the black tee with his name printed over a pec hugs every single muscle, abs and biceps almost bulging from the tight fabric. Heâs on the phone, almost silent as the person on the other line drags on before his gruff voice is giving a chaste goodbye and cutting the line. You notice how heâs still got the same balaclava on, brown eyes practically piercing through you as he waits for you to say something.Â
âLieutenant Riley,â you fumble, staring at him a little dumbly for a moment, caught up in the moment. You watch the way the eyebrows of his mask move in confusion, âthaâs me, yeah.â
Right. You introduce yourself as clearly as you can, you need to make sure he remembers you. âIâll be doing your assessment for today, do you have any questions before we begin?â
âHow longâs this gonna take?â He asks, visibly disinterested. You approach closer to where heâs sat on the edge of the exam table, and you notice how his shoulders tense the slightest, his chart open as you go over the details of his medical history.
âShould take about thirty minutes,â you respond, focused on his most recent injuries reported. You pretend to ignore the way he huffs in annoyance, âare there any injuries, issues or concerns that I should know of that arenât recorded?â
âNo.â He gives bluntly.
âOkay then,â you continue, looking over his body to gather just a few of the smaller details you need to assessâa cut, a bruise, the same wound that had you in this room in the first place. Moving across the room so you can start preparing, you place the chart down on the counter and begin to wash your hands. You have your back turned to him, unhesitant to get started. âFor this exam Iâm going to need you to take your shirt off.â
By the time you turn back around, throwing the damp paper in your hand in the bin his shirt is discarded next to him, and it takes everything in you not to gasp. Attraction or not, itâs undeniable to believe heâs anything but some Greek statue come to life, his body carved to perfection. Chiselled like marble, beautiful, sharp. When he breathes his chest rises and falls heavilyâa testament to his size, the way his abs contract and his pecs move just slightly, his dog tag settled perfectly in between them.Â
And then thereâs the scars. So many of them everywhere, long and short and jagged and pinched. One across the top half of his peck and under his arm splayed; an old burn, the skin wrinkled with age and pain. He is a soldier not only by name, but by his body too. Like a trophy cabinet, each tinged line another day heâs survivedâor each day that was almost cut down. Anyone would find it hard to hide their aweâyourself included.Â
But you have a job to do and an impression to make, so you push past the feeling of appreciation and stand before him, his mask still onâthe chart advised not to bother asking. âIâm going to begin by examining and feeling your skin for any abnormalities, let me know if you need me to stop,â you explain, placing a hand on his bare shoulder.
His skin is incredibly warm when you touch it, and he shivers when you make contact with it. âIâm sorry, my hands are a little cold,â you murmur, beginning to slowly press with two fingers, moving them over inch by inch as you trace old healed scars.
Even after a few minutes, when youâve made it across to the other shoulder and start assessing his arms heâs tense underneath your hold, muscles taught and stiff, making it harder for you. Youâve dealt with men like him before, all tough and apathetic, but his stance beneath you is different and you feel the need to ease some of his tension.Â
âWhy did you join the military?â You ask him, itâs simple, most people give the same answer: to escape, to do some good. Your fingers move down to his elbow, pressing into it to check for tenderness.
âDoes my medical record needât know that?â He responds, almost unimpressedâlike youâre some kind of stupid for even asking him that question. You look up at him to see him impassive but still wound up tight, and youâre a little offended by the way he just has to be so uninviting.Â
âYouâre tense,â you provide instead, something in you tells you heâs more of a brute fact type. Maybe you just need to say it like it is. Your fingers trail down to his forearm where his tattoo barely hides the scars and prominent veins. âIf Iâm going to do this assessment I need you to relax, so Iâm going to ask you questions, and I donât care if you make up answers or just gruntâas long as you stop acting like youâve got something pressed in your behind. Lieutenant.â
You donât dare look up from where you stare at his tattoo, turning his arm over so you can check the other side before you take both of your hands and press your thumbs into his wrists. His pulse is so strong underneath the pads, you can almost hear it with how silent it is between you. Youâre about to move onto the next stage when you notice a rough line at the base of his tattoo, itâs healed over but you train your focus on it for a momentâinstinctively brushing a finger over as you realise what it is. What pain heâs been through.
He jerks, almost as if trying to snatch his own arm away from your grasp. Thereâs something painful hidden in his expression when you look back towards him, but he dismisses it before you can ask. âIâll answer your questions,â itâs rough, concealing any feelings which mightâve lingered. âJusâ watch yourself.â
âIâm sorry,â you murmur, letting him take his hand back to his lap. And even though you think that after your slip up heâll remain like a stone underneath your touch, you observe how his shoulders relax slightly, dropping down to large slopes. His breathing slows just a little, and he just looks at you expectantly. âWhaâs next?âÂ
You let yourself take a deep breath, you need to remember your goal here, but more importantly remember heâs just human too. Putting on a smile, you go through your mental checklist, smirking at him just a little when you know whatâs next. âIâm gonna need to check my own handiwork, sir. If you could pull up your shorts a little, please.â
His scarred hands pull at the edge of his shorts, rolling them up his thighs until you see itâpinker than the rest of the healed wounds, neat and short. You nod as though youâre intently looking at it, but really youâre biting at your bottom lip trying to contain your self-pride. Itâs the best work youâve doneâalmost perfect.Â
He speaks from above where you're feeling the wound, âyou didâa good job.â
Itâs hard not to beam at his words, ecstatic at the simplest praise only because it means you did something right last time, because then trying to keep impressing him is not a fruitless cause. You stand back up to full height. âDid you have any trouble with it? Like pulled or ripped stitches? Lingering pain?â
âNah,â his voice is cooler, and you know that heâs finally loosened up. âProud of yourself?â Moving back towards where his chart is on the counter, you begin to make brief notes on it. âIs it bad for me to say Iâm a little surprised?â You laugh, letting the confession out easily.
ââM a Lieutenant fâa reason. If youâre implying I'm unintelligent, youâd be wrong. I know how to take care of a wound.â You turn back around to find his gaze fixated on you, arms folded across the wide expanse of his chest.
âIâm sorry Lt, but with that stunt you pulledâyou made me seriously doubt it.â You reach into your breast pocket for your light, pulling a lollipop stick out of a container on the side. âThis is the ENT part,â you explain, coming in between his legs. âIâm gonna need to see your mouth.â
Youâre waiting for him to resist, to yell or refuseâbut he just shrugs, fingers reaching up to grasp at the fabric at his neck, dragging it up his face so anything beneath the bottom of his nose is exposed. Surprised by how easily he complies, you let yourself stare for just a moment longer than you had last time at the long scar which extends the line of his mouth on one sideâdrawn all the way to his cheekbone. Itâs deep, just a shade darker than the rest of his skin. Thereâs another one on the other side of his lip, vertically cut through the flesh.
To think this man holds so many memories that he cannot erase or forget about. Youâve seen the way soldiers have broken under the pressureâfrom the trauma of this work that they doâleft to live like empty shells. You canât even begin to imagine the physical and mental challenges heâs been subjected to
Your thoughts donât stray far as you continue on with the checks, diligent in your work but also attentive. He just sits calmly, letting you do what you must, answering your questions with brief answers and you come to enjoy this strange company of his. When youâre finished, he tugs the balaclava back down, hiding away the painful results of his hard labour.Â
âIâm going to check your eyes now,â you note, standing impossibly closer to him. âHave you been having any trouble with your vision recently?âÂ
âNone,â he says, following your instructions as you hold your finger up in front of him. Only this close do you see the lighter flecks of amber in his irises, glowing under the bright lights. Theyâre so unique, the lighter parts almost hidden by the rest of the colourâas if hiding some precious treasure. Youâre reaching for your pen light again when you hear him quietly clear his throat, âhow did you become a nurse?â
You look up at him confused for a moment, but then you see the genuinity in his eyes and you bite your lip to try to stifle your laugh. His nervousness seems to cost him some of his common sense, and he just waits for you as you click the light on.
âI went to medical school, sir,â you smile, the smallest giggle slipping past your lips when you see the way realisation dawns on him. âYouâll feel my fingers for just a moment,â and you place the pad of your index on his eyelid, lifting so you can check behind it.Â
He looks down in turn, met with the plush of your parted lips and he swallows hard. âOh right.â
âI wonât tell anyone, donât worry,â you chuckle, taking your hand off his face and you notice his usually indifferent expression replaced by something else. It almost looks like heâs flustered. But only almostâthereâs only so much you can infer from a masked man. âLook up at the ceiling please.â
He remains still, lost in thought with his focus set downwards and you close your lips as you awkwardly wait for him. âSir, could you look up?â
His eyebrows raise slightly as he snaps back into himself, huffing and embarrassed as he looks upwards, murmuring âsorry.â You just smile at him brightly, stepping away to move onto the next part.
For the rest of the exam he keeps his mouth shut unless you ask for it, a delicate silence stretching between you as you take his vitals. Heâs still cooperative, but you know that after making a slight fool of himself twice heâd rather not have it happen again. But youâre content like this, getting to shuffle around and tend to him with sharp focus. Itâs a nice break from the mayhem going on outside the room.
When youâre finally done and heâs shrugging his shirt back on, you run through his results. âFlying colours, Lieutenant,â you hum, impressed. Itâs not everyday you see soldiers of his experience and background do so wellâwithout any background info someone could assume heâs still in his early twenties. âIf anything changes, be sure to inform us as soon as possible.â
Nodding, he signs the forms youâve handed himâthis time without complainingâand you feel an urge to keep him for a little while longer. Something about the way heâs softened to your touch and presence tickles you happily, and for some reason you find yourself longing to drag your fingers over the ridges of his scars.Â
âIs that it?â He asks, handing back the papers and standing to his full height. You check over each page, the tangled scrawl of his signature dragged over the blank lines. âYeah, thatâs everything, youâre cleared to go.â You reply, tucking everything back into his chart and picking it up to take with you, âlet me walk you out.â
ââS not necessary,â and heâs moving towards the door when he spots something directly outside the window. He practically grunts, suddenly focused and approaching the glass, capturing your attention until you see it too.Â
Sergeant MacTavish grabbing a handful of Katieâs ass as they talk about god-knows-what.Â
You choke on your laugh, both amused and shocked at the way her face grows hot and flustered at his debaucherous touch. But you see a disappointment in Ghostâthat of a parent to their misbehaving childâand heâs knocking at the glass before you can even intervene.Â
MacTavishâs head snaps over his shoulder to see his Lieutenant shaking his head, reprimanding him through the look of his eyes alone, burly arms crossed over his chest. The former doesnât tolerate it though, snarling before throwing a middle finger towards Ghost, keeping an arm slung over Katieâs shoulder as they walk back to the front desk.
âFuckinâ bastard,â Ghost murmurs, âtell your mate âm sorry about him. Always gettinâ carried away.â You nod in agreement with him, coming up to the door and opening it so he can get through. He accepts the gesture, and you notice how he ducks down ever so slightly as he enters back into the centre of the infirmary.
As much as youâd like to keep him for longer, to see how much more pleasant company he can offer, you can see heâs itching to go. Like on command, his phone rings and by the look on his face itâs important. âSorry, âve got to take this,â he murmurs, and when he says your name and thanks you, you know youâve done something right.
As he walks away, you blurt out a final offeringâsomething to solidify that he will remember you. âLieutenant,â and when he turns around, you feel warm across your face. âGood luck out there.â
He nods, answering the phone and youâre left wondering whenâor ifâyouâll see him again.
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the prowl - single dad! Price x teacher! stripper! Reader (fem) taglist
[7] intended plurals
cw: minor mentions of masturbation
You stare at the slip of paper in your hands and you feel your stomach plummet through the floor.Â
All murmuring conversations around you fade into white noise. Every childish giggle and the scrape of chairs along the freshly lacquered floor. You read off the carefully scrawled out numbers before you. The paper is hastily torn. Printer paper shredded for a quick note to be doused with rich dark ink. It swirls and cuts in sharp corners and dashes. A moment of disbelief settles over you before youâre able to swallow down the fact youâre staring at John Priceâs number.Â
âIâm sorry,â he apologizes, voice low and hushed. âI know itâs a tall order, but it would settle my mind a little. Weâve never been apart so long before. Call me an overbearing parent, if you want.âÂ
Setting the paper face down on your desk, you carefully push yourself to your feet. Your eyes glance over to Ameliaâs desk where sheâs busy fetching last weekâs homework from her dinosaur bag. You notice thereâs a new charm on the zipper â a stegosaurus with comically large googly eyes. Her movements are slower than usual. Heavy lethargy pulls at her body as she sorts her items. When she turns, you see the irritation rimming her eyes. The crystalline blue hue of her iris looks nearly translucent by comparison.Â
âHow long will you be gone?â you question, turning your attention back to John.Â
âOnly a week,â he assures. âNormally I can weasel my way out of these sorts of conferences but didnât get so lucky this time. Sheâll be staying with Diana, of course, but sheâs not⊠the most talkative with me. Donât want to irritate her by just trying to get information about my kid.âÂ
âShe doesnât tell you about Amelia at all while sheâs watching her?â you ask, baffled.Â
âOnly the important things. Pictures and daily updates arenât on that list, unfortunately.âÂ
Nodding, you allow your brain to soak in the information Johnâs tossed your way. A phone number. A trip. His daughter. Your student. Itâs a simple task. Inconsequential. It isnât wholly uncommon for teachers and parents to exchange numbers. Oftentimes itâs easier to communicate over text than in what little office time you have. Yet, this feels different. Wrong. Itâs wrong because you still think about running into him at the tea shop the other week. You can recall his wet clothes clinging to his chest, and how you touched yourself to that very image later that night with shame broiling deep in your stomach.Â
Could you keep your fingers off your phone long enough â off your cunt long enough â that it would be professional? Healthy? Can you fully separate the John standing in front of you now and the John whose side you once curled up against? Whose sent you bathed in?Â
âItâs a tall order, and I know Iâm askinâ a lot of you alreadyâŠâ he continues.Â
âNo, not at all,â you cut him off. âItâs not a problem. I couldnât imagine having to be away and not get to talk with your own child.âÂ
âYouâre sure?â he asks. âI donât want you to feel obligated to do me any favors.â
Shaking your head, you smile. âItâs fine, John.â
A huff escapes with the chuckle he gives you. He looks different today, you realize, than all the other times youâve spoken with him. His hair is more mussed than normal, and the lack of his usual business casual attire isnât lost on you. A plain charcoal grey t-shirt fits snug and close to his torso, and you try not to stare at the thick hair that decorates his arms. His shoulders are⊠big. Bigger than the dress shirts he normally dons would have you believe. Dense and wide enough to get lost in.Â
âDaddy?âÂ
Both you and John turn to find Amelia anxiously pulling at her skirt. Moisture brims so heavily in her eyes youâre surprised they havenât spilled over yet. Youâre reminded of that day she tripped on the playground with shredded knees and fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Now, the scabs have healed and you canât even make out the scars. Amelia Price is stubborn. She refuses to cry the same way she did that day, no matter how much the pressure builds behind her eyes.Â
âAre you leaving now?â she asks, bottom lip trembling.Â
âIâll be back before you know it, pumpkin,â he promises. John sinks down to kneel in front of Amelia. She looks puny next to him. Doting hands straighten out her uniform, attempting to undo the anxious wrinkling going on in her skirt as the fabric is clutched between her fists. âGrannyâll take good care of you.âÂ
Their farewell is tearful and long. Long enough that your other students begin to whisper and stare, so you attempt to control the damage before it fully starts. John embraces her. Lifts her small frame into the air to hug her tightly as he cradles her head like itâs the last time heâll ever see her. All eyes are on you by the time theyâre finished sending one another off, and no questions are asked as Amelia returns to her seat. John leaves the room with a tight lipped smile and a wave to you. You refuse to let your eyes linger on the wet patch on his shoulder.Â
For the rest of the day, Amelia seems to be merely a shell of the girl you had grown to know. Despondent and quiet, she hardly participates in any of the activities youâve prepared for the day. Her curious mind seems just as silent as she is. She does not raise her hand in question or quirk her head in curiosity throughout any of your activities. That vivacious girl is hardly present at all. Stuck in her mind. Thinking about nothing but her father and how much she wishes he was home.Â
You try to rekindle that spark inside of her. Feed it all the fuel it could ever dream of consuming with engaging stories and silly voices. Nothing rouses her. Even the coloring project you have them do for their English time fails to bring a smile to her face. Her usual love for art has dissipated into dust just like everything else she ever seemed to enjoy. She sits, curved forward over her coloring page as she lazily draws inside of the lines with peeling, cracked crayons.Â
âWonderful job, Amelia,â you croon, kneeling in front of her desk.Â
Your praise hardly stirs a response from her other than a sheepish smile that quickly fades into a quivering lip. All your students have good and bad days. Children her age arenât exactly known for their emotional maturity, but sheâs downright pitiful like this. Like a wounded animal.Â
Tapping your fingers on her desk, you quietly grab her attention before you lean closer to whisper. âWhen youâre finished, why donât you let me take a picture? Iâll send it to your dad.âÂ
For the first time that day, Ameliaâs eyes illuminate with something other than tears. Mouth agape and crayon still firmly in hand, she stares up at you, dumbfounded.Â
âReally?â she asks.Â
You grin. âReally. Take your time, and come find me when youâre finished, okay?âÂ
She grins back. âOkay!âÂ
When Amelia finishes her coloring, she demands to be in the picture you send to her father. She holds the paper out like itâs a work of fine art. Something sheâs slaved over for months. A toothy grin graces her lips as she tilts her head to the side in the way little kids always seem to do. She giggles profusely when you show her the picture, and you quickly text it off to the number John gave you before the next lesson starts.Â
Amelia is quite the artist today!
It takes him some time to respond. You can already imagine him, half awake, head held up by the tips of his fingers as he sits in some meeting too far from home. Maybe heâs slouching like he did that night at the club. Legs spread far and wide, head tilting to the side as he listens to whoeverâs speaking. You wonder if heâll visit you â visit Saffron â again when he returns home; his way to unwind after a long trip. Itâs been a while since you â Saffron â last saw him.Â
Your thoughts are mercifully interrupted with the quiet buzzing of your phone.Â
Glad to see her smiling again. Thank you.
Once Ameliaâs learned youâre her new, unimpeded access to her father, sheâs consistently requesting you to send pictures and messages to John. You can see the way she holds herself back. Quietly separating the important stuff she wants to tell him now, from the stuff sheâll tell him herself when he gets home. Still, nothing matches the way her cheeks get rosy and her lips pull into a grin when you read off a response from him during what little down time the kids have between lessons. Itâs simple enough, and John is polite in his responses. Professional. Proper.Â
This is a respectable relationship to hold with a parent.Â
You have to keep that mantra in your head lest it degrade into something terrible.Â
On Friday, Amelia arrives to class, beaming. She doesnât greet you like she usually does, but every time you look at her while lecturing or reading, sheâs grinning. Sheâs held that expression so long youâre certain her face is going to freeze that way. Forever joyous. Patiently waiting for⊠something.Â
It isnât until their first recess that youâre able to sniff out the reason for her behavior. Her hair is different. Adorable. Long, inky locks are half pulled up into strands that gently swirl down her back. A fat, puffy bow adorns her hair, keeping the strands of her hairdo together. Itâs a pristine white, but you can see small designs that you canât quite discern from a distance. You watch it bob and bounce as you lead them outside into the dwindling summer heat.
Before she has the chance to run off and join her friends on the playground, you catch her attention. âThatâs a pretty bow, Amelia. Is that new?âÂ
Giggles burst free from her lips as she sways back and forth. Theyâre sharp and shrill, as if sheâs been holding them in all day. Blue fabric swirls around her knees as she moves, nearly buzzing inside of her own skin.Â
âGranny bought it last night. I saw it, and wanted it because it reminds me of your dresses!â she explains, eyeing your clothing.Â
Now that sheâs closer, youâre able to make out the pattern. Little lollipops and hard candies adorn the white fabric, giving the appearance that itâs polka dotted. You have a dress thatâs eerily similar in patterning to it hanging up in your closet at home. Today, youâre wearing daisies and moons â doesnât quite match, yet her enthusiasm is touching all the same.Â
âThatâs so sweet of you. It looks beautiful on you.âÂ
âCan we take a picture? For papa?â she asks.Â
Refusing to deny her request, you sneakily fish your phone out from the pocket of your dress to open the camera. You attempt to get her to pose â big smile! â but she only looks at you with pinched brows.Â
âNo, you have to be in it, too,â she insists.Â
âDo I?â you challenge.Â
âHe has to see that weâre matching!âÂ
Hesitant, you bite into your bottom lip. Sending pictures of Amelia to John is something you have no gripe with. Itâs his daughter â after all â but a picture of you? It unsettles your stomach. Disrupts the bile and has the muscle angrily churning in protest. In want. Just as you open your mouth to make up an excuse, or explain that itâs not proper, you lose the will. When she stares at you with eyes so wide and hopeful, you find it difficult to deny her anything.Â
âAlright well⊠maybe a video will be easier,â you give in.Â
Propping up your phone on a nearby bench, you let Amelia take the lead. Youâre awkwardly in frame behind her, hands politely folded in front of you as she rattles off her story. She makes a show of displaying her new bow, and telling the camera all about how her grandma got it for her. How it reminds her of you. When sheâs finished, she does a cute, clumsy spin to show it off properly before she looks at you expectantly.Â
âOkay. Spin,â she directs, swirling her finger at you as if it were a wand.Â
Chuckling, you follow her command with stiff, awkward limbs. You try not to be too showy. Too much. Too anything. Luckily, your lackluster performance satiates Amelia long enough for you to walk back up to your phone and cut the recording. You send her off to play with her friends before her break is used up and wasted talking to you. The video is already sent Johnâs way before she even reaches the top of the slides.Â
For the rest of the day, you try your best not to look at your phone. Itâs not a difficult task to accomplish. Children this age need a lot of attention and looking after. Besides, you have a job to do, and talking with John Price isnât on the agenda. You spend your time reading stories, instructing writing, and leading projects. By the time all your students are gone and off enjoying the weekend with their parents, youâre tired to the marrow. Fatigue seeps into every cell in your bones, webbing cracks into the structures until you can do nothing but sit and rot in your chair as you grade easy assignments with a red pen and stickers.Â
Youâre yanked out of your thoughts the moment your phone vibrates against your thigh. Allowing yourself a quick mental break, you pull it free and unlock it to find the preview of the video you sent John staring back at you, along with his response.Â
My girls.
You canât stop staring at it. Those two words. One of them is certainly a mistake. Girls. Girls. Plural. More than one. More than one and his. His girls. Itâs a typo. An error. It should be singular. Girl. His girl. His daughter. Nothing to do with you. Youâre not his. Nothing of his.Â
The words seep into your brain. They take purchase in the raw, messy parts of you where they feed off the sparse nutrients lurking in your grey matter. The worst desires you try not to crave. As you read the words again, you hear them in his voice. Low and deep. Quiet. Tired. As if youâre pressed against his side again attempting to keep his mind off a long day. It ruins you. Shreds apart the most delicate parts of your skin until all of you is an open wound begging to be saved. To be kissed. To be loved.Â
The screen goes black and you slam it face down on your desk. Itâs a typo. Thatâs all it is. And still your heart pounds in your throat as if to choke you and put you out of your misery.Â
A pitiful squeak leaves the chair as you stand. Every ounce of blood in your body rushes to your core. You feel it pool in your face, ears, and chest, leaving you with clammy hands and colder feet. Everything within you is telling you to run. To flee. So you do. You shove your phone back into your pocket with no intention of responding to him, and you leave with your bag hastily thrown over your shoulder.Â
âGoddammit,â you mutter.Â
You can run, but the damage is already done. Johnâs in your classroom in the form of a scented note. Heâs in your phone as pixelated replies to your messages. And now, finally, he is in your head. Heâs in your head, lurking in the form of knowing smiles and deep baritone, and you donât think youâll be lucky enough to shake him off any time soon.
simonâs skin burns as boiling water splashes down his shoulders, running down over the dips of bulk on his body. heâs closing his eyes, and breathing in the scent of you as he presses his nose into the dip of your neck.
âneed you so bad,â he groans into your skin, fingers cupping up around the soft mound of your breast. he rolls and digs his fingers into you, pulling you closer n closer till the water that spills through the seams of your bodies connects you as one.
your head rolls, water splashing off his skin n onto yours. he can feel your body melt into him, feel the need that thrums under your skin awaken.
âtake me, baby,â you murmur, digging your hands up into his hair. you tug, gripping him close as your ass arches back into him, desperate to get your point across. âwhatâre you waiting for?â
simon blinks his eyes open, clearing the fog from them and heâs intoxicated off the sight. steam envelopes your bodies, n his vision rolls down the way droplets of water build and slip down over your body, dipping into the crease between your thighs.
he turns you around slowly, feet scuffing against yours as he backs you up into the wall. his eyes burn into yours, desire, passion, hunger haunting the usual lively brown.
ânot waiting for anything, love, are you?â he murmurs, eyes dropping to the way your lips part, your bottom row of pearls sparkling through the peek.
your fingertips slip down his stomach, feathering over the dark blonde hair the lines down below his belly button, leading to something so much more beautiful.
you peak up onto your tippy toes, free hand tangling into his hair to pull him toward you, n you rush your lips against his quickly. you suckle up on his pouty lower lip, letting your fingers take grasp upon him and pull out the true desire within him.
so like.. you write chubby reader without being chubby yourself?
attention seeking or delusional?
:/ i have been up to 330 pounds when i was 18 years old, all my prom dresses were sizes 21-24 which made me sob in the dressing rooms every time
the tiniest i got was 120 and that was a SHITTY time in my life when i was struggling with addiction
iâm now probably 210, havenât checked really since having my son because it really doesnât fucking matter but like yeah thanks for starting my day off like this
some of these anons piss me off cuz FUH NOOOO. how is being inclusive âattention seekingâ or âdelusionalâ. i am so sorry you had to receive that, some ppl on here r so toxic. i hope that anon gets the most stuffiest nose that takes hours to relieve..
CW: Angst, titty sucking, passionate asf sex, simon missed ur pussy and you very much and vise versa, breeding kink, PIV (no protection, pls use it irl), squirting, simon eats the FUCK out of ur pussy, multiple orgasms, praise, hint of degradation, possessive!simon, OVERSTIMULATION, slight daddy kink⊠sorry
Part One
It was a quiet ride, the subtle sweeps of cars fleeting by as Simon gripped the wheel, eyes trailing off to the side to look at you briefly. Your head was leaned against the window, your knees knocking together anxiously as your daughter babbled in the back, cooing about how Mummy and Daddy were now back together.
You tried to hide the shed of tears that filtered across your iris, every small childish mumble like a stab to the gut as you listened to the genuine happiness in her tone. You would turn around occasionally with a small smile as you reached out to tickle her foot, giggles filling the car.
Simon pulled in, the car bouncing slightly as it hit the gravel carpark, his hand swerving into a spot before he turned to the back. âYou excited, baby?â
Ellaâs face lit up as she fumbled to take off her seatbelt, âGet me, Daddy! Get me! I wanna see the lions!â It was refreshing knowing she still viewed Simon as her hero, no matter how distant he was in their lives. You knew that even though your ex-husband was rarely around, his time with them did everything it could to mend the time apart. Toby woke up at the commotion, the toddler having slept the whole way there despite his older sisterâs constant bickering about what animals she had to see first.
Everything seemed to flash past you as you walked inside, the whir of kids and noise sending your brain into overdrive as your eyes flickered to Simon with Ella swinging around on his shoulders and Toby kicking his legs in the stroller. You looked away; breath shaky as you attempted to compose yourself. This was supposed to be a happy day, for all of you, yet seeing him with your children, something that was supposed to be normal, felt so distant and unknown. Gathering yourself, you plastered a fake smile, hands reaching out to pinch your sonâs cheeks as you grabbed the stroller.
Your heart hammered in your chest for the remainder of the day, fingers tingling with anxiety that bled into your veins, consuming your lungs with what seemed like everything but oxygen. It was a series of squeals and commotions from your young ones, their elation evident through the bright glow of their face, soft red resting on the apples of their cheeks. As the day quieted down, Toby slumped in the stroller as you tucked him into the car seat, his new plush crocodile cradled into his arms, mouth wide open as subtle breaths snored out.
Ella was cradled into Simonâs shoulder, her shoes half hanging off as she clutched onto him, dead asleep. You settled into the ride home yet your anxiety only seemed to heighten. You were alone with Simon, with no kiddish voices to break the tension, brown orbs glaring into the side of your face.
âShould we talk about this morning?â
You scoffed. âYou have some nerve asking to talk about this morning,â you screamed into a hush, âWhat you did was completely disrespectful. Not only did you break into my house and kick my date out, but you left our kids in the car! What the fuck were you thinking?â
He cleared his throat, almost like he wanted to hold back how he felt. You noticed the white in his knuckles as he gripped the wheel, right eye twitching as he stared at the squiggles of tar ahead. âI donât want our kids growing up thinking itâs normal for parents to separate. They need their mum and dad together, y/n.â
The world silenced for a second, the screams of the wind rushing past you seemed to slow as your voice cracked, seeps of emotion pouring out as you choked on your breath, âThen you should have fought for your family, Simon. There is no us anymore, itâs just them. Theyâre all that connects us now.â
You felt like all the ivory had been sucked out of your eyes, endless pits of your pupil consuming you whole, blurring your vision with fog as you blinked, hot streams of liquid salt spilling onto your cheeks, brimming at the cracks of your lips as you sniffled. You could feel his hesitation as he looked at you.
His words regurgitated in his throat as he stammered, tangled limbs reaching out to grip yours as you pulled away.
âJust drop us home.â
Your eyes had dried now, soft stains of bare skin caving through your foundation as you smudged your fingers against it. Simon stuttered as he pulled up to the driveway, tyres screeching to a halt as you sat in silence.
The soft strum of fingers caught your attention as you turned around, the innocent face of Toby looking back at his parents, tongue blabbing out of his mouth. âDadda! You have dinner?â
âNo, sport. Daddyâs gotta go-â
âYeah, baby. Daddy will have dinner with us.â
You blinked at your own words, Simonâs surprised expression meeting yours. The wrench in your heart would never subside, the entirety of the beating organ still belonging to your ex-husband, but being a mother was a sacrifice. And you would sacrifice yourself in every existence you become one if it meant your children didnât have to battle the same internal wounds.
âTheyâre tucked in,â Simon said, voice soft as he noticed your withered body in the couch. Your hair was messy now, strands spitting out as you anxiously tucked them back in, smoothing them down with the dampness of your palms as you ran around all night, ushering to the demands of your children.
âThank you.â
You felt ill, your tongue cascading down your throat as you palmed at your knees, desperate for him to leave yet desperate for him to stay. Simon stilled, keys jangling in his hand before he sat down next to you, his weight disrupting the couch as he shuffled around.
âI need you to know that I did want to fight for you, y/n. I have counted every single day since you handed me those papers, waiting by my phone every single night on deployment hoping for you to text me, call me, fuck - blow my phone up. I never wanted the temporary absence that we had apart become permanent. Everything I said,â he breathed, voice cracking slightly as he looked away, âEverything I said on October 6th, 7 years ago, I meant. You werenât supposed to get away from me - I shouldnât have - I shouldnât have let you get away from me.â
It was strange. Simon was never one for feelings, the brutality of his job allowed for any harsh emotions to crack through his fingers as he pulled a trigger, any dampness of tears would sweat through his skin as he pummelled a blade into an enemies head.
But it was you. And you werenât violent, or any enemy, you were his wife, the person he vowed his entirety too.
Your anxious cascade cracked as you whimpered out a sob, chest heaving as you buried your face, tight with tears, into the pillows of your hands. You felt warmth spread through you, the texture of Simonâs fingers burning through you like wildfire, every ember he felt scorching through your flesh as he pulled you in.
Arms tangled together, intwining like wool as he wrapped you into his chest nimbly. A zephyr ran through you, your wrists clutched in his hands as you straddled him, the weight of you feeling like the grandest treasure upon him.
It was nothing strange, nor sexual but Simon recognised that cry, the differing pitch as you shuffled your frame into his. Simon knew you like the back of his hand, every crevice, every crease, every scar. He knew your backstory, and the one you made up to impress people. He knew the hex of the colour of your eyes and the print of your thumb. No papers would take that away from him.
Soaked eyelashes clumped into one as you looked up at him, orbs resembling once of a doe, innocence seeping through every inch of a salt-stained tear. His eyes met yours, apertures of cocoa reflecting your weary frame as you gripped onto him.
âLet me come home, please.â
Simonâs voice was desperate, it was raw, any shed of arrogance erased through the lines, eyebrows knotted together as he rubbed at the small of your back.
Your nod was subtle, but he could practically hear it, calloused hands gripping at the plush of your cheek and seeping through the tip of your spine, thumb rubbing at your earlobe as he clutched onto you.
Hot, seething pricks ran through your limbs as your lips connected, saline lining your mouth as he lapped at the heat of your tongue, rough groans leaving his lips as he savoured the taste.
Any diffidence left your body as familiarity sunk back into you. Hands pawed at the globe of your ass, gripping the flesh as anguished limbs wrapped around Simonâs waist.
With an easy tug, he lifted you, your hands wrapping around his neck as he pulled you in closer, teeth kissing. You never questioned Simonâs strength, and you wouldnât start now as you felt your back hit your mattress.
He tugged at his shirt, the black fabric pooling on the floor as you sucked in a breath. Your eyes traced every scar, lighter flesh engraved into the skin of his torso, a short trail of hair disappearing into his pants as you stared at his burly physique.
Simon gripped at your shirt, the material practically ripping before his hands were at your chest, grabbing at your flesh desperately as you tangled your fingers into your bra, sliding it off. His mouth was hot on your chest, the sound of moans and pants filling the air as he positioned himself between your legs, teeth grazing the hard nubs, sucking with fervour as you whined, your hand at the base of his head, cradling it.
âMissed these so fucking much,â he practically whined, groping your tits as he pinched your nipples, lips sucking deep marks of possession into the soft skin. Your pants were desperate, begging him for more as you pulled his hair, fingernails clawing at his scalp.
Your hands fumbled with your pants, hips raising as he slid them off, clumsy fingers chucking them across the room as you laughed, lips connecting once more in a giggly state as his thumb pushed against the wetness of your panties.
âMissed how fucking wet you got for me. Such a good fucking girl,â he groaned, fingers rubbing at your heat through the thin cloth eliciting a pained moan from you.
âSimon - I need more, been so long.â
He choked out a laugh as his fingers hooked into the fabric, lace dribbling down your leg before he mewled at the sight of you. His hands held your thighs apart, your soaking cunt on display as it throbbed, slick folds glistening in the poor lighting.
âPrettiest fucking pussy,â he choked out to himself, placing your legs over his shoulder as he knelt down. Your back arched as you felt his tongue lick a long stripe of your pussy, his body seething for a taste of you as his lips found your neglected clit.
He lapped at you mercilessly, your cries and moans moulding into one with the filthy squelches of his mouth against your heat. Long digits circled your entrance, teasing you, before they curled in.
Your eyes rolled, pools of ivory exposed as you let out a guttural moan, your thighs tightening around his ears as he smirked against your pussy. Cocky fingers rubbed at the right spot, favouring the clench of your tight hole as he pulled every noise he could get from you.
You were barely cohesive as he lapped at your slick, the throbbing of your clit edging him on as he soothed your g-spot with the pad of his fingers. The coil you had only ever felt with Simon began to build, the familiar sensation pooling in your stomach as you stuttered out a whimper.
âSi- too much - Iâm gonna-â
âThatâs it baby,â he cooed, pulling away from your pussy for a second to take in your expression as you came, your face contorted with pleasure as your legs jerked, pussy wrapping tighter around his abusing digits as he fucked you through it with them. You looked down at him, saliva and your slick coating his mouth and chin as he grinned.
You stammered out a groan as his mouth attached back on your pussy, slurping up your liquid gold as you attempted to push his head away in overstimulation.
âOh my- fuck - Simon - too much,â you whimpered your words commanding him to continue as he guzzled around your clit, teeth grazing the sensitive bud as your legs shook uncontrollably.
It wasnât long before the continuation from your previous orgasm rose again, heat swarming your lower belly as you screamed out, your hand slapping over your mouth as you felt Simonâs spare hand wrap around your thigh, squeezing tightly.
You pulled at his hair, tugging at the ashy roots before you were gushing around his fingers and tongue again, sloshing liquids soaking your sheets as he groaned at the taste, mouth lapping it up with vigour. You whined in humiliation, the overwhelming pleasure becoming too much as you heaved.
âSi - no more -â
âIâm sorry baby, too fucking good. Will never get enough of your pussy.â
His words were filthy yet only held the truth, his continuous slurps against your heat causing your body to jerk as you relentlessly bucked your hips. Simonâs abuse continued on your pussy, your pussy gushing and coming another 6 times before he was satisfied, the sheet under you drenched in both your slick and squirt as Simon milked your overwhelmed cunt, claiming he was âmaking up for the months lostâ.
You were dry heaving, throat dry as he captured your lips in a kiss, the taste of you infiltrating into your glands as you groaned, his hands reaching to tug at your breasts as he took in your fucked out state, legs jiggling and twitching as your pussy convulsed at the number of orgasms he dragged out of you.
You felt like you had been lying here for hours, yet you werenât satisfied. You would only be content when he was inside you, stretching you to the brim as he pumped a load inside your worn-out hole.
âSimon - please - I canât⊠I need you now,â you were practically crying, tears shedding at the brim of your eyes, bottom lip jutting out as he tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear, slicking back the sweat on your forehead.
âI know baby, done so well for Daddy, hm? Even after all that you still need to be plugged full of me donât you?â
You nodded as a harsh slap landed against your clit, your body jolting as you squeaked. âYes, please,â you cried, âPlease Daddy.â
His hands were like clockwork, tearing at his jeans as they released his cock, a satisfied groan leaving his body as he gripped at the tent in his pants, a sticky wet patch soaking the material before his length throbbed out, angry tip slapping his stomach as a trail of precum glistened against the base of his cock.
His dick was flushed red, begging for release as he ran it through the squelch of your sopping folds, rubbing against your manipulated clit as you moaned.
Your hands gripped his head as he leant down to kiss you, his arm holding him up while the other positioned himself at your entrance. He stilled for a moment, cock almost pressing in before he whispered, âI love you.â
âI love you.â
The words were soft yet meaningful, your eyes interlocked as he began to push inside, your mouth gasping open as you clutched onto his shoulders. It was hard when you were together all those years to get accustomed to his frightening length, and now it had been a year and the stretch was searing through you.
âI know, sweet girl, you can take it. Such a tight cunt for me, so fucking good.â
Fingernails clawed at his back as he pushed in, your whines muffled by the palm of his hand as he held himself up his elbows. âHoly fuck,â he spluttered as he bottomed out, his lips connecting to your neck as he sucked, resting inside you for a second as you whimpered.
The burn slowly faded as you rutted against him impatiently, the tip of his cock resting against your sweet spot as you gasped.
âSo fucking impatient, always been such a slut for me. Havenât you?â
You nodded, whining as he began to move, moving his hips slowly as he rubbed inside you perfectly, your mouth wide open as your head lolled back. A series of expletives tipped from your tongue as you choked on the air, Simonâs pace picking up at your dramatic noises.
âFuck - taking me so well-â he grunted, hands groping at your tits as he watched your pussy absorb his length. It was an obscene sight and he loved it. Every fibre of your being belonged to him and it was something he constantly craved.
âAll fucking mine - shit - my fucking pussy,â he grunted, thumb rubbing at your clit as you mewled, twitching below him as he spat, âmy fucking wife - got the tightest fucking cunt just for me.â
You clenched around him at his words, knowing it was true as his balls slapped against your ass, skin spanking against each other as the sound filled the room, ecstasy roaring through both of your veins as you made love.
The squelch of your pussy was taboo as he lapped in the missed sound. His eyes took in the way your body reacted to every movement, no matter how small. He took in the way your breasts bounced with each thrust, lower stomach bulging as he pounded into you.
âFuck - Simon - oh my God,â your words were a mere blabber, barely making sense as you clutched onto him, pulling him down to meet your lips.
âI canât pull out, baby - fuck - gotta cum in this pretty pussy. Give you another kid, hm? - shit -â
His hips didnât falter as his pace fastened, chasing his own high as he rubbed at your clit, your breaths growing shallow as your orgasm began to build. âGonna fill you with my cum until it takes. Need your belly round again and your tits full - such a good fucking mum, makes me so fucking proud.â
His words were the final straw as the build up in your stomach popped, your whole body convulsing as your pussy clenched around him, a loud groan leaving his throat before you felt the hot splashes of his cum pumping inside you.
âThatâs it baby, milk my cock. Such a good fucking girl for Daddy, gonna break you apart everyday on my cock until you never forget who you belong too.â
He didnât pull out immediately, his cum plugged inside you as some seeped out, rolling down the crevice of your ass below you. Your eyes shut, gentle pants leaving your lips as you felt Simonâs absence before a soft cloth was wiped gently across your sex and masculine arms were gripping onto you, carrying you into the guest room before engulfing you into a thrill of heat, Simonâs chest against your back as you fell asleep.
TAGLIST: @kiiwiipie @nijiru
Disclaimer: im sorry if this is disappointing im super tired :(((
keegan hcs because I cannot get this man out of my brain.
I keep seeing people say their hc of where he's from is like, places like Texas.
that man is not a Texan. his accent is subtle, sure, but he's northeast all day long. that man is from like, NY, New England area most likely.
he's 38 as of CoD: Ghosts, which points to him being a teenager in the early-mid 2000s. he totally had a MySpace.
and he's quiet, so he was most certainly either emo/alt and stuck to himself for high school.
he takes his coffee black with one sugar.
he likes his women to be similar to him, in the way that they're not all about being the center of attention.
his love languages are acts of service and quality time
he reads. a lot. so much. likes being read to while you rake your nails through his hair.
he has so many tattoos. so many.
Black hair. argue with the wall, idc what the game says HE IS NOT BALD.
his favorite thing to do is lay his head on your thighs while you pet his hair after a long day.
his coming home from deployment routine is as follows- say hi, shower for an hour, brush his teeth, clean/bandage wounds he sustained, and then sleep. the coming home sex comes after.
I'm torn on whether he's gentle when it comes to that. like, yeah, he's a sweetie, but also that long without his precious baby, and he might be going a little feral once he's buried back into your cunt. no thoughts, only monkey brain who's only instinct is to eat, sleep, fuck.
but at the same time... so long without his precious baby, he might spend hours reacquainting himself with your body. slow, deep thrusts with whispered praises, affirmations of love and promises of forever.
Thinking about sucking Captain Price off while heâs on a business callâŠ
Full lips sudsy with bubbles of spit as you choked on the length that penetrated your throat, sure to leave bruises later. Rough hands wrapped around your hair, making a messy ponytail as he guided you along his cock, your tongue running against the veins as his pubic hair tickled your nose.
âNo Laswell, I can organise that myself - fuck - no, Iâm okay just stubbed my toe.â His voice hissed as you gargled around his cock, sloppy hand gripping the remainder of his legs, another applying light pressure to his heavy balls that ached with the need to release down your slutty throat.
Spit dribbled down your chin, pooling at your chest as you gagged and moaned along his throbbing member. Price looked down at you, tear drenched eyes staring back as you smiled, soft coo leaving your lips as he began to fuck your throat.
âNo Iâm fine, just pain in my toe - Jesus Christ - Iâve gotta go,â he practically choked, messy fingers stumbling to end the call as he groaned, your cheeks hollowing out as you kept a rough pace, your eyes never leaving his.
âFucking dirty whore for me, arenât you? So desperate to have your mouth on your Captainâs cock that you couldnât wait 5 minutes?â His voice was rough and degrading, hand gripping tighter around your hair before he held your head at the base of his cock, splutters and chokes filling the room before he pulled back slightly, his hips jutting as he came with a guttural groan, hot pumps of semen sliding down your oesophagus as you swallowed, pulling away from his softening cock as you gasped for air.
He landed a soft pat on your cheek as you sat stationary on your knees, tongue out before he gripped your face, squishing it together.
âGuess you are a good addition to the task force, hm love?â
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