the nickname had started with simon first. passing you in the hallway, hand falling on your lower back as he squeezed past you, greeting you with a good morning and “s’cuse me sweetheart, just gettin’ past”
he’d say it when catching you working out in the gym, complimenting you on your form with a hidden “nice form, sweet girl, keep those legs apart”. somehow he’d find his way behind you, pressing his body against you. you never knew how he ended up there.
then it spread to soap, with a little more enthusiasm. greeting you in the hallways, calling the name out loud enough to get the attention of everyone. “what’s our sweet girl been up ta’?”, “anything new goin’ on, sweet girl?”
you couldn’t lie, it turned you the fuck on. especially when simon said it with his low voice, creeping up behind you and rasping it in your ear. soap almost made a humiliation ritual out of it, causing you to run to a private area to play with yourself— thinking of the two having their way with you, all while calling you “sweet girl”.
it was even worse when gaz got to it. he spoke it with such love, smiling with that natural charm he had. “hey there, sweet girl,” smirking as usual. during gun training one day he had your panties soaked from all the praising and pet-names. and you think he knew it.
price catching on is the cherry on the fucking cake. he just knows how to use it in a way that his boy’s don’t. “what’re ya’ doin’ there sweet girl?” “sure you can handle all that?” “need some help there, sweet thing?”
it got so bad you knew it had to be a running joke! something they were all in on. but it wasn’t, you really just were their sweet girl <3
i wrote this at like 3am bc i wanted to do some sfw stuff but ended up being SLIGHTLY smutty bc… phew. anyways !! asks are open !!
or: you and Country!Simon get in an argument and he fucks the anger away.
cw: 3.3k wrds, 18+ mdni, smut with little plot, jealous!simon, no use of y/n, married!reader (to Simon), angry sex, p in v, creampie, cunnilingus, pussy pronouns and slaps, back shots, cowgirl, nipple play, exhibitionism (if you squint), outdoor sex, daddy kink (papa/pa), breeding kink, country!simon, lucky!reader.
a/n: forfeit by Kiana Ledé was my inspo
It’s not that your friends were bad, quite the opposite really, they were great and easily welcomed your husband into the group even though he was on the quieter side. They’d come from the city to congratulate you on the marriage since just your two best of friends came to the wedding.
It was your friend, Vee, her boyfriend that didn’t know his fucking place.
He saw the way you looked at Simon, all heart eyed and yearning for his approval. And Simon’s pretty seafoam orbs would dance all over you, to your pretty face, to your lips to your chest and back to your dark mocha eyes and pretty skin, give you a smile under his skull bandana that no one would understand but you. And Simon would just know you were blushing because you’d look away with smiling harder than ever, squeezing his arm as you continued conversation with your friends—
God, Simon was in love with you. Could’ve done anything for you.
Would’ve beat the breaks off your friends boyfriend if he was alone for a second.
It couldn’t be more obvious that you were a happily married and taken woman. But that stupid bastard couldn’t keep his eyes up, continued to ask about you brushing off Simon, and to top it off you were acting like it wasn’t happening. Still entertaining conversation with him, laughing— giggling.
“Where did you two meet? I’m suprised a city girl like you would move so far just to live in the country.” The fool asked in the middle of conversation, cutting you off from talking about some story from college.
Strike two.
“O-Oh, we’ve known each other since we were younger—“
“—We fucked like dogs right in that old barn when we re-introduced ourselves though.” Simon doesn’t miss a beat. He’s not really one for white lies and he doesn’t care if the truth hurts.
He’ll be as crass as he wants to prove a point. Your friend’s boyfriend, the idiot, was staring too hard. Simon doesn’t mind when people looked, you were as pretty as rain. Curves nice as ever, that jaw dropping smile, pretty brown eyes and curls he loved to play with no matter how long or short. His drop dead gorgeous baby, married to him in the backwoods. Heavy on his.
Heat rushed through your whole body, embarrassment, while your friends squealed in excitement. Your friend Shauna teased, “[+], I didn’t know you were such a naughty girl.”
You washed it down with a sip of wine though, a playful smack to your husbands shoulder— a warning— “Nothins wrong with a little fun. Right Simon?” You emphasized his name. The first time you’d said it all night.
Five and a half times in that barn, but who’s counting?
The wild man gave a cheeky grin, “Course Darlin.”
More squeals from your friends, they thought Simon was right out of a movie. A dream man. He was.
Not when he was acting territorial.
When dinner finally rolled around Vee’s boyfriend, Samuel, offered to help. It was the touching that was an issue. The sly touch to your back when he was moving around you, how he kept trying to brush fingers and you’d jerk your hand away— he’d knock the poor boys head off. Simon swooped in of course, told Samuel it’d be best if he sat, ‘let the man ‘f the house handle it’ while wrapping his arm around your waist and tugging you a little closer as you held the baked duck in your hands.
strike fucking three.
Thankfully, everyone was tired after their long plane ride down and the wonderful dinner you prepared. You sent them off with a tight smiles and big waves, yelling how you couldn't wait till tomorrow to show them around.
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ 🍀 ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
Simply put, Simon never liked arguing inside the house.
Didn’t matter if it was cold or raining outside. He’d rather take it on that porch. Get out everything that needed to be said, even if he was giving you a spanking— he didn’t want that energy festering inside the house. Apologizing could be done there or in the house but don’t hold a grudge.
Ever since he’d been with you, the house was truly the definition of one of those wall decorations that said, ‘home sweet home.’ Peaceful, loving, quiet. The method Simon had you two so hung up on, worked.
Any anger or irritation got left at the door. You’re mad? Go for a walk or figure it out on the porch.
You’ve really only had a few arguments since your short time together, little things and could be resolved before they could even begin erupting. Nothing like this, that had you scrapping food off dishes to harshly and putting them in the dish water and washing the poor dishes so roughly.
Simon leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrow raised, bandana that once covered his face sitting on the counter.
“You gonna break the dishes if you keep doin it like that.”
You mumbled, shaking your head, completely incoherent, “Fuck off.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said, fuck off!” you yelled, placing the dish in your hand ever so gently on the drying wrack.
You laugh, nothing but sarcastic, “Why did you have to talk to him like that, huh? He was being friendly! Everyone was havin a good time!”
“Did you not see the way he was talking ‘nd ogling his damn eyes at you the whole night? Son of a bitch acted like he wasn’t looking at a married woman!” Simon scuffed.
“He was not!”
“[+] you can’t be fuckin—“ The older man cuts himself off. Takes in a deep breath— get to that porch. He grits, “Come on, let’s talk.”
You know exactly what he means, you know he really isn’t asking. But you’re unmoving, simply continue the rest of the dishes in the sink.
“No.”
“What?”
“I said, no! How many times do I gotta fuckin repeat myself tonight?! I don’t wanna do your talkin on the porch shit! I wanna finish the damn dishes and go to sleep on my side of the bed! You listen to everybody but me! Your fuckin wife--“ Simon doesn’t let you finish, just manages to get you over his shoulder. The utensils you had in your hand clanging to the floor as you slap at his back, shouting and thrashing to get out his arms.
You land on your feet when Simon puts you down on that hard wood of the wrap around porch. You shove at his chest, “You think you can just move me as you fuckin please, Riley!? I’m a person! A human being!”
“A human bein, I’ll move again if I fuckin want to till you fuckin get it in your big ass head-“
“—I do not!—“
“—You’re big ass head,” he repeated, “that, that idiot was fuckin flirtin with you! Lookin at you like a meal on a silver platter, kept tryin to touch up on you with his own damn girlfriend sitting next to ‘em! And ya went ‘nd encouraged-“
“—Don’t fuckin lie Simon! I would never encourage anyone to- to flirt with me! And the whole night I was lookin at you! Could barely get a handle on myself because I’m hung up on the likes of you!” You poked at his chest. He knew you were right, you’d never do anything like that, not even if the thought graced your mind.
You were a gorgeous little thang, any man with working or non working eyes would fawn over you just from your kindness alone, your pretty voice too. But for someone to do it so blatantly. Do it while Simon was right there. Oh, he hated it.
“Just fuckin admit it, you’re fuckin jealous! I don’t why you wanna pick a fight with me when you should be mad at your damn self for acting like that.”
Oh the unruly thing— to speak the truth on jealousy.
Forfeit the fight and apologize.
Simon’s hands clenched and unclenched, chest heaving up and down— he chose the latter.
Let him show you how you were his and his alone, right on that porch. He’d think of an apology mid fuck, say sorry once or twice and say it again to you tomorrow. Proper, make you breakfast and talk all soft how you like. Make you squirm in your seat with kisses on your neck till you shrug and whisper, ‘I-I guess Mr. Riley.’
Fuck, you were so damn cute. Couldn't keep his hands off you.
Till then, he’d bend you over while he sat in one of the rocking chairs. Hike that pretty white skirt up to your hips while bringing your mushy mess of clothed pussy right to his face.
How’d he do all that so quickly? Well it’s quiet easy when your both a little mad, a little cynical in your own right— so pissed off that you both need to “cool off” your own emotions. Rub one out.
That southern man would yank you close by the hip with his large hand and plant a kiss on your needy two tone lips. Roughly intertwining your mouths, if you’d interject (or tried to get another word out), he’d slap your ass a few times. Enough to get a moan out of you, telling you to ‘shut the fuck up.’ You’ll stumble over to the chair together and he’ll spin you around, do what he has to do.
And God, did he loooove fucking you on that wrap around porch. Whether it be at the end of a long work day or right after the chickens crowed on his day off that had to be spent with you and no one else.
Mouth salivating, Simon ripped apart your white cotton panties in two, with a cut pink bow and embroidered with Mrs. Riley on them, causing you to yelp out, swatting at his shoulder while he spread your pussy lips apart. Staring at the glistening pink mess only he could see, only he could create.
“So gorgeous mama. Ruinin this underwear, who’s all this for?”
He whispers, not to you, not to himself, to God— ‘Thank you for the meal’ he’d give your cunt a sweet peck before letting his flat tongue swallow you whole. Slurping up every drop that came out of you.
“F-fuck you Mr. Riley, seriously fuck you!” You gasped, hand reaching behind you to spread yourself wider.
He groans against you, slapping at your sopping mess once, “Lil girl, I’m tryin,” he flicks his tongue around your hole before sliding two fingers into you. “Therrre you go Lucky, all that damn talkin, just needed somethin in your pretty little hole huh?”
You moan, “Talkin c-cause I’m right! hngh- You’re just- hah- just so hardheaded- aangh!”
Simon thrusts his fingers harsher, sucking at the fingers you were getting wet, then down to your pretty button of a clit. You kick your foot out right when his fingers curl into you juuuuust right, almost falling forward till he wraps an arm around you to keep you steady.
“Stay still baby girl, or you’ll fall.” he gruffs, lapping his tongue every to slowly through your folds.
“Mr. Riley- I can’t! Shit! Augh“ you hiccup, you gut twisting in knots.
“Shhhh Mrs. Riley? Yer bein so loud when me ‘nd her are talkin.” Simon buries his face in your cunt, fingers slamming into creating a loud sloshing of your wetness until he feels you flutter once, his takes a breath away, his voice horse as your syrupy cum trickles down his throat and onto the floor. “This is just what she needs baby, just hush and take it.”
He bites the beautiful fat of your ass before diving back in, slurping and letting his fingers work in and out of you till you’re shattering around his thick digits. Screaming as you wet his face. And Simon swallows it all down. Sticking his tongue in your sponginess of your walls as you clench repeatedly.
Simon pulls away, turning you around while your still in a daze, face wetter than ever with your slick. He pulls you on top of him, springing his aching cock free from the boxers that restrained them, that slaps right at his abs. You rested your head against his, letting the man rub his aching red tip against your hole.
With a slap to your ass, you ease yourself down on him, a pornographic moan of pain and pleasure leaving your plump lips.
“Take this off.” Simon huffs, fingers pulling at the straps of your bralette and grinding up into you.
“Mmph- But Simon i-it’s strange.” You hiccup. You always get so nervous when you two go at it on the porch. His shy baby, he’d remind you that no one, especially at 1 or 2 in the morning, is coming or will ever hear your loud moans. But maybe you’d sound like a banshee if this man got anywhere near your chest. Your nipples had become so sensitive as of late and you didn’t know why.
Simon on the other hand, adored it. Couldn’t get enough when they got all puffy and the way you whined when they hurt. Like music to his ears. But he soothes you, rubs your back and rests his chin on your chest.
“Ain’t strange f’me tuh have what’s mine, is it? Come on, show ‘em to me. You know I looooove how pretty they are.”
You bite your lip, this man could get you to do anything. If this was 10 months ago, you would’ve laughed in your own face if you said you were fucking outside, let alone mindlessly listening to a man. You took off the material holding your breasts, throwing it off to the side.
Simon cups them both in his large hands, groping and squeezing at them, “Pretty tits gonna be filled with milk for our kid soon, huh mama? Can’t wait to see you feedin ‘em. Gonna look so beautiful.”
You moaned his lap, attempting to cover your mouth with the back of your hand as he gave one of your nipples a little suck. Gently taking it between his teeth and nipping at it.
You looked beautiful, your pretty mounds bouncing right in his face while you moved up and down, taking every inch of his veiny cock he was willing to give you. All while he sucked your hardened nipples, looking you right in the eyes. A groan escapes you lips, grinding your hips even harder.
He grunts, meeting you half way and thrusting up into you when your legs began to shake, “Love when I suck on ‘em don’tcha Lucky? Need it to get off.”
You only whimper, eyes fluttering, as you fight your own pleasure. You manage to stifle up a, “Shut up Mr. Riley.” But it does no Justice to the way your rubbing your perfect tits in his face. Begging for more. Wanting him to suck just a little bit more.
“Lil girl, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you want, can I?” He tuts, looking up at you with such lust filled eyes.
“Please Si, need you, please?” You keen, letting your nipples rub against his face to feel something, anything.
Simon would give you anything at the drop of a hat, even if you didn’t have any manners, and most definitely if you used that ultra rare nickname with him. He grips your hips, slamming you down on his dick, taking your gorgeous nipples in his mouth and sucking like his life depended on it making you moan. His tongue swirled around your areola, French kissing both of them equally while he rudely bullied his cock through your velvety walls.
Your fingers find his golden locks of hair, running through them while he rams into you, finding your g-spot causing you to squeal, more of your slick dropping past your thighs and onto Simon.
“Fuck me baby, Gonna cum, you want it?”
“Want it so bad Mr. Riley. Nng- Need it all in me.” You whine. Your head falls on his shoulder as he sob his name like a prayer, clutching onto him as your walls tighten around his length, spasming.
“That’s it pretty, that’s it, s-shit.” Simon fills you to the brim, working his cum deep inside you, bouncing you a few more times.
You don’t even know how you got to the floor.
You fluttered your eyes open and Simon had you on your knees, the meanest arch with your back and your face pressed up against the hardwoods floor. Your mixed cum was dripping down to the floor while he smacked his tip against your sloppy cunt. You shuddered at the feeling, mewling in want.
Simon heard your phone ring from his back pocket, he scuffed yanking it out from his pants, just to see that idiot calling you. And probably while his girlfriend was sleep, that fucking cheating bitch. A curse feel from Simons lips.
“Mr. Riley?” You keened, You looked back at him with those big brown eyes, batting those long lashes, a pout adorning your face. You shimmied your ass back on him and he groaned.
Were you too cock drunk to hear your own damn phone vibrate? A devilish grin on Simons face, he’ll get what he wants and fill you up just how you need to too.
He answered it, leaving it on speaker before tossing it in the chair Simon just fucked you in.
“[+]? Are you there?” The stupid prick asks in a whisper, and right then Simon rocks himself into you. Giving your ass a harsh slap before drilling his dick inside your cum soaked walls.
“Fuuuuck- feels so goooood Mr. Riley!” You practically screamed, eyes fluttering shut. That was answer enough, honestly. Your Mr. Riley was fucking you dumber than dumb, your mouth forming a ‘o’ with movement.
“Tell me darlin, who you in love with?”
“M-my huuushband.” you slurred out, drool leaving the corner of your lips, nipples grazing the floor with every harsh thrust.
“And who’s that?”
“Mmmph- you Mr. Riley.”
The ends of Simons lip curve up, such a good girl taking his cock. A white ring forming at the base of his length, “ ‘S that right pretty?”
“I-I love you soooo much papa! More than- hngh- mooore than anything, I swear!”
Papa? New.
He likes it.
Simon snickers at your response, stretching you out so fucking much, and giving you the sluttiest, cruelest thrusts of his life. The loud, smack, smack, smack of your hips colliding could be heard miles away, “Pa loves you too, don’t I, Lucky?”
“So much, fuck, love on me sooo much Pa!” You breath hitched,
And it’s just enough to let that bastard hear exactly what Simon Riley does to you. Simon glances at the phone and it’s already hung up, he's sure the idiots dick got wet from the precious and needy sounds you and your sobbing cunt were making.
Love making was a be-au-tiful thing between a married couple who loved each other, wasn’t it?
Simon bends down, tweaking your nipples in his hands as he rams into you faster, swiveling his hips into you.
His voice is low, gentle, and he whispers right in your ear which makes you tingle all over, “I’m sorry sweet girl, was jealous.”
“I- shit, shit, shit, I know. Mmph- ‘s okay. Love you so much, always want you sooo fuckin much papa.” Your words turn into sobs, tears filling your eyes as you jerk in his arms.
“That’s my girl.” Simon mumbles against your cheek, holding you closer, makes you take his thick cock while he bruises your poor cunt. His hand comes down to your clit, giving it small circles with his thumb, and you cum. Hard. And maybe you were as loud as a banshee, completely soaking the dick that was splitting you cunt in half.
And Simon didn’t stop, fucking you right through your orgasm that seemed to never end.
Simon growls at the feel of your gummy walls, managing to get tighter while he gives you frantic thrusts. Gobbling at your neck while he snaps his hips into yours, kissing your cervix with his leaking tip. Grunts and moans of ecstasy fill the star fill sky as you two cum. Ropes of cum leaking right into your womb, just as you needed.
A good filling.
Simon pats your stomach, “That’s right where our babies gonna go Lucky. Promise, tonight a baby's gonna be right in there.”
You giggle, eyes low and dazed, “G-gonna make you a real Daddy, Mr.Riley.”
“Yeah,” he swoons breathlessly. Kissing the apple of your cheek making you giggle again. “Can’t wait to see our pretty baby sweetheart.”
a/n: this was a request so lmk what you think bubbas (I know it wasn’t that icky but idk I still think it’s cute). Also @bunnybeaches proofread for me so thank you so much🥺 I luv you.
Civilian Reader Y/N! who absolutely loses it when Simon parks his 🏍️ directly in front of her door like he’s claiming territory. She shoves past him, muttering about civic sense, common sense – Simon, who physically flinches at the creative slurs (cockgoblinslutbraindeadpest). Once. Never again. (He lies.)
Simon! who stares at her like she’s the devil reincarnate when she blasts music at night. Dirty Diana has played five times on loop. He’s convinced she’s hard of hearing.
What he doesn’t know is that she passed out an hour ago, face-down, loudspeaker on.
Y/N! who throws parties every other week. Her friends end up whispering about “the creepy big man who keeps peeking through the windows.”
Simon! who is absolutely not peeking–he’s conducting surveillance to make sure there’s no drug racket. And is wildly offended when she calls him an old geezer for being paranoid.
Y/N! who spots her grumpy neighbour doing push-ups half-naked in his front yard and yells “MANWHORE!” while pretending to be on a phone call.
The next day, she drags out dumbbells and does her own workout in front of her house, grunting loudly (caveman documentary audition)–far louder than any man ever could.
Simon! who revs his bike unnecessarily loud just to piss her off. Immediately regrets it when she yells back.
“HARDER, MF THAT ALL IT’S GOT?”
“MY HOUSE LIZARD CAN FART LOUDER THAN THAT!”
Simon stalls the bike. On purpose. Definitely on purpose. And looks at her as if she did it. 👁️👁️
Y/N! who hears loud, ridiculously exaggerated moans at three in the morning and knows! knows it’s another one of her neighbour’s hookups.
The man has a new girl every week whenever he’s home. She rates them mentally. Pure 0s.
Simon! who wakes up the next morning to aggressive knocking. Y/N is yelling down the street –
“Mr. Riley!! I've got your medicine for the CRAB SITUATION you've got going on!”
At full volume. Before sunrise. And yeah every girl ends up running out of his door.
Y/N! who intentionally colors her railings hot pink to piss him off. But he ends up liking them and paints his side pink too to match...huh?
Simon! who knows if he gets low she'll go lower. But stays on his porch at two in night when he hears her cry after a date. Silent. Watching.
SUM:
It turns out that even the deadliest men can stumble... when they accidentally cop a feel.
⟢・・・・・・・・・・・・⟢
It starts innocently. You're climbing down from the truck bed after a long, tiring day. Grumbling about your knees and cursing the military for not installing ladders.
Simon's waiting at the back, arms crossed, half-smirking.
“Quit complainin’. I’ve jumped out of helicopters higher than that,” he says.
You glance over your shoulder, feigning a glare.
“Wanna swap knees with me?”
He steps closer with a sigh, gloved hands raised as if he’s about to help someone twice your age cross a street.
“C’mere. I’ll catch you.”
You hesitate — not because you don’t trust him, but because he’s never offered before. Never asked to be close. Never asked for you to fall toward him.
So you do.
Facing away from him and hop down, just a little faster than planned.
And his hands catch you.
But they're not on your waist.
It’s… lower.
His palms clap firmly around the curve of your ass, all instinct and zero hesitation.
Your boots hit the ground within a second, but he still doesn't let go.
You turn your head to look at him.
He is frozen.
Not blinking. Not breathing.
The tips of his ears go unmistakably pink behind the mask.
“That where you meant to catch me?” you ask, one brow raised.
His voice, when it comes, is a gravelly mutter — defensive, raspy, like his entire brain has just short-circuited.
“Was tryna’ stabilize you.”
“Uh-huh.”
He drops his hands like they’ve burned him. And taking a full step back like you’re radioactive.
“Y’gonna sue me?”
You laugh. Loud. Honest. And when you walk past, you make sure to sway just enough for his eye to twitch.
Later, when sitting by the fire, nursing a flask, you murmur just loud enough for him to hear:
“Next time, Ghost, you can ask first.”
And the man — the battle-hardened, skull-faced soldier — has to look away, hiding the smile behind his hand.
Sick if it made his cock twitch every time he came home with a fresh bruise or a new cut and the first thing you did was drop everything, rushing to his side with furrowed brows and worried hands, little compared to his.
Always asking if he was okay, even when he already told you he was fine. Not that it was your fault, not when he made the stories sound worse than they were.
That shallow nick on his arm from Johnny slipping while cleaning his blade? No, sweetheart, that was from an enemy ambush. Caught him off guard, pushed him hard into a concrete wall and slashed his arm with a veryy sharp knife.
He might’ve even blacked out a bit, hard to say.
Sex was even better when he was hurt, because you slowed down, you were gentle, whispering are you okay? like it would stop the ache. You made love to him like he was breakable and fuck if that didn’t ruin him.
He, on the other hand, was a bastard.
His shoulder was barely healed, and here he was already flipping you on your stomach, ignoring your squeals of protest, “Simon— be careful!”
He nearly came just from that sound alone, the way you worried even while your body trembled beneath his.
Maybe he even started doing it on purpose.
Slowing down just enough to get clipped, a bruise here and there, sometimes a gash. Nothing fatal nor serious. Just enough to limp through the door and earn that panicked little gasp from you.
But you didn’t need to know that part, sweetheart.
Just keep fussing over him, cupping his face with worried hands, kissing the bruise on his jaw like it hurt you more than him.
Yeah, no he’d be fine
I have barely been active on tumbler recently so I apologize for that and the fact this is lowkey short lmao
How TF 141 + König react to nonsocial!reader saying you want to go home
Tags: Fluff
WC: 368
A/N: I haven't written anything for months so this was really fun. Hope y'all enjoy!
Ghost wants to go home too. This party wasn’t even his idea. How you and Price convinced him to go, he will never understand. The lights are too bright, everyone is too loud, and he doesn’t even like these people. They shouldn’t take it personally, Simon doesn’t like most people. The second you say those words, her perks up like a dog hearing it’s name called. He doesn’t bother with goodbyes and certainly not any hugs or “it was so good to see you” or “we should do this again”. No, not with Simon. He takes your hand and books it to the door. His large frame nearly knocks a few people to their asses in his haste, but he doesn’t care. His mission is to get the both of you out of this party no matter who he has to take down on the way out.
König doesn’t know who to thank when you tell him you want to go home. Home goods shopping isn’t exactly his idea of a fun and relaxing Saturday, especially when the alternative is laying around at home with you, the dog and being as far away from random strangers as possible. Like Ghost, he barrels through the aisles, cart full and eyes set on the self check out. Good luck to the poor employee who tried to stop him, reminding him of the 15 item maximum. König doesn't care, he never has, but now? Now anyone who tries to stop him is enemy #1.
Price is very understanding about it, even if he doesn’t want to go home himself. He might try to convince you to stay just a little longer so he can give a few people goodbyes or grab an extra snack for the road. He is always putting you first so the second you are clearly over it, eyes impatient and head gesturing subtly to the door, he is on his way back to you and out the door. An old mate stops him on the way to the door? Sorry, gotta run. Door knob spontaneously falls off? He is breaking that door down himself.
Gaz doesn’t want to go home at all. He is always so social and friendly that he can have a hard time understanding when you are ready to go. When you two first got together he would get frustrated, still wanting to be out and socializing but as time went on he would come to understand. It was crowded, loud, and not your scene at all. The club was the last place you wanted to be. Kyle knew that. That's why he brought you; to get you out of your shell. Maybe have a good time that wasn't spent on the couch with the cats and all 20 seasons of Gunsmoke. But, no. This just wasn't you. Kyle is beside you immediately, making sure you are alright. He can see the discomfort all over your face. He knows it's time to go, maybe even grab your favorite Chinese on the way home.
Soap just wants you to be happy, so if you want to go home, he wants to go home. The "get together" as Johnny called it was much to loud, people everywhere, music three notches too high, and the food wasn't even that good. You didn't last long; only twenty minutes in and you're ready to get out of there but you tough it out for Johnny, you always do, but Johnny is too damn smart. He is clued into very movement, every expression, every single twitch of your brow. He knows, you don't even have to say it. He makes some excuse to your hosts about errands or doctors appointments, whatever he can come up with to get you out of there and back home to your cat and knitting.
❝ Don't you feel like crying? Well, here I am, baby.
Come on, cry to me. ❞
You stopped him before he could say it. It took a bleeding heart to shout it for you.
— pairing: Kyle Garrick × fem!medic!Reader
— cw: 18+ | friends to lovers; mutual pining; angst; hurt/comfort; graphic depictions of battlefield medicine/injuries; smut; fluff; wc: 6k
author's note: Inspired by "Cry to Me" by Solomon Burke (and that one scene in Dirty Dancing…)
You meet Kyle Garrick on one of the worst days of his life.
That's an exaggeration—he'd tell you so himself later, with that easy grin and a dismissive wave—but in the moment, lying on a stretcher with a piece of shrapnel the size of a two-pence coin lodged in his left shoulder and a look on his face like he's more annoyed than injured, it certainly seems like a contender.
"Don't move," you tell him, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves as the medivac shudders and banks.
"Wasn't planning on it," he replies through gritted teeth, and then, because apparently, he's incapable of not being charming even while slowly bleeding out.
"You always this bossy, or am I special?"
"Just for the ones who are too stupid to duck."
He laughs a short, startled bark that immediately turns into a groan when the movement jostles his shoulder too much, so you press your palm flat against his chest and push him back down firmly.
"Don't bloody move, Sergeant."
He groans in pain and obeys. "Yes, ma'am."
Then his eyes find yours; warm, hazelnut brown, and sharp with pain but alert, and he holds your gaze for a beat longer than necessary until you look away first.
And you start working on his wound, cleaning it with a gentleness that you usually have no time to spare.
That's how it starts.
The friendship builds the way military friendships do, namely in proximity and repetition, in shared meals and overlapping schedules and the intimacy of being two people who exist in the same small ecosystem of a forward operating base.
You're not 141—not technically.
You're attached to the medical unit that supports their operations, one of a handful of combat medics who rotate through depending on the mission profile. But somehow, Kyle Garrick's name keeps appearing on the ops you're assigned to, and somehow, he keeps finding his way to your table in the mess until the space next to you becomes his space without anyone deciding it should be.
He brings you tea. Not regularly or performatively, but on the mornings after bad nights, the kind where you've been elbow-deep in someone's chest cavity for hours and the adrenaline crash leaves you hollowed out and shaking at four a.m. And he doesn't say anything about it. Just appears with two mugs, sits down, and talks about something mundane like football scores, a podcast he's been listening to, and the ongoing sad saga of Soap trying to grow a moustache, until the tremor in your hands eases and you can hold the mug without spilling.
You learn Kyle in fragments.
He's from London—Battersea, specifically, which he brings up with a particular local pride. That he reads more than anyone else on the team and never talks about it unless you ask, and that he can cook, properly cook, not just the sad bachelor reheating that passes for cuisine among most of the men on base. And that he calls his mum every Sunday without fail, even from a FOB in the middle of nowhere, even if the connection is shit and they spend half the call saying, “You're breaking up,” at each other.
However, the fact that he looks at you differently than he looks at anyone else, that he keeps to himself.
But you notice it anyway, the way you notice a change in a patient's vitals before any machine can tell you—gradually, then all at once.
How his eyes track you across a room; how his voice shifts when he talks to you—softer, lower, a register reserved exclusively for your frequency, and the way his hand lands on the small of your back when you're walking through a crowded corridor and stays there a beat too long, warm through your shirt. And neither of you mentions it.
Then again, you don't mention a lot of things.
The rule is established on a Tuesday night in a shipping container that serves as a break room, four months into whatever this is.
You're sitting on the floor with your back against a supply crate, sharing a bag of crisps and a companionable silence. Kyle is beside you; close enough that his shoulder presses against yours and you can feel the warmth radiating off his body while you're watching him read something on his phone.
The blue light catches the profile of his face, and the thought that surfaces in your chest is so sudden and so clear that it knocks the breath out of you momentarily.
I could love you so easily it terrifies me.
Kyle looks up, catches your expression, and whatever you let slip onto your face in that unguarded second makes something in his eyes shift and crack open. He turns towards you, and you can practically see the words forming on his lips, can feel the entire trajectory of what's about to happen.
"Don't."
He stops, closes his mouth. Your heart stutters.
"Don't say it, Kyle."
Silence follows. Not uncomfortable or confused. Kyle knows exactly what you're asking. His jaw works, his eyes search your face, and you watch him weigh the cost of obedience against the cost of defiance.
"Why?" he asks eventually.
Because if you say it, I'll have to fucking feel it and it will distract me and I can't fucking allow that. I can't do my fucking job if I'm worrying about whether you're coming back to me. Because I've watched women lose men in this line of work and I've seen what it fucking does to them and I can't. I fucking can't, Kyle.
Your face stays neutral and then you don't say any of that; you merely look at him, and despite your charade, he reads it on your face the way he is trained to read hidden clues.
"Okay," he breathes and his shoulders slump some, but you have to ignore it.
And that's it. Okay.
He goes back to his phone. His shoulder stays pressed against yours. The bag of crisps sits between you, and after a minute, his hand dips in and retrieves one, and the crunch of it in the silence is so absurdly normal that you almost laugh.
Kyle never says it.
He doesn't need to, because it's in every cup of tea, every quiet walk, every time his eyes find you across a crowded room and stay. It's said in the space he keeps beside him that is always yours; in the way he says your name and makes it sound like the answer to a question he's been carrying for years.
Kyle looks at you like you're the sun, and he never says a word, and you keep pretending you’re not the one burning.
The op goes sideways at 0344 hrs, and you're not even supposed to be this close to the action.
The medical station is set up two hundred metres back from the primary assault position, behind a concrete barrier wall that provides decent cover and a clear line to the extraction point.
You've done this before—dozens of times, probably more. All the waiting, the radio chatter, the controlled calm of a medical team standing by while operators do what operators do.
Then the radio crackles with a voice you don't recognise, young and tight with panic, calling for a medic, and you're moving before the call sign finishes.
The rookie's name is Leon. Lance Corporal. Twenty-two, maybe twenty-three; you don't ask, because asking how old they are makes it worse when it goes bad. He's lying on his side behind a low wall, and there's blood—too much blood, dark and arterial, soaking through his fatigues and pooling beneath him on the packed dirt.
You drop to your knees beside him, and your hands are already moving; pulling your gloves on and shears out, eyes flickering and assessing while your voice does the thing it always does, shifting into that calm, steady register that has nothing to do with how you feel and everything to do with what he needs.
"Leon, I'm here. You're alright. I've got you."
"Hey—h-hey, Doc—" He's talking. Talking is good. It means conscious, means his airway is free, and that means precious time. His voice is thin and reedy, in shock, but he's trying to grin, and the sight of it—this young man, someone’s boy, grinning up at you with blood on his teeth—makes something behind your sternum compress.
"Y're pretty," he slurs. "Has anyone—has anyone told y-you that?"
You pull your gloves on, snapping them in place. "Save it, Casanova. I need you to stay still."
"'M just saying—" He coughs, winces, keeps going because they always keep going. "If I'd known the medic was this fit,” he tries to lift his hand to gesture, but drops it with a guttural groan, “I would've—would've gotten shot sooner."
"Hilarious. Now don't move."
You're cutting his fatigues open, working fast, locating the source of the bleeding. Lower abdomen, right side, bad but not the worst you've seen. And when his hand suddenly does come up, it’s to catch your wrist in a weak grip.
He’s trembling, but insistent.
"C-careful," he sputters, and his eyes, so wide and glassy, scared beneath the bravado, flicker down to his chest. "Careful with—be careful with my heart."
You pause to look at him.
His hand releases your wrist and pats clumsily at his breast until it finds his chest pocket, just above the body armour line, and you can see the edge of it poking out. A photograph. A Polaroid, slightly bent and stained, tucked against his chest like a talisman.
"My girl," he mumbles, and his grin softens into something private and unbearably young. "That's—that's m-my girl in there. Don't let it—Don't get blood on it, aye? She'll—she'll kill me—"
Your hands don't stop. They never truly stop. You reach into his pocket with two fingers, extract the Polaroid, and tuck it safely into your own vest without looking at it, because if you look at it, you'll see a face, and if you see a face, you'll think about someone waiting at home for a phone call, and if you think about that it will stay with you.
"Safe with me," you assure him, and your voice doesn't waver, because it can't.
"Cheers, Doc." His eyes are drifting. "You're—You're proper lovely, y’know that? My mum would—my mum—"
"Stay with me, Corporal. Eyes open. On me."
You work efficiently; packing the wound, applying pressure, calling for the stretcher team, and relaying vitals in the clipped shorthand of someone who has done this too many times. All while Leon keeps talking about his girlfriend, his mum, and the puppy he's going to get when he's out, and you let him, because the talking means he's alive and the noise means you don't have to think.
You hand him off to the stretcher team eleven minutes after you reached him. He'll live. The wound is ugly but the bleed is controlled and he'll make it to the surgical team and he'll live, and you stand up and your gloves are soaked and there's blood on your knees and the Polaroid is still in your vest pocket, pressed against your chest.
Be careful with my heart.
You walk behind the barrier wall. You make it four steps before your legs give out.
It's not the blood. You can handle the blood. It's not the fear, you manage the fear, that's the job.
It's the fucking Polaroid.
It's this kid—this stupid, brave, terrified kid—lying in the dirt with his insides trying to escape and his only concern being a photograph of a girl who's probably sitting in a flat somewhere right now, watching telly, not knowing, not feeling it yet, the way she will when the call comes, the way she'll carry it for the rest of her life even though he'll live, because now she'll know how close she came to a world without him in it.
And you think about Kyle.
The looks you share and rules you’ve set; the metaphorical photograph you've been carrying in your own chest pocket.
What if it was him on that stretcher? What if it was his blood on your gloves?
What if the last thing he said to you was your name and he never got to say the rest because you told him not to?
Your breath hitches while your vision blurs. And your hands, usually so steady and reliable, are trembling so badly you must press them flat against the concrete wall to keep them still.
"Hey."
You flinch at Kyle's sudden voice behind you. He must have come to find you first after falling back with his comrades. Always seeking you out, even in the middle of a warzone.
You hear his boots on the gravel, the careful approach, and you know without turning around that his face will be open and concerned, and you cannot look at it right now.
"Don't."
The word comes out sharp, like a warning shot fired from a position that's already been overrun.
His footsteps stop.
"Don't—come closer. Don't—I'm fine, Kyle, I'm—"
Your voice breaks on his name, shatters like glass in your mouth, and the silence that follows is awful and filled with everything you've been refusing to say for months.
Kyle doesn't come closer, but he doesn't leave, either. You can hear his long exhale as he waits at a distance of three feet behind you.
And you press your forehead against the concrete wall, not crying but swallowing against the lump in your throat, because if you start you know you won't be able to stop.
Instead, you breathe, counting, pulling yourself together because this is hardly the place. And then you straighten up, strip off your soiled gloves, stuff them in the waste bag at your hip, and walk past him without meeting his eyes.
"I'm fine," you say again.
Kyle doesn't answer, but you feel his gaze on your back all the way to the medical station, infuriatingly warm and steady.
Two days later, they’re stateside again.
It's half-nine in the evening and Kyle is sitting on his sofa in his flat, wearing grey joggers and a t-shirt, not doing any of the things he normally does to decompress after deployment. He's just sitting, one arm along the back of the sofa, staring at nothing, turning a thought repeatedly in his head like a stone in his palm.
The radio is on. It's always on nowadays. The flat is too quiet without it, the silence too close to the kind of silence you sit in on a rooftop at two a.m. waiting for a target to emerge. It’s set on some station that plays a mix of old soul and R&B that he doesn't actively listen to but lets wash over him like white noise.
His phone buzzes with a message from Soap.
kid's stable. docs say full recovery. told him you said cheers.
And Kyle types back: Good. Thanks.
Three dots. Soap is typing. Kyle watches them pulse.
you alright mate?
Yeah. Why?
didnt seem alright on the flight back. neither did she.
Kyle stares at the screen while the cursor keeps blinking in the empty reply field.
whats going on between you 2?
He could answer that, type the ugly truth, and tell his best mate that he loves her and she won't let him say it and two days ago she nearly broke in front of him and he had to stand there and watch, but the words look kind of wrong on a screen. Impersonal. They look wrong everywhere Kyle has come to realize lately. They've been sitting inside his chest for so long they've calcified, become part of the architecture, load-bearing walls he can't remove without the whole structure coming down.
Nothing, he replies and sets the phone face-down on the cushion beside him.
And it's so far from nothing that the word feels like a lie in a foreign language, technically incorrect but functionally necessary.
He thinks about the wall, and you pressed against it; your forehead bowed against concrete, your hands shaking for the first time since he's known you. You looked like a woman who was coming apart at the seams, and something is burning behind his chest to know why, because it’s not about that young soldier. Partially, maybe.
And then Kyle ponders about the fact that you walked past him afterwards and said, “I'm fine,” in a voice that was the exact opposite of fine, and he let you go, because that's the deal. That's the bloody rule. You drew the line months ago, he is staying behind it like an obedient little soldier, and he watched you walk away and he didn’t follow.
And he's so fucking tired of not following, but it seems to be the only way to even keep you around.
Kyle drops his head back against the sofa and closes his eyes. The radio murmurs something slow and warm into the dim flat, and the candle on the coffee table that you gifted him some time ago flickers in the draft from the cracked window.
He should sleep, eat something, and call his mum, who will hear it in his voice immediately and ask what's wrong and he'll say nothing again, and she won't believe him, but she'll let it go.
Instead, he sits in the semi-dark and the candlelight and the quiet music and he thinks about you, the way he's been thinking about you for too damn long. Since that day he found himself with a bullet hole on a stretcher, looking up at you for the first time like he was seeing an angel.
His phone buzzes again, but he doesn’t check it.
A few seconds later, there is a knock at his front door. Soft, almost reserved, like the person isn’t sure if they want the door to be opened.
Kyle's eyes open and his heart does something hopeful before he gets up and crosses the flat, floorboards warm under his bare feet. And when he reaches for the door handle, unlocking and opening the door, you’re suddenly standing on his doorstep, looking like you haven't slept.
You're in civvies, hair undone in a way he's rarely seen with shadows under your eyes and a tightness around your mouth that he recognises as the last line of defence before something collapses entirely.
Your head tips back to meet his gaze and his eyes lock on yours while the radio plays softly behind him, and the candlelight throws warm amber across the hallway, and the summer air drifts through the cracked window carrying the smell of cut grass and distant rain.
"I don't know how to do this," you admit suddenly, and your voice is so small that he barely recognizes it from the usual commanding and steady tone you use in the field.
And Kyle doesn't speak, because he doesn’t trust himself not to break this fragile moment, so he holds your gaze for one long, careful moment, and steps aside to give you the option.
The door opens wider. The warmth of his flat presses out towards you; cedar candle, the low murmur of the radio, the quiet of a space that belongs to someone who keeps it tidy because chaos fills enough of his life elsewhere, and you look at the open doorway, then back at him, standing beside it, ever the patient friend who says nothing because you told him to.
You walk inside, passing him tentatively.
The flat is warmer than the night outside, dimmer. The overhead light is off; just the candle on the coffee table and another on the kitchen counter, casting everything in a soft, amber glow that smooths the edges of the furniture and catches in Kyle's eyes when he turns to face you.
"Tea?" he asks, already moving towards the kitchen, because this is what he does. This is the language he speaks when words aren't enough. Acts of quiet service, offered without ceremony.
"I don't want tea."
He stops; his back is to you, and you can see the line of his shoulders through his t-shirt, the tension he's holding there carefully the way he holds everything, and he turns around slowly.
"Okay," he says. "What do you want then?"
The question is simple and open, contains no pressure and no presumption, and it nearly undoes you on the spot, because Kyle Garrick has been asking you this question in a hundred different ways for over a year and this is the first time you're going to answer it honestly.
"I don't want to talk about what happened."
"Alright."
"I don't want to," you inhale, make a vague gesture which makes it clear that you’re currently just winging it like he is, "debrief, or process, or—"
Kyle nods, his brows set in focus. "Alright."
"I want—" Your voice catches as you look at him properly, standing in his kitchen in joggers and bare feet, candlelight warm on his skin, watching you with those steady brown eyes that have never, looked at you with anything less than complete, unwavering attention, and the thing inside you that's been holding, holding, holding for months finally gives.
Your shoulders sag as you deflate in surrender. "Kyle… I want you."
Those words fall into the space between you, and the radio fills the silence that follows—some song fading out, a beat of static, and then the opening notes of something slow and aching, a voice you recognise, deep and rich and full of longing.
…When your baby leaves you all alone…
Kyle's expression doesn't change; doesn't light up in triumph or crack into relief. He just looks at you, and his eyes are so warm, so full, that you understand, suddenly, what it must have cost him—all those months of silence, of holding the shape of this feeling without being allowed to name it.
…And nobody calls you on the phone…
You cross the kitchen towards him, drawn in like a magnet who has finally been let go, until you're standing close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest and see the way his breathing has changed to something deeper and deliberately controlled.
Your hands come up slowly, like you're approaching an animal that might startle, except the only thing that might startle here is you. Your fingers brush the sides of his neck, trail up to his stubbled jaw, and your arms loop loosely around his neck, your wrists crossing behind his head.
…Don't you feel like crying? Well, here I am, baby…
Kyle's hands find your waist; tentative like a question at first, and then settling, his palms warm and solid against the fabric of your jumper, thumbs pressing gently against your ribs.
You sway together. It's not a dance, not really—there's no rhythm to it, no form, just two bodies finding each other in a dim kitchen and moving because standing still feels impossible. Then his forehead tips down to meet yours, and your noses brush, and you breathe the same air, and the song washes over both of you like warm water.
…Come on, cry to me…
"Be careful with my heart," you whisper.
His hands tighten on your waist, a fractional compression, like a held breath.
"Always," he replies, and his voice is rough and low, barely more than an exhale, and he means it the way he means everything he was allowed to say to you—completely, without reservation and caveat.
You allow yourself to kiss him.
And it's not the desperate, hungry collision you expected—not the dam breaking and the flood taking you both. It's slow, careful. His lips meet yours softly, like he's memorising the shape of you in case you change your mind again, and then his hand slides up from your waist to the side of your neck, his thumb against your jaw, tilting your head just slightly, and he deepens it; more present and intentional. The kind of kiss that tells you he has been thinking about exactly this for a very long time and he isn’t going to rush a single second of it.
You melt into him. Your fingers brush over the short hair at the back of his head and his arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you flush against him, and the sound he makes vibrates against your lips and settles somewhere deep in your chest.
"Kyle—"
"I know, babygirl." His mouth moves to your jaw, your neck, pressing slow, open kisses against the skin there. "I know."
He doesn't say the thing he wasn’t allowed to say before. Even now, even with your body finally pressed against his like this, he doesn't say it yet, because you told him not to, and he's a man who keeps his word, even when keeping it is killing him inside.
"You can say it," you whisper against his temple frantically as if you might be running out of time now. "Kyle. You can say it."
He pulls back, studies you, and the expression on his face, the sheer, unbearable relief of someone who's been holding a breath for over a year, makes your eyes sting.
But Kyle doesn't say it with words.
He says it by lifting you with his hands under your thighs and carrying you down the short hallway to his bedroom, where the window is cracked open and the cream curtains shift in the warm summer breeze and the sheets on his bed are clean, cool, and tucked into the corners with military precision like everything else in his flat.
He lays you down like you're precious; someone he's been trusted with and intends to deserve.
"Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs, kneeling over you, and his hands are trembling as he reaches for the hem of your jumper.
You blink up at him, heart fluttering with sweet anticipation. "It's not too much."
And his eyes soften at your reaction when he notices your pulse thudding in your neck. "Tell me anyway."
He pulls the jumper over your head slowly, his eyes travel over you, drinking you in, and the weight of his attention is heavier and warmer than any touch.
"You're—" he starts, stops and shakes his head like he cannot quite fathom what he is seeing, and a breath that might be a laugh escapes him. "Christ."
"Eloquent."
"Shut up." He's smiling now, that private, soft smile that he only ever gives to you, and he dips his head and presses his mouth to the hollow of your throat while you arch into it, your hands gripping his broad shoulders.
He undresses you slowly, treating every piece of clothing removed with the same care, the same deliberate attention; his mouth following his hands, pressing kisses to your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the inside of your wrist. When he pulls his own shirt over his head, you reach for him immediately, clammy palms flat against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath heated skin.
"Kyle." Your voice is barely there. "Please."
He settles between your thighs, and the solid weight of him makes something deep and yearning in your chest crack open and spill over at last.
His mouth finds yours again, slow and thorough and devastating; his tongue sliding against yours as his hand trails down between your bodies, his fingers brushing against your cotton panties where you're already wet and wanting, and the sound you make into his mouth is small and desperate, and nothing like the woman who holds men together on battlefields.
"I've got you," he murmurs, and his fingers move over the damp fabric; slow circles, gentle pressure, learning you slowly until your back arches and your face is hot.
Then his fingers hook under the edge of your waistband to slide your panties off and leave you bare.
When your legs part wider for him, Kyle nuzzles the crease at the apex of your thigh, inhaling your scent deeply while a shudder ripples through his body.
"You smell incredible," he groans shamelessly, and before you can get flustered, his tongue flicks out to taste your swollen clit and the keen you let out makes him curse again. "Fuck. And you taste even better."
Your eyes roll back when Kyle starts licking you in earnest; sucking your clit between his supple lips, flickering his tongue against the sensitive pearl and slipping one, then two fingers inside until your hips buck and you come beneath his tongue with a moan that dissolves into a drawn-out sigh.
"Kyle," you mewl needily, and he understands immediately.
The aching and yearning, and the knowledge that you’re finally allowed to get and take what you have been craving for so long. It’s as exhilarating as it is dizzying.
He presses the softest kiss to the tuft of hair on your mound before crawling up your body with a look of purest devotion and hunger in his eyes that causes your breath to stutter.
You sit up to help him slide his joggers off, and when you realize that he was going commando all this time, your lashes flutter at the sight of his cock. Long, uncut, and thick, slightly curved upward, a vein throbbing along the underside of his shaft, with velvety skin and his fat tip flushed mauve.
"Bloody hell, Kyle."
He ducks his head, looking sheepish. "What?"
Reaching out, you grasp his length carefully, keeping one hand on his hip, and give him a few slow strokes that make his defined abs clench and his head tip back with a hiss.
A clear pearl of precum beads at the slit and your mouth waters.
"You’re so beautiful," you whisper in awe, thumb swiping over his tip reverently.
Now he is the one getting flustered, and the only thing keeping him from coming undone then and there is taking over control again.
"Not nearly as beautiful as you, love," he murmurs, pushing you back onto the mattress.
You make a choked sound and hide your face in one of his pillows, but he pulls it away and the smile he flashes then, boyish and delighted, sears itself into your memory.
Kyle caresses your waist and feels the goosebumps pebbled on your skin, and when he squeezes a pillow under your lower back, you lift your hips for him. His cock twitches, a drop of pre dribbles onto your thigh.
"Can I? I’m clean." His chest is heaving, his pupils blown as he drinks you in underneath him; all lax, beautiful and trembling while he rubs his thumb over your puffy folds, spreading them to see your pretty, wet hole.
You nod jaggedly, spreading your legs for him, heels digging into the mattress.
"I need words, love," he tells you, rubbing your clit maddeningly slow and watching your pussy clench around nothing. "Fuck, babygirl."
"Yes, Kyle! Fuck, please—" Your voice pitches and cracks, body wound tight, and when he kneels between your thighs, gripping his cock at the root, he finally pushes inside you, and the world stops spinning.
He does it slow, agonisingly and exquisitely so; working all eight inches into your needy cunt with one hand braced next to your head, the other holding your thigh while his forehead presses against yours; his breath ragged against your mouth, lips brushing yours in a barely there kiss.
The feeling of him is overwhelming at first; the stretch and the fullness, and the rightness of it all. And your hands grip his back, fingers flexing against the muscles, while your legs go slack for him, inviting him deeper, because close isn’t close enough now.
"Fuck—" The word punches out of him, bitten off and breathless, and his hips still for a moment, cock buried deep, his whole body taut with the effort of not moving. "You feel—God—"
"Move," you whisper. "Please move."
Always obeying you, he moves. Long, slow strokes that drag the curve of his cock against every nerve ending, his hips rolling into yours with an unhurried rhythm that matches the pace of the song still drifting faintly from the kitchen. His hand cradles the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he watches your face with an expression that is so open and so tender that you have to close your eyes against it.
"No," he says softly. "Look at me."
You open your eyes. His face is still close, and you observe how his lips part with each thrust, and his brow furrows with both concentration and restraint, his eyes bright and dark and full of everything he's never said.
"Yes," he breathes, "just like that."
You come apart again; still not the shattering, violent kind of orgasm, but the kind that builds like a tide, rising and cresting until your body tightens around him in long, rolling waves as his name falls from your lips like a plea or confession, like the answer to a question you've been afraid to ask.
"That's it," he murmurs, his pace never faltering, carrying you through it with the same steadiness he has been carrying everything so far. "That's it, baby. I've got you. 'M, fuck, right here."
Then his eyes flutter shut when his own release follows yours as you squeeze and convulse around his cock mercilessly. A shudder that starts in his spine and rolls through his entire body, his hips pressing deep, breath hitching as he bites his bottom lip and buries his face in the curve of your neck with a groan so raw that you nearly come again.
He stays nestled inside you, shifts his weight to keep from crushing your body into the mattress, even while his own body is quaking with the onslaught of oxytocin; mouth against your shoulder, hand still in your hair, heartbeat pounding against your chest.
The breeze moves through the curtains. The flat smells like cedar candle and summer air and him. The scent you've been breathing in for over a year and pretending it didn't make you feel safe.
"I love you," he says and it sounds like a breath of relief.
Not triumphant but truth. Stated plainly, simply, the way you state a fact—the sky is up, the ground is down. I love you.
A tear slips from the corner of your eye and runs down your temple, disappearing into your hair. Then another and another. Quiet, soundless tears that come from somewhere so deep you didn't know it existed until you were guts deep in a young soldier, saving his life while he spoke about his love waiting back home.
Kyle lifts his head and sees the tears. And he doesn't panic, he simply brushes his thumb across your temple, catching the wetness, and presses his lips to the damp trail it leaves behind.
"I know," he whispers. "It’s been a lot. For both of us."
You close your eyes and let it come. The crying you've been holding in your chest like a clenched fist for months—years, maybe, longer than Kyle, longer than the rule, all the way back to the first time you knelt in the dirt beside a bleeding stranger and realised that this was your life now, and it would cost you, and you would pay the price and pay it and pay it and never let anyone see the bill.
Kyle holds you through it.
…Here I am, baby. Come on, cry to me….
Eventually, the tears slow and your breath evens. His hand moves over your hair in long, rhythmic strokes, and the radio in the kitchen has gone soft—a late-night DJ speaking in a low murmur between songs—and the candle has burned down to a warm glow.
"Stay. Here… with me."
It’s an offer, the same way everything he's ever given you has been an offer. Open-handed and without strings; yours if you want it, though you know he would crumble if you’d decline.
You press your face into his neck and breathe him in.
"We're back!" The Captain called out as he and the Lieutenant shuffled into the 141's private common room, kicking the door shut behind them; their arms much too preoccupied with cradling the bountiful feast they'd set out. "Gaz, they were outta vegetable spring rolls, mate. Your just gonna have to cope without this occasion-"
However, the pair of commanding officers came to a screeching halt as they took in the scene before them. You - the Task Forces newest addition - quite clearly upset and your fellow Sergeants sat on either side of you. The old, worn brown leather couch sagging under yours, Soap and Gaz's weight.
"Didn't think no spring rolls would be such a big deal" Ghost murmured dryly as he took in your tears, his eyes crinkling into what might have been a confused scowl behind his skull-printed balaclava.
"What's going on?" John asked as he shuffled further into the room, setting the steaming bags of take-out down on to the counter of the kitchenette - the small kitchen space all but shoved into one corner of the common room. His brow furrowing into a soft frown as he tried to make sense of the situation.
He'd always been a bit of a softie when it came to his Sergeants, not that he'd ever admit it.
"Their partner-" Kyle began to explain before Johnny cut in with his own grumble, continuing to gently rub at your back.
"Ex."
"-just dumped them over text" Gaz continued, ignoring the Scotsman.
"How could they do this to me?" You whimpered between another choked sob.
The sudden break-up didn't exactly come as a surprise to the team, per say. It had been a long time in the making. Yet, unfortunately it appeared everyone but you had seemed to realise the decline of what once was a happy relationship.
The arguments, last minute cancelled plans, short periods of ghosting - you had simply chose to believe that you and your ex had just been going through a rough patch. After all, you'd been together a few years now and you'd thought you'd known them better than to just end things over text... apparently you didn't.
"What a fuckin' idiot," Simon scoffed in his typical blunt fashion, taking the rest of the squad by surprise; your sobs quietening to upset sniffles as you blink at him. Setting his own bags of goodies down on the counter beside the Captain's and reaching for the plates up in the cupboard to begin dishing up the team's usual Friday Night takeaway. "Lettin' someone like you slip through their fingers."
"See, bonnie? Ah told yeh tha' yeh were too good for tha' wanker," Soap joined in, gesturing to the Lieutenant victoriously. "Has tah be true 'cause even LT agrees!"
"I just.. I just thought they were the one, yanno?" You shrugged, arms wrapping around yourself in a self-hug, shaking your head; reluctant to believe their reassurance. "I feel so stupid..."
"Oh, dove, got yourself into a right tizzy, haven't you?" John sighed sympathetically, abandoning the Chinese takeaway for the time being and padding across the room. Before slowly kneeling down in front of where you sat, his knees cracking as he did, large hands falling atop your knees and giving them a light squeeze. "If they couldn't be bothered to do the right thing and give you closure face-to-face then I'm afraid I have to agree with the lads. You deserved better than a bloody text after years spent together."
"And you not stupid," Kyle added, nudging you with his elbow and offering one of his most charming smiles. "See it this way - at least you know now before you wasted anymore time on that tosser, yeah?"
That earned the barest hint of a smile, the corners of your lips twitching upwards.
"Anyway," Soap grinned, seeing an opportunity as your distress began to waver. Playfully flexing his biceps and earning a real laugh from you. "Who needs them when yeh have us, aye?"
"If we're done with the dramatics," Ghost chimed in, drawing attention back to the now plated take-away. "Foods going cold."
And, as the 141 finally settled onto the sofas with their plates - turning on that film Johnny had been yapping on about wanting to watch for weeks, it didn't slip past you that the usually-brooding Lieutenant had given you his share of the prawn crackers.
Perhaps Price wasn't the only softie when it came to his teammates being upset...
---------------
Hi, all! Beanie here!
Incase you didn't know, I actually run a discord server named 'Beanie's Tea Room' ❤️ we host movie nights, gaming lobbies, art competitions and have so many fun people from all walks of life within the server.
I also post sneak peaks of my writings ahead of time 🤭
Link to Server: https://discord.gg/bVGMDzZC4G
The link to my server is in the Linktree in my bio and while you're there, why not check out my other social media like Tumblr and TikTok 😊 can't wait to see you there!
