Ghost Wasn’t Even Looking For You Two. He Just Needed To Grab A Goddamn Med Kit. That’s It. A Simple

This might be a wild one.

But hear me out okay.

Simon has his hand somewhere intimate at all times whenever it’s the two of you together.

NOW okay stay with me…

At first, it was somewhat innocent. You’d both be watching a movie on the sofa, he’d deliberately have you lie across him just so his hand can rest on your ass. Casual couple things y’know.

But as your relationship progresses and he’s very used to being able to touch his pretty girl whenever possible…he tends to stray to more intimate places.

There would be one time, you’d be standing in the kitchen, cooking dinner for him on the rare occasion he gets to have a home cooked meal for once. And he’d stand behind you, humming some dumb song that’s been stuck in his head for days. But his hands will be on your tits.

Now, there’s nothing sexual about it really. He just likes holding them. Likes touching you. He’d probably give the occasional squish now and again because let’s face it he’s a man and they’d all do it.

But the only time his need to be touching you would turn sexual, is by complete accident.

(Hear me the fuck out okay?)

So you’d both be lying in bed, you’d be scrolling through your phone as he’s reading beside you (he reads, it’s obvious).

But his hand, would be down whatever pants or shorts you’re wearing for bed, underneath your underwear if you are wearing any at the time…and his hand would simply be resting on your cunt.

Like I said, it wouldn’t be sexual at first and it was an accident this time around.

Because this man can’t sit still at home, it’s too quiet…too calm…he needs something to do.

So what does he do? Play with your cunt.

The pad of his middle finger would idly rub up and down over your clit, not even trying to put any effort in all whilst he focuses on reading. Even if you’re there slightly squirming from the pleasure that the rhythmic motion of his finger creates, he wouldn’t really notice straight away.

He’d circle it a few times, all the while you’re trying to keep quiet as to not disturb him. Having to hold in every moan or soft sound your body aches to let out.

And for the most part, he seems completely focused. Even when his finger would slide down and gather every drop leaking out of you and bring it back to your clit just for more stimulation.

It’s only when you’re close to cumming from the lazy but constant stimulation that he’ll lean down slightly just to whisper in your ear.

“C’mon…give it to me love…please…”

He knows.

He always knows.

Thinking about being a little too good at getting Johnny off. The way he grits his teeth as he thrusts into your fist, whining and begging: “Not yet—fuck—please not yet.” Brain begging for one thing, body begging for another. Hmmm

short comic based off that one post where sevika first meets silco by mistaking him for a butch lesbian (idk how the timelines work don't think too hard abt the ages lol)

It’s the same routine every time now. You fuck on his couch or on the bed or on top of the wash machine, you let him clean you up, you put your clothes on, and you leave. Same time Friday?

At first you tried to break down the ‘Fortress of Riley’ as you referred to it as. You did the whole spiel, bring him dinner, wash his clothes, watch tv together, spend the night. But when he never once reciprocated the energy you put into it, you learned your place.

You got over your little crush on him quickly. One too many disappointing nights made you realized that he wanted nothing more than a quick fuck after a long day. So you stopped bringing over dinners, stopped turning the tv on, left your clothes in a neat pile signaling they’re ready for your exit.

And then there was the question of: Is it because you are fat? Is he afraid to be seen with you? Is he disgusted by you and is just desperate? No.…Maybe? The ongoing questions circle in your mind as you contemplate your situationship with a fucking 32 year old.

Simon didn’t notice the shift at first. You’re such a sweet little bird. Bringing him dinners, tending his home, letting him have a nice warm cunt to fall into after a long day. Slowly though, the dinners stopped coming. You would turn the tv off once you came over. You kept all of your things in a small pile by the door. You wasted no time putting your clothes on and leaving. It was starting to piss him off. Were you seeing someone else? Is he not good enough for you anymore?

—————————————————————————

You sighed as pulled your panties on. Simon stares at you from his spot on the bed, a cold calculating stare piercing through your back. Throwing your jeans and over size sweatshirt on, you turn around to look at him. “Thanks. Same time Friday? I have plans on Thursday.” His stare only intensifies as you slip on your socks and shoes. You look at him expectantly, waiting on a confirmation for the later in the week plans.

“I’m taking it as a no if i don’t get verbal confirmation.” You say when you get no response. “Th’as fine.” You nod as you head towards the living room. Rising from the bed, he pulls on his discarded sweatpants as you grab your coat and purse from the living room. He walks out to you standing by the door.

“See ya Friday.” You say as the door opens to reveal his hallway neighbors valentine’s day door decor. “Stop.” He says gruffly behind you. Stopping in your tracks and swivel your head around to meet his gaze. “Can we talk?” You raise an eyebrow before scanning the hallway. “Can it wait for Friday? I really need to get home to feed my cat.” He clicks his tongue before sighing deeply. “Alright.” You smile at him before closing his door and walking away from the apartment.

As he hears your footsteps move further away, he plops down on the couch. You’ve been sleeping together for almost a year, minus deployments. Did he miss something? Has he said something to upset you in the past to make you so cold? Simon shakes his head. He needs to figure out how to tell you the truth. How to express to you that you are the only person he lets see him in this way. The only person he ever wants to let see him this way again. How do you tell your fuck buddy you are actually in love with them?

a/n: hey yall!! slow day at the office ❤️‍🔥 i have some ideas for situationship simon riley. i’m cooking over here y’all give me some time 🤍🤍 i did proofread this, but i probs missed something. I’ll come back later and double check. feedback is always appreciated!! likes, comments, and reblogs are kindly appreciated as well ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 xoxo, lollie

Thinking about patching up ex-husband Simon Riley. He comes in with the cloak of darkness not close to sunrise, a witching hour of sorts. Three slow deliberate knocks on the other side of your door. No more and no less. Staring at the mahogany frame, you could ignore him. It would be for the best.

But ghosts tend to haunt all night.

So you'll let him in.

You always do.

Bloodied knuckles with a nasty gash on his upper eyebrow. He'll hoist you onto the bathroom countertop with your legs spread as he steps between them. Firm hands grip your waist, grounding you in your stupid decision to let your ex back into your life. Again. He doesn't flinch as you swipe the alcohol soaked towel over his eyebrow wound. Determined eyes search your face in hopes you'll crack under his gaze.

"Ask me what happened." He whispers.

"No." you dab the towel more firmly on his eyebrow as it soaks the raging red liquid.

Simon grabs your wrist and leans down, his lips pressing into the shell of your ear. "Really?" Your heart pounds in your chest, as your body betrays you for your ex -- feeling a heat set every fiber of you ablaze. His teeth grazing your skin as he noses his way down the column of your neck and breathes in your unyielding scent. He knew the effect he still had on you and you hated yourself for it.

"Birdie really doesn't wanna know what I did to that bloke you went out with last week?"

Sevika x Male Reader headcanons!

• She leaves you for a woman.

sf: https://www.tumblr.com/tonsillessscum/769541848758910976?source=share

when I was younger I didn’t understand why “may you live in interesting times” was considered a curse in ancient greece.

I get it now.

Fun

Dumb things John Price has done:

1. While going on a jog with you he started to jog backwards to look at you with a charming grin. You thought he was going to tell you something but he was just checking out the way your tits bounced and he was gearing up to hit on you. John then tripped over a rock he didn’t see and fell like a tree trunk to the ground. You had to help him, as a human crutch, limp home because he twisted his ankle.

2. Accidentally purchased two pairs of identical diamond earrings. It was a final sale so he couldn’t return the extra pair and was kicking himself for it. They are shamefully hidden at the bottom of his sock drawer waiting for you to lose the first pair.

3. While passing the football in the yard with his eight year old son John accidentally kicked it with more power than intended straight into his child’s face. There was so much blood and tears John felt like the worst parent to ever walk this earth. Your reaction to your son’s bloody nose and tear streaked face didn’t help his case.

Eirēnē

price x reader one shot

cw: femme, soldier reader. implied fit body type. pegging. slight spit kink. mild angst but a happy ending. MDNI

"Oh, big stretch." It's playfully patronizing; an affected air to hide the undercurrent of genuine pride. John's always liked watching you push your limits, but raw affection has no place here in his bed - always kept carefully at bay, dropped with his tac gear by the door, or maybe even further back, in the field, when he ducked his helmet against yours with a quiet 'well done, love,' barely audible over the din of exfil, ripped away in the impending whorl of hele blades. 

He praises you here as well, but never as an equal. You're a plaything when he's got you pinned under him. He toys with you the way you imagine he's toyed with cute little things all his life. John doesn't strike you as a bully by any means, but you've seen first hand how he can turn a compliment into a debasement by simply dropping his pitch a few octaves. It leaves you unmoored, dragged in and out of your arousal by self-conscious turns which he soothes with sweet kisses and gentle touches.

They sting worse than the words.

He's got his thumb against the seam of you now, pushing at the tender skin where it is indeed stretched wide around his cock. He's overconfident when he mouths off about how good it must feel, but his eyes betray him as they always do: reverent, tender, yes. And envious.

It took you months to see it. As a rule, by the time he got like this, you were already too fucked out to notice. You fear you never would have, had this slippery slope you'd both found yourselves on not started declining further by the day. You might slip more often, but he's bigger. Falls harder.

It's the vulnerability that tips you off. 

'You're only ever satisfied when you're taking my cock, aren't you darlin'?' it began, a mocking smirk pressed against your lips as you pouted about being given nothing but his fingers. 'That feel good, love?' he'd ask, palm grinding into your sex as he fucked you shallowly, watching himself disappear within your body. Then 'tell me how good I make you feel,' turned into, 'tell me how good it feels,' while 'need me to fix it?' became, 'fuck, sweetheart, please.'

Now you watch him back, entranced by the way he cannot look away from where your bodies meet. It's early yet. He has all his faculties. Still, his gaze is anchored to the stretch of your cunt. "You could cum like this, couldn't you?" he asks, thumb tracing up to your clit. "So full I don't even have to work for it. Just stuff you up and press this button, eh?"

You nod but he's not looking. His thumb pushes against you cruelly as punishment for your perceived silence. "Yes," you hiss and he hums, eyes bright with mischief.

"Show me, then," he says casually, rocking himself that final centimeter deeper as he starts playing with your clit exactly the way you like it. You bear it in stillness and silence for as long as you can, but the quiet sigh he eventually earns himself is like a floodgate. Once your mouth is open, jaw relaxed, your soft noises continue, and then your hips are canting just enough to work against his rhythm. You don't last long enough to test your theory that night, not when John stays as buried deep as he can get, rocking shallowly into you just so he can feel the head of his cock drag under his palm where he keeps it pressed into the soft flesh of your belly. It's vulnerable, makes you feel field dressed, gralloched. 

His own tummy jumps when you palm him there in turn, his cock twitching within you as he groans like he's been gutshot, falls limp over you just the same.

You find out days later that you can make him a desperate, gasping mess by just leaving teeth marks there, working him in your fist while you hide your bite among the soft hair of his underbelly, the most defenseless part of him - too low for his vest to cover; mobility at the cost of exposure. But he trusts you here, holds you close after the first few flutters of his panic settle. His cum stripes your chin when your free hand palms his heavy sac, one finger settling lower, along the seam of him. 

John does not ask you. You wonder sometimes if it would be a bridge too far, playing into the role more than he is comfortable with. Then, John being comfortable with any of this is a stretch, as evident in the tension of his brow when you finally get him on his back, the sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat when you work your second finger in alongside the first. You think it's more than he can take, but he outright whimpers when you go to pull back and you can't help but laugh when he wraps a strong leg around your waist to hold you close, his voice like gravel in a cement mixer when he chokes out a quiet, 'don't you dare.'

Don't laugh, don't stop - you're unsure so do neither as you settle yourself deeper within him, fingers probing, just exploring. Taking your time.

The toy he'd bought you - ostensibly - is bigger than he is. Will sit deep within him, proportionate to how he fits inside you. You're not worried it will please him, but it's hard not to be at least a little jealous of his big hands when your fingers can't reach deep enough to do anything but press fluttery pulses against his prostate, only make him tense and sweat when you want to make him cry and beg. It's an instinct that grows with each passing minute, John's impatience - and ability to articulate it - damn near hurting your pride.

He wants to be made vulnerable, has entrusted you alone with the task, though you can do little more than tease him on your own.

But you've always been resourceful. Learned from the best.

When you do pull away, John's hole tightens around your fingers so hard you imagine you would be unable to escape if not for the copious amounts of lube you'd used while working him open. He doesn't pout the way you would have, his frustration instead leaving him with a strangely bull-like huff. You shush him anyway, soothing the emptiness with two thumbs quickly hooking into his rim, testing his stretch with a quiet, disapproving hum.

"I don't know, cap. Don't think you're ready for this cock."

John's neck flexes when he tilts his head back, the thick cords on full display when he swallows heavily, jumping past the strain in his throat. "Oh, fuck you."

"Not tonight," you counter absently, sinking your thumbs to the knuckle just to watch his hole try to wink around them. When you remove them completely, you drag slick trails of lube through the coarse hair there. "It's these little fingers of mine," you pout, wiggling them at him illustratively. "Not gonna cut it, I fear. Be a doll and open yourself up for me, hm?"

He looks like he has something to say to that, but it gets caught behind his teeth and to your surprise he only rolls, gets his knees up under his hips so he can kneel before you, brace most of his weight on his left hand which he plants firmly on the bed. You don't comment on the practiced ease with which he reaches back and coats his fingers in the sticky lube which drips from his hole, nor the way his breath catches when his fingers do. Whatever this is, this practiced confidence, this was never intended for you and you're loathe to have taken it from him.

You're more loathe he's kept it from you at all, but you stay just as silent as him.

John works efficiently, doesn't even take enough time to let the pleasure build. You think about guiding his hands but falter, too scared to take too much control. Instead you keep his cheeks spread for him, warm extra slick between your fingers before letting it slip from your grip, watch as it slips into his greedy hole. You want to tell him how good he looks, but you don't want to embarrass him, either, and your words die in your throat, dry and brittle, because John is not usually so quiet as this during sex and if he needs the silence, you will not be the one to break it.

He doesn't speak when he's decided he's stretched enough, either. Simply lays down on his belly with his legs stretched out between your own. You hum appreciatively, chance to ask if he's ready for you with a quick, assessing swipe of your finger across his loosened rim. With the muscle lax and unfurled, your digit catches and tugs, draws a low, startled grunt from him before he clears his throat and nods, voice thick when he says he is.

You remember the way his stomach tensed under your palm, the way he cradles the back of your head when you get his balls in your mouth, pressing the ring of your teeth closer. John does not ask for this, at least not verbally, but you know what he wants. John's never led you astray before, and he doesn't now, so long as you know what to look for. He does not want to be responsible for this, to tell you when he's ready. The added tension of it, your expectation that he make a decision at the one time he wasn't expecting to, it collects tangibly in the iron of his spine, the clench of your jaw. In the silence of the room, you hear the spiderweb break of the fragile gift he's given you and you still, coltish legs on too-thin ice. Misguided. Not a concept you've had to worry about since coming under John's captaincy. You've grown lax

"Tell me how good it feels."

And maybe it's okay that you've let him crumble, just a bit, because he shatters beautifully when he knows you'll keep him together.

John's voice is still tight when the head of your cock catches on his rim, the words pulled from him like tangled fishing line, each confession pulling clotted debris from the silt of his vitals. It's good, a stretch, he's full.

You can't help the cruel laugh that builds at that last, flex your hips down into his to sink incrementally deeper. "Not yet, you're not."

The quiet snarl is the only warning you get, John's palm reaching back to wrap around your hip with the same quick reflexes that have kept him whole so long. He rips back whatever control he's ceded with just as much ease as he pulls you into him, a rough grunt the only indication he gives of any potential discomfort from the sudden intrusion. Still, you lean against him heavily so he can't move you manually again, create a rhythm for himself that you haven't authorized. You don't let the doubt overcome you, know this is no less than the last desperate gasps of any bound animal. 

You settle him just the same, warm hands on his flank and soft reassurances, your low murmur spilled across his shoulder because he's far too tall for you to lean over properly. "Easy, baby. Give yourself a minute to adjust."

A dog that's slipped his muzzle, John still shows his teeth. "I can take it."

"Don't care what you can do," you counter, bearing more weight down on his back as you slip your free hand under his thick chest - a poor approximation of the way he effortlessly comforts you in this position, the tenderness he doesn't even mean to give. "Just care about what you want to do."

Though he remains unsettled, John's voice is less clipped now despite his words. "I want you to move."

Impertinence sits on your tongue - begging for it already? - but you know better than to test his patience when he's already got himself so wound up over nothing. He's a man unused to this position, figuratively and literally, and you take pity on the perceived bruising of his ego, even if it is self-inflicted. "I'll take care of you," you promise instead, and have to bite back the swell of pride in your chest when the tension of his back slackens incrementally.

"Know you will, love."

The first slow pump of your hips is shallow, experimental, your body acquainting itself with this new movement. John offers no encouragement, but you take his lack of objection for it anyway and gain confidence with each thrust, your strokes growing longer as you learn how to properly brace your weight. 

The harness you've chosen rests low on your hips, the base of your cock digging into your mons each time you bottom out within him. It's a low simmer of pleasure, not distracting enough to keep you from your main aim, but enough to get your hips snapping slightly into him, a rhythm you double down on when John's breath stilts and he shifts subtly, bracing himself to ensure your movements are well met. It's unnecessary - his bulk far too much for you to move with so little engagement - but appreciated all the more because of it.

"Feel good, John? You like having me so deep inside you?"

When he looks over his shoulder, you can see the pinpricks of sweat collecting on his temple. "Let you know when you fuck me proper."

You laugh catches in your throat, more a startled breath than true amusement. "Cheeky," you grumble, then shift up onto your knees and brace your feet over the backs of his calves, using your too-wide stance to your advantage when it means you can't hold your weight on your own. You sink further into the clutch of him, the base of your toy flush tight to his rim, and John swallows thickly, throat flexing. 

The angle is difficult to work but worth it, the way John's head hangs limp between his shoulders the only encouragement you need to plant your hands on the back of his tight waist and feel the way his abdomen flexes each time you let your weight drop back into him. You keep a steady pace even when he tries arching back up under you, inviting you deeper without speaking.

He didn't ask, but you knew.

You don't give him what he wants until he's biting back moans, his voice so low and shot you'd mistake them for the traffic outside if not for how acutely attuned you are to him, your pace quickening just to chase the harefooted pulse in his neck higher. 

When he bites your name out through clenched teeth, his breath condensing in the hairs of his forearm, you tell him to beg. 

"Shit… fuck." You see the muscles of his back bunch when he plants his hands under his shoulders, the tension in his spine when he debates bucking you off of him. And then you plant your feet under yourself, sacrifice depth for power on your next thrust and he whimpers, dropping back to the mattress with a reedy whine. 

You give him a few more, exact copies - the movement already imprinted on your mind like a ballroom basic (Quick learner. Lethal. Brutal. You'd read his reports on you) - and peter off you hear him choke off the next thin groan. 

"If you're not gonna beg for me, at least let me hear those pretty sounds." To prove your point, you grind in hard against him, hips angled to hit that spot that had earned you a whine to begin with. You chuckle when it works again, voice dripping with a cruelty you didn't know you were capable of when it came to your captain. "I've earned 'em, haven't I?"

Another noise bubbles in his throat, pops with a breathy huff. You slip away from him, snap back, and revel in the clench of his thick fist against the sheets. "Fuuuuck. Yeah, love. Just like that. Alright. You've earned it."

He's a veritable font after that, tongue loose and spilling every thought. You feel carbonated, fizzy and staticky, listening to each noise and bitten off praise tumble past his lips. You want to kiss him, get frustrated when you can't reach him. The hand around the column of his throat to arch him backwards surprises both of you, kiss forgotten as you pant against his lips, your glutes burning as you try to maintain your pace. Silent now, John's throat can do little more than flex weakly under your palm as his jaw works, swallowing the spit you want to drink from him. You can't help a whine of your own when the harness grinds too low, too hard, and you bunt your forehead against his cheek, spine sagging just slightly.

"'S'it good, love?"

He doesn't even sound like your captain anymore, voice too quiet, vulnerable. Sinking for a moment into that soft space with him. But when you open your eyes and see his own looking back at you, expectant and eager, you steel yourself again, lips feather light against his ear.

"So good, baby. Taking me so fucking well. Look pretty like this, John," you admit, rambling on over the whine it incites. "Should get you under me more often, hm? Let you take this cock the way I know you want?" He slinks back to the bed when you let him, your palm petting heavily along his spine as he slips away from you. He doesn't try to muffle his noises in the pillow this time, breaths heavy and high as you build your rhythm back up, ignoring the way the harness slips against your sweaty skin. 

With your hands braced against his waist again, it's easy to watch the stretch of his hole where he accepts you so greedily. Even now it glistens in the low light, hair matted with the generous amount of lube you'd plied him with. Your cock is skin-toned, natural, glistening as if with slick when you work it free of him. You make it as loud as you can manage when you spit on him, delighting in the way his hole winks around the tapered head of your cock when he flinches in embarrassment, making it worse by taking the base in hand and slapping the head against the wet of it until he can't take it anymore, reaching back to try and grab your hip again. 

You're ready for him this time, slap his hand away easily, an odd contrast to the way you coo filth at him, call him greedy and just to watch his hole clench down again, a futile attempt to keep you out. When you spit on him this time, a half-hearted bid to ensure he could still take you despite his tension, he groans unabashedly and flops back down, boneless.

"Whore," you chide, and slip back to the base in one steady move, filing the way your gamble makes him keen for later.

Despite his submission, rigidity coils low in John's spine as you work yourself deeper, the muscles under your hand pulling taut as he accepts you. It pools in your own as well, a baseline pleasure you've done all you can to ignore. Your thumbs trace his ilium, feel the tightness of his fascia. One palm pulls the meat of his cheek away to bare his hole to you and then that same thumb slips lower, past the seam of him, and presses softly against his rim. 

You accuse him of being greedy and bite back a smile as John accepts this new intrusion with a slack-jawed moan, drool pooling on the pillow beneath him. You tell him he's being so good for you when your first knuckle slips past his slack hole, but you don't think it even registers, given the fucked out look on his face, the tight pinch of pleasure between his brows. You keep praising him anyway as you begin to fuck him again, your words a low undertone to the high pitched grunts he emits each time you slam home. With your hook him, John can't help but work his hips against yours, aborted little thrusts which you allow because there's not much you can do to stop him, not when he's so far past listening and you're no match for the powerful contraction of his thick thighs. It's a struggle to stay atop him but you manage, pushing him back down as much as you're able with your palms planted on his flexing glutes. To his credit, he regains some sentience when his cock receives sufficient stimulation, tucking his arms up under his chest to better work down against the mattress, slurring vague encouragement through spit-slick lips.

"C'mon, sweetheart, give it to me, please - fuck."

"Need more?" you ask, unsure how you could even give him what he needs when you're on the verge of collapse, untested musculature flagging by the minute.

"Just like that. Shit -!"

He cuts off with a cry when your second thumb slips lower, prods threateningly at the tight ring of muscle you've already worked too loose. "Big stretch," you warn, but make it no further than your nailbed before he's cumming with bitten off shout, hips stuttering as if he can't decide if he wants to fuck down into the mattress or back onto you more. You take the choice from him, bearing down with enough force to work your mound against the base of the harness, taking the edge off your own pleasure with deep grinds that have John babbling beneath you.

In the silence that follows, you slip free of him gently, massaging his glutes as you lay your toy between them, just listening to his breathing even out. For a moment you think it won't, and you slink down to lay across his back again, chest pressed to the lax muscles there to give him the same kind of grounding weight you love so much from him. John just reaches back to sink lazy fingers along your scalp, though, a satisfied hum leaving him when you tip off him sideways to spoon up next to him. Between you, your cock bobs ungainly, an unwelcome intrusion that keeps you from clinging to him. He laughs when you huff in frustration, watches you with one eye open as you fiddle with the clasps until you're free. He's good enough to roll onto his side when you lay back down, welcoming you into his chest with a warmth you're not used to seeing post-coitus, and despite the easiness of his hold on you, it puts you on your back foot, sends you spiraling back into reality - to your place behind him in the field, never his equal. 

He mistakes your stiffness for dissatisfaction at first, his palm sliding down your front unprompted despite his obvious exhaustion, his whole body wrung out and relaxed. It fills you with pride that you were able to do that for him, but it's a sour sort of pride, a noxious gas which bubbles within you, has you pushing his hand away before he's even grazed the thatch of hair above your sex. John grumbles, peeks down past his nose to look you over. His free hand finds the nape of your neck when you avoid him, tilts your face for his inspection.

When he asks if you're broken, your throat constricts, the words like a mallet knocking your panic loose. Your voice falters, stuttering past a protest which you can't quite form. John frowns down at you and that insufferable feeling of disappointment, of having let him down yawns beneath your feet, your axis tilting you over the edge -.

"What's wrong, love?"

It's too quiet to be the voice he uses in the field, too soft to be that patronizing tone he adopts when he's got you underneath him. Closer to the quiet murmur he imparts on you when he drags you close before exfil, those secret words meant just for you, his softest soldier who needs the gentle touch. You shake your head, not trusting your voice, but he's not having it, dragging you closer so you've no choice but to hitch your leg up over his thigh, expose yourself to him fully.

"Can't fix it if you don't tell me," he reminds you, and even that aches - the knowledge he'd trusted you with all this, and he still has to keep you together. 

"It's nothing," you assert, desperate to let him enjoy his come down. "I'm just being silly."

John just squints at you, testing. When he moves your hips down against his own, he tracks the slight flinch in your expression with open interest. "Doesn't seem so silly, lovie."

You still his hands, ask him to stop with regret tinging your voice. "I'm sorry, it's just -. I just -."

"You what, sweetheart?"

"Oh, don't call me that," you blubber, floodgates opening despite your best effort. 

To his credit, John seems to take it in stride, pulling you into his chest and tucking you under his chin. His hands are heavy and warm on your back where they soothe along your spine. "Okay, no sweetheart. How 'bout lovie? Or honey? Or -?"

"John," you whine, pushing yourself away from him with a firm hand on his chest. "I can't take it anymore! You're so… so…"

"So what?"

"So sweet! And it hurts too much, knowing I can't keep it, and -."

"Can't keep it?" he mutters, but you're too wound up to listen, rattling on about not know what this is, spilling your heart out about how you keep blurring the lines. 

John silences you with a kiss, far too slow and sweet to have been listening to a single one of your concerns. When he pulls away he doesn't let you go far, keeping you in the tight ring of his embrace so he can pepper bittersweet kisses across your cheeks. "You were being silly, weren't you, love?" he starts, and chuckles meanly when you swat at him, trying to squirm away. "Easy. Listen to me, sweetheart, okay? It's important." He waits patiently for you to settle, heat boiling under your collar as you meet his eyes. "Do you think I'd have let you do all that if this were just casual? Hm?"

Clarity swells in you like ocean tide, briny and bitter where it creeps up your throat. You open your mouth to answer but close it just as fast, afraid of what might come spilling out. 

"Just casual," John scoffs, pulling you closer and saving you from further embarrassment when he tucks you back under his chin. "If I find out you've been casual with any of the other lads I'm going to be quite cross."

You want to tell him it would be his own fault, or lie just to teach him a lesson. Mostly, you want to be offended. Instead you just shake your head adamantly, lips dragging across the coarse hair of his chest. 

"Good girl," he rumbles, and must feel the clench of your cunt against his hip because his hand drags down to your rear, pulls you impossibly closer. "Now, let's drive those nasty thoughts out of your head, shall we?"

It's been seven months since she's stopped holding his hand all the time and started walking four little steps ahead. Simon grapples with his daughter's newfound independence.

She is his measure of time.

Simon makes sure to count every inch his daughter grows. How much bigger and looser it feels every time she holds his hand while they walk down the block to see what the new weekly special is at the ice cream parlor. His little bug’s favorite flavor changes every time they go – it was Lemonberry Crunch last week, now it’s一

“A scoop of the… Maple… Buttercream Delight.” 

“Two.” she corrects him, tugging on his hand. Her eyes sparkle at him, and a soft quiver hits her lips. She got that look from you. Simon doesn’t approve of it, not at all. It weakens him and makes it harder to deny you both anything, but he pushes through today with a pat on her beanie-covered head. He’s been meaning to buy her a new one after she pulled the pom-pom off.

“No, sweetheart. Jus’ one, yeah? Two’ll make your tummy upset.”

The sulking, woeful look shrouds her face in an instant. It’s fatal. Her little hand drops from his jacket to her side, and he’d buy out all the tubs of ice cream for her if he could. 

“Sorry, bug. Jus’ don’t want you gettin’ sick ‘cause o’ me anymore.” he apologizes, nodding and mouthing ‘one’ to the girl on the other side of the counter to confirm. She smiles and fills the stubby paper cup up with one scoop, and his daughter sighs and longingly looks up at it as they weigh it, tiny fingers twiddling at the edge of her puffer. 

“It’ll be three-oh-four, sir.”

He opens his wallet (the one his little girl made for him herself with zebra-print duct tape and neon-colored construction paper – incredible what kids can do) and pulls a tenner out. Before he can hand it to the young lady, his hand knocks on his thigh, smacking with urgency. 

“I wanna give it, Daddy!” she says, buoyant on the tips of her toes, hopping up and down.

“Y’do, do ya?” 

“Yes! Please!” She’s already being given the tenner, a wide smile on her face as she clumsily pushes the note into the woman’s hand. “Here y’go!”

He can’t help but chuckle a bit, thanking them before telling them to keep the change. Asks for a single pence back before they leave just because his little one’s been obsessed with collecting one from everywhere they go – she likes to tape them inside a notebook and label their source. Simon takes the ice cream and drops the coin into her waiting hands. She pockets it with a toothy grin, cheering and skipping over to their usual booth by the window.

It's been seven months since she's stopped holding his hand all the time and started walking four little steps ahead.

Simon grapples with his daughter's newfound independence.

It’s a funny thing to mull over in the middle of an ice cream shop, yet so easy to do when he watches her act so brazen with him, waving him over like he’s a servant who’s fallen behind. Not much of a difference anyway, is there?

They settle down in the chairs, and she digs into the creamy dessert. 

“Oh, this is excellent.” she sighs, nodding. He’s raised an ice cream critic. Terrible influence, he is. “Five hundred stars.”

A smile tugs on his lips again, and he folds a napkin to wipe off the ice cream she unintentionally smears on the corners of her lips, leaning over the table一

She stops him and grabs the napkin. Tiny hand with a determined grip. “I can do it, Daddy.”

The words dig at his heart. He almost frowns, but lets go of the napkin for her.

“Alright, bug.”

It gets harder every time, facing the inevitable interruption of a constant in his life. He loves to see it though. Loves to watch her grow into her own person. She picks out her own clothes一has been for a while now. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t dare to. He thinks the lion on her shirt pairs nicely with the blue camo pants anyway, topped off with the purple puffer she picked out last month, and yellow, squeaky rain boots. 

The rain is picking up, and he wonders if you’re still sleeping in. Should be, he hopes. You need the rest.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, love.” he hums.  

“Do you want some?” 

“No, sweetheart.” he chuckles. “M’alright, thank you.”

She eats until two more spoonfuls are left, not bothering to hide the unpleasant expression on her face from a full belly. Simon finishes it for her before they leave to walk it off, and again, she’s prancing ahead.

Her feet land her in every puddle she can find, her voice says a seraphic ‘hello’ to everything they pass (even the lonesome squirrel she spots at the park and the jogger with headphones in), and she’s dancing in the rain like a little drunken man with no worries or doubts in the world.

“C’mon, bug, up,” He lifts her up, sitting her on his forearm and pulling her hood over her head. “Gotta ge’ ‘ome before it starts stormin’.”

She lays her padded head on his shoulder, and he pats her back. She’s stopped gluing her hand to her father’s everyday, but she still burrows into his chest like a kitten. It’s the safest place she knows.

“Can we all huggle when we’re ‘ome, Daddy?” 

“Y’wan’ a huggle, love?”

“Yes, with Mum an’ Chunky. When it rains, it’s the… the best time for a huggle.” Chunky, her beloved toy gorilla. Simon recalls catching her bathing the poor thing in the soapy water-filled sink. It took him half a day to figure out how to properly dry the toy without permanently damaging his daughter’s cherished friend.

He presses a kiss on her dampened, plump cheek.

“‘Course, sweetheart. All four o’ us.”