"Must you go?" You whisper as you walk up to John's side, hands wringing in your deep plum colored dress.

"It'll only be a few days," John answers as he dutifully slides from his horse, handing the reins to Simon as he does. "I've doubled your security. For their sake and mine, stay inside the grounds." He says, his tone soft, but you feel the command.

"Of course," you reply as you tilt your head back to look up at him. "I don't have anything to give you.” Traditionally speaking, you should always present your knight with your favor.

“I have plenty of you with me,” he smiles as he cups your jaw, the gloves rough on your skin. And you can see what he is talking about. The small scratch marks that slide under the collar of his shirt. A yellowing bruise on his jugular from where you bit down in surprise when his fingers explored your backside the other night. And the very subtle bleaching of his normal dark brown beard and mustache.

You bite your lip, eyes darting to his other men before back to your King. It doesn't feel right sending them off without a good luck charm, old superstitions eating away at you.

"Wait," you breathe, stepping out of John's grip and work on hiking up your dress.

There is a delicate little knife, strapped to a garter that bites into your thigh. It was a gift from Kyle, the blade no thicker than your finger but sharp enough to split a hair. He had gifted it to you when a liaison of not exactly friendly diplomats came to dinner. Just in case, he whispered as he cornered you in the hallway and slipped it up your leg.

Johnny grins, nudging his mare to block you from view of the other guards as you unsheathe the weapon and let your dress fall back down again. Before John can protest, you slide the knife along your bodice near your heart, cutting into the delicate purple silk inlayed with gold vines and flowers. The Queen's colors.

"Here," you whisper as you tie it around John's thick wrist as he watches you. "And the rest of you," you state, looking up at the other three who are watching intently. Bending down, you cut strips of the purple silk away from the bottom of the skirt and wait for the men to offer you the hilt of their swords.

You tie the material as tightly as you can before giving John one last kiss and making them all swear they will come home to you. They leave you standing at the gate, arms wrapped tight around yourself to cover your exposed undergarments and to keep yourself together. Since your marriage, you and John had not spent a single night apart, and now you were losing all four of your comforts for who knew how long.

The days are long, whittling them away with walks along the grounds, music, reading, embroidery, and hosting other ladies of the court.

But the nights. The nights are even longer.

The bed is cold, no matter how many hot pans your maids put in. It's also too large; you feel exposed without John's arms around you. Or Simon's solid body perched on the bed for you to press against as you wait for John to return from a meeting. And when you wake up in the dark, you long for Johnny's soft whisper asking if there is something you need. Or Kyle's broad hand running along your back to soothe you back to sleep.

It's been weeks with very little updates aside from John was alive, but the troops were taking heavy losses. You toss and turn most nights, spending many of them pacing the bedroom and staring out the window. As if staring at the horizon would bring news, or them home. The days drag, you spend most of them in a haze, sleeping more and more to make up for the lack of sleep at night.

Then one night, as you sit by the fire staring at the embers, the bedroom door bangs open. You shriek, jumping up from your seat, and instantly grab a robe to cover yourself. The people in the door silhouettes are nothing but shadows, but there is no mistaking John's build. His broad shoulders, the bulge in his arms, and the sure stance.

"John?" You ask, dropping the robe and taking a step toward him. He doesn't say anything as he walks into the room, hand undoing the clasp of his cloak. You take another tentative step toward him.

"My King?" You ask as Johnny steps into the light to take the discarded garment.

"My Queen," John answers as he clears the gap between the two of you, hands grabbing your face to gently hold it, eyes roving over you as if to assure himself you are okay.

He looks exhausted. The circles under his eyes are dark, but his skin is darker, as if he's been out in the sun. You can see a cut on his cheek that's healing, and other various marks on him that weren't lovingly left by you. His hands are calloused as they brush along your delicate skin, and you want to cry at the tenderness with which he holds and looks at you.

"You should have sent word you were coming home, I would have prepared," you babble as you hear the bedroom door click shut and the other footsteps of Simon and Kyle walking further into the room. "I would have waited up for you. A proper feast and," you grab onto John's waist as he smiles.

"I don't want a feast," John answers as he slides his hands to your shoulders to toy with the white linen of your sleeping gown. "I don't want the fanfare or people. I've had enough of that," he traces his fingers to the tie in the front of your night slip. "I want you," he pulls on the small bow, "and only you for the next week."

You grin a bit, feeling yourself growing hot as he continues to unlace the top, slowly and deliberately. You glance down at his hands and start to see the favor you had bestowed on him still tied on his wrist. It's worse for wear, fraying and dirty, stained with blood and who knows what else.

"Never took it off," John says as his eyes follow yours. "Not once," he flips his wrist up to show you the knot. "You put it on me, you take it off," he grins as your fingers dig at the tight junction of fabric. Between the blood, sweat, water, and spilled drink, the material has shrunk and become so tight you can't get a grip on the knot.

"Your knife," he barely whispers as he watches you.

"I don't want to cut you," you answer, noticing how there is very little space between it and his skin.

"My blood is yours," he grins as Kyle hands you the knife from your bedside table. "Go on."

You tremble as you slide the blade in the small space, eyes darting between John's face and your work. When you have it wedged, you tug upward, and you hear the sound of the fabric ripping, along with a small intake of breath from John.

"I'm sorry!" You say instantly, dropping the knife to the ground and grabbing his arm. You can see the small well of blood where you had sliced him, it's not deep, and luckily it's clean with how sharp the blade is.

"Just a scratch," John assures you as he wipes it away with his other thumb.

You glance where the cut is still bleeding and quickly snatch up his arm and bring it to your lips. It's a soft gesture, a gentle, quick kiss to the cut to make it better before you trail the kiss up to his wrist, which has evidence of a burn where the fabric had rubbed. You had caused both of those pains, you wanted to be the one to take them away.

John doesn't say a word as you flick your eyes up to him, though you can see the flare in his eyes. How he watches you with a hunger as you kiss his palm, tongue darting out to lick away the last drops of blood from his newest cut. The way he shifts a bit on his feet, and glances at his men, who are all watching with rapt attention.

Dropping your hands from his arm, you take a small step back and finish undoing the last ties of your nightgown and let it fall around your feet in a puddle. In the beginning, you had been too shy to do this in front of John, let alone the other three, but now it didn't matter. You knew that John was yours, and his men worshiped the ground you walked on. There was no need to be afraid.

John works on getting out of his travel clothes, the buttons and knots endless, and you sit prettily on the bed watching. Simon tugs you to him to keep you warm in the chill air, your skin covered in goosebumps. John doesn't struggle for long with his clothes, though.

You grin as Kyle slides his hands down John's chest as he kneels in front of him to loosen his belt and ties. It's the perfect view, even in the dying light from the fire. You can see every angle of John's body, the taught muscle of his chest that gives way to a soft belly before dipping to the v of his hips, where Kyle's hands are placed as he kisses along the skin there. And when Johnny reaches around John from behind and pumps John a few times into Kyle's open mouth, you squirm with delight. A squirm that turns to a sigh as Simon's fingers find your clit and gently rub.

Knowing that John was with his men all these weeks had brought you some comfort. Knowing they would protect him, keep him company, and warm when you couldn't helped dull your worry. But it didn't satisfy your deep ache of loneliness or need. Your own hand and memory couldn't touch what these men did for you, and as Simon spreads your legs wider for John to watch, you groan from the pleasure.

"Look at me," John states as you lean your head back on Simon's shoulder, eyes half closing. Weeks without this make the feeling almost too much, but you open your eyes as Simon eases up. You know he's changed pace to silently indicate that if you don't do what John says, you don't get what you want.

"Beautiful," John answers as you lock eyes with him, knees bending up a bit as you push back against Simon's chest. And, as if in reward, Simon's fingers slip into you. No preamble or preparing for both digits, which makes you hiss with surprise, and a moment of pain, before he begins to pump them in and out of you, deliciously slow.

One of John's hands finds the back of Kyle's head and pushes him fully on his length, his nose pressed against his pelvis, before he pulls him back. He's not gentle with his men like he is with you. But the way Kyle moans deep in his chest, you know he enjoys it. Just like how Johnny enjoys the tight squeeze of John's other hand on his own freed cock, making him tremble.

It's a wonderful sight to see them like this, to tilt your head back and see Simon's eyes locked on his King as he finger fucks you toward climax. But you need more. You need to feel John. To feel Kyle and Johnny. All of it. And as if John can sense it, he taps Kyle on the shoulder, letting him slide his tongue along his length one more time, before the man rises and he walks toward you.

"Lie back, my love," you say as John climbs into the bed, painfully hard and lubricated from Kyle's spit. "Let me take care of you."

John doesn't object as you climb into his lap, bending forward to help situate the pillows for him with a smile. You slide your center of his length as you shift, and you bite your lip at how easily he slips through your folds. He doesn't miss it either, hands gripping your thighs as you dare to grind down on him a bit, rocking your hips. Fuck it feels good. You push down again, hands grabbing his shoulders as you move forward and back over him until a hand slides between your bodies to notch John at your entrance.

One more roll back and he slips in. Despite Simon's ministrations, it takes you a moment to seat John fully. This angle and weeks of nothing make it difficult, but as Johnny kisses your neck from behind and tells you how good you're doing, you feel your hips connect with John's.

"That's it," John coos as you begin to move, hands braced on his chest now. Ease rise and fall on him sends a jolt of pleasure through you, and you can feel the pressure of him right against your cervix. But you can't get what you're looking for, can't move at the right speed, legs tiring as you grind on him, trying to chase the pleasure that seems to linger just out of reach.

"Let me," Johnny offers as you whine in a bit of frustration. Then his hands are on you. Strong and capable as he grips your hip bones and moves you, fingers digging in as he lifts and lowers you, letting you fall back against him.

You can feel Johnny's length digging into your backside as you ride John, and the thrill of what John had asked you about before he left races through you. You needed more time and more preparation, as John explained, before letting Simon and Johnny demonstrate exactly what that meant. It scared you then; it was never something you had learned about, let alone seen. But now, now you want it. Wanted to feel these men inside of you, the only way possible, as the Queen could only have the King's children.

"Next time," John says as he adjusts to sit up fully to take over, letting Johnny slide away. He leans forward to kiss you gently, lips lingering over yours, hands running down your sweaty back to grab your behind. "Next time we will." As if he knew what you were thinking, wanting.

You nod with a small smile before John grabs your hands and places them on the headboard on either side of his head. You know what is coming. He's had enough rest and is ready to take over. And as his hands dig into your soft curves, he sets a brutal pace, using his legs as leverage as he bounces you on him. Arching his hips up as he brings you back down, the smacking sounds fill the room, only to be echoed by another.

You don't look, though, don't glance to see who has Kyle whimpering like that. Your eyes are only for your husband as he stares right back at you; nothing distracts him from your form. From the way you pant his name, or how your fingers hold so tightly to the carved wood frame, you think your palms will bleed from it. He doesn't ease up as you climax, doesn't give you a reprieve as one hand grabs you by the nape of your neck to pull you in for a kiss that steals your breath.

John bites down on your lip as he groans into your mouth, his length twitching as he comes. But he doesn't stop moving, slower, yes, but still pumping into you, making sure he fills you to the brim and nothing leaks out.

When he finishes, you lean forward into him, arms wrapping around him as he grows soft inside you, but you don't rise off him. Instead, you lay there, feeling more content than you have in weeks. Twisting your head to the side, you can see where Simon is sitting in a chair, breathing heavily with his own spend all over his chest and stomach. Kyle has disappeared, to clean up presumably, but Johnny is still by the bed, and with a smile, he tugs the blanket up around you and John.

"Sleep, my love," John breathes into your ear as you continue to just watch him, eyes heavy. "I'll be here when you wake."

"I just want to look at you. I've missed you these months," you say quietly as he smooths the sweat off your forehead.

+No cracks version

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+

There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.

You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.

You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.

You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.

A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.

The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.

It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.

There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.

That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.

You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.

"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"

He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.

"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."

His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."

"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."

The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.

"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"

"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"

He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.

"Suppose."

"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"

He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.

"Wot's tha' include?"

"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."

"Tha's my specialty, love."

"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."

"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."

"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."

A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.

"'m Simon."

The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.

You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.

"Olright, love. Lead the way."

Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.

"This wot he stole?"

You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.

"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."

The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.

You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.

"What the fuck is this?"

You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.

"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."

"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."

"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."

Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.

"Who the bloody hell is that?"

You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.

"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"

Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.

"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"

Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.

"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."

Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—

Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.

He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.

"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."

"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"

"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"

"Please…"

"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.

"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"

"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.

"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."

He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.

"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.

"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.

"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—

Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.

"Ahh—fuck."

You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.

You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.

"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"

It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.

"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"

"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."

You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.

"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.

"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.

"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"

"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."

"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"

Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.

The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.

Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.

Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.

Nothing at all.

He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.

"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Never better."

Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.

Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.

It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.

She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.

then simon starts arriving on base with lunches. real good lunches. johnny watches in envy as simon will lift his mask over his mouth and open his little (big) box, juicy steak covered in a real nice sauce.

"y'must be an awful good cook sir" johnny mutters, entranced in the smell of good food.

"told ya my missus makes it for me" simon would grunt. he silently pockets the small notes you would leave him.

i miss u <3

or

im proud of u <3

or

want u to fuck me real good tonight ;)

he would pocket the latter to jerk off to in his office later.

one day simon forgets his lunch. and being the everso caring and worrying wife, you rush down to the base to bring it to him.

when a pretty thing such as yourself arrives on base, the recruits can't keep their eyes off you. especially johnny who approaches awful confident.

"you lost lass?" he can't help his eyes drifting to your pretty tits spilling over your top.

"no" you bat your pretty lashes at him, "my husband left his lunch at home, i thought i could give it to him!"

johnny nearly fell to his knees in agony when you said husband. sighing he said, "aye then, do you know his rank or platoon number?"

you hum trying to recall. "i think task 141, his name is simon riley." you quickly reconfirm, "oh wait everyone here calls him ghost"

johnny stops dead in his tracks.

"you're LT's wife?"

you look up at him with a pretty smile and nod proudly. johnny had to hold back a groan, god you were beautiful.

and you were real.

you follow behind johnny while he leads you to simon and when you reach his office, johnny knocks once.

"come in" is grunted out slightly harshly

any hostility is quickly wiped off simon's face when he sees his pretty little wife standing next to his sergeant.

"hi si! you forgot your lunch" and you almost gallop over to simon in excitement holding out his lunchbox for him.

fuck. when is it johnny's turn :(

"you're excused soap" simon grunts, "although i'll get you to escort her back off base so stick around."

thats how johnny ends up sitting outside simon's office getting having to listen to the clattering of items on simon's desk as well as your sweet moans and whimpers while simon thanks you for making his lunch.

he can't stop staring at you when you stumble out on shaking legs with messed up hair and smudged lipgloss.