gianna

john price

fem!reader. 3,345 words. mdni WARNINGS. 18+ only! size difference, hand kink, general filth, spanking, choking,dominance,

The air between you felt like a fuse—short, sparking, seconds from detonation.

"I want you," Simon whispered, rough and barely held together. "Not just your body. All of you."

You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. You just met his gaze and said, “Then have me.”

And everything snapped.

Simon moved fast—urgent, primal—his hands on you like he’d been dying of thirst and finally reached water. He kissed you like he was punishing himself for waiting this long, his teeth grazing your lip as he pressed you down into the mattress with the weight of his body. You gasped into his mouth, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck as he pressed his hips to yours.

"Been good for too long," he rasped, voice already gone rough with want. "Tried to ignore it. Couldn’t."

His hand slid under your shirt—then up—palm dragging up your bare torso until it found your chest. He cupped it roughly, groaning into your neck. "You’re killing me, love."

"Then let me save you," you whispered, breath hitching as his fingers teased your nipple. "Take it."

He pulled back just enough to strip your shirt off, eyes devouring you like you were the first light after years of darkness. He kissed down your chest, slow, wet kisses between quick grazes of teeth, leaving marks he didn’t care if anyone saw. His hands slid under your waistband and pulled your pants down in one smooth motion, tossing them aside with purpose.

"Look at you," he muttered, almost reverently, calloused fingers dragging between your thighs. "So wet already. Did I do this to you?"

"Yes," you breathed, hips arching up. "You did."

That cocky little grin touched his lips—just for a second—before he leaned in and licked a slow stripe between your legs, dragging a moan from deep inside your chest. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he sucked, licked, fucked you with his tongue until your eyes rolled back and your thighs trembled around his head.

"Simon—fuck—I’m gonna—"

"Do it," he growled. "Want to taste you. Every part of you."

You came hard—gasping, legs clenching around his shoulders—and he didn’t stop until you were whimpering, sensitive and shaking.

Then he was crawling up your body, kissing you through it, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “You’re perfect,” he murmured against your lips. “Fucking perfect.”

You reached for his waistband, undoing his pants with trembling fingers. “Need you. Now.”

He groaned—deep and raw—pulling them off and kicking them aside. And when he finally pressed against you, thick and heavy, you gasped.

“Jesus, Simon,” you whispered, blinking up at him.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Still want it?”

You met his eyes—full of heat, need, trust.

“I need it.”

He slid in slowly—inch by inch—gritting his teeth like he was trying not to lose control too fast. The stretch burned just right, your back arching into him as your hands gripped his arms, his chest, anything to ground yourself.

Once he was buried to the hilt, he stilled. Forehead pressed to yours. Both of you just breathing.

“God, you feel…” he shook his head, like he couldn’t find the word. “You were made for me.”

He began to move. Slow, deep strokes that made your whole body hum, hips rolling into yours with purpose. His hand slid under your thigh, hitching it higher to angle deeper—and when he hit that spot inside you, your mouth fell open in a silent cry.

“That’s it,” he grunted, picking up the pace, every thrust harder, hungrier. “You feel that? That’s mine. You’re mine now.”

"Simon—" You were already close again, body tightening like a livewire.

"You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?" he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. "Come on my cock this time? Want to feel you fall apart."

You couldn’t even answer. Just nodding—moaning—gripping him as the second orgasm hit you like a freight train. He cursed, hips stuttering as your walls clenched around him, and then his control finally snapped.

He drove into you hard, fast, desperate now—nothing held back—and then he was groaning your name into your neck as he came, hot and deep inside you.

You stayed like that for a long moment. Tangled, sweaty, hearts hammering.

When he finally moved, he didn’t go far. He lay beside you and pulled you back into his chest, still catching his breath, his hand running lazy circles over your hip.

“This wasn’t just sex for me,” he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion but laced with something softer. “Don’t want this to be a one-time thing.”

You rolled to face him, cheeks flushed, body still thrumming.

“Then don’t let it be.”

His eyes locked with yours. That sharp, haunted look softened for once—honest, unguarded.

“You don’t get it,” he said quietly. “You’re not just in my bed. You’re under my skin. Been there for a while.”

You swallowed, heart racing in a whole new way now.

“You’re under mine too.”

He pulled you closer, arm heavy around your waist, lips brushing your forehead.

And for the first time in a long time… you both slept without nightmares.

last one for awhile

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There was a heaviness across your waist. Solid. Warm. Protective.

Simon.

His arm was wrapped around you like a steel band, anchoring you to him in sleep. Your head rested against his chest, rising and falling with every slow breath he took. For a moment, it didn’t feel like you were on base. It didn’t feel like war. Or protocol. Or rules.

It felt like something…safe.

You closed your eyes again, letting yourself pretend—for just a few more minutes—that this was normal.

But reality had sharp teeth.

A knock pounded on the door suddenly. Sharp. Three hits. Heavy enough to echo.

You both jerked awake instantly.

Simon’s arm tightened instinctively around you, protective reflex kicking in before logic could.

“Ghost?” It was Soap’s voice, muffled but clear. “Briefing in twenty, mate.”

Simon grunted, annoyed. “Got it.”

The footsteps faded.

Silence lingered.

Your face was still tucked against his chest, and neither of you moved.

“We should probably get up,” you mumbled.

“Probably,” he agreed, but didn’t let go.

Another moment passed before he finally sighed and let his arm fall away. You both sat up—awkward now, in the daylight, without the cover of darkness or adrenaline.

He stood first, rubbing a hand down his face. Shirtless. His back to you. Covered in scars.

“I meant what I said,” he muttered, voice rough. “About this not being nothing.”

You stood as well, pulling your hoodie over your head, heart thumping in your chest.

“Then what is it?”

He turned toward you, eyes unreadable for a second… and then softened.

“I don’t know yet,” he said honestly. “But I want to find out. With you.”

You nodded, slow. “Okay.”

His hand lifted slightly, like he wanted to touch you—wanted to say more—but then his expression shifted, walls coming up just slightly.

“Not here. Not out there,” he said, motioning vaguely toward the hallway. “We keep it quiet. Just for now.”

You understood. Chain of command. Reputation. Professionalism.

But still, your chest ached a little.

You crossed the room, grabbed your boots, then paused beside him.

“Just for now,” you echoed. “But not forever?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

“No,” he said quietly. “Not forever.”

Later, in the Briefing Room

You sat across from him. Not next to. Not touching. No one would’ve guessed a damn thing.

But you could feel him.

His eyes on you when he thought no one noticed. The slight twitch of his jaw when another male recruit leaned too close to you. His boot tapping silently beneath the table—not from impatience, but from tension.

When the mission debrief ended, Price dismissed everyone. The room cleared quickly.

Everyone but Simon.

And you.

You waited by the door.

“Riley,” Price said, arms crossed. “A word.”

You paused, instinctively turning to leave—but Price’s eyes shifted to you.

“You too.”

Shit.

You both stepped back in.

Price looked between the two of you, gaze sharp and unreadable.

“You two are gettin’ real familiar lately.”

Simon didn’t flinch. “We’re sharing quarters, sir. That’s all.”

Price raised an eyebrow. “That right?”

“Yes, sir.”

You swallowed hard, trying not to fidget.

Price exhaled through his nose. “I don’t care what you do in your off time—as long as it doesn’t compromise the team, the op, or either of your heads.”

You blinked. “So… we’re not in trouble?”

Price grunted. “Not yet. But don’t give me a reason.”

You nodded. “Understood, sir.”

“Good.” His tone softened, barely. “But be careful. People start caring too much in this job… that’s when they get sloppy. Or killed.”

The warning lingered like smoke.

That Night

You couldn’t sleep again.

Too much on your mind. Too much heat still coursing under your skin from the way Simon had looked at you all day—like he was trying not to touch you in every damn room you entered.

Around 1 AM, the bunk creaked softly as you climbed up again.

Simon stirred immediately this time, voice low and rasped: “Couldn’t sleep?”

You shook your head.

He opened the blanket for you without a word, and you slid in beside him.

This time, it wasn’t awkward.

His arm wrapped around you automatically, your face pressed into his chest, the smell of him grounding you.

“You’re dangerous,” you whispered against his skin.

He chuckled softly. “That’s rich—coming from you.”

Your hand drifted down to rest on his stomach, and you felt the way his breath hitched.

“I meant it,” you murmured. “You mess with my head.”

He shifted slightly, lips brushing your temple.

“You mess with more than that.”

You looked up, and something cracked wide open between you.

No words. Just eyes locked. Breaths shared.

And when he kissed you this time—it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate.

It was slow. Deep. Like a promise.

Your shirt slipped up, his hand found the bare skin of your waist, and he groaned against your lips.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this,” he murmured. “Wanted you.”

Your fingers slid under his shirt, tracing every scar, every muscle. “Then take it.”

His hand stilled.

“Not here,” he said, breath ragged. “I want more than just a quick fuck under military-grade sheets. You deserve more.”

You pulled back slightly, heart hammering. “Then what do you want?”

He looked at you, eyes dark. Honest.

“You,” he whispered. “Not just your body. All of you.”

!!If anyone asks about Part 5 — don’t worry, it will be coming. However, I’m taking a break from these apps for the sake of my mental health, as I’m currently going through something personal. I won’t be sharing any details, but I appreciate your understanding. I plan for this break to last around 2–3 months. Thank you for your patience and support!!

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You didn’t want to stop.

You didn’t know how long the kiss lasted—seconds, minutes, maybe more—but when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath hot and uneven.

“This is a bad idea,” he muttered, his voice gravelly, more to himself than to you.

You swallowed hard. “Then why aren’t you walking away?”

His silence was answer enough.

He didn’t want to walk away.

And neither did you.

Simon leaned back slightly, searching your face like he was looking for regret—but there was none. Only flushed cheeks, parted lips, and the same thing he’d been trying so damn hard to ignore: want. Need.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, then turned and walked away—but only to the door. He reached out and locked it with a soft click.

Your breath caught.

The sound of that lock felt louder than any words.

When he turned back around, his entire posture had shifted. More tense. More certain.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, voice low.

“But we are,” you replied.

He crossed the room in three strides, and the moment his hands touched you again, your body lit up like a match struck too close to gasoline.

This time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t hesitant.

It was fire.

Your back hit the nearest wall as he pressed into you, one hand braced beside your head while the other tangled in your hair, guiding your mouth to his like he’d die if you pulled away. You gasped against him, fingers grabbing at the front of his shirt, and he growled low in his throat—that sound sending heat straight through your spine.

His lips moved down to your neck, slow but deliberate, and you felt the scrape of his teeth as he mumbled against your skin:

“Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Instead, your hand slid under his shirt, fingers brushing the hard lines of his abdomen, the scars etched across him like a map of every battle he’d fought—and survived. He shuddered under your touch, then pulled back just enough to look at you.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into with me,” he said hoarsely.

“Then show me,” you whispered.

His pupils dilated.

And that was it.

He spun you toward the bed in one motion, crowding you against the bottom bunk, the heat between you two nearly unbearable now. His mouth returned to yours with more hunger this time, more need, like he'd finally given in to every thought he'd buried for months.

The room was dim, the air thick, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest—and still, everything about it felt…right. Like this moment had been inevitable from the start.

But just as his hands began to roam further, exploring the skin beneath your shirt, his breath hitched and he stopped, forehead pressing to your collarbone.

“Shit,” he breathed. “I can’t… I want you. But not like this.”

You blinked, breathless and dazed. “Not like what?”

“Not in secret. Not with half my mind still in combat mode. You deserve more than just a fuck in a barracks room.”

His voice was rough. Sincere. Like it actually hurt him to stop.

Your chest ached with something deep, something unfamiliar.

“You’re not just a soldier to me,” he added, eyes locked on yours. “You’re not just someone I want to touch and forget about. You're in my head. All the time.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. “So what now?”

He exhaled again. Sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled you between his legs, resting his head against your stomach. His arms looped around your hips, holding you like he wasn’t ready to let go.

“You sleep,” he murmured. “And tomorrow, we talk about this. Properly.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair. “And until then?”

He looked up at you with eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.

“Until then,” he said quietly, “you stay here. With me.”

Hours later, you were lying beside him in the narrow bunk, bodies barely fitting, but neither of you caring.

You felt him before you heard him—the brush of his fingers against your hip under the blanket.

“Still awake?” he whispered.

“…Yeah.”

A beat.

Then: “You still want this?”

You turned to face him, barely able to see the outline of his face in the dark.

“Yeah.”

A pause. His hand slid up your back.

“Good.”

Because this time, he wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t care.

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The rain drummed steadily against the windows, soft and rhythmic, like nature’s lullaby. You were curled up on the couch, a heavy blanket draped over your legs, a half-finished cup of tea growing cold on the table beside you. The storm outside had been brewing since early afternoon, and now, as the sky darkened into a heavy navy, the clouds let loose their full weight.

You didn’t mind the rain. It was soothing in its own way. But what made this moment especially perfect was the man quietly moving around the kitchen — Kyle Garrick, known to most as Gaz. To you, he was just Kyle.

He had insisted on making dinner tonight, shooing you out of the kitchen with a mock sternness and a kiss to your forehead.

"Sit down and relax," he said. "You’ve had a long week. Let me take care of you tonight."

You watched him from the couch, his silhouette cast in warm golden light from the hanging lamps above the stove. He moved with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times — chopping, stirring, humming under his breath.

It still surprised you sometimes, how gentle he could be.

You knew Kyle as the fierce, sharp-minded sergeant who could command a battlefield with calm authority. But here, in the quiet of your shared flat, he was softer. He was the man who remembered how you took your tea, who warmed your side of the bed before you got in, who kissed the top of your head when you had a bad day and held you like he’d never let go.

"Smells good," you said softly, hugging a throw pillow to your chest.

He looked up with a grin, a small smudge of sauce on his cheek.

"Don’t get your hopes up too high," he teased. "Could still be a disaster."

"You’ve never made a bad meal in your life."

He chuckled, setting down the wooden spoon and wiping his hands on a dish towel. “That’s because I bribe you with kisses when it’s awful. Keeps your reviews kind.”

"Mm. You’re not wrong."

You tilted your head back against the couch cushions and sighed. Your body ached — not painfully, just tired. Bone-deep tired. But it was the kind of tired that being next to Kyle made easier. Somehow, his presence was its own kind of balm. You didn’t need to speak all the time. Just being close to him was enough.

“Alright,” he said a few minutes later, carrying over two plates. “Dinner’s served.”

He settled next to you, his thigh warm against yours. The meal was simple — creamy pasta with grilled vegetables and chicken — but it tasted like something out of a dream. Rich, comforting, and full of flavor.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, eating slowly, grateful.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For all of this.”

Kyle turned his head slightly, brushing a kiss against your temple.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I want to do this for you.”

You set your plate aside and shifted, curling into his side. His arm moved instinctively, pulling you closer until your head rested against his chest. The soft cotton of his t-shirt was warm against your cheek, and you could hear the steady beat of his heart.

Safe. That’s how he made you feel.

"You ever think about what it would be like if we just… disappeared for a while?" you asked after a long pause. "No missions. No danger. Just… us. Somewhere quiet. Maybe a little house by the sea."

His hand stroked your arm gently, thoughtful.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I think about it more than I probably should."

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed as you pictured it.

"You’d fish every morning. I’d make us breakfast. We’d have a garden."

"A big bed with too many pillows," he added, voice low and fond. "And a dog. Something big and lazy. Sleeps by the fire."

"A mastiff," you said immediately, and he laughed.

"Of course you’d pick the biggest dog."

"I need someone to keep up with you, Sergeant."

He pulled you tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“I’d like that,” he murmured. “Someday. When all this is over.”

You didn’t reply right away, just listened to the sound of the rain and the quiet beating of his heart beneath your ear. For a long time, there was only silence — but it wasn’t empty. It was full of every unspoken feeling that passed between you and Kyle like invisible threads, tying you to one another.

After a while, you whispered, “Promise me we’ll make it there. That we’ll get our little house by the sea.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, with absolute certainty, “I promise.”

And you believed him.

Because Kyle Garrick had never broken a promise to you before. Not when he said he’d come home. Not when he said he’d call. Not when he said he loved you.

The rain kept falling, the night deepening, but in that small living room, on that overstuffed couch wrapped in each other’s warmth, the world felt far away.

And for once — in a life full of danger, shadows, and uncertainty — you felt like everything was going to be okay.

Because Kyle was here.

And he always would be.

The room was quiet now. His breath warmed the back of your neck as his arm rested securely around your waist, large, calloused hand splayed across your stomach. You froze—not out of fear, but confusion. Your body tensed at the sudden closeness, but somehow…you didn’t want to pull away. Not yet.

Simon said it meant nothing.

But it didn’t feel like nothing.

Your heart pounded hard in your chest, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it. Your fingers clenched the thin blanket as you tried to make sense of it all. You had known Ghost to be cold, distant, a wall of unreadable emotion and steel discipline. Yet now…here he was, curled around your body like he couldn’t stand the thought of you being even a foot away.

“You still awake?” he murmured lowly, voice husky from sleep.

“…Yeah,” you whispered.

There was a pause. Then, without lifting his head, he spoke again.

“You always this bad at sleeping?”

“Not always,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Just…when I’m sharing a room with someone. Especially when that someone is my lieutenant.”

That earned you a soft huff of a laugh from behind. “I’m not that scary.”

“You kind of are.”

Another silence.

His grip on you didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened slightly—barely noticeable, but enough to make you feel grounded. Protected.

And then, so quietly you almost missed it, he muttered:

“Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You turned slightly in his hold, enough to look back over your shoulder. His eyes were open now, shadowed by the darkness, but even in the dim lighting from the hall slivering under the door, you could see the vulnerability in them. The tension in his jaw. The war going on behind that skull mask of his, even when it was physically absent.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you said, more honestly than you’d expected.

You felt him go still.

Then, softly, almost too softly to believe it came from him: “Good.”

A few more minutes passed in silence. His breath had slowed, but he wasn’t asleep. You could tell by the way his thumb rubbed idly across your hip, back and forth like a silent confession.

“You didn’t have to hold me like this,” you said.

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

This time, the silence wasn’t accidental. It was deliberate.

“Because,” he said after a long pause, “you looked like you needed it.”

You didn’t respond to that. Because maybe…he did too.

Eventually, lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his body curled around yours, your eyes began to flutter shut.

—

The next morning came too quickly.

You stirred before he did, limbs tangled in a way that made it nearly impossible to move without waking him. His face was relaxed, softened in sleep, no skull paint, no mask, no cold demeanor—just Simon. And for a second, you let yourself stare.

It was stupid to think he looked peaceful. But he did. And worse, he looked safe.

You’d barely begun to ease away from him when his voice cut through the silence, low and rough.

“You move like a damn tank.”

You flinched slightly, freezing. “…Sorry.”

Simon let out a low grunt and sat up slowly, brushing a hand over his face and down his neck. His dog tags clinked softly against his bare chest, and your eyes caught the light sheen of a scar trailing down from his shoulder.

He noticed you looking, but didn’t say anything.

“You alright?” he asked instead, voice still laced with sleep.

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks…for last night.”

He paused at the edge of the bed, back still to you. “Don’t make it a habit.”

It stung a little more than you expected. You nodded stiffly, swinging your legs over the bed and standing to gather your things for the day. The room suddenly felt colder.

But before you could leave, Simon's voice stopped you again.

“…But if you need it again… I won’t say no.”

You turned, surprised. He didn’t meet your eyes. He was focused on lacing up his boots, but his shoulders were tense. Almost nervous.

You didn’t say anything. You just nodded and walked out, the smallest smile tugging at your lips.

—

The next few days passed in a strange rhythm.

You and Ghost—Simon—shared the room in a kind of quiet balance. You didn’t bring up that night. He didn’t either. But something had shifted.

He started waiting for you before meals. Not obviously—just leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, saying things like, “You done yet?” or “Hurry up.” But you knew.

He started bringing you an extra protein bar without asking. Offering you the seat closest to the wall when the mess hall was full. And one night, after a rough training op in the rain, he handed you a towel without a word and watched you from the corner of his eye as you dried your hair, the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips.

He wasn’t good at talking. But his actions spoke louder than any words.

Then came the third incident.

You’d just come back from a mission. Exhausted, sore, and dirty. As you opened the door to the shared quarters, Simon was already there—clean, towel slung over his neck, leaning against the dresser.

He took one look at your face and didn’t say anything. Just walked over, grabbed your vest, and helped you out of it without a word.

It was intimate. Too intimate. His hands were careful, lingering for a second longer than necessary as he brushed your shoulder, knuckles grazing your cheek when he removed your comms piece.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed hard. “I think so.”

“You sure?”

You hesitated. “Would it matter if I said no?”

He stepped closer. Close enough that his breath fanned over your face. His voice dropped.

“Yeah. It would.”

The air grew heavy. Your eyes locked.

You were the first to break it.

“You said this meant nothing,” you whispered.

He didn't move. “Maybe I lied.”

His eyes searched yours. For resistance. For fear. For something. But you gave him none of that.

Just a soft, whispered: “I know.”

And then, his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Firm. Desperate like he’d been holding back for far too long.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers clutching at the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groaned low in his throat as he deepened the kiss.

Whatever restraint he had been clinging to—it snapped.

And so did yours.

(to be continued...)

holy crackers!! this is for everyone asking for a pt 2🤍 love all of yall❤❤

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Simon Riley, the strong lieutenant, having a soft spot for you? Ha! Never. But deep down, in the quietest part of his heart, he couldn't fake it anymore. Maybe—just maybe—he did have a slight soft spot for you… but who said you had to know that?

You didn’t.

Then one day, as you were casually walking past his quarters, not paying much attention, you bumped right into him—into his broad, solid chest. You looked up quickly to see who it was.

Oh shit.

You just bumped into Lieutenant Riley.

Panic rushed through your chest. You were afraid of getting chewed out or written up, so you stammered quickly, “S-Sorry, Lieutenant…” Your voice was small, shy, barely above a whisper.

Simon looked down at your smaller frame and muttered, just loud enough for you to hear, “It’s fine. Just be careful next time.”

And then he walked past you.

You stood there for a good minute, frozen, brain still trying to catch up with what had just happened. You were so confused… but he was so fine that you immediately forgot about the awkwardness.

You shook your head and made your way to the mess hall, eventually plopping down onto a cold metal bench. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but it would do.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Lieutenant Simon Riley sit down right next to you.

Your brows furrowed. Why was he sitting with you? This was the second encounter today… and in the mess hall of all places? That never happened. Simon never mingled like this. This was weird.

Was he doing this on purpose? Or was it all just a coincidence? Maybe it was an accident? You didn’t know what to make of it. So finally, curiosity got the best of you, and you turned to him.

“Mr. Riley… are you purposefully coming up to me?”

He glanced at you, cool and unreadable, and replied with a short but steady tone: “No. Just a coincidence.”

And he knew damn well that was a lie. He wanted to see you. Every single day. He didn’t even know why he felt so possessive over you—but he did. He wanted you. He needed to claim you.

Meanwhile, you were just sitting there confused as hell, unsure what to make of any of this. You ignored it, stood up, and walked out of the mess hall. There wasn’t much to do there anyway. You made your way toward your quarters, only to hear the overhead speaker blare:

"READER. SIMON. COME TO MY OFFICE."

You sighed and turned on your heel, heading toward Price’s office.

When you got there, Simon was already standing inside. You stepped in and quietly shut the door behind you. The room was heavy with silence. Price motioned for both of you to sit across from him, and you did—nervous, waiting for whatever this was.

Then Price spoke, voice sharp, straight to the point: “So. We’ve got too many recruits on base. We’re doubling up rooms. You two are the first pair. Hope you understand.”

The silence that followed was thick.

You opened your mouth to speak, but Simon beat you to it.

“Yes, sir. Which quarter is it?”

“Room 653,” Price replied simply.

Without another word, Simon stood up and began walking toward the assigned room. You stood too, following closely behind. His steps were purposeful, loud. Dominant.

When you got there, Simon opened the door.

The room was small—standard issue. A bunk bed in the corner, one nightstand, a rug on the floor, and plain-painted walls. No decorations. Nothing personal.

This wasn’t a princess castle. This was the military.

You both took a moment to look around, then you spoke, “I’m taking the bottom bunk.”

Simon let out a soft chuckle. “All good.”

You each began unpacking your things. You silently hoped Simon wasn’t the messy type—you hated mess. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to settle in, and the room stayed neat.

You sat down on the edge of the bed and said, “It’s actually kinda comfy…”

Simon looked over and replied, “Is it now? Well, that’s good.”

The air was a little awkward at first, but eventually, it softened. You talked until about 8 PM, and by then, it was time to get some rest. You both settled into bed.

But by 1 or 2 AM, you were still wide awake.

Frustrated, you quietly climbed up the bunk ladder and reached Simon, gently shaking him. No response. You shook him a little harder.

He groaned, eyes blinking sleepily as he rubbed his temples and sat up.

“I… I can’t sleep,” you whispered shyly.

He sighed. “Well, just use the military method. You already know it.”

“I tried, Simon. It won’t work. I tried multiple times!”

He sighed again, more deeply this time, and turned his back toward you.

You frowned. “Simon—! I wanna sleep just as much as you do. Please…”

Something about the way you said please made something shift in him.

Without a word, he pulled you into his arms, spooning you gently but firmly. “This means nothing… it’s just friendship,” he muttered.

But he knew damn well that was a lie.

It meant a lot more than friendship for him.

age gap ( legal), cocksleeve,

You’re settled on his lap, snug and full, your soaked cunt wrapped tight around his cock. He’s buried deep inside you, unmoving, thick and warm, and you’re just... there—grinding lightly, kissing lazily, melting into each other.

His hands roam your body like he owns it—because he does. They squeeze your ass, trail along your hips, knead your thighs, cup your tits like he’s memorizing every inch. Sometimes, his fingers curl around your jaw, caressing your cheek tenderly, other times they wrap around your neck just tight enough to make your breath hitch. He knows what you need.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, grounding yourself as you keep him close. Lips pressed together, swollen from hours of kissing, mouths parting only to gasp or groan between the heat.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, voice ragged, hands sliding up to your breasts, thumbing your nipples until you’re whimpering. “So fuckin’ perfect like this. Just sittin’ on my cock, made for me.”

And God, you are. You feel like you were built for this—for him. You’d stay like this forever if he let you.

“You’re my good girl,” he breathes against your skin, kissing along your jaw, down to your throat. “My sweet little fucktoy.”

He sucks bruises into your neck, deliberately out in the open—he wants people to see. Wants them to know you’re his. The idea of you marked and full of him makes his cock throb inside you.