V.

That sundress does nothing to hide your frame, the swell of your breasts peeking out the top of the dress, a pretty necklace hanging in your cleavage, his cock chubs up nicely in his work pants, wishing he could just bend you over and take you in the middle of the street. He'll settle for just this for now.

30 minutes later Emily drags you to Simon to introduce you as "the pretty lady from next door" and you awe at her before sticking your hand out for a handshake towards the big brute.

He extends his thick calloused hand and shakes it firmly, feeling how soft your hand is, he feels no ring... good. He'll change that soon.

You end up talking for a while exchanging numbers before heading off to wherever you were going before.

Super belated Eid Mubarak!!!

See, you'd asked Simon to stop smoking after reading that it would damage his sperm. Trying for a baby apparently meant he needed to give up his vice.

But you were his missus, and he'd learned a long time ago—don't fucking argue with the missus.

Already by day three Simon was buying multiple packs of gum a day. Grumbling around base and the house. But he wouldn't take it out on you, never on you.

Your tits? Different story.

Simon had been sucking on your tits for almost an hour, switching between your now swollen and spit slick nipples. Yes, it felt fantastic—but Jesus Christ what was his obsession tonight?

"Simon." You murmur, tugging at his hair to pull him up. "You're usually inside me by now."

Simon grumbled, licking his lips. "You had me quit smokin' my fucking mouth needs to be doin' somethin'"

After that confession, Simon was always on you.

He comes home from work, and he pushes your shirt up while you read some book on the couch. His mouth immediately locking around your nipple. The tension built throughout the day leaving his body.

He'd suck on your tits of a morning instead of going for his usual smoke. Though you point out that he spends a lot longer on your nipples than he ever did his cigarettes.

You can't even take your shirt off around him without Simon pawing at your tits and sucking on you for at least five minutes before you finally batt him off to go cook dinner.

After a long weekend though, you went to work with sore tits. Your coworkers getting excited after hearing you'd been trying for a baby and now you were adjusting your bra all day.

Simon only chuckled when you complained to him that afternoon, letting you frustratedly throw your bra at him. "Just tell them that your husbands helping you practice for when you're actually breastfeeding."

He then had to dodge your heel at that comment.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

Upon your arrival you greeted everyone accordingly, settling into the barracks. For the rest of your first day Soap kept attempting to get to know you, but hell you were even less talkative than Lt, just nodding along or dryly responding to his questions, your face emotionless for the entire duration of the small talk.

Then, Ghost mutters a single dry comment from the corner of the room and you smirk—fucking smirk, nearly chuckle too.

After that, Soap couldn’t stop noticing the tension between you and his Lieutenant.

The lingering eye contact during briefings. The arguments that felt too personal. The way he would stand just a little too close beside you during training, gloved hand brushing your shoulder as he corrected your stance.

“You’re overcompensating,” Ghost said one afternoon behind the shooting range.

“I’m adjusting for wind.”

“You’re adjusting badly.”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Funny coming from someone who missed center twice.”

Soap felt like he was interrupting something with the way the two of you stared each other down like the rest of the world had vanished.

Later that night, he cornered Ghost near the armory.

“What's going on between ya too?”

Ghost didn’t even look up from cleaning his rifle. “Nothing.”

“Oh, piss off,” Soap scoffed. “It’s bloody obvious.”

Ghost reassembled the magazine with slow, deliberate movements. “You imaginin’ things.”

“I’m telling you, Lt, every time she walks into a room, you both look ready to either kill each other or tear each other’s clothes off.”

That finally earned him a glare, “Drop it, Johnny.”

he's a typical military male. mean, blunt, and cold. he's not much for pda with his love, it's not that he's ashamed of you or anything, but at most he holds your hand if you ask him. he's ghost—he has a reputation to uphold!

so no, you can't take photos of him in your girly bed that has a concerning amount of plushies and the softest, pinkest blankets he's ever had the pleasure of sleeping with, and you can't call him baby or a childish petname that isn't si or my love because he's a grown man pushing into his mid thirties almost forties and he doesn't want his teammates to think he's a sissy.

he wouldn't hear the end of it if his teammates knew that he sleeps best with his head on your chest and your arms wrapped around him like mother and son, protecting him from the cold, dark world. society expects him to be dominating and masculine. in the barracks at night, his teammates often ask him for deets on how he fucks his woman back home, but truth be told when they ask, his mind only thinks about how hard he cums inside of you when he makes love to you deep and slow, suckling on your breasts with your hands dragging deliciously up and down his back, soothing him until he's nothing but a trembling and whimpering mess—so instead he tells them to go fuck themselves.

in public, you'll whine and complain when he declines your offer to hold him, so he lets you steal a kiss or two as compensation. however, simon has a tiny dilemma when it comes to you. he may act cold and unaffected, but deep in his heart he's an absolute sucker for your attention and praise. once he got ahold of you, it's like he became addicted to this thing that people like you call love—your love.

so when you pull away, balance flat on your feet, simon stares down at you with round gleaming eyes that tell you everything that he can't say. please, more.

and you deliver, because your simon gives you all you want and he deserves to receive the same treatment. you get back on your tippy toes and press your soft lips against his, to which he instantly responds with pressing his against yours. he knows he said only a kiss, but his hands seem to have a mind of their own as one of them cup the back of your head, not giving you the chance to step away.

the kiss gets more wild than he anticipated. in the back of his mind, as he flicks his tongue against your bottom lip, he wonders where his sense of control went, but his eyes are already glazing over and soon the kiss turns into a sloppy thing, saliva threatening to spill from the corner of his mouth as you absolutely ravage your boyfriend.

there's many people around the two of you, giving disapproving faces as you... ruin him. he feels destroyed. weak. this is not how it's supposed to be. he's the one meant to press you into the wall, groping you, but no, you're the one who is cupping the bulge in his pants without a care in the world, parting from him just to whisper "you like that, baby?" before you're back crashing your lips against his, to which he nastily groans at.

he's a blushing mess, eyes glossy and chest heaving as he pants into the kiss. he lets you nip at his lips and draw blood, lets you drink him up until you pull away suddenly with a lewd pop!, licking his saliva off your lips as you look at him with a mischievous smirk, satisfied at the sight of your boyfriend, usually composed and as stoic as stone, now an absolute mess; pink in the cheeks and sucking on his own bottom lip from shyness, his hands fumbling with the hem of your shirt.

there's a familar look in his eyes again.

domestic!geto who keeps his hair tied up with the same elastic you once gave him — he says it’s just convenient, but he‘ll never use uses another one.

domestic!geto who he ties his hair up lazily in the morning, a few strands always falling loose. you tease him for it, but he never fixes it. says you like it that way anyway.

domestic!geto who reads while you nap, sometimes out loud without realizing it, and his voice becomes calming white noises to your ears eventually.

domestic!geto who is the type to quietly fix things around the house before you notice they’re broken. kind of like magic. you’ll wake up and the door just works. just like that.

domestic!geto whose clothes always end up mixed with yours because he insists laundry “doesn’t need labels.”

domestic!geto who lets you braid his hair when you’re bored, even if it looks ridiculous — he’ll still wear it like that until he sucks it up eventually. he never does, though. ever.

domestic!geto who you catch him smiling at you when you talk about random things, and he’ll look away like it never happened. nerd. cough cough. dork.

domestic!geto who keeps your favorite snacks in the cabinet, but pretends he doesn’t know which ones you like best. he says he just “thought you’d like ‘em.” but you know it’s a lie.

domestic!geto who texts you “come home safe” every single time you leave, even if you’re just running errands.

domestic!geto who hums old songs while cleaning, sleeves rolled up, morning glory casted on his face.

domestic!geto who always makes tea for two, even when you’re not there — it’s a habit he doesn’t wanna break.

domestic!geto who, when you fall asleep on him, he stays still for hours just to not wake you, thumb tracing small imaginary circles on your hand.

domestic!geto who folds your laundry with incredible neatness but leaves his robes draped over the couch. you call it laziness and he calls it balance.

domestic!geto who has a dry sense of humor — calm, unbothered, but he always says something that catches you off guard and makes you laugh when least expected.

domestic!geto who he doesn’t take pictures often, but you catch him staring at you like he’s memorizing every detail for later.

domestic!geto who and he always, always kisses your forehead before sleep. even if he’s tired, even if you’re already out cold. a quiet promise, one he never says out loud.

....

Please do not repost!