simon riley being your older bf ૮ ྀི ◞ ◟ ა
simon was private, blunt, quiet — so it always filled you with pride to hear the shock in people’s voices when they found out the two of you were a couple.
“fucking hell, you locked down ghost?”
ghost. you’d only heard of him, never seen him. stories were passed around the office that you’d file paperwork and battle reports in, gossiping about the soldiers like they were your own personal celebrities. you’d heard of how ruthless he was, how merciless and strong. how violent… as sick as it was, that was what drew you to him in the first place.
alas, once you got to know each other — you were rather surprised to find out he wasn’t really like that. there was no trace of ‘ghost’ in simon when he was off duty. big and strong? yes. mysterious and rather quiet? definitely. but there was something you craved from him, something you’d pushed down for months. you wanted to see ghost.
you would never admit it, but it would turn you on when you’d casually mention your relationship to those who mutually know the two of you — all because of that look in their eye. the way they’d widen slightly, giving you a once over before drifting off — like they just can’t help but imagine it. you were all soft and sweet, dwarfed in comparison to him, and simon was well, simon. you wondered what they must picture, how they’d worry for you, dating a man that big and scary, especially when you’re quite the gap younger than him. you wondered if people thought about him intimidating you in the bedroom, forcing your hole open around him. maybe no one was perverse as you.
you were convinced to make him snap tonight. you’d shyly invite him to your small, humble apartment that friday night. already, the thought of him — so big and manly in your little girly bedroom was sending chills down your spine and dampening your panties. you’d slipped on a silk slip dress that was so thin you could plainly see the peaks of your nipples, and slid your damp underwear down your legs all together, chucking them in the hamper. you wanted to push him, you wanted to meet ghost.
it wasn’t to say simon wasn’t great at sex. he was — and wouldn’t let you off the mattress until you’d given him a good few orgasms. but the thing was, you could tell he’d been holding off. he looks unsure sometimes, borderline uncomfortable when your brows would knit together at the stretch of him— occasionally pulling out all together and switching to his fingers instead. you knew he was being extra weary, already feeling like someone like him shouldn’t be with someone like you, and that it was only a matter of time before you got hurt or scared. his gentleness with you did not go under-appreciated, but you’d be damned if you didn’t try and push your luck.
you rush to the door when he arrives from training, still wearing that black balaclava, baggy black hoodie and sweats. his heavy, dark-circled eyes fall on you when you speed up to him, wrapping your arms around his middle.
“alright, love?” it’s so quiet you barely hear it — and then he lifts his hand to lift off his balaclava.
“no.” your voice is all thick with spit when you grab his wrist, fingers not even wrapping round the girth of it entirely. he gives you an odd look, trying again and you let out this pitiful whine that makes him freeze all together.
“wha’s this about?” he breathes, gravel crumbling in his throat like a tire on stones. he can see that you’re worked up, infact you look like any second you’ll burst into hyperventilation or tears. si’s worried.
“keep it on.” you whisper desperately like your life depends on it. there was some natural defiance there, because despite being a soldier — simon didn’t like being told what to do. he tsks quietly, gripping the edge of his mask and this time you whine loudly, foot kicking out frantically like you wanted to stomp, hands still nestled into his hoodie with white knuckles, holding him close. you stare up at him with wide, hazy eyes, your whole plan to calmly seduce him and discuss your needs long gone. the mask, you realised — added to the whole ghost persona.
“use y’words. i don’t know what you’re on about.” he relents, no longer trying to remove his mask and you bury your face into his hoodie, mumbling something as you breathe him in. he pulls you back instantly and flicks you once with the pad of his finger beneath your chin to lift it. “oi. speak up.” he commands. there it is.
“i wan’it.” you breathe, lust dripping from your drooly lips and his cock twitches, yet doesn’t want to jump the gun.
“what do you want?”
you close your eyes, drawing a breath like it would take courage to speak aloud— this was only your deepest fantasies after all. you don’t open your eyes when you mumble the truth.
“cant hear you sweetheart, please.” he shifts on his feet impatiently and you squeeze your eyes harder shut.
“want you to fuck me like you’re angry at me, puh—p-please.” it’s like you’re possessed, his sweet girl nowhere to be found. he squints, the rest of his features obstructed by the black fabric.
“you what?”
“i want ghost.”
it’s like the world stills for a moment, you’re not even sure he breaths. there’s too much silence to bare and you open your eyes, your own chest rising and falling with the adrenaline of admitting such things.
“no y’don’t.” his response is blunt, and he firmly moves you aside as he walks through the house. you note that he doesn’t take his boots off at the door, and still — the mask remains on his face. simon plops down on your couch, legs spread and arms resting along the back, looking so good though he only came back from training. you hover like a fairy, standing near the couch as you stare at him, teary eyed.
“i wanna. i wanna see.”
“you’d fuckin’ piss your pants. there’s a reason i leave that at the door. you know that. would fucking break you.” he lifts his mask only an inch to access his stumble where he roughly scratches and tugs the material back down into place. you feel like you’re going to start dripping down your legs.
“i know but— but i want it. i want it—m’so greedy i know but—” you’re inconsolable now, crawling onto his lap and pressing your body to his, face closed to his all puffy and needy like a baby bunny. he’s staring down, void of emotion like he fucking hates you but that couldn’t be further from the truth, clenching his jaw when you start to frantically rub all on his chest, grinding your hips down into his lap.
as if he has a sixth sense, his hand slides beneath you with the motion of your grind, cupping your glossy cunt firmly as you collapse on his front with a whimper. “you got nothin’ on under this.” he breathes out the statement. “been waiting to ask me that?”
“mm—mhm.” it’s a groan, humping into his hand like you’re in heat. he’s never seen you this worked up.
now it’s simon squeezing his eyes shut, the inner conflict destroying him. of course he wants to rough you up, look at you — but also, look at you. you don’t deserve that.
“y’too little. can’t take that sweetheart. i’ll scare ya.” he grips your hips and grinds you harder down onto him, controlling your body with such little effort that you’re practically already crying.
“not scared. please. please. ruin me.” you beg and now his hand is caressing your throat, testing the water with a squeeze. your own hand flies up, and he thinks you might be panicking, or going to pry his fingers away but you press your palm on top of his knuckles, making him choke you harder.
“take your fuckin’ hand off.” he seethes and you moan in excitement, doing as he says. his rough palm slides to the back of your neck and before you’ve even processed it — he’s flipped the two of you on the couch, with the quickness and precision he’d use on the battlefield. so far, the only person simon was scaring was himself.
he’s got you now, cheek to the couch cushion, ass in the air, slip dress having ridden up around your waist exposing you fully. the two of you breath heavily in silence, both waiting for a reaction, a sign of distress. surprisingly, you’re the first to move— pressing your bare ass and pussy against his crotch.
“please—wantghost—” you hiccup, and simon resigns, starting to yank his pants and boxers down.
“ghost ain’t a very nice man. not gonna treat you very nice.”
that was more than okay with you.
