VICE

☾ VICE ☽

The Prologue

Simon Riley x You x König

Postmark: KorTac | Location Undisclosed

@dustycrusty09 @cutiecusp @sigrid666 @pxssygxblin @misshugs

Masterlist is right here 🌝

nsfw. price who takes pride in how well he takes care of his missus. it’s your world and he’s just living in it baby!

there’s not a day that goes by where you aren’t fucked and fed properly. will go to great lengths to make your life as easy as possible, which includes being selfless. which is why when he goes on long work trips he’ll ask one of the boys to take good care of you until he gets back. preferably simon; johnny is much too eager, and gaz is too much of a sweetheart to rough you up just how you like. he can’t bare the thought of having his girl waking up to an empty bed. which why he’ll leave simon with the keys to your home and a heavy pat on the back.

“I’ll be back in a few days. keep her entertained for me, will ya? if she starts getting fussy just means she’s due for a proper fucking. she’s a restless little thing. take good care of her now, yeah? I’ll be expecting updates.”

love the idea of reader just trying to fuck all her stress out with a random at the bar before returning back to her mundane life, and simon deciding he's going to keep her instead 🙂‍↕️

the prick doesn't budge when you try to kick him out; instead, he drags you back into bed and works his mouth to loosen you up again, and now you've forgotten why you were trying to haul his ass out of your home.

(you attempted to sound stern while telling him to get out of your house, but he merely chuckled, the sound so raspy and condescending that it stroked a heat within you that you thought was sated last night.

"this is our home. now get your arse back in bed, i'm fuckin' hungry.")

you had to really fist at his hair to pull him off of you, and that only turned him on if the deep groan rumbling out of him was anything to go by—you swear his tongue sunk deeper inside you. he only relented so he could fuck you dumb in the shower after, leaving you with trembling legs and feeling more dirty than clean (atta girl, don't you waste any of tha'—keep it all in).

you blink, and now suddenly you're seated as he spoon-feeds you a nice, hearty breakfast, huffing something like messy girl when toast crumbs get all over your face and the wooden table.

words can't express how flustered you are; you're too stunned to even continue telling the big man who's now feeding you scrambled eggs that he needs to leave. all you feel like you're capable of doing is opening your mouth to accept another spoonful, ignoring the ache you feel between your thighs when you catch his heavy stare and hear a low hum of approval.

then he's leaving (and it's not because of your nagging), muttering something about having to work those mutts to the bone today, all while you're trying to make sense of what's happening. he gives you a sloppy kiss to silence your questions and exasperation, one that makes you feel hot all over and almost melt into a puddle had it not been for the firm grip he had on your ass.

he licks his lips when he pulls back, eyes darting to where your shirt just barely covers where he'd rather be all day than having to go and train recruits. he stares for an uncomfortably long time and before you can speak up, face growing a little hot from the tension, he's turning around to finally leave.

before the door shuts, he says, "be a good girl, ay? see you tonight, birdie."

you're left with your thoughts and feelings of dread and anxiety. there definitely isn't any underlying interest or anything; the freak has fucked your brain out of your head, that's all. you're sure he didn't even mean it anyway. maybe. hopefully.

a drop of his come rolls down your thigh, and arousal shame burns through you. since when did you let one-night stands finish in you?

(your so-called one-night stand came home hungry and pissed, so worked up that he dragged you over to the nearest surface and played with you for a good hour. by the time you had half the mind to tell him about the dinner in the oven—your eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at how much money he had sent you for groceries earlier, nevermind how he got ahold of your account details—he grunted and finally gave your poor pussy a break, scarred mug all slick and flushed.)

good luck when he takes you to meet his mates at the bar a week later, the same bar you brought him home from; the comments from them make you wish a hole in the ground would just swallow you right up.

"pretty thing ye caught, lt," johnny grins, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. he's a bit over the top, ogles your chest too hard, but overall he's... alright. you'd probably notice how perverted he really was if you actually looked at him longer than a few fleeting glances, but his stare is kind of unnerving.

kyle—perfection personified—hums in agreement, a warm smile on his face that puts you at ease. somehow you don't pick up on the ulterior motive behind his gaze running over your body, eyes roaming over your chest more discreetly than johnny but just as appreciative. "pretty indeed. you don't mind sharing, do you ghost?" kyle teases, pretty eyes glancing over at simon, who only huffs at that and shakes his head (much to your confusion).

who the fuck is ghost? you only know big guy and simon.

there's a deep chuckle and your focus flits over to the man seated in front of you, captain john price. if you thought simon was scary, john's a man who demands respect and attention just by being in his presence. "you chose the wrong dog to bring home," john hums, voice deep and gravelly and making you shamefully squeeze your thighs together.

"but that's alright, sweetheart. you have three others now, yeah?" the purr that comes out of his mouth is sinful, and when you nod and stammer out a yes, sir as if you were one of his soldiers and not the sweet girl that simon has brought to his captain, looking for approval of his newest toy, he only smiles.

simon's hand squeezes your thigh underneath the table, trailing upwards, and you're slowly understanding what it is that you've gotten yourself into.

☾ VICE ☽

Chapter 3: Truce

Simon Riley x You x König

MDNI ta

“Alright love? How ya been?“

Simon’s voice is fuzzy, thousands of miles away through a crackling phone line.

“I’m okay, all good here. Tell me something interesting Si? Please god make it juicy.”

You can hear him sniggering, pressing his mobile closer to the ear you’re talking into with a rustle. Idly you roll the cork of a recently finished wine bottle along the edge of the coffee table. One glass with your solitary dinner tonight and the remainder in the pasta sauce you cooked for later in the week.

“Had two wanks over you yesterday. Still wasn’t enough though.”

Snorting, you flick the cork, which hits the sofa and rolls underneath it, the sound echoing through the empty room with a thump. The low sunset has painted the walls a glowing pink, illuminating the cracks you’ve tried to patch up several times. They always seem to reappear though, inching trails through the plaster, lines showing the abuse of time.

“That the best you got?”

“Soap nearly walked in on one of em. Forgot to lock the door.”

You giggle and Simon laughs too. The sound low and throaty in his broad chest. He shifts slightly, the creaking of the worn springs of his cot struggling to adjust to his bulk, feet hanging off the end of it.

“Should have asked if he wanted to give you a hand.”

“Wouldn’t put it past him. Your turn now darlin.” Si’s dry wheeze sounds loud in your ear, your phones volume turned up to full so you can immerse yourself in his baritone.

Mind blank, you hum and scrabble around for something faintly interesting. But nothing worth repeating ever happens to you these days.

“You know, it’s hard to pick one, so much goes on around here Si.” Your words are laced with sarcasm. “You wanna hear about the finger I reset the other day? Guy barely reacted at all when I manipulated it.”

“Don’t hurt that bad, a finger.” Simon teases. “Just cos you’ve never broken a bone love. We ain’t all that delicate.”

“Oh fuck off!”

He just lets out a bark of mirth in response, thinking about how your eyes are probably glittering as you speak. Si loves to watch the expressions play out over your face so honestly when you’re together, convinced you could never hide a single thought from him.

Eventually you fall asleep where you’re lying. He stays on the line for a long time, listening to your breath rise and fall through his speaker, imagining your body curled against his. Soft and warm in one of his old t-shirts, it makes him ache to think about it.

Simon lights a cigarette. His battered mobile pressed hard into his ear as you mumble and make sweet sounds in your dreams. The red flare of the cherry burning against the darkness pressing in around him as he tokes, smoke curling over his fingers.

He stopped smoking in bed when he met you, but tonight he really needs one. Simon doesn’t tell you often enough, but he misses you just as much as you miss him. Maybe more, though it’s hard to admit that, heart pining across any physical or emotional distance imposed between you. More then once, he’s thought about going to Price and packing it all in, retiring anywhere with you to spend lazy Sundays on the sofa, safe in your arms.

But there’s always something to fix in the world. Simon feels a responsibility, not just to his team, but to use his trauma for a good cause. A worthy outlet for the storm born out of fear, that’s raged inside him for most of his life.

Oblivious to Simon’s midnight vigil, you wake to a dead battery, cursing yourself for missing out on saying a proper good night to him. He calls sporadically, whenever he’s on base and communication is low risk. Simon would rather go without the sound of your snores for a month or two, if it means keeping you safe for a lifetime.

If it means he never has to come back to another house drenched in blood and littered with bullet casings. He doesn’t talk to you about it, if he did maybe you would understand his protracted silences, instead of letting them wound you so very deeply. Pangs of cold separation twisting in your gut until the lack of contact drives you almost insane.

Back in the stark white consultation room you seem to spend most of your time in, you apply ice to a small burn on an exuberant youths forearm, while he explains that he’s learnt a valuable lesson. Fireworks should not be lit inside the barracks.

Your colleague pokes her head around the door, as you listen to the guy tell you in detail about how his friend bought the rockets from the back of a car on the side of the autobahn.

“There’s a man out here, insisting on seeing you next?”

Glancing at her, brows creased, you open a gel dressing.

“Who is it?”

“A contractor, he says you know him? Very tall?”

Internally you groan. Then you hoist on your professional smile and pull it together.

“Sure, give me five minutes.”

König slinks in with an odd gait as you watch him narrowly, limping on his left leg in a way that tells you he’s either been fighting again or it’s an old injury. His nose isn’t swollen anymore, but there are dark blue bruises under both azure eyes, where the fist that hit him met the thin skin.

He grins at you, attractive in only the way a man like him can be. All rough, angular features, dark buzzed hair highlighting the curve of his cheekbones which are decorated with battle scars.

“What can I do for you?”

Settling heavily on the gurney with a grunt, he shows you his hand wordlessly. It looks god awful, black and blue, puffy with fluid.

“Did the x-ray show any breaks?” You examine it, concerned by the obvious trauma, his fingers twice their already broad size. König just watches you, letting out a small sigh when your touch brushes over his flesh. Those cornflower blue eyes are alight with mischief, crinkling down at you happily.

“What x-ray doctor?” He says innocently, watching the irritation flicker in your brows, which crease even further together at him.

“The one I told you to get!”

König looks happily at you, then points to his left leg, lifting his heavy boot up and knocking it against your calf.

“I have a sore ankle Schatz. I cannot drive. Also I don’t know where the hospital is.” He pauses as you look down at the dusty footprint he’s left on your clean floor. “But you will take me I think? Now my hand is this ugly?”

You look at him incredulously, he cannot be serious? He’s had days to sort this out or catch another lift to hospital. Instead he’s smiling like an idiot at you, clearly pleased by something. Probably about how much he’s inconveniencing you.

“I gave you directions. Get a friend to take you.”

He chuckles at the flatness of your reply, then tilts his head.

“I don’t have any friends here Doktor. Just you.”

Fighting the urge to swear at his idiotically grinning face, you set your jaw and take a calming inhale.

“I can’t drive you. I’ve got a full clinic this afternoon. But I’ll find someone else to.”

König shakes his head infuriatingly.

“Nein you must take me Schatz, it’s an emergency. Blame your absence on my injuries.”

When you open your mouth to argue furiously back, he goes to move off the couch, a wounded puppy dog look plain across his features.

“When they have to amputate my hand, you will feel bad Doktor. But okay, I will try and drive myself.”

Now swearing under your breath, you stop him in his tracks and go to grab your car keys. He looks buoyant, all trace of false misery extinguished. Limping at your side, he watches you arrange cover for the clinic. Then you both move into the biting chill of early spring, sunlight dazzling your eyes as it bounces off the shiny Land Rover Simon bought for you.

“This is quite the ride Schatz.” König whistles as he examines the armoured plating and bullet proof glass. “Are you a wanted criminal in your free time? Or is your husband just paranoid huh?”

You shoot him a filthy look as you unlock it.

“Both, now get in.”

König’s harsh laughter continues almost onto the main road, while he plays with the dashboard, changing the radio station and adjusting the heating.

“Do you smoke?” He asks you curiously, lashes fluttering as his baby blues stare lazily at you from his position in the passenger seat.

“No. My husband does. He drives this sometimes.”

“A filthy habit Doktor. I don’t smoke.” König replies assuringly, still watching you with intense interest. Ignoring him, you change gear with a sharp jerk of your hand.

When you get to the hospital, he strides ahead of you, all trace of an injury vanished from his steps. You snatch at his arm and pull him backwards slightly.

“Recovered has it? The ankle?” Your voice is quivering with poorly suppressed annoyance.

“Ja.” He chuckles, craning down so his face is closer to yours. “It feels much better Danke.”

You feel his hand brush against your waist, fingers still clenched in the fabric of his black t-shirt. He smells good, traces of blood and sweat washed away following your previous encounter.

“Don’t take the piss mate.”

König just chucks you under the chin and wanders off towards the front desk, still smiling, on two perfectly working legs.

Several hours and a confirmed broken hand later, König settles himself back in the passenger seat. His fingers strapped together to help the bones unite and a bag of prescription painkillers on his lap.

“A fucking waste of my afternoon.” You’re grumbling at him, while he reads the back of a packet of pills. His glacial eyes move over your face every now and then, almost like he can’t help himself, like he doesn’t want to drag them away from you.

If you were going to be completely honest, it was actually quite enjoyable to have time out of clinic. König’s odd teasing and rambling stories about all the places he’s travelled to, were far more interesting than you’d like to admit. He was strangely easy company, for someone so obviously lacking in normal social skills.

He asked you lots of questions, slowly unravelling what you like and dislike, listening to your summarised personal history. You never tell people off that bat you’re married to Ghost, you haven’t even taken his last name, at his request, because the anxiety he feels at you being a walking target is well founded.

König didn’t ask about your husband. You weren’t sure whether he just wasn’t interested, or if it was because of some peculiar, alternative reason made up in his own head. Still it was nice to feel like you had a friend in Germany. Or at least someone that wanted to hear your opinions, even if he regularly challenged them with a flash of his white teeth.

“Turn off here Danke.” König points his uninjured hand at a small side road twisting off to the left. Thinking he must want to be dropped somewhere else off base, you comply, but instead a small roadside café comes into view.

“I should probably get back.”

“Just one coffee? So I can say thank you?”

“One coffee.” You agree.

Several coffees later, you watch him building a tower out of the empty mugs ready for the waitress to collect. König is very polite to most people, apart from you for whom he seems to observe his wildest comments almost exclusively.

He insists on paying, forcing his cash down before you can refuse him.

“Consider it a deposit Maus, on our new relationship.”

“Friendship.” You correct the man swaggering endearingly next to you, as you both trail back to the truck. König’s smile widens still further, he’s barely stopped since he entered the consultation room earlier.

“Friendship then, if that will get you to spend time with me.”

You ignore the way he places a hand on your back as he opens the rovers door, pretending that it doesn’t feel nice, to have another man be chivalrous with you.

Simon will be home soon anyway.

Masterlist here 🌝

Tags: @captainsarcasmandsass @cutiecusp @dustycrusty09 @xxshadowbabexx @pxssygxblin @sigrid666

simon knew it was over the moment he realized just how freaky you are.

simon knew he was massive—he always had.

it was a quiet fear that followed him, the thought that if he lost control for even a moment, he might hurt you. his touch was always careful, deliberate.

his hands were wrapped around your neck, not tight, but gentle—just enough to feel the pulse beneath your skin. his thumbs rested softly against your throat, his grip light, careful not to leave a mark. but when you started frantically grinding your hips against his, rolling your body in desperate need, everything shifted.

a low, guttural noise rumbled from his throat as his body responded on instinct. without meaning to, his hands tightened, gripping your neck for leverage as you moved against him. he froze for a second, startled by his own strength. but then—

it happened.

you clenched tighter around him, your head falling back as a broken moan escaped your lips. you were crying out, completely undone, lost in the moment. your hips bucked harder, desperate for more, and it hit him like a bolt of lightning:

you liked it rough.

you, his innocent, angelic girl — the one with soft smiles and bright eyes, the one who blushed at the smallest touch — had been hiding it all along.

he stared at you, stunned, as you begged with your body, your innocent exterior cracking to reveal the wicked, burning desire beneath. his angel wasn't just soft and sweet

—you were freaky.

a low growl rumbled in his chest as he leaned in, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. “you've been holding out on me, haven't you, lovie?” he murmured, his voice dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.