I feel like retired!Price brings you camping every few months. That man can’t stay still after years in the military. So he is either working on the house or in the yard to make your dream house -even though it’s already perfect.
When he finishes all the on-going works around the property, he’s taking you on vacation. Road trips in his old pickup with a tent in the backseat. He even added the bluetooth to his prehistoric car so you could put your playlist during the long hours of the journey.
And of course, he doesn’t take you to big cities. You two only go to forests, mountains, lakes or rivers. He likes it better, Price is a bit paranoid, doesn’t like when there is people around. Especially around his baby girl.
Moreover, it allows you to spend all vacation in tiny bikinis. Even on the road, you don’t bother wearing clothes.
All you do is tanning, reading, napping on Price’s chest, swimming in lakes and rivers and eating thousands of fresh fruits that John bought or picked in the forest for you.
He also likes the fact that you get scared when you hear the sounds of the forest during the night. Resulting in you snuggling against him, naked body all sticky with the heat of the summer.
"It’s alright baby gurl, no one wants to mess with yer old man."
The sounds keep going so you beg him to look outside. And of course, he gives up to your whims.
He stands up, his recently tanned bare chest glowing under the moonlight. John gets out of the tent, flashlight in one hand. But, you already miss him, wrapping your arms around his ankles.
« Baby, I can’t fight if you keep me trapped. »
« Come back in pa’, it’s scary in there… »
Or, or, or when he makes dinner with whatever he has fished or hunted. He loves to see your pouty-disgusted face at all the blood he is soaked in. And he has this smirk.
« oh poor baby, ye don’t say tha when ye draw blood from me biting me to the bone » « com’on puppy, ye need protein to get big, ye want to stay this little forever?»
!!cw: stockholm syndrome(kinda), implied kidnapping&stalking, traumatic mutism(not because of mc)!!
Simon had kidnapped you several months ago. It feels like years though. You haven’t spent more than three hours alone since he did that. You don’t really know why. He says it’s for your safety. That he has done that to protect you. Even though you both know he should protect you from himself first…
At the end of the day, you both got used to it. He makes you breakfast every morning, you make lunch, and both of you make dinner. While you read on the porch swing, he cuts wood. You harvest the fruits and vegetables, he buys meat.
And when you fuss, Simon buys you new clothes, or bakes you cookies and pancakes-your favorite.
You, now, have your special routines. And your days can’t start or end without them. Even now that you have to share him live with his…friends? Colleagues?
……………………………………………………………………………
You didn’t know how or why it has happened. Simon grabbed you and a backpack he kept full -in case he had to leave, fast.
And now, here you are. In a bunker. With Simon and three others men you don’t know. The bunker was pretty small. Only two room, the main one have a sink, a table, food, and four mattresses laying directly on the floor, meaning you have to sleep with one of the men -Simon obviously. The other room was just a plain bathroom.
……………………………………………………………………………
As you try to tiddy up your -shared- mattress, everyone was staring at you. They just didn’t excepted Simon to bring you here. Of course, they knew your existence. Simon couldn’t shut up about you the few times he talked. Moreover, they knew in what conditions you met him and why you were living with him. Because it so happens that they have kind of the same…hobbies?
So why were they confused? It seemed obvious that Ghost would take you with him. Couldn’t let his babydoll in his house, alone, now that his ennemies found his adress.
……………………………………………………………………………
Simon -reluctantly- let reader’s out of his sight while he was in front of the bunker, smoking with John before going to bed. You lay on the mattress, Johnny and Kyle are on their own, talking and laughing. But you can’t sleep. You need your night routine to be fulfilled. And for that, Simon is required.
You fuss around under the covers, trying to get comfortable while waiting for Simon. But it seems like this cigarette break is never ending. Your huff makes Kyle and Johnny look at you.
« Everythin’ a’righ luv? » the Scottish asks.
You flex your bicep at them, they understand what you mean. Simon. They got acquainted along the day how you communicate about Simon. Since you can’t talk, you just show your bicep, because, well, he has big biceps.
Kyle snort a laugh in the back, enjoying how you call his friend. Johnny has a lil smirk while answering you.
« Ya need Simon?» At that, you nod.
He gets up and go outside the bunker, finding Simon and John.
« Your baby girl needs you Si. » Johnny says cheekily.
He immediately bolt towards the mattress, his two friends following him with a smirk.
«Are you okay? Why’d need me fo’ babydoll? » He says kneeling.
You immediately pull down the covers and pull up your his shirt, exposing your stomach. He tsks, pulling it back down, fast.
« Wha’d I say? Don’t show tha’belly when ther’is people nearby. »
You huff and lay on your stomach, pulling your shirt up your back.
« Yer back too » he hiss. You start kicking your legs under the covers.
« Babydoll I will give ye yer scratches just wait » as he gets confortably on his side, he makes you lay on his arm, while the others start the scratches you get every night before sleeping. His hand goes to your belly, your back, your thighs, your arms, the back of your neck, even your cheeks…
You can’t sleep without feeling his skin-to-skin gesture. It’s deeply grounded in your night routine.
What can he say? He made you spoiled rotten, and he doesn’t want to change any of that.
And of course Johnny and Kyle, the bastards, make fun of him for that. Damn, even Price gets into the giggling.
Tonight was the annual tf141 night out. Every year the team meets up and eventually bring their partners. And since you are the captain’s lover, it was mandatory to come.
You were sitting on your boyfriend’s lap even though there were enough chairs around the restaurant’s table. But John was quite the possessive lover, that’s why he kept you perched on his lap, his arms around your waist all night long. Even tried to feed you, but being under Kyle’s judgmental gaze, you stopped him.
Moreover, Price has the habit of rubbing your tummy like your womb was full with his child. Through the night, he kept his hand on your lower stomach giving you soft but possessive squeezes. Soap’s partner, sat beside you watched the gestures foundly all night. You’ve talked to her during the evening, she was really kind, it was good to not being the only partner at the tf141’s meet up. You hoped that you could be friends. Maybe you two could see each other without the guys?
As the night goes on, John kept his hand on your belly, giving you neck’s kisses every now and then.
The waiter came back, bringing the bottles of wines the table ordered. When everyone have refilled their glasses you reach for the bottle. Before you can pour your first glass of alcohol of the night, Price stops you.
"No puppy. Com’on, put that down. You know that not good for babies, hmm." He says lowly against your cheek. Low enough so only you and Soap’s missus heard.
She smiles softly at you two.
"John is right, you shouldn’t drink while you’re pregnant." The problem is that you are not pregnant.
Price doesn’t even let you the time to tell her that, that he speaks again.
"Did ya heard tha’, puppy? No alcohol during pregnancy, you should listen to dad." His hands get heavier on your belly.
"But-" you try to speak up, but your new friend speaks over genuinely happy for you.
"Since when are you pregnant?"
"Six weeks in, ain’t that right baby?" John replies all teeth out in a big smile.
"Oh my god! I am seven weeks in! We are pregnancy besties!" She says with a smile as big as John’s.
At her excited cry, the table gets quiet.
"Surprise guys…" says Soap while giving his lover a kiss.
"Surprise too…" John says with the same kiss as Johnny.
And you were here, stunned, cause you’re still not pregnant.
…
Once you two get home, you are pouting, angry with Price. Why would he lie to everybody for a thing like that? He is crazy.
John is behind when you get in your -John’s- house, delivering a smack to your ass with the same smirk he got since his earlier lie.
"Don’t touch me!" You whine.
"Com’n baby, ya’re still mad?"
He gets you on the couch and nudges your thighs.
"Spread theses thighs puppy, saw how Soap’s missus was happy knowing she got a knocked up buddy? It’s my duty to make my sergeant happy. You know what we say? Happy wife, happy life. And I can do that if you let me inside that womb."
"I am not getting pregnant! You lied to everyone, that’s your problem not mine!"
He slaps the side of my thigh.
"That’s a way to speak to your daddy? Now get that panties off and stay still."
And you did. Cause you’re a good girl. And because you really wants that new friendship to become real. It makes Price really happy too..so why say no?
Laying on my stomach, I was watching tv from price's couch. Since it was summer I was only wearing a tank top and some panties that John bought me.
The front door open, I already knew it was Price.
Normally, I would have jumped from the couch to throw myself in his arms, but the summer heat have rooted me to the spot.
When John saw my lack of energy he grunted but came to me anyway. He delivered a firm smack on my ass and left his hand there. He lowered himself to my hair so as to kiss them.
"You didn't come to me, puppy."
"It's too hot." I grunted.
He scoff and get to our shared room. Fifteen minutes later, he came back showered and only in his boxer.
Leaning on the door frame, he looked at me and crooked his fingers, hitting me to come his way.
"I am too tired..." I whined.
"Come'ere pretty thing."
I obey, the view of his naked chest making me want to be skin to skin with him.
Once I was near, he reached for me and took me in his arms. John sniffed my neck like a maniac while pressing kisses there.
"Want to get in the bedroom?" He asked, voice muffled by my skin. I nodded.
I found myself on his lap, making out. His hands got under my top. Then, he takes it off along with my panties.
His hands go possessivly against the lenght of my -now naked-body. He maintains his hands on my thighs, spreading them as he likes.
Then, he took his cock out of his boxer, holding it at the base. I opened my eyes wide, it was my first time seeing a male’s sex. He already let me touched it but over his boxer. I didn’t knew the average length of a cock but i knew he was over it.
John smirked as he saw my eyes wandering over the thing in his hand.
"Don’t be shy puppy, play with it."
I started patting it, and he laughed at my inexperienced move. I continued to play with it, getting happier with myself every time I felt him hardened.
While I was occupied, his eyes were fixed between my legs as I forgot to close them, my mind only focused between his.
My breath hitched when he spread my pussy lips by scissoring his fingers.
"She is so pretty… mhmm love her…"
I whined as he applied pressure on it, from top to bottom. John did the same move with his dick after he swatted my hands away from his cock.
Price tapped my thighs, pointing me out that I had to stand up. I obeyed, lifting my hips, he took his boxer off successfully and put me back down on him.
He entered my pussy with one finger making me whimper pathetically.
"Such tight, perfect cunt…pretty baby I got here" John’s finger get faster, liquid leaking out along my inner thighs.
"Do you like it, little thing ?"
"Hmm..y-yes" I moaned.
My legs started shaking, I had no choice but to put my hands on his chest otherway I would fall.
I feelt a tight ball of pleasure in my belly. It then exploded when I orgasm.
"Fuck…" I gasped.
"Langage puppy." John said, stern, swatting my ass.
When I finish, he flipped me on my back spreading my legs wide. Price manhandled me like I was a small doll -which I was to him.
He help my hips up from the mattress, glueing them to his. I felt his length parting me in half. I left out a cry as he started thrusting in and out.
As I let breathy moan I watched him, eyes-closed, completely entranced, panting over me.
"So tight…" he whispered to me.
"Is it good?" I asked worrying.
"Fucking perfect" he replied with kisses in my neck.
He got faster and faster, his moans in unison with mine as we both came.
~You made me spoiled and now you are complaining ?~
For the girls who won’t settle for less that what they are expecting from a man. Even though they rule them, it doesn’t mean they don’t like being manhandled.
!!age gap (non-specified), bratty behavior, smut (fingering, pssy play), peeing(not during secs),controlling man!! Minors dni!!
He lays back on the bed, arms behind his head, waiting, a smirk on his face. After a few seconds, he heard the bathroom door open and the sound of peeing starting. He grinned widely, listening to how you whined and whimpered the whole way through.
"Peeing on a raw clit," He said shaking his head in amusement. "Poor baby."
"It hurts!!" You said pouting from the bathroom. "Because of you, you asked me to make you cum just from rubbing it " he replied.
You came back in bed, still naked, curling against him while still pouting. He wrapped his arms around you, smirking. "Aw baby’s mad at me, uh?"
You sit up on his hips. "What are you going to do up there?" He asks.
"It doesn’t hurt anymore."
"Give it a rest baby, this clit is off limits till it’s back to normal" he orders.
"But i am not sore anymore"
By the way he is looking at you, you know he won’t back down anytime soon. So you give him your best doe eyes, looking straight into his, your hand going sneakily towards your swollen nub. He saw clear through your game and grabbed your wirst.
"Don’t make me spank this little ass for desobedience. "
"But I want to cum again, pleeeasse." You whined.
He finally complied and start circling your little bud.
You hips moved against his hand, erratic.
Simon put a hand on your lower belly, preventing you from bucking too much.
"You are a needy little girl, aren’t you ?"
"´m not" you babble as he finally puts his index in you, making him chuckle.
"Sure puppy… want more pressure?". You nodded frantically "yes yes yes". He tsk, "see how needy you are? And you lied to me about it."
He push a second finger in and continues to rub your clit with his thumb.
As he feels you clench, he goes faster.
"Yeah, com’on pretty, does that feels good for ya’?"
"Hmm..fuck yes"
"Language puppy!" He says smacking my ass.
The smack makes you come instantly, sound echoing with your moans.
Simon makes you fall on his chest, pressing kisses on your temple.
!!age gap, dad figures, daddy issues, your ex still loves you, minors DNI!!
~You break in your ex boyfriend’s penthouse, and he is proud, such a good girl showing your skills to him.~
You and Raymond had, well, a common past-as you call it. He was your first everything-sexual partner, love, kiss, stalker, dad…- and Ray was the one who lead you in all sorts of illegal stuff-dirty money, weapons... Bringing you everywhere he could, especially during meetings with mafia’s leaders.
But thanks to him you became the smartest and most efficient hacker, he bought you the best hacking’s classes as he knew it was your dream. And he’d have done anything for you, his little princess…
But it’s been years since you last saw him. You two got separated cause people started understanding that the well known Raymond Reddington had a soft spot for a cute little thing. Even though he loved you more than anything, being away from you tore him apart, but he had to do it. Cause he would never have survived your death.
But he hadn’t told you the whole story. Just left you behind, without words being said. So you cried, cried and cried, till you hated him-that what you forced yourself to believe, that you hate him. But deep down you know that’s fake…
Anyway, right now, you needed him. You might have betrayed people mafia who’ve asked for your services, and they might’ve threaten to kill you. Only Reddington could stop them. You threw your pride away, and break in his current penthouse. If you gotta ask him a favor, at least show him who’s boss.
His penthouse was known to be one of the safest, but you managed to break in anyway. You are the smartest, remember? Oh I bet Raymond will be so proud of you.
For now, you are wondering in his big living room, caressing book shelves, go through his desk -finding a small picture of you in his cigar’s box…
As you are waiting, you lay on his luxurious sofa, spilling it’s favorite whiskey on it-without doing it on purpose, obviously. Oh! So clumsy of you!
Finally, he cames back home. And your breath shakes at how he hasn’t changed from all theses years, except for some wrinkles on his forehead…
He is not alone, a man -with a beretta tugged on his waistband- and a woman -who seems to be your age- are with him. Your frown, who is she? You always have been possessive of Raymond, he is Your Ray after all…
Once they spot you, the man immediately points the beretta towards you. Raymond force him to lower his gun. And you smile. You smile cause you know you are still the man’s soft spot. The photo you found earlier is a proof of that. So whoever that woman might be, she is not more important than you, and that’s all that matters for you.
« Hi Ray-baby » you said sarcastically, love mixed with hatred.
« Hi sugar, it’s been a while since i’ve- »
« Shut up » you got up, hating how you’re still febrile to his voice. « I want your help. » you try to keep your head and pride up.
« Want? » he smirks, smug, walking towards you.
« …need »
« I am impressed how you got here sweetie. A little thing like you managed to knock out my soldiers. Such a good girl using my tricks against me.» He seemed really happy, sitting on the armchair in front of you, legs crossed. « Why do you need me for? »
« I’ve betrayed mafias, they want me dead. » you say lowly like a child confessing her fooleries.
«That’s on you. Haven’t I taught you loyalty sweet thing? » you look at him with your doe eyes, hoping it’s still his weakness. And it is.
“No one puts baby in a corner.” | cw: 18+ mdni, fluffish with tiny smut, country!simon, mentions of víólence, slútshâming.
If it’s one thing Simon Riley doesn’t play about it’s you, his dear wife, lucky!reader. It’s his job to protect you and love you unconditionally, what the man has vowed to do for the rest of his life.
But there are sometimes when he can’t be there to protect you, because he’s not with you all the time. Shindigs are just not Simon Riley’s thing, he knows that, you know that. But you love to drink and do those line dances and Simon can only smile under his bandana because, hell, did he love to see you happy. There shouldn’t have been an issue as long as you got home at around 2 or 3. So he sent you off on your own, made sure you were all straight. It was some day party you’d been itching to go to and you’d drove yourself.
Simon didn’t expect for you to come back to the house only 4 hours later, makeup smudged and pouting.
He quickly made his way from the chicken coop over to you, who was stomping up the steps, grabbing your wrist, “Woah there dolly, what’s going on? Thoughtcha texted me ‘nd said you were havin fun.”
You sniffle, groaning when you recall what happened, “I was Mr. Riley! But- but-“ you cut yourself short with a sob. Fiercely wiping your tears and stomping your foot.
“But what honey?” he speaks so soft, comforting, gently tugging you to sit in his lap on the steps.
“But that Bishop boy he- he was so fuckin mean Simon!” And you go and on, sobered up but tipsily explaining how rude the man was and how he called you quote, ‘a lil whore, dressed like you were ready to fuck any damn body and sleepin under a good for nothing.’ And of course, you raised hell, cursing the man out and causing a scene. But the venue ended up kicking you out for the disturbance, which led you here.
Crying in Simons arms as he wiped your tears with the pads of his thumbs. He knows it’s a lot for you, you have big emotions and it’s frustrating and tiring when you get them all out. Simon sits you on the steps, kneeling beside you and lifting your chin inbetween his fingers, “Lookey here Lucky, yer husbands gon’ figure this allll out for ya, m’kay? Just wait here f’me, my pretty girl.”
You nodded, letting the older man kiss your lips as a promise before taking the keys you had to the truck and driving off down the dirt road.
It was less than an hour when Simon came back, cigarette between his lips and gripping the steering wheel. He hopped out the car and slammed the door shut before heading back the trunk to retrieve something—
Well someone.
Bloodied and bruised, coughing up blood into the dirt of the pathway and begging for help as Simon drags him towards the porch. But the other farmhands are simply ignoring the whole ordeal and praying to never end up in the same situation. Simon spots you already watching from behind the screen door of the house.
“You come ‘ere lil girl!”
And you do, rushing over to the scene fast. Simons knuckles are bloody, wounds slightly open, he holds the Bishop by the hair, steadying him by he collar of his plaid shirt.
“Alright,” Simon starts, “I clearly don’t take too kindly fer no one t’be talkin out the ass bout my wife, but for you t’ make my baby cry? I should just kill you.”
Simon sighs, making the man kneel and then taking the cigarette between his fingers, “But ‘M better than that. Lucky knows it, ain’t that right precious?”
“It’s true!” You nod and sniffle, rocking on your feet.
“ ‘Xactly baby. Now,” he knees Bishop in the face one good time right in the nose, the man crying in agony. “Say what you ‘posed to.”
“I-I’m sorry Mrs. Riley! I mean it! I’m really sorry! I’ll never say anything ridiculous bout you again, I s-swear!” He begs, hands in prayer positioning while he’s crouched down beside you.
“You accept it dolly? Ain’t got to.”
You think for a moment, maybe this is why Soap and Gaz call you spoiled because Simon Riley will very literally do anything to make sure you’re alright. And if beating someone to a pulp makes you feel reassured, so be it. But right now, you don’t wanna deal with this anymore.
Your hearts not in it at all but nod slowly, just wanting it over with, looking over at Simon.
“Words darlin.”
“I accept your apology, this time.” You clarify.
Simon scuffs, fixing his hat but has resolve in your answer. For now, sure that this idiot won’t try it again. Especially with the windows to his truck shot. He puts out the cigarette, gives you a kiss on the cheek and pat on your plump ass.
“Could you wait inside f’me a lil longer sweetheart?”
He’s asking but he’s really telling you to go, so you don’t have to see him clean up the mess nor how he’s getting Bishop back in his truck.
And of course, when Simon comes back he’s finger fucking you into a much needed nap. Thick fingers getting drenched in your wet slick while you lay your head on his shoulder, soft moans and whimpers filling his ears as he slowly works three digits in and out of you. Telling you how strong you are for dealing with everything and that you’re such a good girl for waiting for Simon to come back to you. Your release comes slow but strong, clenching onto Simons shirt as your walls tighten around his fingers, a little wet spot forming on his jeans from how wet you got.
And Simon licks his fingers clean, kissing down your neck,
♥︎ summary . simon teaches his neighbour's innocent daughter how to smoke.
♥︎ tags . 5.1k wc! nsfw mdni , retired/veteran simon riley , DRUG USE ( marijuana ) , unspecified legal but big age gap , virginity loss , piv sex , fingering , creampie , DUBCON bcz she's stoned but this is fiction and as the author ive decided it's fully consensual , reader is short but u can imagine the height difference is only bcz simon is canonically over 6ft :)
a/n : my first fic ♡ enjoy.
— likes &&. reblogs r greatly appreciated ! xx
The diffused glow of the overhead saucer light swathed the sepia-toned living room in haze. Striped wallpaper rose along the walls of Simon's caravan, a 1970s double-wide he'd settled into in Hampshire after retiring. Retirement was doing nothing and doing it well. He had waited in Manchester less than a week before leaving.
From outside, the faint thump of music traveled through the soil, multicolored flashes from the string lights dappling through the blinds—until he rose from his seat and pulled the cord, the armchair dipping slightly where he'd been sitting. The slats clicked into a neat line, leaving just faint neon hues peeking through persistently, but it was better than nothing.
Just as Simon began sauntering back to his seat, beer bottle in hand with the front of his flannel undone, the light patter of footsteps beyond the door captured his attention—followed by a timid knock. Then another, braver this time, as if whoever was outside thought Simon hadn’t heard. A troublemaker from the party, he thought. He steeled himself, muscles coiling in his forearm as he dropped the Heineken onto the table with a solid thump and marched to the door. An empty doorway nearly caught him off stride as he threw it open, then his eyes lowered to meet the top of your head. “What the hell is it?”
You blew out a breath past your Cherry ChapStick lips at the man's non-greeting, wringing your fingers together with an apologetic smile as he peered down at you.
“Sorry, Simon, you sleeping?” you tried innocuously, hunching your shoulders up sheepishly. The faint sweetness of strawberry bubblegum cut through the sour tang lingering on you, though he didn’t know you to be much of a drinker.
He shook his head. Evidently, he wasn't sleeping.
“No, whaddaya want?” he reiterated gruffly, fingers curled around the top of the door as he leaned out.
“Can you help me with something?”
Before Simon could argue, you dug into your handbag, fingers rattling through girly thingamabobs he couldn't make sense of. He wasn't nearly youthful enough to understand the sort of things that danced around in your handbag and your head alike. His eyes caught on your polkadot halter top and the ruffles of your tiered denim skirt—absentmindedly, lazily, for the most part—lace trim matching your knee-high socks. Simon's gaze snapped up to the small ziplock bag you held out in front of him. He folded his arms with an incredulous shake of his head, eyes fixed on the green buds inside.
“And you need my help, why?” Simon drawled, tilting his head. He pinched your wrist bone in his long fingers, turning your hand around to examine the baggie. “How'd you even get your hands on this?”
“Well, what the heck am I supposed to do with it?” You stamped your heel, then added, “Someone at the party gave me.”
Now, it wasn't every day you were so antsy—always said 'please' and 'thank you', you did—and Simon easily attributed the urgency with the illicit materials you absolutely weren't allowed to carry around, in your hand. With that in mind, he decided to allow you into the caravan in a rare act of mercy. “Figures. Better keep you here before you wander off and make a show of yourself,” Simon grumbled as he stepped aside, gesturing you inside sharply with his chin.
He turned his head to watch you scuttle into his living room, kitten heels clicking on the linoleum floors, the baby pink lace of your bra peeking out the back of your halter top. “Your daddyʼll have my head,” he muttered under his breath exasperatedly, closing the door shut behind you in defeat.
And there you were, no less exuberant in the dingy overhead lighting—making your way into his orbit as you always did. Simon typically didn’t pay you any mind, hardly exchanging a word with you even as you sunbathed or set up your lawn chair too close to his patio when you were reading. You were too young to consider—and he never did consider you, despite your demure but trying efforts. He had no vices there. At best, you were a stray dog at his heel. Still, the idea of you wandering half-witless and in the wrong hands needled at him. Though Simon knew your father would be less than forgiving if he caught wind of things, Simon figured keeping you under watch the first time you got stoned was the lesser of two evils.
He turned to watch you settle onto the L-shaped couch, belly-down on the chaise, feet kicking. Normally he might lecture, but today he went on rolling the joint in silence. His flannel was off, now leaving him in a white tee and denim jeans. You blew strawberry-flavored bubbles, chattering away, ignoring his hands despite his attempts to demonstrate.
“Remind me who gave this to you?” he spoke up eventually, ears burning at your babbling.
“One of the older boys.”
“Okay. You drunk?”
“Nope!” you said triumphantly, gum wedged between your teeth.
“Good,” he grunted, bringing the joint to his lips between scarred fingers. Orange light suffused his angular features as he thumbed his lighter and lit the joint. You sat up with a start, scooting closer, quite literally at the edge of your seat—only for Simon to pull the joint back like a bone for a dog, tutting. You opened your mouth to protest before Simon held out his open palm, giving you a pointed look as you chewed your gum. You froze, the bubblegum lodged between your teeth, eyes flicking between the joint and his hand. Oh. He raised an eyebrow, flat and unamused.
“Go on,” he muttered, fingers beckoning, a trace of warning in his low voice.
You hesitated, chewing thoughtfully, almost as if testing him. Finally, you tilted your head and gingerly dropped the bubblegum into his palm. Simon watched the pink glob land with a slow, measured blink, lips twitching just slightly, before returning his gaze to the joint. Simon turned away to dispose your bubblegum in a tissue, the heat in your cheeks growing while your eyes trailed after him. He returned with the joint, and you settled closer to him, wide-eyed and attentive. “Watch this,” he murmured, before he took a puff, eyes never straying from you. His Adam's apple jutted out as he tilted his head back, exhaling a plume of acrid smoke before passing you the joint. A nervous flutter rose in your belly. “Not too much. Your first time,” he reminded, coaxing softly.
The end felt warmer than expected as it touched your lips, your wide-eyed gaze darting up to find Simon's. His indifference was surprisingly grounding, a reminder that there was no reason to worry. You sucked slowly, pink gloss staining the mouthpiece. The smoke filled your mouth slowly, before your airways promptly rejected it. You hacked, trying to stifle the unladylike cough, eyes burning and your cheeks pinkening. He leaned back in the couch, his eyes scanning your face as you struggled to catch your breath.
Simon exhaled through his nose amusedly. “Easy, luv. Too much too soon.”
He took the joint back from you, taking a deep hit himself before offering it back to you. It seemed he didn’t mind the residual stickiness of your lipgloss combo. “Try again. Easier this time.”
“I didn’t take too much!” you said, plucking the joint with a wrinkle of your nose. “It tastes… not-nice,” you remarked while eyeing the burning joint—almost like a wine-taster—before returning it to your lips.
“Easy,” he murmured, his voice still rough, but softer. “Some people don’t like the taste. But you learn to like it. You'll learn to like lots of things that you don’t understand now.” His arm draped along the back of the couch, body heat framing you as you drew carefully on the joint, rosebud mouth closing around the end. You wore powder blush on the apples of your cherubic cheeks, but your face was only getting redder. The smoke felt like cotton in your mouth, and tasted faintly burnt, almost resinous, somehow. But maybe you were imagining things.
He watched as you fidgeted slightly, clearly starting to fall under the spell of the sativa, slowly but surely. His gaze lingered on your legs, the eyelet hem of your skirt resting on your thighs. He tried to quell the growing heat in his stomach, shifting his weight.
Simon cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of control.
“How do you feel?” he asked gruffly.
“Um, okay,” you answered with an unsure lilt in your voice, furling your brows together skeptically. Simon made a noise of amusement at your attempt to articulate your feelings—his version of a chuckle—the high-pitch of your voice itching some part of him. Most days, you'd be in over your head at the opportunity to speak to Simon at length, alone. But it was becoming a task to focus, with the haze of smoke floating around you. Something warm ebbed through you, but you weren't completely off your rockers—yet. That was a relief.
Simon took a closer look at you, almost curious, your eyes unwittingly searching his back as he removed the joint from your mouth and took a puff. He could tell you were still fairly coherent. His broad shoulders crowded your field of vision. He breathed the smoke out in the other direction, the corner of his mouth turning up. “Just okay?” he echoed, his tone slightly teasing. “You feeling a little woozy?”
“Yeah, a little woozy,” you admitted bashfully, soft laughter overtaking you as you slumped back and covered your face with your hands, although you weren't sure what was so funny. Even the feeling of his denim jeans grazing your knee tickled slightly, your fingers absentmindedly tugging on your skirt. Simon forced his eyes away from your lap with a breath and grabbed his forgotten bottle of Heineken off the coffee table, humming noncommittally in response—piecing back that usual mask of indifference.
“You sure you're not too high?” Simon spoke behind the beer bottle, keeping his gaze down the neck of the bottle. He wouldn't look at you, he swore to himself—even as you propped your feet up on the coffee table and put your legs back in his line of sight, ankles crossed. You fiddled your feet, legs and feet encased in knee-highs and pink kitten heels like a present.
“I'm okay.” Your nerves were a little frayed, but you didn't say that part out loud, waving off his worries with a slurred giggle. A cloud of smoke floated above your heads, the LED light filtering through like sunlight through treetops. “You know... you don't usually talk to me this much,” you pointed out in a skeptical tone, squinting at the older man with a bemused bite of your lip. Sure, it wasn't much by normal standards, but you thought Simon asking questions first was a big step for him. You may as well have rendered him mute just as quickly, though, chewing on your lip like a pin-up girl. You were killing him, really. It seemed that the harder the man tried not to look, you immediately drew the spotlight to yourself.
He forced himself to speak. “I know,” he grunted. For a moment, he almost felt guilty—whether for ignoring you in the past, or for noticing you too much now.
“Why not?” Your voice was a soft, thoughtful hum. Guileless.
Simon sat back, hauling his weight onto the cushions. His gaze flicked over your form in consideration. “Dunno,” he grumbled. “You're just a kid. What's there to talk about?” He took another drag, the smoke winding around the two of you like a safety net.
“I'm [insert age],” is all you said.
Simon's brows furrowed slightly at the mention of your age. Legally an adult. But you still felt like a kid to him.
“Still a kid,” he murmured through an exhalation of smoke, his voice rough but not unkind.
His thigh was pressed firmly against the side of yours now, and he couldn't help but notice the warmth seeping through his jeans. He shifted again on the couch, trying to ignore the stirring in his pants. You blinked a few times as if trying to tune in on the conversation—and not how his knee touched yours, or the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.
“But I'm old enough to get stoned with?”
Your feeble attempt to outsmart him roused a wry huff of laughter from him. “Yeah, luv, you're old enough to get a little high,” he replied with a sidelong glance, quirking a brow at your half-baked reasoning. A small smirk played at the corners of his lips in spite of himself. His thigh pressed a little more firmly against you as he took a good look at you, then looked away.
“You're not old enough for what some people would want, though.” He held out the joint, offering you another hit.
You took the half-burnt joint between your manicured fingers, puffing on it briefly. “What does that mean?” The soft giggle leaving your lips in surprise sent a shiver down his back, the sound catching in your throat, equal parts shy and incredulous. Removing the joint from your lips, you tilted your head back on the cushions, taking a moment to gather your bracings. The smoke wafted up from your mouth, a heavy feeling weighing down your limbs.
“You know exactly what it means,” Simon murmured, his tone low and raspy. You picked your head up to listen to him speak, watching him reach out slowly—or maybe that was just your brain, working in slow motion. His knuckles skimmed the top of your thigh, the bare skin of your leg just under his fingers. The discordance between his words and his actions only fuelled the heady feeling swirling around in your mind, your breath picking up pace as his palm rested on you.
“And you really think I'm not old enough?” you mumbled indignantly, shifting in your seat. His hand was starting to move up.
The effects of the weed had clearly taken hold, making you more pliable. Just enough to take the edge off.
Simon's fingers continued their path up your thigh, reaching the edge of your denim skirt and lingering there. “Not old enough,” he repeated raspily, his hand sliding under the hem of your skirt and moving further inward. There was that confusing thing again—his words, at odds with his doings. His movements were steady but determined, feeling the goosebumps on your skin as he went.
His other hand reached out and took the joint from your fingers, your eyes trailing after it longingly as he stubbed it out in the ashtray on the coffee table. Your mind was here and there, briefly chasing after the warmth of the joint, but then it snapped back to him with a squeeze of your thighs around his fingers. He almost groaned.
“Are you gonna do that stuff anyway?” you asked quietly.
His movements halted at your question. Those words struck a chord with him, you could tell, and you almost regretted asking when you noticed his hesitance. Those world-weary eyes didn't meet yours, looking at the place where his hand disappeared under your skirt. The pads of his fingers moved along the front of your underwear slowly and that was an answer in and of itself. He felt the thin fabric of your panties sticking to your folds, your slick arousal glueing the fabric to your flesh as his fingers started to move back and forth. Hesitation took the backseat as his teasing ministrations drew a warm sensation between your legs, your small sounds like music.
When your sativa-addled head grew heavy and fell back on the cushions again, Simon's free hand pulled your face up-close to his. His fingers squeezed your flushed face in a pout, dwarfing your head in its entirety with his large hand. He brushed his lips against your bottom lip—featherlight, waiting—his breath fanning against your skin before you met him halfway.
Even now with his hand between your legs, he found you achingly cute, with small, clumsy touches of your soft lips trying to press close to him. Like a butterfly's wings. His tongue slid over yours, and you tried to return the gesture like it was something nice worth sharing.
“Oh gosh,” you gasped quietly into his mouth when he peeled the gusset of your panties to the side, lifting off your seat slightly. Cool air hit your soaked folds, baring and revealing. More exposed than you'd ever been in front of a man before. His digits slipped between your wet slit before your hazy mind could drift again, teasing your sopping entrance then sliding up to your clit—they flattened against the hood, massaging lazy circles. “Have you ever stuck anything up there before, baby?” he asked in a low murmur, lowering his gaze between your legs and bringing his fingertip to your tight entrance, probing curiously.
“W-what? No...” you admitted, cheeks flaming as your hips shifted against his hand. A ghost of a smile touched the corners of his eyes at your movement.
“Not even your fingers?” Simon asked quietly, the curiosity in his voice almost demeaning—as if you were some rare specimen, something to be poked and observed.
You shook your head with a whimper, cheeks slightly puffed out in embarrassment. His finger eased inside your cunt a notch—a centimeter or more. Your walls fluttered around the intrusion, a trickle of moisture dripping onto your skirt.
“No? You play with yourself here, then?” His words were punctuated with his thumb circling your clit, sliding his other finger inside you in one smooth motion. You huffed as his finger started to move inside of you, thumbing your sensitive clit at the same time to ease the discomfort of being stretched. Your soft sighs met his ears incoherently, all mindless squirming and whining. “I asked you a question, baby,” his voice tethered you back to earth, gently nudging your chin to face him.
“Sometimes...” Your answer was a quiet whisper, embarrassment burning your cheeks as you held the hem of your skirt down. It came as no surprise, you were in an experimental stage of life.
“Dirty girl.” He nosed against the side of your face with a soft chuckle at your admission, clearly getting off to having you bared before him in more than one way. He liked hearing your dirty little secret, to imagine you with your delicate hand lost in your panties, trying to chase the kind of pleasure only a real man like him could give you.
His finger curled against that spongy part inside you, hooking in-and-out of you at a deliberate pace that made something hot coil inside your abdomen. You burrowed your head against his shoulder as a second finger thrust inside you, the tension in your belly fast-growing. His meaty fingers disappeared inside you with lewd squelches, the muscles in his heavily tattooed forearm flexing with each fast flick of his wrist. He groaned against your hair, moving on top of you to look directly at you. Simon's free hand rested on your sternum to keep you still as you arched against the cushions, your pulse erratic beneath his palm. Your stomach clenched, chest rising and falling quickly beneath your halter top.
“I feel weird—” you stammered, your skirt bunched up against your belly as you rolled your hips forward. “Feels good,” you then corrected, gasping out your words and clutching onto him tightly. Simon's hooded gaze pinned you down, taking in your dewy skin and expression, your cunt walls pulsing like a cat preening at attention.
Perspiration broke out over your neck as your core muscles tensed suddenly, the pressure building up before suddenly going lax, like you couldn't hold back what was rippling out of you even if you tried. “Oh, please, please-please.” Your knees fell open and you sobbed in pleasure, his gravelly voice reverberating against your ear with encouragement.
“Just like that, baby. Give it to me, give it to me.”
“Fucking soaking my fingers, aintcha? Yeah, you're a messy girl.”
You spilt your release over his hand with staccato whines, soaking him down to his knuckles. The heel of his palm ground against you with each thrust of his fingers, making you wince with overstimulation, the dopamine and sativa running through your system making you see stars. He slipped his soaked fingers out of you with a low coo, bringing his hand to pet your swollen clit a few times as your orgasm pulsed through you. You closed your eyes shut as he sealed his mouth over yours, groaning like it was him who just came.
Your eyes fluttered open to the metallic sound of his belt coming undone, darting down to look at him one-handedly unbuckle the belt above the tent in his pants. You'd been speechless for the past few seconds already, squeaking girlishly when two hands grabbed your hips and tugged you down the chaise of the sofa. Simon leaned back on his heels, unceremoniously unbuttoning his denims and tucking his dick over the stretchy waistband of his boxer briefs.
Pre-cum pooled over the slit on his tip, throbbing veins cording his girth. A hoarse laugh spilled past his lips at your innocent, rosy-cheeked gawking, fingers wrapping around himself and pumping lazily. “You ever seen one of these before, baby?” he asked, cupping your face with his other hand.
You shook your head, bashfully mumbling 'no'. “Nuh-uh.” His fist started to move faster around his straining cock at your innocent response, hissing through his teeth. God help him.
He liked your bow-accented panties, but this time, he ripped them down your legs and tossed them onto the carpet along with your heels, making you squirm. Simon grasped your knee and threw it around his hip, a gasp ripping from your lips as he splayed you open under him.
The scene before him wasn't one he'd soon forget. Halter top, short skirt, glistening cunt. Your glassy eyes made you look even more youthful, in a way, lipgloss smudged on your chin in a matching shade to the glow in your cheeks.
The denim skirt bundled around the top of your hips, his fingers absentmindedly stroking your knee socks while he settled between your legs. He bunched the hem of your skirt in his hand and used it as leverage to pull your hips down the sofa, the head of his cock aligned with your entrance. Your stomach flipped with realization. Your fingers scrambled to hold onto him for support, digging glossy pink nails into his tattooed arms while the older veteran groaned at the friction of your slippery folds, rubbing his length back and forth over your slit.
“Gunna put it in now, right, darlin'?” he murmured, his voice raw and intimate, running his hands up and down from your knees to the insides of your thighs.
“Yes,” you breathed, nodded your head with a hard swallow, before adding quietly, “I'm ready.”
Your doe-like eyes were wide and pleading, and it was all he could do not to bury himself in your heat and brutishly take your virginity in one go. His breath shuddered, big hands wrapping around your waist as he pushed himself inside your welcoming heat. You were still throbbing from your recent climax, your cunt practically sucking in the tip despite your initial nervousness. Your chest caved in with a deep, shuddery moan, rolling your head back—Simon was all girth, splitting your walls open around him. His fingers dug into your hips and your ass, a grounding force when stars sparked in your vision.
“Christ, baby.” He grunted, rolling his hips forward. “So fucking wet for me.” But you knew a couple inches wasn't enough for him, his brows furled together with restraint. His fingers found your clit, two fingers massaging side-to-side as he eased his length inside you. At first, he paused, feeling the resistance of your virgin cunt, before that tightness gave away to warmth. The stretch was brief, barely a sting—much unlike the scary expectations you had for sex—aided by both the comforting weed in your system and just how wet and pliable you were for Simon. Both of you gasped as he bottomed out inside of you, the head of his cock seated deep inside your cunt. Sobbing his name, your thighs hugged his waist tight, toes curling all the way.
“'s so big,” you gasped breathlessly, cock-drunk and stoned, your hands slapping ever so soft and gentle against his big arms, pink lips pushed into a pout that made his dick twitch.
“I know, luv, I know,” the older man hummed into your ear. “You can take it. You're a big girl.”
He tugged the hem of his T-shirt up and wedged it between his teeth, as if desperately needing as much freedom to move as possible. He breathed heavily around the cloth in his mouth as he pumped inside of your heat, your walls pulsing around him like a second heartbeat.
His hips pressed against your ass, his dick driving in deep and springing tears in your eyes. He'd been a man of discipline and restraint for years, he tried to be careful with you—he did. But you were just so delicate, or maybe he was just too big, too strong.
Simon leaned over you with a groan, your whiny cries filling his ears—and he wasn't even fucking you as hard as he wanted just yet. Your pussy was wet and inviting, but he wouldn't want to break you the first time.
He fucked you deep and full, his hips slapping against your skin rhythmically. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Meanwhile, you were gasping and preening under him, your back curving off the sofa as you fumbled to clutch onto his arms, his shoulders, or his hair. “Please, please-please,” you pled mindlessly, not even knowing what you were asking for.
Simon maneuvered your legs off his hips suddenly, grabbing your ankles in one hand and propping them up on his broad shoulder. You squealed as the man pulled his hips back and slammed into you again. His cock rubbed against your spongy g-spot with your hips tilted up, knees against your chest as he pressed down on you.
He filled you up over and over, and when your hips tried to twitch away from him like you were growing overwhelmed, he'd pull you back down on his shaft. “Mm, no—you take it. Fucking take it,” he let out a guttural groan, his forehead resting against yours. Your eyes watered, the head of his cock kissing your cervix without abandon. You'd probably feel it later, but your hazy brain made it that much easier to let the pleasure override your body's pain cues.
You wrapped your arms under your knees and hugged them to your chest, dumb little noises falling from your lips as you held yourself open. He almost spilt his load into you right there, watching you all docile and willing under him.
That was when it really occured to him; he was balls deep in your virgin cunt with no protection. He hadn't second-guessed it initially—blame it on virility or the joint. Blame it on your knee-socks and big bubbly eyes that followed him everywhere.
His head fell forward with a groan, his pelvis pressing flush against your ass with rough, staccato thrusts, fingers digging into your thighs. “Can I come inside you, baby?” You squeaked at his bold request, his large hands wrapping around your legs and smoothly spreading them open to press his chest against yours. “Hm? Gonna let me fill you up?” He urged gently, brushing the tip of his nose against yours.
As always, your answer came in the form of shaky nods, hiccuping on your own moans. He could feel your cunt pulsing around him invitingly, your sock-covered legs squeezing around him. “Uhuh, uhuh-” You bit your lip, brows screwed together in bliss. “I dunʼ mind.” In spite of Simon's bone-deep stoicism, he almost fawned at your ready acceptance.
“Atta girl,” he mumbled against your cheek, a crack in his hoarse voice. “Gonna fill this pretty cunt. Make you take every last drop.”
His thrusts fell out of rhythm with a growing pit of pleasure in his stomach, the weight of his muscled form bearing down on you, fucking your pliant body into the cushions. The ministrations grew almost frantic, perspiration on his brows, his throbbing cock slamming into you. The sound of your broken moans in his ears pushed him over the edge—hips stuttering against you with deep, guttural moans as his load gushed inside your cunt.
You were too sweet, too giving. He should've been the responsible one. Shouldn't be planting bad ideas in your head. You didn't know any better. But he couldn't help himself.
Your thighs shook around his waist while he fucked his seed into you, pulling in and out, a creamy ring forming around the base of his cock. He pushed his hot cum between your folds, pumping inside you and watching your puffy cunt sucking in his tip. The ridge of his tip bumped against your sweet spot, your toes curling in your socks as he pressed his palm on your lower belly and your climax ripped from you.
Your sweltering, velvety heat wrung his cock dry for the last drops of his load, your cheeks splotched red and your pupils cherry-pie-wide. You both moaned in tandem as he eased his cock out of you, his length slapping against your belly.
Simon heaved on top of you, his gaze roving from your dazed expression to the space between your legs, milky globs dripping out of your fluttery cunt. He heard a blissed-out giggle from your lips, long lashes fanning out as you gazed up at him and lowered your tiny fingers to mingle with the sticky fluids on your folds curiously. A sight far too lewd for someone far too innocent, wonderment glittering in your big eyes, your thighs squeezing together out of sensitivity. He felt a twinge of guilt at the adorable sight—arousal, too.
Simon breathed shakily, patting your head absentmindedly before he glanced over his shoulder at the windows.
The party was still going on. No one would've heard you over the music, no matter how loudly you moaned his name—he knew that. But Simon couldn't help but wonder if anyone had seen you go inside his caravan and not come out at this time of night. Most importantly, if your father or anyone who knew your father had seen.
He was going to hell for this.
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† notes , tysm if you read this far! apologies, there's a pretty bad drop in quality halfway, i started rushing to the end bcs i was afraid no one would read if i made this too long. :(
∬ mechanic. buzzcut. older than you. mid-late twenties. broken nose that never healed quite right. gold cross necklace. lucky strike cigarettes. never enlisted. newly wed parents. simon & reader did not grow up together.
/ SETTING : small-town southern usa.
† stepbrother!simon does not approve of your parents marriage—and by extension, has never accepted you into the family. he makes a point to tell you youʼll never be his sister, despite your attempts at brother-sister bonding. the closer you try to get, the further he pushes you away. perhaps there's more to why he wants to break apart your parents union.
† stepbrother!simon only calls you stepsis when he's inside you, a deliberate affront to the institutionalized family structure that has taunted him since you arrived. likes referring to himself as 'big brother' in the third person especially then.
† stepbrother!simon who's mean to you on purpose and makes pervy comments about you just to solidify the fact that you're not, and will never be family.
† stepbrother!simon is all tough love, like any big brother. he tackles and manhandles without a hint of gentlemanliness in his bones that shows he even acknowledges you as a woman (unless he so desires). heʼd grab your face and squeeze your cheeks to kiss you while you purse your lips stubbornly.
† stepbrother!simon who drives a dusty red ’06 Ford F-150 with his tools rattling in the back. he keeps a blacked-out 2010 Harley-Davidson Dyna Super Glide tucked behind the garage, sometimes leaving it there untouched for days.
spends his nights cruising around and out of town with his pack of no-good childhood friends, sharing beers in an empty field before drifting home long after midnight when the house is already fast asleep. (what is he hiding from?) him and his friends have a long-standing love-hate relationship with the local sheriff.
† controversial to game-truthers, i know—but stepbrother!simon is a pretty boy, in a rugged way, with his sun-tan, freckle-dusted skin and the way his lip curls into a mean sneer. the housewives and neighbor's daughters linger just a little too long on their lawn when the garage is open. they're allowed to look—you aren't. you're his stepsister. there's something striking about his facial features—his squarish jaw, a brow-ridge seemingly carved out to shield his hazel eyes from the sun that's always blazing out here, as if crafted with obsession. the kind of boy you only have the grace of seeing in a small town, backdropped against wheat fields, and never again. without being in the military, i don't imagine stepbrother!simon goes through great pains to bulk up his 6 feet 2 ½ frame unlike his gamecanon-counterpart. his physique is shaped by manual labor and a natural athleticism. he has the healthy appetite of a grown man his size and could probably eat your share at the table though.
MORE TO COME...? join my taglist to find out more about him!
˖𓅰 ˚｡ INSPIRATIONS. true detective S01, days of heaven (1978), 90s/2000s rock/grunge rock, gillian flynn, america's bible belt, white oleander (2002). 🪽
a/n; ik, ik, making simon american is blasphemous, but this is my world! alas the writing here is super amateur, but this is essentially my notes app brainstorming. i might add more hcs to this post or make a new one.
