simon teaches inexperienced!reader how to ride him. ♡ cw age gap. all characters are 18+.
TRAINING WHEELS.
fully undressed, no training wheels left for you / i'll pull them off for you.*
(reupload from lackadaisies, this is my fic! i'm not a thief!)
Embarrassment takes root somewhere deep in your belly at the proposition, a low-grade tingle spreading up your neck and your ears. A nervous laugh—that sound Simon loves so much, though he'd never say out loud—slips past your Berrylicious ChapStick lips. You can scarcely meet his gaze, the silver of his watch glinting out of the corner of your downturned eyes in the gauzy light. Simon, on the other hand, has never had any problem laying out his needs for you in that unhurried, plain-spoken way of his, like he's been deciding on this longer than you know.
The room is spartan, tucked corners and pine furniture. All business—save for your bra hanging off the bedpost, a pack of gum spilling onto his nightstand, your little sandals kicked off by the door. Heat shimmers off the gravel lot out front, the silhouette of his truck baking in the sun visible through the half-drawn blinds. You can hear the sound of the cicadas starting up over the distant drone of a lawnmower and the neighbors dogs.
“Let's get these off, then.” Simon gestures for you to lift your hips, his hands already finding the lace trim of your panties before bundling it down, down. Your denim cut-offs had been the first to go, and now even the loss of that thin, barely-there barrier of cotton makes all the difference.
“I'm not so sure 'bout this...” Your hands instinctively fly to his broad shoulders for support, your balance teetering on the mattress as the panties bunch around one knee. His grip on your hips tightens ever so slightly, tongue probing the inside of his cheek as he tries to ignore the stirring in his groin with your heat hovering right over him. You can see the vein in his forearm, the set of his jaw.
“I'm no good,” you pout.
You swear Simon rolls his eyes, vaguely. Just enough for you to catch a flash of it beneath that heavy, half-lidded look he gets.
“All I'm hearin' are excuses, lazy girl.” He raps his fingers against your hips in an off handed rhythm, his weight shifting under you expectantly.
“It's not like that! I wanna make you feel good—real good. I just haven't done this before. I told you, Si.”
“Everyone’s gotta start somewhere. I’ll teach ya. Now go on, undo ’em.”
You know he's right, but you like your comfort zone—no chance of disappointment or embarrassing yourself. Your lips pinch together as you lower your gaze to the straining bulge in the front of his pants, the denim scratchy against your inner thighs. His silver belt buckle is worn at the edges, possibly almost as old as you.
Belt first, you hear his deep voice murmur and your fingers fumble at the clasp, your knuckles brushing against the warm flat of his stomach and flinching back like you've been burned. You can feel him watching you, patient, and it makes you clumsier. You hesitate at the button next, your breath shallow, aware of how still he's gone beneath your hands—how much restraint it's taking him to let you do this at your own pace, to not just take over and show you.
When you finally get his jeans undone, he lifts his hips just enough to shuck them down his thighs, and you try not to look at the thatch-colored hair trailing from his navel, the jut of his hipbone, the outline of him through his boxers. It's nothing you haven't seen before, but you've never had to take matters into your own hands up until now.
Simon's calloused palm is on the back of your hand, guiding it down the front of his boxers with a slow exhale, his muscles seeming to uncoil beneath you. Your painted fingernails stick out between his fingers like little jewels, your palm pressing flat against the cotton.
“Feel that?” His offhand grips the back of your hair, the prominent bridge of his nose bumping against yours before your lips touch, murmuring into your mouth. “That’s what you do to me. So go on, then—do summat about it.” He pulls his boxers down just enough, and you feel him spring free against your thigh, the sudden relief making him hiss.
You shift forward on your knees awkwardly, and he steadies you with a hand on your hip, warm and familiar. The position is strange—you hovering over him, his length pressed between your bellies, the head of his cock nudging against your softness. Your thighs tremble with the effort of holding yourself up, and you're distinctly aware that you're hardly as spry as you should be, while Simon has been the exact opposite in that department despite the years.
“Easy.” His hands settle under your ribs. “Go on. You heard me. Sit yourself down.”
His head tips back against the headboard, his voice unexpectedly hoarse as he notches himself at your entrance, and you gasp as the head of his oversized cock stretches you out.
“Now,” he says. “Nice and slow.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders. You sink down inch by inch, your breath coming in short, punched-out little gasps, and he doesn't intervene as you find your own pace. You feel the shape of him in your belly, and you're painfully aware of the way your body resists, then gives, the way his jaw tightens as you take him incrementally.
“Up—that’s it. Slow. Now, move your hips into it. No, don’t just bounce, sweetheart. You’re not a bloody jackrabbit. Roll ’em.” A small adjustment, thumbs pressing into your waist with pedagogical indifference to your whimpers as he impales you on his cock, maneuvering you along the slight curve of his cock. “Yeah. That’s it. Like that.”
Sparks shoot up the base of your spine as your clit grinds against him with each pass, palms braced against his stomach. You feel the sweaty muscle flex under your fingers in time with your hips, the wet squelch of each rise and fall making your cheeks burn, leaving a shining trail down his length before you sink back down with a gasp.
His voice remains low and even—the Lieutenant guiding instead of commanding for once. Praise is rare with Simon—only the occasional murmur of good—but the approval is there all the same.
You stop but once to huff and tell him your legs are tired, and while Simon does consider that perhaps he's spoilt you too much, you turn out to be a surprisingly quick study once you've had your fill of pouting. You're too accustomed to letting him take control, perhaps, to the point that you'll even be on top if that's what he wants.
Trying to walk squeeze by Simon when he’s standing is hard enough, but when he’s sitting? It’s like a Herculean task. He manages to take up just as much room as he always does, if not more—legs spread wide, feet kicked out in front of him. He's like a human-sized boulder, and it's impossible to get to where you need to go if he's in your path.
"Christ—" you kicked at his foot, "Close your fucking legs, LT."
He grumbled something unintelligible, glaring blankly into the middle distance and making no effort to ease up in his seat or grant you the space you needed to pass.
"I’m serious," you huffed, "There’s no way your balls are so big that you can’t spare a few inches of legroom for me."
It sort of just slipped out; a low-effort joke you hoped might get him to empathize with your struggle—or maybe embarrass him into closing his fucking legs.
"Might be."
Simon didn’t bother looking up at you when he spoke. He remained statuesque, thick arms crossed over his wide chest.
"What?"
"Balls might be ‘at fuckin big," now he looked up, that deep glare finding your face. "Try findin' time for a wank in 'is line o’work."
"I find plenty of time," you shot back quickly, trying to keep up with his odd brand of humor—was it humor? "What? Shower's too good for you? Can’t jerk off in bed like a normal person?"
"Tired." He shrugged.
His eyes were half-lidded, frustrated, but not angry, and when he tilted his head to the side, an almost imperceptible gesture, you thought the conversation was done. You thought you might be able to kick your way past his legs; be able to storm off, knowing you had lost this battle, and allow yourself the time to stew over it.
But then he dropped his forearms to his thighs with a quiet huff—whether it was one of amusement or not, you could never tell with him.
"'Nd the mess ain't worth it."
You swallowed, almost taking a step back out of sheer surprise that he was being so direct. Granted, Simon's only method of communication was to speak candidly, or not at all.
“Maybe you just need someone to…help you out,” there was no hesitancy to your words, though you couldn't hide the slight waver in your voice. “Somewhere pretty to…for—for easy clean up...”
And that’s how you wound up face down on Simon's bed, bent over yourself on shaky hands and trembling knees. A calloused palm pressed against your back, forcing you to arch, squirming while he fucked his previous load back into you.
"Pretty li’l cumslut," his voice was almost jovial, despite the gravelly baritone he maintained, as he watched the messy combination of slick and cum drip down the backs of your thighs. "S'at what you are, sweetheart?"
"I—mmh…Ye-es—"
Groaning at your easy submission, the quiver in your voice as you confirmed his query, he slid his hand down from your upper back, maneuvering between your shoulder blades and pressing down on the side of your head in a gentle but apparent show of control. You arched further, unable to stop yourself from chasing that perfect angle—the one that let you feel him between your ribs, that pushed the air from your lungs while he pulled another orgasm from you.
"Yeah, s’right," his free hand came down to rest on the curve of your ass, spreading you further—wider—for his own enjoyment. "’Nd whose fuckin’ cum dumpster are ya?"
"Please—Simon!"
Your cry of his name inadvertently answered his question, and he growled in recognition, bringing his hand down hard over the flesh of your ass before squeezing.
"Yeah, s’fuckin’ right—" another squeeze, "Mine."
His grip on your ass faltered slightly, just enough to let his palm sweep inwards, his thumb brushing against the tight rim of your asshole while you gasped beneath him.
"Think when I’ve pumped your pretty cunt full, you’ll let me fill ya ‘ere?" He pressed lightly, watching your eyelids flutter as you drooled onto his bedspread.
You moaned wantonly, keening at his words; his filthy promises and desperate touches. The lazy arch of your back against the pressure of his thumb and silent mouthing of his name—that was answer enough for him.
"Yeah—fuck, gonna give it to ya, sweetheart," he practically crooned it, determined to provide what you both wanted again, and again, and again. "Give ya every fuckin’ drop..."
It was so much easier for him to avoid getting cum on his sheets like this, with you so desperate to take everything he mercilessly fucked into you.
Have been thinking about simon and his weird sleeping habits again felt the need to write about it :D enjoy
Simon doesn't often realize it, but military life has had more of an effect on him than he thinks, especially after his retirement from the force.
In particular, it's his sleeping habits.
Don't get me wrong, it's not all bad. There's some benefits to be found there.
He can sleep pretty much anywhere he wants, and at any time. But when he does that, it's light and fast. It's pretty much a cat nap, just standing up, or leaning against something.
As rare as it is when he does get to sleep in a bed, he does tend to allow himself a bit more relaxation. Those are the only times when he slips deepest into the darkness that are his dreams. Even then, it never lasts long, nor is it enough. But, no matter what, no matter how tired he is or how much he hasn't slept, he still gets up at dawn and goes on a run through his tiny neighborhood. It's part of his routine.
Then, he meets you. Perfect, wonderful, you.
You are a welcome addition to the shitshow that is his life, in more ways than one.
The more time he spends with you, the more his military habits fade. They're still there, of course, but not as much as before.
For example, he sleeps longer, deeper, and on a more regular basis. He still has the ability to sleep anywhere and everywhere, but he is definitely more active in his hunts for cushions when it comes to it.
Now when he goes to sleep in a bed, it's with you next to him, and he's actually more likely to get eight hours instead of one or two at a time. Granted, he can't quite shake the habit of being up at the crack of dawn and he doubts that will ever go away completely.
However, instead of immediately going for a run, he takes a moment to pull you closer to him and appreciate the time he gets with you that he never thought he would.
Sometimes violence is the answer to your problems- or in this case, Simon Riley’s problems
It’s not as if there had been a particular moment where Simon Riley had sat down and decided that he was done with having sex.
Rather, it was the accumulation of torture over the years that had left damage- nerves misfiring or simply not firing at all beneath scar tissue that had healed wrong.
Then there were the other injuries layered over it across the years: the fractures, surgeries, concussions, medications, chronic pain and the permanent state of low grade readiness his body seemed incapable of leaving even when he was technically safe.
Simon had spent enough time in hospitals to know the human body was less a machine than people liked pretending it was. Things went wrong. Sometimes they healed. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes nobody could tell you why.
His cock, apparently, had decided not to.
He’d noticed it gradually.
Morning erections disappearing first, though he couldn’t have said precisely when- not when his mornings were spent around other people and never actually got the time to wank one out before morning drills or in between dodging gunfire.
Then on the rare occasion he did actually feel enough inclination to do something about himself, it became an exercise in diminishing returns: attraction still existed somewhere in his head, sensation technically existed below the waist, but whatever bridge had once connected the two appeared to have been bombed out.
Simon discovered it through the deeply scientific process of occasionally attempting to masturbate and getting absolutely fuck all for his trouble
He could touch himself and get nowhere. Could want, abstractly, and have his body answer with complete indifference. The first few times Simon tested it, he approached the problem the way he approached most of his failures: with detached irritation, as though persistence alone might force the damaged thing back into service.
Eventually he’d stared down at himself, accepted that nothing was happening, pulled his trousers back up and thought, Right. That’s that, then.
He never mentioned it to anyone, not to a doctor and certainly not to Price, because- contrary to popular belief- there were limits to what Simon Riley was willing to survive and the idea of being waterboarded ranked higher on the list of things he’d want to go through again before having John Price know whether his lieutenant’s cock remained operational or not.
He didn’t make an appointment specifically for it either. Doctors had poked, prodded, scanned, stitched and reconstructed enough of him already, and there was something uniquely intolerable about volunteering this particular failure for examination when he had no real intention of actually doing anything with the equipment even if they did manage to fix it.
Casual sex had never really held enough appeal to justify navigating the humiliation of his body refusing to cooperate halfway through. A relationship sounded worse. Relationships required trust, trust required vulnerability, and Simon had never understood the fascination people had with handing another human being that kind of weakness so openly.
So celibacy became another practical adjustment. Fine. Good, even. One less thing to worry about, one less chemical urge trying to convince him another person was necessary.
Simon’s body already demanded sleep, food, medication, physical therapy and the occasional begrudging acknowledgment that he was not, despite considerable evidence to the contrary, composed entirely of out of spite.
He didn’t particularly mind losing one more demand and eventually he stopped checking whether anything had changed. He stopped noticing attractive strangers beyond the detached recognition that, yes, objectively, they were attractive. He stopped wondering whether there might be some circumstance under which his body would respond differently.
It had been years and whatever part of him had once wanted sex had either been damaged beyond use or buried beneath too much other shit to reach daylight, and Simon had made his peace with that.
Then you arrived and immediately became the most irritating person he had met in recent memory.
Not because you were cruel. Simon could deal with cruel; cruelty was straightforward. You simply possessed a spectacular disregard for the strange force field that usually formed around Ghost.
New recruits tended to give him space. Experienced operators might not fear him, but they understood him well enough not to poke unnecessarily at whatever lived behind the skull mask.
Even Soap, who had elevated testing Simon’s patience into a recreational activity, possessed enough survival instinct to recognize certain lines.
You, however, seemed unaware there were lines at all.
The first time Simon deliberately crowded your space during a disagreement, expecting the usual subtle retreat people made when six-foot-something of masked lieutenant invaded their breathing room, you merely tipped your head back farther and continued arguing. When he leaned down, you leaned forward. When he blocked the doorway afterward because you’d been getting on his nerves for the better part of twenty minutes, you stared at him and asked, “Are you finished?”
“Finished what?” he’d replied, because sometimes Simon could be every bit as juvenile as Soap accused him of being, even if he’s deny it until the day he died.
“This.” You waved vaguely at all of him. “Whatever weird intimidation ritual you’ve got going on. Move.”
He hadn’t and you responded with putting both hands against the center of his chest and shoving him instead. He barely shifted if course, which only seemed to annoy you further.
Your mouth tightened, your boots planted and you shoved again with genuine intent this time while Simon stared down at you in profound disbelief.
Somewhere behind him Soap made the distinctive strangled sound of a man swallowing laughter, and when Simon turned his head just enough all he saw was the sergeant suddenly studying a patch of wall with extraordinary concentration because he valued his continued existence.
By the time Simon looked back, you were already shouldering past the narrow gap you’d created, muttering something about oversized fucking roadblocks.
Deeply irritating. That was Simon’s assessment, and it remained his assessment over the following weeks while you developed an increasingly casual habit of putting your hands on him whenever he was being difficult.
Not affectionately. Never anything he could easily categorize as flirtation.
Rather, you slapped his hand away when he reached for things you were using, nudged his boots aside when he stretched his legs into your path, drove your shoulder into his arm rather than walk around him when he occupied too much corridor.
One afternoon he reached over your head for the exact mug you’d been reaching toward despite three identical ones sitting beside it, and you promptly elbowed him in the ribs.
“Use another one.”
“Wanted this one.”
“You’re a prick.”
“Been told.”
You turned with your mug held against your chest and gave him a look of profound disgust. “Do you wake up every morning and consciously decide to be unbearable, or does it come naturally?”
“Natural talent.”
Something low in his stomach tightened when your eyes narrowed. Simon noticed it only enough to dismiss it. His body produced strange aches, sparks and misfires constantly; one more meant nothing.
The real problem emerged three weeks later over a mission report, largely because Simon had made the decision to edit your wording after you’d already submitted it.
You found him sitting at his desk with the amended copy beside him and launched immediately into an accusation of bureaucratic sabotage.
Simon informed you that he’d corrected inaccuracies. You informed him there had been no inaccuracies. He reminded you that on line of your official report had read, Lieutenant Riley ignored the proposed entry point because apparently God himself whispered a better idea directly into his ear.
“That is an accurate account of events,” you argued.
“Not putting that in an official report.”
“You’re only mad because it makes you sound like an asshole.”
“I am an asshole.”
“Then why are we editing for accuracy?”
You were already moving around the desk while you said it, coming toward him with the particular determined stride Simon had learned meant you were about to invade his personal space as punishment for some perceived crime.
He remained seated though, mostly because standing would have made the whole thing absurd; he was already large enough without looming over you while you complained about paperwork.
You stopped directly between his knees instead, close enough that the fabric over one of your thighs brushed the outside of his. Simon registered it without meaning to and dismissed it.
Then your finger came up and pressed hard into the center of his chest.
“You listen to me, Riley. If you touch my report again without asking, you can take that red pen and shove it so far up your- “
Simon stopped listening.
His body had gone abruptly, impossibly still around one singular point of awareness. There was pressure beneath his pants. Heat. A heavy rush of blood into an organ Simon had, for all practical purposes, considered medically retired.
For several bewildered seconds his brain refused to identify the sensation because it had been absent too long to belong naturally among the catalog of things Simon expected his body to do.
Then his cock gave a distinct pulse against the front of his trousers and every word leaving your mouth vanished beneath one stunned thought.
He was hard.
Not sort of hard, not an ambiguous twitch he could blame on sitting wrong or fabric pressure or some random neurological event.
Simon Riley, who had gone years without getting an erection under considerably more deliberate circumstances, was sitting in his office with a fully functioning cock because you were jabbing him in the chest and telling him to go fuck himself.
You were still speaking, though Simon had no idea what you were saying anymore- although judging by your expression it remained insulting.
He stared at you with such unusual stillness that eventually you stopped on your own, finger still planted against his sternum. “What?”
Simon said nothing.
“What?” you repeated. “Have you gone deaf?”
His gaze dropped to your hand as though it might explain what had just happened. You mistook the look for irritation and removed your finger and Simon waited for the erection to disappear with it. It didn’t.
If anything, the lingering anger in your expression produced another deeply inconvenient pulse.
“No,” he finally said.
“Then say something.”
There were probably several sensible options but Simon chose, “Finished?”
Your whole expression sharpened. “Oh, fuck you.”
You snatched the report from beside him and stormed away, leaving Simon alone in his office with the door swinging behind you and his body apparently celebrating a resurrection.
He sat there for another several seconds before slowly looking down at himself.
The erection remained as undeniable as it was inexplicable. After years of absolutely nothing, his nervous system had apparently located a bypass around the damage because you had yelled at him over paperwork.
Simon stared until disbelief curdled into suspicion, then muttered, “Tha’s fucki’ inconvenient.”
By the following morning, he had explained it away. Bodies were strange. Blood pressure changed. Anger raised adrenaline. Perhaps poking his chest had compressed something in precisely the right way. Perhaps a damaged nerve had fired randomly for the first time in years.
After much deliberation, Simon decided one isolated event proved nothing, and there was absolutely no reason to investigate further.
So it was a completely coincidence, of course, that Simon happened to be standing directly in front of the cutlery drawer the next day, when you needed it.
You’d made tea, reached for the drawer and found approximately two hundred and forty pounds of lieutenant in the way. “Move.”
“Comfy.”
Your hand paused on the mug. “You’re blocking the spoons.”
“Plenty elsewhere.”
“No, there aren’t. They’re in the drawer behind your ass.”
“Sounds inconvenient.”
You stared at him. Simon leaned against the counter with studied indifference, though somewhere beneath that indifference his attention had become embarrassingly focused.
Nothing happened. No stirring. No heat. Simon experienced an emotion dangerously close to disappointment and immediately resented himself for it.
Then you stepped forward, caught a fistful of his shirt at the chest and yanked. “For fuck’s sake, Riley, move.”
His cock went hard so quickly Simon nearly inhaled his own tongue.
There was no ambiguity this time. Your knuckles dragged against his sternum through the fabric, your body crowded directly into his as you tried to haul a man significantly larger than yourself out of the way, and apparently this combination constituted the precise password required to unlock Simon Riley’s long dormant reproductive system.
You succeeded in shifting him half a step, reached around him for the drawer and retrieved your spoon without noticing that Simon had gone rigid for an entirely different reason.
“What’s wrong with you?” you asked when you turned back.
“Nothin’.”
“You look weird.”
“Always look like this.”
“No, you’re acting weird.”
Simon left without making the tea he’d ostensibly entered the kitchen to prepare.
Still, twice could still be coincidence. Simon clung to that argument for roughly forty eight hours before curiosity overwhelmed dignity and the entire situation deteriorated into an experiment he refused to acknowledge he was conducting.
He began noticing variables with the clinical attention he would normally reserve for surveillance. Ordinary proximity produced nothing reliable. Sitting beside you during briefings didn’t do it. Your shoulder bumping his in a crowded transport didn’t do it. You once passed him a weapon and your fingers brushed his glove, and his nervous system remained entirely uninterested.
There was something reassuring about that at first. Perhaps the episodes really were random.
Then he ignored you while you were trying to ask him a question.
“Riley.”
Simon continued inspecting the rifle in his hands.
“Riley.”
Nothing.
“Simon.”
There it was: that warning woven through his name, irritation sharpening the edges. Simon looked up and caught the full force of your glare just as warmth tightened low behind his belt.
“Wot?” he asked.
“I’ve been talking to you.”
“Have you?”
Your eyes narrowed further. His cock stirred harder.
Simon turned back toward the weapons bench before you could notice the slight adjustment in his stance.
Three times constituted a pattern.
After that, his behavior became indefensible.
He discovered that if he deliberately moved one of your things, you would hunt him down to complain. If he blocked your route, you would put your hands on him rather than politely ask twice. If he took the pen nearest your fingers instead of any of the other four available, you would slap the back of his hand. If he walked away while you were talking, you would occasionally grab the back of his vest and yank him to a halt, which produced such an immediate response the first time that Simon had needed to invent an urgent reason to leave the room before you noticed.
He tested other possibilities privately because, despite what his increasingly deranged behavior suggested, Simon was still attempting to establish whether you were actually the variable.
A woman flirted openly with him during leave; nothing. He watched pornography one evening and experienced such profound indifference that halfway through he became distracted wondering whether he’d cleaned the knife he’d used on a security guard earlier. He tried touching himself without any outside stimulus and got little more than the same sluggish response he’d become accustomed to years before.
The following afternoon you stormed into the common room because he’d eaten something with your name written very clearly across the container and jabbed him in the chest, snarling. “I swear to God, Riley, I’m going to kill you.”
His body responded like somebody had thrown a switch, cock harder than diamonds.
Simon stared at you as heat settled heavily between his legs. You stared back, waiting for remorse that was not forthcoming.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
A profoundly defective impulse surfaced. Simon leaned slightly closer. “Gonna have to try harder than that.”
Your mouth fell open before outrage filled the space. “You absolute fucking bastard.”
You attempted to leap at him, spitting profanities and attempting- Simon assumed- to claw his eyes out but Gaz intercepted and kept you off of him. Still, you managed to shove his shoulder and his cock throbbed in response.
Simon stepped back immediately, which only made you look suspicious. “Stay away from my food,” you snapped, throwing Gaz’s hands off of you, before walking out.
Gaz lowered his hands and looked toward Simon.
Simon turned his head very slowly.
Gaz’s eyebrows rose.
“Wot?”
“Didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Gaz gave him a deeply searching look- perceptive bastard- before finally settling on. “Not a conversation I’m looking to have, mate.”
Simon went upstairs, shut his bedroom door and sat on the edge of his mattress with both hands dragged over his mask.
It should have been good news. That was the part he could not reconcile. For years he’d assumed the damage was permanent, another small theft committed by men and circumstances that had already taken enough from him.
He had accepted it because Simon understood loss better than he understood recovery; there was peace in declaring something gone and never hoping for it again after all.
Now, against every expectation, his body was proving that some pathway still existed. Something beneath the scar tissue and damaged nerves still knew what to do. Under any reasonable circumstance, that should have felt like getting a piece of himself back.
Instead, Simon was being forced to confront the humiliating possibility that his cock was not broken so much as catastrophically selective.
Apparently lingerie did nothing for it. Flirting did nothing. Attractive strangers did nothing. Pornography had nearly put him to sleep.
But you glaring at him like you were three seconds away from committing an indictable offense? Excellent. You hauling him around by his clothes? Evidently irresistible. You shoving him because he was deliberately standing somewhere inconvenient? His nervous system seemed to consider it practically erotic.
It got worse because Simon genuinely enjoyed irritating you even without the increasingly inconvenient physical reward attached to it. There was something satisfying about the immediacy of your reactions.
Most people behaved differently around Ghost. They measured their words. Watched his hands. Gave the mask more space than it physically occupied. Even people who knew him eventually retained some instinctive awareness that he could become frightening very quickly if circumstances demanded it.
But you treated him like an enormous nuisance.
Simon could stand silently behind hardened soldiers and watch their shoulders stiffen; but all you would do is look over, discover him hovering there, and tell him his breathing was annoying you. People feared monsters but you only responded with irritation at the one who stole your mug.
Simon did not examine why that distinction mattered to him. Instead, he moved your mug again.
The situation finally collapsed when he blocked you in a corridor for no reason beyond the fact that he knew exactly what would happen.
You stopped in front of him with immediate suspicion. “Move.”
Simon remained where he was, arms folded.
“Riley.”
“Hm?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“This.” You gestured at the width of him occupying nearly the entire passage. “Standing exactly where I need to go.”
“Small corridor.”
“Exactly and you’re somehow taking up all of it.”
“Skill.”
You stepped left. Simon stepped left. You stopped and stared at him. He could see realization beginning, he dawning certainty that his obstruction was deliberate. You moved right. Simon mirrored you again.
“Are you twelve?”
“Could ask you the same.”
“Oh, my God.” You tried left one more time. He blocked you, and now your patience broke visibly. Your shoulders squared, your jaw tightened and when you spoke again your voice dropped into that particular warning register his body had inexplicably decided it adored. “Move, Riley.”
Heat tightened beneath his belt.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He should have stepped aside then. He had his answer. He had, in fact, accumulated an absurd quantity of answers over the previous week and required absolutely no further data.
Instead, despite being a grown ass adult, Simon leaned one shoulder against the wall and heard himself say, “Make me.”
You went very still.
There was a small part of Simon’s brain, the portion apparently not currently occupied by destroying his own dignity, that recognized he had pushed this into ridiculous territory.
Then you planted both hands against his chest and shoved hard enough to drive his shoulder into the wall.
The response was immediate and vicious. His cock surged against the front of his pants, balls tightening instinctively, breath catching just enough that you noticed. Your hands remained spread over his chest while your expression changed from irritation to confusion.
Simon looked down at them.
You followed his gaze, but this time your attention continued lower.
Silence settled between you.
Simon felt the exact moment you understood.
Your eyes lifted slowly back to his.
“No.”
He said nothing.
Your mouth began to twitch. “No fucking way. Is that why you’ve been fucking with me?”
“No.”
The denial came far too quickly.
Your expression transformed. “Oh my God.”
Simon pushed away from the wall. “Don’t.”
“You have been deliberately pissing me off.”
“Have not.”
“You moved my boots yesterday.”
“Safety hazard.”
“They were under my bed.”
“Could’ve tripped.”
“In my sleep?”
“Dangerous business.”
You stared at him for a long second before laughter broke through. Not polite laughter either. You actually bent slightly with it, one hand still braced against his vest while Simon considered every decision he had made since entering military service and wondered which one had placed him on the path toward this precise humiliation and whether he could go find his enemies and beg for the west release of death.
“You ate my food,” you accused between breaths.
“Was hungry.”
“You stole my pen out of my hand when there were three sitting next to it.”
“Liked yours.”
“You stood in front of the spoon drawer for five fucking minutes.”
Simon’s silence convicted him more effectively than anything he might have said.
“You’ve been fucking with me because it gets you off.”
“Wouldn’t call it that.”
“What would you call it?”
He had nothing.
Your laughter returned, softer now but infinitely more dangerous because amusement was giving way to curiosity. Simon recognized the shift immediately. You looked down again, not long enough to be crude, merely long enough to confirm the evidence remained present, then back up at him. Something in your expression sharpened with wicked understanding.
“You’re a fucking freak, Riley.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“That do it too?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Simon caught your wrists when you pressed both hands to his chest again, intending only to remove them. The movement changed your expression instantly. Amusement flashed into irritation at being restrained, your weight shifting toward him instead of away.
“Let go.”
His erection throbbed so hard Simon nearly swore.
Your eyes narrowed.
Simon shut his own for half a second because apparently there were indignities even he required time to process. When he opened them, you were staring at him with a new kind of fascination.
“Oh,” you said quietly.
Simon released your wrists.
You didn’t move back.
Neither did he.
The corridor had somehow become smaller around you both, the joking edge thinning into awareness. You watched him for a second, then reached forward with deliberate slowness and hooked one finger beneath the edge of his pants. Simon knew exactly what you were doing now. More importantly, so did you.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“Don’t what?”
“You know what.”
“I don’t think I do.”
“Bullshit.”
You tugged him half an inch closer.
His jaw tightened as his cock reacted instantly.
That awful, delighted grin spread across your face before cupping your palm around the hard, obvious shape of his cock through the fabric and closing your fingers.
Simon’s entire body betrayed him at once.
His head tipped back against the wall with a dull, undignified thunk. His eyes rolled upward so hard he briefly saw the inside of his own skull. A sound escaped him that could generously be described as a groan and less generously as a whine.
He stayed like that for a second- head thrown back, eyes somewhere in the rafters, cock throbbing shamelessly in the warm curve of your hand- while his brain attempted to process the sheer fucking audacity of the situation.
You gave a small, experimental squeeze.
Simon’s hips jerked forward of their own accord- traitors- and he locked every muscle he still had control over, forcing himself still, which only made the next pulse against your palm more obvious.
“Christ,” he muttered at the ceiling, voice strangled.
You didn’t let go. If anything, you adjusted your grip with the calm curiosity of someone who had just discovered a particularly interesting malfunction and intended to poke it until it made more interesting noises. Your thumb stroked once along the ridge of him, and Simon’s breath left him in a short, punched out sound that was deeply unhelpful to whatever remaining dignity he was trying to cling to.
You tilted your head, still cupping him, and watched the way his throat worked under the mask.
“So,” you said, far too conversationally for someone currently holding a lieutenant’s previously non-functional cock in her hand, “this is the bit where you explain yourself, or…?”
Simon dragged his eyes back down to you with visible effort. The mask hid most of his expression, but the set of his shoulders suggested a man who had just realised he had spent the better part of two weeks engineering his own public humiliation and was now living with the consequences.
“Not explainin’ a fuckin’ thing,” he managed, voice rough. “While you’re still holdin’ my cock in your hand. You’re becoming a problem.”
“I’m becoming a problem? You’ve spent the last week acting like a primary school boy pulling someone’s hair because apparently your dick needs interpersonal conflict to function.”
“Tha’s not what’s happening.”
“You got hard because I shoved you into a wall.”
“Coincidence.”
“I can test that.”
“You fuckin’ will not.”
Your grin widened and your palm pressed down and Ghost nearly saw God long enough to ask why after nearly thirty years of suffering, this was apparently the punchline.
Before he could ask, God apparently decided to throw the poor suffering bastard a bone because Soap’s voice sounded from around the corner. “Ghost, ye seen- “
Simon stepped away from you with enough speed that you nearly stumbled forward.
Soap rounded the corner, stopped and took in the scene. You were suspiciously amused. Simon was standing at an equally suspicious angle with his hands planted on his hips and approximately three feet more distance between you than two people naturally needed. Johnny’s gaze moved from you to Ghost, back to you and then very deliberately refused to travel any lower.
“Aye,” Soap said slowly.
Nobody answered.
He nodded to himself. “Actually, never mind.”
Soap turned around.
“MacTavish.”
His pace increased.
“Johnny.”
“Didnae see anything, LT.”
“You didn’t.”
“Exactly.”
He disappeared around the corner before Simon could decide whether murder was worth the paperwork.
You made it perhaps two seconds before laughter burst out of you again, and Simon dragged one hand down the front of his mask while your amusement echoed through the corridor.
This, apparently, was his life now. He had survived torture, burial, gunfire, explosions and enough bodily damage to permanently alter the way his nervous system functioned, only to discover that whatever remained of his sexual response had crawled out of its grave specifically for the most confrontational person he knew.
The pattern had become painfully specific: you close enough to crowd him, your voice edged with irritation, your hands on his chest because Simon had deliberately made himself impossible to tolerate.
His body had surveyed years of opportunity with complete indifference, ignored every conventional invitation offered to it, then watched you square up against a man nearly twice your mass and apparently made an executive decision.
That one. You need to fuck that one.
The thought arrived so clearly Simon actually glanced upward again as though God might be willizng to throw him another bone.
Apparently he’d used up all this good will because the Almighty wasn’t.
There was only you, still laughing as you pushed past him and deliberately knocked your shoulder into his chest on the way.
“Move, Riley.”
His cock twitched again.
Simon closed his eyes and stood perfectly still in the corridor while the universe continued to punish him for crimes he could not presently recall committing and groaned out. “Fuck’s sake.”
simon riley, looking down at your upper body hanging off the mattress after he nearly fucks you off of the edge of the bed, cunt still fluttering around him, cum and slick leaking onto the bedsheets. hooking one big arm around your shoulders and hauling you back into bed whilst muttering got you, petal.
you're not sure if he's referring to the fact he's just stopped your head hitting the floor, or the fact you're glassy eyed and trembling from the four orgasms he's pulled from you.
Sweetheart!Simon finding out you never squirted before-!
cw: porn link, mdni, fingering, squirting, sweet simon
When you casually mention that you can't squirt, Simon immedietaly pulls over from the road and looks at you confused.
And when you further explain it's because non of your past partners could do it when they tried, you whine about how you're totally convinced that there's something wrong with you and he decides to prove you wrong.
He immediately rolls up his tinted windows and lay you down in the backseat, spreading your legs open slowly and lowering your pants, eventually taking them off and tossing them somewhere followed by your panties short after, making you feel bare and embarrassed.
"Nothin's wrong with you, luv. Blokes these days just don't know how to treat a woman right, hm?"
He kisses your knee and spreads your legs wider when you try to close them because you started feeling exposed, suddenly shy under his gaze, but don't worry he'll take good care of you.
"Just relax for me sweetheart, yeahh just like that" he drags the syllable, eyes hooded with need and lip bitten between his teeth.
He starts by making you relax, kissing your hand, knee, calf; wherever his lips can reach, while rubbing slow deliberate circles on your aching clit.
After getting you all needy, relaxed and soft for him he'll press a finger in your waiting cunt, the length stretching you and making you squeeze him only to get a tut and a "need you to relax for me, luv"
And when you finally relax again he'll start moving his finger, the squelching sounds of your dripping cunt filling the small space only for him to add another when you least expect it, but the pain is nowhere to be found, replaced by pleasure and lust.
Simon thrusts his fingers in and out of you and just when you start to feel the coil in your stomach, indicating your approaching orgasm, he'll press his palm over the surface of your lower abdomen- right on top of your uterus- making you squeal and squirm a bit, receiving a light tap on the soft flesh;
"need you to stay still for me, sweetheart."
His voice is gruff and his breath starts quickening along with his fingers, his palm on your abdomen applying the perfect pressure, and just when you're about to cum, he'll curl his fingers just right to hit the spongy spot you can't reach by yourself making you arch your back and press harder on his palm;
"W-wait, Simon! F-feel like peeing-"
"That's the point, sweetheart. Let go for me" he pants above you, barely holding himself together.
And just like that, your jaw goes slack and your juices squirt all over his palm, his pace not slowing one bit. Simon would finger you through your orgasm, and when you get down from your high, he'll take out his fingers and slap your pussy making you moan.
Simon brings his hands to his mouth and licks his fingers clean, maintaining eye contact while doing so. And in a moment of embarrassment you avert your gaze only for it to land on his crotch, an evident dark patch coating his bulge
"See what you do to me, luv? Without any touch." he chuckles sweetly and kisses your forehead
"If you ever want to squirt, just come to me. I'll take good care of you, o'right?"
king simon is a monster. he knows this because he is a dragon. fundamentally, he is what makes a monster — fangs, scaley hide, talons, and horns sprouting from a head of dirty blonde hair. his cock has shredded women in half. he has pillaged, and murdered, and hungered for more when it was over.
so, yes, simon is a monster.
but nothing else makes him quite so much a monster as the fact that he is currently balls deep in his own daughter, knot growing with every pulse of his own heart.
you have your little hands — so little, compared to him, despite having come of age long ago — wrapped around the horns on his head, keening, crying, forever disturbed by the sheer size of him.
he made good, choosing the fae for a vessel for his little queen. fae are endurant. they stretch better around a ramming cock — and they are fertile to a fault, too.
simon doesn't need to work you open. doesn't need to fist you open like he did with his harem, back when he did not have you. you take him like a glove, like it is your birth right, like you were born for it.
and simon takes, and takes, and takes, and worst of all, he enjoys it.
fooling prison guard!simon riley into thinking you're a delicate flower.
with your pretty eyes and soft smile, the way you'd lean close to the metal that kept you from the rest of the world. you were such a risk that they'd keep a personal guard outside your cell, and who happened to be stationed there but simon riley.
he was young into his career, still a bit gullible despite being fresh out of the military. the way he clutched his gun was clumsy, his eyes scanning too slowly to be efficient. you watched him like the anomaly he was, practically drooling at how perfect he'd be to keep you entertained.
simon was solid in the beginning, learning to tune out the yells and shouts from other cells and blocks, and your incessant rambling as you tried to get him to listen.
but unfortunately for him he was susceptible to a pretty face. it wasn't hard to lure him in, it only took you a couple weeks before you had him responding and engaging with you. it wasn't much, a few clipped words here and there, some firm orders, a raised brow for you to continue with whatever you were saying.
most of the time, he'd keep his back to you. he knew if he met those deep eyes of yours, he'd sink right in and be lost forever. but talking with you? different story.
especially when you started asking about him. his family. his job. his childhood. what brought him to the spot right outside your cell.
and he answered every question, enjoying the way you listened without interruption, showered him with all your attention. he lavished every drop up, becoming desperate for it. it was spiraling into something out of his control, and you both knew it.
simon figured, one day, a single look couldn't hurt. he's seen your mughshot plenty of times, what's the difference with your real face?
there was a big difference. with your wide eyes staring up at him, head perched on your arms as you leaned against the metal bars of your cell. lips pulled into a friendly smile. despite the dirt and grime of the prison, you were a dream, and that's how you doomed him.
the shift wasn't immediate, but it was progressing faster than you expected. maybe you smelled the gullibility on him when he first stood outside your cell, but you knew he wasn't like the other guards you had before.
you drank him in like he was a five star meal. how casually he leaned against the brick, thick, muscly arms crossed over his broad chest whenever he talked with you. he was strong and capable, unlike any other guard you've had before.
the two of you inched closer as the days went by, until you were inches away without him pulling away. so close, you could feel his breath ghost over your skin, and the warmth radiating from him. it laid over you like a blanket.
when your lips grazed his, you couldn't help yourself. you didn't care if he recoiled with disgust or fear, or if he would get you sent to isolation. he was within your grasp, and you couldn't muster any more restraint.
to your surprise, his eyes darkened and his throat bobbed.
"y'think you should be doin' tha'?" his voice was deeper, raspier, like he was trying his best to hold back.
"I think i don't care about the rules." you batted your lashes. "I won't tell, sir. I'm good at keeping secrets."
"is tha' right?"
"mhmm."
"guess we'll figure out." he whispered, letting you close the distance. his lips were warm, plush, and so careful. you were sure and passionate, dragging him closer by his collared shirt. the metal bars bit into your face, only allowing you to get so close.
simon was dizzy, adrenaline rushing through his body almost unnaturally. this was more heart pumping than any military mission he was ever deployed on. as it went on, he gained more confidence, but you had to separate to breath, or you'd kill the poor man.
"unlock my cell, simon." you purred, running your hand down his chest. his face was flushed red, lips swollen.
he let out a shaky breath. "why would I do tha'?"
"because I want more."
he argued with himself in his head, wondering how far he would allow this to go. how far he could go before he was unable to pull himself back from your claws that sank deep into his brain.
after warring with himself for a mere second, he ordered. "step back, swee'heart."
"yes sir."
"little minx." he grunted, glancing both ways down the hall as the keys jingled in his hands. he memorized the key to your cell, knew it by heart.
the door swung open with a deep creak. now there was nothing separating the two of you from being together. you'd been beside him before, but never without your cuffs. this was different, this was new.
you didn't even leave simon time to think before you pushed him down onto your bed—if you could call it that. it was a thin, grimy mat on a metal bed frame. it creaked loudly, not used to the heavy weight of a man's body.
"jesus—" he choked out, unable to stop your desperate hands pawing at his belt. it had been years—since you were incarcerated—since you'd gotten a good lay. the guards always yelled at you to cut it off when you sank your fingers into your pussy, never allowing you that relief.
you were fast, wasted no time—because someone could notice simon's absence any minute. you didn't have the luxury of exploring each other, mapping out every inch of one's body. so a quick fuck would have to do.
simon was already hard and leaking when you freed his cock, panting at your touch. his hands pawed at your hips desperately, steading your weight as you straddled him. this wouldn't last long, but you didn't care.
you sank down onto his thick cock, prison grade panties pushed to the side as he stretched you wide. simon was too starstruck to protest, overwhelmed by the pleasure and sensations that engulfed him. your soft moans, the slaps of your skin with every bounce or roll of your hips, the dainty hand you wrapped around his neck.
he came with a choked groan, one hand leaving your hip to massage your clit with his thumb. you'd done all the work after all, it was the least he could do to help you orgasm.
simon swore he saw stars with your pussy clenching around him, couldn't help the second orgasm you forced from his body, but as quickly as it came, it went. he all but shoved you to the side, fumbling with his pants and belt while you watched with a satisfied smile. his hair was messy, shirt half unbuttoned, chest gleaming with sweat.
"break me out of here, simon." you whispered from behind him, arms curling around his torso.
"y'know I can't do tha'."
"why not?" you pouted. "you love me, don't you?"
"love's a bit of a strong word."
"is it?" you licked up his neck, enjoying how he tensed under your tongue.
he didn't say anymore, just pushed you away and locked the cell behind him. his mind was reeling with what he just did, what he swore he wouldn't do. he took an oath, and he broke it.
simon didn't even know your crime. it was an unofficial rule not to look up what these people did if you were the one guarding them. it was for peace of mind, but he couldn't help asking a fellow guard later that night.
"wha's the deal with tha' bird in cell 66?"
"didn't ya know?" the other guard furrowed his brow. "gutted people like fish, tha' one. don't look in 'er eyes too long, or you won't be forgettin' them anytime soon."
simon's heart dropped, and static rushed his ears. bile rose in his throat, and he had to hold himself back from puking all over the bricks.
he shrugged, turning away from simon. "she's a charmer, though. best be careful, mate."
"right."
he had made a massive mistake, having convinced himself that you weren't as bad as the others in this place, but it was his own naivety that put him in this situation. he resigned his job as your guard immediately and found new a job at a different prison.
when your new day guard showed up? he ended up dead, and your cell was found empty.
18+ only. fem!reader. licking his print. boot humping. finger fucking throat. manhandling. slapping. humiliation kink. degradation kink. fear play. slight bondage. gun play kinda I think. dom/sub I think. predator/prey.
.˳˳✧.⋅ॱ word count: 592
౨ৎ
Deer hybrid!reader who bawls with panic, chest thundering with hurried breathes and quick heart beats as you rush through blurring trees. Air sharp against your face and burning your throat. Hunter!Simon who snarls when he sees you, pulls his rifle off his back, ready to put a bullet through that pretty little head for making him run so much.
You trip like the pathetic thing that you are, scramble to your knees when Simon nears. Vapor shooting from his flaring nose, quick and sharp with furious exhales. Like a raging bull, makes you shudder.
The metal pressed to your forehead pulls a bleat from you. Tail flickering quickly when you gaze up at his demeaning figure. Euphoria washes over you, thrill of the chase and being caught. Has you keening when your eyes meet his over the gun that he has pressed to you.
Simon grunts at the glimmer lacing those precious cock hungry doe eyes that drive him crazy. “Caught you, silly doe.” He hisses through clenched teeth. Irritation a growing speck at the back of his mind from your little games. You mewl with a quiver, hips squirming in their spot. Caught by the predator, makes you gush with slick.
“Love that I control if you live or die, huh? Ain’t got no instincts, stupid deer.” He groans, catches your jaw, shoves thick fingers past your lips. Makes you gag around them as he fucks your throat. Smears the saliva across your face before smashing your check against his cock. So big and hard through his dirt stained jeans, that you feel him throb against your lips as you mouth over his print.
Simon pets your ears at the top of your head, tugs at one to hear you whine. “Dirty little doe, loves being good prey f’me to catch.”
You drool all over his front, tongue scraping against the harsh material that keeps you from his delicious musk. Slam your hips into his boot to stimulate your achy clit, eyes rolling and pathetic bleat muffled against his bulge, makes him seethe when you start humping frantically.
Simon yanks you off by your hair, makes you squeal and hands fumble at his wrist to give your scalp relief. He swings his rifle onto his back, gives you a sharp slap to your cheek. Face freezing with the cool air only making the sting of his palm to your cheek bring tears to your eyes.
Simon scoffs. “Good f’nothing deer. Too desperate, ain’t worth much.” He mocks, leans down to cup your blistering pussy, keen at the pleasure his palm brings. He hums a low grunt, pulls rope from his pants to fasten around your wrists. “Might be worth setting straight. Teach ya a lesson or two about making me run in circles. Use that hot cunt for what it’s made for.”
A soft hum vibrates from your chest, tail flickering and ears twitching at the mean look in his eyes. Can’t wait for him to lay his hands on you. Like always, Simon hauls you over his shoulder, walk home sure to make you whiny and needy as your pussy begs for more like always.
He slams a rough palm down on your ass, grins when you squeal, whine trailing softly after and normally he’d wait for his hands to tease you in bed, but his calloused fingers slip between your thigh to rub at your clit.
Let your cries ring through the woods, so you’re all whiny and needy when he stuffs you full of his cock.
he ignores when you hang around with other men, acting as if he doesn't care but he does. you don't notice the eyes behind the mask that follow your figure, watching as you interact with men he doesn't want you to talk to.
but he doesn't stop you.
he still continues to fuck you every day, making you cum repeatedly until all you can think about is his dick. he would think of those men, pretending they were watching as he claimed ownership over your body, proving that he can fuck you so much better than them.
he enjoys watching you wobble and limp the day after, smirking as you stumble over your steps.
the reason he goes so rough is because he feels he has something to prove. to prove how much he loves you and how much he can give you if you let him be the sole partner, the one to be with you forever.
18+ MDNI fuck off minors!! 📢 horny hour wowie‼️ ghost and price with meek virgin fem reader highly unrealistic you take it up both holes yada yada reader is referred to as small and tiny...
you recoil into yourself shyly, drawing your legs up to your chest to hide your most sensitive parts.
"you scared, dove?" simon smirks, slowly reaching and gently moving his fingertips up and down your calf, not making a move yet.
"not gonna hurt you, pretty girl." john purrs, touching your thighs lightly, looking you over with dark eyes.
you look up at them with big glossy eyes and gulp audibly.
fear. anticipation. all coursing through your veins. you'd dream about them using you for their own pleasure.
from where you're sitting at the edge of the bed, you can see two giant mountains of men towering over you, huge monstrous cocks in their hands, angry red tips ravenously dripping with precum as they eye you like predators.
simon reaches over, placing his hands on your knees, murmuring "it's okay, baby." before slowly parting your legs as if to unravel the captured prey.
the cool air hits your core as he reveals your bare pussy to the two feral men.
you can see the seething fire in their eyes as you hold your legs spread for them.
"look at tha' cap!" simon coos, running a rough finger along your folds, gathering your arousal on his fingertips, so soaked and soft against his skin. you're practically dripping with desire.
"dirty little girl," john smirks, running a thumb over your lips, "wanna be fucked by two giant men so bad, huh?"
"p-please." you beg quietly. the noise is barely there. it's like a kitten's squeak.
"fuckin hell," simon chuckles, licking your juices off his fingers, "sweet fuckin pussy's beggin to be ruined."
"come on, girl. up—" john suddenly pulls you forward and flips you over, earning a startled yelp from you, "there you go."
simon comes up behind you as you're bent over the bed, large hands palming your plump cheeks before parting them to reveal your pretty hole, "fuckin look at tha'!"
he spits a ball of saliva over your puckered hole, rubbing in slow circles before pushing a thick digit inside, testing the waters. you gasp as he rolls it against your walls, groaning at how tight you are, chuckling "how are ya gonna take my cock, girl?" he inserts a second finger, making you squeal in return, the stretch feeling new and foreign.
simon slides his fingers in and out, prepping your tiny hole as you let out breathy moans.
"how ya feelin, doll?" john asks, "think you can take it?"
the men exchange a look, waiting for your answer.
"i- i... yeah," you squeal out, "please, y-yes"
and all of a sudden, you're in simon's burly arms, back against his broad chest with your knees beside your ears as his thick throbbing cock stretches your tight little hole so wide you think you're gonna split in half, "fuckin grippin me so tight, lovie." he hisses into your ear as your mouth falls more agape the deeper he enters.
you watch with wide eyes as john approaches. you think you can't take it. it's impossible. you're gonna break.
simon's muscular arms hold your legs wide open for him, soaked pretty pussy before his lustful eyes.
his drooling tip nudges your clit, teasingly circling it before sliding through your folds. you let out a stuttered little noise as john pushes forward. "shh, pretty girl. you can take it." he shushes you, sliding more and more inside, parting your tight untouched walls as you mewl and writhe between them.
simon holds your legs tightly as john's hands support your weight by holding your ass. they're both buried to the hilt inside your needy holes, stretching you out to your absolute limit. you feel so, so full. it's dizzying.
they give you no time to adjust and with absolutely no mercy, they thrust into you in unison, drilling their huge mean cocks in and out of your tiny holes and utterly ruining you.
in no time, your loud noises fill the room as they ram into you relentlessly, virgin holes filled up to the brim by their fat cocks. it hurts, but it feels too good to stop. you can't stop the broken moans that slip through your lips at the sheer girth of them.
"hear tha', cap?" simon grunts, "not a shy little lamb anymore — moaning like a fuckin whore for us."
simon's massive arms hold you all throughout while his beefy cock fucks into your tight ass, reaching places you didn't know existed and john spreads your tiny cunt open on his meaty cock, fat tip bruising your cervix as he hits that sweet spot deep inside you.
your eyes roll back and your mind goes blank, lost in pure bliss as they brutally abuse your holes, knocking the air right out of your lungs and leaving you no room to breathe as desperate little moans escape your lips while you mindlessly paw at price's hairy chest.
"look at the pretty little slut," john says, "just a tiny little fucktoy for us."
you're a crying drooling mess, tears and saliva running down your face, pressed between their giant bodies, their ragged breaths in your ears, drenched in sweat, precum and your juices as they ravage your body like feral animals, reducing you to just a set of holes for them to use.
until you're left with their heavy loads pumped deep inside your sloppy abused holes, body shaking violently and brain turned to mush as they tuck your limp body into bed, kissing your forehead and praising you about how such a good little slut you were for them.
older boyfriend simon who loves treating you like his lil baby, cooing at you every time you try talking to him, holding your jaw with a gentle touch and pulling your chin up to tell you you’re his pretty little thing
loves pushing his chest against your back, slotting his half hard cock against your back, when you try to reach for a cup or something on a cupboard, tells you it’s “too risky for a small baby like you, let daddy do it”
adores how you flush and squirm when he tells you to listen to daddy and go brush your teeth, wear your cute pj’s, patting your head and calling you his “good little kid” when you do. tells you to respect your bedtime or you’ll be all grumpy tomorrow
tucking you in for bed, surrounding you with your cute plushies and wishing you lovely dreams
and then coming back while you’re sleeping to grope at your body, rough hands pinching and squeezing your flesh as you sleep, shushing you when you squirm and stir, soothing you by saying “daddy’s here, you’re safe, go back to sleep”
simon pulling down your underwear and pushing the head of his hard cock against your hole, hand jerking off himself while the tip stays nestled in your hole
Summary: Simon overhears you say his dick is small.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Consensual freeuse. Traffic light safe word system. Your boyfriend fucks you rough (but lovingly) while you’re on the phone.
Word count: 3.1k
You were being a good friend.
It really was as simple as that—a woman you’d known for over a decade now was going through the worst breakup of her life, and she needed your support. You’d offered that support without hesitation, thinking nothing of the fact that you were in the healthiest of relationships yourself. You sure as hell never would’ve imagined a conversation like that could lead to this.
“His dick was huge, too,” your friend groaned across the line. You heard a shuffling of pillows and a soft thump, and you pictured her punting one off the bed.
You were lying on your stomach in your own bed several hundred miles away, holding your phone to your ear and trying to bite back a slow-growing grin.
“Couldn’t have been that big,” you hummed.
Again, your best friend groaned as if she were in pain.
“No, I’m telling you, the guy was fucking massive, hon. Just hung like a…a goddamn horse. I’m gonna be sick.”
“You can find another monster cock someday.”
“I don’t want to, though! It was so good.”
“You know, a big dick isn’t everything.”
Now you were trailing a finger over the embroidered edge of a pillowcase, trying your hardest not to think of the man who’d just slipped out of your sheets thirty minutes prior. Right before your friend had called with her devastating news, before you had been obliged to join the I-Hate-All-Men tirade of the century, you’d been getting put through the mattress by your boyfriend—a man who didn’t lie, or cheat on you, or steal, or shatter your heart into a million pieces.
A man whose dick was considerably bigger than most.
Simon was probably already three beers deep with his buddies at the pub down the road, the same lopsided, happy-go-lucky smile on his face he always wore when you and him had just had a quickie before he left home
Suddenly, the tail-end of a sentence snapped you out of your reverie, your friend’s tone loud and a little shrill:
“—easy for you to say!”
You blinked. “Easy f—wait, what?”
“Simon Riley. Love of your life.” You could imagine the woman snapping fingers in front of your face if she had been with you then, as if to say, Ring a bell? “Don’t even try to act like he isn’t a crazy good lay. And huge.”
Your cheeks heated at the accusation. Hell, you’d probably mentioned to friends in passing that your boyfriend was an altogether generous lover, a caring man in every respect, along with a couple other vague intimations about his prowess that would leave a whole lot more to the imagination than not, but this? You hadn’t even touched on anything about his size.
Normally, you wouldn’t engage in that kind of talk—at least not to that level of detail, revealing intimate facts.
But your best friend was hurting, and it seemed like she needed something to feel better in the moment.
So, shortly, it slipped out before you could think better:
“Simon’s not even big.”
Your mouth clamped shut as soon as you said it.
Liar, every fiber of your being hissed at once.
(Shut the fuck up, I’m helping a friend out)
“No way. You’re full of shit,” she giggled.
(Well, yes)
“Nope.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
You swallowed hard. Already hating yourself as the silence across the line stretched on and you knew your friend expected you to elaborate, and then you did.
“Honestly, it’s pretty, um…small. And—And that’s OK! Like, nobody’s perfect. The sex with him is still so great, and if anything, it’s nice not having such a big dick to worry about, y’know? So don’t feel like dating a smaller guy is so bad. You can still have amazing sex.”
You tried to end it on a positive note—the message you meant to get across, which was that the girl could be happy with a guy of any size and she didn’t need to stay hung up on her stupid ex—but it fell flat, even to your own ears. Clearly, you’d dropped a bombshell.
“But he is just…such a big dude. You’d think—”
“No, I know, Simon’s tall,” you interrupted hastily. Wincing. “But like I was saying, you can still do a lot with an average-sized dick. Or—Or even a tiny one.”
“It’s tiny?!”
Fucking shit.
“No, no, no, not tiny! I mean, not that…tiny. He’s fine.”
Your pulse was pounding so loud in your ears you could hardly hear yourself think. Or breathe. Or lie. Or try to piece together the most incoherent string of words that came out a little something like, ‘Seriously, uh…Simon’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever dated, and um…dick size doesn’t even really matter. The big ones hurt. I mean, the guy’s not huge, but not tiny, and—’
“Well shit, lovie, how fuckin’ little are we talkin’ here?”
At the rumble of a voice by your other, phone-free ear, you nearly jumped and catapulted your device across the room. You would’ve yelped, too, had it not been for a big, broad palm clamping over your mouth. As a familiar weight and breadth and scent settled over your being—a body coming to lay on top of you from behind—your friend continued to chatter on the line, clueless.
“OK, OK, I get it. Love a guy of any size. And Simon’s not perfect—even though that fucker’s about as delectable as you can get in every other way…”
While the woman’s voice faded off into a far-distant hum rattling off Simon’s best qualities and lamenting the odds she’d ever find a man quite so wonderful, you were confronted with several of these same features at once: his wide, muscular chest blanketing the back of you entirely; his stubble tickling the cusp of your cheek as he leaned in close; his strength pinning you to the bed and only loosening the grip around your mouth a little; and of course, there was that voice again, lower—
“Too bad about my microdick, huh?” Simon chuckled.
“—and I bet he knows how to use it!” your friend went on, not hearing a word of what was going on with you.
“Hey, uh—hey, I’ve gotta go. I think I—” you started.
As soon as you did, though, you felt the pressure on your spine soar to new heights. You let out a low whine.
Simon was crushing you now.
Your friend cut in, “Yeah? You OK?”
Before you could attempt a reply, the hand that had once been covering your lips lowered to just underneath your chin; Simon squeezed your throat.
Playfully, he made clear by nipping at your earlobe.
“No need to stop on my account,” he murmured.
So, rushed and more than a little flustered now, you made up some excuse on the phone about mistakenly hearing the doorbell, and you let your friend forge on. You dropped the phone onto the bed by your pillow.
Then you turned your head, the rest of your body immobilized by the heft of your boyfriend’s weight on your back, and you finally, finally got to meet his gaze.
Behind you, Simon was smirking.
His whole demeanor betrayed amusement.
It wasn’t every day the man got to hear his dick was the size of something much smaller than it actually was, you reckoned. Still, he deserved an explanation.
“S-Si…” You tried to grit out a whisper, deflated by his weight and forced to hide your words from your friend.
Never mind the fact that your boyfriend looked, smelled, and felt just as irresistible as he had when he left home less than an hour ago. A simple, all-black ensemble fit him like a second skin and accentuated every mouthwatering ridge of his body, most visible to you in the glimpse of his bicep you caught under your chin. He was warm. Solid. Drenched in that dizzyingly potent sandalwood aftershave that you liked so much.
You’d never tapped the ‘mute’ on your phone so fast.
“Shit, Si, I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean— I only said it— she’s going through a breakup right now, and I just t—”
Simon hit ‘unmute,’ followed by ‘speakerphone.’
He leaned back.
“…but what reeeally fucked me up was how he acted after. Like, couldn’t even look me in the eye, the dick…”
Your friend prattled on—back to sinking neck-deep in a story of how shitty the dating scene was and how she should’ve given up ages ago—while you flitted your gaze to your phone. You stared in awe, wondering why the fuck Simon had decided to tap those buttons in a moment like this, and questions started to bubble up.
At the same time, you heard the clink of a belt buckle.
Simon knelt behind you. He straddled your ass, and when you tried to sit up, he pressed a palm to the center of your back. He moved about it all swiftly.
Finally, the quietest, quickest hiss, ‘Si, what the fu—’
“Spit.”
That part, he said too loud. But the man didn’t seem to care much at all as he reached with his other hand and stuck his upturned palm under your face, waiting for it.
“What did you say?” your friend cut in presently.
Your face stung with embarrassment—at just the prospect of being found out by someone who had no concept of what was going on—that you forced it out:
“N-Nothing. Keep going.”
You spit in Simon’s hand like he’d told you.
Your phone couldn’t have been resting more than two or three inches from your face on the bed, and the space in general was small. There wasn’t a lot to be done by way of masking your activity, other than to simply hang up the fucking phone, but it didn’t sound like discretion and decorum and being considerate were at the top of Simon’s list of priorities right now.
Still, you felt a press of his lips against the back of your neck before he mumbled, “Remember our safewords?”
You did.
‘Yellow’ to slow down, ‘red’ to stop.
It wasn’t often you had to use the words with Simon, but from time to time, in particularly heated and impassioned moments, you appreciated the safety net.
And freeuse was something relatively new to you both—just accepting him in and letting him have his way with you at random points during your day, casually.
It didn’t make it any less tricky, or jarring, when the man next pushed inside you, bottoming out in one go.
Your sleep shorts tugged to the side, lying facedown underneath this massive, hulking man, you had only to grit your teeth and feel yourself stretched to full capacity with the shove of Simon’s bare cock in you.
“Oh, fuck,” you let out, hoarse.
“No, right? It was so gross, honestly.”
Amidst the airing of your friend’s mile-long list of grievances against her ex, your boyfriend settled his full, thick, demonstrably larger than average dick in your body until it felt like he was scraping your lungs.
You clawed the sheets and squirmed under him.
“That feel tiny to you, sweetheart?” Simon’s mouth was right next to your ear now, whispering filth while your walls stretched and squeezed to accommodate him. Warmth leaked out from where you connected.
You shook your head weakly, barely able to breathe.
It somehow made it even wilder and more maddening to have your senses deprived—Simon behind you, restricting your movements, with you obliged not to make a sound at the pleasure he was inflicting on you.
Your hips pinned to those pretty, floral-patterned sheets and your pussy made to gape in a perfectly wide ‘o’ around Simon’s whole cock, you felt helpless.
Stretched.
Protected, still.
Simon hadn’t even withdrawn to get a full stroke in, and he was already caressing your cheek with the backs of his knuckles, giving you more time to adjust to him. His tip kissed your cervix, and a heat sank in.
“Sweet dove’s still sore from earlier, yeah?” he murmured. “Didn’t think I gave her that much…”
But he did, of course.
“—couldn’t even make me cum—” your friend went on
Simon always gave you enough.
Just as your walls preemptively clenched around that slick, hard length and the man started to stir, rolling his hips against your ass in the shallowest of movements, your lips parted on a half-moan. Your chest constricted
“—it must be so much better with Simon, isn’t it?”
Suddenly, your boyfriend took a fistful of your hair.
In a murmur again, close to your ear:
“Go on, then. Don’t be impolite.”
“S-So, so good,” you rushed out. Those thrusts finally picked up, and Simon fucked you quietly into the bed. You sucked in another strangled breath, and trying your hardest not to moan, “He’s fucking…incredible.”
“I bet,” your friend laughed.
More shit-talking of men ensued.
Simon returned to his original, dominant position blanketing your body completely with his own, forearms planted on either side of your head on the bed and your phone resting inches away from you both. His cock pounded a furious pace inside you, precum and spit and your shared fluids easing the repeated slide. You gripped the sheets tighter, and Simon did the same with his ironclad hold in your hair.
Then his cock slid in higher, a little to the left, and the tip of him hit that special, tender, mind-numbing spot.
You felt the grin against the side of your face before you heard him chuckle, quiet as anything but elated.
Simon was the only guy who’d hit your G-spot before.
He hit it again. And again. And again, shaking the whole bed frame with the force of his thrusts. He kissed your neck and let your head loll back on him. While your friend chattered on, he did what he did best
“That’s a good girl,” he praised. “Gonna come f’me?”
You nodded, head bobbing against his softly.
If there were any moment for retribution, now would be it. If Simon were even the slightest bit the spiteful, insecure type, he probably would’ve taken the opportunity to make you beg for him—tell him how huge his cock was and how lucky you were to get it; how terrible it was to lie about a thing like size. It was.
But Simon didn’t, opting instead to give you pleasure. And he got plenty from you, too, you could tell by the breaths that were growing more and more ragged against your neck and the frantic stutter of his hips.
He was so big it was as if you could feel him in your throat. With every thrust that pushed you closer and closer to the edge, and with every twitch of every inch stuffed inside you, you feared you might not be able to conceal the sounds from your friend for much longer.
Your jaw unhinged on another wide-open, noiseless moan that probably made it look like you were in pain, and at the same time, your friend carried on over the phone, laughing about this loser’s goofy fucking face.
“Yellow?” Simon panted into your ear.
In other words, did you want him to slow down?
You shook your head no. Let him pelt your insides with the force of those hard, merciless thrusts and carve a path clean through your body in a way that only he ever could. He molded you to him perfectly. Tenderly.
Crescents digging into your scalp from how tightly he held you to him, you felt Simon twitch and keep beating your G-spot while you writhed under him, “You wanted a big dick, yeah? Don’t run from it now.”
It was in those words—paired with the obvious stretch and the depths your boyfriend was able to reach with his cock, how lovingly he fucked you while controlling your pleasure—that you broke. You couldn’t hold it in.
At the last possible second, Simon offered you his free hand to cover your mouth, knowing how loud you were liable to get, and you let out a muffled shriek into his palm. You grit your teeth and whimpered and kind of despised how high-pitched and needy you sounded, but you knew Simon loved it, almost as much as he adored the slippery wet noises your body and his made when he was emptying the contents of his balls into your cunt and fucking you senseless through all of it.
You finished as close as you were when you’d started, Simon’s chest glued onto your back. You both were breathing heavily, senses reeling from your highs. Simon’s cum stayed plugged in you with his thick cock holding it there, and the heat burrowed to your core.
You blinked, and you smiled contentedly at the warmth
Simon planted kisses wherever he could find bare skin for them to go, along your jaw and on your cheek and over your ear, like he always did after you two had sex.
“Wasn’t too far, was it?” he whispered. “Know I’m—”
“—big,” you giggled, barely louder than a breath after his hand had slid from your lips and cupped your face.
Then you went on, as the haze in your mind was starting to clear the slightest bit, and you remembered why you were here in the first place, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything about your size, Si. I’m—”
“—going to bed!” your friend announced suddenly.
Your attention and Simon’s snapped back to the phone
With all that had been going on over the last couple minutes, you’d almost forgotten the woman was still on the line at all. She’d been talking before that, right?
“I— OK. Yeah, no, that’s fine,” you said, stupidly. Then, regaining a bit more of your composure, “I’m so sorry about everything that’s been going on with…him. You deserve so much better, and you will find better, OK?”
That sounded coherent enough.
You would call again tomorrow. Really listen and be there to offer more helpful advice than you’d done tonight—this was more about letting her vent, anyway.
So, reaching for the phone and expecting to hear your best friend chirp a quick, simple good-bye at any second, you lifted your hips back against Simon. You angled his still-hard dick inside you and pushed him deeper through the sticky warm mess he’d just coated your walls with, and you bit back a smile when he grunted. You met his eyes over your shoulder, and you felt his grip on your chin flex. His gaze sharpened.
But, before he could smirk and murmur in your ear something like, ‘Round three can be arranged if you really want it,’ your friend cut in again over the line.
Her voice rang louder, and a little lighter, too, this time.
“Goooooodniiiiiiiiiight, hon, I love you so, so much!”
“I love you, too. Night!” you answered reflexively.
Then, your friend added, as swift as anything:
“And goodnight to you, too, Simon! Glad to hear that microdick’s being put to good use, happy for you two!”
Before you could say a word, she laughed and hung up.
cw: self-esteem issues, Simon gets bullied (srry pookie hahaha), breakup, toxic relationship, Soap being a dumbass asshole, Simon Riley x reader.
────────────────────────────────────────────
"Thought you were taking my girl, Lieutenant."
Nobody laughed.
Gaz shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Meanwhile, Johnny added another empty beer bottle to the pile in the middle of the table.
Price pinched the bridge of his nose. And Simon didn't even look at him.
Suddenly, Johnny was the only one laughing.
Immature asshole.
Eventually, Soap received a text, and he grinned at Simon before standing up and heading toward the back entrance. A few minutes later, he returned to the table… holding ____´s waist.
"Remember my girl?"
Simon didn't even dare look up at her before walking over to the bar.
He started with vodka, then anything strong enough that wouldn't even tickle his system. Then he turned at the sound of that sweet little laugh.
Softly giggling at some stupid thing Soap had said while they danced in the middle of the place.
Johnny suddenly noticed Simon's gaze and grinned before gripping ____'s ass and leaning down to kiss her deeply.
Johnny looked back toward the bar only to notice Simon wasn't even looking anymore.
____ pulled away from the kiss, lips swollen and reddish. Then she noticed Johnny wasn't looking at her, but toward the bar. An annoyed look crossed his face.
"Johnny? Is everything okay—"
"I'll go pee, doll. See ya at the bar."
She smiled and walked toward it, noticing Simon's back.
She was only a few steps away from reaching him when he stood up and simply left the place.
She sat on the stool he had just gotten up from and turned to order.
"Excuse me, sir. May I ask for a—"
The young man placed exactly what she was about to ask for in front of her.
Cherry Sour.
"That military guy paid for it, miss."
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
As the days passed, ____ started to think that maybe Johnny was changing for good.
Johnny asking her to dance before she even had to ask.
A bouquet waiting on the kitchen counter once a week.
Him kissing her forehead before leaving for work.
His fingers finding hers under the table.
A "Have a nice day, doll." waiting on her phone every morning.
She really did think Johnny was trying harder.
Showing her off.
Being touchy and affectionate in public.
He even kissed her often now.
Slowly.
Patiently.
The way she'd always wished he would.
And for one foolish moment…
She believed things were finally changing.
She truly believed he was learning to appreciate her.
To love her.
Though she couldn't ignore the fact that Simon was always gone whenever she was around.
Whenever she went to the base to bring Johnny the bento he'd forgotten…
Simon was nowhere to be found.
She still loved Johnny.
That hadn't changed.
Yet…
Every time Simon had already left before she arrived…
Something inside her sank.
Not because she missed him… She barely knew the man.
She just wished things hadn't ended like that.
But she didn't put much thought into it.
After all… Johnny had become a better boyfriend.
But that only lasted for two weeks.
Then he started coming home late again.
His shirts smelled like someone else's perfume.
No texts.
No phone calls.
Rough, impersonal sex all over again...
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
But everything came crashing down one night… when ____ picked up Johnny's phone to call herself after misplacing hers while he showered. But once unlocked, the screen was open in one of his chats.
____ froze.
Her heart lodged somewhere in her throat. Not even allowing herself to cry just yet.
She searched Simon's contact. Memorized his number and then used it for what she'd originally picked it up for.
Simon was sitting on his couch when his phone lit up with a message from an unknown number.
"need help..."
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
A week later, Simon was helping her carry every box out of the apartment while Soap wasted another night at some bar.
She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater before trying to lift one of the heavier boxes.
She barely got it off the floor.
"Leave it."
Simon took the box from her hands and placed it on top of the ones he was already carrying.
She stared at her now-empty hands for far too long.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked quietly.
"You asked."
She looked up at him.
"Still…"
Silence settled between them while Simon adjusted the stack in his arms.
He sighed before speaking again.
"Didn't want you doing this alone."
She barely nodded as she wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.
She looked back one last time before following Simon to the car.
He carried every last box upstairs into her new apartment. Just a few doors away from his.
When everything was finally inside, he headed to the entrance door.
"Call me if you need anything."
"I'm… truly grateful, Simon. Thank you."
He nodded and turned to leave until she softly stopped him.
"Did you… mean it?"
He looked back.
"About… you know… taking you instead?"
Simon looked away, scratching the back of his neck.
"…Mm."
She smiled to herself as she watched him leave.
____ sighed before turning toward the rental notice still taped to the front door.
She ripped it off.
Opened the door and stepped into her new home.
On the other side of the corridor, Simon stood in front of his own apartment.
Only after hearing the soft click of her lock…
Did he finally go inside.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.
Hi there!
I had so many doubts on how I should handle all of this shitty situation I put mc through. But I do think she wouldn´t just throw herself at Simon. Like she genuinely loved Johnny and didn't think there was anyone better than him. I´m sorry Simon for humiliating you HAHA but TRUST me, it will be all worth it… in next part lol
Btw, I had so much fun creating that fake conversation guys. I do also want to kill Johnny in this fic series fr.
thinking about ex-husband!simon riley... but he's not really your ex husband. he meant his vows when he said them. it isn't that he stopped loving you, it's that ever since you put that ring on his finger he can't stop thinking about how much of a bastard his father was as a husband. can't stop living in fear that one day he'd wake up just like him since it's the only example of marriage he's had in his life. it's irrational - he knows it, you know it. but he feels like he's drowning every time he thinks about what should have been the happiest day of his life.
so you get divorced.
nothing changes.
you eat breakfast together when he's not deployed. he drops you at work in the morning when your cars in the garage and kisses you softly goodbye. you fuck maybe more than you did before he asked for a divorce. you get your ring melted down and made into a pendant of his first initial - a tiny gold s that nests in the hollow of your throat.
now he's just simon riley the man you love not simon riley the husband. now he doesn't feel the weight of his father's invisible shadow looming over him every day.
now he just gets to love you without fear of becoming something he's not.
summary: your long-time pal, simon, gets his rut set off on a mission and you were ordered to take care of him now that he was back, with your presumably passive pheromones...
word count: 830
content warning: omegaverse, ruts, simon begging to fuck you, and vulgar language. reader is also gn!
a/n: HELLOo!!1 this is my first ever fic, if you see this, please read it and give me kind feedback, bc idk what im doing!!! yay!
long term teammates, tolerable conversation, a perfectly adequate, non romantic relationship.
that's what you and Simon had.
you'd known the alpha for years at this point, you had met before the task force, both serving as young sergeants in the SAS . it was an acquaintanceship, passing comments over comms or emailing documents for superiors.
when you'd both been invited into the task force for a secret operative (that turned into multiple), it became something closer. something more subtlety intimate and tension filled. whether it was sharing MREs wordlessly or quietly smoking together behind crumbling buildings, you did it together, and no one was allowed to say a word.
meanwhile, scents and primal urges were never a real problem between you two thanks to the uniform scent blockers and his seemingly obvious un-attraction to you. not like you cared... he was hot, of course, smoking hot. but you had gotten used to alphas preferring omegas.
on your second year in the task force, hed been placed in a simple in-and-out opp in south America. once hed gotten back he started getting more agressive and territorial, even pacing outside your door at night? when price found out hed been scented by a bolivian con-woman he was banished to his quarters until he was civilised. you, being the only beta on the team, were asked to use your scent to neutralise his rut urges, a common request for betas, being the mediator and all. but seeing him in such a viscous (horny) state (even if it turned you on), upset your instincts. so you also made time to help your poor simon bathe and rest and hydrate.
a knock was placed on his door with your forehead as you carefully balanced two trays of tuck from the mess hall, his one being significantly heavier, making you wobble. "hrmph.." you heard him grumble from inside, he sounded like an agitated dog.
"don't start, I'm being so good to you." a firm acknowledgement as you carefully manoeuvred the door open whilst balancing the trays of semi-hot food. he shuffles in bed, covering his nude lower half and peevishly glaring at you from amongst the covers and sheets before sitting up to eat.
the room was moist, and the smell that lingered wasn't something you wanted to think about Simon doing, so you focused on giving him the food and cutlery. you gave him water, ran a bath, tidied up his quarters, and you ended your pottering by opening a window as he finished eating. you cleared your throat and looked at the huge miserable man, who was already piercing his eyes through your head. "you okay, si? need anything else? you look super fucked out."
"tired. horny. angry. no. thank you."
"mhm, your welcome. you're sure you dont need anything else? i can scent you to help with the pain?-"
he grumbled again, low in his chest. the sound flipped your stomach and made a heat crawl up your spin. 'ew? no? now you want to fuck him? when he's acting like a rapid dog?? you're sick.' you mentally scolded yourself as he writhed around uncomfortably in the sheets further before answering truthfully this time.
"all i can smell is you, luv. and its not neutralising shite. i feel like a horny mutt ‘round ye." he whimpered, the most embarrassed you’ve seen him look.
you froze in place awkwardly, standing stiffly at the end of his bed by the window. you hardly thought before retorting, its like your brain didn't even want to process what he'd said whilst stumbling out a petulant reprimand and avoiding the hot eye-contact he was forcing. "nah… beta scents can't make you horny, i think its just your hormones talking-"
"you’re so pretty, wish i could smell ye all the time… wish you’d let me do what i need to, i’ll be so good.." he shuttered as he mumbled, voice course from whining and growling into his pillow for days. you stood frozen in the middle of the hot, sex perfumed room. your face was flushed and your insides were tingly, you don't think you've ever been this pitiful in your life.
he was hunched over himself, still, peering at you like a predator through those midnight eyes. you'd never felt like prey before as a beta. his short, choppy, blonde hair was messy and arousing but less entertaining as your eyes trailed down his plump pecs and solid biceps. his tummy and champagne happy trail protruded slightly and the moist bedsheets were bunched at his abdomen, hardly covering his unrelenting erection.
"you’re being dramatic… you’re not into me like that anyway-" never have you been so flustered and visibly pathetic in your life. you tried to reason with yourself aloud on his behalf when he cut you off. "i am. have been for a long time. can you ‘least sit on my face?… please.. i need this.. you…” he let out a whiny please and fluttered his pretty eyelashes at you…
a/n: okayyyy... i think thats fine... depending on the reaction i get from this i might post the smut
