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﹙ ¹⁸⁺ ﹚ ₊ ❜୧ A QUICKIE WITH YOUR HUSBAND SIMON.
you're sorting through what feels like the millionth tiny sock when simon comes up behind you, large hands settling on your hips. "kids are occupied," he murmurs against your neck, and you can hear the suggestion in his voice.
"si, i have to get this done," you protest weakly, but you're already leaning back into him. wash day waits for no one with three kids, and you're drowning in tiny clothes. "and they won't stay distracted for long."
"exactly why we should be quick about it." his hands slide around to your stomach, pulling you flush against him. you can feel he's already hard, and your resolve wavers. "been thinking about you all morning, luv. watching you bend over sortin’ laundry..."
"you're terrible," you breathe, but you're already turning in his arms. seven years of marriage and three kids later, and he still looks at you like he wants to devour you. "we have maybe ten minutes before someone needs something."
"can work with that." he's already lifting you onto the washing machine, hands pushing up his sweatshirt that you wore around the house. "fuck, no panties? you trying t’kill me?"
"it's wash day, baby," you remind him, wrapping your legs around his waist. "everything's in the dirty hamper." but your explanation dissolves into a moan as his fingers find you already wet.
"fuckin' convenient," he growls, working you open with practiced efficiency. there's no time for slow and sweet; not with three kids in the house. "always ready for me, aren't you, swee'eart?"
you bite your lip to keep quiet as he replaces his fingers with his cock, pushing in with one smooth thrust. "simon," you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. "fuck—w-we have to be quiet."
"then you'd better keep that pretty mouth o’yours shut," he says, setting a punishing pace immediately. the washing machine rocks with the force of it, and you have to brace yourself against the wall. "can't have the little ones hearing what daddy does to mummy."
the filthy words in his rough accent make you clench around him. he notices, of course he does, and smirks against your neck. "like that, do you? knowing i'm fuckin’ you while our babies play down the hall?"
before you can respond, there's a loud bang on the door. "mommy! mommy, open!" your five-year-old's voice cuts through your haze of pleasure. "need you!"
simon doesn't stop, if anything going harder. "mummy's busy, swee'eart," he calls out, voice impressively steady for someone currently railing you against major appliances. "go play with yer sister."
"but mommy!" another bang. "daisy took my doll!"
you try to answer but simon chooses that moment to hit that perfect spongy spot inside you, and all that comes out is a strangled sound. he covers your mouth with his hand, eyes dark with amusement and lust.
"mummy's folding clothes," he lies smoothly. "she'll be out in a minute, go tell daisy t'share."
"don't want to!" your daughter whines, and you can hear her stomping her little feet. "want mommy now!"
"ella." simon's voice drops into what you call his lieutenant voice — gentle but brooking no argument. "go play. we'll be out soon."
there's a moment of silence, then you hear her stomp away muttering about simon being unfair. the second she's gone, simon removes his hand from your mouth.
"such a good girl," he praises, but you're not sure if he means you or ella. "keeping quiet while i fuck you senseless. though i bet y’wanted to scream, didn't you?"
"simon, fuck, please," you gasp, feeling your orgasm building embarrassingly fast. the combination of his cock and the thrill of almost getting caught has you on edge. "i'm gonna-"
"i know, luv. she's fuckin’ squeezin’ me." his thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles. "c'mon then. cum all over my cock before another one starts bangin’ on the door."
as if on cue, you hear your two-year-old calling from somewhere in the house. "mama?"
the use of your married name plus the perfect pressure on your clit sends you over. you bite his shoulder to muffle your cry as you cum all over his cock, whole body shaking with the force of it. he follows right after, groaning low in your ear as he fills you.
"mama!" your toddler's voice is getting closer.
"shit," simon pants, pulling out and quickly fixing his clothes. he helps you down, steadying you when your legs wobble. "y’good?"
"just peachy," you breathe, smoothing down his sweatshirt. you can feel his cum starting to leak and clench your thighs together.
"though i'm going to need to shower before i finish this laundry."
Synopsis: Simon has been watching you for a while. So he waits for your heat to finally make a move.
No use of y/n. No ai used.
Mdni!! 18+
Wc: 4.8k
Cw: Non-canon au. Omegaverse. Alpha!Simon. Omega!reader. Kissing. Make outs. Short plot. Fingering. Dacryphilia. Brief mention of blood (sorry). You’ve got a deep dish. Bulges. Size difference. Squirting. Marking. Scenting. Pubic hairs. Knotting. Unprotected sex. p in v. Fat dick Simon. Cum eating. Cum play.
Grey dull skies. An enmity of snowy clouds. Barely audible patters of snow smear the concrete. Frost fragments fracturing the roads. Small cracks. An icy cast. Slippery. Polished by the freezing air, reflecting a cold blue-grey.
The town is quiet. People retiring to their homes. A combination of flats and houses. Bricked. Semidetached. All lifeless and ashen now painted in snow.
It’s December. The cold’s really taking root. You’re in a small cabin just a few yards away from the main road. Dark wood, white stained trees looming around, making it seem like you're buried deep into a forest. Luckily, you live close by to the nearest town centre. English weather was never really nice.
You’re in your kitchen. Pastel yellow coloured walls, adorned in small beautiful plant paints. Pictures of flowers you’ve taken over the years. Paintings you’ve bought. Small counter top, bluey-grey marble board at the surface with white coloured sides. You’re wearing your white turtle neck paired with a long black silken skirt and black Mary Jane flats. All covered by a long black trench coat. The week’s coming to a close. You’re running out of ingredients.
Black pen in hand tapping slowly at your bottom lip, a small note in the other.
Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, go to pharmacy.
You’re missing something. Eyes squinting in annoyance. Brain raking, it’s bothering you. You’re getting lost in the walls around you, trying to figure out what this thing is. You repeat the list again.
Meats. Vegetables. Fruits. Water bottles. Pharmacy.
Ah.
Suppressants.
You rolled your eyes scoffing at yourself. You’ve been a bit forgetful lately. Waiting until your suppressants are nearly out. You’re checking your cupboard. One..two pills left you count. You sigh.
“Tomorrow.” You say aloud.
You’re used to this little life you’ve created. Weekly shopping, Sunday cleaning. Wake up 5am. Earphones in. Jog, eat, shower, work, repeat.
Like clock work, you’re awake. Still black out. Alarm panging, dead on five. Screeching in your ears.
You’re laying in your long sleeve bunny pyjamas belly flat on the bed, head turned, pressed into your pillows. Brows screwed, eyes squinting, sleep lines etched on your face. Crust stuck at the corners of your eyes. Your nose crinkling in annoyance. Sniffing. You bring up your right elbow from its disfigured but comfortable position and smack it down on your alarm clock sitting on the bedside table.
Groaning, you rise slowly. Stretching your back, tiptoeing, arms up high now folding behind you. Heading to the bathroom, you’re splashing cold water on your face. A slow deep breath. Arms steady, hands holding either side of the sink. You meet a tired you in the mirror. Opening it, you reach for your scent repellent. Just two sprays. Now you’re ready for your day.
Shutting the front door behind you, earphones in, you stretch a bit. Left arm swinging, right arm under it. You do it the other way. Back bent downwards, legs straightened, arms elongated, touching your toes, the ground almost. With a gradual rise and a long exhale, you’re on your way. Unhurried, lazy runners pace. You maintain that for a lap around your cabin. Then you’re headed to the main road. ‘Nettles’ by Ethel Cain playing softly in your ears. Low melodious. Pace still measured, arms shifting each step. You’re a few metres in, flats, houses forming in your peripheral. A corner shop open. Bright. Vivid.
You could use a drink.
You head down further into town, body directed at the shop. Eventually meeting the door of the shop, your body slightly adjusted to the frozen air. A ring of the bell is heard as you enter. The male shop keeper notices you, his face resting in one of his hands, eyes heavy. Sagging. A purple brownish colour engraved below them. His head falling and quickly rising. His eyes lighten fairly upon seeing you. Waving sluggishly at you. You give a soft smile and wave back.
Heading to the drink section, you grab a five hundred millilitre bottle of water from the fridge and walk up to the till. Placing your bottle down on the counter, you pay shortly after.
“Have a nice day.” You say. Short, soft, concise.
“And you too.”
-
The sun had already risen. A pale whitish sphere, faintly piercing through. 9am, the clock read. You were in your home, had already showered, eaten. Although your fridge was practically begging to be full. Only a couple red peppers remained. ‘More shops will probably be open.’ You thought.
You were out the cabin, car keys in hand on your way back to the town centre. A small, red Mini Cooper sitting slumped in heavy snow just outside. You open the drivers side, snow falling off that side of the car, and sit down. Plugging your keys into the vehicle, wind shields wiping away at the snow covered front window. You drive steadily into town.
Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, pharmacy — must go!!
A vivid image of the note you made flashed. It repeated in your head, chanting almost.
First stop, the supermarket.
-
A cold quiet morning. Harsh crispy air brushing against your cheek. Your eyes crinkle at the feel of it. You’ve parked your car in a nearby parking garage.
Not so often you see the supermarket this silent. You’re dressed warmly in a loose white shirt underneath a grey jumper. Straight legged dark blue jeans covering your black uggs. All hidden under your black trench coat.
Boots crunching in the snow, you’re walking in. Automatic doors sliding open for you. You grab a basket and begin your search.
-
Heavy bags weighing down at your sides. Full of fresh ingredients, meats.
Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, pharmacy.
“Alright.” You whisper, cold air passing through your lips, pleased with your small achievement of the morning.
Second stop, small shop.
You enter the shop, a bell sounding as you do so. There’s a few people in the shop. About four if you bothered to look. You pay no mind though. Just solely focused on one task at hand. That task being water bottles. You’re pacing around the shop, eyes raking up and down the shelves. The bottles. Finally. Placed on the grey marble ground, in front of a transparent fridge directly reflecting the shop door. A free mirror, you think. You crouch down, hands out and ready to grab one pack. For a reason you couldn’t explain, your eyes glance up to the fridge, unfocusing, you see a few people walking by, their figure cutting out where the fridge ends. Still looking around, you see the trees, how they’re no longer green but white. The no longer brown wood, eyes trailing down the trees back to the public. Eyes- you notice deep hazel eyes staring as if staring at your open skeleton itself. Fixed on yours. You let the thought of the transparent fridge fool you into believing no one could see you. A coincidence.
Shrugging, you pick up either end of the pack of water bottles and stand to your full height. Out of curiosity, you eye the see-through shop door.
Khaki coloured eyes. Closer now. Black jacket. Hooded up. A man that seems to be in a balaclava?
He’s huge, you ponder. Biceps nearly bursted at the sides of his black coat. His lower half is covered by bushes. Your face contorts into a puzzled look. There’s no way he saw you. You don’t want to believe it. Looking away you head over to the till and pay.
Exiting the shop, hefty bags carrying all your shopping, a litter of bumps gather on your skin. You want to believe it’s from the cold. A low lump sitting at your belly. A warning maybe.
You head over to the last stop on the list. The pharmacy. Suppressants. Your brain reminding you once again.
It’s a cramped place. Medicine stacked on the dark wooden shelves across the room. Chalky walls. Ashen almost. The lights flicker a bit. Must be old. There’s a man at the other side of the till. Got a gloomy look to him. Thin glasses hanging at the top of his bridged nose. Crinkled skin. A small bruise on the side of his cheek. Eyes droopy.
“Can I help you?” You hear his tired voice ask.
You give a small smile.
“I’m here for a replenishment.” You keep your eyes on his, still smiling as you readjust a bag on your arm.
“Your name please.” He responds dryly. Your face falters a bit.
You give him your name. He types away at the old white desktop on his right. He reaches over to a small brown plastic bag and hands it to you.
You hear a small chime of the pharmacy bell but don’t pay too much mind to it. There’s heavy thuds behind you. A hefty musky smell, woody almost with a hint of an orange peel. A citrusy smell meant something. A near heat or rut possibly. A familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach. Fear? It's only footsteps, probably getting their suppressants. You’re still focused on the man in front-
“Have I seen you ‘round here before?” A deep baritone voice sounding behind you. Close to you. You spin around, eyes all wide at the sound of him. The pharmacist immediately drops into a crouched position. He knows that voice. Can’t let this customer see him.
“Uh—uh…” You stutter. Lip quivering.
You know him. Know exactly who this is. Simon Riley. Or what the town calls him, ‘Ghost’.
The whole town knows of him. They know to steer clear of him. Never get in his way. Avoid him if you can. Don’t let him get you. A menace. Killer. All sorts of nasty comments you haven’t heard before. He’s got a familiar balaclava on. Almost looking like the one you saw earlier. Squinting eyes staring deep into your wide ones. Head tilted slightly, amused by your reaction. You can’t tell though.
“Can’t talk?”
“Uhm no—no. No you uh haven’t.” You’re shaking your head looking everywhere else but at him. There’s a thin line of sweat forming at your forehead. You try not to wipe it.
His broad frame, blocking everything in front of you. You finally look up at him, eyes all doey, scared.
“Hm.” He grunts, gives you a slow look over. Eyes falling slowly down your frame then back up to your nervous face. Cute.
He turns back around and exits the pharmacy. You heave a sigh of relief. Ghost? Talking to you? You nearly don’t believe it. Not until the pharmacist behind you speaks.
“H—here. Please leave. Quickly.”
Weight bags on either side of you, you’re walking over to your parked car. The cold air, still lingering. You’re heart patters in your chest. Simon Riley. Absolutely no way.
You make it to your car, fiddling with your bags arms scurrying deep in each one to find the key. You hear it unlock and you’re carefully placing the bags at the back seat, then heading quickly into the front. Door slamming shut. Locked. Both hands on the wheel. Knuckles losing then regaining colour.. You’re brain still lagging. You look around yourself, assessing the area. You see him. Again. Your breath stutters when you notice him. He’s staring deep at you. He’s to your right, body slightly hidden by a tall bush. You’re tapped in place, body hypnotised, regulating. Registering something deep. Pooling low. A small warmth. There’s no way. Your body recognises him as compatible. You have his full attention.
Your breath’s still stuck in your throat.
“Simon.” You breathe out finally. It’s almost as if he heard you because he’s walking now. Quick measured steps toward you. You’re shaking. Yet you can’t move. Hands still plastered at the wheel. He’s nearer. Walks over to the passenger's seat window. One two firm taps at the window. Eyes still fixed on him. He never left yours. Your body responds before your mouth can. A needy smell illuminates you. Lemony. Citrusy. Your eyes are fully dilated. The omega in you keening. Inviting. You want him. Your brain hasn’t caught up yet. His scent now etched in your body. You didn’t even realise he had been warming you up to his smell this whole time.
A whisper of a faint musky orange peel surfaced your brain. It was when the autumn air still lingered. That citrusy smell you couldn’t get enough of. You’d perch over your opened windows, eyes all closed as you relished the smell. He was scenting your home and you didn’t know. You recall hearing small cracks of sticks but it could’ve been anything. Except it was Simon.
Your right arm moves to open the passenger door. He opens it and sits his burly body inside your car, shutting the door as he does so.
You’re still looking at him, mouth parted slightly. You can’t understand why your body is reacting this way. He’s still staring. Eyes heavy, low. You don’t know what it is but you start the car, engine roaring quietly. You’re driving home now. A hidden command from him. Your omega wants him in your space. Wants him to invade your things. Invade you. Is it your heat? That’s not until a couple— days. You wanted to think weeks. But your body has found a compatible mate. It just so happens to be the worst person you can think of.
You park in your entry, turn off the engine and slowly look to your left. Eyes hazy, breathing hesitant. A whine stopping at your throat. Trapped in your esophagus. He knows you want to. Doesn’t need to ask you.
You’re both stumbling into your cabin, his tongue deep in your mouth. Balaclava bunched on his crooked nose.
He’s ripping your coat off your body. Biceps contracting. Your black trench falls carelessly on your floors. Green veins running up his large hands holding the back of your neck, your waist. One of his hands drifting down, gripping your arse. Groaning into your mouth. Spit mixed. Your odours intertwine. A ripe lemon and orange peel staining the air.
You're whining. Teeth clashing. He’s biting at your bottom lip. Strong arms wrapping you. Engulfing your body.
“Been watching you for weeks.” His voice came out heavy, breathy.
You can’t respond with anything other than a mewl. Your hands haven’t left the fabric at his chest. You’re clutching at him. Body all needy. The warmth at your lower belly blooming into a vicious heat. White hot pleasure taking hold of you. Body seizing up. You're stunned. Eyes all wide and wet. Breath coming in fat heaves.
“Si—” You whimper out. Knees bending. Betraying you. Submission. He sees your body submitting to him before you can even voice it. You really want to. Badly.
Beefy arms pull you up and into him. Your legs hanging off his forearm, head lulled out, falling backwards.
He knows where your room is. Knows where everything in your home is. He knows exactly where you keep your suppressants, your diary. He’s read it all. You’ve never heard anyone enter your home at night. Yet he’s always there. Watching you sleep. He admires how your tits puff out when you breathe in, how you drool a bit. A few snores. Fucking obsessed with your body. The fat of your thighs. His alpha knew you were his.
You’re trembling, snivelling into his chest. He sets you down on your bedsheets, body going slump. He stands to his full height, pulling down his balaclava back over the rest of his face and just watches. Hidden again.
He’s slow to take his jacket off. Pulling the zip down in a long stroke. Shoves it off his body.
“I need nghh~” You’re moaning out, hands attempting to take your top off. Too weak. There’s a little drool spilling at the side of your mouth.
He doesn’t bother to take the rest of his clothes off. He’s come too far in this to focus on himself.
“Shh.” Your body, listening immediately.
He hauls your top off for you, now left in just a black lace. Sweat glistening on your chest. Beads rolling down.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” He curses low.
His arms circle your body, taking the lace off. Tits spilling out, the air wafting over your hardened nipples. You sob. Body clutching in on itself. He doesn’t let you. His large hand, pushing you down at your shoulder.
“No movin’.” A warning.
Your arms are flat on the bed, hands resting above you, fisting the pillow. He removes your lower clothing in one strong pull. Your hips lifting instinctively. Your insatiable need to please your mate.
Panties gone. You're vulnerable before him. Hairs decorated around your wet pussy. Weeping. Leaking. A bead of slick sliding down from your hole onto your arse. Hips twitching.
Your body’s flushed, waiting. He’s being too slow. He has to savour this moment.
“Please.” You whimper out.
“A talkative bird ain’t ya.” He voices, still low toned.
“Gotta please this pussy, don’t I?” Taunting you. Letting out a low, mocking whistle.
He’s got his knees pressed into your bed, hands on your inner thighs, pressing into them. Your pussy parting each time. A tear slips out of you. Your head’s thrown back into the pillow. Lips tightly pressed, suppressing the moan trapped at your throat. Eyes shut tight.
He presses in once more, and you can’t help the noise that left you. You bring down one of your arms, scratching at his, trying to bring it where you need it most.
“Want me there, hm?
My fingers in your cunt?”
You’re vigorously nodding. A string of ‘please’s leaving your wet, kissed stained mouth. He doesn’t remove your hand. Doesn’t need to. You can’t move someone as big as him.
You still can’t see his face fully. Only his eyes. But you know he’s smiling at you. You make out a small dent under the balaclava. His alpha pleased at your omega. You want to see more of him. But your heat won’t let you form the sentence.
He doesn’t care though. He’s going to take you.
He brings his rugged thumb, circles it on your throbbing puffy clit.
“Angh!”
Your hips twitch towards him. More beads of slick fall out your drenched pussy. A few more tears rolling down your face. The heat nearly consuming you.
His thumb moving slowly up and down your clit, inching towards your gaping hole. Your hips follow on instinct. Rolling with his hand.
“Fuck sakes.” You’re a sight. His tip leaking heavy drops of pre.
His thumb finds your soaked hole, another bead leaking out coating it. He pushes in slow and deep. Long thick thumb stretching you out.
You scream. Back bowing. Toes curled into the sheets, fingers still scratching at his arms. Your head is lulled to the side, the whites of your eyes on display.
He’s thumbing your hole. Quick deep strokes of his thumb.
Squelch squelch.
“She’s a loud twat, ain’t she?” Voice rugged.
You’re moaning loud, your heat making it feel way better than it’s supposed to.
Fuck you’re close. Body heating up even more, twitching, writhing. Leaving moon shaped dents on his forearms.
“You markin’ me already?” He’s cackling low.
“Ngh c—close!”
“I know.” You pussy throbs.
His voice has such an intense effect on you. He’s been scenting your clothes so you get used to his smell. Needs your body reacting before you do.
One…two..three pumps of his thumb and your convulsing. Body quaking. Mouth hung open in a beautiful ‘o’ shape, brows squinted. You silently cry out letting your orgasm wash over you. Long waves of heat spread over your body.
“Need you.” Voice all gone, yet you managed to whisper out.
“You’ll ‘ave me.”
He slowly pulls his thumb out and stares at it in awe, glistening in your cum. You’ve marked him as yours, now he has to return the favour.
Not giving you any time to recover, he plunges two thick long fingers deep into your pussy. You let out a shocked scream. Hips jerking at the sudden stretch. He leans his body into yours as he pushes his fingers as far as they could go. He’s close to you now. Face just a few inches from yours. You're breathing out hefty breaths, fanning his hidden face. Eyes fully dilated.
“Got a deeep cunt on ya.” He praises. You moan in response. Your arms feel heavy, your trembling fingers attempting to hook the edges of his balaclava and pull down. It comes off revealing messy blonde locks. The two of you reach forward, lips meeting in a sloppy kiss. Mouths open, breathing heavy. Tongues rolling against each other. He’s pistoning his fingers fast. Quick deep strokes making it hard for you to kiss him back. It’s too messy.
He’s grunting into you, you’re whining into him. One hand gripping the hairs at his nape. The other gripping the hairs at the middle of his head. You're rolling your hips into his hand. His thumb bumping your clit every stroke. He’s fucking at your g spot, fingers curling, scissoring your pussy. You break the kiss with a loud moan.
“C—can’t take it! Simon—”
“You will. Didn’t wait this long for you to tap out.” He sounds so rough.
“Anhh! Hngh.”
Another few scissors of your pussy and you’re sooo close again. You’re whinging, body twisting, turning away. You want to run. Want to scream at him. Fight him.
You’re smacking at his chest, he’s still too close watching your face so intently. He needs to see what makes it contort. He likes that you fight back. Makes him harder. He’s straining at his boxers. Cock twitching, itching to be inside your needy cunt. He knows you need his knot.
You're slapping his shoulders, hands balled up in fists, punching at him. He curls his fingers just right and you’re screaming. White blinding pleasure. You’re clutching at him now. He’s fucking his fingers at that exact spot. Engrossed in the way your brows contorted, the way your cheeks deepen in colour. How your wet lashes stick to the top of your cheeks.
“F—fuck fhuck!” Your orgasm, ripping through you.
Your arse pressed deep into the sheets, back arched, pussy gushing out ruining his hand. Arms flailing.
Squelch
His hand sliding out slowly from your bruised pussy. Admiring your work on his fingers. Shining wet. He sees your pussy lips flutter in the corner of his eyes.
“You’re something else.”
He brings his stained fingers to his mouth, sucking them deep, relishing the taste. Groaning deep. Eyes fluttering shut.
“Knot. Y—your knot please.” You cry out. Head still planted to the side. Arms wobbly, you reach out to his dark grey joggers. Fingers tugging at the top of it. His happy trail peeking out. He helps his dick out of his joggers, his boxers next, not taking them off fully. It’s so big. Thick veins running up a few sides, dark red at the tip. Angry. Purple almost. So girthy. Leaking so much pre. He’s so wet for you.
Your omega hungry at the sight. The orangey peel stench, very prominent now.
“Gonna fuck you now. Knot you.”
“Please.”
He lines his fat cock at the opening of your cunt. Rubs it slowly up and down your clit. You’re hips jutting, bucking away from him.
The tip pops into you in a slow, deep stroke. He stalls for a moment. Hot pulsing pussy pulling him in.
“Fuck—”
He pushes further in. Still slow. You feel every vein on his cock, every curve. Every inch, stretching your walls out. Your mouth, watering at the fullness.
You push at his lower hard stomach, a few hairs tickling your fingers. He’s fucking huge. You can’t take it all at once. You’re weeping, tears spilling at the sides of your face, tits puffed out.
“M’gonna make you take it.”
He hikes your thighs on top of his, pushes himself further into you, digging your knees into your chest. He sinks in another few inches. Your squinted eyes peer down at where you’re both connected, there’s still so much more. Your head falls back as you sniffle, a tiny noise leaving your lips.
He pulls his hips back all of a sudden, you gasp at the loss. Your head comes up quickly. Watching.
“Noo. Simon, fuck—”
Slamming his cock deep, hips grinding into yours. His hairs nudged right against your clit. A bulge forming at your lower belly. Your head collapsing back onto the pillow, brain fogged. Your eyes forced back, body quivering. Quick heaves of your chest, your mouth left hung open, more drool spilling out.
Plap plap
He’s fucking you so deep. Big burly body rocking into you, your pussy sucking him in so tight. So wet. So hot. The room’s filled with the mix of your bodies, your sweat, the smell of your pheromones. Blooming. Inviting him even more. He takes it.
Cock, pistoning so good. Fucking at your spots. You're wailing against him, scratching at his chest, his hard rigid stomach, his neck. Leaving red crescent marks all over.
“Anngh!”
“Such a good bird huh? Taking a stranger's cock so well.”
“Y—yeah nghh ahh.”
He’s grinning at you, a few teeth on display.
You’re gone. So far gone. You're grinding your hips into his, grabbing behind him, his back, pulling him into you. He slows. Deep long strokes now. You can’t do anything but feel it. The dent of your stomach, more evident at every rock of his body into yours. Simon places one of his hands on the bulge. Pressing. Pushing it.
You scream, your juices squirting out of your uncontrollably. You’re shaking so much. Crying. Head stretched back, you're pushing at the bed, jolting away from him.
“Thereeee’s a girl. Thaa’s it, squirt all on me.”
He’s still fucking you slow and deep, riding you through it. The bed, soaked in your cum, your sweat.
“Knot! Knot me please.” You beg. Voice strained, gone from pleasure.
Sitting up, his arms come to the neck of his sweat stained shirt. All sticky. Dark wet patch on lower part of it. He’s taking his shirt off now.
His broad hairy chest on show. Ample. Decorated in various tattoos. You’re in awe of his body.
A few wet hairs stick to the top of his forehead, cheeks dusted pink. Eyes heavy, low. He’s ogling at your scent gland, right by the curve of your neck and shoulder.
“M’gonna mark you.” His eyes gestured at the gland. You can barely hear him through your heat.
He moves both of your legs on his shoulders, pushes closer to you. Breaths mingling. He pulls his cock out to the knob, then rams into you. Quicker, harder than before.
“Ouuh fuck.”
You’re breathing all over his face. Cheeks deepened in colour.
Chasing his own high now, on the brink of release. Cock brushing at your cervix on every thrust. Did he get bigger? Your eyes widening at the thought. There’s a swollen feeling at the bottom of his— knot.
“Want my thrust knot hnyeah? Tell me girl. Thrust. Tell me how bad you wan’ it.” His voice, straining. Low, deep. Grunting.
“I wan’ it. Want it so bad. Please. Please. Please—”
He angles his face at your neck, his mouth a breath away from your gland. One hard heavy thrust into your pussy he’s finally cumming. He bites down hard. Your gland, blooming. Blood spilling from the corners of his mouth, his eyes rolling back. You shriek at the feel. Your breath comes in short, rapid pants. Eyes shutting tight. More tears spilling. It hurts so good. Burning sensation washing over you. White hot. Scorching.
White blotchy spurts of his cum flooding you deep. Throaty groans leaving his mouth. You're soaking, drinking it up. There’s so much cum, it’s spilling out. Dropping on the sheets. His body nearly collapsed on yours. Your body can’t take the weight on you. He’s so heavy. Your omega yearns for it, wants the weight on you.
His knot, plugging your cunt, trapping you together. You sigh in pleasure. Satisfaction. Content. You still feel a twitch of his cock, small spurts shooting into you.
A few beats pass, his knot finally deflating. Cock only half hard now. He’s pulling out of you slowly. Beads of his cum following suit. It catches on his tip.
His breathing ragged as he brought his face down to your bruised pussy. It throbs under his burning stare. His mouth inches closer. Wetting his bottom lips, he lunges into you. Sucking, circling, licking at your pussy.
You’re whining, mewling, bucking your hips away from him. He’s quicker. Pining your hips down with two large hands. He’s eating his cum out your pussy.
“T—too much!”
“Mmh.” Groaning, voice vibrating through your over sensitive pussy.
He brings one of his hands, two fingers plugging it back in. Deep. Fucking his cum back in. You’re on the cusp again. Hips hiking up. Back arched in a beautiful bow.
His tongue curling, circling on your clit. You’re seeing stars, everything’s all blurry. You’re cumming again.
“Simon!”
His fingers slow. Just strong unhurried thrusts. You’re coming down. Breath haggard. Eyes blown.
Divorcée!Simon Riley just hates when he hears his ex wife!Reader is going on a date.
It was all supposed to go perfectly. Your friend had set you on date for Friday night, Simon had the kids at his place because it was his weekend. Kelela blaring from your speakers as you fixed your makeup in the mirror, large rollers in your hair, a nice dress freshly ironed layed on the bed.
Simon absolutely ruined it.
Petty argument that was laced with every bit of jealousy, spiraling into you on your hands and knees, getting your back blown out by your massive ex husband who was stretching you desperate spasming pussy out in the sluttiest way imaginable.
Your slick dripping onto fabric of the dress who worked hard to buy. Sobbing at how good you felt while Simon railed into, using your hips as leverage, practically bruising them. He grunts, “This what you’re doin now? Hm? Hah- thinkin about cheatin
“Fuck- fuck you- mmmph- we’re not- aangh- were nooot-“ you can’t even finish your own sentence, broken moans escaping your mouth, your head falling and toes curling as your ass kept rippling against his pelvis every time Simon bottomed out.
“-We’re not wot? Huh? Wot was tha again?” He cocks an eyebrow at you, slamming his hips into your harder, only earning more keens of his name and curses. You walls quivering around his hefty girth, tears burning your eyes. Then you feel the sting of his hand come down on your rear end, “I’m expecting words from you, that brain on?”
No- probably not- all you knew it was so much- a good much- taking over your entire body. Your hands grinned the headboard of the bed, trying to wiggle your way out of his hold.
“Awww,” the blonde condescendingly croons, dragging your hips down to the base of his member, “Mama can’t take ‘er husbands cock.” He hikes himself deeper inside you, hissing as your nails vlaw as his thigh. “Can help you remember swee’art, ‘s what ‘m ‘ere for.” His arm snakes around your neck, calloused hand around your neck and guiding your hips back into his, the filthy smack, smack, smack! filling the bedroom with every pound of his cock into you.
Simon has you cumming and cumming, endless as a car pulls into your driveway. Simons eyes are nodded over, holding you so close and tight as he grinds into you, “My dear wife,” the military man’s stomach tightens, jaw clenched as he rests his head on your shoulder, sloppy thrust after sloppy thrust in your your oozing pussy, slowing filling with your mix of cum. “pretty fuckin wife, love you so- shit- sooo much dovie” he slurs out, leaving more little bruises up your neck, breathless and sucking your ear as he empties his creamy load into your perfect cunt, “where else would I be without you, baby, bloody hell-“
It’s those screams you’re letting out that has your date thinking your calling out bloody murder that makes the guy rush in your unlocked house. The noises are louder with every step he man makes up the steps the bed threatening to break with every brutal thrust. And you’re there, on the bed, legs over Simons broad shoulders, while he pistons into your slipper pussy, balls smacking against your ass. Your ex husband is pushing you down by your plush thighs, feet flat on the bed and drilling into you without a care in the world. Simon whips his head around, the stranger gobsmacked in horror.
A sinister smirk grows on Simons face, “Guest ‘f honor is ‘ere dovie, don’t you wanna great ‘em?”
Your heat only clenches, only thinking about your husband- the father of your kids, love of your life— Simon, Simon, Simon, Simon-
“So cockdrunk yer speakin out loud,” he lowly snickers, pushing your knees up to your earlobes, smooshing his strawberry cockhead against your cervix, pushing his fingers in your mouth for you to shut up, but you only moan at the sensations he’s giving you. Both mouths stuffed, both set of puffy lips drooling in delight.
Simon cracks his neck, staring holes into your ex date, “If you could close the door on your way out, her husbands taking care of ‘er now.”
a/n: he holds me in his big arms, drunk and I am seeing stars, this is all I think of
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through It™️ Creampie. Brief mention of Reader’s insecurities w sex
Note: I’m on Instagram now (kinda), come say hi :-)
Word count: 2.1k
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried before.
You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.
By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.
That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.
And things had only been official for a week.
You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.
He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.
Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move
Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.
You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.
“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.
You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.
“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.
Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”
He slid deeper for emphasis.
You didn’t.
You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.
“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.
Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.
This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.
Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.
“Better?” The man’s question was simple.
Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.
You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.
Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.
“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”
“I—I know, I just can’t—”
At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.
You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.
“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”
The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.
“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”
“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”
“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”
But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.
Maybe you’d never found that place after all.
This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.
You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.
Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”
“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.
Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.
With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.
You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.
“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”
Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.
It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.
“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.
“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”
Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.
Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.
He still held onto your other hand tight.
Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.
Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:
“Higher.”
“Higher?”
“Um, to the…to the left.”
Simon tilted his hips left.
Yes.
That was just it. So close.
Almost…
Or, maybe…
“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”
Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.
Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…
“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”
The grin above you stretched even wider.
“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.
“Right there.” You nodded furiously.
A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.
“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.
“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”
Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.
The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.
Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.
You realized as much when he whispered it to you.
“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”
Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”
Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.
“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.
“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”
The ones that you’d been with before.
You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.
Simon was back inside you in a blink.
Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.
He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.
Vindicated.
“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”
You nodded in agreement.
You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.
“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”
When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.
And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.
Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.
“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.
His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.
You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”
“Feel good when I hit it?”
“Fucking perfect, Si.”
You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.
“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”
“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”
“Go on then, love.”
And, shortly, you did.
Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.
Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.
It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”
You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.
“Thank you,” you murmured against him.
Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.
He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.
wet eyes, aching body, cum leaking down trembling legs. whimpering, "i can't take anymore," and "no more, please, no more." a soft, devilish chuckle, fingers drag through the mess between soft thighs and a murmur, "you can handle one more."
And you really thought Simon would be a little mean during sex. He had to be a sadist after everything he’s been through.
So, when he’s between your parted thighs, you’re shocked when he speaks to you so softly. Quietly begging in your ear, cock pressed to the hilt, for you to be good for him.
And everytime you let out a whine, fingers tightening at his shoulders because he’s massive and you feel like you’re splitting in two with every thrust; he shushes you. ‘You can take it. Yes—yes you can.’
And when you clench tighter around him because the cadence of his voice licks warmth in your core, he smiles. ‘There you go, baby. Just like that.’
Also, shoutout to @wooceanic becuase she requested, and i got inspired ;P
The first time you realized Simon was actually making love to you was after your first big fight, when you had given him the silent treatment for almost two days.
You didn't live with him then, so you tried to ingore his texts and calls, simply choosing to rot at work until the dead of night just to keep your brain from obsessing over him.
Oh, but how naive you were to think you could escape him, or that he could last a day without seeing you.
He still had a key to your place just in case, a fact you totally forgot about until you walked in and found him waiting on your couch like a lovesick puppy, with an order from your favorite Chinese restaurant.
You really had him completely wrapped around your finger, you realized, smiling to yourself.
By the time he actually started begging for forgiveness, you were too far gone to remember why you were even pissed.
He had you down bad, too. So dumb of you to think otherwise.
Your bodies moved in sync and with the way his hips rolled with every drive, sinking deeper with every movement he gave you, you simply forgot your own name.
He had your legs spread wide, bent almost to your shoulders, creating that sharp, sweet tingle in your belly every time he slammed into your sweet spot. And oh god, that fucker knew exactly how to hit it perfectly.
Every. Damn. Time.
He did that thing where he would curve his hips up and hold there for a moment, whispering into your ear, "It's right there, huh? I found it again." His head was buried in your neck, and the pathetic, desperate whimpers he let out after he felt how wet and warm you were, filled with his cum, made you clench your pussy around him even more, turning him into an animal obsessed with dragging every last orgasm out of you.
Then it hit you. That this time was different.
Usually, sex with him was hard and rushed. It wasn't bad, but this? Yeah, it was something else.
He never whimpered like that. He was taking his time, watching every twitch of your body, caressing you slowly until you fell apart again and again, and it was so fucking hot seeing him like that.
He practically begged for your forgiveness by fucking you slow and deep into the mattress.
"Si, look at me," you managed to gasp between moans, yanking at his messy blonde hair until his eyes met yours.
"You feel so good, love," he whimpered while looking into your half opened, glazed eyes, his pace growing slower. His hand was on your breast, squeezing and rubbing your nipple between his fingers. "Will you forgive me, and let me cum inside again?"
"If you keep fucking me like this I might."
His hips stilled, but his cock remained buried deep inside while he started grinding slowly, so you could feel every inch, every vein, and that delicious curve of his cock pulsing inside you. Almost as if he wanted to prove how good he was for you.
"Please, love, forgive me." He hooked your thigh around his shoulder, fingers digging into your skin and already leaving red marks.
"Fuck, let me just fill you up, pretty girl," he groaned into your ear while gently nibbling your lobe.
You gasped, eyes rolling back, but you could not care less because you felt so incredible. You dug your nails into his bare back, tracing lines along his muscles and scars. They moved along with him, and you smiled, feeling the goosebumps erupt on his skin.
"God, you're going to make me cum if you don't stop, Si." You bit into his swollen from kissing lips drawing a little bit of blood, the pleasure forced its way down your body. You tugged harder seeing how he wanted to hide in your neck already, his eyes were completely lost, and it made you clench around him. Usually, you were the one who struggled with eye contact.
"Yeah? - thrust - You're gonna cum again? - another thrust, this time he reached for your puffy clit. You felt his thumb rubbing delicate circles, not to overstimulate you - You can cum - thrust that pulled the filthiest and loudest moan out of you - as much as you need, baby. I've got you."
"Oh god, Simon, I'm..."
"I know. Fuck yeah, cum on my cock, sweet thing. Please, cum on me, I'm begging you." He whimpered.
Since then, everything changed. He would make love to you on every occasion, simply because being that close and intimate with you became addictive in a way. Fuck it, he just loved it. After all, he felt like your relationship was turning into something serious, so it was only fair to care for your needs in every possible way. God, he loved giving it to you. Just looking at you in the bathroom brushing your teeth wearing nothing but his shirt made his cock go rock hard, and hearing your pretty moans and sighs was a different story entirely.
Yeah, he was obsessed with making love with you.
Well, and shame on you it took such a small effort for him to bribe you...
SIMON "GHOST" RILEY // barbarianking!simon, f!reader, kidnapping, noncon, eventually consensual, pregnancy, mention of intimacy, mention of fingering, possessive simon, caring simon, childbirth
part 1
Simon was angry.
Firstly, at the healers. The local midwife was shocked when he broke into her house and pinned her against her wall, scaring the hell out of her children, who immediately grouped together, shaking at thinking what their king might do. The middle-aged woman shook her head, saying that nothing was her fault, that she had determined pregnancy at a time when your small bump was not yet there, and that she could not even imagine that the news would not reach Simon.
Then at himself. Because you did not trust him enough to tell him that you were carrying his child in your womb. And looking at how he treated you, he understood that you simply had no reason to trust him.
The day he saw you mourning your father, who was slain during the battle, he just threw you over his shoulder and moved towards his horse. You were punching his back and crying, so he had to put you in front of him and literally squeeze into your back so that you were trapped between him and the edge of the saddle. You cried the whole first day when his men stopped for the night in the woods, and Simon just covered you both with one big piece of fur, not noticing how you slipped out of his arms and slept on the side, but not next to him.
But you did not shed a tear at your wedding ceremony. You did not even look Simon in the eye when the local spiritual leader tied your palms together with a thin strip of bearskin, and then, after you were both treated to wine, you poured yours right into Simon's mouth when he kissed you.
You were not to share a bed with him, but Simon refused to do anything that would provoke your tears. What was the point of a woman hitting his chest while he fucked her? Instead, his fingers were the first to enter your core, and you frowned through barely suppressed moans when you first reached your peak, pressing into his palm.
He was the one who kidnapped you, took you away from your home, forcibly married you, and now you were pregnant with your unwanted husband's child.
But Simon was still angry. At himself.
His was raised as a brut; the shortage of sentences he spoke and tight muscles of his arms were what he was raised to act like and have, his culture valuing rought instead of gentle. His men did not spare a glance to women they fucked after the victory, whether it was they wife or a wife of their neighbor. Women's tears were not seen, men's were disgusting.
But you... You were the one whom he married, despite his advisors seeing you as a whore, hardly even worth of their king's bed. But Simon's actions were not to be questioned, he made sure of such a reputation when he took the position from his uncle.
At yet, in the face of his wife, pregnant with his babe, Simon clutched his fists on his way back from the midwife's house, swearing to himself to become a better man for you. And for the second heart, already beating inside you.
***
You noticed you were no longer present on the main room of the house, when Simon usually returned from the hunt with his men. The gatherings were held in this big hall, men dragging their prey on the wooden floor, soaking the wood with blood still pouring out of the corpses, laughing and chanting in unison on a language you still were yet no learn. The action always made you nauseous, seeing the blood, the fur being removed from the deer's body, men roaring and biting the raw meat right from the flesh.
Yet when the voices were heard again, Simon did not appear on the doorstep, as he usually did, with the "inviting" gaze of his that forced you to come out, to sit on one of the tables by your husband, to look at all the chaos, the pure madness happing around you.
No.
You could hear his voice, telling the servants to gather the drinks. But he did not "invite" you to the gathering.
The same night, when he slipped under the furs, making the bed creak under his weight, you asked, not looking over you shoulder.
"Why did you not make me come out?"
The silence stretched for too long, making you nervous, almost thinking that he might have just fallen asleep and you were speaking into the air.
But it was his sigh and short, always short answer, that made you put you palm on your belly.
"Not good for you to see the blood."
***
Everything began to change since that night. Since when Simon's eyes, brown and stoic, caught the slight bulge of your stomach. You were on top of him, bouncing on his cock, whining and gripping the headboard of the bed with you fingers, when he outlined the new curve of yours.
Hiding that from him was the only thing you felt you had the right to. After being taken from your home, forced into the marriage, the life around the people unfamiliar to you, the new life that bloomed in your womb was the only thing you thought could belong to you.
But since Simon found out, since the silent conversation of your gazes colliding happened, he changed.
He was still the same giant of a man, almost too small for the bed, speaking of short sentences and giving orders to everyone around. Yet, your new state made him soften the littlest bit.
The knife, placed in front of you, made you raise your gaze up from the embroidery (on which the servants looked down on). The blade was small, yet sharp, and the handle wooden with some shapes carved in. The item appearing so suddenly made you stiffen, but Simon was quick to speak.
"Tradition. Men gives a babe a knife. First weapon."
A weapon for their unborn child.
You raised a knife in your hands, examining the handle. The symbols carved into the wood, yet, made to sense. The tree, as if the one he had slung you over his shoulder near; the flower, similar to ones you had been embroidering; the sun that you cherished to have and always pulling your face towards when walking out of the house for mere seconds.
"Those... Are those for the babe?"
The real question that made Simon clench his fists, but not tearing his eyes away from you. The tradition required a future father to carve in the symbols of his future babe. Yet, those he put on the handle, were not about that particular being.
"You left everything there when I took you. You need to have something yours here."
Something yours.
He said no more, walking out the room, but your heart skipped s beat, taking the said in.
Simon made the knife not for your future child. But for you.
***
The day your belly became too huge for you to sit up came quicker that you had expected.
The servant, the girl, prepared a bath with a hot water for you, and called when everything was ready. Having laid down for a moment to ease the pressure off of your back, you struggled to sit at the bed. Clatching the headboard, you tried to wiggle to the side, to find the balance and reposition newly gained weight.
But before you knew it, the strong, calloused hands, gripped your shoulders and set you straight, you finally being able to sit. You looked up, and there Simon was, hair slightly sprinkled with fresh snowflakes, as the first snow settled on the village a week ago.
His hands moved, one under your knees, the other on your back, and he carried you, as if weightless, to the other end of the room, where the wooden bath tub stood near the fire.
You found yourself silent, expecting him to follow you into the tub, to perhaps try to initiate intimacy, which you lacked for some time.
The first time you shared a bed, you shed a tear and blood, having lost your virginity. But he was never cruel with you during sex. Persistent, perhaps, sometimes even rough. But he always made you shiver and whine in pleasure, as your hips twitched, catching this sweet release again and again.
The moment your wool dress dropped, and you climbed in the water, you scooted over, making some space for him. But Simon stayed outside. Maintaining some distance, he sat on the fur on the floor, seeing your body being fully covered by the water for a second, as you wetted your hair.
The bathes were what made the pain of your big belly ease. The weight you had gained and will gain, most of which were the babe inside you, made your already small statue clumsy. Simon had noticed you several times placing your hands on the wooden pillars of the house while walking, as if ensuring some safety for a small adventures.
But he saw now how big the babe had gotten.
The curve of your belly, soft yet strong, was undeniable. Poking out of the water for a mere inch, it was a big evidence of all the shared nights of yours. The pregnancy made you stronger. He saw how you started sharpening the knife he had gifted you, cutting apples and helping the servants with cooking. You were refusing to be a burden in a state where your body was making another human being inside.
That made Simon proud. For a woman he had taken away, but not taken the spirit of hers.
The small movement from the inside of your stomach, the glow casket on your skin from the nearest torch, it made Simon stiffen, his hand quickly reaching for the axe on his hip.
But you chuckled, shaking your head.
"No need for that. The babe is simply kicking."
Kicking.
"Kicking you?" His brown arched, the anger and confusion, the strange mix in his eyes.
"It is moving." You clarified, moving your palm, stroking the skin at the exact spot, as if soothing the babe inside you. "It shows the strength."
Strong. His child would be strong.
He let you bath in silence, sitting nearby, looking how you enjoyed the warm water, the comfort. And that night, he feel asleep with his palm on your belly, and you already sleeping face to face with him.
***
You found him hear the open doors, the ground sprinkled with snow, the winter not harsh enough yet to make him cover his bear chest. Yet, you were the one covered in warm clothes.
The wood between his legs looked smooth, the curve not subtle, but the length not long enough to be one of those where people carried water in on their shoulders.
"What are those for?" You stepped closer, palm stroking your belly, the babe being active all morning.
Simon raised his eyes briefly, looking at yours, and then at the movement of your palm. His hands did not stop, still smothering the wood, but his haze lingered on your belly, the reminder of an approaching labour.
"The babe bed."
"The crib?" You asked, dumbfounded.
Just the other day, the woman from the village, a wife of one of the warriors, brought the local version of a crib into your house. Two small wooden pillars firmly embedded on the ground under the floorboards, and a sack of fabric hanging in between. You looked puzzled, eyeing the construction with a curiosity, asking Simon what for did you two need a cheese press when the goats in the village hardly have enough milk to make one.
You were horrified to discover this was how his people made newborns sleep.
"Monk said your people use wood." Simon mumbled, his eyes back on the wood in his hand.
The monk. The kidnapped slim man from the same lands as you, taken and kept as a slave for one of the chiefs of Simon's. He talked to him. About the babe, about you refusing to let the fragile being sleep in something without a steady ground under.
And he made a crib.
It stood near your bed two weeks after. Steady, strong, and full of clean fabric and warm furs.
"Woman said babe needs warmth." Simon said, dropping two more fur pieces in the already full crib.
You nodded, and, walking closed, snuggled closer to his side, desperate for his always hot skin and warmth.
"It will need warmth, coming in the winter."
***
The wind outside made the doors swing from side to side with force. Or was it the hurry with which the servants and the midwife were running in and out, bringing more warm water and fresh linens? You could not tell, too lost in the agony that gripped your body.
"Why she screams?"
"She is having a child, the child needs a way out of her body. It is expected of her to-"
"If you do not do anything I will take my axe and-"
You interrupted the threat, ready to slip out of Simon's mouth and reached for his hand. He gripped your palm in an instance, moving closer, until your foreheads were pressed to one another.
"I need the knife."
"Knife?"
"The knife you- Ugh! The knife you gave me."
The one you never parted ways with, always looking at the pattern, tracing the symbols with you finger pads.
The horror passed into Simon's eyes, and before anyone could notice that, you said.
"The cord. Cut it with the knife."
He did, just several moments later. When you collapsed on your face, babe being pushed out, and servants helped you to lay on your back from the hands and knees you were relying on while the midwife wiped the babe with a fresh fabric. The newborn screamed, finally here, finally breathing the air for the first time.
"What a big boy. A mighty warrior."
A son was placed into your hands, and Simon cut the cord not leaving his eyes off of the child on your chest.
He would do anything for the two of you. He would conquer new villages, fight a thousand battles, build a bigger house, hunt a dozen deers, kill anyone who dares to look wrong at you.
SIMON "GHOST" RILEY // mafia!au, mafiaboss!simon, f!reader, husband!simon, wife!reader, pregnant!reader, mention of an age gap, brief mention of intimacy, mention of drugs
The lights were dimmed when Simon returned to the mansion. The door closed behind him, and he paused for a moment, listening. This darkness could never deceive him, because he had been in power for long enough as the head of the clan that even someone's quiet breathing would not be able to escape his sensitive ears.
The TV turned off a second later, and after a couple more minutes you came out. In a thin nightgown that does not reach your knee, you came out of the living room, sleepy.
“Told ya not to wait for me.”
“You know I can't sleep without you.”
He knew. That was why he couldn't get mad.
Simon didn't move when you came closer and touched him, resting your palms on the fabric of his shirt, because he never buttoned his jacket. The only exception was your wedding day. Then his hands immediately shot up and covered your waist, and his thumb gently stroked the place just below, where your belly was already showing.
“Where's the guard...”
“He went to his room. He fell asleep in the living room while I was watching a show.”
“Told ‘im not to leave ya alone.”
“That doesn't mean he has to follow me around.”
“That means he can't sleep at his job.”
You sighed, realizing that it was useless to argue with him, and, taking one of his hands from your waist, pulled him aside, heading to your bedroom.
When you got pregnant, Simon couldn't help but become even more protective. He understood that his wife's pregnancy would draw attention from the other bosses if they talked about it publicly, and so you decided to do it only at the nearest major event, which would probably only be a Christmas reception at your father's estate in London. An event that took place annually, and which you have attended since you turned sixteen.
Being the only daughter of a London boss, you've always been under the scrutiny of others. Many men from the regions of Yorkshire, Liverpool, Birmingham and Sheffield wanted to be the ones who would get you as a wife. If not them, then their sons were the ones who couldn't take their eyes off you at any public events, forcing your bodyguards not to take a step away from you.
A graceful bird in a golden cage, that's who you were. But you were allowed more than any other woman in your position. You were allowed a choice.
Simon witnessed you rejecting offers from various men back then. Whether it was the rumors that spread through the clans, when your father directly rejected the son of one of the bosses because you said no; or your obvious disinterest in a man who dared to approach you at a public event. You understood what they wanted from you. Only your status, the name of the English Mafia Princess, the girl who was more important than, perhaps, the Queen herself.
And you knew your worth. You didn't want to give in to the first offers you got. And your father allowed you to do that.
Simon was also one of those who claimed your hand. Four. He came to London four times for a private audience with you and your father, and proposed to you. Four rings, each custom-made, with different designs and stones, were sitting in a drawer in his office, rejected by you. But Simon wasn't the one who gave up. Never.
As soon as the two of you were in the bedroom, you pulled him towards you, and he gave in, this mountain of muscle and height, and came closer, and then sat on the edge of the bed, spreading his knees and allowing you to stand in front of him, between his open legs. Your palms immediately ran into his hair, and it was the movement of your fingers on the back of his head that made him sigh heavily and finally relax his shoulders.
It was with you that Simon became like this. It was in your arms that he could relax, finally let go of the thought that he had returned from interviewing those who were probably spies and specifically blocked drug supply traffic, redirecting it to the enemy's territory, which provided them with free weed. He could forget about the strip club's issue, which was threatening to surface in the press, and that he needed to meet with the owner of the online portal in order to prevent it from entering the network.
Right now, he could leave it all outside the room, outside the house, and just be here. With you. And your future child.
“I want to keep the right to my body. And to manage it however I want.” That was the first condition you told Simon when he proposed to you for the fifth time, three years ago.
And he accepted this condition. Not once in your life has he told you what to wear and what not to, starting from the moment your wedding ceremony was over and ending with this moment when you were standing between his legs and he bent over, gently kissing the bulge on your stomach.
This also applied to pregnancy. He wasn't the one who forced you to have children right away after your wedding. On the contrary, he never once brought it up, giving your body only adoration and praise when you were in bed. It was your decision to stop taking birth control pills to finally start a family. And now, knowing that his child was inside you, he felt like a guard dog.
“How was work?”
“As usual.”
“You mean rough?”
Simon sighed when you tried to get more information out of him.
“Information ‘bout the strip club in the business district can get into the press. Need to resolve this issue tomorrow.” He explained by raising his head and meeting your gaze.
“No cheating. I will not tolerate another woman, and I will not go to bed with another man.”
This second condition of yours made him clench his fists back then at the very thought that you could end up in bed with someone other than him. Simon agreed, and that same night he broke contact with those girls who were the most frequent visitors to his lap. He never brought anyone into his house, and when you lay naked in front of him on your wedding night, he realized that no one else would ever look better in this bed than you.
He was possessive. It meant that none of the other men had the right to touch you unless it was an emergency. And that you wanted him to be faithful to you in return? It only increased his sense of pride, the realization that you already consider yourself as his jealous future wife.
“How early tomorrow?”
“Not before yer appointment’s over.”
His words made a soft smile bloom on your lips.
“I want a family. And this means that the children will not be raised with nannies, but both parents will be raising them.” That was your third and final condition.
At first, you couldn't imagine Simon as a family man. He was older than you, and by all mafia standards he should have already had a wife, and even children. But he didn't. You were his first wife, his first marriage experience, and you didn't know if he would fulfill that promise he made when agreeing to your condition.
But you could see the changes in him when you hinted to him that you wanted to have a baby. How he stayed with you longer in the mornings, sometimes even waiting until you woke up to go off for a couple rounds in an attempt to conceive. How he paid close attention to your behavior, trying to figure out if you were already pregnant or not. And how his eyes lit up when you showed him a positive pregnancy test.
The baby inside you hadn't been born yet, but you could already see that Simon loved it. He went to all the appointments with your personal doctor, protected you from possible attacks by the press who wanted to know about Simon Riley's wife, the owner of a car dealership, which was his only legitimate business and served as a cover for the mafia clan in Manchester.
The family you grew up in was close, and you wanted the family of your own to be the same. The one in which the mother does not serve as an incubator, but cooks breakfast and plays with the children. A father who not only gives children names, but also takes part in their upbringing and takes everyone on family vacations.
And that was exactly the family that was waiting for you with Simon, you were sure of it.
SIMON "GHOST" RILEY // runawaybride!reader, virgin!reader, childhood best friends, mention of cheating, slight nipple play, orav sex (user receiving), simon being in love all this time
"What the–"
"Simon..."
His heart sank when he saw you standing at the door of his house. Your face, where a smile should have been, was twisted, lips trembling, eyes red, and your cheeks were streaked with the traces of your tears, washing away your makeup, probably so perfectly done for this day. Your dress, the one he picked out with you on that awful day when your fiancé's mother scolded your every choice and snorted at every reasonable suggestion from the stylist. He remembered how you forced a smile when you emerged from the fitting room in a hideous, poufy gown, making you look like a pile of whipped cream ready to fall off a mountain of pancakes at any second.
This was supposed to be your happy day. Your wedding day. And even though you'd disinvited him a week ago, claiming Jordan thought his presence would be unnecessary, he'd simply agreed. And now you weren't standing in a church, but on the threshold of his house, in that stupid dress, tears in your eyes and heavy breathing.
"Simon..."
He swallowed and opened the door wider, letting you in. You walked in, lifting your ridiculous skirts and holding your shoes with the ridiculously low heels and too-tight clasps in your hands.
"What happened? Why did ya..."
"He cheated on me."
Motherfucker.
"I found a video on his girl best friend's phone. She... she was getting me ready to go down the aisle, went to the bathroom, and I saw the open text messages and just..." Your chin trembled again, and Simon leaned forward, pulling you closer.
He could never stand your tears. Be it a scraped knee from childhood, a heartbreaking movie, or...
"He recorded it. Fucking her." You sniffled and buried your face in his T-shirt, breaking down into another wave of sobs.
Bastard. He'd wring his neck, this bastard he'd never trusted anyway. His overly controlling movements, his evasive answers to simple questions, his attention on his phone, while snatching yours right out of your hands.
He wasn't worthy of you from the start. No one in this world was, and probably never will be.
After sending you off to shower, providing you with a change of clothes in the form of his own gym shorts and T-shirt, Simon sat on the couch and sighed heavily, running his hands through his hair. Judging from the hour-long hysteria in which you sat on his lap, hiccuppingly telling him everything that had happened, he understood only one thing: you were never coming back. Not to Jordan, not to his crazy mom, not to that damn church, even if that's where you left your phone without even thinking about it when you ran away from your own wedding. Your shoes were thrown against the wall in the living room, just like your dress, the hem dirty, the laces in the back nearly torn when he tried to pull you out of that suffocating, horrible corset.
When you stepped out of the shower, Simon was still in the living room. But this time, cardboard boxes from the delivery were sitting on the coffee table.
"Ordered Indian." He said, getting up from the couch and moving toward him.
"You didn't have to."
"Curry with brown rice. Yer favorite." He replied instead of trying to convince you.
Fuck.
You weren't worthy of him. You'd never reached the level where you could even partially be worthy to be his friend. The last six months had put your friendship in jeopardy, thanks to Jordan's words and behavior toward Simon. You still remembered those evenings when he'd snatch your phone and start yelling, noticing you texting your childhood friend. How you'd cried, and Jordan would convince you that you only needed one man in your life, your future husband, your fiancé. Now ex-fiancé.
Simon came closer and raised his hand, swiping his thumb across your eyelids.
"The mascara didn't come off? I tried to remove it with your soap, but the makeup artist must have used something too long-lasting."
"Can buy some gel or any other shit ya need."
"No." You smiled, for the first time in a while, a genuine grin at his words. "No, don't."
His eyes were always like that. Always brown, always with that light green circle closer to the pupil. This gradient you were now looking at reminded you of all those months, years spent together. Of his alcoholic father, from whom you sometimes hid when you came to visit, while Mr. Riley was always on the loose, stalking the house in search of a new victim. How you and Simon would sneak off in the evenings to the half-abandoned houses on the outskirts of the town where you lived, whispering under the light of a nearly dead flashlight. "When I grow up, I'll be a better man than ma father. I'll cherish women and not call them bitches." "You mean 'want to be'?" "No. I will be. I promise ya."
You swallowed, looking down, feeling the touch of his entire palm on your face send warmth throughout your body. You always reacted this way to his touch. Ever since he grew to a fucking giant, and his voice lost its boyish tone. And when he shaved his hair and put on a uniform...
"This isn't how I pictured my wedding night."
"Yeah, I bet." Simon chuckled, the air from his nose tickling your cheek. You didn't even notice how he leaned closer to you.
"I was supposed to be with the man I loved. In bed, feeling loved, finally losing my virginity."
"Right, almost forgot yer cherry's still isn't popped."
"Shut up." You nudged him with your elbow in mock offense, and he smiled, removing his hand from your cheek.
But your gazes didn't diverge. No matter what, no matter the potential money or offers, you couldn't tear your gaze away from Simon here, now. He was the one you immediately thought of when you started running, when you wanted protection, support. Care.
"I'm sorry. For giving in to Jordan's words and rescinding your invitation."
"Don't say his name. Not now, not when ya..." He froze, sighing loudly.
"Not when I what?”
Simon's gaze intensified. And you felt it burn, your feet rooted to the floor, your knees slightly weakening. The answer was what you wanted, but were you prepared for the truth it held?
"When ya're standin’ ‘ere, in ma T-shirt, in ma damn shorts, lookin’ like..."
Another pause. Again your expectant gaze. And then...
"Like a dream I don't think I'm worthy of."
Shit.
You felt your heart skip a beat, your palms go cold. Stress, definitely stress. But also the full weight of his words, falling on you like an avalanche descending from a mountain, holding this blanket for many, many years. You could see Simon freeze, his breathing quicken, his fists clench, and he looked at you as if waiting for you to do next.
Change the subject? Leave? Laugh?
But you did something he didn't expect.
His lips were soft but dry as you stood on your toes and reached for him. Compared to yours, plump, partly from the shower, partly from tears, you felt as if you were kissing not your childhood friend, but the statue Simon had become when you made that bold move.
"Sorry. I shouldn't–"
But he immediately pulled you back.
One of Simon's hands rested on the back of your head, the other on your hip, and then his lips parted to meet your surprised sigh. It was the kiss of a man who couldn't believe his luck. Like a poor man who had earned the king's favor, like a desert man who had reached an oasis, like a believer who had found solace in prayer.
And Simon kissed you. Slowly, savoring every breath you took, the way your hair stood on the back of your neck, the soft touch of your hand on his shoulder. And when your mouth parted in response and your tongues met, he growled deep in his throat, causing you to pull away.
You breathed heavily, leaning your forehead against his. Any logical solution you had come up with to explain what had just happened immediately vanished.
Childhood friends. Been through it all. You'd seen his childhood acne. He'd seen your bad haircut.
But it all made sense. So damned much.
"Ya waited. And I'll make this night special."
You weren't religious, despite the entreaties of your mother and ex-future mother-in-law. The idea of getting married in a church wasn't even your idea. But remaining a virgin until marriage, until the man you'd wanted to connect with your whole life, until the right man... That idea was close to your heart.
His kisses didn't stop, soft yet powerful, moving to your neck as Simon led you backwards into his bedroom. The mattress met your back with softness, and you relaxed, raising your arms and running your fingers through Simon's long hair. You cried so hard when he shaved his head when he enlisted. You loved his hair so much, his blond, curly hair; you even told him any girl would envy his hair.
Would any woman envy you now?
"Bloody hell, ya're so small."
You looked down as Simon hovered over you, one hand sliding down, lifting your oversized T-shirt a little higher and beginning to untie the laces of (his) shorts, which you'd tied as tightly as possible to keep the fabric on your hips.
"It's not my fault you're as big as a mountain."
"Not ma fault I want ya even more in ma clothes."
You swallowed, drawn in by the robotic quality of his voice, the palpable desire. He wanted you. He had experience, you had no doubt about it. With his job, where he spent a lot of time on missions and then came home for short breaks, you were sure he found someone to relieve the tension.
How could you compare to anyone? You had zero experience with sex, you knew the theory, and in practice, you'd accidentally bumped into Simon's fly with your elbow once, when you were both teenagers. But what would happen now? When he saw you, your naked body, not perfect, not like...
He interrupted your thoughts with a quick kiss on the lips, then grabbed you by the armpits and moved you a little higher on the mattress. You were still wearing your (his) clothes, and the first one to decide to shed the layers was Simon. He looked at you as he reached his hands behind his back and removed his T-shirt. You looked at his fair, pale skin, dotted with small cuts and round scars whose origins you could only guess at. The tattoo on his left forearm, where, among the jumble of symbols, you could find one of your drawings, the one you'd sketched on a napkin for him half an hour before their first session. And his torso...
You swallowed, then sat up as he reached down and abruptly pulled off his sweatpants and boxers. A happy trail, slightly darker than the hair on his head, trailed from his navel, ending at his penis.
The reality you were faced with made you swallow.
You weren't sure you were ready for this, for seeming inexperienced, clumsy, unattractive.
"We don't have to rush."
But one soothing whisper from Simon in your ear made you relax.
His kisses resumed, on your temples, cheeks, jaw, and then your neck. Oh, your neck. You never suspected it could be a sensitive area, but Simon sensed it from your sighs, which turned into soft moans, and stopped right there. Kissing, lightly licking, it made your body burn.
Your (his) T-shirt came off first, as you couldn't stand the heat. The fabric fell from the bed to the floor, and you froze, watching Simon's reaction. Not that you saw the point in wearing that horribly uncomfortable bra.
He slid kisses down your collarbones and between your breasts, then cupped both of them in his palms. This elicited a moan from you, and you squeezed your thighs, feeling the pressure building below.
"Good sign. I'll make ya soft and wet."
You bit your bottom lip, suppressing an indecently loud moan, and lowered your chin, unable to tear your gaze away as Simon took each of your nipples into his mouth and sucked, releasing each one with an audible pop.
You also removed your shorts as Simon's hands moved down to your hips. You squirmed, shrugging off the fabric until you were left in only a pair of beige panties, but sighed in surprise when Simon suddenly rested his forehead on your stomach and sighed heavily.
"Christ a’mighty."
How ironic.
It was his index finger, gently hooking the fabric of your panties and gently sliding them down your legs. No more secrets, nothing hidden.
And not for a second did you imagine Jordan in his place.
Simon softly kissed your navel, your lower abdomen, then your hipbone and thighs as he spread your legs. And when he saw your pussy, already wet, literally beckoning him, he looked up. You looked back at him, desire mixed with uncertainty in your eyes, and for a second Simon forgot about his own cock, already hard, straining against his belly.
"Ma mouth first, luv."
And your moan was worthy of all those years of unspoken feelings.
His tongue swept over your folds, parting them, his lips sucking on them, exploring but not yet taking them fully into his mouth. And when he moved lower, toward your entrance, and his nose pressed in your clit, you hissed, clutching his hair with one hand.
"Simon…"
Fuck, if you only knew the power you wielded over him.
"Ma mouth first, luv."
You were unstoppable, torn between the urge to squeeze your thighs and push Simon away and the whispered "more" every time he pressed against your clit again. His tongue, his lips, his nose – it all drove you crazy, and before you realized what was happening, you cried out, and the knot of tension in the pit of your stomach exploded.
First orgasm. First sexual encounter. With the man you trusted most, with Simon.
And when he pulled back from between your legs, his face, mouth, and chin glistening with your juices, you realized the right man had been there for you all along. Always there, all these years, through all the awkward and difficult times.
Divorced dad!Ghost noticing his new younger neighbor talking to his 4 year old daughter Emily, cooing over a frog she found while you tell her not to kiss it because it wont turn into a frog prince (duh), cigarette in hand as he silently watches.
That sundress does nothing to hide your frame, the swell of your breasts peeking out the top of the dress, a pretty necklace hanging in your cleavage, his cock chubs up nicely in his work pants, wishing he could just bend you over and take you in the middle of the street. He'll settle for just this for now.
30 minutes later Emily drags you to Simon to introduce you as "the pretty lady from next door" and you awe at her before sticking your hand out for a handshake towards the big brute.
He extends his thick calloused hand and shakes it firmly, feeling how soft your hand is, he feels no ring... good. He'll change that soon.
You end up talking for a while exchanging numbers before heading off to wherever you were going before.
Ghost stares at the phone number you gave him before quickly shutting his phone off, already anticipating the next time he sees you.
Tw: manipulation, reader kinda likes it, simon is threatening everyone.
"Sir, I don't think this is appropriate..." you said, eyes fixed on the floor.
"What's the matter, sweetheart? Don't you like me?" Simon grabbed your chin, brushing your skin with his thumb.
You remained quiet. It wasn't that you didn't like Simon, even though you had never seen his face. He was tall, well-built, and you could tell he was strong—everything you liked in a man. But he was your superior.
"Talk to me, baby. Don't you like me?" He hardened his touch, though not enough to hurt you, forcing you to look him in the eyes. You had never felt this way before. You could feel butterflies in your stomach and your cheeks burning.
"I— I like you, sir."
"I like you too, baby. And I’m going to make sure everyone knows that you're mine. Aren't you?"
You nodded. Simon’s hand traveled to your hair and then to your neck; all you could feel were goosebumps spreading across your body.
"I need words, my love."
"Yes, I'm yours."
"Yes. You are mine." Simon’s lips brushed against yours. "Now, go back to your desk. I need to work."
You nodded slowly and walked out of the office. What the hell had just happened? Your brain couldn't process the fact that you had just agreed to be in a relationship with your Lieutenant—your superior.
Days passed, and things only got worse. Everyone was avoiding you. You were the secretary, yet no one wanted to speak to you. What you didn't know was that Simon was the one responsible. He had been threatening the recruits, barking at them that if they got close to you, he would be the one to break their ribs into powder.
Now, you were crying in Simon's lap because no one would talk to you.
"Why is no one talking to me? My job is to help them, but no one is letting me do it. What did I do wrong?" You were sobbing into his chest, your voice cracking with each word.
"It's not your fault, baby. You didn't do anything wrong." You didn't, but Simon certainly had.
"But you don't need anyone but me, my love," Simon whispered into your ear, leaving kisses on your head. "You only need me, don't you?" His voice was soft, but a smirk played on his lips.
You stayed silent. No one had ever treated you the way Simon did. Maybe he was all you needed. "Yes, you're all I need, Si." You sobbed again into his chest. "You don't hate me, right?"
"I would never hate you, my love. Never."
I love obsessed simon, like he can control every aspect of my life idc 🫶
izzy806
germansingergirl
andulkaphoto
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
areudirty
