Simon "Terrified of becoming his father" Riley who HATES marriage. He loves you regardless of the legal status of your relationship. If you want, he'll even put a real nice ring on your finger, but he would rather die than trap you in a relationship.
VERSUS
Jonathan "4 ex wives" Price who treats marriage like a quick easy thing everyone does after a few dates. That man will have a ring on your finger within the first six months or else what's even the point? He knows he loves you and you love him, why not put it in writing? People stop coming to his weddings after his 3rd divorce.
Omega!housewife reader X Alpha!price (NOT HIS WIFE) tw: implied cheating
Omega!housewife reader who’s married to a beta, has been running on suppressants and blockers since she presented, has never gone through a proper heat ever despite the countless warnings from her endocrinologist . Who views her omeganess as a can of worms that she wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole, for as long as she can.
Vs.
Alpha!price who moves into the neighbourhood, who scents her without even seeing her, traces of her around at corner store, park, around the streets of the neighbourhood.
who then proceeds to weasel his way into her home by befriending her husband, shoves her in the pantry at a one dinner party and takes a lungful of her scent straight from the crook of her neck, her pretty puffy unmated scent gland.
And despite every base animal instinct to claim her, mark her, knot her and fill her with his cum until she’s pretty and sore and leaking,bred and sated decides to play the long game.
Lets her shove him away, show her pretty little omega fangs, spit and and yell at him about how she much she hates “stupid fucking alphas” . Let her shove her left hand in his face to show the two carat rock sitting on her ring finger and whisper “I am married, by the way, if you forgot” as if she’s been claimed in way that fucking matters, like her little husband is going to stop him. (Stop her)
Loves watching her squirm when his eyes flick to her unmated scent gland, pretty and puffy, the way her nostrils flare despite the indignant anger flaring through her, her scent getting headier, syrupy, poor little thing probably hasn’t been in close proximity with an alpha, ever. He likes it way more than he’ll care to admit.
He lets her go then, because John Price fundamentally likes playing with his food, he likes watching her squirm all night, the way her scent turns syrupy sweet, just ever so slightly heat touched, the way she avoids him, unable to meet his eyes, slick thighed, cunt dripping between her legs.
He lets her go, because he knows she’ll come to him eventually. And he’s rarely wrong.
I want to write this fic soo bad. Like proper. The idea of a unclaimed omega housewife bas been plaguing me like i am edgar allen poe.
I fear we need to address something. You have boldly declared yourself the number one Phillip Graves lover.
Unfortunately for you, I too have dedicated an alarming percentage of my brain chemistry to that blond, morally bankrupt, emotionally constipated Texan.
This makes us rivals. 🙂↕️
Sorry, I don’t make the rules.
(THIS IS A JOKE I PROMISE. I’m genuinely so happy someone else loves him this much. He’s my emotional support bastard. 🥰)
NOOOO this town is big enough for the two of us!! 🤠🌾
(I'M SUCH A FANGIRL BTW I actually screamed when I saw this in my inbox, I'm also happy that you love that man (almost 😛) as much as me!☺️)
Simon Riley who REFUSES to let you turn the lights off during sex. Absolutely not. Not his partner. The first night you two end up in bed together, it starts out hot and messy. Just a simple date that led to more, clothes tugged off in the entryway of your apartment, lips and tongues messily pressed against each other's.
When you walk with him into your room, you flip the light switch off. You don't even think about it, it's sort of just habit, whether you're masturbating or having a quick hookup with some bloke from the bar, the lights go off. Simon pulls away from you quickly though, and you can see his strong brows furrowing even through the dark.
"What's tha' for, lovie?"
You hum in response, though you can take a guess as to what he's talking about. You're just ready to get started, no time for this conversation.
"The lights. Why'd ya turn 'em off."
"It's just... Something I do."
Your tone is clearly laced with insecurity. It's pathetic. Simon's big hand reaches over you to flick that light switch back on. Then his movements are gentler. Less hurried, more precise, less messy. He runs his hands over your body like you're something to worship. And he tells you about it too.
"Fuuuckkk lovie, I ever tell you how much I love this ass?"
"Fuck me, I could squeeze this throat all night long, pet."
"That mouth migh' just be my favorite thing about ya, sweetheart."
Simon Riley will not let his love feel any less that how he sees them. Ever. And if you ever think so, he'll fuck it right out of ya. Slow and special. His favorite way.
I just know Gaz gets so condescending when he fucks you stupid
He´d already made you cum with his mouth, fucked you for over an hour until he came inside you. And when you thought you were getting a break, he flipped your trembling body around and thrust into you again before pulling you against him.
Now you´re sitting on top of him with your back against his chest, your legs straddling his. His cock is deep inside you, just grinding while some of his load leaks out of you. One of his hands toys with your clit, the other wrapped around your waist while your head lays against his shoulder.
You whine while shaking around him, and with his kindest voice he says ´´What is it, sweetheart? Does it not feel good?´´ pushing his cock even further into you. You lift your head and buck away from him, it´s too much, too good, but you can´t formulate sentences right now. ´´No, no, no, love -´´ he says, using the hand between his legs to pull you back into him ´´- you´re supposed to stay right here´´, the hand around your waist lifting to hold you by your neck.
´´Kyle...´´ you whine, eyes rolling back ´´I know, baby, I know´´, it´s almost mocking, his hand lifting even further until his fingers press against your mouth and you start sucking them ´´You get confused sometimes, but don´t worry´´ he kisses your temple ´´I’m right here´´
hey i feel like i need to make this clear due to the fact that i write fanfic for literal military propaganda but
fuck ice. fuck donald trump. fuck israel. fuck the military. fuck reform uk. fuck elon musk. fuck anyone who will say with chest that they support trump and then go and sit in church on a sunday thinking it absolves them of their hipocrisy. fuck anyone who refers to people- HUMAN BEINGS- as ‘illegals’. fuck anyone who claims to want to ‘protect women’ by putting a rapist in the white house. fuck the white people rioting in the uk who cover their racism with ‘protecting women and children’. do not use women as scapegoats for your hypocrisy.
if we wanna get real fucking technical here, exodus 22:21 “do not mistreat or oppress a foreigner, for you were foreigners in egypt”
but yes, jesus- the RADICAL socialist, palestinian immigrant- would be so proud of you. he would be so proud that you preach your love for him on a sunday and then on a monday you go back to ripping families apart. i’m sure god is smiling down on you. vile.
The first part of you Simon lays his eyes on is your ass. Then it's your hands, fingers wrapped around a pool cue, ready to make your shot, bent over the table all pretty. Next it's your smug grin as you straighten back up after effortlessly pocketing the ball you were going for. You look confident, bordering on cocky, and the guy you were going against looks... Extremely disappointed. Obviously this is NOT what he expected, further affirmed as he pulls out his wallet, taking out a 20 pound note and handing it over to you. Your lips move and the guy grimaces even more, but your words are lost to Simon over the chatter in the bar.
Johnny had to drag Simon out to this shitty dive bar, something about how the more introverted man "dinnae get out enough! Ye need ta fin' a bonnie lass to pump!" but Simon tuned out and just went along after Johnny started talking about his own recent sexual escapades. Then, like the great friend he is, Johnny almost immediately left Simon alone to go flirt with some bird. Simon was honestly planning to finish his drink, watch the rest of the footie game on the shitty TV, and get out of this place. The bar is sticky, the place is just a little too loud and crowded for his taste, people keep giving him nervous glances, and Manchester is losing. Bad. Simon's eyes travel across the bar, looking for Johnny at first to garner how invested in this bird he is and whether or not Simon should go over and let the man know that he's gonna leave, but his eyes never make it to Johnny, stopping on you first, at the pool table. And then he orders another drink.
He doesn't make too much of an effort to hide the way he stares at you as you trick another sucker into playing against you. He watches this one come up to you, asking if you need any help. The dick tries to explain the game to you, obviously having not seen your previous win, even grabbing your hands and positioning them around the cue. You just nod along, making a half-assed effort to look confused. Then, of course, the moment money gets involved you don't hesitate, looking patronizingly at him the same way he was looking at you as you take his money and he scowls at you, cursing and gesturing as he sulks away.
Your eyes follow the man as he walks off. The next part of you that Simon really notices are your eyes, the dull lights in the bar reflect off of them in a way that he didn't think could happen, and he almost feels like he could look into your soul if he stared into them for long enough. And he does stare into them, and then those eyes get closer... And closer.
"What's with the staring?"
Oh, shit. There's a brief moment of pause between the two of you, and you raise your eyebrows at him and gesture, waiting for a response. Maybe he should've been trying to hide it, but can you really blame him?
"Wanna go against ya."
The excuse isn't necessarily a lie. He has been thinking about walking up and grabbing a cue, but it's not specifically why he was staring at you either.
You look at him suspiciously. You've been seeing him stare at you for the better part of an hour, so it's not that he sees a cute dumb thing to talk down to and take advantage of. The first thing you noticed about the man that's been staring you down was the surgical mask on his face. Maybe he's sick, that's why he's delirious enough to ask to go against you. A man like him doesn't seem the type to go out of his way to lose. In fact, someone as big as him doesn't seem like he loses very often at all.
Finally, after a sizable pause, you nod and walk back to the pool table, a silent invitation for him to follow you. Simon isn't a man who's easily shaken, but as he chalks up the end of his cue and watches you set up the game, he has to make a conscious effort to stop his hands from trembling. He couldn't say whether the feeling coursing through his veins is avidity or apprehension, but he can't get enough of it.
You look up at him with a cocky grin right before you make your first shot, and he can feel all the blood in his body rushing away from his brain. In the end, you win by a long shot. Simon isn't necessarily bad at pool on a normal day, he just couldn't line up his shots right when his eyes refused to stray away from you. It's good that he lost though, he much prefers the victorious look on your face as you stand up and fix your hair, grinning over at him. You even pat his shoulder as you walk past him to put up your cue, speaking lowly but just loud enough for him.
"Maybe next time try and spend more time looking at the balls and less time looking at my ass, bar guy."
Next time. You said next time. There'll be a next time. And he refuses to lose again.
Simon comes to that shitty bar every night. Sits in the same seat and waits for you. He never even got your name, he just knows that he needs to see you again.
And he does see you again. He almost thinks it'll be another useless night of sitting in this shithole with no results. He almost leaves. And then you walk in, making a beeline for the pool table. Before you can trick some other bloke into betting against you though, Simon is right there. You look up at him with a raised brow, skeptical about just his presence around you.
"Bar Guy?"
"Simon."
"Are you stalking me or something?"
You don't know how close you are. Though, he doesn't know if he'd consider it stalking, even if the end goal might be a bit creepy to some. He doesn't answer your question though, instead he just hands you a cue, grabbing one for himself. Your brows knit together as you look down at the cue in your hands, the same one you always use, and then look back up at him.
"Didn't you learn your lesson last time, Simon?"
You say his name like you're testing it on your tongue. You wanna see what it feels like in your mouth. What feelings it invokes when it's said in your voice instead of his gruff tone. For him though, it's the final confirmation he needs, as if he even needed that. Simon is a man that knows what he wants, and he wants you.
"'parently not."
He breaks this time, lining up the shot while he answers your question.
"What are we betting this time then?"
"Your number."
Simon is quick to answer. Too quick. He's been thinking about this, clearly, and that stalker joke from earlier starts to root itself a little more in your mind. You should tell him to fuck off. Get him to go away so you can trick some sucker into helping you pay rent for the month.
"And what if I win?"
"You won't."
He says it low, determined, his eyes already napping out his next shot. Not quite a fair bet, but then again, it's been a while since you've played just for fun.
The last game the two of you played was quick. It was easy for you. This one is slow. Simon moves methodically through the game with a soldiers precision. He walks around the table slowly, eying the positive of each ball. His strong fingers grip the cue with the perfect strength, holding it just right. Each move is carefully chosen to hit at just the right angle, sinking each ball he goes for just right. He doesn't speak, he barely even looks at you.
You almost cringe when he finally pockets that last ball. Simon was right. You lost. This isn't something you expected, and the loss pricks at your skin in just the wrong way. Fire tickles it's way up your spine, the flames licking at your cheeks. You let this man play you?
"I'm not giving you my number."
"Coul' settle for takin' ya home instead."
That makes your brain stutter. Who knew he was gonna be THAT forward with his intentions? It's not like he wouldn't be a nice hookup or anything. Look at his build, you could at the very least imagine those biceps caging you in. At the same time, you can't just surrender yourself to this asshole!
"I'm not good in bed."
"'s alrigh'. I'm good enough fer the both of us."
The fire laps at your skin.
"I live with my parents."
"We can go to my flat."
The flames sink lower, smoldering in your core, sweating you out.
"I've got HIV."
"I'll use a rubber."
The fire sputters and scorches you on the inside, clawing and biting at the cage around it.
"I've got a boyfriend."
"Looks like you shoul' text 'im."
Logically you could walk away from the masked man in front of you. There is no cage, no chains holding you down. But just his presence in front of you draws you in like he's already collared and leashed you and he's dragging you any way he wants.
"Take me out to dinner first."
"Deal."
Before you know it, you've exchanged numbers and made plans. You're jittery all week, it's like your mind refuses to stray away from Simon, and he isn't much better. A man like him shouldn't be concerned with what to wear or where to eat or what to order. He isn't too worried, initially, but then he lets his plans slip to Johnny, and suddenly he won't shut up about it, how he needs to make sure it's perfect, get a haircut, a new outfit, and most importantly, learn all the different ways to coax you into his bed.
It's a wonder he manages to calm himself down by the time he meets you at the restaurant (A compromise insisted on by you, you don't want the weird bar guy to know where you live.). He compromises with Johnny for something semi-casual, and you show up in mostly the same. The restaurant isn't formal by any means, so you don't bother getting yourself too dressed up. Still, it's been a while since you've gone out in this way, so you're not gonna pass up the opportunity to make yourself look presentable again.
All the preparation from the two of you doesn't stop dinner from being an absolute disaster though. Simon opens the door for you and you trip over his feet, planting your face straight on the floor of the restaurant. And this asshole has the audacity to laugh at you. A bruise forms on your face throughout dinner. Neither of you can decide what to order, the food comes out late, and neither of you like what you chose. The tow of you have no common interests, and it seems you don't agree on anything actually, there's a lot of bickering.
The worst part of all of it though is that you fucking love it. You catch yourself smiling through most of it, and he smiles back. He takes off the mask to eat, and you see the lower half of his face, his scars, the reason he hides himself, and you don't care. Actually, it's attractive. By the time you're done arguing about who'll pay the check and walking out to your car, you're laughing and smiling with him about some story he's telling about his friends from work.
He walks your to your car, and you can't take your eyes off of him. Especially when he stops in front of your car and stares down at you.
"What?"
"'m still takin' ya home?"
You're not quite sure whether it's a question or not. Whether the whole reason he took you out and bared an evening with you was all so he could hook up with you. Does it really matter whether you say yes? If you say no, will this be it? You get a shitty meal, a bruise you'll have to cover up for the next few days, and he'll never see you again? Or maybe you'll tell him no and then next week he'll show up at the bar and play pool with you again. Either way, you have to put up a fight.
cw: power imbalance, bordering stockholm syndrome, dependant relationships, needles, medical procedures, drug abuse, captivity, referenced trafficking, brainwashing
The first ever memory you have, is of Phillip Graves. In you head, there is a big void and then, like a saviour, an angel sent to you from heaven, there‘s him.
You remember his voice, before all. He had always been calm but confident, collected in a way that told of self control. Then, his features. They stand out in your brain, like a mark no one could ever reach. Divine beauty, you vaguely remember thinking, even if your mind had been wiped clean, with nothing to offer but a blank slate just for him.
He had been haloed by the sterile lights, icy gaze boring into yours. Still, he had never made you feel cold. Whenever you touched your own skin, you could still remember his calloused hands softly mapping your skin, on that very first day. Je always had been warm in a way no one else could offer, burning, claiming you.
The words he said had barely stuck at all, hell, you were too doped up to remember much. It was all faint, as if someone had stuffed wool into you head. But the ring of his voice, that southern twang, had stayed with you.
In that moment, a violent delight had taken ahold of you. Shivers had wracked you again and again, a giddy smile, so wide that it made your cheeks hurt, had claimed your face.
It hadn’t mattered that there were thick leather bindings keeping you pinned to the hospital bed, barely allowing any movement. It hadn’t mattered that there were numerous infusions and tubes attached to your body. Even the itchy gauze and stiff gown hadn’t bothered you.
Because Phillip Graves had not just been there to see you into this world with soft words and gentle touches. No, when you had smiled at him, all programming that he worked so hard for, he had cooed and smiled back.
He had even given you a name, in that white room, under the blinding lights.
You replay that memory again and agin. Each day, each free minute, is filled with thoughts of him. Even now, in his bed, as you skin carries a sheen of sweat and your heart beats away anxiously, you try your best to think of him. You tray to keep your cool, he likes that, you know he does. Fear shouldn’t affect you, not anymore.
„I just don’t get it.“ You admit quietly after a while, when your heart finally calms to match your breathing again. The nightmare is still fresh on your mind. It comes again and again, haunting you until he pulls you close and brushes your hair from your eyes.
You don’t recall ever experiencing it, yet it feels so real. Graves is there, standing over you. But, so unlike yourself, you don’t feel good about being knelt at his feet, don’t like his hand in your hair. In your dream you snarl at him, and then he strikes. Once, twice, sometimes thrice.
Through your pain, words are exchanged over your head, degrading and mean. You can hear men laugh, loud and wrong. Then, you‘re tugged along. Dark figures swarm you, you feel trapped, bound. The pain is all you remember. Sharp needles and blinding lights. Loud voices and repetitive motions, again and again and again until the sentences are burned into you brain, until all you eyes remember are him and the dark figures.
His voice takes you out of the memory. „Ya don’t need to get it. I told ya, it ain‘t real. There‘s no more to it.“ He sounds kind, but the underlying insistence tells you not to ask again. For a moment, his hands tighten in you hair and you follow his pull, until your eyes meet.
„I saved you, don’t forget that.“ Even in the dark his eyes are bright. The blue is ingrained in your mind, and despite your will, you relax. Distantly, you feel yourself nod. „We‘ve got a job to do. Can’t do it if you‘re all in your head.“
His expression softens when your hand tries to follow the movement of him, staying on his chest as best as possible, when he adjusts himself on the bed. You scoot closer, feeling the warmth of his skin on your own like a warm chimney. It makes you feel at home.
He makes you feel at home.
His fingers trace over your wrists softly, the dark leather encasing them firm and reassuring. He hooks one into the metal ring and pulls. You follow easily, your mind tingles. It‘s pleasantly silent in your head now.
„You saved me.“ You agree easily, remembering him on that day, an angel sent to you. Again and again. You don’t have need anything but him.
„I did.“ He agrees easily. You don’t pay attention when he sits up, one hand still of your cuff. The clinking doesn’t scare you anymore, you trust him.
When they needle pierces the junction of your arm, you almost sigh. Graves rubs your skin once more, soft and caring. „Let‘s take ya out of your head. I need ya in top shape tomorrow.“
And with the way you start floating while he holds you safe any close, you can’t find it in yourself to disagree with him. Not now, not ever. He saved you. You have a job to do.
You have a bad jaw. It pops and creaks and clicks out of place with too much use.
It's been this way for a long time. It's hard to remember a time when opening your mouth to bite into a sandwich wasn't a whole ordeal. The slow tension as you open it wider and wider and then a painful pop as it gets to the point where you can open your mouth wide enough. Then again. And again. Again. Again. Again.
It's definitely made things awkward with romance. You have to be a slow, careful eater, otherwise your pesky jaw will click out of place entirely. And that's certainly a turn off. It also doesn't help when you're on a dinner date in a nice fancy restaurant, and you can see your date wincing every time they hear it pop. It might as well echo off the walls. It feels like everyone is staring at you, cringing, glaring, judging.
It certainly doesn't do any favors for your sex life either. On a bad day you can't get your jaw to open past an inch or so, which definitely doesn't help you give head. And it isn't a turn on when your partner shoves your face down and your jaw dislocates.
And then Price comes along. And he's patient. And helpful. He'll sit in a restaurant with you for hours if you need, just watching you eat, talking, laughing in that endearing way he does. Age has made him patient. He doesn't need things to be fast, he doesn't care what people think. He's not weirded out by the popping and clicking, he's heard worse things than that in his years of service.
Price will sit with you for as long as you need, holding a warm compress to your face as you stretch out your jaw. He doesn't rush you, he doesn't overreach or force your jaw open. After his first date with you, he started researching different stretches and exercises you can do to help with the pain. He talks you through it, applying pressure in all the right places.
It only makes what comes next all the sweeter for him. You, down on your knees, jaw wide open, with your lips wrapped around his cock.
He loves a good toffee in the morning. And the way rockets crumble when he bites them. A Cadbury egg in the evening.
But the thing he craves most after a long day is to sink his teeth into a sweet bird. Bite and lap and suck and never let go. He's a woman's man, what can he say?
Enter you. The sweet, plump lass behind the counter at his favorite candy store. He could stand in the store open to close if it meant getting to stay in your presence just a bit longer. Sitting there and watching you stride around the store, restocking all the candies. Gummy bears, MilkyWays, Tootsie Pops. How many licks it would it take him to get to your center?
And boy would he fuckin' lap at you. You're the sweetest sucker he could ever imagine. He would grab you, bend you over that front counter, mark you up so anyone who comes in the store knows you're his.
You would melt in his mouth AND in his hands when he got his mouth on your gumdrop. Sweet and tart on his tongue as you fall apart, his tongue is a lifesaver after a long day. Once he gets his hands on you, he can't stop, touching you constantly, now and later, on a spree of ravaging every inch of you. And he could only imagine how those wax lips would feel on him, down his chest, lower, lower...
"Is there anything I can help you find?"
Fuck. What he really needs now is something to hide the very obvious hard on in his pants. His cock is straining against his zipper uncomfortably, and you looking up at him like that certainly isn't helping.
"Ah'm okay, lass, just deciding what I wanna get today."
You. He wants to get you and take you home and never let you leave. He could find someone to run the shop in your absence, he has connections. Tie you up to his bed, ropes red like licorice...
"Alright! Well let me know if you need any help!"
Fuckkkk. He's gonna get his teeth in you soon, birdie.
"Babe, can you run out and buy me some pads with wings?"
Phillip looks up from the game at your call from the bathroom. Pads with wings. ...He can do that.
20 minutes later, that man prances into the bathroom with a grin on his face, pads in one hand and... A takeout box in the other.
"Got ya what you asked for darlin. Pads and wings."
...
...
...
Chicken wings. He bought you chicken wings. It takes you a minute to realize, and then before you know it, you're doubled over laughing. He just looks at you, brows furrowed as he tries to figure out what's so damn funny.
"Phil, no, I meant pads with wings."
"That's what I got ya, babydoll. What, you ain't hungry no more?"
All you can do is reiterate what you said again. Phillip, of course, just gets more fed up with you.
"Darlin, that's what I got right here. Pads with wings. Are we eatin' or no?"
Thinking of Graves and all his war crimes. He HAS to have a hot lawyer backing him right?
CW: Fem!reader on this one! A little suggestive at the end, but not bad.
Phillip Graves and his lawyer who always walks around Shadow Company HQ with your nose turned high, in these blouses and perfectly ironed pencil skirts and suit blazers. Always manicured and styled, walking in heels like they're sneakers, not a bit of insecurity in your stride.
He saw you for the first time and hired you on the spot. Not a moment of doubt. It was just a coincidence that when he looked you up later, you happened to be good at your job. Lucky him.
Phillip Graves and his lawyer who could be paid 6 figures and it still wouldn't be enough to deal with all the shit that man throws at you. From the egregious lawsuits that I know this man has against him, to the southern charm and flirting that he throws out like it's nothing, with a little "oops" if you try to tell him he can't just leave piles of bodies in his wake like there are no consequences. But of course, there aren't any consequences. Not with you around.
You tells him he needs to be more careful, follow the rules, maybe use his goddamn brain. But of course, he just grabs your hand, kisses your knuckles and tells you that it's alright, sugar. he knows you can take care of it for him. He doesn't miss the way a shiver runs up your spine. Or the way that your eye twitches. He loves riling you up. Bastard.
Phillip Graves and his lawyer who goes off on him, throwing a little tantrum about how he's reckless. Selfish. Insufferable. And sure, he watches your mouth move. Knows that words are coming from your lips as you pace around his office, your heels clicking on the floor. Unfortunately, all he can think about is bending you over his desk and pulling up that little skirt.
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