call sign: Casper 👻 • Doctor Who💙🪐 •BTS💜🫰 My Comfort Is Big Men With "touch them an I'll kill you" Vibes🖤🔪 •Leon S Kennedy •LT Simon Ghost Riley •Cap John Price •Eric Draven •Bo Sinclair •Vincent Sinclair •Lester Sinclair •Michael Myers •Jason Voorhees • Bubba Sawyer •Harry Warden •Thomas Brown Hewitt •Brahms Heelshire •Billy Loomis •Stu Macher •Danny Johnson •Yautja •Pyramid Head •Karl Heisenberg •Baron Helmut Zemo🖤💜 •James Buchanan Barnes🤍🖤 •Loki💛🖤
simon riley and his spouse don't wear wedding rings.
work makes it risky for him. you simply don't want anything between your skin and his when he entwines his fingers with yours.
instead, you get matching tattoos. small, black hearts on the inside of your ankles, and identical ones tucked behind his ears - hidden by the mask at work, and by tufts of blonde hair when he's at home.
no dates. no names. nothing that would obviously link the two of you.
now he’s got you folded in a mean mating press - knees crushed to your chest, legs hooked over his shoulders, cock buried as deep as it can go. every thrust makes you whimper, nails biting into his biceps, his breath hot as it fans over your neck. your ankles press against the sides of his head; the hearts tattooed there lining up perfectly with the ones behind his ears - permanent reminders of your favourite position to be in together.
cw:afab!reader, references to depression/medication, soft!simon. 2k words
“can we book in sex on friday evening?” your voice cuts through the silence of your shared lounge - almost hesitant.
not hesitant like you're expecting to be rejected, hesitant in the way someone is when they feel out of practice. when somewhere along the way they lost all their powers of seduction.
simon looks up over the page of the book he's reading - eyebrows furrowed before they relax, like he's trying to make sure you're not asking out of some misplaced sense of obligation.
“friday works.” he confirms, “be back late so you'll… have some time to yourself first. to do your… preparations.”
preparations.
the polite way to say you'll either watch or listen to or read some porn in the bath before he gets home to try and kick start your body and brain into getting onto the same page about wanting to fuck.
you snort softly at the phrasing before nodding, "okay. just let me know when you're on your way home."
quiet settles over the two of you again, peaceful, yours.
then simon clears his throat.
"the new meds seem to be helpin'." he says quietly. "yer smilin' more. s'nice."
you nod, once. "they are." you confirm quietly. there's a beat of silence and then, "… sorry they've broken my fanny."
simon just shakes his head, brown eyes meeting yours. "not broken. an' don't be sorry. rather have you 'appy than horny. only one of those is important to me. an' it's not the availability of yer cunt."
your ears get hot at the bluntness, but your chest tightens with relief at his words. but still. there's a twinge of guilt in your stomach, like you're somehow not keeping up your end of the bargain you made when you decided to be each other's.
"i know. you always say that. but…"
"no buts." he cuts you off firmly, no room for argument. "no ifs. no fuckin' anythin'. i love you. i love yer smile and yer laugh. an' yeah, i love fuckin' you. but i'd rather you were smilin' at my bad fuckin' jokes again than drippin' all over the house."
Si ❤️: 10 mins off
Si ❤️: don't rush. take your time
Si ❤️: gonna shower in the en suite. you'll take one whiff of me and absolutely change your mind
Si ❤️: (which would be fine. no pressure. didn't think before i sent that.)
the messages overlay the porn playing on your phone screen one by one.
you don't pause the video right away - let yourself stay in the little bubble of horny you're trying to build. the bathwater is going lukewarm around you, but your skin feels warmer now from the small spark of anticipation that's beginning to grow in your stomach.
you can't help but feel a small twinge of grief that six months ago this same activity would have had you throwing yourself at simon - that six months ago you didn't even need to prepare to have sex with your husband. that it felt like the most natural thing in the world, not something you had to manufacture.
but then you remember his words "yer smilin' more. s'nice." and the grief fades, replaced with a pang of fondness so strong it almost hurts.
you let your eyes focus on the video again, letting the sounds of soft moans and the wet noise of skin on skin filter through your headphones; try and remember that the joy you see on the amateur couple's can be yours too.
you pause the video, typing back a quick message.
just getting out. haven't changed my mind. x
you dry off quickly, clean your teeth, slip into one of simon's old t-shirts; the black colour long faded to grey, band logo once printed on it lost to the passage of time. there's a hole in the hem and it's stretched out around the collar.
but it makes you feel safe, and that's what you need right now. not lace bodysuits and stockings. by the time you've padded into the bedroom you can hear the shower running - see that today's clothes didn't even make it to the washing basket in the bedroom, instead left in the one downstairs.
you wrinkle your nose - you know that means you're probably going to need to get the stain remover out later. but you appreciate that simon hasn't brought the smell of whatever it is up into your room. you light a few candles as you hear the shower switch off, pull the curtains and turn off the big light; leaving the room in a soft glow of the candles and bedside lamp.
little things you've learned make you feel more relaxed.
you're just settling on the edge of the bed as the en suite door opens - knees tucked up under your chin, heart beating a little faster than normal. simon appears, towel slung low on his hips, water still dripping down from his blonde hair and onto the scarred plain of his chest. his eyes find yours immediately, soft in the way they only ever are when he's looking at you.
"hi." you say softly, lips pricking up at the corners as you look at him.
fuck. it really does help the situation that he looks like that.
he crosses the room in two strides, one hand reaching to cup the back of your head as he leans down to kiss you - soft, slow; the kind of kiss that's a hello and isn't an expectation. his hand strokes up your bare thigh slowly; fingers pausing at the hem of your - his - t-shirt, stopping short of pushing it any higher. "hey dove," he replies softly. "missed this smile."
your smile. that's what he missed about this situation. that specific, soft, wanting smile that you only ever give him when you're about to get him in bed.
and it's that that has you pulling him down on top of you.
your t-shirt gets pulled off with careful hands; his towel lost somewhere to the floor. he ends up hovering over you, pressing kisses down your jaw, your throat, takes his time. his thumbs stroke an almost soothing pattern across your ribs as his lips trail lower - but when he reaches your stomach he pauses.
"tell me somethin'." he murmurs, "what were you watchin' in the bath?"
your face heats immediately, throat drying out as you stare down at him with an expression of absolute horror.
he just hooks your legs over his shoulders, presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, looks up at you expectantly.
"just… soft stuff." you manage to murmur back. "couple in their bed. they… they looked like they were enjoying it. not… faking it."
he presses a kiss higher up your thigh, then another, before his breath is ghosting over your core. his tongue traces a slow line from slit to clit; gentle, soft, curling through soft heat like he's not in any kind of rush.
your hips twitch.
simon hums against you, an almost approving noise; like he's proud you actually answered. "yeah? what were they doin'?" he flicks his tongue against you again - more targeted this time. you gasp slightly as he settles in, one arm slung across your hips, fingers tracing over skin. every motion he makes is purposeful - circling your clit, dropping down down to dip inside you, tracing every inch of you with his tongue in lazy strokes.
your fingers thread through his still damp hair, nails scratching over his scalp in the way you know he likes. "they were taking it slow." you breathe. "she was on her back like this. he kept… talking to her. telling her how good she felt."
"slow." simon repeats, "like this?" his lips wrap around your clit, sucking gently before soothing it with broader strokes. your fingers tighten in his hair enough that he groans - all enjoyment and no pain. "you liked hearin' how much he wanted 'er?"
"yes-" the word breaks into a low moan as he slides two fingers inside of you, curling them perfectly against the spot he knows so well; mouth still focussed on your clit. "fuck, si…"
he doesn't speed up. just keeps a steady, slow rhythm - eyes flicking up to watch your face. he pulls away enough to murmur gently, "i want you dove - all the fuckin' time. everything you do is so fuckin' sexy i feel like i'm goin' insane." a soft kiss to your clit, "'m sorry if i stopped tellin' you." another kiss, "jus'… don't want you to ever feel like you 'ave to jus' cause i'd live inside you if i could."
your eyes burn, hands dropping to brush your thumbs over his cheekbones. "i know si. i promise."
he nods once, satisfied that you're not lying to make him feel better by the wet shine in your eyes. he drags the flat of his tongue over your clit again. "was she makin' the same little sounds you make? the ones that make me fuckin' melt?"
you nod, hips rolling under his mouth; the combination of his mouth and hands and the gentle questioning pulling you under. the porn in the bath feels distant now - a distant second to the real thing: simon riley between your legs, focused solely on you, coaxing your body to the edge with nothing but patience.
when you come its with a soft, shuddering cry - the same noise he loves so much - pleasure rolling through you in warm waves as simon works you through it. he waits until your fingers are limp in his hair before pulling back entirely, then kisses his way beck up your body until he's braced over you again, propped on one elbow so he doesn't squish you under his bulk.
"still good?" he murmurs. his cock is hot and hard against your thigh; twitching against you as he presses a kiss against your neck - but he doesn't push forward, doesn't press. just rests his forehead against yours.
“yeah,” you whisper, reaching between you to stroke him gently. “i want you, si. want this.”
he kisses you again, tasting like you, and lines himself up. he presses in -slow, perfect - eyes locked on yours the whole time. your fingers trace the scars on his jaw, eyes widening as he bottoms out; filling you in a way that's so achingly familiar now. he pulls back, pushes in again; soft, shallow rolls of his hips.
you brush your nose against his. "you don't have to be so careful with me, si."
"i want to." he replies simply. "been thinkin' about this since you brought it up. about makin' you feel good."
you, not him.
you thighs slide to wrap around his waist on the next thrust, taking hip deeper just by the nature of the position and he groans - a wrecked noise that carves itself into your memory.
"this alrigh'?" he murmurs against your neck, hips snapping just a little harder; thumb sliding into the space between your bodies to rub gentle patterns against your clit.
you nod, jaw going slack as you feel heat flood your stomach again. "yeah. s'perfect." you manage to murmur back.
he presses a kiss against the corner of your mouth, keeping up that same steady rhythm. "i love you. i love you when you're happy, an' i love you when you're sad. i love you when you're horny and climbin' me like a tree an' when all you want t' do is watch greys anatomy on repeat an' eat little moons. nothin', fuckin nothin', matters to me as much as you do."
you bury your face in his neck, cheeks hot, eyes burning, "i love you too."
your second orgasm is like sinking into warm water; nerves lighting up hot one by one, teeth sinking into the curve of his his shoulder with a whimper of his name. he follows immediately after, the pulse of your cunt around him dragging him over the edge, face buried in your hair as he breathes you in.
he doesn't pull out right away - just holds you, fingers stroking over sweat damp skin, pressing lazy kisses to your temple.
"still smilin' down there?" he murmurs softly.
you huff out a soft laugh, body and brain soft with satisfaction. "yeah, si. still smilin'."
"good." he kisses the top of your head. "that's all i need, dove."
they say you can't pour from an empty cup but i've been doing it my whole life and aside from all of these mysterious ailments it's working out great for me
Brahms was sulking. The reason? You’ve barely said a word to him since yesterday.
He knew you were still upset with him, you made that pretty clear by the fact that you haven’t talked to him all morning aside from when it was absolutely necessary. Still, your lack of affection was slowly getting to him. He was angry about not getting your attention. And he was angry at the guy from yesterday.
It was all his fault. He shouldn’t have flirted with you, then Brahms wouldn’t have had to kill him.
He was the new grocery delivery man, substituting for Malcolm while he was on vacation, or so he said. Brahms listened as he introduced himself, commenting on someone so young and pretty living alone in such a huge house. Even when you told him you weren’t alone, he didn’t get the message. All the while he was bringing everything into the kitchen, he was bombarding you with smooth compliments and prying questions. You shut down all his advances, emphasizing that your boyfriend wouldn’t appreciate him talking to you like that.
The fool had the gall to look around with a cheeky grin, saying he didn’t see your boyfriend anywhere.
Brahms felt his blood boiling, protective rage consuming him as he emerged through one of his trap doors like a dark omen. This man wanted to take what was his. That was the only thought repeating in his head while he crossed the room in a few long strides. He made sure the guy got a good look at him as he choked him to death.
He only noticed the silence when he dropped the now lifeless body to the ground, his chest heaving. You were standing frozen, staring at the corpse lying in the middle of your kitchen. When Brahms turned to you, his eyes were dark behind the white porcelain of his mask. They cleared up when he saw the way you looked at him though. He took a tentative step toward you, head tilting to the side in question, but you stepped back, bumping into the counter. That’s when he knew he had done something wrong.
Now he wished he had given the guy a slower death. If he had just kept his mouth shut, if he had just accepted it when you first rejected him, then Brahms wouldn’t have had to kill him. And then you wouldn’t have gotten mad at him.
You proceeded to scold him for an hour, fingers running through your hair from the stress, throwing quick glances toward the body every now and again. You told him you could have dealt with him, told him that he can’t just decide to kill everyone that annoyed him.
Brahms didn’t take it well. He threw a tantrum, stomping around and knocking thing over. He didn’t understand why he was the bad guy, when it was him who made you uncomfortable and mocked him, him who was trying to take you away from him. He did you both a favor and got rid of the pest.
You watched him tire himself out, then walked upstairs and locked yourself in your bedroom. You couldn’t fully lock Brahms out, he could get in there if he wanted to – even you weren’t aware of all his hiding places and secret doors throughout the house –, but you didn’t want to. That closed door delivered the message just fine.
Brahms watched you from the walls for a while. You stayed lying on your bed, curled into yourself with your back to him. You knew he was there, but you didn’t let him see you. Still, the occasional tremble of your shoulders made his stomach twist uncomfortably. He hated it when you cried. When it didn’t seem like you were going anywhere, he left to get rid of the body. He went to bed that night sulking, angry that he couldn’t be snuggling up to you like he usually did.
He’s been following you around all morning, always lingering just a bit too close for comfort. For his size, he looked remarkably like a kicked puppy.
You were aware of Brahms’ stubborn lack of personal space. Now it seemed to have been amplified. To be fair, you’ve never scolded him so bad before. He wasn’t letting you out of his sight, always just a step behind you. You kept bumping into him as you did your morning routine, but he didn’t move away. He seemed determined to not let you ignore him.
But you did just that.
You were still mad at him. All night you kept having nightmares about getting a knock at the door. Sometimes it was the delivery guy, coming back from the dead. He would have ugly marks around his neck, his face discoloured and angry. He would lunge at you and choke you to death, just like Brahms did to him. And sometimes it was the police arriving to take Brahms away.
So you kept up the silent treatment. You managed it as you got dressed, washed your face, did your hair, as you put on coffee in the kitchen and made breakfast. It didn’t escape your attention that the body wasn’t where you left it yesterday. You didn’t know what Brahms did with it, but you didn’t really care. You were just glad it wasn’t there anymore.
You managed to ignore Brahms until you went to wash your hands. Then your eyes accidentally flickered toward him in the mirror. He was standing right behind you, looming over you. You could practically feel his breath on your neck. But what struck you was the sadness in his eyes as he watched you. He looked lost, like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that you were upset with him. He didn’t know how to deal with it.
You couldn’t ignore him after that.
It started with small things. You asked him to help you with drying the dishes, to hold the laundry basket while you folded the clean clothes into it, to help you wash fruit you prepared for a snack for both of you. He did everything you asked without a word of complaint.
Brahms hated chores. He never had to do them, his parents and their staff took care of everything his whole life. But now here he was, peeling potatoes. He was clumsy at it, but he worked with a concentration you’ve never seen from him before.
He really was like a giant puppy. Needy, whiny, but very eager to please.
You kept stealing glances his way, your chest warming every time he perked up when you said something to him. When you suggested he helped you cook lunch, he came right away. It was still tense between you, but as the hours passed, it became less and less suffocating.
You’ve been staring into space for the last ten minutes, your hand stirring the soup in the pot in front of you on autopilot. You were lost in your thoughts, contemplating everything that happened. You have been terrified since yesterday. You were upset with Brahms for what he did. But you were also tired of fighting. Seeing him so sad, hanging onto your every little word like he was afraid you would walk out the door the next second, it broke your heart.
You let out a deep sigh.
“Brahms,” you called, and a moment later you felt his presence behind you. He was so close you could feel the heat coming off him.
“I’m sorry for yelling at you yesterday, I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. But what you did was still wrong.”
“I’m not sorry,” came a soft voice, the tone just a bit defiant.
You closed your eyes for a second before continuing. “I know you’re not sorry for hurting him. But you need to understand that you can’t do something so reckless and dangerous. It can lead to a lot of trouble. They can take you away, Brahms, and then I won’t be able to see you ever again.”
Your statement was followed by silence. It stretched on for so long, you started to worry. Before you could turn around however, two long arms looped around your middle, pulling you flush to his chest. You felt the hard surface of his mask press against you as he nuzzled into the hair on the top of your head.
“I won’t do it again,” he mumbled, and you breathed a little sigh of relief.
“Good.”
He stayed like that, cuddling you from behind until you finished cooking, his hold on you just a bit too tight and possessive.
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.’
