Following up on the âbut you literally do not have to be a good writer to write and post fan fictionâ I feel like itâs important to add that Iâd rather read something subpar than read some ai slop. I want to read something you wrote because you love it, because you enjoyed writing it, because it made you kick your feet. I donât want to read some bullshit written by a learning model that you fed a prompt to. AI has no place in writing. Zero. None. And if you use it youâre a talentless scrub.
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
Youâre boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe youâre imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. âSimonââ
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
âWhat?â
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. âYouâre bleeding.â
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. âSânot mine.â
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But youâre too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space youâve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
Theyâre clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You canât shake the feeling that theyâre different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These arenât the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. âWhat happened?â
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isnât pressed into you to the hilt - like he isnât the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didnât come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
âWhat happened was,â he pauses. âGraves opened his fuckinâ mouth.â
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
âWhatââ you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. âWhat did he say?â
Simonâs hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
âHe said heâd wondered what you sounded like when you begged.â
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you canât reconcile the sentence with the room youâre in. With Simon above you. With Gravesâs name in Simonâs mouth and blood under Simonâs jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
âHe said,â Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, âthat a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.â
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
âI-Iââ you whimper. âSiââ
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
âThat Price needs to put you in your place,â he hisses through his teeth. âThat heâd have had you on your knees by now.â
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you donât even know what youâre denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simonâs voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
âThen he looked at me,â he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, âand asked if Iâd taught you to take orders.â
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simonâs eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone elseâs blood.
Gravesâs blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
âOh God.â You force the words out. âWhat did you do?â
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. âI hit him.â
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. âHow bad?â
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
âHowââ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. âBad enough Price had to pull me off him.â
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesnât.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if heâs lost his fucking mind. Tell him he canât do that, canât put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Canât turn command into a blood sport. Canât risk his place, his rank, Priceâs trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. Heâs pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
âNo,â you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. âOh.â
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. âSimonââ
âThere she is.â
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. Itâs a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
âYou liked that.â He croons.
You shake your head, but itâs weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
âN-no.â
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
âLiar.â
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You canât find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Gravesâs blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simonâs eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
âYou should be pissed at me,â he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
âYou should be callinâ me reckless.â
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
Itâs all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
âYou should be asking what the fuck I was thinkinâ,â he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. âYou canâtââ
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simonâs eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
âI canât what?â He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
âYou canât justââ your breath catches on a thrust. âYou canât hit him because heââ
âBecause he talked about fucking you?â Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. âIf thatâs what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckinâ believe it.â
You canât.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
âToo far gone to scold me now?â
You glare at him, or try to. It doesnât land.
And it didnât stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
âIâm, mmffâserious,â you whisper.
âSo am I.â
âSimonââ
âNo.â His voice cuts low through the room. âYou donât get to say my name like that while youâre grippinâ me tighter for it.â
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
âMhm. Yeah.â His voice drops into something rougher. âFuckinâ problem, you are.â
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him heâs wrong. Tell him itâs just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But itâs useless because Simon would know itâs a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs. âNothing clever now?â
âMmff.â Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. âShut up.â
His eyes flash. âThere she is.â
âI mean it.â
âNo, you donât.â
âI do.â
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
âTry that again.â
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
âYouâreââ you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. âYouâre going to get yourself benched.â
âProbably.â
âPrice is going toââ
âAlready did.â
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. âWhat?â
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
âRead me the riot act.â
Your nerves jump at that. âAnd you came here?â
âYes.â
Something in your chest tightens. âWhy?â
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. âBecause I had to see you.â
God. You think heâs lost his mind.
âSimonââ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. âThatâs notâthis isnâtââ
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
âYou think I lost it because he insulted you?â You donât answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. âNo, sweetâeart.â
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
âI lost it because he thought about touching whatâs mine.â
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs. âThatâs what you like, yeah?â
You squirm under him, helpless. âSimonââ
âHe said your name like he had a right to it.â His voice roughens. âLike heâd survive putting his hands on you.â The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. âI had to let him know what mine felt like first.â
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. âLook at me.â
You do.
âAnother man touches you like this,â he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, âand Iâll break every finger he owns.â
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
âAnd if he talks about you like that again?â
You barely manage the whisper. âWhat?â
Simon presses his forehead to yours. âI wonât stop at his face.â
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Gravesâs blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
âLeave it.â
Your breath trembles. âWhy?â
His eyes darken. âBecause I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.â
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you donât belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that heâs going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. âThatâs what I thought.â
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
Youâre Simonâs for as long as youâre both breathing.
CW: filthy smut, PWP, piss, omorashi/bladder control, soft dom Simon, he gets a bit mean lmao but in a cute way. brief CNC/dubcon-ish. freaks in love!!! they're so in love!!!
CoD Masterlist | Main Masterlist
It is not unusual to wake up to Simon kissing your neck.
His hot breath fanning your shoulder is often the first sensation your body picks up as it awakes. The second one is his hand on your hip, then his leg sneaking in between yours under the bedsheets. From here, you can be either scooped up inside his arms and brought over to keep sleeping atop his chest, or you can be fucked stupid as a reward for surviving the week.
Itâs usually the latter. Many a time on a Sunday, when the neighbourhood is still quiet, and the birds have only just started chirping.
This morning, at the crack of dawn, you recognise the ritual.
His mouth starts from the curve of your shoulder, landing parched from his slumber and soft from tenderness. The heat of his breathing follows, puffing gently over the wet spots left by his tongue as he rises. Tastes your heartbeat from your jugular, sniffs the smell of sleep still clinging to your skin. Then, a hardness presses to your back, slowly gliding against your nightgown as it rides up, up, up.
And you smile, because it's always so very nice to wake up to him already thinking about you. The concept of being wanted so completely that it wakes him from his slumber, of being loved so entirely that you're the first thought that hungers him in the morning.
You whisper a breathy good morning as you toss your head back, extending your neck so he has more room to work with. Though he's already doting on the curve of your shoulder again, the wings of your back, the space between your shoulder blades.Â
Sneaky fingers slide down the straps of your garment. The callouses on his palm are coarse against your skin, and even though this has been almost routine for the past couple of years, he still has the clamminess of his palms to show the nervousness of touching someone so fragile compared to him.
But he knows you don't want to be seen as breakable, because you aren't. It's why he flattens his hand against your lower back and steers you forward, until you're lying on your stomach. You're still processing the first sensations of the morning, blinking your eyes open as your cheek meets the pillow.
"Fuck,â he croaks with awe on his tongue, watching you from above. âJust a second, yeah?"
Licks his lips when you curve your back and offer him your ass almost in second nature.
His knees dip into the mattress beside your legs and squeeze your thighs together, digging in on each of your flanks. He'd prep you, normally, but this time he doesn't. Your only hint is the breeze brushing the hot skin of your lower back as he lifts the satin of your nightgown and lets it pool in the dip of your spine.
Then, the thick head of his cock pushes against you. You snap your eyes open.
"Fuck Simon, waitâ"
"Just a second, love."
It burns. It's like a whip snaps against your spine, and you take in a mouthful of air when the first inch of him enters.Â
"Oh my God, holy shitâfuckâ"
Pins and needles that wrap around your belly, digging in like a belt of thorns. Hands fisting the sheets, toes curling on the duvet crumpled at the foot of the bed. The pain is so sudden that it shocks you into utter stiffness, with your legs screaming in protest as theyâre scrambling to get away.
You donât really want to.Â
Though the position doesnât allow much movement, you still try to take a peek above your shoulder. Your vision is filled by him. The breadth of his shoulders is dark, but his profile is hemmed with sunlightâa cottoned halo all around him, a gift from the window behind his back. His thumbs are fitting in the tiny divots at the base of your spine, big hands holding you steady by your hips. Though it's his face that makes your mouth water.
Simon's eyes are glassy, focused on the stretch of your pussy as it widens to welcome his girth. Scarlet cheeks and silver scars that run across his jaw, where his stubble doesn't grow. And the brutality of the violence he once bore is softened by the simplicity of a quiet, domestic lifeâthe folds of the pillowcase still embedded in his skin, the puffiness of sleep cottoning his eyes, the ruddy blush of lust and love mantling his face.
He slides down his hands and parts your ass as well, digging his thumbs in the plump of your cheeks. He kisses his teeth when he sees your puckered hole clenchâhisses when it translates to further tightness around his cock.Â
There's a twitch in his cheek. The pull of an invisible hook at the corner of his lips that relaxes once he slides another inch in. He releases the clench of his jaw, mouth hanging open once he's all snug inside you.
Though the bliss he feels couldn't be more different from the searing pain ripping you in half. The whine on the tip of your tongue is swallowed and truncated, turned into a breathless gasp yielded in the soft pillow tucked under your chin.
"S-slower," you whimper.
"Aye," he croaks. "Slow an' easy. Promise."
And he delivers.
In fact, it takes him a moment more than usual to fully sheath himself inside you. Your knuckles click with how furiously you're gripping the bedsheetsâa way to find release as the pressure of being filled so entirely strangles you all the way to your windpipe.
You babble something with your lips, trying to form sentences you don't know how to utter. Eyes rolled back, unfocused and wet at the rim.
"Ah fuck yer tight, loveâ" he grunts. "Need help ta open up, don't ya?"
You nod vigorously against the pillow, because words aren't exactly your forte right now. Nor are thoughts, to be frank, because all you can feel is the burn on the lower half of your body and the contrasting pleasure that stems from it.
"Poor thing," he taunts. "Ruined ya already, mh?"
Somehow, you manage to summon enough strength to blindly swat your hand where his thigh should be. That bit of defiance still left in you that you know he appreciates, though you're aware he's just about to fuck it out of you.
You hit something hard and hairy with your palm and decide that it landed correctly. It must have, because you hear him chortle, deep and ragged.Â
"Now don't get all fussy on me."
He hums. Collects spit in his mouth and lets it fall in a string until it lands around the base of his cock, where youâre painfully stretched around it. His hand smears it along the skin there, around your hole and down to your clit, lightly tracing the slit of your pussy. And you're burning so hot that his spit feels like being rubbed with freezing water. It's oddly refreshing, and it helps your muscles relax.
Simon must feel it, because his chest purrs with an appraising hum.
"Better?" He asks, as his hand surreptitiously slips around your waist.Â
Your cheek is smushed to the pillow, linen soaking up tears and drool. "Yeah."
The thick scars on his forearm tickle your side and then your stomach, preceding the blooming pleasure that stems from his fingertips when he skims them over your clit.
"Better?" He murmurs again, though now his breath feels closer, puffing warmly on the skin of your shoulder.
Your body melts on the bedsheets, knots unravelling under the touch of his hand and the heat of his chest. He hovers above you, just a breath away from your back.
Your voice is nothing but a murmur, âYes.â
"Thaâs right. My girl. Goodâ" He rumbles, though whatever he was about to add afterwards dies on his tongue when he pulls back, and then slides inside you again.Â
Your eyes roll back.Â
"Fuckâfuckin' hell. Good girl. Like tha'â"
The searing belt wrapped around your stomach unwinds, slowly giving in and finallyâfinallyâallowing you to breathe just right once again. You blink the tears collecting in the corners of your eyes, lick your lips and feel how parched they really are.
Your body comes back to you, awakened and aware, not wrapped in thorns and needles anymore. There's the rawness of his touch, long fingers gliding smoothly on your clit. The bristle of his chest, all hair and scars, though still soft above his heart, on his stomach, as it perfectly clicks into place in the curve of your spine.
"Could do this all day. Feel like fuckinâ heaven, you doâ" His throat works. "âC'mere."
He watches your fists relax, your jaw unclench. He sees your grimace when cold air brushes your clit as he leaves it unattended. And only then does he unleash his hunger, picking up the pace with his hips. Grabs your jaw and bends you backwards until his mouth hovers above yours and clashes against it.
The strain in your spine is forgotten with the same rapidity with which it came. The headboard bangs mercilessly against the wall, accompanying his grunts and your moans. The creak of the springs, the rustle of sheets as you clutch them againâfingers curled around the pillow. Not out of pain anymore; the opposite, at last.
Though unfortunately, there's another pressure building around his cock, as he pistons inside you. One that you hadn't noticed at all, too focused on accommodating your body to the size of him.
You gasp. "Simonâ"Â
But he kisses you again, harder this time. Sloppy tongue and spit smearing down your chin.Â
âOh fuckâSimon, babyââ
âThereââ He grunts. âSay my name like thaâ again anâ Iâll cum too fuckinâ soon.â
As much as youâd love to hear his dark voice crumble into moans, there are more pressing matters to attend.
"F-fuck, I needâ" Your hands try to reach backwards for his shoulders, but you lose your balance and fall forward, face-first into the pillow.Â
"Shitâ" You hiss, propping yourself on shaky elbows. "I need to pee!"
"Can feel itâ" He states. "Yer gettin' tight again."
"Let meâ"
"Keep it in." He growls, quickening his pace. Your head bobs uselessly for each merciless hit. "Fuckin' keep it in, don't spill a dropâ"
"Donât know if I canâ"
His hand finds the curve of your neck, fingers exercising pressure just there on the sides, putting sweet, dark spots in your vision.Â
"Don't spill a fuckin' drop until I say so."
There's nothing you can do against his command. Your stomach coils as soon as he barks it in your ear, responding to the order before your brain has absorbed it entirely. Each thrust of his translates into tiny shockwaves that run from your belly to the tips of your toesâand Simon isn't gentle with it either.
In fact, as he rams inside you with a pace able to knock the air out of your lungs, you can merely nod your head. Your chin knocks against his palm.
"Don't like it when yer quiet," he chastises. "Say it."
Perhaps understanding the clog he's causing in your windpipe, Simon unravels the hold around your neckâgently so. Loosens his fingers first, supporting your throat with his palm before sliding upwards, where he ends up cradling your jaw. The release is a blessing and a curse.
The mere air filling your lungs is a pleasure in and of itself, and it causes your muscles to unwind. Luckily, you manage to catch yourself and clench your entire body again, though with the added fury of Simon's hips, it's hard to keep the promise he wants you to make.
But you swear it anyway.
"Yes," you croak. "Yes, yesâokay."
Pleased by your answer, Simon rewards you. Slams his pelvis flush to your ass, sheathing himself fully inside you. Nestled deep in the tightness of your stomach, you feel every inch of him as his hips start moving with a slow roll.Â
Similarly, your eyes find the back of your head.Â
"Oh my Godâ"
The bastard dares to chuckle. "Oh, ye like it, uh?"
You refuse to let him know that you do. Teeth sink into your cheek until iron stings down your throat. And it works, for the most part. There's an annoying tingle in your eyes that wishes to be soothed, though you know that if you dare to blink, he'll see the tears he's causing. The bliss they'd paint down your cheek.
But Simon always has an ace up his sleeve.
The hand that once held your throat now snakes forwards again, nestles in the softness of your stomach. Your eyes widen.
"Bit quiet t'day, are ya?" He smirks. "You in a mood, or what?"
"Stop being a cunt, Simonâ"
"Ahâ" He interjects. "Manners, love."
And then, the heel of his palm presses down, just above your pussy. Your body seizes in reply, struggling to maintain the promise you made. It gets even worse, then, when he skims his fingers over your clit again, pairing it with the languid roll of his hips.
Hurriedly, you reach down with your hands to stop him, but Simon's quicker. His whole body falls on top of you, leaving you pressed between his bulk and the mattress.
"Shitâ"
"Keep it in, aye?" He rumbles in your ear, assertive but oddly not unkind. Encouraging, even. "Know you can do it, pet."
The feeling is overwhelming and beautiful.Â
You feel like you can't breathe, but you don't really want to. Purposefully, you keep it inâhold your breath for a moment longer than needed, until you're filled everywhere. Of him: inside you, on top of you. His hand sandwiched underneath, his chest like an anvil. Breath ripe of morning, of breakfasts waiting to be had. Tickles down your spine, ripples from his tongue against your pulse point.
Pressure builds and builds, strains your body as it ripens, swells, sweetens. A peach hanging low from a branch, ready to be picked. You know he's ready to bite, because you're ready to be consumed.Â
And all you can do is heave and gasp. Reach behind you to find his hair and pull, scrape his scalp with your fingers as he works with his own to make you feel good, better, wonderful.
"Fuck, look at youâ" He murmurs against the shell of your ear. "Gonna cum on me, pet?"
The tautness of your belly won't hold for much longer, not if he keeps touching you this way.Â
"Won'tâ" You gasp. "Won't last longâplease."
His kiss should be teasing; instead, it's an apologetic one. Left on your temple, where the sweat makes your hair stick and swirl against your skin.Â
"Just a second, love."
But you don't have it. You don't have one second. You don't have a moment, a breath, the time for a thought. You can feel yourself grow tight and stiff, fighting against the invisible ticking clock inside your stomach.
"Please, Simonâ" You squirm. Your body does, your mind too foggy to concoct the movement itself. "Please. Please, baby."
"One second," he murmurs sweetly, greedily lapping down your neck.
"Oneâ"Â
Thrust.
"Moreâ"Â
Thrust.
"Second."
Hazily, you think it's mere stubbornness that forces you to keep your promise. You're not ready to admit that he's trained you to respond to him the way he likes. Taught your body to act a certain way when he's speaking. Taught it to bring you to bliss and then him, and nothing elseânot when you're under the sheets.
Indoctrinated every single cell inside you, simply, to obey.
But he's merciful. Perhaps hears the clock inside your body ticking menacingly, threatening to misbehave.
Or maybe he's attuned with you. Understands. Feels how you're begging not only with your lips but with your touch, the way your breath comes, the heat of your own skin.
His fingers tune with the roll of his hips, then. Draw slow circles that glide on smoothly, sticky and wet and steady.
He kisses the curve of your shoulder, then the hinge of your jaw.
"Now," he says.
Frankly, you don't know if you're coming.Â
The current perception you have of yourself is hazyâyour whole being reduced to a single entity, compressed between his body and the bed, touched in every single place that you call your own, and that is undeniably also his.
You only know that the release is wonderful.Â
It's blinding white and liquor thick. It spreads throughout your whole body in waves of shivers and gooseflesh. It shatters you into fragments, spread evenly underneath his weight. Escaping from your mouth in a groan that is nowhere near humanâa guttural thing, feral and beastly. Freeing and beautiful.
You're only vaguely aware of the mess you're making as the hot stream he's pushed out of you splashes down your thighs and onto the bed, where its sound transforms into something muted and dull.Â
"Oh fuck," you heave. "Oh God, oh God, shitâ"
"Ah fuck, just like tha'," he says, contrastingly calm as he keeps fucking you, hastily picking up the pace. "Fuckin' hell yer wet. Keep going."
You do. You keep going, unashamed and loud, riding his cock even in this uncomfortable position. Pushing back with your ass to have more, more, more. Greedy and insatiable. Trying to go over the edge and up on the cloudsâfucking scour the sky and all of which is above, knowing he can give it. Grab it and hand it to you.Â
You come once, then. Groaning into the pillow and pulling at his hair. Twice. Thrice. You donât know. You donât think you can keep count. You donât think at all.Â
Until there isn't a drop left inside you. No more sheets to clutch, no more linen to soakânot on the pillow, not underneath you. You twitch each time he moves, turning mellow and pliable as he ruts a few more times before pulling out.
Freezing air sinks its talons down your back, where his chest was welded before he moved away. You shiver but donât complain. Canât.
Simon comes with a muted groan, clipped to match the rapid strokes of his hand. It trickles down the swell of your ass and pools at your tailbone. Then, his softening cock lands sticky and hot against your skin. Perhaps to feed that primordial beast inside him, he pushes it with his thumb between the globes of your ass. Watches it slide up and down, lubed up with his own cum.
He hisses at the overstimulation but keeps that languid pace. âFuckinâ hell yer perfect.â
You're too spent to move, only opening your eyes when you feel the mattress groan under Simon's weight as he shifts around. Though your consciousness is coming back to you, and your senses are suddenly flooded by the reality that surrounds you.
The smell of sex, of him and you. Of sweet kisses down your shoulder, of cloying lust and pungent orgasms. The wetness down your thighs, cold sheets sticking to your skin as it burns in the afterglow. The ringing in your ears, loud at first, then softening into a dull and distant sound.
While he's moved slightly, Simon still hovers above you, keeping your legs trapped between his massive thighs. His mouth tickles down the line of your shoulder. Calloused hands gently scratch down your arms.
âYou always have to take it up a notch.â
You can feel Simonâs smile by the smoothness of his teeth brushing your skin. âThat a complaint?â
You avoid that question.Â
"I wanted to sleep in," you mumble dumbly with your cheek buried in the pillow. "S'Sunday. I deserved it."
His mouth travels upwards, finding your neck, then your cheek. "Can still do it."
You frown. âYou know very well that I canât.â
He shrugs. âSmell ainât thaâ bad.â
You only offer a withering sidelong glance.
His kisses crack into a broken chuckle. "Right. Noted."
You close your eyes and laugh with him. "I mean, this was nice and allâ"
"Nice," he scoffs. âT'was nice."
"Lovely way to wake upâ"
"Alrighâ, pack it in.â
"âBut we could've pushed it back a little. Like in the afternoon."
"Should I book an appointment," he deadpans.
"Yeah," you yawn. "Call my PA."
This time, his laughter comes from somewhere deeper. You feel it rumble in his chest first, then brush your cheek, exploding from his kiss.
âYeah?â He huffs. âYou got a free spot?â
âAround four PM.â
"Right. Wetting the bed at four PM, then."
You weakly slap his arm. "I hate you."
"Mhmh," Simon hums, finally finding your lips.Â
He kisses you sweetly, like those times at the very beginning in which you were too shy to open up entirelyâphysically, emotionally, all of it. A slow dance that is fleeting, just a brush of lips that pretend they don't know each other very well.
When he pulls back, you absently follow him to have more, though he's too far to be reached. You blink your eyes open, turning your head uncomfortably to look above your shoulder.
Simon looks down at you with hooded eyes and curved lips. Just a sweet, tiny dent there in the corner. He reaches down with his knuckles to brush your forehead.
"How 'bout a shower," he offers. "I'll change the sheets."
You lean against his hand. Squirm to turn around, finally feeling cold air brush your chest when your back hits the damp mattress. Your eyes focus on him exclusively, trying to set aside the pungent smell and the discomfort of the sheets.Â
Itâs Sunday. Itâs criminally early. The birds chirp behind the window, left ajar to let the summer breeze in. Even though the sun is only a shy shaft at the horizon, it still fights against the blinds to make Simon glow. The golden halo travelling along his shape, the lovely pink hue of his cheeks, and the blush of love on his face. On his body. All over him, inside him.
"Yeah, okay. In a second, though," you whisper, reaching up to touch his cheek.
Theo, I really didn't have the words. I probably still don't. This is just gonna be me yapping and praying I get my point across.... yeah.
But this fic has cured something in me? You write smut in a compelling way. Just perks my clit right up (joking but not really) But the way you write intimacy? Holy shit. There really isn't a word for it. I love just how in love Simon is with the reader, same with the reader. Cause I love Simon, but I love your Simon. The way you write him. There just something about how obsessed he is with the reader that it makes me feel good about myself, the same way I feel good about myself when someone real loves me. How is that even possible? How do you write a fictional character so real that I feel real appreciation?
It sounds conceded and maybe a little delusion, but I always look forward to reading your writing because I know if I read Simon x reader, I can picture myself and feel love. Typically I never picture myself as the reader, but hell, when it's your writing I like to! But enough of that.
I also loved the reality of it. The hurt when Simon tries to fuck without lube, or spit. Cause yeah, I don't just wake up wet? And for a long time I never knew that was normal. So when you incorporate that into your writing, the realities of sex and the need for extra help, whether it's spit or lube, I like it.
Ugh, and the banter between them. Chef Kiss! Michelin star, honest. The banter during sex is cute, but the banter after is so much sweeter. Just love love love it. Thank you always for including it. It always brings a laugh out of me.
and hello? I love piss. thank u for da pith (I could also rant about that)
thinking about laying in bed with simon and its just so fucking hot due to all that heatstroke and he doesnt want cuddles because hes feeling as if hes burning alive ;// but he cant say no to his girl now can he
how do couple peoples cope with the heat yall
you can fall asleep with your head on his chest if you oh, so wish, just be aware that you'll wake up sticky and musty and you'll want to move away. unfortunately he's now attuned to your body temperature and feels bloody nice, yes? he's not letting go. good luck surviving those sweaty armpits my friend
He didn't steal 10 million dollars. They made that number up as a loss, they never fucking had it. Rockstar has spent more than a billion fucking dollars on GTA VI and will likely make billions more when it gets released.
Uber is a fucking shell game of a company designed to leech investor capital and output bootleg cabs.
Nvidia posted a profit in 2023 of $4.37 billion. This is like someone stealing less than a penny from me.
And they lock this kid in a prison hospital for LIFE?
What with GTA VI going up for pre-order i'd just like to remind everyone that rockstar conspired with the UK government to lock an 18-year-old away for life for hacking them.
