kittie @xoxokitie - Tumblr Blog

Apr 29, 2025

a soft place to land

tags: MDNI, 18+ content, explicit sexual content, exhusband!si x afab!reader, dirty talk, possessive behavior, unprotected piv, unreliable narrator, light fluff wc: 5k

Simon doesn’t make the same mistake twice. Especially not with you.

When you told him to stop walking inside with his dirtied boots, he didn’t even step foot on the porch with them on after that. Knocked them against the wall of the shed until the rubber soles emptied crumbs of grime and dried mud onto the grass. Rinsed them off with the hose then left them in the garage to dry.

One time is all it takes, on the rare occasion that he needs to be told anyway.

In tears, you asked him to double check the color sorted laundry after one of your white shirts was stained blue from his jeans. It never happened again.

When bedsheets filled your palms, and your lips sang, “Please don’t stop, pleasepleaseplease—”, he listened.

Yielding. Obedient. Pliancy answered everything you’ve ever asked for.

So when you told him to never talk to you again, he didn’t.

And Simon does good on his promises – usually, anyway. When it counts. Matters.

Papers with a big, bolded ‘Divorce/Dissolution of Marriage Petition’ plainly labeled at the top were signed when thrusted into his face. Zero complaints. He didn’t fight you on it. He didn’t mention the damp dots scattered across the sheet or the redness in your eyes. He didn’t say anything at all during those six and a half months, cordially attending the required legal meetings with you, even paying all of the remaining fees.

In retrospect, maybe he should have said something. If not when you gave him the form in the first place or long before any of that, he should have done it some time during the entire week you spent packing your things because you insisted that he keep the house for himself.

Even when you stood in front of your car, waiting for any last words he had before you drove off, all he offered was a bland farewell. He doesn’t blame you for the curses that left your mouth as you slammed your car door and left without a second glance, leaving your ring with him.

At first, he assumed time would dust over it all like normal, fill the scars in with collagen, and make it easier for him to wake up in a bed that just felt too big now. Maybe it’d drown out in the amplitude of time.

It’s not an active effort Simon makes to forget it, but he’s also not fond of the way he keeps looking at closed doors, expecting you on the other side.

He’s been staring at you since you’ve gotten here.

Three hours have passed, and his eyes are still trained on you.

It’s been a long seven years.

Time has treated you like royalty, and he almost hates that it has. You don’t seem to be looking for him at all, despite returning to the same neighborhood you left him in. He studies you from afar, leg bouncing on his chair. You won’t see him embedded in the fringes of the yard, covered by people shuffling around in aromas of marinated meat and vegetables.

Nice view anyway. Chiffon flows down your chest to your calves, summer air whispering through the silk, and Simon drinks up the sight like an oaky bourbon. Years unburdened by him, and you’re prettier than ever. Happier too, looks like.

Something peels apart in his ribcage.

Tender, pulpy, mush like a rotting peach when he sees you move around, interacting with his world again.

Smiling at friends with those lips (he wonders if they still taste like pink grapefruit) and hugging them with warm arms (will they flare out and open wide for him too?). Crystallized sugar sparkling in your eyes. He hears them coo your name – their voices and faces surprised, elated, hugs wrapping around you tight. Confirming you’re real and just a few yards away.

The itch swirls around until it grows out of its cage again. Swells up with pus and singes until it’s deformed—waiting, waiting, waiting, screaming to be unfettered.

Shame, because he’d been doing a pristine job at keeping it locked. Stuffed it away into the corners. Kept it hiding in the backs of his knees. Behind his ears. Between his fingers. All of it comes melting into the open the longer he stares – a mangled escape he allows himself from penance.

He watches how care-free you are, as if all your doubts and troubles have been solved. He doesn’t look away when your eyes wander through the brushes of people and do land on him. Your voice thins out with whoever you’re talking to and you’re quick to excuse yourself. Simon watches you skitter away to the side of the house where the light blackens out.

It’s the hottest he’s felt since summer started.

“Didn’t know you’d be back ‘ere.”

Your body jumps when the familiar timbre swallows your ear, and you do your best to ignore the vertigo filling your world, adjusting your purse that shook off your shoulders at his arrival. Begrudgingly, you turn to face him, sweaty palms awkwardly clasping together.

“Si-Simon!” You gulp, managing a polite smile. “Hi.”

“Hey, love.” He half-expected a bitter response, something cold-shouldered that specially lacked any clemency for him, but his heart is pleasantly throbbing at the radiant smile you offer him.

An olive branch. He uproots the tree and keeps it in his pocket.

Something else throbs when he sees your dress up close. The dress you’re trying to tug at now, covering yourself up. It doesn’t do anything to stop him from staring.

“You look well.” he says.

“Thank you. Um, you too.”

A sundew curls over you. Uncomfortable, you clear your throat, dragging his gaze back north.

He smiles. “You visitin’ someone? Or…”

“—friends. Yeah. I’m just visiting for tonight. I was just about to leave.”

A gruff hum.

Your molars clamp over the meat of your cheek. You spoke too much, gave him too much information. It’s written on your face, in your features; you regret coming here. Visiting your old friend and attending the barbecue for her son’s birthday party. You had to have known he still lived in the same neighborhood, that he was still mates with your friend’s husband.

It only makes sense that you wanted to see him too. For him to see you.

“Ah, m’sure you’re a busy bird.” he comments. “Likin’ the city then, eh? You find anyone worth your time there?”

“...Sorry?”

Should be, he wants to say. But it’s alright. Mistakes happen. Everyone makes them. He’s taught more correctional exercises than he’s received, and he won’t mind passing those lessons over to you.

“Jus’ want to know if anyone’s been keepin’ you busy.”

The humid breeze in the air does little to cool the heat flowing into your face.

“Busy, as in…” you trail off, mind working to find the purpose of his words. You avoid the gleaming center of it.

“Y’know what I mean, pet.”

No small amount of disgust enters your eyes, and he doesn’t hide the flash of amusement his own gaze responds with. Each step you’re taking back is just another step he takes closer. There are no witnesses to the broadness of his indecency, not with the two of you stashed into the darkened part of the yard.

“I’m not sure it’s any of your business.” you clip out. “I’m happy now, genuinely. I didn’t come here to reconci-”

Your back bumps against the wall. The space around you is instantly crowded by his mass. You feel the air surrounding your body being inhaled by him, but you’re too distracted by his musk to notice that. Oud and bergamot rip through your body when he comes close, but he doesn’t touch you. It’s too hot—too volatile to breathe, to fight back.

His voice is lower now, eyes raking over you once more. “‘Course it’s my business. Should be knowin’ if some other bloke is fuckin’ my wife.”

There’s enough room for you to slip out. You don’t, nor do you correct him about not being his wife anymore. He doesn’t wonder why. He already knows why. Salivates at the troubled look in your avoidant eyes.

For a long time, he’d been waiting for this – a shift of the universe to let gravity pull you back to where you belong. Time has baked the waiting dry out of him, and he can’t find a reason to keep the desire at bay anymore.

“Goin’ to answer?” He ducks his head, forcing you to meet his eyes. “C’mon, can’t blame a man for wantin’ to know ‘ow ‘is girl’s gettin’ on without ‘im.”

You want to slap him.

You want to claw at his face and tell him to leave you alone.

No matter how traitorously warm you become between your thighs from his words and how hard he tries to crawl back into your lap, you won’t harbor that same love for him ever again. Never again.

“If you don’t get away from me, I’ll scream.”

The words hurriedly claw out of your mouth and you regret them instantly. It’s scarce on his face, but you can feel the excitement shooting up and simmering beneath his skin. You shrink into the wall. He breathily laughs at the pathetic lie.

“You wanna scream?” he rumbles, “Got a bed you can scream jus’ fine in, love. You should know.”

“I’m not… I’m not interested. I have a new husband now.”

“Another lie, pet.” he tuts with a faint smirk, shaking his head at you like you’re just some petulant child. “I ain’t dumb. Tellin’ me tha’ if I check your cunt righ’ now, it’ll be bone-dry?”

His hand dips and you smack it away before it can get too low.

“Don’t fucking touch me—”

“So you’re wet.”

“No, I’m not anything!” you hiss at him, finally gaining the strength to push him off. He doesn’t budge, grabbing your trembly wrists in one hand before you can pull away and holding your hands against your abdomen, his body indifferent to your squirming.

Still crude and blunt.

The fronts of your bodies are pressing on each other now, the feel making your cheeks burn. Several little breaths escape you as you try to push in vain. Rendered flightless, you droop.

“Then feel it for me.”

“Wh-what, feel what?” You’re confused, the whimper in your voice quelling the firmness of his grip by a fraction.

“Either you slip your fingers into your cunt and show me tha’ you’re not wet right now, or I can do it at ‘ome.” He gently pushes your hands towards your hips. “Go on. I’ll even lift your dress for ya. Or I can jus’ go ahead an’ fuck you ‘ere. Let everyone hear ‘ow much you missed me, yeah? Doubt you’d be—”

“No! No, okay, okay, please, okay!” you softly cry, your voice so hushed and warm. “Let’s go, okay. Please.”

Light resumes in his eyes and he lets go of you.

He knows you aren’t stupid. You could run off, you could’ve done that minutes ago. You should’ve yelled the moment he started getting too chatty with you, but you didn’t. You don’t want anyone to see how shameful you look when you’re getting breathless, pressing into his contact. He doesn’t want anyone else to see it either. It’s for him. All of it. Always has been. Eternity knows it, but you seem to have forgotten.

Even when you’re tucked in his arm and back in his place—‘our home’, he insists—you still find ways to protest.

You don’t know why you stay. You don’t know why you don’t want to run.

The door clicks shut and you shiver at the view inside.

Almost everything is the same. From the walls down to where you last left the fruit bowl on the kitchen table. Of course, the fruits have changed, fresh. Everything kept prim like he runs a restoration business. You tear your eyes away, an ache weighing in your belly when Simon palms your hip and guides you in.

The couch is the same. The carpet. The television and the stupid worn out controller you’ve told him to replace too many times.

You blink and stop walking, feeling tears, wondering if it’s too late to get away.

“I… I slept with someone after you.” you try, breath catching when he turns you to him. “People, actually. Mul-multiple.”

He scoffs at you, “Multiple what, multiple of your fingers an’ silicone pricks?”

All your next words are shushed away, but you’re still clinging to the weak vestiges of the fight you have left in you. Your chest rises and falls deeply when he kisses the top of your head and rubs your sides down. He scowls as you tip your face away from him.

“Alright. I’ll play along.” he murmurs, cupping your face and turning you toward him. He’s not amused by the endless string of lies, you can tell. But he doesn’t look crestfallen – not at the slightest. “You slept with a bloke. Fuck, multiple of ‘em. Le’s say, ten. Twelve. Tried to fuck the thought o’ me out your ‘ead. Did’ya like it? Did it work? They take good care o’ my girl for me?”

You begin to whisper, shaky. “I loved it, they—”

The words are lost from your mouth when his lips seal over yours. You cry into his mouth. The lies untangle and melt on your tongue when he kisses you rough and long.

He grumbles and nips at your chin. “Even if y’did, bet you’d ‘ave t’fake it with ‘em all the time. Bite your lip to keep from crying out my name instead of theirs when you came.”

A flustered hand smacks his arm. He laughs back into your mouth and apologizes by squeezing your ass.

The promised bed doesn’t come; he can barely get you to the living room couch when he starts stroking his hand down your torso to yank your dress up. It’s you who drags him down to the couch, getting him to lower himself onto you. The springs in the couch squeak—a sound that takes you back to those numerous, weary nights.

Simon grunts when his kiss is reciprocated with a fervor. This is what should have happened years ago. This is what he should have had. Kept. Time doesn’t matter anymore. He has it now. He’s the one you’re back under – that’s all he really cares about. His mouth sucks and presses around the shape of yours before smothering them down to your neck, hand deftly sliding out of your dress to tug at your straps.

Same fucking lotion. Perfume. Shampoo. Feel. Noises. Everything. His heartbeat is tachy, licking and greedily suckling at your skin to taste you.

Dulcine on his tongue, mouth dripping with drool over you. A pang darts through the inside of his mouth from how hard he’s been sucking at your skin, licking spots dry before kissing them. Four, five, six kisses down, and you feel him making whorls on the swell of your breast with his tongue. Your body arches into his and he pins you back down with his hips.

You groan. “Simon,”

“Cryin’ for it now?” he quips, low-lidded when he gazes up at you from your collar. His hand doesn’t go near your hips, and you burn with such impatience that it’s absurd. Whines of desperation leak from you. Your hips buck, trying their best to gain some relief.

When he notices the soft grinding on his thigh, he chuckles.

“Christ, baby, what’ve you been livin’ off of these past seven years?”

“Don’t ask me that.”

“Did’ya a’ least touch yourself while thinkin’ ‘bout me?” He kisses back up to your face, an uncharacteristic cockiness about him. “Can picture it already, pet. You lyin’ awake at night all alone in your bed, touchin’ yourself, wishing it was my cock splittin’ you open instead of your fingers."

“Don’t…” You look away, wanting to kick him off. “Don’t say that.”

A raspy chuckle melts into the warmth in your skin, lips pressing your closing eyelid. “Still keepin’ that up? What am I allowed t’say then?”

When you open your eyes, you’re looking at him fonder than you should. Sniffly with snot and a teary voice.

“Tell me you missed me.”

His hands are everywhere as soon as you say that with a sadness glossed over your eyes, thick and sinewy thigh lodging up between yours until there’s no more space between you, giving you the contact you need. Simon feels everything – your tremulous hips pressing harder with each roll, huffs of humiliated and wanting breaths exploding on his skin, hands pulling at the shoulders of his shirt.

Coddling fingers rub over his muscles, tough and taut like a cinder block. Stress radiates from him. When you’re tossed away and abandoned, it’s not something you can help. It builds up like a landfill, drags on his steps.

An approving grumble comes from him as you pet his head down on the sides and kiss him like you never left.

He hooks his arm under you and raises you just enough to pull your dress off, stripping you down to your undergarments.

“‘Course I fuckin’ missed ya.” he mutters, sliding his tongue through the seam of your lips. He kisses you and kisses you until you’re sharing one breath, a throaty moan floating from him to you. “E’ery bloody day. Bed was too cold, too empty. House too fuckin’ big. Never stopped needin’ ya. Wantin’ ya.”

“Should’ve stayed away.” he tells you, licking back down the valley of your breasts, raising your pulse to a prestissimo. He pulls his thigh away from between your legs. “You knew I’d drag you back ‘ere if I saw you again.”

You don’t have a response. Just the tight line your lips form to suppress the moan fighting its way out, that coil in your lower belly squeezing tight as he cups your left breast through your bra, his other hand working your panties down your legs. Phosphenes sprinkle around your vision from squeezing your eyes shut too hard. His fingers crawl under the cup of your bra to slide it off, the tips of his fingers cold, turning your skin rough with goosebumps.

A sweet surprise greets him – he rubs your hard nipple with his thumb, brushing it over and over. A shrill squeak and moan garbles your voice, body flinching. Your hands fly to his arms and you grip, gasping his name.

“Please,” you cry, mouth parting in moans. Not even you are sure what you’re begging for.

“M’gettin’ there.” He swirls his tongue around the soft areola before closing his mouth around it. You go stiff and cry out his name again. The ripened muscle in his chest skips a beat or two, its broken flesh healing over each time you cling to him tighter.

It feels sacrilege to do things so quickly after so long. If this were a perfect world and he were a perfect man, the savor would take until the next sunset. But neither are true, and Simon feels all the rotted parts about him dying off the longer you touch him.

He’s already had long enough of a wait. So have you, he gathers.

Desperation drips from you through tears and syrup between your legs. The delicate fabric is pulled down your legs—digits prodded into the gusset, brushing through the thatch of hair—and he feels the wet, sticky smear on his fingers. Slick puddled up on the gusset of your underwear. Simon does his best to not yank it off and collect it with his tongue.

“Fuck, look a’ you.” he rasps, pulling the panties entirely off your ankles. Hot and gushing already. He slides a thick middle and ring finger into you with ease. Any semblance of logic in your head goes down the drains as his fingers stroke inside you, rubbing around and caressing your soft walls. "Never stopped thinkin’ ‘bout this little pussy. Wanked myself raw rememberin’ ‘ow fuckin’ perfect you feel squeezin’ around my cock."

Again, a lush whine from you. Then some half-hearted grimace as you take in his words. “You’re disgusting.”

“Felt ya squeeze up on me when I said tha’.”

His hand sprawls over the back of your thigh and he pushes up. Apart. Opening you up to his sight with your calves scraping on the sides of his arms, he sees the slick glisten as it leaks down into your ass. His cock aches and grows rigid. With a rhythmic pumping and curl of his fingers, you mewl and bend in half.

Something degrading and teasing almost falls from his tongue, interrupted by your searching hands on his pants. Picking at his belt loops and muttering half-coherent sentences.

“What, pup,” he hums, perching your leg onto his shoulder, pressing a kiss on the skin above your ankle. “I know, I know, I’ll be quick.”

The heel of his hand crawls behind you and plants into the slope of your spine, drawing you closer as his fingers slip from you - already slathered with a sheen of frothed white. He spreads your slickened lips apart, patting your swollen clit and rolling circles around it, eyeing the ottar that flows from you without restriction. His fingers withdraw to his mouth, quickly sucking the taste of you off of them with a hum. Sweeter than he remembers.

He’s about to forget about it all and just spend the night with his face buried between these legs, but his girl keeps pulling and tugging at the creases at his jeans and the hem of his shirt. Whining, little cat cries, desperation flooding over in pleas.

The side of your fisted hand weakly pounds on his thigh, impatient for his bareness. “Your clothes.”

Simon feels bigger than before. Heavier. Warmer. The layer of fat over his muscles has thickened. Watching him tear his shirt from over his head makes you feel far away from your body. Everything looks glazed over with oil, sounds dimmed in your ears by your thundering heartbeat. Shameless, your eyes lick down his pectorals down to the trail of hair venturing into his pants.

Drool almost spills from the side of your mouth as he plucks his belt buckle apart, unbuttons, and then unzips.

Gentle is something he doesn’t give himself, calloused hands abruptly pushing his pants and briefs down—not giving you time to enjoy the view. Your legs fall from his shoulders and you keep yourself spread, shy under his gaze, burning because you’ve never stopped asking yourself why you let him take you home.

No amount of repetition can habituate you to this.

It springs out like a jumpscare, the thickness unchanging from base to tip, the blunt head of it flushed and damp with precum. He handles it meanly, giving it a couple of dry tugs before scooting your hips closer—

“May-maybe we should go to the bedroom or something.”

“No.”

“This isn’t how I want this to go, and you don’t even ha-”

“Stallin’ now?” He frowns and bends over to kiss your cheek, prodding his cock against your pussy like it’s lost. “We’ve fucked too many times in different places for you to complain about this, pet.”

“I—ju- I’m just saying that—” Your protest crumbles into a wordless whimper as he rocks his hips into the cradle of your thighs, coating the head of his cock with your stickiness. Shamelessly rubs his shaft down then back up between your messy folds, tip making slippery friction with your clit. “Oh…”

His jeans are scratching the backs of your thighs – you wish he’d at least do the courtesy of taking the entire thing off, but you don’t think he’ll hear anything you say now. A keening whine shreds your throat when the first few centimeters probe in, the loud noise kept inside your mouth behind pursed lips.

“Let it out, love, c’mon,” he gasps into your neck. Whittles down the remaining slivers of your resistance with kisses up your neck back on your mouth. “Le’ me come home. Done this so many times before, ‘aven’t we?”

It bullies into you in shallow thrusts, the drag so strongly stinging at first, despite how wet you’ve gotten.

Finding an opening has stayed the same; Simon goes slow, sweet, soft until your arms raise and curl around his shoulders, pulling him close. When you do that again, his hips push up—

Full. The word can’t scrape the surface of the feeling of it – being stretched by familiarity, filled up until you can feel your spine tingle, so hot that you feel immolated and your only thoughts are messy prayers to the god upon you right now. You feel his balls pressing on the pillows of your ass. You feel where the head of his cock is inside you.

You feel him everywhere—you want him everywhere forever.

“Fuck…” he groans into your mouth, swallowing your sigh.

With every nail you dig into his back, every moan you give him, every tendon you use to keep him tight against you, he gives you a stronger thrust. Perfect fit, he hisses into you. He braces a forearm next to your head, fingers sliding under your head to hold you as he increases his pace. Hard, dirty, deep strokes that make your body rock back into his. Makes you babble through fleece-soft lips.

“Si-Simon, oh fuck,” Those tears are finally streaming down, lids twitching and fluttering, mouth rounding into a cute shape as he finds the spot. “Yes—yesyesyes, mmph—”

"There she is," he gruffly rasps, triumphant. "Righ’ fuckin’ there."

Your guts feel hot, innards molten and barely kept together by your skin. Simon churns his hips, cock grinding on the gooey softness within you, and a squealing moan gets him to break the kiss, giving you air. It continues, the obscene drag back and forth, through your sobs and pawing.

Hit after hit, again and again, each thrust bruises inside you. You don’t feel the ache yet – you’re sure you will in the morning. But you take it and squeeze, clamping around him. Instinct. There’s always an instinctive pull with him, no matter how long it’s been. It’s why your eyes gravitated toward him earlier tonight, why you let him corner you until you were here all over again—it’s why you came back to town in the first place.

He grunts, beaded drool on his cuspids. "Gonna cream all over this cock, love? Jus’ like old times? Gonna soak the couch at this rate, filthy fuckin’ girl."

The taunt gets your legs around his back, ankles crossed and drilling into his back. His hand snakes down to rub your puffed up clit, already covered in slick, coating his thumb. The ascent walks a thread-fine line, neither of you willing to pull off or slow down—his hips snap against yours and you take it with an upwards buck.

Most of these motions are old and trained between you – from the way he fits between your legs at all to how his hand strokes all your sharp edges into soft, rounded corners.

But when you inevitably come – arching with a tsunamic blow that sends a tart taste to your mouth, the orgasm pulling what fight you have left in you out – nothing touches your favoritism like the way he kisses you when you do. Unpracticed, sloppy-hot, undoing you for a second time. Ribbons of pearly white fill you, pushed deeper from his slowing thrusts, still thick and hard inside you. Your bodies are sticky together with sweat, lips sucking one another, tasting how much sweeter you’ve both become.

All the drool pooled up in your mouth from him is swallowed as you drowsily pull back, sighs bouncing off his lips back onto your face. Foreheads pressed against each other. You keep your eyes closed, but you can feel him looking.

“I need…” You muster all the poor pieces of strength you have left. “Need to go home…”

“Home,” he muses with a dim smile, petting your head from hairline to the knob of your spine. “We’re already ‘ome, love.”

Depletion overtakes you in gentle waves.

In the beginning of morning, you awaken to early sunlight on your back. The only thing covering you under this blanket is a too-big shirt that you assume Simon slipped on you before he tucked you into bed. You’re grateful he still has the decency to clean you up at all.

The only source of warmth near you comes from Simon’s chest against yours and his arms draped around you.

A pallid hue pales the room as you blink to take in the light, sighing tiredly. Feels like your body is tethered to the bed, each tiny movement meeting the refusal of expended muscles. It’s the worst in your hips. Between your legs, a sore ache that was too busy taking his spend all night to get a break. It’s fuzzy, but you remember a hand massaging your inner thighs as you fell asleep. Eventually, it became lips pressing over the skin.

“Awake already?”

You hear it from above your ears, the same lips kissing you on the ear.

“No.” you sleepily answer, yawning into his chest.

Sleep greets you with warm arms again.

Eventually, the sun rises to its highest point, and Simon pulls you to sit up when you wake. You’re more slouched against his chest as he leans back on the headboard, but he doesn’t fix it, enjoying that more.

Dry lips licked moist, you open them to take the sliced bits of persimmon he hand-feeds you. But you keep your eyes closed, too tired to remember when he got up to harvest it. You planted that tree together years ago. The persimmon is crisp and honeyed on your tongue. He still takes care of the tree.

You eat what he gives you and he makes you hold his hand to suck his fingers clean.

And when you open your eyes, something catches light on the base of your ring finger. A golden band. The golden band you left for him to throw away.

You glance at his hand to find a matching pair.

#im dying

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