elizabeth

Also, shoutout to @wooceanic becuase she requested, and i got inspired ;P

The first time you realized Simon was actually making love to you was after your first big fight, when you had given him the silent treatment for almost two days.

​You didn't live with him then, so you tried to ingore his texts and calls, simply choosing to rot at work until the dead of night just to keep your brain from obsessing over him.

​Oh, but how naive you were to think you could escape him, or that he could last a day without seeing you.

He still had a key to your place just in case, a fact you totally forgot about until you walked in and found him waiting on your couch like a lovesick puppy, with an order from your favorite Chinese restaurant.

​You really had him completely wrapped around your finger, you realized, smiling to yourself.

​By the time he actually started begging for forgiveness, you were too far gone to remember why you were even pissed.

​He had you down bad, too. So dumb of you to think otherwise.

​Your bodies moved in sync and with the way his hips rolled with every drive, sinking deeper with every movement he gave you, you simply forgot your own name.

​He had your legs spread wide, bent almost to your shoulders, creating that sharp, sweet tingle in your belly every time he slammed into your sweet spot. And oh god, that fucker knew exactly how to hit it perfectly.

​Every. Damn. Time.

​He did that thing where he would curve his hips up and hold there for a moment, whispering into your ear, "It's right there, huh? I found it again." His head was buried in your neck, and the pathetic, desperate whimpers he let out after he felt how wet and warm you were, filled with his cum, made you clench your pussy around him even more, turning him into an animal obsessed with dragging every last orgasm out of you.

​Then it hit you. That this time was different.

​Usually, sex with him was hard and rushed. It wasn't bad, but this? Yeah, it was something else.

​He never whimpered like that. He was taking his time, watching every twitch of your body, caressing you slowly until you fell apart again and again, and it was so fucking hot seeing him like that.

​He practically begged for your forgiveness by fucking you slow and deep into the mattress.

​"Si, look at me," you managed to gasp between moans, yanking at his messy blonde hair until his eyes met yours.

​"You feel so good, love," he whimpered while looking into your half opened, glazed eyes, his pace growing slower. His hand was on your breast, squeezing and rubbing your nipple between his fingers. "Will you forgive me, and let me cum inside again?"

"If you keep fucking me like this I might."

​His hips stilled, but his cock remained buried deep inside while he started grinding slowly, so you could feel every inch, every vein, and that delicious curve of his cock pulsing inside you. Almost as if he wanted to prove how good he was for you.

​"Please, love, forgive me." He hooked your thigh around his shoulder, fingers digging into your skin and already leaving red marks.

"Fuck, let me just fill you up, pretty girl," he groaned into your ear while gently nibbling your lobe.

​You gasped, eyes rolling back, but you could not care less because you felt so incredible. You dug your nails into his bare back, tracing lines along his muscles and scars. They moved along with him, and you smiled, feeling the goosebumps erupt on his skin.

​"God, you're going to make me cum if you don't stop, Si." You bit into his swollen from kissing lips drawing a little bit of blood, the pleasure forced its way down your body. You tugged harder seeing how he wanted to hide in your neck already, his eyes were completely lost, and it made you clench around him. Usually, you were the one who struggled with eye contact.

​"Yeah? - thrust - You're gonna cum again? - another thrust, this time he reached for your puffy clit. You felt his thumb rubbing delicate circles, not to overstimulate you - You can cum - thrust that pulled the filthiest and loudest moan out of you - as much as you need, baby. I've got you."

​"Oh god, Simon, I'm..."

​"I know. Fuck yeah, cum on my cock, sweet thing. Please, cum on me, I'm begging you." He whimpered.

Since then, everything changed. He would make love to you on every occasion, simply because being that close and intimate with you became addictive in a way. Fuck it, he just loved it. After all, he felt like your relationship was turning into something serious, so it was only fair to care for your needs in every possible way. God, he loved giving it to you. Just looking at you in the bathroom brushing your teeth wearing nothing but his shirt made his cock go rock hard, and hearing your pretty moans and sighs was a different story entirely.

​Yeah, he was obsessed with making love with you.

simon's obsession with your cunt is the filthiest secret he keeps, the one that makes his hands shake when he thinks about it in the middle of briefings.

he can't fucking help it. ever since that first time - your naked body spread out on his bed, begging for his touch - has been completely, utterly hooked. addicted. he can't get enough of the way your pussy feels clenching around his fingers, his cock. the way you taste when he buries his face between your thighs, the sweet musky smell that drives him insane. especially how you look when you're turned on, all pink and swollen and glistening for him.

it's gotten bad. really fucking bad. he'll spend hours just playing with you, watching your face as he works you up, sees the pleasure build until you're writhing and moaning his name. loves feeling your slick coating his fingers, how fucking wet you get for him. and god, when you squirt - when you soak his face and hand because he finally pushed you over the edge - that's his favorite part. that's when he feels like he's won something.

he's even started recording it. little videos of you coming apart on his fingers, your pretty pussy spasming as you cry out his name. watches them when he's away on missions, craving you like the worst kind of addiction. it's the only thing that gets him through those long, lonely nights, knowing he'll be home soon to bury his face between your legs again.

on longer ops, he's gotten even more depraved. he steals your panties before he leaves. tucks them into his pocket, pressing them to his nose when he strokes himself. loves that faint scent of you, a desperate reminder of home, of your body waiting for him.

johnny and gaz have no fucking clue. none of the task force knows that their stoic, professional lieutenant is completely pussy-whipped. they'd never believe it if they found out. but simon doesn't care. as long as he gets to keep indulging in his favorite pastime, he'll keep his shameful little secret to himself.

after all, it's not hurting anyone. 🍑

Cw/tw-- mentions of pregnancy and talk of not wanting to live (if u squint)

He left a few weeks ago. Your school announced the kids who went off to basic training, and his name rang in your ears, weighing your soul down like lead. It wasn't fair. He wasn't fair. Fuck, what did you expect anyways? That someone could truly want all of you?

Your friends pitied you. They warned you at first, but you can only lead a horse to water, unable to force it to drink. You promised them you'd change him, you'd fix whatever what was wrong with him. And for a moment in time, it seemed.. Real. Like you would've fixed him if you had a little longer—

Or maybe you wouldn't have. The irony, really, creating a hole of your own doing. You dug it deep enough that you could be buried alive, with his hands holding the shovel. But self loathing only lasted so long, until the world kept moving and you had to sink into the floor or pick yourself up anyways.

You went back to your old routine, packing for college and planning on rewriting what your future looked like. That day, when no noise was able to cover the racing thoughts in your mind, it hit you. When was your last period?

It was like this often—a late period here or there, almost a month in a half irregularties that plagued you. It usually was blamed on your diet, you've never been too kind on yourself. But this realization came with more dread than usual, a pit settling low in your stomach. There were tests hidden deep in your counters, for times like this. It wasn't your first scare, but it felt like a deafening last.

~

The test sat flipped on the counter as you finished cleaning your room, using anything to avoid going to check it. The beginning of the end was sitting on the sink, waiting to tear down any hope of a future. You always used protection, why was this happening now? Why after he was gone?

He would've ran, anyhow.

When wiping the same window several times began to tire you, you steeled yourself. You were fine, overreacting, much to the agreement of Simon if he were here. You stalked to the sink, hand shaky as you flipped it over—

And your world tilted in an ugly, rearing way, the test dropping into the sink from an unstable grip.

Positive +

You felt the walls close around you, the air thin and useless. It can't be. You have to be hallucinating, you're not pregnant, you're not.. You can't be pregnant.

But more tests agree with the first. It made you sick, nauseas, just thinking about it. This was life ending information, something you'd have to stomach alone because if your parents found out, they'd have you on the streets faster than Simon had left. Any chance at a new future crumbled around you, leaving your mind in a state of tunnel vision, only able to focus in the fact you had a life inside of you. One you didn't want to think about. One that would permanently attach you to Simon, no matter how much he wanted to get away from you.

Tears blurred your vision, and you sunk slowly to the ground. You couldn't go to.. To anyone about this. Not even your friends, God knows who they'd tell.

Ugly, hiccuping sobs left you, your soul trying to communicate to the world how unfair this was. How horrible this path you were now forced down is. But, then again, when had life ever really been meant for you?

~

After two months passed, you just.. Bore it. What else could you do? There was no.. Definite path for after the baby would be born. You couldn't keep it, God no. But, you didn't want it to end up with a life like Simon's. Both ideas haunted you into night terrors, only finding comfort in the pillow beneath you at night.

Nothing felt right anymore. You were unsure if it ever would, again. You aren't even sure if Simon would ever find out, the number you attempted to text bounced back with a message stating the number was no longer in use. Life began to take a faded hue, the illusion of care for it wasn't really the forefront for you.

You had a life nobody wanted. How can you care for that?

"Fuck, Simon." Your voice croaked, your head lifting enough to meet his eyes. He swallowed, blinking slowly at you. He didn't have the words for you, he never had the words. He didn't think you'd.. Be like this.

"I.. I just.. I thought I'd tell you. You, uh, you took it harder than I expected." He mumbled, eyes squinting softly. The words twisted your gut, as you pushed off him. You managed to shakily stand, sniffling as you wiped your nose with the back of your hand.

"Took it harder? What does that means? We've—I've been—Haven't we been-?" You gestured between the two of you, confusion slowly creeping on his face.

"... Been what?" He softly glanced at the furrow between your brows.

You felt your chest tighten, a soft burn behind your eyes, "Well, I-I just thought.. Together?"

He blinked back a little shock, and to you it felt like a blow to your heart, the beginning of a shatter. You two have hooked up but, it wasn't ever specified.

You should've asked.

"Love, I.. This isn't—wasn't anything," he paused, standing when you took a couple hesitant steps closer to the door. "You knew that, right?" His voice came out unsure, waiting for the confirmation he knew he wouldn't get. You felt the tears boil under your vision, and you hiccupped, clutching your chest. You swore those nights meant something. They had to have.

In the back of your mind, it made sense then. How it was so easy to leave, then, for him. He had no strings to you, yet you'd knotted all of yours to him. You stood taller, swallowing the spit in your mouth.

"You knew it meant something." It came out sharper than you had intended. He furrowed his brows.

"You knew it didn't," He took a step forward, his own expression.. Angry, directed at something in the confinement of his mind.

"Simon, we talked about it. About agreeing to eye contact, to being less sexual and more snuggly, I-I gave you everything Simon. It's not funny, this is a joke, you're a joke, you—"

"I didn't ask for it!" He spat out, the crack in his own composure showing. He bit his tounge, squaring off his shoulders. "I didn't ask for it. For you to be like this, I-I agreed to a stress relief."

You stared at him, a small piece of hair falling in front of your nose. He didn't ask for all of you. He wasn't.. Wasn't wrong.

There was no regret in his face as he turned back to his couch. He started to fix the blanket you had messed up, fixing the cushions as you stared a hole into his back. Who ever really wanted all of you? Not when.. Not when your body had become enough?

You did it to yourself, really.

"You're mean." You hiccupped, angrily wiping a stray tear off yout cheek.

"And your obsessive! God, really, I-I can't do anything without pissing you off. It's why I don't date, a-and why I would've never even dated you!" He left in a hurry, over explaining himself of why he just could never be more for you because he didn't want more of you.

It had been a while since someone did, anyways.

- part two

pairing: husband!simon “ghost” riley x wife!reader

summary: your husband is obsessed with getting tattoos inspired by you

masterlist!

your husband felt so fucking lucky to have a wife like you, a precious bonnie who took care of him in every aspect of his life. you always made sure he had a fresh, home-cooked meal to come home to, stirring up his favorites during his most draining days at work, greeting him with kisses at the front door, adorable, “hi, si!” leaving your mouth. tiny hands neatly folding up his laundry on sundays, the declared, “laundry day” in your household, placing them on his side of the bed so he could put the fabric away. taking the time to organize his size 13 shoes, scrubbing both pairs of his muddy work boots he rotated wearing. he absolutely adored you, would do anything for you.

the first tattoo was something small, your initials, inked in tiny cursive on his ring finger, small enough for his wedding band to conceal it. “always wan’ ya with m’, sweetheart,” his accent’s thick as he shows you the green inscribe. clutching his knuckles into your hand, you kissed the new tattoo, doe eyes peering into his gaze, “i love you so much, simon.” your husband’s heart melted at the sight, intoxicated on the feeling of you kissing his wounded flesh, kissing your marking on him.

simon knew he had to get more tattoos inspired by you, desperately searching for opportunity anywhere. then it clicked. the little notes you always wrote for him! the ones you threw into his lunchbox when you packed his midday meal for work. have a great day, si xo, or i’m so proud of my precious husband, i love you, and always taking care of me! have a surprise for you at home ;), some of the things you’d scribble. he always kept them, fingering one from his collection, bringing it to the tattoo shop. you recognized his new tattoo immediately, the man nearly ripping his shirt off to show you. he was eager to see your reaction! your fingertips traced the outline, all your attention on his sensitive skin. your husband got your lips tattooed across his v line, using one of your hundreds of lipstick kisses you left on his notes. guess all the lipsticks you went through was worth it! “needed more of m’ sweet wife,” he smirks, satisfied with your speechless face.

“gotta’ notha’ tattoo appointment, hon’, s’ later today,” your husbands starts, coming up behind you, “need ya to come with m’,” he places his hand on the small of your back. you face him, confused expression littered across your features, “why do you need me to go, si?” your head tilts. he kisses your forehead, palm sliding to grab your ass, “wan’ it to be a surprise for m’ pretty baby.”

your tiny hand was wrapped around your husband’s bicep as he led you both to the tattoo parlor, “i can’t wait to see your surprise,” you say, simon opening the door for you. “m’ hope ya like it, fawn.”

…yeahhh

anyway ghost has a cigarette settled between his chapped lips all while staring up at you. you’re riding him, although your movements are sloppy.

one massive hand sits atop your thigh, relaxed but every so often he gives it an encouraging squeeze cause “you’re doing such a good job for me, darlin’”

you’re sensitive. barely able to sit up straight as your pubic bone grinds against the patch of hair at the base of his cock. he’s buried so deep you don’t know where you end and he begins.

he has a hand resting behind his head, his biceps and the fat of his arms bulging each time he tenses. your inner walls drag along a vein that makes his eyes almost roll back into his skull.

Simon just returned home from his last mission, exhausted and battered, and all he wants is his wife. He knows you’re asleep, he knows you have been for quite a while, but he also knows you like being woken up with his cock shoved so deep in your pussy it feels like he’s in your throat.

He stands at the edge of the bed after pulling the sheets off your body, his cargos and boxers around his ankles, his heavy cock resting in his palm while he strokes himself at the sight of you. You lay on your side, your knees curled up against your chest with your cheek pressed against the soft pillows. You look so peaceful as if you are waiting for him to ruin you exactly how he wants.

You wear one of Simon’s t-shirts and it drapes across your body, swallowing your curves and leaving everything to the imagination. He doesn’t miss how your nipples peak against the fabric from the cold breeze of the ac the second the sheets fall off you. A tiny cotton thong wraps around your hips, hugging your body tight, the soft fat of your ass and lower belly peeking out around it.

He groans while rubbing his tip, collecting the precum beading there, and running it down his shaft. Within seconds his clothes are off, the material begins to feel claustrophobic the harder he becomes, and he gets on the bed as silently as possible. It dips under his weight, but he holds you steady, so you don’t stir.

“Hey baby,” he whispers, running his hands on your lower belly, his fingers worshipping the stretch marks there only for a second before he moves his hand lower to be in between your thighs.

Simon had learned over the years to keep his voice down during sex—finding it embarrassing that a hulking man like him would whine like a bitch during sex.

Foolishly, he didn't change his habit when he got with you. Believing the quiet grunts he would allow to be enough for you. Like the other women he'd been with.

God, it was pissing you off.

He didn't account for the fact you'd lost most of your hearing. You never wore your hearing aids during sex because the itch of them wouldn't allow you to concentrate.

Simon was a fantastic lover—gave you exactly what you needed, had you coming until you couldn't fucking think anymore. But he just wouldn't make any sound. You know you should've been used to guys not making sounds by now at your big grown age, though you got your hopes up with Simon.

Simon was holding back his moans as he fucked into your perfect pussy, thrusting at that perfect angle that made you keen—Only allowing quiet masculine sounds to rumble from his chest.

But you finally had enough of seeing his mouth part, while being unable to hear anything.

"Simon," you pant, grabbing his jaw roughly "fucking moan, goddammit. I can't fucking hear you."

Simon stilled, looking down at you with flushed cheeks. "Y'sure? Didn't think women liked I' when a man makes noise."

"Need to hear you." you whispered, grinding your hips upwards impatiently.

Simon finally broke down that wall in his mind, leaning down to your good ear and letting out a loud groan, thrusting frantically. His big meaty paws clawing at you.

"Fuck!" Simon babbled "Feels so good, so tight. So so so tight."

You gasp at how loud he was being—getting what you always wanted from a lover.

"y'don't get it. Wanna be inside you all the time. Just wanna fill you over and over and over." He groaned, his hips becoming erratic and needy as he brings a hand to your clit—desperate to get you off before he came himself.

Your nails clawed down his muscular back, leaving red streaks in their wake. But the unrestrained whimper Simon let out in response?

You were coming with a squeal, locking your legs around his hips as he fucked his come inside you.

"Don't" you pant "You ever hold those sounds back again."

Simon huffed, wrapping his arms around you. "'s embarrassing, love."

"I just came harder than I ever have in my life, you can handle some embarrassment."

You stash the fact Simons softening cock twitched inside you at the thought of being embarrassed for later. Fucking pathetic thing, your boyfriend.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

simon always knew when you were still mad at him. it wasn't a cold shoulder, or talking back to him, but the way you packed his lunch.

due to the early hours he had to get up, you woke up earlier to prepare a lunch for him—something he never took for granted. however, the previous night, you got in a small argument you were still salty about come the time to pack his lunch the next morning.

and simon could tell.

it wasn't a lack of food or effort. it wasn't a passive aggressive note—although there has been times. it was the presentation of the food and how you prepared it.

these particular mornings, he would hear the clanging of containers and pots from the bedroom, whereas on normal days, you'd encourage him to get as much rest as he could. you slammed around cabinet doors that didn't deserve your abuse, shoved containers together, and tossed whatever pot or pan you used into the sink without a care in the world.

next was the food itself. you never depraved him of nourishment. you weren't a monster, but you didn't go the extra steps you normally would. it was subtle, yet he noticed.

like the whole strawberries—normally cut into heart shapes—you had thrown in the yogurt container, still having the leaves attached.

the sandwich he requested that you made perfectly, if you ignored the fact it looked like you laid on it.

or the can of his least favorite flavor drink instead of the good ones that he knows is still sitting in the fridge, waiting to be packed for a day you don't want him to suffer.

simon opens his lunch with a chuckle and returns home to eat you out over the kitchen counter to make up for it, with dinner being ready right after.

༊࿐⠀ ׅ⠀ㅤ ¹⁸⁺ 𝓢imon 𝓡iley fucking you on a rooftop during a mission ₊ ˚ ⊹ 𝔀arnings. rough pronebone. dubcon. graphic depiction of violence. hair tugging. power dynamics. slight manhandling. ❛ 26 © 𝓵eons𝓫rat.

the mission is an agonizing slow burn. hours dragging on and spent in the same prone position on a gritty rooftop, the world reduced to the circular view through your scope. simon is beside you, a silent, hulking shadow meant to be your spotter. but you can feel his eyes on you, and they’re not watching the street below.

you’ve been in this position for so long your muscles ache, but the tight fit of your cargo pants as you lie on your stomach is apparently doing something for him. you can feel the heat of his gaze burning into your ass, a tangible weight. you hear the soft rustle of gear, the subtle shift of his body closer to yours on the rough surface.

a rough, gloved hand lands on your hip, not to steady you, but to hold you in place. it’s a silent question you’ve both answered a dozen times before. you don’t move from your scope, but you feel the air shift as he unbuckles his belt, the rasp of his zipper a deafening sound in the tense quiet. his hand moves to the front of your pants, popping the button with practiced ease before dragging the zipper down. he pushes the rough fabric of your pants and underwear down your thighs, exposing you to the cool night air.

you don’t flinch when you feel the blunt, wet head of his cock pressing against you. he doesnt waste a second, just shoves himself inside, a slow, thick stretch that makes your whole body clench. he’s so fucking big, a heavy, aching fullness that immediately starts to throb deep inside you.

“focus,” is all he grunts, his voice a low, gravelly rumble right next to your ear. it’s an order. stay on target.

he starts moving, and it’s all so raw. a hard, messy rhythm that slams you into the cold concrete with every thrust. the wet, sloppy sound of his hips hitting your ass fills the air, a disgusting, perfect counterpoint to the quiet phut of your silenced rifle. your body is jerked forward with every single thrust, the recoil from your own shots a dull thud against your shoulder in comparison. his gloved hands grip your hips, holding you down, using your own body as leverage to drive himself even deeper.

you spot quick movement. a tango rounding the corner. you adjust your aim, the crosshairs wobbling for just a second as simon’s cock rams deep right into your cervix, a bruising impact that sends a shockwave of pure, painful pleasure right to your brain. your vision whites out for a second, a hazy, pleasure-fucked blur. you squeeze the trigger. the body drops.

his pace gets rougher, sloppier. he’s fucking you like he’s trying to leave a mark on your cervix, each thrust deeper and harder than the last. you can feel his sweat dripping onto your back, hot trails that snake down your skin, mixing with the grime on your gear. his dick is just a thick, penetrating presence inside you, relentlessly pounding that same spot until you’re sure you’ll be sore on the inside. a low, aching throb starts deep in your gut, a constant reminder of how completely he’s filling you, stretching you past your limit.

he lets out a rough grunt, the sound muffled by his mask, and his thrusts get frantic. he’s close. his hand comes up, slamming your head down for a few brutal thrusts, his gloved fingers fisted at the base of your skull as he grinds your cheek into the gritty roof. the second his hand moves back to your hip for more leverage, you wrench your head back up, pressing your eye to the cold rubber of the scope just in time. another tango. you quickly line up the shot, your whole body shaking from the force of his fucking. you fire. the enemy falls just as simon finally goes over the edge, a ragged, choked-off noise torn from his throat right against your neck.

he gives one last, impossibly deep thrust, holding himself there as his hot cum floods your womb, a thick, scalding release that makes your orgasm crash over you in a wave of static. for a second, he’s jus still on top of you, his ragged breaths ghosting over your skin.

then he pulls out in one slick, wet motion, the feeling of emptiness almost as shocking as the feeling of being filled. you hear the rasp of his zipper, the click of his belt. you manage to pull your pants up, your hands shaking slightly as you fasten the button and zipper.

you look back through your scope, scanning the empty street.

“street’s all clear,” you murmur into your comms, your voice surprisingly steady.

“good work,” he replies from beside you, his voice nothing but cold, flat professionalism. as if the last few seconds never happened.

—price when you banish him to the couch, he could be one of two ways—mature and forces you to talk it out nicely or toxic, flat out refuses, and fucks you back to your senses. the first way, when the words spill from your mouth, his shoulders slumped with dejection as he steps from the room. no point in arguing when you're worked up. after stewing in your anger for thirty or so minutes, he returns—armed with food—and talks it out with you. the other way, he flat out refuses to sleep on the couch. i could see him manipulating you with the "I paid for that bed, and I'll sleep in it." you're stubborn, muttering something about you sleeping on the couch then, which is how you end up getting your brains fucked out.

—soap I imagine soap just pushed your buttons way too much that day. you know how he is sometimes—over the top, hyper, and an all-around instigator. he was looking for a reaction, and he found it—just not the one he wanted. immediately pouts, acting like a dejected child before he goes on to try and convince you to change your mind. real annoying about it too, doesn't give up until you're at your breaking point.

—kyle the only one that I see actually accept his banishment with stride. he knows he made you upset, respects the boundary you placed with him and doesn't take it to heart. there's also a big possibility that, by the end of the night, you end up talking it out anyways like mature adults. he knows you needed to get it out of your system, and you serving punishment to him did just that.

—simon the second the words leave your mouth, he shuts down. you see the moment he deflates, doesn't try to reconcile, and just accepts it. he doesn't want to upset you further or make you more mad than you already are. simon doesn't respond well to domestic conflict. the second his back hits the cushions? he's tossing and turning. he barely fits the couch to begin with, and you both learn you need each other to sleep—bonded like a pair of cats.

simon riley fucking you for the first time knowing he shouldn’t. it’s forbidden. it’s wrong. you’re the captain’s daughter.

Simon is impossibly deep inside of your warm, wet pussy, thrusting so hard you scoot up the bed as he knocks the air from the lungs while the headboard bangs against the wall. A pillow is strategically placed under your hips so every time he slams inside of you it hits your sweet spot, and your clit catches on the wet material without fail. Your nipples drag across the soft fabric beneath you, your hands clutching at the pillows in front of you, all while you’re being fucked dumb.

“Fuckin’ slut. Wish you could see the way your pussy sucks me in,” he growls, his grip on you turning punishing, his face never faltering as he continues to drill into you from behind.

His fingers are tangled in your hair, yanking on it hard and keeping your head in place so your moans aren’t muffled against the mattress. His other hand is wrapped around your throat, cutting off your airway just enough to make it more pleasurable as your choked sobs ring out around the room.

His thick, long cock slides through your walls as he molds your pussy to be perfect for him. The veins and ridges leave imprints the faster he thrusts, the deeper he reaches, the harder he grinds. Every knock to your cervix leaves you breathless, every brush against your sweet spot has pleasure shooting through your body, and the longer he abuses your poor pussy, the more you beg for it.

“P-please Si, please,” you manage to say, gripping onto the sheets for dear life, lifting your hips to meet his every thrust but trying to run from it all at the same time.

No, as in he is way too obsessed with your cunt.

He'll have you sit on his lap naked, just so you'll get his jeans dirty. Something about it really makes his cock throb.

Or, he'll fuck you on his fingers while wearing his favourite pair of gloves before a mission, just so he has something to lick and smell when he gets lonely—and you do get a helluva fucking when your scent wears off his gloves sooner than usual. As if you can control that.

After one too many punishments for that though, you pushed him down and sat on his face while he wore his balaclava. Practically waterboarding the bloke with your arousal. Simon always loved when you were just as perverted as he was.

The thing that turns you on disgusts you the most? You'll be bent over in your kitchen, garden, laundry; and Simon'll come up behind you, shove his fingers in you before pulling them out before you can properly register what he's doing, walking off and sucking his fingers with a pleased hum.

You've scolded him for it countless times, yet the pervert doesn't care. Smiling at you in a way that from any other man? It would make your stomach twist in disgust. But from Simon? You can't get enough.

And yes, he is in fact the type of guy to pull your asscheeks apart so he can lick his thumb and press it against the spasming ring of muscle,

"If she keeps winking at me like this, I'll have to fuck her too." Growled in your ear while you whine in disgust, as if you don't have a pretty little collection of plugs in the back of your dresser already.

You and Simon just loved pretending like you were being corrupted by him.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

Buy my cat a treat? (•˕ •マ.ᐟ