Suffocation

"si… up a bit. or down a bit. just not… there. all i can see is your left nipple. which isn't a terrible view, but it's not the one i'm after babe." you're biting your lip, staring into your phone screen from the comfort of your pillow laden bed, tucked safely away in yours and simon's shared flat - a classified amount of miles from wherever the fuck in the world he is.

"love," he grumbles from off screen. "i don't think you quite understand the realities of my current situation. i am fuckin' large. an' i'm sleepin' on a bunk bed made for a bloke 'alf my size. give me a fuckin' second."

he finally comes into view properly- more than his left nipple anyway - face filling your phone screen. brown eyes, albeit with dark circles under them, stubble grown out for more than a few days.

but it's his face. the face you miss waking up to in the mornings when he's gone like he is now, trapped in some shitty temporary base somewhere. doing things you don't particularly care to think too closely about.

"there you are." you say quietly, voice softened around the edges with affection. "hey baby."

you can see him visibly relax - jaw unclenching, frown lifting. "hey petal." his lips twitch at the corners when he sees your reality compared to his. "you look fuckin' comfy, don't you?"

you grin - smug - and nod. "i am so fucking comfy si."

his lips twitch again. "good. you deserve to be, love."

and he means it.

the two of you catch up for a while - mostly you speaking, the same as usual - filling him on the minutiae of your life, the squabbles at work, the cups of tea you've been having with your 83 year old next door neighbour edna some afternoons. he listens, enraptured, like you're telling him the secrets of the universe and not small, everyday things.

he offers a few things in return - not much. just that johnny is being particularly explosion happy and gaz has got himself a boyfriend who likes caps as much as he does.

then you adjust positions slightly, the camera dropping down and giving simon a glimpse of the white tank top you're wearing; thin cotton stretched over your chest, nipples hard little peaks under fabric.

he groans.

then immediately drops his phone so you get a lopsided view of the slats of the bunk above him.

"fuck. shite." he grumbles, snatching his phone back up; holding it a little further away this time so you get a view of the scarred expanse of his chest, of blonde hairs scattered across pale skin. "sorry about tha' petal. just… you look good." a pause, "an yer tits look good. an' i 'aven't 'ad a wank for a week so i'm a little on edge."

you laugh softly, "a whole week? now that's a war crime babe."

"yeah, yeah. laugh it up." he mutters, but there's no real heat in it. he drags a hand down his face, "not exactly easy to sort myself out when i'm sharin' a safehouse with ten other blokes and sleepin' in a bed that creaks if i breath too 'ard."

you shift onto your side, propping your phone against a pillow so he gets a clearer view of you - tank top riding up over your waist, almost exposing the curve of your breast.

simon exhales audibly. "christ."

"you could always try." you say with a smirk. "be fun to watch you."

you know from the way his eyes don't leave your newly exposed skin he's going to struggle to argue.

he glances sideways - checking the door - then angles his phone so you can see more of him. the bunk is ridiculously small; one of his shoulders is wedged against the wall, his knees bent because his legs don't fit otherwise.

it would be comical if he didn't look so ridiculously attractive sprawled there shirtless.

"yer a fuckin' terrible influence." he grumbles, but he’s already shoving the waistband of his sweatpants down. his cock springs free, heavy and flushed, and he wraps a hand around himself with a hiss. “fuckin’ hell, look at what yer doin' to me. makin' me act like a fuckin' teenager.”

you grin, unrepentant, tugging your vest up, fully exposing yourself to him. "yeah, yeah. it's been a week. you'll be quick."

simon's too busy staring at your tits to notice you're getting a view of the underside of his chin and not the way his hand is wrapped around his length, stroking himself to the sight of you.

you bite back another laugh as simon's phone wobbles in his hand again - giving you a glorious, if accidental, split second shot of his cock sliding through his fist before it swings back up to his jaw.

"si," you grin, "c'mon now. if you keep giving me chin-cam i'm going to start thing you're shy."

"shy." he repeats, voice dripping with disbelief. "i'm wankin' on camera for you. an' tryin' not to take the bloody bed down with me as i do."

you shift onto your back again, propping the phone up at the end of the bed so the camera catches a better angle of you - tank top still rucked up; one hand lazily trailing down your stomach as your thighs fall open. "why don't you try that, si?"

his breath catches. audibly. and then he follows instructions like the soldier he is - camera propped at the end of the bunk; him ending up in a kneeling position, back curved to fit under the bunk above, one hand braced on the frame of the bed whilst the other wraps around himself again.

the view is perfect.

thick thighs spread wide, the muscles in his arms tensing, close enough you can see the light blonde hairs on his chest and down his stomach; leading down to where one hand is wrapped around his cock; pre come spilling over his fingers, the vein that you've memorised the shape of with your tongue pulsing slightly.

you grin. "huh. that's what you look like fucking me from behind. i don't usually get to see it. since my eyes are on the front of my head. it's a rather nice view babe."

"love." he grumbles, "petal. light of my life. can you please focus on the matter at 'and and not… yer delightful narrations on life. just for a minute or two."

you bite your lip, fighting another smile at his grumpy tone. "sorry babe. just admiring the view of you all tied up like a pretzel just to have a wank for me."

simon huffs, but his hand doesn’t stop moving - slow, long strokes, a familiar twist in his wrist as his fingers wrap around the head. "pretzel," he mutters. "fuckin' pretzel. i'll show you a bloody pretzel when i get home and fold you into one love."

you poke your tongue out, completely unremorseful - and he can't help but grin, fondness woven into the way he stares at you through the screen. "i'll hold you to that." you shoot back, biting your lip, letting your fingers trail lower, hooking the gusset of your thin underwear across to one side so he gets a full view of your cunt.

he groans. "bloody, fuckin' 'ell love. yer gonna kill me. go on. play with 'er. let me see."

your fingers glide over your slit; gathering wetness before circling your clit in time with the strokes of his hand - his fingers flex against the bed frame, knuckles white, the muscles of his chest tensing in the dim light as he watches the way your phone camera captures your cunt glistening in the warm glow of your bedside lamp, the way your face softens with pleasure.

"that's it petal. just like that. fuck - i miss you. miss this. so fuckin' much."

the distance makes both your chests ache, but this - your wrecked voices, his body contorted just for you - makes it bearable. you both drag yourselves to the edge; whispers and encouragements and wet sounds filling the call until his hips stutter and his hisses your name; spilling over his fist with a muffled grunt. the sight drives you over the edge, thighs tensing as your head falls back against the pillow; orgasm washing over you as he stares, awestruck, as your features soften out with bliss.

you both slump - you against your mountain of pillows, him against his thin military issue bedding, breathing hard, hearts slamming matching beats in your chests.

"christ, love." he mutters, camera angled to his flushed face. "thought i was gonna break the fuckin' bed. 'ow the fuck would i explain that to price?"

you laugh, tugging your top back down, bringing your phone back up from between your thighs. "worth it?"

"always." a rare, soft smile lights up his face. "get some sleep, yeah? i'll be home as soon as i can. love you, petal."

"love you more, si."

thinking about waking simon riley up with head. lips wrapped around him, fingernails scratching gently at his thighs, coaxing him awake as you take him deeper into your mouth.

your forgot, though, that his reflexes don't turn off in sleep. in fact, unconscious is the only time he can't keep them in check around you.

you end up with a bruise forming around your eye.

he ends up apologising profusely and pressing a bag of frozen peas against the side of your face whilst you try and go down on him again - safely awake this time.

"si… up a bit. or down a bit. just not… there. all i can see is your left nipple. which isn't a terrible view, but it's not the one i'm after babe." you're biting your lip, staring into your phone screen from the comfort of your pillow laden bed, tucked safely away in yours and simon's shared flat - a classified amount of miles from wherever the fuck in the world he is.

"love," he grumbles from off screen. "i don't think you quite understand the realities of my current situation. i am fuckin' large. an' i'm sleepin' on a bunk bed made for a bloke 'alf my size. give me a fuckin' second."

he finally comes into view properly- more than his left nipple anyway - face filling your phone screen. brown eyes, albeit with dark circles under them, stubble grown out for more than a few days.

but it's his face. the face you miss waking up to in the mornings when he's gone like he is now, trapped in some shitty temporary base somewhere. doing things you don't particularly care to think too closely about.

"there you are." you say quietly, voice softened around the edges with affection. "hey baby."

you can see him visibly relax - jaw unclenching, frown lifting. "hey petal." his lips twitch at the corners when he sees your reality compared to his. "you look fuckin' comfy, don't you?"

you grin - smug - and nod. "i am so fucking comfy si."

his lips twitch again. "good. you deserve to be, love."

and he means it.

the two of you catch up for a while - mostly you speaking, the same as usual - filling him on the minutiae of your life, the squabbles at work, the cups of tea you've been having with your 83 year old next door neighbour edna some afternoons. he listens, enraptured, like you're telling him the secrets of the universe and not small, everyday things.

he offers a few things in return - not much. just that johnny is being particularly explosion happy and gaz has got himself a boyfriend who likes caps as much as he does.

then you adjust positions slightly, the camera dropping down and giving simon a glimpse of the white tank top you're wearing; thin cotton stretched over your chest, nipples hard little peaks under fabric.

he groans.

then immediately drops his phone so you get a lopsided view of the slats of the bunk above him.

"fuck. shite." he grumbles, snatching his phone back up; holding it a little further away this time so you get a view of the scarred expanse of his chest, of blonde hairs scattered across pale skin. "sorry about tha' petal. just… you look good." a pause, "an yer tits look good. an' i 'aven't 'ad a wank for a week so i'm a little on edge."

you laugh softly, "a whole week? now that's a war crime babe."

"yeah, yeah. laugh it up." he mutters, but there's no real heat in it. he drags a hand down his face, "not exactly easy to sort myself out when i'm sharin' a safehouse with ten other blokes and sleepin' in a bed that creaks if i breath too 'ard."

you shift onto your side, propping your phone against a pillow so he gets a clearer view of you - tank top riding up over your waist, almost exposing the curve of your breast.

simon exhales audibly. "christ."

"you could always try." you say with a smirk. "be fun to watch you."

you know from the way his eyes don't leave your newly exposed skin he's going to struggle to argue.

he glances sideways - checking the door - then angles his phone so you can see more of him. the bunk is ridiculously small; one of his shoulders is wedged against the wall, his knees bent because his legs don't fit otherwise.

it would be comical if he didn't look so ridiculously attractive sprawled there shirtless.

"yer a fuckin' terrible influence." he grumbles, but he’s already shoving the waistband of his sweatpants down. his cock springs free, heavy and flushed, and he wraps a hand around himself with a hiss. “fuckin’ hell, look at what yer doin' to me. makin' me act like a fuckin' teenager.”

you grin, unrepentant, tugging your vest up, fully exposing yourself to him. "yeah, yeah. it's been a week. you'll be quick."

simon's too busy staring at your tits to notice you're getting a view of the underside of his chin and not the way his hand is wrapped around his length, stroking himself to the sight of you.

you bite back another laugh as simon's phone wobbles in his hand again - giving you a glorious, if accidental, split second shot of his cock sliding through his fist before it swings back up to his jaw.

"si," you grin, "c'mon now. if you keep giving me chin-cam i'm going to start thing you're shy."

"shy." he repeats, voice dripping with disbelief. "i'm wankin' on camera for you. an' tryin' not to take the bloody bed down with me as i do."

you shift onto your back again, propping the phone up at the end of the bed so the camera catches a better angle of you - tank top still rucked up; one hand lazily trailing down your stomach as your thighs fall open. "why don't you try that, si?"

his breath catches. audibly. and then he follows instructions like the soldier he is - camera propped at the end of the bunk; him ending up in a kneeling position, back curved to fit under the bunk above, one hand braced on the frame of the bed whilst the other wraps around himself again.

the view is perfect.

thick thighs spread wide, the muscles in his arms tensing, close enough you can see the light blonde hairs on his chest and down his stomach; leading down to where one hand is wrapped around his cock; pre come spilling over his fingers, the vein that you've memorised the shape of with your tongue pulsing slightly.

you grin. "huh. that's what you look like fucking me from behind. i don't usually get to see it. since my eyes are on the front of my head. it's a rather nice view babe."

"love." he grumbles, "petal. light of my life. can you please focus on the matter at 'and and not… yer delightful narrations on life. just for a minute or two."

you bite your lip, fighting another smile at his grumpy tone. "sorry babe. just admiring the view of you all tied up like a pretzel just to have a wank for me."

simon huffs, but his hand doesn’t stop moving - slow, long strokes, a familiar twist in his wrist as his fingers wrap around the head. "pretzel," he mutters. "fuckin' pretzel. i'll show you a bloody pretzel when i get home and fold you into one love."

you poke your tongue out, completely unremorseful - and he can't help but grin, fondness woven into the way he stares at you through the screen. "i'll hold you to that." you shoot back, biting your lip, letting your fingers trail lower, hooking the gusset of your thin underwear across to one side so he gets a full view of your cunt.

he groans. "bloody, fuckin' 'ell love. yer gonna kill me. go on. play with 'er. let me see."

your fingers glide over your slit; gathering wetness before circling your clit in time with the strokes of his hand - his fingers flex against the bed frame, knuckles white, the muscles of his chest tensing in the dim light as he watches the way your phone camera captures your cunt glistening in the warm glow of your bedside lamp, the way your face softens with pleasure.

"that's it petal. just like that. fuck - i miss you. miss this. so fuckin' much."

the distance makes both your chests ache, but this - your wrecked voices, his body contorted just for you - makes it bearable. you both drag yourselves to the edge; whispers and encouragements and wet sounds filling the call until his hips stutter and his hisses your name; spilling over his fist with a muffled grunt. the sight drives you over the edge, thighs tensing as your head falls back against the pillow; orgasm washing over you as he stares, awestruck, as your features soften out with bliss.

you both slump - you against your mountain of pillows, him against his thin military issue bedding, breathing hard, hearts slamming matching beats in your chests.

"christ, love." he mutters, camera angled to his flushed face. "thought i was gonna break the fuckin' bed. 'ow the fuck would i explain that to price?"

you laugh, tugging your top back down, bringing your phone back up from between your thighs. "worth it?"

"always." a rare, soft smile lights up his face. "get some sleep, yeah? i'll be home as soon as i can. love you, petal."

"love you more, si."

For those of you who don't know, Canada is on fire, and Indigenous communities are being disproportionately affected by the overwhelming damage.

A few Call of Duty fanfic writers here on tumblr are coming together to write fics for those who show proof of donation to charities such as:

Anishinabek Nation 7th Generation Charity

Ontario Native Women's Association

Mikinakoos Emergency Fund

Red Cross

True North Aid

Indigenous Climate Action

Any others with an appeal that appears on an official First Nation, Tribal Council or registered charity channel

At the moment, we have 30 slots open! If you are interested in receiving a fanfiction as a gift for your donation, more information is below the cut! (Even if you're not interested, we ask that you please reblog!)

"forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. it has been a week since my last confession."

a grunt sounds from the other side of the cage-like mesh that separates you from your church's priest. your thighs press together, and you chide yourself for the reaction it incites. you're disgusted with yourself at your sin, yet you cannot stop the thud beneath your ribcage that excites at the thrill.

"back so soon?" his words are merely teasing, condescending, unlikely for a priest, but simon tends to get off script. "what is it this time, kid? steal again?"

no. you shook your head despite the wall that separates you. the silence is deafening, save for the creak of the chair you're sat it, wood carved with delicate curves and ornate crosses.

"no, Father. forgive me for my lust and the actions I have committed."

"lust, you say?" he goes silent, save for the rustle of fabric on the other side. it makes you anxious, even more guilt-ridden than before. you swear you can feel his judgement through the wall that separates you. "go on."

a shaky sigh escapes you, your knuckles turning white with your clenched fists in your lap. "yes, Father, lust. I... viewed pornography."

red hot embarrassment coats your skin, much like the blood of those who died for your sin. you were a meek teenage girl, barely eighteen with insatiable urges and an inappropriate crush. you could only confess one of those sins, for the latter is the more shameful one of the two.

a sound of interest cuts the silence. "what was the pornography? a video? a photo?"

"videos, Father."

"multiple?"

"yes." you admit shamefully, biting your lip. you still remembered how your dainty fingers circled your clit, riddled with disgust as you got yourself off on the religious display of porn. a priest and his devotee.

a satisfied hum comes from the other side, and you want to die of mortification. "describe the video."

"wh...what?" you blanched.

he surged onwards without a hint of awkwardness or shame. you couldn't begin to imagine the expression on his rugged face. "describe it. how many people were there?" he queried.

"there...was two people, Father. a man and a woman."

"where were they?"

your face burned further. you almost didn't want to admit it, but silence was a greater sin than admittance and pleading for forgiveness. with a hushed mumble, you spoke into your chest. "a church."

"what was that?" he pushed. "speak up, kid. can't hear ya when yer mumblin'."

"a church." you hated how the words seemed to echo off the walls, lingering within the silence that consumed and gnawed at your conscience. like the whole world needed to hear your sin.

he hummed with interest. "is that so?"

"yes, Father."

silence stretched. it was unbearable, an uncomfortable itch settling beneath your skin that, along with your urges, you could scratch. he finally spoke, "who were they to the church?"

"I...I can't say."

"you are ashamed." it was more statement than question because it was obvious from the way you stuttered, to how your words shook, to how you refused to go onwards. "'ts okay. best thin' y'can do is ask for forgiveness. get it off yer chest."

"yes, Father." you said, but it was a mere whisper. you didn't want to confess, for it would unveil the true nature of your indulgences—not just the fact you'd watched videos of people fucking but that they were of a priest and his devotee.

your fantasies were immoral and shameful, something to be deeply ashamed of, but your body couldn't help but react. it was wrong, you knew it, and indulged it anyways. rewarded your body with your fingers circling your swollen clit and plunged deep in your soaking pussy, replacing them in your mind with the thick, rough fingers of your priest. his hand strong, veined and capable of providing you with everything you craved and ached for.

but you couldn't admit it. couldn't admit your priest was the source of your sin, with his tall stature that towered over your meek in comparison frame. thick muscles that strained at the seams against his cassock and clerical collar—because there wasn't a size available to fit without constraint. you could only imagine how mouth watering his bare skin was—carved like marble to create a masterpiece. the epitome of sin. veins that flexed and rippled under his pale skin with his every word.

he cleared his throat, killing the silence. you had forgotten to continue, leaving you two in a deafening quiet until he reminded you. "talk to me, baby. who were they?"

your pussy fluttered at the pet name, forcing your thighs to clench together. the dampness in your panties was apparent, arousal sticking to the cotton and your skin. it shouldn't affect you this much, considering he called all the young kids at church some sweet endearment—sweetheart, honey, baby. it was innocent, but to your debauched conscience, it was anything but.

"it was..." you begin, the words catching on your tongue. with a shaky sigh, you forced it out. "a priest and someone from the church."

he didn't say anything, letting the creak in the wood speak for them. the harsh rustle of fabric whenever either of you moved an inch. you could never come back here, you decided. overran by your debauched immorality, you'd have to find a new church, forget about the brutish priest with sharp features and alluring eyes.

"hm." was the only sound he made for a while, letting you soak in the filth of your indulgences, brew in the depravity you couldn't help but live and breath in.

after an agonizing handful of minutes that felt like years, he finally spoke. "you wish to seek forgiveness?" the words caused a flutter, static rushing your ears. it drowned out the sound of a zipper and the soft clank of metal.

you breathed out in soft relief, nodding with an unmatched amount of desperation. "yes, Father. please."

a sharp slap of wood hitting wood filled the air, coming from beneath the lip of the confession booth. you peeked your head underneath, heart thudding so hard, you feared your ribs would break and allow your heart escape.

there was a small, circular hole that opened up to the other side. on the other side, a familiar, veiny hand strained around a thick, aching cock dripping with pre. it throbbed an angry red, and it twitched with every squeeze of his hand. you froze in shock, but couldn't help the way your mouth watered.

i HATE self-censorship for a lot of reasons, but being in crisis work makes it even more frustrating. who are you censoring for? like i am being so fr, WHO are you censoring for? have you even thought it through? people who have been raped know that they have been raped. if someone attempts suicide or is grieving someone who did, saying "sewer slide" isn't going to protect them from any of the feelings. a murder victim's family isn't going to feel better bc you said "unalived" instead of murdered. if anything, it's just extremely invalidating and othering. it's saying "what happened to you is so bad that i won't even say the word," which is NOT trauma-informed care. you are not protecting survivors/victims when you self-censor. the ONLY things you protect when you self-censor are the puritanical ideologies that are being encouraged by rich fascists who want your money and obedience

you're not too fond of horror movies, quite a scared little thing.

and oh, how beautifully your weeping hole clenches around their dicks.

they even made rules, for the sake of a peaceful evening. at least peaceful for the guys. for you? not so much.

after every orgasm, you're getting passed to another man.

john is the first one to get you for the night, to break you in, as they always say. to split you open nicely for the others.

the next one is simon, one hand secure around your throat, applying just enough pressure while you squeak and clench at the scary scenes.

kyle is the next one for the night. he's the meanest. holding your hips tightly to his own, nestling his cock uncomfortably deep inside you. you try to squirm away, whining at the hot pressure in your cunt, but his grip is firm. he even bucks his hips up into you to add to it.

finally, it's johnny's turn. he gets you after your third orgasm, fucked out and crying on his cock. your head slumps back onto his shoulder, thighs shaking and eyelids fluttering.

the guys end the movie night early, seeing you were barely conscious.

For those of you who don't know, Canada is on fire, and Indigenous communities are being disproportionately affected by the overwhelming damage.

A few Call of Duty fanfic writers here on tumblr are coming together to write fics for those who show proof of donation to charities such as:

Anishinabek Nation 7th Generation Charity

Ontario Native Women's Association

Mikinakoos Emergency Fund

Red Cross

True North Aid

Indigenous Climate Action

Any others with an appeal that appears on an official First Nation, Tribal Council or registered charity channel

At the moment, we have 30 slots open! If you are interested in receiving a fanfiction as a gift for your donation, more information is below the cut! (Even if you're not interested, we ask that you please reblog!)

but he’s not the simon you remembered. he’s not the same man who used to put socks on your feet whilst you slept so your toes wouldn’t get cold. or the man who would cook a completely seperate meal to his own if you didn’t like what he was having.

his eyes are empty. his touch is rough. callous even. sometimes you wake up in the night and he’s just sat in the corner of the room, staring at you through the darkness as you slept

your friends have stopped inviting you places out of fear that you’ll bring him along. his cagey erratic behaviour is not fun for them. the way his eyes flick around the room, landing on any potential threat. fingers flexing at his side, ready to grab his boot knife if needed

all I remember.

trailer park. dubcon/noncon. creepy socially inept simon. kitchen sex. predatory behavior. tattoo sleeves simon is canon. thumb sucking. breeding kink-ish. pulling the panties to the side is hotter than taking it off. all characters are 18+. DDNE.

You're pretty sure the dad you babysit for is a creep. Alternatively, he hates your guts, wearing a perpetual, nasty scowl as his eyes drop to your skirt's hem, replying only in wordless grunts. Of course, you're a self-respecting girl. You don't stand for any disrespect. You stick your nose up a little and keep away from him unless absolutely necessary, because the pay is good and Simon can't fire you because you're good at your job. At least, that's why you think Mr Riley hasn't fired you yet.

He owns a caravan on the edge of town, totally off-the-grid. Military guy sensibilities. Simon does what he does to keep his daughter safe, and you don't ask questions. It's a nice enough unit and bigger than the whole world when you're a 3ft tall three-year-old.

Your friends urge you to find another job the more they hear about this burly brute with tattoo sleeves you work for in the middle of nowhere, but at the end of another moping phone call, you find a 40% bonus tucked into the envelope with your pay and your fate is sealed.

The thought of him overhearing your qualms—and worse, compensating you for it—makes you feel bad, so you start to work extra hard. Leaving a plate for him from the meals you make for Beth, accompanied by sticky notes; seeing him out the door, etc... all in hopes you'll get tipped. Okay, maybe a conscience isn't the only reason for your good behavior—the financial incentives are great too. The tips keep coming, and your doe eyes only get sweeter. To you, it's good customer service, no flirtations involved. You're a professional, after all.

Simon, famously, is bad with social cues and sees more than there is in your hard work. Doesn't register that the extra sweet 'Good morning, Mr Riley,' and happy-faces drawn in honey on his pancakes only come with payments, not for his mean mug. It starts with casual touches: a hand on your shoulder while you chop Beth's veggies into bite-sized pieces, on your waist in passing. I mean, you're practically a hired wife at this point, so what's the trouble, right? You'd be the perfect mother for Beth.

“Beth's been calling you her Mummy,” he says it one day, all casual-like, hands busy with unlacing his boots. The lights are off save for a small lamp in the kitchen while you pack your laptop and charger into a slouchy shoulder-bag, the air humming with Beth's absence. You fuss with the zipper, the mechanism staggering. Simon pretends not to notice.

“I keep telling her not to--” A breathy laugh slips past your lips—a nervous sounding thing. Your face burns up against all reason and you can't place your finger on what it is about that remark that makes you feel defensive. Surely you wouldn't think twice if somebody else said it, but a strange implication seeps in through the cracks of his noncommittal demeanor. There's always something just slightly off, slightly off-kilter when it comes to him. This is wrong, you think, before anything has happened.

“Nowt to worry about.” He shakes his head dismissively and you fancy that he's almost good at pretending to be a normal person. A real person as opposed to a ghost. The leathery couch squeaks under him as he hauls his weight off, unfolding to his full height.

The zipper finally gives when Simon stops in front of you. Your lips part to say something—announce your departure, maybe—before his long fingers tilt your chin up slightly. “You'd be a great mother,” Simon says, evenly, like he's measuring the words—or rather, you. It's the first solid piece of praise he's given you thus far, and it disarms you just a bit after all the stonewalling you've been subject to.

As if sensing the casual shift in the air, Simon capitalizes with an off handed question: “Ever thought about it?”

“About what? Having my own? Erm, no.” You wave your hands like the notion is ridiculous, laughing awkwardly. You're living on a babysitter's wages and busy getting your degree, a child has no part in the equation.

The way Simon eyes you says he has a different idea entirely. It feels wrong, knowing you have your whole life ahead of you, but he can vividly picture you barefoot and pregnant under that same sundress.

“I love working with kids, but I don't think I'll have a baby any time soon,” you ramble, sounding distracted as you back up against the counter. You know it's unreasonable, but a part of you would rather people-please than be downright rude, a smile tugging at your lips as you watch his hands warily.

You ignore the red alerts, telling yourself maybe—just maybe—you're wrong, and Simon is simply a well-meaning, harmless dad. But that's how you ended up here in the first place; you never let yourself truly read into the way he looked at you, never let it dissuade you from working hard, until now. You even stopped complaining to your friends weeks ago.

“Huh.” Simon nods in consideration, pretending to think for a moment. Your feet remain rooted to the spot as Simon's hands find the hem of your dress, teasing it upwards slightly.

“Stop-” Your hand shoots to his wrist as the air hits your thighs, neither pulling nor pushing. Your soft fingers look insignificant next to his arm, pearly manicure to tattoo ink.

“Calm yer tits.” A wry laugh stirs the top of your hair, his shoulders crowding you against the countertop. “Beth's fast asleep.”

You can think up a few other reasons why this is bad business, though you have a feeling they won't hold up well.

Your hand goes slack against his as he reaches up your dress, a shiver rippling up your spine. “We shouldn't-” You stumble against his chest as Simon languidly cups your ass, the heady scent soaked into his shirt flooding your senses until it blurs with the shameful pounding of your heart. “I don't...” Want this.

“You're a little bird, ain't ya?” You meet his heavy-lidded gaze with bated breath as his fingers hook under your chin again, his thumb creeping to the edge of your mouth. The absence of warmth when his hand slips from beneath your dress leaves you almost wondering, before he cups your tits through the flimsy fabric in spite of your shock. “Spook easy.”

“Can feel your heart goin' like mad, y'know?”

For the first time, he speaks more than he listens. Grabs more than he hears your stubborn whines, his fingers stuffing your mouth, before his hands soon find other work. Insistent and cajoling. His meaty palms roam wherever they land—thumbs dragging over the hardened peaks of your nipples through your dress, one hand sliding down to hitch your leg around his waist. The dull throb behind his fly is a demanding ache, a gnawing hunger that makes Simon feel impossibly patient after months of watching you frolic around his home without ever tasting you.

Simon lets out a guttural rasp over you as your writhing body presses against his hard-on, teasing him through rough denim. “Bloody hell.” He turns you by the waist and presses you against the countertop with a finality that draws a startled squeak from your throat. The noise dies at once. His daughter is asleep down the hall; the last thing you need is to make a scene. You swallow whatever words rise to your tongue, acutely aware of every sound in the trailer, jaw tightening as the counter edge nudges uncomfortably against your hipbones.

You blanch at the thick, hard bulge poking your backside, teething at your thumb nail skittishly. A sickening shudder rolls through you as his hips press forwards with a groan above you, lazily rocking you against the countertop.

“Don't make a sound.”

He'd been more action than words for the better part of the last couple minutes, but his voice seems enough to raise the fine hairs on your nape.

“Yessir...” The words slur together as you slip your thumb between your lips, pink-cheeked. The little bob of your head is all Simon needs before he's freeing his cock from the zipper of his jeans.

The ascent of the thin cotton fabric feels impossibly heavy as he lifts the dress up your hips and settles it around your waist. The pad of his thumb traces your slit through the gusset of your panties, moisture darkening the fabric, before he hooks his fingers through the leg holes and bares your cunt to his eyes.

He clicks his tongue to himself meaningfully and tilts his head as if sizing you up while you suckle on your thumb under him, legs dangling over the edge of the kitchen counter. A sight for sore eyes deserves appreciation, and Simon has only ever known one way to show it—one that'd leave you sore come morning.

“Not so flighty now, eh?” Heat skims the edge of your ear as he speaks in a low drawl, and you almost miss the hitch in his breath when he pushes inch-by-inch into the heat of your cunt. “Who's a good girl?”

Your brows bunch together with exertion at the tight stretch as you peek back at him, all hapless with your lips puckered around your own thumb. You hesitantly slip your thumb from your mouth to speak, the words feeling dumb and embarrassing. “I-I am,” you mumble between soft whimpers sheepishly.

“Yeah. You are.” Humiliation curdles low in your stomach at the sound of his amusement, a slick string of arousal dripping down your center. “Little bird stops complainin' soon as she feels this big dick. You love it, don't you? Just need a paci to shut you up.”

Simon's fingers knead into your flesh with an ease that feels strangely intrusive, as though they have no business being so familiar with you. His calloused palm cracks against the swell of your ass before he bottoms out, your toes curling into the cool tiles as he fills you up. The counter's edge bites into your hips as he pulls back, almost all the way out, before slamming home without any give. Your palms scrabble against the laminate, searching for purchase as he sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust knocking the breath from your lungs in short, punched-out gasps.

He's effectively everywhere. One hand splays across your lower back, pinning you down, while the other finds your hair, gathering it at the nape of your neck in a secure grip, enough to keep you exactly where he wants you.

“That's it,” he rasps, the words carried over the slap of skin on skin echoing through the kitchen's shadows. “Take it.”

Your knees wobble under you, but his grip on your hip tightens like a vice, holding you up, holding you open. The wet sound of him fucking into you fills the kitchen—obscene and rhythmic, drowning out your own muffled whimpers.

He leans over you, chest hot against your back, mouth brushing your ear.

“Thought you could get away from me, little bird. Where you gonna go now?”

— wah wah y/n in a sundress ... y/n with manicured nails ... yes IK i've seen every tumblr post making fun of the cliches but this is what you get when the author (me) likes those things!! crucify me 🙄 at least she's independent and educated!!