!! fork

—⠀⠀that i loved you.

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fluff + 141, no cw.

every single person said that simon riley would never be able to keep a spouse. every single person said that they'd get bored of him, or get freaked out and run for the hills on their wedding ceremony.

well, unfortunately for the several bets that had sprung up as a result of that, simon had kept you a very, very long time. in fact, you were now celebrating the 50th year of your marriage. your old man was still the cheeky bastard he'd always been, but not once had either of you considered divorce.

the men are sat in your living room, chatting over beers and sitting around the TV as it plays some old-school rom-com that you'd insisted on. of course, price had wanted to see football—not that he ever got his way in you house.

you carry in the cake—one you'd made, and one you'd continue to make every single year. sure, the frosting had gotten shakier as you'd aged, but the taste had always remained the same, and it was damn good. as always.

as you make your way to the table in the centre of the room, you're intercepted by kyle, his arms reaching to steady the cake from you. "uh, watch that. i gotcha, just go sit down."

you'd retort that he's not much younger than you, but the gesture is appreciated. you lower yourself beside your husband, reclining into his outstretched arm. the four of you—kyle, simon, price, and you—eat in silence before kyle breaks it.

"fifty years, huh, simon?"

simon blinks beside you, his arm tightening slightly. "yep. couldn't 'ave left me, i'm charmin' as all hell."

you whack his shoulder, fixing him with a stare, while price starts a laugh that ends in a hearty cough. must be all the cigars, over the years. but since you're all in for the rest of life together, he's started on the road to quitting.

"y'know, i always had a bet with soap that you'd break up in a few years. guess i owe him twenty, huh?" kyle speaks, and he's staring into the distance—that same look you've been used to since the four of you had lost the scot.

"least he didn't have to grow old n'crusty like the rest of us pensioners, save him the trouble of achin' bones," simon says, though it's quiet and resigned, like an old wound still festering with regret.

(soap would've loved to cash in his twenty bucks.)

simon's had a soft spot for the wicked and wild, and the thrill of such things leads him to wolf hunting. it's a gruesome hobby, but he likes it—he never takes more than he needs, anyways.

he usually heads out to more rural spots—rolling farmlands nestled between wooded areas—it's quite helpful to the farmers there anyways, considering they've been warding the big predators away from their livestock for years.

on his way through the brush, nearest to the farmlands, is when he meets you. a scruffy little bunny, staring at him with a pitiful expression, having gotten yourself tangled in an old wire fence.

(and a big wolf like him? oh... he'd never seen sweeter prey practically offered to him.)

your pitiful whine brings him to his senses; you're hurt and needy and hungry, and unfortunately, simon is, occasionally, a good man. it takes a good minute of sawing with a hunting knife before he's able to get you free.

the second he's got you free, you try to kick off. but before your little cotton tail disappears, simon is gripping you, his hands around your waist as he knocks you back into the grass. "not so fast, sweet'eart. gotta get'cha nice n'proper, eh? bet y'don't even have a place t'stay. it's okay, bun. i'll keep y'warm."

you stare, wide-eyed into the face of the man who had saved you; big wolfish ears twitching in cocky victory. but he's right. you'd only gotten stuck in the wire because you'd been running from a crop theft gone wrong, and simon had found you, saved you, and was now offering you a place to stay.

you offer a meek nod.

(stupid bunny.)

the walk back is mostly silent, his arm hoisting you up on his hip like a toddler who'd just thrown a big tantrum. his thumb rubs in comforting circles across your thigh, pressing against you every time you squirm in silent warning.

simon's cabin is warm with the crackling fireplace, and more homey than you'd expect of a wolf. he sits you on his couch, fixing the small cuts the wire had made with gauze and antiseptic.

and he'll let you stay the night, of course—he's a gentleman when he wants to be, right? he'll even let you stay in his room, on his bed, curled around his pillow. it's fine, he'll take the couch.

what he doesn't expect is waking up the next morning to mewling and whining. when he moves to investigate—what clothes he had offered you thrown aside, in favour of the blushing heat crawling up your spine and neck. your thighs were clamped tight around his pillow, and your nose buried into it like you could absorb his scent if you inhaled enough of it.

(fuck. what'll he do with you?)

neighbour!simon, fem!reader, explicit.

simon was not the type to enjoy moving house. as much as he were used to moving away for long times from long deployments, simon hated it. he hated how moving required picking up what life he'd established, even if it were small. he didn't understand how people could pack their lives up and ship across the country just like that. and plus, being deployed was different. a home was somewhere he could stay in peace, away from the gunfire.

but even he, too, needed a move here and there. wasn't really a must, but he wanted to downsize—he needed something a little smaller than what he had. it's not like he spent all his time there anyways—he was usually on base, and taking care of a bigger apartment was asking too much.

so he packed up, moved a few blocks away, holed up in a little apartment building. the day he moved in, carrying just a few boxes (he didn't have much to begin with), he couldn't help but notice the person right beside his door.

cute. you were wide-eyed and cute. stared at him across the hallway before sheepishly asking him if he minded moving out of your way so you could get to your apartment. lo and behold, you opened the door beside his and slipped in.

simon didn't give it much thought, to be honest. didn't really care how cute you were. he wasn't the type to want anyone, let alone a sweet little bunny. he doubted you could defend yourself if you joined a fistfight with a gun—he needed someone who could protect themselves while he was gone on long deployments.

but you thought differently. walked past his apartment extra times a day, hoping you'd catch him on the way out so you could get a better look at his biceps, or the scar on his cheek, dragging down to his lip. the bear was handsome as hell.

you lengthened your grocery lists, made sure the bags were a tiny bit too heavy, just in case you might see him in the parking lot and ask him for help.

you knocked on his door in the afternoon, shyly looking up at him with those big doe eyes, biting your lip and asking him, "um, sir, do you mind helping? my sink is leaking... and i just don't want to... bother anyone else."

simon had been pissed, the first time he had met you. he always heard some kind of excited prattling from through the thin walls, as you excitedly rambled to a friend. you just talked, and talked, and talked—simon's ears were going to fall off, subject to your loud conversations through the walls.

so maybe, if it shut you up, he'd entertain your silly little requests.

so here he was, under your sink, on his back, his shirt under his head as he'd taken it off.

(you'd increased the AC in your room, hoping he'd take his shirt off. sneaky little thing.)

you sat on the counter, uncaring about what he was saying about your sink. he kept talking and talking about the mechanics of it so you could fix it for yourself next time, but you were hooked on the slight rasp of his voice and the way his abs flexed as he tightened your pipes.

then simon was done, and you grabbed his arm as he sat up. you didn't want him to leave, not so soon."sir? can i pay you? um... don't have much money on me to give you, but i could give you something else."

and fuck him, you were so needy. felt your hand on his arm tighten every time he moved as if to leave. simon knew he was falling straight into a trap, and if he was being honest, he's not sure he minded. he sighs, the crease between his brows deepening. "'yer alright, luv. ain't gonna ask y'for anythin'."

you pouted. like a sad, kicked bunny. pouted at him with wide eyes and flattened ears, tail twitching unhappily. "please? stay a bit, let me... um. i can make you something to eat. cookies? i make really good cookies."

simon was really good at dodging negotiation tactics. really good at surviving the harshest forms of torture. but he hadn't been trained to dodge the torture suddenly straining in his pants as he took you in, pretty pink frills on your skirt, your thighs which dissapeared under the fabric. so he stayed, sat there whilst you busied about the kitchen, whipping together some cookies.

when they were done, you presented them to him, real giddy, jumping on your heels. "here, try one."

before he could reach for one, you sat yourself in his lap, right on top of him, offering the cookie to his lips. simon grunts, his hand instinctively moving to grip your hip. "watch y'rself, luv. don' wanna start somethin' you ain't gonna finish."

shame, that you were so confident, really. maybe then you wouldn't have ended up grinding on his lap like a bitch in heat. maybe then he wouldn't have bent you right over the counter, pushing your pretty skirt up to leer at the sopping wet patch of underwear over your cunt. "mh, she's real pretty, eh, luv?"

you were so confident up until you came on his fingers. simon didn't even give you a second to think, his fingers pressing deeper, squishing against your gummy walls. "c'mere, darlin', jus' wanna have some more."

you were losing your mind, hands gripping against the table, cheek mushed to the wood, your ears barely registered the thumping of the chair's legs every time he forced his fingers back into you. then it stops, and before you can whine, the sound of his fly unzipping reaches your ears.

in one smooth stroke of his cock, the rest of your confidence dissipated. the stretch burned, like he was splitting you in half, god, he was too fucking big. "s-sir, sir, it's too big..."

"hush, take it. y'asked for this, bun," he grunts, practically folding you over, his hips forcing against yours, his hand on your jaw. his thumb rubs over the corner of your mouth, swiping up the drool that slips from your mouth.

poor thing. you shouldn't have poked the bear, but you just couldn't help it, could you? craved the way his cock filled you up so good. he was going to ruin you for everyone else.

"ah, m'gonna fill you right up," he grunts out into your ear, heavy breaths puffing against your skin.

"ah, fuck... yes, please. please, sir, want you..." you're cut off by a desperate moan as he thrusts into you heavily, his bodyweight pressing against you. the chain around his neck, dog tags, press into the skin on your back, branding against your skin, leaving a little red mark, pressing his name into you.

when he comes inside you, he huffs, rubbing your clit gently as he pulls out, softening cock resting against your thigh. "good fuckin' girl."

(you may just have to poke the bear a little bit more.)

he flaunts his averages like he's somehow morally better because he can get stupidly high grades and rack in tons of internship offers. he's annoying, at best. somedays, you just want to strangle him; wring him dry like a dishtowel and watch that snarky grin drain from his face.

frankly speaking, you hate him because he's better than you. you used to be the best, until life —or rather a shitty boyfriend, now ex-boyfriend—got ahead of you and decided that you no longer needed good grades. oh well.

(so what if you're petty? he's an asshole.)

regardless, just because you fell behind a little doesn't mean you can't catch back up. hencewhy you've been studying late in the library for the past week, trying to prepare for tomorrow's assessment.

unfortunately for you, the desk you'd chosen to sit at wasn't exactly alone. only an hour into your study session, a familiar face had decided to sit his ass beside you. you were too stubborn to move, but he was posing much more of a distraction than you'd like.

the conversation he strikes somehow manages to piss you off immediately.

"why're you in 'ere? y're always with that boyfriend o'yers, figured he'd 'ave kept you busy."

"i broke up with him, for your information," you retort, flashing him the finger.

the conversation devolves immediately, johnny poking flirtatious lines at you while you keep not-so-subtly telling him to stuff his cheeky one-liners up his ass.

he provokes you with a hand on your thigh, and then a hand up your shorts, and then... well. i mean, who could stop him? it's not like you had a boyfriend. and it's not like, in your sleep deprived brain, this was a bad idea either.

his breath ghosts against your ear. "see? y'can't even focus, how're you supposed ta be better n' me at this? tch... bonnie thing like ye shouldn't worry 'bout these hard things."

you're pretty sure you've never clenched harder in your life, at his words. which, shame on you, by the way—you're supposed to be doing work, not getting finger-fucked under the table by your academic rival the day before the test.

(damn bastard. you'll get him back for this.)

pretty you, having just moved in for college. but of course, with the country's economic state declining by the minute, you couldn't exactly pay for it yourself—what better solution than a roommate? logically, you'd want another woman, maybe one who kept clean and didn't cause much of a bother.

it was just that not many women wanted to room in such a shitty side of the city. so you gave in and found a male roommate. he said he was military—you went with it because he was big enough that it made some sort of sense.

he barely speaks to you. he leaves for weeks at a time on 'missions' and comes back, stained in blood, while wearing a mask that looks an awful lot like some cartoonish thing he bought at a halloween store so he could pretend he was.. well, military. you weren't even sure if that kind of thing was allowed in the military.

(—might you have brought home a serial killer? oh well. he pays his bills.)

he's also pale—unnervingly pale. but you chalk it up to the fact that he rarely goes out during the day, only training and going for runs in the night. he says it's because he's a night owl.

with years of claimed military history under his belt, it was easy for you to just believe him, when he asked you not to ask any questions.

in an effort to get to know the man that you lived with, you offered him a nice steak dinner. repeatedly. he had dodged your efforts the first few times, but today you'd finally gotten the chance.

(wide eyed and pretty, sweet and delicious; how could he say no to such saccharine prey like you?)

he'd been watching you slice carrots when you'd nicked yourself. there's not that much blood, really. it's a small cut, but you hadn't been paying attention. hissing, you grab your finger with your palm and squeeze—it smears a small amount of blood over your skin, and has simon's pupils dilating.

(he'd only been eating criminals off the street. he'd never had a pretty thing like you at the mercy of his fangs.)

you're reaching for the band-aids in a cupboard when he comes up behind you, hands on your waist and takes them from where you're struggling to reach. at the same time, he practically folds you over the counter.

"fuckin'... teasing me like that," he hisses, pupils dilated fully, the usual colour in his eyes overridden by pitch black. his breath curls against your ear in a warm puff that smells like smoke and desperation. his body is cold, and he nuzzles into your neck, molding himself against your back. suspiciously, you note his thick bulge, pressed against the cleft of your ass, throbbing with every one of his ragged inhales.

(...like an overgrown mutt.)

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