lina

He disappears for weeks and months at a time, sometimes with less than a few hours' notice. When you ask him where, he mumbles about how it’s need to know, and kisses you instead of giving you the answers you want. He leaves behind pieces of himself all over your house in the shape of used boxers in your laundry basket and an indent in your mattress from where he usually occupies more than half your bed.

But most of all, the signs are quiet. Not just in the shape of a distinct lack of rumbles and grunts around the house, or heavy footsteps, or the endless snoring next to you, but your phone too. No calls, no texts. No nothing.

Sometimes you beat yourself up over it. Because you let yourself fall for the big brute, letting him talk you up at that bar, and despite his bluntness and obvious military background, letting him take you back to his place.

In hindsight, though, it feels more like he chose you. Pushed himself into your life like a bull in a china shop, a big, daunting feeling that you've fallen in love with a man whose job will always be more important than you.

And you're upset, because you know he's leaving.

His toilet bag is packed (the one that you bought him, mind you), his toothbrush and eight-in-one shampoo shoved in there. Military boots by the door, all his shirts washed and dried except one token sweater he always leaves behind like a keepsake for you.

You glare when he wakes you up, daring to interrupt your precious sleep now, when he's already interrupting the very rhythm of your life.

"Fuck off," you murmur, claws out before he's even said a word.

Simon smiles, scarred face making your stomach curl with something hot.

"Come on, lovie, none of tha' now," he replies, ignoring all warning signs as he lies down beside you, spooning you. He takes a whiff of your hair, humming in satisfaction. His body is like a furnace beside you, heat radiating off him.

It's comforting. It makes you angrier.

"You're gonna fuck off soon anyway," you murmur, accepting your fate and melting into him. "You already shaved your head,"

And that is true. Blonde locks that had actually managed to grow somewhat long in the past since the last time he left are short again, the buzz now showcasing his cauliflower ears and scars like they're all one big caution sign.

He huffs behind you, and the arm wrapped around your waist pulls you tighter, till you physically can't get closer to him.

"There's still three days left, dovie," he says. You sigh, shaking your head.

"Right, until your captain calls you because there's something urgent and he needs you right now, oh, Ghost, please come save us all— auch, what the fuck, you—"

Sharp teeth sink into your shoulder halfway through your complaints, and an involuntary whine leaves you as you squirm to get away from him. The complaints are useless, as you're flipped onto your back, Simon now looming over you like you're prey.

"You think too much," he states, as a matter of fact, before he begins to kiss down your throat. "And while I'm sure the captain would love to hear your iteration of how much he depends on me—"

A kiss on your collarbone. Another. He doesn't bother tugging your camisole away, simply opting to kiss your chest through the white fabric. His eyes seem to pierce you when you make eye contact.

"You knew what you were gettin' into, love," he murmurs, kissing your stomach.

A lie, though. Entirely unfair of him, too, because Simon knew the moment you walked into that bar years ago that he'd have you.

He keeps kissing all the way down, till he's right where he wants to be, suffocating between your thighs. Seems like a fair enough trade off after all he's put you through.

Being gone the very next morning seems cruel, even for Simon. You sit in your bed, taking in the realisation as you lose track of time, before pushing yourself out of bed. You take a shower, ignoring the fact that his toothbrush is gone.

In the kitchen, you scoff, realising that he even took out the trash on his way out.

Stupid, inconsiderate prick.

At the start, back when it was new, he used to leave you notes. Little scribbled apologies and explanations, always void of any real details, but still. His handwriting was dogshit, but it still comforted you.

You don't know when he stopped leaving them, you don't even know what you prefer. Apologies and explanations become dull once you keep repeating the same actions over and over again.

You eat breakfast in silence, and then you go to work. When your coworker asks you if you're alright, you nod, smiling. Your response does nothing to diminish her worried gaze, but she doesn't push the topic.

It's on day eight of monotone autopilot that you decide to break the cycle. You sit up from your couch and pause the pointless reality show on your TV, grabbing your phone.

With a weird sense of accomplishment already brewing in your chest, you google the nearest locksmith and dial their number.

"What the fuck,"

Simon grunts, jamming his key into your door.

Technically, he has his own place in the shitty part of Manchester. It's a two-room flat, on the third floor. He's lived there since he was twenty-one, and since the landlord doesn't ask too many questions and the rent is cheap, he's never bothered finding anything else. He pays in cash, and the lease just has his unintelligible signature. No name.

Technically.

Really, he's been living at your place for at least the past three years or so, barely even bothering to stop by his own place first.

Except today his key won't fucking work.

He frowns, stepping back. Looking around, he notices a few passersby glancing at him. He's not an idiot, he knows how he looks: a big bloke dressed all in black, scars all over, trying to seemingly knock down your door.

You're not rich, but your job pays well, and the house you rent showcases that as well. When he first started coming around, he had to school himself into not scowling at all the posh people walking down your street. While he personally couldn't care less, it would overcomplicate things if your neighbours hated him.

"You little vixen," he huffs.

He can't help but grin to himself. He knew that after that last stun he pulled, he wouldn't exactly be welcomed home, but changing the fucking locks is a new low, even for you. In a way, he's proud of your sheer spitefulness.

Sighing, he grabs his bag and walks around your house to your back door. He doesn't have to push himself against the door more than three times before the door gives, allowing him entrance. He frowns as he shuts the now broken door as much as it'll give behind him.

He'll have to fix that before he leaves. Can't have it so easy for just about anyone to get in.

The rest of your place looks exactly like it always does. He makes himself comfortable, grabs a beer from the fridge, and settles on your couch.

You changed the locks, but you didn't bother throwing out the beer he left in your fridge. That has to count for something. Especially when you always complain that the beer he drinks is awful.

"Not even a dog would drink this stuff, Si," you said one time, scrunching your nose in disgust. He had smiled and taken a big swig before kissing you silly.

You sense it the second you walk up your front porch. You don't know how, you just know that he's here. Like a fucked up sixth sense, an alarm in the back of your head that tells you Simon Riley is ready to bulldoze your life again.

Already angry, you unlock your front door, ready for the fight you're about to have. When you find him on your couch, so at home, your mood only worsens. You ignore the pointed ache in your chest, as well as the relief of finding him still alive after months of silence.

"Six months, Si," you say, arms crossed over your chest. "You've been gone for six months,"

Simon lazily looks over his shoulder, taking you in. He shamelessly lets his gaze roam, memorising the shape of you. The furrow between your brows, the curve of your hips. The way you're so sexy when you're mad at him.

"Right," he says. "So tha' it, then? You're done."

It's cruel, the way he makes it sound like it's somehow your fault. Your glare sharpens, and you shake your head.

"How did you get in?" You look at the floor, seeing the dirt his boots had tracked in. Annoyed, you make your way to the back door, jaw dropping when you see the way it's barely hanging onto its hinges.

"Si, you stupid-"

You turn back to him, still lazily spread on your couch. He shrugs.

Angrily, you grab a book from your bookshelf and hurl it at him. He barely dodges before you're throwing yet another.

"Aight, love, I'll fix it," he says, dodging book after book. “It was too flimsy anyway, it's far too easy for an intruder to get in.”

"The only intruder is you!"

You glare, reaching for another book, ignoring the warning in his eyes. It looks ridiculous the way the big man on your couch scowls as Pride and Prejudice hits him right in the face.

"Tha's it,"

He stands up, barely flinching when Little Women, quickly followed by Crime and Punishment, hits him in the chest, and next thing you know, he's on you.

"Gonna need thicker books than tha, dove," he says, throwing you over his shoulder. You trash as he takes you to his bedroom in long strides, before you're thrown on the bed.

"A bible might help," you bite, and he scoffs, shaking his head.

"You and I both know we're way past that sorta thing,"

You whine when he smashes his lips to yours, swallowing up your curses. He pushes his tongue into your mouth, and you bite angrily. He draws back, cursing, before he pulls your jeans off you. You tug on his shirt in response, and he doesn't hesitate to throw it over his head.

The next kiss is violent, both of you fighting to take the lead. You run your hands through his choppy short hair, and he puts a hand on your throat while the other is on your hips.

Despite promising he'll stop, he still tastes like cigarettes, and you pull him closer, angry that he's managed to wrangle himself into your bed again.

"I hate you," you say, gasping when he pulls your top and bra down, your tits spilling out. He groans, wrapping his lips around one nipple before quickly moving to the other.

"Love your tits," he states, ignoring you completely as he presses his face to them, groaning with relief. "Goddamn, soft as pillows,"

You roll your eyes, yet he manages to pull a surprised moan from you when he sucks a hickey on the sensitive skin, grinning at his art.

"Tell me, lovie," he says, while his stupid, big hands paw all over you. "What exactly made you think a little lock could keep me away?"

You're about to snap back, explain to his thick head that it's meaning behind the lock, but he thumbs your clit, and your jaw goes slack. Six months of nothing but your fingers and your vibrator does wonders to make you extra sensitive to Simon's calloused hands.

You remember in the early months of your relationship, how he loved it, how he'd edge you for hours.

Tonight, he groans at how slick you already are as he pushes two fingers into you. Your grip on his biceps turns sharp, and your back arches. You bite your lips to keep your moans, and Simon frowns as he uses his free hand to tug your lip free. You bite down on his thumb, and he nearly howls, pulling his hands back.

You smile, but your face twists in pleasure when he curls his fingers just how you like it, while scissoring you open.

"You're so wet, love," he grunts, getting down on his stomach in front of you. You gasp when he noses at your clit, groaning. "Fuck, I missed ya,"

You scoff, but any retort dies on your tongue when he dives in. He eats you out with a fervour, his big hands digging into the meat of your thighs as he moans into your cunt, licking and sucking. You whimper when he sucks on your clit, and his grip on you tightens. You'll surely have bruises tomorrow, but right now all you can focus on is the fire that's slowly building in your gut.

Your eyes roll back when he prods his fingers at your entrance again, reaching deeper than you've ever been able to on your own.

"Simon," you sob, digging your heels into his back. He moans, and when you meet his eyes, he's already staring, taking in your pinched expression and trembling lips.

He takes his mouth off your clit, instead using a rough thumb to make messy circles on your clit. You break with a cry, back arching as you struggle to keep your eyes open.

"That's it, love, there you go,"

Wet, salty tears stream down your cheeks, and you whine when he bites the inside of your thigh, before immediately smoothing his tongue over the irritated skin. For a second, you just watch each other as he kisses the insides of your thigh. Then he pulls himself up and collapses on top of you. The weight calms you down, and an involuntary sigh leaves you.

"That was a big one, huh, baby?" he murmurs, wiping the tears off your cheek with a rough thumb. You hiccup, grabbing his hand and intertwining your fingers.

"I'm still mad at you," you say, playing with his fingers. You can feel his erection poking your side, but neither of you addresses it.

"And you have every right to be, love," he says, kissing the back of your hand.

"But you're not gonna change," you say.

There's something heavy in Simon's eyes. He looks at you for a while, neither of you saying anything.

"No," he says. "I can't."

A fresh set of tears appears, and you bite your lip, looking away from him.

"That's cruel."

abrupt ending i know but this was all i had in me . first posted simon fic how are we feeling. (good hopefully???) i have like four more drafts for this guy, so let me know what you think!!!!! thank you for reading, i love youuuuu!!!

he lets you take what you want from him.

he lets you, his pretty wife, take him by the forearm and position his hand directly against your warm, slick core. the bumps of his knuckles find the pearl of your clit as you slowly drag yourself across the back of his hand, a whine falling from your lips as you rut yourself against him like a common whore.

you gasp out, head dropping backwards as you whimper his name into the silence of your chambers. your hips rock, your pussy splitting apart over the back of his hand. his knuckles slide through the slick heat of your folds, and with each downward grind, a burning warmth simmers tightly in the base of your tummy.

baelor reclines against the head of the bed, watching you with dark eyes, pupils wide in the shadowed darkness. he observes you with that typical look of his—that knowing look—as you rut yourself against the back of his hand. your little gasps and mewls force a low groan from the back of his throat, his cock pressing against the soft cotton of his breeches.

you look beautiful like this. your bare body is bathed in the moonlight streaming through the latticed window nearby, and the way your body rolls and shifts makes him dizzy with need. gently, he angles his hand to deepen the drag of his knuckles against you, and he hides a victorious smile when you sob his name, a shudder wracking through your body.

“how does that feel?” baelor asks, voice deep and smooth. it penetrates your skull and almost seems to rattle around the inside of your brain. he watches you pant and writhe, the mattress dipping where you kneel and rock. he smiles. “is this making you feel good?”

“y-yeah,” you manage to stutter out, breath tight in your chest, pleasure even tighter in the base of your belly. something hot prickles beneath your skin too, flowing through your veins like molten gold. you sigh out, gripping your husband’s forearm as you rock your slick pussy against his hand. “i like it, baelor. s’just—s’making me feel so good.”

you grind yourself against him, and he watches closely. his gaze linger on your face mostly, but periodically, he finds himself dragging his mismatched eyes down your body to where you hump the back of his hand. not only can he feel you, but he can see you—see how wet you are against him, how much slick paints his knuckles in a gloss he’ll lick off once he drags a few orgasms from you.

“yeah, bet it feels really nice, sweetheart,” baelor utters, his free hand finding the prominent tent in his trousers. he rubs his palm up and down his covered length, brows drawing together ever-so-slightly. “and you’re doing so well, aren’t you? rubbing that pretty little pussy all over your husband’s hand…”

he trails off and starts tutting, which makes you moan, all high-pitched and wanton, as your hips deepen in their rolling. your head shifts forward, and you look at him with fluttering eyelashes. your eyes fall to where he palms himself over his trousers, his thick fingers smoothing across the cotton and making your stomach flip.

you whine at him, pouting. the hot pressure in the base of your belly grows tighter, and the throb of your clit has you keening harder to feel his knuckles split you even further apart. your mouth waters at the way his fingers grip the outline of his hard cock.

“baelor,” you cry, the mattress creaking beneath you as you move. your gaze snaps from his large hand across his bulge, to his observant eyes. they’re already examining you like you’re a specimen to be studied, and the intensity in his gaze makes you shiver. “baelor, please.”

that’s all it takes for your husband to understand you. the hand on his lap ceases and lifts. you groan, almost relieved, as you bend forward a little to meet his hand as it rises towards your face. your pussy clenches around nothing when baelor offers you two thick fingers, and your moan creeps up your throat as you open your mouth.

he slides the two digits in. your hips stutter briefly against his hand, your puffy clit catching between two bumps of his knuckles as you wrap your lips around his fingers. they rest heavily on your tongue and, keeping your teeth away, you give him a tentative suck.

baelor hums low in his throat, his thumb firm on your jaw as he keeps his index and middle finger deep in your mouth. “that’s it, that’s my girl.”

he presses in a little deeper, and you take him happily, eyes falling closed. your entire body feels as though it’s humming, pleasure a kindled heat through your womb.

“keep sucking, just like that,” baelor whispers, the hand beneath still rocking slowly. your slick coats his hand, dribbling between the gaps of his fingers as you ruck yourself against him. you’ve ridden his thigh, his boot—hell, even the curve of his pectoral muscles, but you always are the wettest with your cunt sliding across his hand. he grins lazily at you. “gods, you’re beautiful, sweet girl. my pretty little wife. always so good for her husband.”

you moan around his fingers, your eyes opening just enough to watch him appraise you. your hips continue to move, but the thrusts are slower and sharper now. whimpering his name, muffled completely by the press of his fingers on your tongue, you draw your hips in circles to grind your clit against his knuckles. your orgasm looms like a shadow, and the pressure in your tummy begins trekking towards the base of your spine.

you try to tell your husband. you try to tell him you’re close, but your words are unintelligible as the pads of his pointer and index finger rub against your tongue and teeth.

baelor shushes you gently, shaking his head as he pushes his hand even tighter against you. the heat of your cunt has him leaking into his breeches, a blush high on his cheeks.

“s’alright, sweetheart, i know,” he coos as you rut. your grip on his forearm is vice-like, and you feel the flexing of his muscles beneath the pinpoints of your nails. he continues, voice honey-smooth and giddily commanding. “want you to come all over my hand, and i want you to do it while you’re sucking my fingers. can you do that for me?”

you nod desperately, but he holds your face firmly as he slowly slides his fingers around your mouth. gentle, shallow thrusts: in, out, in, out, while you continue to grind yourself against your husband’s hand.

“that’s a good girl,” baelor whispers, and that adds fuel to the fire in your stomach.

your swollen clit drags along his knuckles over and over, pressure tight in your belly. your thighs ache from how you’re kneeling, your lower back heavy with the weight of your oncoming release. you hold yourself up using his forearm until your grinding becomes rabid and you suck his fingers until you can no longer taste the salt of his skin.

you start to shake, and baelor pets your tongue as you suckle around the knuckles. he whispers, “want you to come for me, sweetheart. need to feel you do it.”

you moan his name around his fingers, the pressure in your belly building. with one last bump of his knuckle against the bottom of your clit, your orgasm splinters through you. your mouth opens, but his fingers remain a firm press on your tongue as you cry out. you shudder, hips slowing where they ruck against your husband’s hand, laying flat on the bed.

“that’s a good girl…” baelor praises you tenderly as you fizzle down from your high. you whimper at his words, and he carefully extracts his fingers from your mouth. you roll your hips against his hand a few more times before you stop, panting as he strokes his wet fingers down your cheek. he coos, your name feather-light on his lips, “my best girl, y’did so well for me. so well.”

you hold his forearm, his hand a warm, solid press against the wet core of your cunt. you groan, hazy from your release. “i love your hands, baelor.”

baelor takes your jaw and brings you down for a kiss. it’s gentle and loving, and when the tips of your tongues brush, your entire body fills with a pleasant heat that makes butterflies erupt somewhere in your stomach.

"would," jack croaks, bending his arm to stuff his fingers a little deeper. just because he can. "but 'm kinda in the middle'a something, if you haven't noticed."

a strangled noise cracks out of your throat, and jack hums as to say, yep, right. exactly.

"see, i got this sweet thing wrapped up nice here, who claimed i couldn't make them squirt like a fountain, and yet…" jack trails off to a concentrated, lip-bitten pause at the feeling of a familiar clench around his fingers. grunting, he pumps away until a pretty splash gushes from between your quaking thighs. "here you are. my fuckin' fountain."

jack keeps moving, squelching his hand from you just so swipe flat fingers across your clit to keep you flooding his sheets. even though his lips find your ear to rasp you through, jack can't really talk. too busy watching the way your skin shines and stomach flipping at how you're grabbing at him and begging for something only he's been able to give you.

"i know, baby… i know."

jack helps you loop your arm around his neck as another anchor, patting your belly while you try to breathe between shakes.

good. good, just breathe and forget it.