lina

His mouth starts from the curve of your shoulder, landing parched from his slumber and soft from tenderness. The heat of his breathing follows, puffing gently over the wet spots left by his tongue as he rises. Tastes your heartbeat from your jugular, sniffs the smell of sleep still clinging to your skin. Then, a hardness presses to your back, slowly gliding against your nightgown as it rides up, up, up.

And you smile, because it's always so very nice to wake up to him already thinking about you. The concept of being wanted so completely that it wakes him from his slumber, of being loved so entirely that you're the first thought that hungers him in the morning.

You whisper a breathy good morning as you toss your head back, extending your neck so he has more room to work with. Though he's already doting on the curve of your shoulder again, the wings of your back, the space between your shoulder blades. 

Sneaky fingers slide down the straps of your garment. The callouses on his palm are coarse against your skin, and even though this has been almost routine for the past couple of years, he still has the clamminess of his palms to show the nervousness of touching someone so fragile compared to him.

But he knows you don't want to be seen as breakable, because you aren't. It's why he flattens his hand against your lower back and steers you forward, until you're lying on your stomach. You're still processing the first sensations of the morning, blinking your eyes open as your cheek meets the pillow.

"Fuck,” he croaks with awe on his tongue, watching you from above. “Just a second, yeah?"

Licks his lips when you curve your back and offer him your ass almost in second nature.

His knees dip into the mattress beside your legs and squeeze your thighs together, digging in on each of your flanks. He'd prep you, normally, but this time he doesn't. Your only hint is the breeze brushing the hot skin of your lower back as he lifts the satin of your nightgown and lets it pool in the dip of your spine.

Then, the thick head of his cock pushes against you. You snap your eyes open.

"Fuck Simon, wait—"

"Just a second, love."

It burns. It's like a whip snaps against your spine, and you take in a mouthful of air when the first inch of him enters. 

"Oh my God, holy shit—fuck—"

Pins and needles that wrap around your belly, digging in like a belt of thorns. Hands fisting the sheets, toes curling on the duvet crumpled at the foot of the bed. The pain is so sudden that it shocks you into utter stiffness, with your legs screaming in protest as they’re scrambling to get away.

You don’t really want to. 

Though the position doesn’t allow much movement, you still try to take a peek above your shoulder. Your vision is filled by him. The breadth of his shoulders is dark, but his profile is hemmed with sunlight—a cottoned halo all around him, a gift from the window behind his back. He’s His thumbs are fitting in the tiny divots at the base of your spine, big hands holding you steady by your hips. Though it's his face that makes your mouth water.

Simon's eyes are glassy, focused on the stretch of your pussy as it widens to welcome his girth. Scarlet cheeks and silver scars that run across his jaw, where his stubble doesn't grow. And the brutality of the violence he once bore is softened by the simplicity of a quiet, domestic life—the folds of the pillowcase still embedded in his skin, the puffiness of sleep cottoning his eyes, the ruddy blush of lust and love mantling his face.

He slides down his hands and parts your ass as well, digging his thumbs in the plump of your cheeks. He kisses his teeth when he sees your puckered hole clench—hisses when it translates to further tightness around his cock. 

There's a twitch in his cheek. The pull of an invisible hook at the corner of his lips that relaxes once he slides another inch in. He releases the clench of his jaw, mouth hanging open once he's all snug inside you.

Though the bliss he feels couldn't be more different from the searing pain ripping you in half. The whine on the tip of your tongue is swallowed and truncated, turned into a breathless gasp yielded in the soft pillow tucked under your chin.

"S-slower," you whimper.

"Aye," he croaks. "Slow an' easy. Promise."

And he delivers.

In fact, it takes him a moment more than usual to fully sheath himself inside you. Your knuckles click with how furiously you're gripping the bedsheets—a way to find release as the pressure of being filled so entirely strangles you all the way to your windpipe.

You babble something with your lips, trying to form sentences you don't know how to utter. Eyes rolled back, unfocused and wet at the rim.

"Ah fuck yer tight, love—" he grunts. "Need help ta open up, don't ya?"

You nod vigorously against the pillow, because words aren't exactly your forte right now. Nor are thoughts, to be frank, because all you can feel is the burn on the lower half of your body and the contrasting pleasure that stems from it.

"Poor thing," he taunts. "Ruined ya already, mh?"

Somehow, you manage to summon enough strength to blindly swat your hand where his thigh should be. That bit of defiance still left in you that you know he appreciates, though you're aware he's just about to fuck it out of you.

You hit something hard and hairy with your palm and decide that it landed correctly. It must have, because you hear him chortle, deep and ragged. 

"Now don't get all fussy on me."

He hums. Collects spit in his mouth and lets it fall in a string until it lands around the base of his cock, where you’re painfully stretched around it. His hand smears it along the skin there, around your hole and down to your clit, lightly tracing the slit of your pussy. And you're burning so hot that his spit feels like being rubbed with freezing water. It's oddly refreshing, and it helps your muscles relax.

Simon must feel it, because his chest purrs with an appraising hum.

"Better?" He asks, as his hand surreptitiously slips around your waist. 

Your cheek is smushed to the pillow, linen soaking up tears and drool. "Yeah."

The thick scars on his forearm tickle your side and then your stomach, preceding the blooming pleasure that stems from his fingertips when he skims them over your clit.

"Better?" He murmurs again, though now his breath feels closer, puffing warmly on the skin of your shoulder.

Your body melts on the bedsheets, knots unravelling under the touch of his hand and the heat of his chest. He hovers above you, just a breath away from your back.

Your voice is nothing but a murmur, “Yes.”

"Tha’s right. My girl. Good—" He rumbles, though whatever he was about to add afterwards dies on his tongue when he pulls back, and then slides inside you again. 

Your eyes roll back. 

"Fuck—fuckin' hell. Good girl. Like tha'—"

The searing belt wrapped around your stomach unwinds, slowly giving in and finally—finally—allowing you to breathe just right once again. You blink the tears collecting in the corners of your eyes, lick your lips and feel how parched they really are.

Your body comes back to you, awakened and aware, not wrapped in thorns and needles anymore. There's the rawness of his touch, long fingers gliding smoothly on your clit. The bristle of his chest, all hair and scars, though still soft above his heart, on his stomach, as it perfectly clicks into place in the curve of your spine.

"Could do this all day. Feel like fuckin’ heaven, you do—" His throat works. "—C'mere."

He watches your fists relax, your jaw unclench. He sees your grimace when cold air brushes your clit as he leaves it unattended. And only then does he unleash his hunger, picking up the pace with his hips. Grabs your jaw and bends you backwards until his mouth hovers above yours and clashes against it.

The strain in your spine is forgotten with the same rapidity with which it came. The headboard bangs mercilessly against the wall, accompanying his grunts and your moans. The creak of the springs, the rustle of sheets as you clutch them again—fingers curled around the pillow. Not out of pain anymore; the opposite, at last.

Though unfortunately, there's another pressure building around his cock, as he pistons inside you. One that you hadn't noticed at all, too focused on accommodating your body to the size of him.

You gasp. "Simon—" 

But he kisses you again, harder this time. Sloppy tongue and spit smearing down your chin. 

“Oh fuck—Simon, baby—”

“There—” He grunts. “Say my name like tha’ again an’ I’ll cum too fuckin’ soon.”

As much as you’d love to hear his dark voice crumble into moans, there are more pressing matters to attend.

"F-fuck, I need—" Your hands try to reach backwards for his shoulders, but you lose your balance and fall forward, face-first into the pillow. 

"Shit—" You hiss, propping yourself on shaky elbows. "I need to pee!"

"Can feel it—" He states. "Yer gettin' tight again."

"Let me—"

"Keep it in." He growls, quickening his pace. Your head bobs uselessly for each merciless hit. "Fuckin' keep it in, don't spill a drop—"

"Don’t know if I can—"

His hand finds the curve of your neck, fingers exercising pressure just there on the sides, putting sweet, dark spots in your vision. 

"Don't spill a fuckin' drop until I say so."

There's nothing you can do against his command. Your stomach coils as soon as he barks it in your ear, responding to the order before your brain has absorbed it entirely. Each thrust of his translates into tiny shockwaves that run from your belly to the tips of your toes—and Simon isn't gentle with it either.

In fact, as he rams inside you with a pace able to knock the air out of your lungs, you can merely nod your head. Your chin knocks against his palm.

"Don't like it when yer quiet," he chastises. "Say it."

Perhaps understanding the clog he's causing in your windpipe, Simon unravels the hold around your neck—gently so. Loosens his fingers first, supporting your throat with his palm before sliding upwards, where he ends up cradling your jaw. The release is a blessing and a curse.

The mere air filling your lungs is a pleasure in and of itself, and it causes your muscles to unwind. Luckily, you manage to catch yourself and clench your entire body again, though with the added fury of Simon's hips, it's hard to keep the promise he wants you to make.

But you swear it anyway.

"Yes," you croak. "Yes, yes—okay."

Pleased by your answer, Simon rewards you. Slams his pelvis flush to your ass, sheathing himself fully inside you. Nestled deep in the tightness of your stomach, you feel every inch of him as his hips start moving with a slow roll. 

Similarly, your eyes find the back of your head. 

"Oh my God—"

The bastard dares to chuckle. "Oh, ye like it, uh?"

You refuse to let him know that you do. Teeth sink into your cheek until iron stings down your throat. And it works, for the most part. There's an annoying tingle in your eyes that wishes to be soothed, though you know that if you dare to blink, he'll see the tears he's causing. The bliss they'd paint down your cheek.

But Simon always has an ace up his sleeve.

The hand that once held your throat now snakes forwards again, nestles in the softness of your stomach. Your eyes widen.

"Bit quiet t'day, are ya?" He smirks. "You in a mood, or what?"

"Stop being a cunt, Simon—"

"Ah—" He interjects. "Manners, love."

And then, the heel of his palm presses down, just above your pussy. Your body seizes in reply, struggling to maintain the promise you made. It gets even worse, then, when he skims his fingers over your clit again, pairing it with the languid roll of his hips.

Hurriedly, you reach down with your hands to stop him, but Simon's quicker. His whole body falls on top of you, leaving you pressed between his bulk and the mattress.

"Shit—"

"Keep it in, aye?" He rumbles in your ear, assertive but oddly not unkind. Encouraging, even. "Know you can do it, pet."

The feeling is overwhelming and beautiful. 

You feel like you can't breathe, but you don't really want to. Purposefully, you keep it in—hold your breath for a moment longer than needed, until you're filled everywhere. Of him: inside you, on top of you. His hand sandwiched underneath, his chest like an anvil. Breath ripe of morning, of breakfasts waiting to be had. Tickles down your spine, ripples from his tongue against your pulse point.

Pressure builds and builds, strains your body as it ripens, swells, sweetens. A peach hanging low from a branch, ready to be picked. You know he's ready to bite, because you're ready to be consumed. 

And all you can do is heave and gasp. Reach behind you to find his hair and pull, scrape his scalp with your fingers as he works with his own to make you feel good, better, wonderful.

"Fuck, look at you—" He murmurs against the shell of your ear. "Gonna cum on me, pet?"

The tautness of your belly won't hold for much longer, not if he keeps touching you this way. 

"Won't—" You gasp. "Won't last long—please."

His kiss should be teasing; instead, it's an apologetic one. Left on your temple, where the sweat makes your hair stick and swirl against your skin. 

"Just a second, love."

But you don't have it. You don't have one second. You don't have a moment, a breath, the time for a thought. You can feel yourself grow tight and stiff, fighting against the invisible ticking clock inside your stomach.

"Please, Simon—" You squirm. Your body does, your mind too foggy to concoct the movement itself. "Please. Please, baby."

"One second," he murmurs sweetly, greedily lapping down your neck.

"One—" 

Thrust.

"More—" 

Thrust.

"Second."

Hazily, you think it's mere stubbornness that forces you to keep your promise. You're not ready to admit that he's trained you to respond to him the way he likes. Taught your body to act a certain way when he's speaking. Taught it to bring you to bliss and then him, and nothing else—not when you're under the sheets.

Indoctrinated every single cell inside you, simply, to obey.

But he's merciful. Perhaps hears the clock inside your body ticking menacingly, threatening to misbehave.

Or maybe he's attuned with you. Understands. Feels how you're begging not only with your lips but with your touch, the way your breath comes, the heat of your own skin.

His fingers tune with the roll of his hips, then. Draw slow circles that glide on smoothly, sticky and wet and steady.

He kisses the curve of your shoulder, then the hinge of your jaw.

"Now," he says.

Frankly, you don't know if you're coming. 

The current perception you have of yourself is hazy—your whole being reduced to a single entity, compressed between his body and the bed, touched in every single place that you call your own, and that is undeniably also his.

You only know that the release is wonderful. 

It's blinding white and liquor thick. It spreads throughout your whole body in waves of shivers and gooseflesh. It shatters you into fragments, spread evenly underneath his weight. Escaping from your mouth in a groan that is nowhere near human—a guttural thing, feral and beastly. Freeing and beautiful.

You're only vaguely aware of the mess you're making as the hot stream he's pushed out of you splashes down your thighs and onto the bed, where its sound transforms into something muted and dull. 

"Oh fuck," you heave. "Oh God, oh God, shit—"

"Ah fuck, just like tha'," he says, contrastingly calm as he keeps fucking you, hastily picking up the pace. "Fuckin' hell yer wet. Keep going."

You do. You keep going, unashamed and loud, riding his cock even in this uncomfortable position. Pushing back with your ass to have more, more, more. Greedy and insatiable. Trying to go over the edge and up on the clouds—fucking scour the sky and all of which is above, knowing he can give it. Grab it and hand it to you. 

You come once, then. Groaning into the pillow and pulling at his hair. Twice. Thrice. You don’t know. You don’t think you can keep count. You don’t think at all. 

Until there isn't a drop left inside you. No more sheets to clutch, no more linen to soak—not on the pillow, not underneath you. You twitch each time he moves, turning mellow and pliable as he ruts a few more times before pulling out.

Freezing air sinks its talons down your back, where his chest was welded before he moved away. You shiver but don’t complain. Can’t.

Simon comes with a muted groan, clipped to match the rapid strokes of his hand. It trickles down the swell of your ass and pools at your tailbone. Then, his softening cock lands sticky and hot against your skin. Perhaps to feed that primordial beast inside him, he pushes it with his thumb between the globes of your ass. Watches it slide up and down, lubed up with his own cum.

He hisses at the overstimulation but keeps that languid pace. “Fuckin’ hell yer perfect.”

You're too spent to move, only opening your eyes when you feel the mattress groan under Simon's weight as he shifts around. Though your consciousness is coming back to you, and your senses are suddenly flooded by the reality that surrounds you.

The smell of sex, of him and you. Of sweet kisses down your shoulder, of cloying lust and pungent orgasms. The wetness down your thighs, cold sheets sticking to your skin as it burns in the afterglow. The ringing in your ears, loud at first, then softening into a dull and distant sound.

While he's moved slightly, Simon still hovers above you, keeping your legs trapped between his massive thighs. His mouth tickles down the line of your shoulder. Calloused hands gently scratch down your arms.

“You always have to take it up a notch.”

You can feel Simon’s smile by the smoothness of his teeth brushing your skin. “That a complaint?”

You avoid that question. 

"I wanted to sleep in," you mumble dumbly with your cheek buried in the pillow. "S'Sunday. I deserved it."

His mouth travels upwards, finding your neck, then your cheek. "Can still do it."

You frown. “You know very well that I can’t.”

He shrugs. “Smell ain’t tha’ bad.”

You only offer a withering sidelong glance.

His kisses crack into a broken chuckle. "Right. Noted."

You close your eyes and laugh with him. "I mean, this was nice and all—"

"Nice," he scoffs. “T'was nice."

"Lovely way to wake up—"

"Alrigh’, pack it in.”

"—But we could've pushed it back a little. Like in the afternoon."

"Should I book an appointment," he deadpans.

"Yeah," you yawn. "Call my PA."

This time, his laughter comes from somewhere deeper. You feel it rumble in his chest first, then brush your cheek, exploding from his kiss.

“Yeah?” He huffs. “You got a free spot?”

“Around four PM.”

"Right. Wetting the bed at four PM, then."

You weakly slap his arm. "I hate you."

"Mhmh," Simon hums, finally finding your lips. 

He kisses you sweetly, like those times at the very beginning in which you were too shy to open up entirely—physically, emotionally, all of it. A slow dance that is fleeting, just a brush of lips that pretend they don't know each other very well.

When he pulls back, you absently follow him to have more, though he's too far to be reached. You blink your eyes open, turning your head uncomfortably to look above your shoulder.

Simon looks down at you with hooded eyes and curved lips. Just a sweet, tiny dent there in the corner. He reaches down with his knuckles to brush your forehead.

"How 'bout a shower," he offers. "I'll change the sheets."

You lean against his hand. Squirm to turn around, finally feeling cold air brush your chest when your back hits the damp mattress. Your eyes focus on him exclusively, trying to set aside the pungent smell and the discomfort of the sheets. 

It’s Sunday. It’s criminally early. The birds chirp behind the window, left ajar to let the summer breeze in. Even though the sun is only a shy shaft at the horizon, it still fights against the blinds to make Simon glow. The golden halo travelling along his shape, the lovely pink hue of his cheeks, and the blush of love on his face. On his body. All over him, inside him.

"Yeah, okay. In a second, though," you whisper, reaching up to touch his cheek.

"Just a second.”

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.