◇Hannah◇

while stumbling over your words, you tell this to him one night, your voice splintering because of your ripping euphoria, and it's not even meant to be dirty talk or to tease him, but it hits simon so hard, he just fucking cums preemptively.

"si- whu'-"

"shit," he puffs out, pressing his face on the column of your neck, heaving deeply and tensed in his sudden orgasm. "shit, i- give me a sec, hun. give-"

you feel his face heat up from where it's pressed on your skin, his warm breaths turning even more feverish, and, god, how cute. but you stay still, breathing through your mouth, because simon may not be moving but he's still so big inside of you, plugging his cum in that you wonder if you should start worrying now because it's not a safe day, then--

simon moves, a little humping motion, and you squeak, dragging your dull nails along his back at the feeling of him fucking his spunk further in you and it's so debauched and it feels so dirty but, christ, it feels good.

Simon Riley who despises pet names. Snarls and sneers in the face of terms of endearment. Everyone already knew him as his call sign, ‘Simon’ was intimate enough for him.

Then, you came along with your sweet words and a soft voice. Melted in saccharine honey, clung to him in ways he couldn’t explain. Bloomed warmth from his fingertips to his toes, coiled tightly around his heart, and found a home in his veins.

Felt it when dainty fingers snaked under his balaclava, slipped the mask off his face as you straddled his lap.

“There’s my pretty boy,” You would murmur, trace the pads of your thumb over his cheek bones and jawline.

Simon knew he wasn’t pretty, not nearly when scars decorated his face. But there you would sit spread over his thighs, kissing sweet words into his skin, and how wasn’t he supposed to enjoy that?

Or when he would snuggle deeper into the sheets on his leave, protesting leaving the warmth of your bed.

But then you would pull him up anyways, purring syrupy words of “Come on, big boy, we have plans today!”

Those moments were intimate enough for him, all you had to do was call him something sweet in your silvery voice and blink your doe eyes at him, and he would do anything you asked. At your beck and call.

Though his favorite might be when you were perched on your heels between his thighs, peering up at him with glassy eyes. One hand fisting his fat cock, the other wrapped around your chin as he leisurely stroked over his shaft.

Lips parted as you squeezed your thighs together, desperate for any stimulation, breathed a soft “Baby, please.”

He had been teasing you all day, left you needy and wet that morning before he left for base, but it was over the moment you started whispering sweet names to him.

And you knew it.

Fluttered your pretty lashes at him, knew you had him wrapped around your finger. Hoisted you in his lap soon after, lowered you on his throbbing cock until your ass pressed against his hips.

Banding your arms tightly around his shoulders as he finally slid home, lips pressed close to his ear as you whimpered so sweetly for him.

“Oh— baby.”

“Yeah, ‘m right here, pretty,” He murmured, pulling your hips up, “I got you.”

Simon Riley doesn’t drink wine, he’s positive he’s never had a glass— ever. He doesn’t care for that fancy shit, a cheap pack of beer or a glass of bourbon will get him where he needs. Bitter malt burns away the words on his tongue and the tightness in his chest.

So, when you invite him over to binge on greasy take out and watch some shitty rom-com he doesn’t expect you to hand him a glass of red wine. He arches his brow, it’s almost comical how the glass shrinks in his massive palm.

‘It’s all you have,’ you explain, ‘plus, you can’t watch a rom-com without wine!’

He’s a big man, isn’t even buzzed off of one glass, so he goes for another, and another. The second glass makes his face warm, cheeks burning hot, body a little looser. A third glass makes a searing heat lick down his spine, desire pooling thickly in his stomach as he stares at your thighs.

Simon can handle his liquor, better than most people can, takes him quite a while to get drunk. But the wine sloshing in his belly has his cock throbbing against the cotton fabric of his boxers in an unfamiliar way.

You’re friends, but if you end up stretched thin around his fat cock by the end of most nights well that’s just another thing.

His hands move on their own accord, pulling you into his lap so your back is pressed to his chest. You don’t pay him any mind, too preoccupied with the plate of food in your hands to care.

You go for a big mouthful of rice when he spreads your legs open, resting them on either side of his knees. It doesn’t falter you; you just adjust to him, shimmying deeper into his hold, ass rubbing right up against his half-chub cock.

His eyes practically roll, stifling a deep groan at the sensation of your plump ass. The wine has him on overdrive, like some aphrodisiac, hyper aware of the pulsing at the head of his cock, balls heavy. He can’t help himself, really, his hands grip at your breasts before he even realizes.

You gasp in shock, coughing on a spoonful of food, “Simon, what are you doing?”

He’s already panting in your neck, one greedy hand moving to your hip so he can rut up into your ass. The movies not even at the halfway mark.

“The bloody hell ya’ put in tha’ wine?” He grunts it out like the wine was holding it hostage in his throat.

That doesn't mean you hold all the power... No, of course not. He's always in charge and starts slowly introducing you to his Shadow team. You weren't quite sure why he wanted you to be comfortable with them. Yes, they were his team and he cared about them. Surely, Graves would keep his work and home life separate, right?

Where was the fun in that?

Instead, Graves started inviting you to the base, or his men over to the house. He didn't scold his men when they became handsy with you or stop them when you shyly tell him where they've been touching you. If anything, he encourages it.

It all comes to a head when one of the men gets his cock thrusting deep inside of you while your bent over Graves desk. Graves just watches with pride as your fucked dumb, drool dripping down your chin and eyes rolling back in pleasure.

"I knew you'd be so good for me. Good for my men... You just needed to meet em, huh? Let em into your sweet hole.." Graves coos while he pushes your hair off your face.

"Phil! Phillip, please - I can't take it." You sob as you lean into every touch he gives you.

"You can, baby girl. You have to." He chuckles, squishing your cheeks together a little. "No one else makes my men feel so good. Do you wanna take that from them, baby girl? Want to make their lives harder?" Graves questions, pouting your lips out when you shake your head no.

He’s a little messy as a chef, as is life.

It’s what makes his food a little bit better, the imperfections of it. As long as the taste is what it’s supposed to be, he doesn’t particularly care if the dish is a little messed up. If the bay leaves are a little slanted or the peppers are a little uneven.

He worked in fine dining with the head chefs with foots so far up their asses fresh out of culinary school and quit after a year. He can’t stand a toxic work environment, and has talked shit to and about chefs you encourage the lifestyle.

Every dish looks a little different and that’s what brings his food to life, it’s what draws people in to trust the process, it gives ‘high class but at home’ feel. There are always accidents made in the kitchen as long as you can work around them.

That’s why he likes your cakes so much. They’re not perfectly iced, and sometimes the slices are a little too big. But that’s what Simon loves about it. They’re made from the heart, every pour and every mix of batter is with care which makes every bite is impeccable. It’s never too sweet or too tart, something about it takes him back to watching his grandmother bake, letting his taste the icing.

That’s why you’re the only person Simon trusts you so much with his desserts. It can only be you.

utterly obsessed with butcher!simon who is just a grimy, absolutely nasty man who you just so happen to see every now and then outside of the butchers.

nose that has been broken just a few too many times. scars that line his arms and caress his face. shirt that has so many different stains on it but you can tell some of them are washed out blood. you can tell by his hair that he sweats a lot, a few stray pieces falling in his face.

when he speaks you can tell that he doesn't use his voice very often, coming out scratchy and low. he uses pet names on you that have your knees going weak, but they manage to make you feel dirty as well.

and that's exactly it, he makes you feel dirty. he whispers filth into your ear before you leave the shop, watching as your face flushes as you walk out the door, wondering how he's going to make you squirm next.

it happens after the butchers closes late one night. he takes you back into the alley behind the shop after you bat your eyes at him one too many times. fucking into you while you babble his name, pleading for him to slow down only for him to chuckle, you knew you weren't getting mercy with him silly girl, what were you expecting?

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who sat you down on the front of his horse and didn’t know how uncomfortable it is for you. You’re pressed right up to his chest with hardly any room to move because he takes up the entire saddle. As he urges his horse forward with his entire army following behind him, his men mutter and grumble

Anyway he meets you and you have a bath at ur place and after a couple of nights with him over he's eyeing the tub like a sad dog so you're like ? 🧐 Do you?? Want a bath, Si ???

And he's a little bashful but also "if it's no trouble... Don't have 'em on base..."

So you make him go undress while you draw the water, just hot enough. You add your bubble bath soap to it bc of course.

And you grab the candles from the kitchen. Set them out on safe surfaces around the bathroom.

And then you turn on rain sounds on your speaker.

Simon comes back by the time you flick the overhead lights off, staring at it all in utter disbelief.

And the sigh that escapes him when he sinks into the hot water is nothing short of pure contentment.

His legs bend, knees up out of the water, so that he sinks in until his shoulders are under. He blinks up at you, slow, like a satisfied cat.

Then he grabs your hand. Gives it a tug that makes you giggle.

You insist there's no room for you both.

But his insistence is greater than yours

bc before you know it your clothes are gone and your back is pressed against his chest with his thighs bracketing yours.

And when you ask if this is... nice, you get no reply.

So you turn your head enough to find the 6 foot whatever, hulking blue eyed blonde, who had railed you three ways to Sunday not a week ago...

dozing...

his head tilted just so. Breath slow and steady. Arms loose around your waist. Candle light catching warm and golden on his scars and features. Eyes closed softly.

You’ve always hated wearing undergarments—especially bras. The feeling of straps digging into your shoulders and fabric pressing against your skin never sat right with you. So the moment you were home in your apartment, the bra was the first thing to go. Most days, you didn’t bother putting one on at all.

When your best friend Simon Riley first started coming over, you hadn’t thought much of it. But the first time he walked into your living room and found you in nothing but a thin white spaghetti strap top, he froze. His face remained unreadable, calm and composed as always, but beneath that mask, he was caught off guard. Your nipples pressed faintly against the fabric, leaving little to the imagination.

Over time, he learned to mask his reactions better. He never said anything, never crossed a line, though the sight of you padding around your apartment braless—or sometimes in just panties—gnawed at his restraint. He was a soldier, a man with discipline, and though he found it maddeningly attractive, he never let it show. Not outwardly.

But Simon was also protective. The moment he realized you didn’t wear bras at all when you were home, he became more vigilant. He’d tug the curtains shut if the sunlight hit you in a way that made your silhouette visible through the windows. If you bent over while reaching for something near the glass, his jaw would tighten, eyes flicking toward the apartment building across from yours or street below—as if to ensure no one looking out their window could ever see what he saw.

One evening, Simon dropped by unannounced. He had just come from the gym during his military leave and, as usual, found himself drawn to your place. He called it routine now—your apartment had become his haven.

When you opened the door to him, he was in a fitted black sleeveless shirt that clung to every line of his torso. His chest looked impossibly solid beneath the cotton, and when he moved, you caught a glimpse of the ridges of his abs pressing faintly against the fabric. His bare arms were on full display, muscles defined and veins running along his forearms, his biceps flexing easily with each movement. He tossed his bag aside, disappearing toward the shower as you set about preparing dinner.

While the scent of garlic and herbs filled the kitchen. The sound of running water filled the bathroom, and Simon’s voice carried faintly through the steam when you called out to him, “One of my coworkers is dropping by tonight to give me some files I forgot.”

He didn’t respond. Or maybe he didn’t hear.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. You quickly wiped your hands on the kitchen towel and hurried to answer it. Just as your fingers brushed the knob, two strong, calloused hands slid beneath your thin top, cupping your breasts with firm possession. The suddenness stole your breath, your body shivering at his touch.

You opened the door anyway, heat rushing to your cheeks.

Your coworker stood there, blinking rapidly. His smile faltered the second he noticed the towering figure pressed flush behind you. The air shifted—the casual drop-off suddenly thick with tension.

The man’s eyes flicked from you, to Simon, and back again. His hand trembled slightly as he extended the envelope of files, muttering a quick, “Here you go.”

Simon’s presence was overpowering. He didn’t say a word, didn’t need to—his hard gaze alone was enough to make your coworker swallow nervously and retreat a step. You could practically feel Simon’s glare burning into the poor man, his hand never leaving your chest, fingers tightening slightly as though staking a claim.

Your coworker managed a stiff smile. “Have… a good evening.” And then he left, almost too quickly.

You pressed the door shut with a soft click, exhaling in relief. Simon stayed right behind you, his chest warm against your back, his hand still cupping your breast as if it belonged there. Just as you turned the lock, his fingers tightened, giving you one last deliberate squeeze that made your knees weaken.

You spun halfway toward him, incredulous, cheeks flushed. “You don’t have to scare him like that, you know,” you said, your voice caught somewhere between exasperation and breathlessness.

Simon didn’t budge. His eyes were dark, his mouth set in that unreadable line, “I didn’t like the way he looked at you. Not before he knew I was here,” he said, his voice low, steady. You fully turned around.

Only then did you notice the state he was in—his damp hair clinging to his forehead, droplets of water trailing down the sharp cut of his shoulders and chest. The towel at his waist hung dangerously low, clinging to his hips like it might slip at any second. He must have grabbed it in a rush before storming out of the bathroom, driven by instinct more than thought.

For a moment, you thought he might stay there, pinning you against the door with that heated gaze. But instead, he let a slow, knowing smirk curve across his lips. Without another word, he turned and began walking back toward the bathroom, towel hanging dangerously low on his hips.

Over his shoulder, his voice came low and teasing, almost casual—yet it sent heat rushing through you.

“You should never wear bras again. My hands are better for you anyway.”

You'd been together seven years when the accident happened, married for three.

You had rushed to the hospital when Price had called. And you sobbed into his chest out of pure relief when Simon had made it through surgery.

The issue? He'd lost a fair amount of hearing from the IED blast.

Simon did eventually get used to it, but he never quite got used to hearing aids. Preferring to rely on lip reading when someone was talking too quietly.

There was also the sex problem. Not that you two had bad sex. Hell, it was the best for the both of you, going at it multiple rounds at times.

No, it was the fact that while Simon loves how shy you can be, it makes it difficult for him to hear you during sex. The little whimpers and whines you would make, now silent movements of your mouth. It pissed him off to no end.

Simon then began to experiment. Would it be easier to just wear his hearing aids during sex? Of course not. The damn things were so uncomfortable, but making you come? As easy as breathing.

He would start with teasing you throughout the day. Until you were practically dry humping him on the couch. Then he'd edge you until your whines were just loud enough for him to hear; though it sounded as though you were underwater.

Finally, what made your resolve crumble in Simons hands, was when he practically folded you in half. Holding a vibrator he'd spat on to your clit. Overstimulating you until you'd finished on his cock six times.

And Simon loved it. God you were so loud and pretty for him, he could finally hear you perfectly, your screams of pleasure filling his mind like a hazed fog pillowing over mountains early in the morning. Your hips writhing desperately; in an attempt to escape the pleasure or move towards it, he didn't know. He didn't care.

He could finally hear his pretty little bird sing as he filled her to the brim.

Ko-Fi ! Anything is insanely appreciated!