#blunt!simon

cw: dubiously consensual language / power imbalance, breeding kink / pregnancy kink, possessive + degrading language, obsession + ownership themes, implied somnophilia (waking you up with sex) marking, bruising, overstimulation, territorial behavior / isolation kink, objectification

a/n: divider by @bernardsbendystraws

he doesn’t take you to a beach. no cute sandals, no cocktails. he takes you to a cabin in the woods with no cell service and blackout curtains.

“honeymoon’s for makin’ sure it sticks.”

you don’t leave the bed for days.

you’re wearing nothing but his t-shirt and your wedding ring. your thighs are sore. your voice is gone. you’re leaking everywhere, and he won’t stop pressing his palm to your belly like he’s checking.

“doesn’t feel full enough. think i need to try again.”

he eats you out in the kitchen. fucks you over the balcony railing. carries you from room to room like a doll. he lets you nap only so he can wake you up by slipping in slow and whispering:

“’s your honeymoon, sweetheart. you want me to take care of you, yeah?”

you lose track of how many times he finishes inside you.

and he keeps whispering that same promise into your ear, every time your belly tenses up or your breath catches or your thighs shake:

“gonna give you a belly, yeah? a bump. little ring on your finger and a fuckin’ baby in you. real wife now.”

you’re in the bathroom, towel barely hanging on, brushing your teeth with the fan humming. steam’s still thick in the mirror. you didn’t lock the door. didn’t think you had to—he was supposed to be out.

then the door creaks open.

you whip around, mouth full of foam, heart jumping. and there he is. simon. leaning in the doorway like he’s been standing there a while.

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t look away.

"towel’s thin, love," he says, voice like gravel. "can see the outline o’your cunt through it."

you choke on the toothpaste.

he grins.

you scramble to cover up, fumbling for the hem, cheeks burning. he still doesn’t leave. eyes drag over you like he owns the sight. arms crossed over his chest, relaxed like he’s watching tv.

"wearin’ it like you want me to look. like you want me t’see every little line."

"i didn’t know you were back—"

"mm. didn’t care."

you squeeze tighter at the towel. he steps forward. doesn’t touch—just gets close enough to see your lashes trembling.

"don’t worry. just wanted a look. m’not gonna touch ya."

he backs up, eyes never leaving you.

"not yet."

and then he’s gone. door half-shut behind him. like it never happened.

blunt!simon piercing your nipples

warnings: blunt, filthy language, nonchalant objectification, body piercing (nipples) power imbalance, mild pain play elements (divider by @fairytopea & @anitalenia

you walk in nervous. oversized hoodie. lip balm and sticky hands.

he clocks you immediately.

“you the little thing askin’ for nipple piercings?”

you nod. big eyes. biting your lip like you don’t already know how that sounds.

simon just jerks his head toward the back.

“room three. top off. don’t sit yet.”

you hesitate. he glances over his shoulder as he snaps on a pair of gloves.

“didn’t think i was gonna do it with your fuckin’ shirt on, did you?”

you follow him, trembling. everything smells like antiseptic and leather. harsh lighting. a cold vinyl chair.

you barely get your hoodie off before he’s tilting your chin up with one gloved hand.

“nervous?”

“yeah…”

“should be.”

he kneels in front of you, tray already rolled beside him. cold metal. clamps. cotton. saline.

“sit up straight. arms behind you. don’t fuckin’ twitch.”

his fingers are firm, not kind. he manhandles your tit, tugging and adjusting, pressing in with the pad of his thumb like he’s testing fruit at the market.

“hm. y’got nice tits,” he mutters. “real perky. look even better with metal in ‘em.”

you make a noise. soft, embarrassed. he grins.

“don’t go shy now. you’re the one walkin’ in here askin’ me to stab your nipples.”

he lines up the clamp.

“deep breath. on three.”

“okay—”

“one.”

stab.

you gasp. back arching.

“fuck—!”

he doesn’t even look phased. just wipes the blood clean and moves to the other one.

“keep squirmin’ like that and i’ll think you’re enjoyin’ it.”

you whine. he leans in, closer than necessary.

“if you come from this, i’m chargin’ you extra.”

the second one is worse. he doesn’t wait this time. doesn’t count. just grabs, lines up, and pierces.

you choke on your breath. tears bead up at your lashes.

he clicks his tongue and drags a rough thumb beneath your eye.

“c’mon, sweetheart. don’t cry. y’look like a proper slut with ‘em. did good.”

you blink at him. dazed.

“bet you’re soaked under those little shorts,” he hums, pulling his gloves off.

“wouldn’t be surprised if sittin’ on my table left a mark.”

he tosses the gloves in the bin. hands you the mirror.

“take a look. you earned it.”

and then?

“next time you want ink on your inner thigh, ask for me. i’ve got steady hands.”

he’s already gone by the time your legs start working again.

he’s leaned against the bar. mask on. pint in one hand, fingers tapping the glass like he's got something on his mind.

he spots her—girl at the end of the bar, laughing with her friends, hair all done up. cute.

he walks over. clears his throat. no smile. just:

“you ovulatin’?”

she blinks. “...what?”

“your skin’s glowy. nips pokin’ through that top. usually means a bird’s fertile.”

her friends fall silent.

he takes a sip of his drink. nods, like he's said something complimentary.

“look good. all breedable like that.”

she stares. her jaw drops.

“’course, could be cold. but m’leanin’ toward ovulation.”

then there’s another girl. pink lipstick. sipping a cocktail.

he sits down beside her and says this:

“ya got a mouth built for cock, you know that?”

she gasps. “what the fuck?”

“no, i mean it,” he says, dead serious. “shape of your lips, the way you sip that straw—reminds me of the way my missus sounds when she’s tryin’ not to choke.”

missus???

“yeah,” he shrugs. “she cries when i go too deep. s’cute.”

one more. this one’s giggling already, tipsy and bubbly. she says, “you’re kind of scary, huh?”

he tilts his head. “you ever been fucked face-down in a field?”

she chokes. “what?”

“just askin’. your voice sounds like it’d echo nice if i had you bent over in the mud.”

he doesn’t get laid. he never gets laid.

he walks out of the pub muttering to himself like:

“fuckin’ sensitive. thought girls liked compliments these days.”

meanwhile he’s texting you, calling you "my good lil cocksleeve", asking if your hole’s “still warm from this mornin’.”