Black Sun
Simon Riley masterlist
Simon Riley/female reader
5.3k words - AO3
Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Dark and twisty. Explicit sex, dubious consent, forced breeding/pregnancy kink, praise kink, size difference, creampie. Simon is insane about you. Panty sniffing/stealing. Obsessive behavior. Possessive Simon Riley. Alcohol. Reader is prescribed/taking muscle relaxers. Toxic but I think it's sweet. Angst, comfort, emotional hurt/comfort. Tags are for your health, not mine.
Simon never wanted a divorce.
Simon does not consider himself a common criminal.
A war criminal, perhaps. The things heâs done for the 141 would put him behind bar in over fifty countries, and on death row in at least eight. The things heâs seen alone make him eligible for life in a padded room, and thatâs if you donât count the things that have happened to him.
But heâs never stooped to petty crime like this before. Before this mess. Before you asked for a divorce, insisted he move out, demanded time apart.
Thereâs a first time for everything, he thinks. First time for a lot of things, actually. The first time he actively tried to avoid the divorce paperwork, first time he let his obsession take him this far, first time he indulged in his darkest fantasies, things he wouldnât even dare whisper about to Price-
The door welcomes him like it always does, squeak gone from the hinges, greased out by his hands in the middle of the night last week, swinging wide so he can silently step across the threshold⊠into his house. Into yours.
Riley whines in greeting, lowering himself into a play bow, and Simon kneels to pet him, rubbing his between the ears and under the chin just how he likes, before instructing him back to his bed, to keep watch. Heâd maul another man who tried to step foot in here, per his training, but his dad- his dad is okay. His dad is allowed.
Itâs not that heâs too far gone to recognize the complete dismantlement of your boundaries, itâs that he doesnât care. The chilling fear of losing you has seeped deep into his bones, fostering the growth of a plan that he knows is not rational, or right.
He knows what he is doing is wrong, but he cannot stop himself.
You are his. His wife. His life, his person, his reason for it all. Youâre the sun and the moon and the stars and everything that makes this miserable fucking existence worth living.
Heâll do anything to keep you.
Anything.
So, it doesnât feel wrong when he stands in the bedroom at the foot of his bed, watching you sleep, twisted up in the blankets, favoring your one side like your shoulder must have been bothering you before you fell asleep. It concerns him, worries him, this lack of improvement regarding your pain, and he wonders if maybe you should be in physical therapy.
It doesnât feel wrong, when he traces the curve of your ass, perked up in the sheets, as if youâre waiting for him to strip your ratty little sleep shorts down to your knees and shove his cock to your cervix. He wonders if youâd even wake up if he rubbed his nose across the seam of your cunt. Youâve always been a heavy sleeper, through thunder or commotion, youâd stay sweet with your lashes flush against your cheeks, mouth slightly open in a soft snore.
He leans over you in bed, stroking the back of your head with his hand before pressing a featherlight kiss to your temple, something he knows wonât stir you, not with you how deep youâre dreaming, and certainly not with the muscle relaxer in your system.
He is a stealth operator, after all. Itâs not like he hasnât been watching, observing your new routines, the changes to your schedules and habits that have appeared over these last few months. The muscle relaxers, for example, that were prescribed for the strain in your neck and shoulder, that youâve been taking once an evening for a week and a half, around six thirty. Theyâre extended release, usually able to keep you mostly pain free through the night, and heâs grateful to your doctor for insisting upon them. For more reasons than one.
He gives you another light kiss before pulling the sheet up around your shoulders, tucking you in how you like. You get cold in the middle of the night, icicle toes usually wandering across the mattress to seek the space between his thighs for warmth, shocking him into a gasp that would elicit a string of sleepy giggles from your mouth. He makes sure youâre comfortable, before slinking onto the second part of his routine.
The bathroom.
Every night, he holds his breath as the medicine cabinet pops open. He hates the anticipation, the fear of what he could discover, dreads the idea of having to start the clock over or worse, swap them for placebo. You never disappoint him though, and he catalogues the perfectly color-coded rows of birth control pills that havenât been touched in over a month, not since his last op with wicked desire hearting his belly. What a good girl you are.
Before, he would have told you the opposite. He did, tell you the opposite. He told you were good, so good, for taking your pills, for making sure that you were safe for him, that there wouldnât be any accidents. Guilt would eat at him each time the two of you had the argument, the âdiscussionâ, about having a baby, and you would cry with misery staining your cheeks.
 âYou donât know what youâre asking of me.â He tried to tell you, dozens of times, that he didnât think heâd be good at it, that he wouldnât like being gone so much, leaving you at home all the time with a baby.
âI love you, Simon. I want to have a baby, with you. My husband. Is that so wrong?â You would cry, and he could feel the weight of his choice breaking you apart, the pressure cracking beneath his skull.
âYou⊠you donât understand. I- I canât.âÂ
Itâs not why you asked for a divorce, but it certainly played a part.
Something catches his eye when he turns to leave, a wayward item of clothing hanging haphazardly outside of the hamper.
Your underwear.
He plucks the scrap of blue lace and cotton from the edge and balls it into his fist, bringing it to his nose with a deep inhale. Itâs sick, the way he needs you, the way the smell of your dirty panties, the honeyed ambrosia of your musk, makes his mouth water like a juvenile. Before he can change his mind, he shoves them in his pocket. He doesnât usually take things, too aware of potentially tipping you off, but this; this is something he needs.
âSimon, can we please just⊠can we please just meet up and at least look at these papers?â Itâs early for you to be up, on a Saturday, and he frowns at the screen in contemplation. Before, youâd never be up this early. Before, you would have insisted he stay under the covers with you, would have draped your body over his eagerly to convince him, sweetening him to your side with barely a whisper.
âHow many weekends do we even get, anyway? This is your first one home in weeks. Stay in bed with me.â And he would, because of course he would. Because there was no place heâd rather be in those moments, curled up in bed, his nose in your hair, watching the rise and fall of your chest just to be sure it was all real, that it wasnât some cruel dream that would disappear as soon as he woke up.
âYouâve been home for two weeks and havenât even looked at them.â He grits his teeth, pressing the hard edge of his phone into his cheek. He canât be divorced if thereâs no signature. But you sound exasperated, stressed, and heâs eager to fix it for you, easily agreeing without too much badgering.
âAlright, sweetheart. Alright. Iâll meet you.â
He cannot believe his luck.
Youâre nervous. Your hands flitter about, constantly touching the table, the silverware, your sore shoulder, the manilla envelope before finding the stem of your wine glass and tilting it to your lips, swallowing the alcohol over and over without any kind of hesitation. You must not have taken the muscle relaxer.
He's well versed in navigating your emotions, calming you into a relaxed state with a few words or a reassuring touch, and he wants to reach out and take your hand in his, soothe you, tell you that everything is alright but⊠it would serve no purpose for him tonight.
Sorry, sweet girl.
He sits at the little two top across from you with his arms crossed, watching his lack of interest in the conversation break you down, little by little, until youâre ordering another glass of wine, and then a third, all while he nurses the same glass of bourbon.
The alcohol distracts you, strays you from your course, and you eventually stop trying to try talk about that bloody manilla envelope, leaning to one side a little more than the other in your chair. When you order a shot after dinner is over, he doesnât protest, just watches your tongue follow the seam of the citrus wedge, dabbing along the spongy white fibers before your teeth dig into the flesh of it, lime juice squirting across your tongue.
He loves you drunk. Loves you sober, loves you tired, or grumpy, or smiling. He loves you anyway he can get you, but sometimes, when youâre like this, your smile sweet like sticky toffee, buzzing and humming, it helps him get away from himself, helps him stay present and lost inside you, swept up in you. It makes him think about the honeymoon, your feet buried in the sand, tucked away in secluded cove, no one around for miles. He fucked you on the beach, fucked you in the ocean, fucked you in someone elseâs cabana that day, and you giggled the whole time. Pearly pitched music that wrapped in him the strongest feeling of bliss, skin that tasted like brine and sun, your hand in his on the walk back the hotel, peeking under your wide brim hat every few minutes to press his lips to yours.
âWanâ one?â He shakes his head, but pulls your hand into his, feeling the warmth of your skin. When you donât pull away, his blood heats, churning through his veins like fire. âFigured.â You sigh, and then flash him a mischievous, coy grin. Cheeky girl. Think youâre so clever. âWant to get out of here?â You croon, and he smiles indulgently behind the mask.
âLead the way.â
Youâre giggly, excited when he bends you over the table, the kitchen table where you used to eat together, breakfast for dinner when heâd come home, waffles and bacon at one in the morning.
You donât protest when he slides your skirt down your hips and over your ass, thumbs spreading you wide to reveal your glistening cunt, twitching and desperate.
âMy poor girl, has it been so long?â He coos, relishing in the way you moan with your lips on the wood. He knows it has, knows you havenât been with anyone since the last time he fucked you, months and months ago, on the night you asked for the divorce. âShhh. Iâm here now, Iâm gonna take care of it.â Â
âYou have to pull out.â You slur, breath hot, fogging against the finish of the table. âPromise.â He grunts something under his breath, nonsense, but you canât tell the difference, and when he slides inside your scorching cunt, you howl, breath hitching with the stretch.
Bleedinâ Christ. Youâre so tight, so wet, soaked enough that it sticks to the curls around the base of his cock. How could he ever give this up?Â
âThatâs it.â He kisses your shoulder, pressing his chest to your back with his weight, pinning you in place, his hands clamping down around your wrists like shackles. âSqueeze me tight, good girl. Show me-â Show me how youâre going to hold my come in your tight little pussy once I fill you- comes to mind, but he bites his tongue instead, not willing to tip you off too soon.
To have and to hold. In sickness and in health. For better or worse.Â
I promise to love and cherish you.Â
Till death does us part. Â
Till death.Â
âSimooon.â You sing, hips start to push back with him, fucking yourself onto his cock, chasing him, chasing your pleasure, mouth half open with the little pants and whines that are music to his ears. He keeps you pinned, flat against the table, fingers between your legs, stroking your clit, shoving you closer to your orgasm, delightfully pleased by the way your pussy pulses around him.
âCome on.â He urges, big hand between you and the table, pressing against your lower belly, still tapping away at your clit, indulging in the trembling of your legs.
âFuck- fuck, Si.â You cry, clenching down around him with your orgasm, voice breaking.
âThere it is⊠what a good girl.â He hisses, keeping his pace, pushing deeper and deeper until heâs notching himself nearly inside your womb. Itâs overwhelming for you, he knows, but he doesnât stop swirling his fingers around your clit, zapping electric pulses through body.
âNngh Si. Too- ooh itâs- itâs too much.â You wail, a tear on your cheek, and he nods, nosing above your ear.
âI know. Youâre doing so good for me, so perfect.â Itâs whispered with a groan, hands stroking your hip, keeping your steady, in place. âJust need a little more, just- just a little, Iâm gonna-â
âWhat-â You ask, more with it now that you recognize the edge heâs riding, the roughness in his voice clueing you in to where he is, but he sends you back into orbit, pressing your clit and working you in circles. âOh, oh.â Your hips rock, and he moves with the momentum, fucking into you faster, grunting the truth as he speeds towards the cliff, desperate to drive the car over the edge, eager to change the course of his life, your life, his marriage.
âTake it.â He spits, wide palm spread across your shoulder. Everything in him tightens, fire spreading through his veins, pressure rising in his body like a fucking tea kettle, about to scream out a whistle. Heâs going to breed you, fuck you deep with his come and put a baby inside you, give you what you want, what youâve always said you wanted, the thing that made you cry in the middle of the night when he refused.
Well, heâs going to give it to you now.
âFuck- here it comes.â You rock again, half lost to the world, eyes glazed over in pleasure, spasming around his cock with your second orgasm. He slams into you, burying deep and you keen, fingers gripping the edge of the table, his hips flush with yours like a lock.
And heâll throw away the key.Â
You blame yourself for the first time.
You blame your nerves. Your lack of self-control. You drank too much, trying to fight the anxiety that was threatening to spill from your mouth by way of your tongue.
  And well, didnât he just look too fucking good, sitting across from you at dinner. Eyes on your lips. Hand dwarfing the rocks glass. Shoulders broader than a door frame. He put on mass since you saw him last, and you spent half the meal trying not to think about stripping his shirt off so you could inspect for new wounds, new scars, new stretch marks.Â
And didnât he feel so fucking good too, bending you over the kitchen table, sliding into you from behind with almost no prep, hint of pain making you see stars, just the way you like it. Fucking you like the man you married, like the man you fell in love with. Calling you his good girl and making you come all over his cock like a champ.Â
You blame him for the second time.
You could blame yourself, for inviting him over- but your intention was clear. Sign the papers. Discuss the house. Be done with it all and close this chapter. Move on with your life, with both your lives.
But he showed up on the wrong day, at the wrong time, with a bottle of your favorite wine, the malbec. The one from your first anniversary, with a large pizza, thin crust with extra cheese (your favorite) and an order of garlic knots.
âWasnât sure if youâd eaten or not, figured Iâd pick something up, just in case.â He shrugged, and just like that, you were bereft of words, staring at him with nothing coming to mind. Didnât you say tomorrow? You stood in the door, blinking, Riley whining behind you, already eager to see his dad. âSweetheart? You feelinâ okay?â His hand was on your arm, warm, thumb rubbing a circle on the inside of your elbow, and even that small amount of contact, that little trickle of concern, sent you into a spiral, muscle relaxer already working its way through your system, slowing your response time, making your brain a little fuzzy. His eyes shimmered in the porchlight, and you nodded, robotically, feet still stuck in the doorway, until he was prompting you to let him inside. âCan I come in then, get this signing business done?âÂ
You ate pizza and drank a glass of wine (frowned upon considering your medication, but one glass couldnât kill you, right?) out of regular glassware (a sin, if anyone asked your poor mother) as the manilla envelope sat on the coffee table and practically watched the two of you, oozing with judgement.
Youâre supposed to be divorcing. Not cozying up on the god damn couch. Werenât you the one who told him to find a new place to live? Werenât you the one who said the two of you wanted different things in life, from it? Werenât you the one did this, pushed him away, shoved him out the door, told him it was all too little, too late?
But when his fingertips drifted to the top of your spine and then over, like he knew exactly where you were tender, you couldnât stop yourself from melting into his touch, more and more until he had your back against his chest, strong grip on your shoulder, working your taut muscles with expertise.
His fingers dig deep, groan slipping between your teeth, breathy and low, enough that heâs immediately releasing you.
âDid I hurt you?âÂ
âN-no.â You shake your head, which only makes you dizzy. Probably shouldnât have had that glass of wine. âFeels good.â He chuckles, and tucks you closer, head tipping back into his chest, eyes half closed. âTweaked something in mâshoulder a few weeks ago.â For some reason, you feel the need to explain it, to tell him. âWent for a slide tackle, ended up halfway under the girl. And she was a lot bigger than me.âÂ
âYou still playinâ in that womenâs league?âÂ
âEvery Sunday.â
You were so relaxed, so pliable, that you didnât utter a single protest when he leaned you back on the couch like a doll, pulling your leggings down and off your ankles, sliding your panties away to bury his face in your pussy. You didnât want to protest, or stop, or get up off the couch, even though, somewhere, in the back of your logical mind, you knew what you were doing was stupid. You knew, that doing this once was mistake, but doing it twice was just downright foolish. Itâs just sex though. He can still just sign the papers and go. Who hasnât had a little runaround with their soon to be ex-husband before the final nail is hammered in the coffin? Youâve never been a saint, after all.Â
âLift your hips.â He taps your side, and you do, letting him slide a throw pillow under them, plumping it under your ass for good measure. âGood girl.â You beam, woozily, and he chuckles, face cracking into something thatâs flooded with light, something happy, the face of the man who used to be your husband, used to love you, want a future with you, not just endless rotations around the world with the 141 and a sometimes wife that he sometimes saw.Â
âYou have to pull out.â Thereâs backbone to your words, but itâs brittle, and easily breakable. âYou didnât listen last time, and âm still mad about it.âÂ
âIâm sorry, sweet girl.â His lips press against your thigh, and then your knee, trailing up to where heâs got your ankle in his hips. âYou just feel like fuckinâ heaven.â You huff. âI will this time, promise.â He rubs your thigh, zinging your skin with a small slap, your yelp teetering off into a moan when he presses knuckle deep into your sopping wet cunt.Â
âThis doesnât change anything.â You donât know why you say it, why youâre so compelled to draw the line in the sand in this moment, when you could have said it any time before hand. Or, even better, had him sign the papers like you originally planned.
âI know.â He shifts you, pulling his occupied fingers free to rearrange your legs, folding your knees back against your chest, the position combined with the pillow under your hips practically tilting you all the way back, the angle enough to make you a little dizzy. Your hand shoots forward to latch onto his forearm for balance, little whimper sneaking away from you, making his brow crease in concern. âIâve got you.â He whispers against your cheek, lips ghosting over yours, plucking a sweet kiss from your mouth before thereâs heat grazing your opening. He keeps a hand on your knee until heâs pushing inside, thrusting in one fell swoop all the way until he canât go any further, punching your cervix with the head of his cock, swearing behind a tight jaw. Itâs a lot of stretch at this angle, deeper, sharper, and you squirm, adjusting to the pressure of him splitting you open.Â
âF-fuu-ck.â Your eyes roll back in your head, off somewhere, somewhere not this planet, not this plane of existence where heâs practically in your belly, slick noises bouncing off the walls of your living room, his knees against the pillow, back sloped for enough leverage that heâs practically fucking downwards into you, bent forward with his chest against yours, torso locking you in place, arms around your head like crown. Or a cage. âSi- fuck. It- it hurts.â you babble, gasping into his neck, teeth dangerously close to his shoulder.Â
âI know, doinâ so good. Almost there.â You start to melt around him, gentled into it, the patting and cooing and kissing sweetening you soft by the passing second. âEasy love, open up for me.â He pants into your mouth, tongue licking in behind your teeth, invading your senses, your very existence, and itâs so much, too much, but you canât stop. You let yourself get swept away, mind slipping deeper and deeper every time he thumbs your clit, rubbing a circle around the swollen bud, tapping across it just how you like. âRelax, sweetheart, thatâs it.â He keeps bringing you closer and closer to coming, playing your body like only a husband could, plucking the strings that make the sweetest melodies, chords vibrating together until youâre clenching down on his cock, spine curling forward, everything inside of you exploding with a blinding, fiery orgasm that has you crying his name, body shaking underneath him with aftershocks. âYouâve been such a good girl for me.â He murmurs into your sweat-soaked temple, cock sliding out just to push all the way deep again, hips grinding against your ass in a circle. âHavenât you, sweet girl?â You nod, because yes, of course. Youâre always good.Â
âYeeah.â You squeak, vowels heavy, eyes heavy, head heavy, everything too thick underneath the weight of your orgasm, his cock lodged inside you, the muscle relaxer mixed with the Malbec, the chagrined manilla envelope sitting on the table, a mere two feet from your prone body.Â
âI know. I know you have.â The muscles in his arm flex, tendons in his neck becoming more defined, and his movements stutter, fucking you in a frantic, desperate way, wild with some sort of chaotic need. âIâm gonna give you a gift for it. For being so good.âÂ
âYou- you-â You mean to say you what? What do you mean? What are you talking about? But you canât get any of it out, only able to watch him through half shuttered eyes, admiring the slope of his jaw, the white of the scar on his chin, the drip of sweat in his clavicle.Â
âI love you.â A big hand holds your hip upwards, steady, pinning you to the pillow, pace turning hungry, unrelenting, his forehead pressed to yours as he bottoms out, trying to fuck you as deep as possible, to consume you, to drown in you, shoving you further and further up the couch. Itâs erratic, and insane, and so- so Simon, that the tears dripping down your cheeks feel normal, everything feels right in your hazy, fucked out brain. âI love you.â He tells you again, and his jaw clicks in your ear. âI love- fuck, fuck, Iâm coming.â
You should have protested. You should have reminded him of his promise. Should have said no, remember, you did this last time. We talked about this. But you didnât. You couldnât. Couldnât even get your mouth to work right, too spun out on him, on yourself, on floating on a cloud, high above your life, like choices didnât have consequences. You were blissed out on your own bad decisions, sleepy in the cocoon of an alternate universe with your hips tilted on a pillow, where your husband was still your husband, and not some absent ghost. Â
You didnât even protest when he gathered you together in his arms and carried you upstairs. Didnât mind that he got one of your make up wipes from the bathroom and cleaned your face, tucked you in, and kissed you goodnight.
You didnât mind any of it, until you woke up the next morning and faced that manilla envelope.
You told yourself it didnât matter. It didnât matter, because in a weeksâ, two weeksâ time, heâd be somewhere on the other side of the planet, or hemisphere, or country, somewhere classified, doing god knows what. Heâd be gone, and youâd be here, just like always. Just like old times. The sex didnât matter. It meant nothing. You hardly remembered most it, just clips here and there, the taste of his mouth, the feeling of being so full of him. It didnât matter, and you repeated those three words in the mirror, four, five times in the morning, intentionally not looking at the gleam of your rings, the wedding band and engagement ring, a fated pair⊠all alone.
Besides, you could always mail the paperwork. Address it to John. Heâd make sure it gets taken care of.
You cringed when you thought about the note youâd have to enclose, the awful acknowledgement of your ineptitude-Â âHi John, sorry, but could you have Simon sign these when you get a chance?â
And then, everything changed.
âLT!â Soap shouts over the din of the common room, jerking his head towards the office at the end of the hall. âPrice needs ye.â
Price is standing behind his desk, arms across his chest when Simon pushes the door open. His lips quirk, head shaking with a sigh. âYou have a phone call.â He motions to the landline, one of the only phones in this entire building, currently off the hook, open line waiting in the air. A phone call? âIâll give you some privacy.â
When the door shuts, and heâs alone with the phone in his hand, he takes a deep breath, and puts it to his ear. âHello?â His thumb strokes the silicone wedding band on his ring finger, rubbing it in a circle as he waits for a response. This number is for family members and emergencies, real serious shit, and heâs not-
âSimon?â Itâs you. Itâs your voice on the other end of the line, wet with tears. His heart stops in his chest, lungs frozen in place, anxiety curling in the pit of his stomach. Your crying always puts him on edge, and itâs worse, with him here, and you alone, everything hanging on the precipice. âSimon? Are you there?â
âIâm here. Whatâs wrong?â He closes his eyes. Say it. Please. Fucking hell. Please.
âI- I need, I have to tell you something.â Youâre still crying, hiccupping with distress, and he wishes desperately that he was there with you, holding you, telling you everything going to be okay to your face, instead of over the phone.
âWhat is it sweetheart?â He tries to encourage, relaxing back into the chair when you take a deep breath. âYou know you can tell me anything.â
âIâm pregnant.â His palm covers the receiver immediately, just in case, and he thumps the top of Priceâs desk with his fist, stupid grin stretching his face wide.
âYouâre what?â He feigns shock, confusion. âDid you say⊠youâre pregnant?â
âYes.â You blubber.
âI thought you were on the pill, sweet girl. I wouldnât have-â
âI told you to pull out! And I was b-but I stopped taking it, like two months ago. I forgot and after the first time when you were home, after the restaurant I thought, oh well, I had only been off the pill for a month, less than, after being on it for like fifteen years!â You practically shriek in his ear, a mix of sob and hysteria, trying to suck air into your lungs before continuing. âGetting pregnant after being on it for so long just doesnât happen. Itâs almost impossible! So, I d-didnât worry about it. And then the second time was only like, two nights after that night and I just thought- I thought everything would be fine! Iâm s-s-sorry, Iâm so sorry.â Youâre babbling, gasping, and he rubs his neck.
âAlright, alright. Hey, hey listen,â youâre still crying, voice cracking over the line and his heart breaks for you, guilt swamping him over you being alone. This was not the plan. He was supposed to be home for this part, to be there for you, if it took. âSweetheart, breathe. You need to breathe.â You struggle through a few deep breaths, nearly wheezing, and he winces each time. It can't be good for you, or the baby, to be stressed like this. âGood girl, thatâs it. Nice anâ slow. Good.â
âI'm sorry. I donât know what to do, but-â You whisper, like youâre telling a secret, and he closes his eyes, imagining you pacing in the kitchen, hand in your hair, on your hip, anxious. He knows you. Knows you better than he knows himself, anyone. Soap, even. He knows, the reason why youâre saying sorry over and over, isnât because youâre apologizing for getting pregnant, the two of you did that together. Or rather, he did it.Â
Itâs because of whatâs coming next.
âI do know that I⊠I want this baby, Simon. I know you⊠you donât want this. That youâve never wanted it, and thatâs okay. I can do this, alone. Weâll still get divor-â
âStop.â He doesnât enjoy cutting you off, but he needs to put an end to this talk, this idea that still seems to have a hold on you. âLook, Iâll⊠Iâll come home. We can talk and, figure out what weâre going to do, okay? Youâre not alone sweet girl. Iâll be there.â Youâre silent for a moment, a moment that feels too long.
âOkay. You promise?â
I promise to love and cherish you.
Till death does us part.
Till death.
âI promise.â
2K notes
·
View notes
Oh god - Iâm still stuck on this.
18+ MDNI / explicit sex, dark and twisted themes
I've been thinking a lot about Simon Riley who doesn't want the divorce.
Simon who never wanted to be separated, who hates living apart. Simon, who would drag you to a tattoo artist to get your ring permanently inked to your skin so you could never be rid of him, if he could. Heâs been actively avoiding the stack of papers that are waiting for his signature, staying on longer Ops, picking up extra work.
Canât be divorced if thereâs no signature.
Simon, who unbeknownst to you, still comes home. Still pushes open the back door in the dead of night, keeping his steps silent so he doesn't wake you. Simon, who stands in the doorway of your bedroom, his old bedroom, and watches you sleep on his side of the bed in those little, ratty shorts with your ass perked up in the air like you're waiting for him. Like youâre ripe, and ready.
Simon, who checks your birth control every night. Whoâs pleased when he realizes this monthâs pack hasnât even been opened, every color coded pill still in place, foil glinting at him in the low light of the vanity.
Good girl, he thinks to himself, shutting your medicine cabinet with a silent click. Getting yourself all ready for him.
Simon, who agrees to meet you for dinner.
"Let's just sign and get it over with. We can catch up, too. Talk about what we want to do with the house."
"Alright, love. Whatever you want."
You're a bundle of nerves when he shows up, seated at a little table in the back, glass of wine already half gone.
Normally, he'd try to soothe you. You've always been naturally anxious, a little dependent, and in a social setting, a little high strung. He's well versed in navigating your emotions, calming you into a relaxed state with a few words or a reassuring touch.
But this time, he doesn't bother. He sits there with his arms crossed, watching you nervously chatter away, one hand flat on a manilla envelope. He stays quiet, letting you go on, watching your hands seek something to do, fingers finding your wine glass over and over.
You drink two glasses of wine before the entrees are served, dangerously close to your usual self imposed "three drink" limit.
One thing bleeds into another. You start to lean a little, in your chair. He nurses a bourbon, you order a shot after the meal.
"Want one?" Your tongue follows the seam of the lime wedge, dabbing along the spongy, white fibers before your teeth sink into the flesh of it, lime juice squirting across your tongue.
âYou know I donât like tequila, but you go on.â
Youâre a bit sloppy by the time he gets you home, but still sweet like honey, like you used to be years ago. Before everything changed. Before you asked him to move out.
Youâre giggly, excited when he bends you over the kitchen table, the kitchen table where you used to eat together, breakfast for dinner when heâd come home, waffles and bacon at one in the morning.
You donât protest when he slides your skirt down your hips and over your ass, thumbs spreading you wide to reveal your glistening cunt, twitching and desperate.
âMy poor girl, has it been so long?â He cooed, relishing in the way you moaned with your lips on the wood. He knows it has, knows you havenât been with anyone since the last time he fucked you, months and months ago, on the night you asked for the divorce. âDonât worry, Iâm gonâ take care of you and this neglected little pussy.â
âYou have to pull out.â You slurred, breath hot, fogging against the finish of the table. âPromise.â He grunts something under his breath, nonsense, but you canât tell the difference, and when he slides inside your scorching cunt, you howl, breath hitching with the stretch.
Bleedinâ Christ. Youâre so tight, so wet, soaked enough that it sticks to the curls around the base of his cock. How could he ever give this up?
âThatâs it.â He kisses your shoulder, pressing his chest to your back with his weight, pinning you in place, his hands clamping down around your wrists like shackles. âSqueeze me tight, good girl. Show me-â Show me how youâre going to hold my come in your tight little pussy once I fill you- comes to mind, but he bites his tongue instead, not willing to tip you off too soon.
To have and to hold.
âSimooon.â You sing, hips start to push back with him, fucking yourself onto his cock, chasing him, chasing your pleasure, mouth half open with the little pants and whines that are music to his ears. He keeps you pinned, flat against the table, fingers between your legs, stroking your clit, shoving you closer to your orgasm, delightfully pleased by the way your pussy pulses around him.
âCome on.â He urges, big hand between you and the table, pressing against your lower belly, still tapping away at your clit, indulging in the trembling of your legs.
âFuck- fuck, Si.â You cry, clenching down around him with your orgasm, voice breaking.
âThere it is⊠what a good girl.â He hisses, keeping his pace, pushing deeper and deeper until heâs notching himself nearly inside your womb. Itâs overwhelming for you, he knows, but he doesnât stop swirling his fingers around your clit, zapping electric pulses through body.
âNngh Si. Too- ooh itâs- itâs too much.â You wail, a tear on your cheek, and he nods, nosing above your ear.
âYouâre doing so good for me, so perfect.â Itâs whispered with a groan, hands stroking your hip, keeping your steady, in place. âJust need a little more, just- just a little, Iâm gonna-â
âWhat-â You ask, more with it now that you recognize the edge heâs riding, the roughness in his voice clueing you in to where he is, but he sends you back into orbit, pressing your clit and working you in circles. âOh, oh.â Your hips rock, and he moves with the momentum, fucking into you faster, grunting the truth as he speeds towards the cliff, desperate to drive the car over the edge, eager to change the course of his life, your life, his marriage.
âTake it.â He spits, wide palm spread across your shoulder. Everything in him tightens, fire spreading through his veins, pressure rising in his body like a fucking tea kettle, about to scream out a whistle. Heâs going to breed you, fuck you deep with his come and put a baby inside you, give you what you wanted years ago, the thing that made you cry alone in the middle of the night whenever he refused.
Well, heâs going to give it to you now.
âFuck- here it comes.â You rock again, half lost to the world, eyes glazed over in pleasure, spasming around his cock with your second orgasm. He slams into you, burying deep and you keen, fingers gripping the edge of the table, his hips flush with yours like a lock.
And heâll throw away the key.
His phone dings with a text, two days later.
âStill mad at you⊠Can we please meet up about these signatures?â
This became a full fic here.
969 notes
·
View notes