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daemonbrain · 19 days ago

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taglist: @coco-killed-the-angels, @iluvjoaofelix14, @spnbandwagon1019, @eremika104, @am-i-shit-or-am-i-the-shit

Part 1 | Part 2

cw: murder, simon's a perv, reader's husband is a piece of work, smut, can be read as a standalone. a/n: This was rushed lol

I didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident. I wasn’t thinking straight.

Simon Riley could remember the first time he had heard those excuses. In a rundown burrow of Manchester, fiddling with the telly until a show he was much too young to watch blinked on to the cracked screen.

He’d sit there with beady eyes, attention locked on to the program while his mum did fuck knows what. It was distinctly American with muscle cars, high speed chases, guns, and most morbidly fascinating to an already tainted young mind, death.

Censorship and all, the show never did the gory details of killing someone justice. They never elaborated on the high of having a man stare down the barrel of your gun. It was never described how good it felt to have someone piss themselves in fear of you. The power a person can have when they know they could beat the life out of somebody.

They made excuses for those feelings.

It was always a righteous fuckin’ accident. Good guys versus bad guys, black and white.

A slight breeze whistled through the dim alleyway. Both idle chatter and music from inside the bar behind him wove together in a pacifying hum. It rang in the Brit’s ear as his chest heaved with the satisfaction of a job well done.

The blood had splattered over his pale skin, still warm droplets sliding past his wrists down his forearms. His knuckles split and bloomed into a haze of purple and red from the force of his hits. None of it was some mishap, it wasn’t a lapse in judgement.

On the contrary, Simon hadn’t felt more alert in months. Not since being in the field.

He glanced at the body crumpled at his feet with both disdain and the closest thing to giddy he was able to feel. This pathetic fuckin’ tosser looked just as miserable as he had any other day. Broken and disfigured with his bodily fluids still bubbling up through the splits in his skin and bone.

Your idiot husband who dragged you into the depths of his abhorrent ways, brain-dead and awful like a stain that needed to be removed.

He crouched down and loomed over the guy as he would terrorists and people who threatened the very world's security: Menacing and threatening. The difference in offenses mattered little to him. Sure the latter bombed, maimed, and endangered whole countries of people for their own warped means to an end.

But this guy? He wanted to ruin the only decent thing Simon had encountered in a long time. Uniquely different in a vast sea of bad, you steadfastly remained joyous despite having to put up with someone like this.

Your husband's pulse still throbbed, weak as it was. Simon leaned in close and followed the way his breaths puffed out feebly. It was quiet and perhaps if he wasn’t trained to spot the difference between a dead man and one teetering on the edge of their demise, he might’ve missed it.

Unfortunately for your husband that wasn’t the case.

“Please…” He rasped, a ghost of the words really.

Big hands grabbed the collar of his soiled white shirt. It had been crisp and showy for the woman he had been drinking with. The same woman whose thighs he was reaching for, the curve of her waist he’d held. The same woman Simon surmised he had been leaving you lonely for, his dinner and your kind heart growing colder while he got his little prick wet when he was supposed to be working.

He was cheating on you.

It was the flashes of your little yoga sets which came to Simon’s mind when he first connected the dots of what was happening. You who came into that butchers shop every Friday after your session for a cut of meat to make this poor excuse of a man a meal. All smiles and good like a slice of heaven that felt wrong for someone such as him to witness.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you.” Was all Simon replied before he moved his grip to the fool's throat.

His fingers squeezed around the adams apple, effectively cutting off any air being wasted on the near-dead man.

He snarled up close and personal, though your husband was rendered relatively incapable of seeing much. Simon had gotten good hits on his eyes, one of them bloodshot and unfocused, the other already blackened, puffy, and too far gone.

“She’s not gonna remember a bloody thing about ya’.” Simon spat, more to himself than anyone, before the ex-soldier piled his crushing weight on the windpipe.

It was only a moment before the frail thrashing ceased.

The rainy weather had finally begun to wane and the pollen which once scattered the air, tinted windshields, and led to bright flowers had finally receded. The sun rested high in the sky for longer and its rays beat down harsher than it had in the past few months.

Spring and all the hardships it brought had come to pass and summer was now upon the city.

Simon’s hand rested on the cool metal of the door handle. The flimsy barrier between yourself and him. Hell, he could kick it in with minimal effort if need be. To get to you, he’d rip it off the squeaky old hinges which held it to the frame. Luckily for your entrance, that wasn’t necessary.

Not anymore at least.

Poor, sad you had taken to him like a moth to flame. In your grief it wasn’t drinking or drugs or any other vices you had used as a balm to soothe your weary soul, but Simon.

The jingle of the keys sounded out before he nudged them in. He twisted and unlocked the door before he opened it.

You had stopped coming to the butchers shop, no one to make meals for anymore, no reason to waste time in that place. It had certainly impeded his ability to accidentally run into you, but he supposed that was bound to happen. You needed time to mourn that prick you married. You were too sweet, too free with who you gave your affections to and this was the downside to that.

The concern had started as a result of Simon’s frequent… observations. No matter how long he would watch your apartment, you wouldn’t step a foot outside. Gone were your freshly manicured hands, well-maintained hair, and skin-tight yoga sets. Instead, you opted to wallow and waste away in your own anguish.

He pushed through the threshold and closed the door behind him, a soft thud accompanied the motion. He peered around for only a moment. It was still in the common areas of your home. Too quiet for his liking.

Without invitation, he started down the hall towards your room. His heavy boots thudded against wooden floors, bits of dirt coming off them as he went.

You had been all too accommodating when he had finally had enough and came to the source to see what was really happening. Had even invited him in for a cup of tea. To see you in the flesh had been enough to quell the invasive anxieties which had begun to settle in his chest. You certainly didn’t look the same, but strangely enough, you seemed more at ease with yourself than he had ever witnessed.

If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve thought you seemed more confused than upset.

As he neared your door, his skin prickled as his ears picked up on the faint weeping behind the polished lumber.

You had easily come into the habit of letting the Brit into your personal space whenever he stopped by. Maybe you became too comfortable with a man you had known less than a year, but to his benefit, it was easy to get you to fork over a spare set of keys.

Privacy be damned (and Simon’s emotional range of a turnip aside), he couldn’t stop the surge conviction he had to be near you.

It was only a second before he barged into your room, met with a sight he definitely hadn’t expected.

“Simon… what the hell!” You squealed as you scrambled for your covers. You threw them over your heaving body as if that would erase what he had gotten an eyeful of.

Maybe the universe was kind to him. Perhaps it had finally thrown him a damn bone after years of trying to kill him. It could’ve only been divine intervention which guided him to you at this very moment, to have you so distracted you hadn’t heard him come through the front door.

“Well don’t just stand there-” You started in shock, body gathering itself from its horizontal position upwards.

That was the wrong thing to say to a man who just saw your bare tits pushed up in frustration, cunt glistening with a scant amount of slick as you carelessly shoved your fingers into the hole. Baby hairs stuck to your sweat beaded forehead, tears gathered at your lash line as yet another manifestation of your stress laden body.

He ambled towards you and in that moment there was nothing short of a tank that could stop him.

“Wait. Hey. What are you doing?!” You sniffled, a weak caution as your hands dipped into the sheets of your mattress.

To his relief, you didn’t shrink as his shadow enveloped your quaking form. Your breath stuttered and Simon could only stare in something similar to awe. There was a beautiful defiance he didn’t often see from you as you refused to cower before him.

“What’s going on?” You asked, wide eyed and somewhat gentle tongued.

Even now you couldn’t bring yourself to yell at him, to say something in fiery rage that he’d interrupted your private time.

“I can help.” Was all he mumbled before he descended to his knees in a slowed manner. “Jus’ give me… give me the bloody word and I can.”

As if showing he meant no harm, he braced himself beside the bed. He hoped the act placated you with the knowledge that you could kick him straight in his crooked, already broken one too many times nose if you really wanted to.

“Are you crazy?” You whispered in response.

You hadn’t slapped him in denial yet, as good of sign as any.

He saw the way your legs twitched under the thin sheets. You bit your lip in what he only hoped was contemplation. Another moment passed in silence as his eyes met yours in earnest yearning and absolute want.

The want to brush the tears from your eyes, or to create new ones as he speared you on his cock and bludgeoned into you like a fucking battering ram.

He had waited patiently for months. Had fucked his fist harsh and unforgiveing to the thought of pounding into you until both of you knew nothing but the other’s body. His fantasies of your pleasure addled-mind being anchored by nothing except him stretching you out beyond comprehension. Your cunt would clench over him as the head of him nudged into you with dull pressure that bordered on too much, insistently reminding you of his encroachment inside of you.

“I… I can’t do it myself. It’s like no matter what I try I just can’t.” You choked out embarrassed and sudden.

His blood began to pump hotter the moment you began to inch from beneath the sheets and it was moments before was upon you.

Simon’s usual precision was far from present as the two of you wrestled in a tangle of limbs and positions, but eventually the both of you settled. He knelt before you, your ankles resting on his shoulders, and his hands holding your hips in place (though, it was more an anchor for himself).

He sucked in a sharp breath before his mouth latched onto you. Simon was never one to mince words, nor his actions. When he wanted something, when he wanted someone to feel something, they did.

Your nails dug into the sheets as you threw your head back. He could see the frustration ebb away with each flick of his tongue. He prodded some and then some more, circled and suckled at your clit.

A cut whimper was what caught his attention. Through pale lashes, he peered up at you. The scratch of the sheets, heavy breathing, yet not a peep. He could see the way your lip wobbled, only encouraging him to close his eyes and go in with another lick, harder this time.

Your teeth held on to your bottom lip as if your life depended on it, little moans starting to surface regardless of your intentions.

“Let go.” Was all he murmured before going back in. “Nothin’ t’feel bad about.”

Small groans left him, leaving vibrations in the most pleasurable of ways. Nothing mattered more to Simon than drowning himself in you, your slick coated his mouth, his nose nudged between your folds, knocking into your more sensitive parts like a bull in a china shop.

“Fuck, please!” You begged as your hand blindly reached for any piece of him, taking purchase on his buzzed hair as you curled forward awkwardly.

His hands dug into your hips as his tongue poked in and out of your cunt. It squeezed the muscle everytime it invasively half-entered, either your body’s way of coaxing him deeper, or an attempt to push away the unfamiliar, he did not know.

When was the last time someone went down on such a pretty thing? The last time you were worshipped like this? Fucks sake, when was the last time you came? Not a little bump of pleasure, or a fast reaction, but properly came?

Your body began to tremble and that’s when Simon decided to hook a finger inside of you. He thrusted it slowly as you whined and shifted. One finger in and out until eventually he joined it with another, much to your cunnys resistance.

“Ah! Just… ugh,” You groaned, continuing to push into his scalp. “Fuck I need more… Simon please.”

More was chanted through his mind like a fucking mantra. His cock twitched again, as hard as a metal rod by this point. He wanted nothing more than to give you what you wanted. Simon Riley was a weak man when it came to a pretty bird.

He wasn’t one to withstand the pleading look on your face, he realized. He knew for sure as his hands went to undo the belt of his pants. He knew when he practically ripped his shirt off.

Your soft hands touched the planes of his chest, the hardened muscles of his abdomen wrapped beneath a layer of fat, and whatever else you could reach as he mounted you. It was gentle as you gazed upon him in a dazed manner. He tried his best to keep his weight off of you, not keen on crushing you beneath him.

It was sudden the way you took his face between your palms, lips parted slightly as you pressed them to his. Still covered in your slick, it took Simon a moment to respond, allowing you to tilt into the kiss a bit more before he firmly kissed you back.

He pulled away reluctantly, and fixed you with the hardest of looks, only to be met with rounded and ready eyes.

“Fuck me.”

Wordlessly, he guided himself to your entrance. He rubbed himself up and then down your slit, head catching on to your hole once while he wondered just how far he’d be able to stretch you before you broke.

You gasped when he pushed in, hands clutched onto his bicep as he fed you his cock slow and restrained. He’d sink until the tip was fully enveloped by your warmth, and then begin to pull back his hips ever so slightly before thrusting in a bit more.

“Doin’ good, yeah. Pretty thing like you can take it f’me, right?” He bumbled on, almost in as much shock as you were from his ministrations.

Your walls constricted tight against the intrusion, but to Simon it felt as if he were the one being invaded. You flooded him with slick and pressure and the safety of being almost fully sheathed in something so sweet. Better than a hug could ever be, to be surrounded by your very essence.

You nodded along and babbled your yes’s and please’s just as he had imagined you would. It took a few more moments before he had forced himself to the base.

He almost felt bad when he saw the ways which you winced with every thrust forward. But everytime he considered slowing his pace, the notion was shut down as you stroked his face so tenderly.

“I need this.” You whispered through tears.

You touched his sweat beaded hairline, his dark under eyes so dearly. As if he were something made of glass. As if he wasn’t a killer and you weren’t the brightest light he had ever been guided to.

He didn’t deserve this.

But you did. You deserved to be fucked hard and deep and taken care of. Put over everything else like you so clearly deserved.

“You do. And ‘m gonna give it to ya.” He replied, curt and confident in his choice.

He began to fuck you in earnest, grunts escaping him as he did. He was quick to go from slow and shallow to a pace more vigorous. Your creaky wooden bed frame shook and squealed as his pace began to pick up, your head jostling and grazing the lumber everytime he pushed forward.

Your feet wrapped around his waist and dug into the divots of his back as if spurring him even farther into you, as if trying to trap him inside you forever. Not that he needed any encouragement to do so.

“Closer please. I…ah! I… I want..” You tried to say between each push in as his cock plunged into the deepest crevices it could find, kissing your womb and stealing the breath from your lungs.

Simon could tell what you wanted as you attempted to pull him closer with desperate effort.

“I’m already- bloody hell,” he grunted. “‘M fuckin’ inside o’ you. How much closer can I get?”

Nonetheless, he obliged and tipped his head forwards as your arms looped around his thick neck, clutching onto him like a lifeline.

“Closer.” was what you managed to say. You reached for his arm and put it to your waist and good god Simon felt and chip in that impenetrable armor of his. He held you firm to him and rutted into you like it was the last time he’d ever feel a cunt wrap so snug around him.

It was soft even as he bombarded it with all he had. Comforting, like a pillar of pliable to his unshakeable and unchangeable nature.

Simon felt his peak build and he watched as your face warped into something that could only be compared to a kettle that was about to whistle from the built up pressure within.

“Fuckin’ cum. Cum with me, cum on my cock.” He said with urgency.

His balls slapped against you and he felt them distinctively tighten up.

He felt you clamp down on to him like a fuckin’ vice as you nodded up and down like a mad woman against his skin. He could feel the gentle prick of your teeth as you simply held yourself against him.

Simon could have sworn his vision turned white as you wrung him out for all he was worth. He felt his cum flood your insides until they turned soaked and sticky and warm. He couldn’t stop the instinct which rose in him to fuck his cum deeper to have it seep into places your limp dicked late-husband could never. Your body yielding and pliant as he pierced into you, riding the remnants of his high within you.

You felt weightless as Simon slowed within you. You really had no clue what was happening, the heavy feeling of being stuffed past your limits was the only prominent thing on your mind.

No one had ever fucked you like that. Not boyfriends or hookups of the past, and certainly not your late-husband.

But you supposed that was the difference between Simon and those other men.

He took care of you.

He always had. Since the beginning he had. Sharing meals with you when you had no one, talking to you when you had been left alone. You might’ve felt bad for taking another man to the very bed you laid next to your deceased spouse once upon a time.

But was it really so bad to desire someone who put you first?

All those years of sitting quiet, of being isolated, of being the perfect wife and getting little in return. It wasn’t grief which came over you when you were told of your husband’s grizzly murder, it was guilt that you felt more lost than anything. Lost that you were no longer bound to the life that man gave to you, lost as to where to go next.

And there was Simon who showed you the way in his own strang, round-about method.

…

Simon who you suspected would do anything for you.

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