been seeing some stuff abt reader being accused of being a rat/mole in the 141 task force and getting tortured by their team who won't believe reader when they say it's not them. But my heart can't handle angst, and I've come up with my own twist on the idea.
You're not on the 141 task force specifically, but maybe another task force? Or maybe you were just a regular soldier. Either way, you were on the field with Simon before he joined the task force, and you'll hang out with him outside of deployment every so often. In your head, you two are friends, and even that may be pushing it. Little do you know how fucking obsessed Simon is with you.
So it makes sense that he's not exactly pleased when he comes back from a month long deployment to find someone has framed you for giving info to enemies. While he was gone, people you'd come to love and trust turned on you without a second thought, not listening to any of your pleas or begging as you were tortured. For 3 weeks, in fact, before the source had been proven faulty, and you were rushed to medical care, barely holding onto your life.
The person telling Simon this didn't even get to finish as they were practically run over as he sprinted to the little ward. There was a line of former comrades and what he assumes is your sergeant looking ashamed outside the room, presumably because you didn't want to see them. Rage burned in his stomach as he took in their faces, his teeth need skin to rip apart, his feet need to crack bone under his heavy boots, and his fingers itched to return everything they'd done to his beloved in triplicate. Later, he reminds himself. His darling needed him right now.
When he swung open the door, and your head snapped to look at him instantly. Betrayal and rage obvious in your expression until you saw who it was. Your brows softened, your lower lip trembled, and your pretty eyes had a glassy look.
Simon quickly made his way over to you, cupping your face in his big hands as he looked down at you. Neither of you said anything as your sad wet eyes met his, until he started getting distracted by the multitude of cuts and white bandages contrasting against your skin.
His head filled with violent thoughts, but when you redirected his gaze to you, it all left his head as he met your lips gently, murmuring comfort and support.
You did eventually get better, and you actually got transferred to the task force that your new boyfriend Simon was in. How lucky. How convenient is it that as the years go by with him, more and more members of your old team mysteriously disappeared. The one who had caused you the most pain was declared missing the day before you and Simons wedding.
Obviously you weren’t stupid, you knew it was him. But rather than be creeped and frightened, you found it incredibly romantic, if not for the fact that he wouldn’t let you help, insisting that you shouldn’t be bothered with the corpses of such filth.
she's so cute, the poor thing. what the fuck is he supposed to do with a pretty girl like this? (18+, a little smidge of dark!simon)
she's so dumb. she nods when he talks, says yes, simon, yeah when he asks her if he can take her home. she purrs yes, simon, m-more when he buries his masked face between her thighs as he makes her ride his covered mouth. she sings when he touches her, cries when his gloved fingers fuck her open, and she whines s-so good, simon, please, more, simon when he bottoms out into her soft cunt with all of his clothes still on.
vest strapped, thigh holsters still buckled, cargo pants still around his waist, nothing but his belt buckle open and his zipper down when he fucks you into the cushions of your couch. you're drooling, positively cock-stupid, bouncing with the rough rhythm he keeps. it's salvation, coming home to a pretty girl underneath him, and he wants to hold you hard enough to make you bleed when he grips the meat of your hips and watches your ass push back against him.
so dumb. so stupid. the prettiest girl he has ever seen, and she has no idea what it is that fucks the shape of them into her so that they will know if someone else has been here. she has no idea what the thing on top of her has done, has no idea how deranged and terrible his mind is, she doesn't know.
she never asked how he knew where she lived. she never asked how he knew which button to press in the elevator. she never asked how he knew to turn left instead of right. she never asked where he got that key, or why it worked when he opened up the door of her flat.
all she asks for is for him to fuck, please, simon--m-more!
[head in my hands] i think that older bf! simon gets off at how dependent you are on him. that every waking hour, you seek him out. it makes him thrum with something sinister; his heart heady with something dark.
you don't even notice—that's the best thing.
it was just natural for you to come to him, curling to his side like being beside him alone gives you the courage you need or grants you the peace of your mind.
he pushes your hair away from your face and you turn to him with a shy little smile, cheeks round and lips twitching. you don't ask him but he gives it to you anyway—a kiss on your forehead, because you're his precious love.
so good for him. so needy.
simon adores it. he adores the way you can't live without him; how you've made it so you two would be inseparable. he is your rock, you are his lifeline. sure, you don't know just how deep his greed runs—murky waters, blood dripping from the corners of his lips—but it's not like you had to know, anyway.
all you had to do was to stay close, for him to spoil and cherish. for him to love.
"y'need me so much, don't you doll?" simon asks, crooned words pressed on your fever-hot skin. "can't think without me. can't live without me. such a darlin', y'are."
you keen, breathless, unable to speak past warbled gasps. you feel the slow stretch of his cock as you rise, the glide torturous, hitting every of your sensitive spots, before you sink back down again, stuffed whole, his cockhead breaching into depths you never knew was even possible.
too mu'—!
simon's hands move, jostling you from where you are on his lap. they hook on your waist, dimpling your skin as they sink into your fat. it makes him groan, seeing how full you are against him. how full you are of him. seeing your softness, your tenderness, immortalized in his hold like this—weeping, leaking, cunt gushing—makes him whimper, mind splintering at the overwhelming pleasure.
not enough. s'not enough.
(simon doesn't realize how needy he is of you too.)
the tip slides through your soft skin, tearing through it like paper. n simon’s eyes light up as blood pools up at the surface, lungs taking in headful breaths.
your lips purse up in a whimper, eyes squinting as they prick with salty tears. “si- simon, baby, i dunno.”
his pupils flicker up to yours, and they’re like nothing you’ve seen before. they’re dark, hungry, sinister as they land upon yours.
“does it hurt, love?” he whispers, tilting his head in an almost mocking way. he knows it hurts, digging just deep enough for it to heal up into a pretty scar, just deep enough to have your stomach caving n tears drawing from you.
“yes, it hurts…” you trail off, eyes dropping as he continues right back up. he’s letting you distract yourself a bit, letting you soak up the pain with pleasure. “… so bad.”
he presses his palm between your arching ribs, relaxing you back down till your still. “it’s gonna be so pretty, baby, just calm down, honey.”
you nod, pulling your lip between your teeth in a tight grip. you’re tryna not focus on the way the knife rips through your skin with ease, the way your blood instantly rushes to the surface.
“almost done, promise.” simon mumbles, a sick grin painting across his face. simon has to re-steady his hand, the excitement flowing through him buzzing at his fingertips.
n he digs deep, drawing that last lil line a bit too hard. it sends you squirming up, kicking at him and pushing at his shoulders as crystal like tears glint down your cheeks.
simon laughs, fogging up your head further when he hunches over your body, hands cupping at your pretty face.
“don’t cry now, lil angel,” he coos pouting down at you as his thumbs swipe the tears off your sad lil face. “i’m done okay? just gotta heal up and you’ll love it, honey.”
?? it’s literally 8 in the morning what is wrong with me.
persephone (simon riley x f!reader) age gap, a bit coercive, dark
—
it started with fruit.
you were simon riley’s secretary, working for a man clouded in darkness and gold. you’d hear whispers on the street, see pitying faces when you mentioned who you worked for to strangers. to them, he was a cold, hard beast. to you, he was a king.
he started by bringing you fruit, pomegranate seeds and ghost-white pears. small quips about eating healthy now while you were still young enough. ms twenty something meets mr not-yet middle aged, the lines of his face just starting to crease but the beer belly nowhere to be found. he mined diamonds, you heard. he owned cemeteries, said another secretary. they call him ghost, whispered a personal assistant. you didn’t care, didn’t need to when that wasn’t your job.
he had scarred hands, craggly things winding into the cuff of his midnight black suits. didn’t wear a mask but always seemed to be covered in darkness, his face unrecognizable in half lit rooms and empty offices. he always stayed late so you did too, indulging in the extra car he ordered for you, his driver called charon. simon never held long conversations but simply beckoned you, some string in your belly pulling tight at his recognition. at least a third of his day spent with you, murmuring soft nothings, inquiring about your mother and the upcoming winter, the beauty in the death of the trees. “y’ smell like spring, love.” he’d said one morning, and you resolved to wear that same pomegranate spritz indefinitely.
and then it moved to jewels. congratulations on your one year preceded by a tennis bracelet. a trinket of a three headed dog, something small to keep on your desk. the hours draw on later and later, canceled plans with your mother and nymph-like friends piling up like leaves. his touch starts lingering, hard calluses on soft skin.
a hand on your back, guiding you into a conference room. your hair brushing against his torso, the intimacy of it jarring. you twisted your ankle one day, the height of your heels overindulgent. ended up on the couch in his private office, his hands massaging your foot. “like a delicate flower.” he’d murmured, rewarding you with an anklet of diamonds once the pain wore off.
three years in, an invite to his private island. no service, leave your phone at home. sign an nda, we’ll work remote, gone for a month maybe more. pack some nice clothes, maybe a white dress if you’ve got one. take my card if you don’t.
stepping off the helicopter, charon at the helm. you weren’t there against your will but the hairy arm around your waist was heavy, a reminder of the cost you’d paid to visit the underworld. two weeks in and you couldn’t even act surprised when he proposed, on one knee with a glint in his eyes. “you and me, love, against th’ world.”
and if you said yes to the fruit, the diamonds, the care, the attention - saying yes to this was just the next step. an elopement, he’d already drawn up the license - “why wait, dove? y’r so fragile already.” you’re not, have a hidden strength under you, but ghost doesn’t care, ghost takes what he wants, and you, legs spread and eyes soft, are it.
when he fucks you, that’s when it’s settled. cunt dripping on his fingers, his face, his cock. he mutters something about a vasectomy and you’re taking him bare, making eye contact with a ghostlike gardener who walks past the window. your jaw unhinged, drool at the corner of your mouth as he fucks you from behind, one hand on your throat.
“such a good secretary, hm?” and you nod ferociously like the three-headed puppy on your desk. you’ll never work again, too busy with his cock in your mouth or his remote vibrator in your cunt at dinner. the jewels drip into a roar - diamond encrusted toys you’re not sure are entirely safe, bejeweled handcuffs, glittery collars. he’s pluto, the riches of the earth following his orders when he chases you in his private woods. simon’s presence is otherworldly, taking you with the strength of a god as you squirm against his grip. his oldness disgusts you but makes you gush all the same. “gonna be good for daddy?” and you agree vehemently at the king before you, on his knees.
this ones for my fellow flat and skinny girlies, cause I don't see any fics for us
You're used to considering yourself undesirable. It's part of nature, you suppose. Guys don't want a lanky bunch of bones, they want meat. Of course, you've tried to gain some, by eating more, trying all kinds of diets and workouts in hopes it'll do something for your figure. But you always see a teenage boy in the mirror. And yeah, you're thin, but not the pretty, acceptable kind that still have curves. At this point, you're convinced if someone were to draw your silhouette, from any side, it would just be a straight line. But what can you do? You just wander through life like this, happy to see more body types given the love they deserve, and you do genuinely think 'good for them'.
But no matter your good intentions, you always end up the same; frustrated, almost naked in the mirror, turning every which way, looking for something, anything remotely appealing. You furrow your brows as you stare at your chest and ass, practically nothing there. You don't even blame the guys who made fun of you in high school, comparing you to pancakes and sticks. Maybe they were right after all, you think as you stare at yourself in the mirror first.
And then, behind your reflection, you make eye contact with the man behind the window, a strained expression as one of his hands is placed longingly on the glass while the other one seems to be moving around his crotch. He doesn't startle, just sighs in contentment as he keeps going. Nothing but his hand moves, even as you turn around. Even as you walk towards him. Even when you open the window. He only moves when you mutter to him with stars reflected in your eyes, asking if he wants to come in and help you figure out what he finds so damn perfect about you.
A/N: I realize ive been writing a lot abt insecure/low self esteem reader and thats just cuz ive been in kind of a sad spot myself rn. I was thinking of ghost while writing this but once again, you can think of whoever you want to :D
mmmm i have these thoughts about being sorta kinda drunk and hanging out with simon. you're so touchy when you're tipsy, and you're giggly, and you're sitting on the couch next to him, hugging his big arm and pressing little kisses into his shoulder. he doesn't react much, just keeps his eyes trained on the tv as he sips his whiskey; he's so indifferent to your affection, but he never pushes you away, lets you kiss him and touch him and whine and coo, and he never tells you to go away or leave him alone.
you nuzzle your face against his masked cheek, kissing along the cotton fabric there. you're so warm from the alcohol, a little dizzy, and now you're babbling, but he doesn't seem annoyed.
"love you so much, simon," you whine, and he just pats your thigh gently.
"can't ever live without you," you coo, and he squeezes your knee in acknowledgement.
"i'd do anything for you," you whisper into his ear, and he just grunts, pushing his mask up as he takes another long sip of his drink, and you tilt your head to the side, watching him, your pretty, pretty man.
"would you do anything for me?" you ask softly, leaning in close. he licks his scarred lips, but he doesn't look at you yet. "w-would...would you kill for me, simon?"
and then he finally looks at you, dark eyes meeting yours, and you squeak when he wraps that big hand around your waist and tugs you against him.
he smirks, tilting his head to the side. "'v already killed for ya, luv," he says lowly, and this is simon, and simon doesn't lie, and you know by the look in his eyes he doesn't mean this happened at work, either.
suddenly, you feel sober. but his hand tightens, and it lowers, and you swallow when he grabs a handful of your ass and forces your mouth against his.
CW: Dark!Simon Riley, stalker simon, non-con somnophilia/non-con touching, non-con voyeurism, killing, THIS IS NOT A CUTE FIC !!!
Stalker!Simon Riley who first noticed you at a cafe he frequented whenever he was home from deployment
Stalker!Simon Riley immediately needing you as his the moment he saw your pretty, feminine smile
Stalker!Simon Riley following you to your work one day and pretending he needed help finding a specific book solely so he could speak to you
Stalker!Simon Riley following you home after your shift and hiding out in the dark across the road, his cock chubbing in his pants at you forgetting to close your blinds, delicate skin on display
Stalker!Simon Riley finding out all your personal details through his job, completely invading your privacy
Stalker!Simon Riley jumping for joy when he killed your neighbour simply so he could move in next door to you (plus it made rent a lot cheaper)
Stalker!Simon Riley breaking into your house one day just to steal your used panties, wrapping them around his cock later that night before cumming in them and returning them to your laundry basket a day later
Stalker!Simon Riley breaking into your house and stealing your spare key so he doesn’t have to keep going to all that trouble with his lock pick
Stalker!Simon Riley entering your house while you slept, taking in your sleeping figure as he pulled your top up to reveal your bare chest, nipples hardening at the cold as he tweaks them under his fingers
Stalker!Simon Riley pulling your panties down before cumming in them and pulling them back up
Stalker!Simon Riley being there for you when you cry to him about how strange things have been happening and you just need someone to keep you safe
simon “i cant do one-night stands because i catch feelings” riley but it’s in an obsessive way.
he realizes how your bodies are so compatible with each other that he begins to track you down to ‘accidentally’ bump into you. but this only ever happens on very specific days—days when fucking sort of becomes the natural next thing to do and who else could be the best option for you when simon, the man who made you cum more than three times within the short hours you two were together, was right there?
and you’re not foolish enough to deny yourself of the razing euphoria that only he could give to you—your bodies locking together, his hand a steady weight on the back of your neck, the other bruising as it gripped your hip, and his cock slammed so far in you that you swear he was hitting places you never knew were your pleasure points—so of course you would choose him. you miss him, after all.
(you miss the way he made you beg. the way he made you cry. he was so perfect. so gentle and kind. but he was also so mean. so dominating and overwhelming.
he was all you ever needed—someone to fuck you right.)
“one more round, yeah?” simon croons, chest heaving as he catches his breath.
your walls clamp down on him at hearing his words, before a garbled whine trickles from your kiss-swollen lips. he watches as your head shuffles against the pillows with your abrupt nods, further muffling your gasped out mewls.
simon giggles, his lips pulled into a grin that is a bite too mean.