Simon Tries Something New

The model son

Forget me nots are his flower I will not take criticism. Also deer motif has nothing compared to Arthur Morgan dog motif. That man is a hound through and through

no exactly

Gaz would definitely court you like old times. Pick you up at the front door dressed in a suit, pay for dinner and insist you have dessert, drive you home and hold your hand as he walks you to your house kind of guy. Buy you roses on his way back from deployment despite his exhaustion and make love to you slow after devouring your home made meal. Take you to the movies and tie a bow in your hair before you leave, letting you stain his lips red with your own. Sing to you as you both dance outside under the stars, cry with you when you find out you’re pregnant for the first time. Gaz is everything a man should be.

Cowboy!Simon who rides a big old Belgian Draft horse with a palomino coat. He knows a smaller horse couldn’t handle his weight and all of his hunting gear, so the sweet gelding he found tied up and abandoned to a tree was perfect for him.

Cowboy!Simon who has no interest in a wife or the word of God, only the small cabin he built for himself in the woods and the pitiful garden in his backyard.

Cowboy!Simon who comes home from a several day long hunting trip to find a small thing like yourself cursing silently under your breath as you rip at weeds and meticulously pick mites off leaves. Behind you, a small red Appaloosa eyes him warily as you fail to notice him on his massive horse.

Cowboy!Simon who decides at that very moment that he doesn’t need a wife or the word of God, just you to angrily tend to his garden. He’ll cook you dinner too; he killed a massive buck while he was gone.

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ daddy kink

You’re trying. 

Your body language betrays you. The effort and the turbulence beneath, your eyes flicking rapidly through the parking lot, the ramrod straight line of your spine, your quadricep tensing and relaxing under his palm as he works his fingers from your knee up, back and forth. 

“What’s wrong?” You sigh. Slump. Turn to face him with an anxious pout. 

“I just… I don’t love the restaurant store.” He gives you a chance, and then prompts, pushes just slightly.

“What’s the rule?” 

“Tell you when I’m scared, or anxious. Or overwhelmed.” He squeezes approval, and you continue. “It’s chaos, especially on a Sunday, and… it’s like a warehouse so the sound bounces…  all of it is really loud.” You latch onto his forearm, hard intake of breath sharp before softening, your fingers applying firm pressure. He doesn’t mind. You’re anchoring yourself to him, with him. It’s all he could ask for. 

“It’s okay baby, we’ll get it done and then go home. I’ll be with you.” Your head bobs repeatedly with a nod, but you make no effort to unbuckle your seatbelt or get out of the car. You need a little comfort, a little encouragement, things that are his job to provide, so he’s out of the truck on his side to open the passenger door, reaching over to unbuckle your seatbelt. “Close your eyes and open your mouth.” He works his thumb behind your teeth and rests it on your tongue, a pleased flush rushing through him when you immediately pull and suck on him. “Good girl.” You calm almost immediately, strained muscles and back turning plush, tight corners of your eyes smoothing away. When you lean in, looking for more contact, he decides to test the limits. Your limits. “Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs encouragingly as he presses deeper into your mouth, “there we go.” You try, but when his knuckles meet your lips and his thumb brushes your throat, the back of your tongue, you seize up, trying to swallow, trying to find air, and jerk away, gagging. He follows the movement, width of his hand against your neck with a finger against your pulse, keeping you steady and still through the swift rise and then decline of panic. It crashes like a wave, receding just as quick and leaving something in its place.

You blink rapidly, gears turning, so obviously trying to reconcile something you’re feeling, something he can so easily read. Worry. Shame. Spiral.

“Stop.” He brushes a kiss across your forehead. “Don’t go there. When it’s time, I’ll take care of you. Do you understand?” Your chest loosens. 

“Yes daddy.” Music to his ears.

“Does your throat hurt?” 

“It’s okay.” He cups the back of your head, guides you into his arms, and place your ear over his heart. You’ve started to tap your fingers with the rhythm, against your skin or his, self soothing, and it makes him whole. It’s not just a sexual dynamic with you, it’s everything, an entire soul under his shelter, a whole human using his heartbeat to ground themselves, and nothing is more fulfilling. “Ready to go?” You tug on him instinctively, hopping from the truck, keeping your grip locked in his. 

“Yeah.” He smiles at your resolve, the confidence. 

“Brave girl. C’mon.” 

It doesn’t bother him that you lock up again, the store is a madhouse. It’s overcrowded, and loud, the metal roof of the warehouse doing nothing to dull the senses, bright lights and too many boxes, bags, things being tossed around. 

You’re wide eyed, rooted to the floor, still clutching his arm in a stranglehold and he herds you towards a corner. 

“Tell me.” You don’t start immediately, scrounging around for words, and he encourages with a gentle reminder. “Remember your rules baby.” It doesn’t take anymore coaxing after that. 

“I’m overwhelmed.” You blurt, wincing, but just as he predicted, hoped, you visibly relax, and he takes your face in his hands. Holds his whole world. 

“Proud of you sweetheart.” Tears shine in your eyes, dew drops in the corners, and when one falls he wipes it away. “Do you need me to finish your list?” 

“Please, if it’s…” He doesn’t waste time, just moves you to the cart, stations you at the helm so you can steer and he can manage the rest. 

“You’ll push the cart, and stay in the middle of the aisles. I’ll get the things you need.” You blow out a breath. 

“Okay.” 

“When?” 

“Dunno. Sometime next week, I think. Wasn’t real clear.” Simon groans, rubs his nose into his palm and then pauses, listening for footfalls in the hall or the adjacent bedroom.

“Well, if they’re goin’ we are too. I’ll see what’s going on, let you know later.” Gaz grunts an affirmative and hangs up. He’s been restless, itchy, just like the others, but Simon’s in no rush. 

Not now. 

Not when he has you, here in house, with your things in his bedroom, his bathroom, with your toothbrush next to the sink. The slow migration of your stuff has begun and is in full swing, two fuzzy blankets, your switch, your kindle, even that weird pillow you have that you call Pusheen. It’s a stuffed cat of some kind, he thinks, and you use it as a pillow half the time, which means it’s little eyes are sometimes staring at him in bed. 

But you love it, and you don’t know yet, but he loves you. 

Every sweet piece, even the weird stuffed cat. 

Which is why he’s dreading the next mission, the next time he loads onto an airplane and drops into an undisclosed location, the next time he has to turn his mind dark, shutter his heart, forget about anything that could interfere with completing an objective. 

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t want it. 

And he doesn’t want to dwell on it right now either, so he shoves back from the desk and closes his laptop, opting to find you instead. 

You’re in the kitchen. There’s a beater in your hands, something else that’s new to him, and the rich scent of chocolate in the air. 

“What’s this?” He tugs you close, holds you against him with your back to his chest, kisses your ear. 

“Whipped cream.” You shiver, goosebumps raising the hair on your arms. “It’s for…. I made hot chocolate?” 

“Is that a question?” He nips your skin. it’s getting harder to control the instinct, the urge to mark you in every way possible. 

“N-no it’s… I made it. You can make whipped cream! I don’t know why anyone buys whipped cream in a can. I mean, I know. It’s because they don’t realize how easy it is. It’s really so simple and so much better. Obviously, people don’t have time to make it by hand, I know that, I’m not trying to make anyone feel bad, but…” 

“But?” He squeezes your hip. 

“But… it’s so good this way.” The stainless steel bowl glints under the kitchen’s pendant light. “Do you want some?” 

“Of course.” You bounce a bit on your toes, the smile he dreams about lighting up your face. “I don’t think I’ve ever had hot chocolate.” You give him a shocked look.

“Wha… what?” He shakes his head and sips. It’s silky and smooth, but not something that would rot your teeth. There’s a hint of decadent bitterness to it, well balanced, a roasted coffee taste of some kind.

“Didn’t get a lot of sweet stuff, ’til you.” Whipped cream dots your upper lip and he tries to tamp down the rushing blood in his veins. 

“That’s um… that’s…” He puts the mug down, already half empty. 

“It’s what, sweetheart?” 

“It’s nice.” You whisper, drifting closer, and he slides his hands up under your hoodie. 

“Hmm,” You’re so soft, everything about you, head to toe, and you tremble under his touch, the circles he scrawls into your skin as you try to regulate your breathing. He can’t help himself. “You were such a good girl for me today, weren’t you?” 

“Yes daddy, I tried.”

“You were. So good, and so sweet,” he taps your phone and sighs at the glowing numbers on the screen. Tomorrow. “It’s late, and you should be asleep already, go on.” He urges you away from the kitchen with a pat on your ass, even as you try to protest. “Bed, little berry girl.” 

“I can clean up-” 

“Bed,” he pauses, cocks his head and reaches for the bowl of whipped cream. “Will this still be good in the morning?”  Maybe he’ll wake you up with his mouth on your nipples, tongue working circles through cream as he drags his teeth across them, pinching them so he can hear your surprised little squeak. He’d paint you with his own if you were ready, decorate your body with his cum, drag it down to your pussy and then smear it over your clit, working back and forth until you were making your own mess on his hand. 

“Um… yes? If it’s left in the fridge.”

Maybe… 

“Perfect.” 

OKAY I’m a fanfic writer, I deserve to be a little delusional

König having a little YouTube channel. when you look at him you’d think he’d make videos on antique weapons, different blades and their history, or maybe old military equipment. he wouldn’t blame you, he does collect said weapons. of course, you could also wager he’d make videos on documentaries and movies he’s watched. he’s an opinionated man, loves to talk about old war documentaries and horror films, but you’d be wrong again

König likes to record little cooking videos. when he’s home on leave he’ll take clips of himself shopping - he prefers the local farmers market, but the grocery is nothing he’d scoff at. he gets up early to have first pick over fruits and vegetables, takes a moment to look at fresh loaves and sweet treats. the real magic is in the kitchen, always precise with measurements and handling a knife. he doesn’t really talk, doesn’t write out subtitles for the videos, just lets his cooking speak for itself

König who’s known to have a certain someone cameo in his recordings, your mumbled ‘hello’s and ‘good morning’s murmured in the background, the soft pad of your feet as you walk around. he always plates up his food carefully, big hands arranging little pieces of fruit ever so slightly. sets the table, his phone angled at the spread - fresh cut fruit, your favorite breakfast items, refreshing drinks. neither of you are fully in view, it’s really just your hands and the meal, but that’s all he cares to record. his videos always end after you try a little bit of everything, satisfied that he made you something you enjoyed - he awkwardly waves at the camera before stopping the recording

the captions for his videos follow a similar format, “breakfast for my liebling”, or, “surprise dinner for date night”. Horangi found his channel after snooping on the Colonel’s phone, he’s his number one fan and top viewer

MORE SLEEP TOKEN AND COD?

Show me where the delicate stops

Down with sickness over @dante-mightdie ‘s blue collar!simon and his fixation with having a good meal

Your boyfriend works on the same construction site as Simon. He’s a serviceable worker, but a right fuckin pillock sometimes. Goes out for lunch every day with his mates like he’s got money to burn or something. And he’ll leave behind a neatly folded paper bag with a sticker on it a couple of times a week.

Eventually, Simon gets so tired of seeing it he thinks fuck it, why let it go to waste? He opens it up to see a little piece of memo paper with quickly inked handwriting on it alongside some storybook characters. Have a good day <3.

Inside there’s an insulated container with some hot tomato soup, accompanied by a hearty turkey, bacon, and lettuce club wrapped in wax paper on toasted bread. On the side are some apple slices and baby carrots. There’s a single wrapped heart shaped chocolate. And he’s kind of in heaven— god knows how long it’s been since anyone had ever prepared something like this for him.

Did your dumbass boyfriend have any idea that there were men that would kill to have a sweet thing sending them off to work with home-made lunches? Fuck, you probably have dinner waiting when he comes home, too. He’d only seen you once, when you’d come to drop something off for your man. Pretty. Pearls before swine.

Simon uses the last few minutes of his break to swing by the foreman’s office and check the employee records. Next time your fuckhead boyfriend goes out for lunch, Simon’ll be headed to yours to show you how a pretty bird ought to be thanked for taking such good care of her man.

Damocles - Sleep Token

What if I can't get up and stand tall? What if the diamond days are all gone And who will I be when thе empire falls? Wake up alonе and I'll be forgotten