Work Text:
The realization came to him at dusk.
The fields were still warm from the day's sun, the air thick with the smell of turned earth and cut grass. Simon leaned against the split-rail fence, gloves hanging from his back pocket, watching as you stooped to gather what the garden had given. The basket at your hip was nearly spilling— red tomatoes, fat onions, beans tangled like braids. The light touched the crown of your hair like dusted pollen, strands of it sticking to your neck, and your dress swayed around your calves as you moved through the rows.
And all at once, he saw it.
Not just you, here and now— but the shape of life stretched out before him. Children tumbling in the yard, chasing each other through wheat stalks tall enough to swallow them whole. Small hands reaching for yours, tugging at your skirt. The porch full of boots, some muddy, some too small to fit even half his heel.
It hit him with the same surety as rain rolling downhill: he wanted a farm full of children. Wanted you swollen with them, again and again, until there was no room of the house untouched by their laughter. A whole brood, like families used to have, before the world started shrinking them down to twos and threes.
Simon never thought much about family. Not because he missed them, but because they'd never been worth the breath. What little he'd had growing up was cold, hard— love measured in chores, silence served at supper. No softness. No safety. Just the kind of upbringing that teaches a person to keep their head down and their mouth shut.
But when he looked at you, kneeling in the dirt with your skirt gathered, or humming at the stove, or climbing into his bed soft and warm— he started to.
Family. Legacy. Foundation.
He pictured little fists pounding the table, bare feet thudding up the stairs, the slam of doors, the shriek of laughter, the way the quiet would finally break.
His quiet had always been a kind of curse. But with you, he saw the cure.
You glanced up then, catching him staring.
"What?" you asked, brow arched, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.
He shook his head once, curls tumbling about, but didn't look away. "Nothin'." His voice came rough; caught on the thought he couldn't speak yet. The thought wasn't gentle. It wasn't polite. It rose from him the way a wellspring bursts from the ground: rough, hot, inevitable.
You rolled your eyes, bending again to tug another onion from the dirt. But the picture stayed with him— you there, hair up and away, hands busy, light soft on your sweet face. Only now you weren't alone in it.
Later, when you carried the basket inside, he followed. Watched you at the table, laying everything out neat, your wrists brushing against wood darkened by many meals. He stood in the doorway like a man spellbound. The house smelled of the sun and simmering herbs, of home— something he hadn't realized he'd been chasing until the scent of it filled thick in his lungs.
You hummed as you worked, sorting the day's yield with careful hands, laying out what would be stored and what would be eaten fresh. Simon thought about how easily you'd taken to this life; how the city had never quite left your voice, but the farm had started to shape your gestures.
You belonged here. With him. Tied together not by promise or paper. By roots. By blood. By the unspoken bond of the living things you'd bring up together.
He felt it in his hands— those hands that had known only the weight of weapons and now tools— itching for something gentler. Something that built instead of broke. Simon had never known patience as hunger before, but watching you move through the kitchen made him ache with it.
You look up again, and this time he doesn't wait for you to ask. He smells of sun and soil and his heat soaks through your back before he even touches you. His gloves land on the counter behind you with a thud.
"This house oughta be louder," he imparts. "It needs more."
More? You blink, unsure if he means more vegetables, more livestock.
Simon leans closer, thighs bracketing yours, chest a heavy line against your shoulders. His palms slide from the table top to your waist, dragging slow over the fabric of your dress, work-rough skin rasping over the soft weave. One hand spans your hip, fingers curving into the meat of you, the other drifting lower, over the slope of your stomach, flattening there with a deliberate pressure.
You feel it; his whole palm over your belly, wide and warm, thumb brushing just beneath your navel. The weight isn't casual. It's a promise, a picture he's pressing into you with his hand. His chest dips closer to your back until you can feel the shape of his breath at your ear.
"'M gonna fill ya up, make ya heavy with me. Gonna give this place what it's missin'."
The words vibrate against your spine, and you grip the table automatically, the old wood worn smooth under your palms. The vegetables between you roll a little with the movement.
Simon's hands don't leave you: One stays heavy over your belly, the other sliding down, gathering your skirt up in slow, sure handfuls. He doesn't rush. He never rushes. The fabric rises higher and higher until it pools at your hips, exposing the softness he's been touching through layers. His palms map you like they're learning the land: the give of your thighs, the small shudder of your stomach beneath his thumb, the curve of your ass as he cups it and pulls you back into him.
The edge of the table bites into your hips, and the wood is warm from the kitchen, and his body heat turns the space between you into something feverish. You hear the ticking of the stove, the distant whir of cicadas through the open window, a chorus of domestic life.
His hand slides lower, over your mound, fingers pressing through cotton, and he draws a tender, languid circle there with the heel of his palm. A thumb brushes against your clit through the fabric once, a small, sharp zing that makes you jolt. Simon shifts just enough for you to feel the hard, heavy weight of him aligned with the groove of your spine through his jeans, the blunt, unhidden proof of what he wants.
He leans down until his lips brush your temple, his stubble rasping your skin, and he speaks like he's planting a seed: "Gonna work it into you 'til it takes root."
The words land on you as physical as his hands. The warmth pooling between your thighs coils and twists, molten, your pulse an insistent drum in your ears. You press back into him, hips tilting instinctively, a silent offering. His fingers hook the waistband of your panties, drag them down, a scrape of rough skin and callus along sensitive flesh.
Simon finds you slick and ready, fingers parting you, pressing in a little to feel the searing heat. His groan is low, guttural, vibrating against your back.
"I want ya round and full and glowin' so often people stop countin'."
The blunt tip of him is at your entrance, and you can't stop the shiver that runs through you, starting at the base of your spine and spreading like fire through your ribs as he pushes in raw, unfiltered. It's nothing new; condoms have never seen the inside of your home, and Simon knows your cycle. Knows that when you're clingier, needier, all he can do is watch you grind against his thigh like an animal, fuck you with his mouth and fingers because he'd be cutting it close otherwise.
The stretch is familiar, but it's edged with something new: intent, and your body knows it, opening up slick and throbbing around him until he's pushed the rest of the way in with a low, shuddering sound, his hips snug to your ass, his breath a gust of heat over your neck, his chest a furnace pressed to your back.
Then he starts to move. Not rough, not yet. A thick, heavy drag back— like he's savoring the feel of your body clinging to him, the way your slick pussy grips and resists before letting go. And the push in, hot and full; that sweet sting of your body fighting for half a breath before it opens up and takes him in again.
His thrusts are slow and lazy, making you dizzy with want, and you're filled so completely that your knees threaten to buckle and your fingers curl hard against the table. You can feel sweat gathering at the small of your back, the way his breath stutters against your neck when you clench around him, the way his hips roll with the patience of a man who's not just fucking— he's planting.
Simon's hand slides higher for a heartbeat, palming your breast through your dress, squeezing once, thumb brushing over a peak, then drifts back down, fingers trailing over the curve of your ribs, the dip of your belly, until it settles again beneath your navel.
"Already takin' it so good," he coos against your neck, teeth scraping lightly at your fluttering pulse. You can't do anything but nod, your palms white-knuckled against the table. Each stroke of him inside you hits deeper, heavier, until you're shuddering, thighs trembling, mouth open on little gasps you can't swallow.
Then knuckles graze slick and sticky skin, finding the place he's been saving. That aching, swollen spot already pulsing from the rhythm of his hips. He touched you like he's tending something fragile and wild, rough fingertips circling your clit that match the roll of his body. The sensation is electric, his touch a livewire, and the heat in you starts to rise, thick and volatile, the pressure building like steam behind your ribs.
The idea of carrying him— of swelling with his legacy, of waking to the sound of small feet and golden curls and his voice calling you mama— it coils tight in your gut and cracks like thunder, and you come with a choked sob. Simon's breath stutters when you clench around him, and he groans low against your skin, hips grinding deeper, as your pussy flutters around him.
"Ah— fuck," he rumbles, the sound torn from somewhere deep. "That's it, easy girl."
You're still shaking when he starts to move again, faster, heavier, your pussy taking him like cracked earth begging for rain. He fucks into you with a starving need, each thrust a brutal, bone-deep push that rocks you against the table. His pace turns punishing, merciless, and your body takes it—barely. The stretch becomes a throb, the fullness a pressure that teeters on pain, a dull ache blooming deep with every heavy snap of his hips, carving something tender in your core.
It rises in your throat unbidden, a tiny sound, half-formed, caught between a gasp and a whimper. Not quite a word, not quite a cry. Just a flicker of protest, a fragile almost. His thrust lands deep enough to make your belly tighten, and your lips part around the beginning of a complaint— ow— but it never makes it out. It curls there, behind your teeth, because even though the sting is real, it's welcome.
It's not sharp, not cruel. It's Simon chasing a life he never planned for, never dared to want until he saw it in the gentleness of your face, the softness of your hands, felt it in your sweet little pussy. He imagined it in the sound of tiny feet padding across hardwood floors. In golden curls bouncing in the morning light. In your voice, soft and sleepy, calling him daddy with a smile that makes his chest tighten.
The table groans, creaks, complains.
And then it gives.
A loud crack splits the air, a sudden stagger, the old wood splintering under the strain of his thrusts and your body. You pitch forward, world tipping and palms slipping— crushing fruit, a flash of red, and before you can fall, he catches you, arms strong and sure around your waist, turning and lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your back leaves the wreckage, dress bunched high, legs hooking over his forearms, and then your chest is now pressed to his, your face tucked against the pulse of his neck.
And then he's back.
Simon's cock slips in with a single thrust, the angle new and devastating. It's overwhelming, your body split wide, held open, and he lifts you higher, closer, pressing you to the nearest wall.
"Guess I'll have to fuck you through the house."
He fucks you like he's desperate, like he's trying to carve a future into your womb, and then he's there; seed spilling deep, pulsing inside you in hot, heavy waves. You can feel each shudder as he fills you, hips grinding molten, coaxing every last drop into the softest part of you. His forehead presses to your temple, and you feel the tremble in him.
"Fuck," he murmurs, voice wrecked. "You're gonna feel it for days."
You blink, dazed, the world still tilting around you, vision hazy, breath snagging somewhere between your ribs and your throat. Simon shifts, just enough that you can feel the thick spill of him, the warmth seeping deeper, the way your body clenches on reflex. A small sigh, heavy with satisfaction, leaves him when he finally lowers you, your feet barely finding the ground; your legs feel hollowed, your skin still humming with what he's put into you.
"Gonna have little feet runnin' through this house before the frost comes back," he hums, quiet like a rumble of far-off thunder.
Something in you aches, less like aftermath and more like a beginning.