i feel like it would've been an experience to see simon, the hulking shadow at your side with your possibly accessorized handbag over his massive shoulder or just in the nook of his elbow because his biceps wouldn't fit through it.
you used to argue about this but he'd just stare at you and at the end of your monologue while you're huffing and puffing almost out of breath he just hits you with, "y'done?"
which just makes you open and close your mouth and when no rebuttal comes he just adds, "s'what i thought." and keeps walking.
he does the same if you ever go out and you want to go dance, he grabs onto everything and keeps a watchful eye on you the entire time.
in your mind it's kind of gentlemanly of him to do, it almost doesn't fit him and you might be right because in his mind it's not about being a gentleman, it's about possessing. your bag hanging on his forearm is a mark. and if there's one thing simon loves, it's sinking his teeth into you and making it known. leaving behind a bite mark for everyone to see. and he's all for equal opportunity so if you wanna sink your teeh into him he won't begrudge you the chance to do so.
i’m sorry for being so inactive, it’s my bday and i wanted to write but alas i’m attempting to be an academic weapon but as it turns out the academia is holding said weapon against my head and breathing down my neck
simon making fun of your order while he sits by the bar and you order some cola and his mockery goads u into adding rum even tho you are a lightweight not knowing it plays right into his hand to get you to lower your inhibitions so he can take you home and get into your pants. he was never above playing dirty.
price is the definition of you won't teach an old dog new tricks and not because he wouldn't be able to learn. he simply won't do it -- he's stubborn like that.
he has his own rules, his own tricks if you will. he won't bend them for you even if you bat your eyelashes at him all pretty and cute. one of them is that you will never EVER step inside his house with shoes on. not even in the hallway to take them off. one time when he wasn't home you were in a rush and forgot your car keys and had to go back, you didn't take your shoes off and you swear john could feel some disturbance in the force and had this suspicious look when he saw you later that day but he didn't mention anything which had you ill at ease.
sometimes this actually worked in your favour. like when you come back from attending your friends wedding, all dressed up with shoes that look absolutely killer but as it turns out they also kill your own feet. before you can attempt bending down to work on the clasps around your ankles your breath catches in your throat when john, dressed in a suit and tie already looking like sin with his hair out of place from when you pulled on it when making out in the car.
your teeth sink into your bottom lip from the sight of john on his knee. he doesn't look up but your trance has to be somehow clear for him to read when he has to repeat himself twice for you to hold onto his shoulder for purchase when his big hands cup your ankle to lift it on his knee to see the clasp better. you want to tease him somehow to gain control of the situation (as if you ever had it with john around). you were about to make a quip when the shoe is slipped off and john plants a soft kiss to the inside of your knee before dropping it and getting to work on the other one.
"you're doing this on purpose," your tone is accusatory but to john you look like a cute cat hissing with no real bite to it.
after he kisses your other knee he lets you go and stands up, towering over you once again, filling up the space around you and there is an unmistakable mirth in his eyes.
"just making sure you don't track dirt into the house again, honey."
Bullrider! Johnny is explosive while on the bucking bull. He's a tightly wound coil of muscle and grit. His thighs clamp down, calves locked tight, his entire body tense, ready, prepared to counter every brutal buck with sharp corrections. His core works overtime, twisting to keep him balanced, his arms snapping in rhythm with the beast beneath him.
it's not just riding, it's conquering, and he thrives off the struggle.
And then there's Bullrider! Simon— my best pal, Johnny says— and he's an entirely different game. Mass. Weight. Gravity. Where Johnny fights the bull, Simon seems to absorb it. His sheer size is his advantage; his weight keeps him rooted. When the bull lunges, twists and kicks, Simon doesn't scramble. He doesn't need to. The momentum rolls through him and around him. When you're that big a man, you don't have to fight for your place, you reckon.
Johnny fights, and Simon claims.
And how they ride is exactly how they want, how they take.
Johnny steals you into a rodeo maintenance closet with starved impatience and greedy hands that're already trailing down south, fingers dipping into the waistband of your shorts, tips of them finding your pearl in seconds, and his ravenous mouth warm as it presses against the curve of your ear, murmuring nothing else but hot honey in an accent thick with places you've never been while he circles and thrusts and curls oh so deliciously.
"Tight grip ya got there, lass."
Then he holds your bleary gaze when he suckles on his fingers, glistening with your undone slick, licking them clean when his name's announced over the speakers, loud, cutting, for the main event. "Sorry, love, gotta run," he drawls, voice easy, grin sharp and cocky. "But don't ya worry, Simon here'll take good care o' ya."
Johnny's boots are heavy as he walks away, not even a glance back, and before you can even blink— can tell him that you don't remember signing up for the two for one special— Simon moves in, blocks out the light, already taking up the space Johnny left behind, ready to finish what he started.
He's got you now.
Where Johnny had pushed you against the wall, had knocked a bucket or two over in his haste, Simon decides that you belong against that wall, large hands spreading over your waist, and they pin you in place.
"Johnny's made a mess, eh?" His voice is low, careful, dragging slow just behind your ear, and it's thick with an accent that doesn't ask, simply informs.
"Guess I better clean up, then." It sinks hot into your skin but not hotter than the damp breath fanning against your exposed throbbing pussy, and it bounces around in your empty little head when he does clean up, thick, pink tongue savoring Johnny's reward.
And to think that Johnny had told you it'd be just a simple date.
no thoughts just johnny being a menace as usual and badgering you while you are cooking some food. he'll steal bites here and there and you shooing him doesn't deter him in the slightest. quite the opposite really as he dips his pointer and middle finger into the sauce almost making a mess of his shirt because his eyes are locked onto yours as he brings the fingers into his mouth and moans as he licks them clean.
i've been plagued by the vision of simon and johnny wearing a suit for some work gala of yours and now you need to hear about it!
simon doesn't own any and ends up shopping for one with price and johnny actually does own one because his sisters bullied him into owning one.
now simon is definitely biding his time, he'll say yes without much resistance which should've been enough of a red flag for you. he's a smart man he knows the pros (seeing you all glammed up and messing it all up later in the bathroom) outweigh the cons (having the tie constrict his airways and socialize). he ends up stuffing the tie in your mouth to keep you quiet before bending you over the sink and fucking you stupid.
and johnny? he's too impatient to wait. he'd be on you the moment you're changing into your dress. if you somehow manage to fight him off and leave on time he'll be pouty and sulky the whole ride there. but he follows orders pretty well so he'll behave throughout the night, only ever letting his hand cup your ass a few times ("cannae blame a man, bonnie.") he definitely does whisper the dirtiest things into your ear before turning up his charm to make everyone of your coworkers melt while you are white-knuckling your glass. he decides to make you pay by teasing you and frustrating you enough to make you crawl onto his lap in the car as soon as you leave.
Wonder how Simon would react if he was dating someone who had a good relationship with their own father. And Simon gets the usual "shovel talk" from their father, only for Simon to point out if he did hurt his SO, the 141 would beat the shit out of him.
it would be especially funny if his s/o's dad was like a head shorter than he is, just looking like the stereotypical chill dad but giving Simon the talk.
"if you hurt them i'm gonna bury you in my backyard and I'd hate to do it, son, I just made it look nice."
simon isn't even miffed honestly. he's glad, glad that you have someone who would stand up for you. especially since standing up to him is not an easy task -- he's the biggest guy in the room most of the time, looks like he could bench press a car for fun and his skull balaclava makes even tough guys avoid him when the sun's down. out of the whole intimidation spiel the word "son" hit a nerve he didn't know was still raw. he almost forgot he was someone's son at one point in time. he refused the notion but now the idea doesn't sound that bad, it doesn't send chills crawling down his back or anxiety making his palms sweaty.
"my squad would already serve me my balls on a silver platter if i messed this up." your dad was stunned for a second before letting out a laugh saying he likes those guys already, how he should invite them for a beer.
it was almost funny when the guys clapped him on a shoulder after meeting you, they were charmed. you made Simon softer. they could see his dark circles lessen when he was with you, finally being able to get a good night's rest without his own nightmares plaguing his mind. he finally had a reason to come back from missions. if he had to he would crawl back to you, bruised and bloodied.
"lucky ye, Lt. ye've found a gud one." from Johnny.
"don't make us kick your ass by making them cry." from Kyle.
"better treat them right or someone with a prettier mug than you will." from Price.
but the consensus was clear, he'd have hell to pay if he ever hurt you.
i have few ideas for demon! johnny or simon as well but he would probably come into play later tbh cuz they are a package deal but medieval times with blind! witch! reader who is giving out food at a church where she works at and catches the attention of a demon. her soul looks too good to pass up, so bright it hurts to look directly at her.
all he can think about is to get his handprints all over it. dim that light a bit, mark the skin and make you feel him with all your other senses.
imagine his surprise when she tries to stab him when he gets near as she can feel his twisted intentions thanks to the magic coursing through her veins. the little stab wound doesn't deter him from pursuing her, it only serves to make him more intrigued.
"when ye try to kill me, i like ye even more." and she obviously can't see him but he doesn't hide they way he adjusts himself in his pants.
there's something empowering in holding the razor to simon's throat when shaving his face for him. it's peak intimacy for someone like him who doesn't trust easy.
but to you he is like a well adjusted cat, purring with his eyes closed while showing his belly. his most vulnerable parts.
it warms your heart and you need to show it so you take the razor away from his throat for a second to drop a barely there kiss on his freshly shaved cheek. simon only reacts with satisfied hum and cracking one eye open.
"what was that for?" he asks.
"just felt like it." you shrug not wanting to be all sappy.
thank you for all the love on my posts! i'm going to be mostly inactive during january as i'm deep in the uni exam season trenches but i'll be back later with some more brainrots and fics!
it goes without saying that johnny is counting down the seconds to the New Year even more eagerly to just get his hands on you. you set that rule up before heading to the party with the rest of his squadmates and their friends and families because his hands are never toying with the line of indecency. he always has both feet firmly over that line with his hands grabbing a handful of your ass. so when the time finally comes you know you are in for a treat. before the words "happy new year" even leave your mouth properly he's already on you, giving you a quick wet smooch before licking into your mouth. it's messy and it gets you a few wolf whistles that make you punch his shoulders to release you which only spurs him on more. (at this point it's either simon or price that take mercy on you and grab him by the scruff so you can catch your breath.)
when it comes to simon he's as indifferent as can be to the buzz of people around him at the party. he throws few quips in (mostly to rile johnny up so he does something he'll probably regret later like dancing on the top of the tables with gaz recording it for future blackmail). other than that he is as cool as a cucumber, manspreading with his arm over your shoulder trying to contain your own excitement about the new years kiss. he can feel it rolling off of you in waves. once every erupts in cheers, you feel his rough hand pulling at your chin to lift your lips up to his. the kiss starts off pretty PG but your body fits so nicely into him and your mouth tastes sweet like the cocktail you had just before. it's a good thing he doesn't care what others think and he has no shame whatsoever so the team can't even capitalize on this moment.
price was probably somehow forced to help with the planning by laswell. he begrudgingly agrees to intimidate the bar owner into lowering the price for renting it out and then he helps move the heavy furniture around but after that he's gone. he pulls you away from your conversation partner with a hand on your lower back and hides away on the corner away from his squad. when you tease him about it he only shrugs. once the clock strikes midnight he's in no rush, he'll be very romantic about it, cradling your face in his big hands and leaving a teasing peck on your lips. when your brows furrow because that can't be all he chuckles and lets you jump at him to give him a proper kiss since he even tamed his beard for the occasion.
once again kyle is the only normal one in the team. he came to the party mostly to be an enabler to drunk johnny and take pictures. not only of johnny's escapades but of everyone having fun, some artsy shots of you against the backdrop of all the lights while you were playing with sparklers. he has the eye for beauty and the talent to go with it. even he can't help to be excited about getting his new year's kiss. during the countdown his eyes keep sliding down to your lips and then back up to hold your gaze. there is no embarrassment about getting caught staring either which only serves to make you blush instead. kyle will tease you too, kissing your forehead first when wishing you happy new year and then seeing the absolutely scandalized look on your face makes him break and laugh before swooping in and dramatically bending you backwards to give you that proper kiss, so he can finally know what that new lip balm you used before coming here.
you are trying to scare off your ex and who better to send him running than a masked burly guy you've met at a bar and who bulldozed his way into your bed.
simon riley x fem!reader
nsfw, minors do not interact!!
warnings: dub-con (drinking), fingering (fem!receiving), car sex, exhibitionism, oral (fem!receiving), doggy style, creampie, manhandling
prologue // other versions (TBA)
Everything that happened after Johnny invited you over (which really meant he pulled you by the hand before you could back out) was a blur. You found yourself sandwiched between the masked guy and the pretty boy who introduced himself as Johnny, speaking with a sexy, thick Scottish accent. You couldn't help but steal glances at the masked guy. He said nothing, merely dipped his chin in greeting and met your gaze with an unnerving stare.
From this close-up, you noticed parts of his blonde buzzcut where he had nicked himself with the razor. He had done it himself without a mirror, resulting in some slightly uneven spots. On someone else, this might make them appear unkempt, but for this giant of a man, it seemed just right—almost endearing.
Everything about him screams danger. His thigh is pressed against yours, and you're already sweating because he and Johnny feel like walking furnaces. When you try to pull off your hoodie, the alcohol courses through you, and your head spins. As you finally manage to take the garment off, you accidentally grab onto something solid and hard for support. Too late, you realize that your hand has latched onto the blond's muscular thigh. You immediately let go, as if you’ve been burned by the touch.
You almost swear you hear him snort under his mask. When he finally speaks, your thighs clench. “I think it’s time for you to head home, doll. Come.”
It sounds as if he is talking to a dog, and you feel a sense of indignation rising within you. "I'm not a dog to give orders to. Besides, I don't even know your name."
He rolls his eyes at you. "Simon. That better now?"
"Not really. How do I know you're not some serial killer?" That gets some laughs out of the rest of the table.
He leans down closer to your ear, and you can almost sense the smirk in his voice when he says, "You don't. It adds to the thrill." It could be the alcohol coursing through your veins or the way his voice, with its rough British accent, sends shivers down your spine, but you find yourself agreeing. In some twisted way, it does add to it.
You discover that Simon doesn’t actually drink; the beverage you saw in front of him was just plain water. When he drives you home, he looks absolutely ridiculous in your small car, taking up all the space. He grumbles about your seat being so close to the steering wheel. When you ask him how the other guys are getting home, he simply replies, “They’ll walk,” along with a shrug of his broad shoulders.
He doesn't touch the radio, and you're too nervous to reach for it. You soon realize that he's not much of a conversationalist. He only answers your questions but never offers any additional information that would prompt you to ask more. After you've exhausted all possible conversation starters, all you can do is sit and look out the window. You swear you see him chuckle at your fidgeting whenever the silence becomes oppressive.
As you finally arrive home, you can hardly wait to bolt out of the car. The tension is so thick that you need some fresh air to breathe properly, trying to push away thoughts of the consequences of your actions.
Before you can act on those thoughts, a heavy hand grips the back of your neck. "You think too loud. Stop it." A retort dies in your throat as you're pulled into him so quickly that your head spins. You barely register him removing his mask; you can’t even enjoy the fact that his face is finally visible. He latches onto you with the hunger of a man starved, kissing you deeply and urging you to stick out your tongue more.
Just by kissing him, you can feel the scar running through his lips. There's another scar, one that you noticed before, that runs through his eyebrow. When he finally pulls away for a moment, you see that his nose was definitely broken at some point, and he never bothered to get it fixed. You can't help but wonder what it would feel like to sit on his face.
Unceremoniously, he pulls you over the center console and onto his lap, which causes you to squeal in surprise. He doesn’t even bat an eye as he manhandles you into position, making you think about how your ex couldn't even carry two bags of groceries without complaining about the weight.
Something must have revealed your train of thought, or perhaps it was simply the fact that you were still lost in your thoughts, because Simon growls in response. You can feel the sound reverberating through your hands, which rest on his impressive pecs.
"Stop. Thinking." Every word is punctuated by a grind of his hips. To his great amusement, your mind goes blank immediately.
He guides your hands to his zipper straining under his hard-on. "What if someone sees?"
He only replies with "They'll get a hell of a show then." before he drags the pads of his fingers over the wet patch on your panties underneath your skirt that has already ridden up to your hips. He pulls the crotch of your panties to the side and pushes up to a knuckle, wasting no time and making you cling to him for dear life. After he adds another and starts hitting all the spots that make you whimper into his thick neck, he chuckles. It sounds a little mean but it still shoots right to your pussy anyway. "Finally shut that brain of yours up, doll."
He pulls up your shirt with his free hand and drags the cups of your bra up as well before sucking a nipple into his mouth. In reaction you push further into him, making him hum. He ends up alternating between bites to the side of your tits and sucking angry red marks into your collarbones and neck. Every part of you will be sore tomorrow but that's something you'll deal with later.
He lets you ride his fingers, scratching at his back and shoulders, fisting his hoodie and when you finally let go and the orgasm makes your eyes roll back into your head, he pulls you back into him for a kiss. It's messy, all teeth and tongue. When he pulls back there is a string of saliva connecting you two and if your mind wasn't currently wiped by the mind-blowing orgasm you would be embarrassed by the pornographic imagery.
Simon forces you to look at him, his big, rough fingers holding up your chin to make you meet his gaze. You finally see the color of his eyes: brown, with pupils dilated wide. "We're nowhere near done," he says.
Simon is a whirlwind; he makes decisions, and you find yourself following them as if they were orders. He doesn’t wait for an invitation; instead, he stands behind you, his chest against your back, providing support as your legs feel like jelly. The drinks you had are wearing off now.
When you take too long to get out of your shoes, Simon tosses you over his shoulder. "You're taking too damn long," he says. You give him directions to your bedroom, and before long, you're dropped onto the sheets. You’re about to call him a caveman for his methods, but the sight of him pulling off his hoodie, revealing he’s not wearing anything underneath, leaves you speechless.
His skin is pale, but you can still see angry-looking scars on his torso and arms. Some of them resemble cigarette burns, while others look like bullet wounds that didn't heal properly. All of that should make you reconsider the kind of danger you’ve just invited into your bed, but as your gaze wanders lower, following his blond happy trail, you find yourself unable to think about the consequences.One of his hands is tattooed up to his elbow, and you can't really tell the design in the low light but it only adds to his appeal. Something possesses you to act, you end up reaching for his zipper before he can and he only gives you a wolfish grin before you pull him out.
He's not wearing any underwear. Your mouth dries up at the sight of him. That's never going to fit. Only after hearing him laugh did you realize that you had said that out loud. He was already hovering above you, caging you in against the sheets. "We'll make it fit."
Your skirt and shirt with your bra soon follow his pants and are lost to the shadows of your bedroom floor. Your eyes are drawn to his dick, you can't help it. He's big and thick you can already imagine the stretch, there's a vein on the underside that makes you wanna follow it with your tongue all the way to the top to catch the pre-cum already gathered there but he doesn't let you. Instead, he drags you to the edge of the bed and throws your legs over his shoulders. You almost want to argue that you hadn't showered, it's been a long day, and he doesn't have to do this but one look at the intense stare makes you swallow all of that down. You don't want to mention that you've never had anyone go down on you before. Your ex-boyfriend wasn't one to reciprocate.
There is no time to think about how miserable your sex life might have been. A bite to the inside of your thigh serves as a warning, both to stop thinking and not close your legs. In your defense, you didn't even realize you were doing it. His eyes are almost unnervingly focused on you before he dives in. He's always been a bit of a messy eater; the sounds he makes in the back of his throat are nothing short of animalistic. If you weren't shaking from his ministrations, you might think he's enjoying himself even more than you are.
He only moves a bit to lock eyes with you and tell you how sweet you are, juices dripping down his stubbled jaw. "Come on now, gotta make sure you're ready f'r me, doll." He alternates fucking you on his tongue and sucking on your clit, fingers digging into the fat of your thighs to keep them open for him. He's only barely controlling his strength so you know there will be bruises on your hips and thighs tomorrow but you can't bring yourself to care especially not this close to another orgasm. He can feel you twitching, getting closer and closer. There's a second of fear that he'll stop but he doesn't. Instead, he adds a finger and pushes on that one spot that made you see stars. That was all it took to wring the second orgasm of the night out of you.
Boneless, you let go of the sheets you were gripping. You only get a second of rest before he's repositioning you on the bed again; it would be infuriating if you could actually move properly.
He presses you into the mattress with his body, his scarred lips brushing next to your ear. "This will be a rough ride for you, don't say I didn't warn you." that's all you get before he bullies the ruddy head of his cock inside of you. You have half a mind to pull away but his weight keeps you in place, when he finally bottoms out there are tears in the corner of your eyes from the stretch, he only drops a few open-mouthed kisses to your shoulders before he rises to his knees and pulls your ass to him.
Everything after that is a blur, you're going crazy from the echo of the slapping of skin against skin, and your arms gave out on you midway so all you can do is scrunch the sheets in your hands and moan out his name like a prayer, to slow down? To go faster? You don't know. If he set out to make sure you can't think he achieved it. Your brain is fuzzy, your legs are shaking and a knot is unwinding in your lower stomach again. It's all too much and not enough at the same time. One of his hands finds your clit and it's over for you. "Come f'r me, doll. That's it." You can hear him hiss from the way you tighten around him as you come. He doubles down chasing his own orgasm now, balls slapping against your pussy even harder. There is a split second of clarity that he didn't use a condom (even though you are on a pill) but as soon as the thought registers he's filling you up with a groan before again squishing you underneath him, cock still lodged deep inside you, keeping his spend from leaking out.
When you try to move from underneath him, he only chuckles before his hands find your tits and knead them, making you moan. It will be a long night for you. You've invited a ghost into your bed, and now you must deal with the consequences.
The picture you took with a large black shadow looming over you in the mirror, with a tattooed hand resting on your neck, might help you get rid of your ex who keeps creeping on your social media posts.
