Don't Piss me Off (Pt. 2)
John Q. (Simon) X Fem!Reader
Warnings: Smut, oral (female receiving), "public" sex, unprotected sex (don't do that), poor life choices.
Summary: You still can't stand sticking around your parents for too long, but you stay in town for a while longer just to see him play. PART ONE IS HERE!!
Notes: I love him. I'm gonna write a million versions of the same story I stg. I didn't proof read. I got like 6 ideas at once and they're all getting written at the same time.
In the basement of a warehouse you'd assume abandoned, Simon and his band consisting of a handful of less ill-tempered, but just as dirty and dead-looking men set up for their performance. They're all spitting insults at each other as they scramble to plug in each meticulous piece of shoddy equipment they've acquired.
Simon's preoccupied. Clearly stuck on the thought of you. He realized hours ago that he never told you about the show tonight. He's wrapping the wire of the mic around his fist when he overhears the stagehands. "I didn't make it to Y/N's last party, I figured there would at least be one more before she bolted."
"She went back home?" Simon interrupts.
"Yeah, man. She left today, I'm pretty sure." The stagehands hoist a large amp to its spot, leaving Simon in the silence of realizing you two have no way of contacting each other. That's it. He shrugs his shoulders, brushing off any disappointment, as he's used to things falling through. Nothing's special to someone like him, or that's what he tells himself. He reaches into his back pocket and reveals a pair of underwear that had gotten tangled with his clothes when you did his laundry. He chuckles at the thought of how he would've made you think he stole them on purpose. He stuffs them back into his pocket and gets ready to perform as people start piling in the small venue.
You're nearly flooring it back to that gas station. Once inside, you leap over the counter and snatch the poster from the wall. "God damn! You could've just asked for the fucking flyer, man!" The cashier exclaims, certain you were attempting to rob the store.
"I don't have time!" You yell behind you as you sprint out the door. "Old fuckin' Mill building? Where the fuck is that?" You mumble to yourself, frustrated. You read that Psyops isn't set to play for another 30 minutes, so you speed around town to every old and decrepit site you can find. Four failures before you find the warehouse hosting the show tonight. "Finally!" You slam the van in park before bolting to the door.
"It's $10 to get in," a nonchalant man at the door huffs. You shove the money into his hand and he opens the large, black, graffitied door behind him. You're not shy in a crowd, so when you hear the boisterous speakers blasting the sound of guitar riffs through the building, you start shoving. The vibration sends the decently sized crowd into a wave of cheers and you finally make your way toward the front. You can hear a voice over the speakers, Simon. It's hard to make out what he's saying, but once the song starts, the crowd starts moving.
You're being jostled around for most of the set. Song after song, you try to force yourself to the front, but to no avail. Finally, once Simon takes one step off the slightly raised platform on which they're performing, you can reach him. His grip is white-knuckled around the microphone, now's your chance. You lunge forward and wrap a hand around the mic, pulling yourself forward. Confused and annoyed by the sudden tugging, Simon pulls back, effectively breaking through the wall of people blocking you. The moment your eyes meet his, under his ski mask, he grins. In the moment bringing you before him, he'd missed a few bars of the song, but effortlessly picks back up once you're front and center.
It feels like his eyes are locked on you for the rest of their set. You hate to admit it, but it's a hell of a show. The energy of the crowd, their presence on stage. No wonder Simon feels so strongly about it. He's a different person when he's John Q. An alias you found out about when you were seniors, and you hoped staying quiet about it would've shown him you weren't the snitch, but instead it took a coke bender several, several years later. Plus, he wasn't much less of a loser than you were. Who fucking cared back then that he has a stage name?
After Psyops' set, you and Simon slip outside for a smoke. Riled up from the show, he's too abuzz to make sure his face matches the angry stare he usually wears. "Someone said you were headed home already, didn't think I'd see you at a show any time soon," he says, lighting a cigarette.
"Said I would," you echo his words from his promise to back you up next time you got yourself into an altercation. "Can't let fucking John Q. be more trustworthy than me." Simon laughs at the mention of his stage persona. "I like the mask, though."
"Oh, yeah? That do somethin' for you?" He teases, reaching into his pocket for the mask, but pulling out a different wad of fabric. "Oops," he laughs, dangling your panties in front of you.
"Is that my fuckin' underwear, you god damn pervert?" You curl your lip, put off by the invasive behavior.
"They might be yours, I don't know. I get a lot pussy." Simon smirks with his eyes darkened on you.
"Jesus Christ, what the fuck-" you're ready to lay into him, too violated to make any excuses despite how attractive he looks with messy hair and drying sweat.
"Calm the fuck down, they got mixed up with my shit when you washed my clothes at your house," he laughs. You roll your eyes and jump to grab them, but he's too quick. You miss the swipe and are now a great deal closer to him. "I'm gonna hold on to these," he says with a low voice as he scoops you against him with a hand placed on the small of your back. A second passes like an eternity and the two of you lock lips as he stuffs your underwear into his pocket again, allowing some of the silk and lace detail to hang out. As the kiss deepens, his hands move down your body, to your thighs before he grips your ass roughly. Soft moans escape against his lips as he gropes various parts of your curves.
"Do you know how worked up you get me?" He whispers between the press of your kiss. "Thought you left before I could get a taste." He reaches for your eyelet belt, but you stop him.
"Someone's gonna see us."
"Call it an encore," he mumbles before going back at your belt, but you swat him away again.
"At least take me around back, dumbass." You grab a fistful of his shirt and nearly drag him around the corner. It's dark and concealed from any passerby. He lifts you up onto a pad-mounted transformer and wraps your legs around him, still moving his head in sync with yours as each of your tongues explore each other's mouths.
"I guess I was kind of a prick to you back in the day, huh?" He whispers, running his hand through your hair.
"You were an angry piece of shit, yeah. We fuckin' or having a breakthrough?"
"Shut the fuck up for a second," he snaps. "I'm trying to apologize." He slips your denim shorts off your legs and all but falls to his knees in front of the large metal, green box you're sat on. His nimble index finger hooks around your thong and pulls it to the side. You barely have time to process what his "apology" will be before he plunges his head between your thighs. You fight to stifle a surprised moan as he conducts his skillful movements against your sensitive skin.
"Simon, oh, my God!" You whine, arching your back against the friction. He laughs against your skin sending waves of vibrations through your legs. One of his hands is occupied holding your panties to the side, the other is hooked around your hip, holding you securely in place as he meticulously works you over the edge.
"You want me to stop?" He asks, lips framed with drenched facial hair.
"No! No, I-" he cuts off your plea, resuming his position.
"Then stop fighting me," he snaps, harshly pinning you to the metal with the hand he had hooked on your hip. The stimulation quickly builds up, becoming too much, too quickly. You throw your head back and tangle a fist in his hair as he guides you through the high. Your legs shake and threaten to close around him, but his grip is too strong. You remain exactly where he wants you until you've ridden out your orgasm. You're slumped back on your elbows with your head down, breathing heavily as you return to reality.
Simon towers over you where you lay, staring down at you with his dark-circled eyes. You look up and watch him teasingly wipe his mouth, licking his lips like you're the first thing he's devoured in months. He slips your shorts halfway up your legs for you, leaving the rest of the work for whenever you can feel your legs again. "Um," you sigh. "Apology accepted."
"Tits."
"Is 'tits' good?" You furrow your eyebrows. He sighs, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
"You're leaving tonight, huh?" Simon lights a cigarette.
"Well... That's the plan." You feel a pit in your stomach when you think about going back home. The place is nice, it's far away. It's what you wanted, but life is full and meaningless. You don't have friends out there, it didn't strike you how hard it'd be to meet people in your mid 20s.
"You don't sound so sure about that plan, Y/N." He exhales a cloud that illuminates under the street lamp's orange glow.
"It's boring out there, but it's quiet. It's peaceful. My parents aren't in my ear telling me trying something new could kill me." You shrug.
"That's why you're running? Because of your frigid bitch mom and dad?" Simon laughs as if it's the funniest thing he's ever heard.
"Okay, well. You know, maybe don't call them that or I'll lay you the fuck out, but yeah." You stand and fasten your shorts and belt, knees still threatening to buckle. "You had a hand in me leaving too."
"I know, I apologized!" He gestures to your trembling legs and you laugh.
"Yeah, yeah," you wave your hand at him. "Where'd you go? I was in town for weeks. I thought you were in the pin."
"I didn't want to overstay my welcome," he chuckles. "Or watch another fuckin' 80s movie with the volume on ten." He turns to look at you and he smirks.
"Well, my parents are in town now. I still have the rest of this week off. I was gonna spend it getting unpacked, but-"
"Fuck that. Let's go, you're driving." He walks off around the building toward the parking lot and you're dumbfounded for a moment.
"Of course I'm driving, it's my van!" You scramble after him. He hops in your passenger seat and you pull out of the lot, leaving his disgruntled band mates to pack up their own equipment. "You're not gonna help them?"
"What for? My shit's in the van. It's a microphone."
"Yeesh, sorry. Forgot you're actually kind of the worst when your head's not between my legs," you tease and Simon can't suppress a smile. As you cruise down the dark road, bright blue lights ignite in your mirrors. "Fuck. Get it the back." Simon wastes no time, he throws himself in the spacious rear area of the van as you pull over. You both wait anxiously for the cop to approach the window. Everything feels silent, until you finally hear the footsteps.
"I'm gonna run," Simon whispers, hand on the rear door latch.
"Don't." You demand sharply, rolling down your window for the cop. The air feels still and tight. It seems like it takes hours for the cop to speak, but when he does it's a routine traffic stop. He asks you if you knew how fast you were going and you innocently explain the floating nature of your speedometer. The officer laughs when he reads your ID and sees your last name.
"You're Frank's kid, right?"
"Yeah, his one and only." You beam, proudly. Happy to name drop your wealthy family.
"You just try to slow it down and tell your dad I said hello, alright?" The cop taps your door twice and sends you on your way. As you pull off, Simon peeks out from under the blankets and sighs with relief.
"Holy shit, with the way this thing looks, you should've been strip searched." Simon tosses himself back into the passenger seat.
"Don't shit-talk my van," you hiss. Simon proceeds to tell you where to go, each turn and shortcut, until you reach a large white house, almost as status defining as your parents'.
"My parents are out of town." He points to a concealed area to park and leads you to a basement door. He fights with a key for a moment before leading you inside. It's a messy basement room with red walls and posters from ceiling to floor. Instruments take up most of the space, aside from the bed.
"Do you avoid your parents like me, or do your parents avoid you?" You ask, bluntly, not considering the weight of that question.
"Both, I guess." He says after a long pause.
"You... Wanna smoke?" You ask, unsure how to navigate the silence.
"Can't. Fucks with my motivation," he grins. You shrug, rolling and smoking a joint by yourself while Simon works on some songs. He's got an ear for every instrument in his room, and he layers them over each other, creating complex instrumentals. It's nice to listen to while you lie on his bed and watch the swirling tendrils of smoke twist into the light and air above you.
"It sounds nice," you hum, settling into the cozy divot in the center of his mattress-on-the-floor.
"Write something for it," he commands, tossing a notepad and pen at you.
"Like lyrics? Why?" You stare at the blank page, unable to read the layers and layers of writing indented into it from Simon's heavy, angry hand.
"You need an out, I'm giving you one." He leans back in the rolling chair he resides in, staring me down like a hawk.
"I don't think I'm a very musical person. I think I'm more of a doodler, really," you argue, scribbling in the corner of the paper.
"Just fuckin' write something down and stop being a pussy." He snatches the pen from you and tosses it onto the pad.
"Bitch- How does that make me a pussy?" Your eyes narrow at him.
"It'd be too vulnerable. You're no tougher than that kid you were in high school. It's all fake now." It's clear he's taunting you. Making a fair attempt at reverse psychology.
"Fuck you, give me a minute," you huff, writing a line or two to start with. "Play your shit again." And he does. Restarting the instrumental he put together just for you. After a while, you've written something and you sling the notepad at Simon. He takes a moment to read through it a few times, almost trying to decode the melody of how I'd sang it in my head.
"Perfect. Now sing it." He nods toward his microphone stand.
"Fuck's sake, dude. Are you serious?" You whine, pushed further and further out of your comfort zone.
"Come on, let's see what you got," he says in a tone that lets me know I've already lost the argument.
"It doesn't feel good to be vulnerable to you."
"Tough it out." You roll your eyes at his demand, but you do it. You tough it out and recite your song over the music he provided. He hits 'restart,' and then 'record,' and then he points to you. After a measure you begin to sing. Low effort, but still angelic. Your song is about the feeling of being homesick no matter where you end up. It's about running and putting up a face as a defense mechanism. It's about wearing a mask.
When you're done singing and the music fades out, Simon slides the headphones off his ears. "That... Was tits." He looks elated. Like a poor painter with a new pallet.
"Is 'tits' good?" You ask again, emphasizing the lack of answer last time you asked.
"Yeah, 'tits' is good." He grins. "That was good."
"Fuck you. Who's not vulnerable?" You curl your lip, clearly more moved by the challenge than the release he was offering. Simon just shakes his head.
"Let's mix it." He beelines for the computer and begins fine tuning the song. You're watching in awe of his quick skill at this craft. As if watching him play all those instruments wasn't impressive enough. The night grows older. Simon offers you your favorite party favor, but you're over it. So the two of you share a joint.
"You don't ever get tired of living in a circle?" You ask through a cloud of smoke.
"A fuckin' circle?" He looks at you.
"Just, still in this town, still avoiding your parents, still making music alone in your room."
"Fuck," he huffs, offended but acknowledging the truth in your words. "Do you ever get tired of running from it?"
"Touché." You bring the joint to your lips as you lie in his disheveled bed. His arm snaked around you ages ago, slowly pulling you closer and closer to him. Like he's worried you'll float away.
"If our only two options are run away or get sucked into this shit hole of a town, I think we're a little fucked, don't you?" He chuckles to himself.
"Maybe those aren't the only options. We just don't have all the answers yet. I don't think anyone does." Your voice is wistful and quiet. You can feel Simon's eyes on you, but you stare at his dark ceiling. He rolls his eyes at your corny words, but he knows you're right. "It's funny, because if I could run from the uncertainty too, I would." You giggle, aware of your vices and poor coping skills.
"Yeah, you would," Simon mocks.
"And you? You're just going to live with it? Sit right beside the discomfort and accept that for yourself? Have you ever tried to give yourself more, even if it meant running?" You're slowly building up a sense of passion behind your words and Simon just listens, staring deeply into your eyes as you speak. Suddenly, you're cut off when he wraps a hand around the back of your head and pulls you into a kiss. His lips crash into yours and the two of you melt into each other.
You can't even remember what you were saying, you just know you don't want to stop touching him. The heat of the kiss begins to swell as Simon's hands trail up and down your body. He's grabbing at you in a specific order, like he's been waiting to get his hands on it. Really get his hands on it. You grasp at the hem of his shirt, tugging in semblance to take it the fuck off, and he does.
His broad, pale chest rises and falls with anticipation as you strip off the same article of clothing. "Jesus Christ," he moans, pulling you to him to shove his face directly between your breasts. He breathes deeply, taking you in. With one swift motion, he's hoisted you on top of him, your legs straddling his waist. Simon unfastens the button on your jeans before tossing you to the side to undress you.
You're both naked and greatly anticipating the next moment your skin will touch. Seconds feel like hours until you're pressed against each other again. Simon buries his face in the crook of your neck as he guides his throbbing erection to your entrance. You're squirming and arching beneath him, and he releases a breathy laugh as he watches you writhe. "You're aching for it," he groans.
"Fuck you," you hiss, pulling him closer to you by his shoulders. All he does is chuckle before slowly slipping inside you. You moan loudly as you adjust to his size. Something about a lanky, dead-eyed man. His pace is steady as he rocks his hips against yours, picking up speed as you gush around him. Soon his thrusts are hard and rough, and your loud, vulgar moans echo off his bedroom walls.
"God, you're so fuckin' tight," he huffs, pulling out of you and tossing you aside. Simon quickly repositions you in front of him, on all fours. You let your back arch naturally, putting on a bit of a show for him as he watches you. His eyes are darkened and his smirk sends chills down your spine. You can't help but smile wide in excitement. With two round hands, he grabs your waist and positions you at the perfect height. His hands wander the soft flesh of your ass as you press up against him. "You drive me fucking crazy..." He sighs as he slips inside you.
Simon digs the tips of his fingers into your skin, pulling you against him with every violent thrust. You do everything you can to contort your body to give him more of you. He throws his head back, falling into a sloppy, unsteady pace. His breathing is wild and primal all the way up until the point of climax. You release a loud, fluttering moan as he fucks you through your high, quickly withdrawing to finish on your back and ass. You're both breathless for a while, the room is silent but for the sound of your lungs filling and deflating.
Simon climbs off the bed, but you're too fucked out to even raise your head up to watch where he's going. Moments later, he returns, towel in hand. He cleans you up and lands a hard smack on your right ass cheek. The sound is thunderous against the silence. You yelp and break into quiet chuckles.
Finally, you have the strength to roll over. You sit up against the mess of pillows that became a sort of headboard for his bed, feeling beautiful and bare before him. It's a nice feeling that you're not used to. Sure you've had your flings, but it's never occurred to you how quickly you tend to leave or cover up after. Not this time. You're both fully exposed and Simon's eyes drink you in, one last time before he speaks. "Don't go back." You stare at him for a long while, silent.
"I won't," you gasp, surprised by your own promise. As soon as the words leave your mouth, his lips are on yours. In the next few days, you quit your job and Simon rides with you to go back and get the most important of your shit. The rest goes with the trailer when you sell it. You don't run a single thing past your parents and you don't tell them you're coming back to town. It's a new sense of peace and adventure, though it feels like abandoning your old life.
After a month of van living, you and Simon get an apartment and constantly receive complaints about the noise, but nothing stops the music overflowing from your floor of the building. A new sense of bliss. It's comfortable now.