Poly 141 X Reader

micro sketches with Price & Gaz just warmin' up...

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simon riley x fem!reader

cw: smut

not even five minutes in and simon is already pussy drunk.

he’s whining and moaning in your ear like the whore that he is. he’s got you pressed into the mattress, your legs spread wide to accommodate his bulk, and your pussy stuffed full of his fat cock. he’s rewarding you with deep strokes that make you dig your nails into his back until crescents are embedded deep in his skin.

“jus’ like that, si. you’re doing so good for me, baby,” you coo, breathlessly.

your praise comes out a little slurred, but simon understands every word. he wants to be good for you, wants to make you proud. and he does, making you see stars when he pulls out slowly, then bullies his cock back into your drooling pussy. his husky laugh fills your ears when you start yowling and clawing at his back, crying about how it’s too much.

“c’mon kitty, back’s still healin’ from the last set of scratches you gave me,” he rasps in your ear. his back stings like a motherfucker, but marking him up keeps you grounded.

you let out a strangled please please please when simon’s cock hits your g-spot repeatedly.

your pussy is damn near choking him to death and he loves it. he loves having you split open on his cock. if simon could keep you like this forever he would, having you strung out and full of his leaking cock while he pumps in and out of your sloppy hole until he can no longer function.

“pussy’s like heaven, baby,” he chokes out with a snap of his hips, before murmuring thank you, thank you, thank you.

you’re incapable of stringing together a decent reply. your eyes are blurred with tears and your thighs are shaking while he tears your shit up. with every moan and gasp you let out, simon fucks into you faster, almost frantically. and when he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and grinds into your pussy, his cock kissing your cervix, you arch up off the bed. the constant waves of pleasure is all you can focus on, when your orgasm takes you by surprise, punching the air out of your lungs.

simon barely gives you time to breathe, before he’s flipping you over and mounting you from behind. “need you to give me one more,” he hisses out, before groaning at the sound of your pussy making loud squelching noises around his length. “you’re being such a good girl f’me, takin’ my cock like you were made for it.”

“simon!”

“keep singing, lovie.” your wails bounce of the walls when he covers your body with his, then drives his cock even deeper into your pussy than before.

simon’s muttering about filling your hole to the brim with his seed, while he ruts into you like the beast that he is. and then he’s asking how am i doing, baby? to which you respond with you’re doing so well, simon.

simon knows he’s doing his best when he’s the reason your hair is all over the place, and when your eyes and pussy are leaking, and your mouth is wide open from your constant cries of pleasure when he reaches around your body to rub your clit raw.

“simon, please.”

“what do you need, lovie?”

you whine at the hint of laughter in simon’s voice when he asks you that. he knows exactly what you need. “wanna cum. i need it,” you whimper, while rocking back on his cock.

you almost burst into tears when he pulls out, leaving you empty and leaking. but then simon’s repositioning the both of you so you’re now in his lap. you have to hold on for dear life when he starts bouncing you on his cock, his large hands gripping your ass like a vice to keep you steady. through your loud whining and moaning, you can hear simon swearing and gasping, as his hips surge up frantically.

“f-fuck!” you bury your face in simon’s shoulder to smother your wails. you’re so loud, you know someone other than simon can hear you.

and then it all becomes too much. the bouncing, the way simon’s cock keeps hitting your g-spot, and his soft that’s it, that’s it, cum on this cock. i know you can do it, baby, so give me what i fuckin’ want.

you cum with a choked cry, you’re body shaking almost violently in simon’s lap as a feeling of euphoria washes over you. and when you come down from your high, you talk simon through it. he let’s out a whine when you start to rock your hips and clench around his cock. you laugh softly at the dazed look in his eyes when he tells you that your pussy will be the death of him one day. you continue to fuck yourself on simon’s cock, it being more for his benefit than yours. he’s fucking up into you with urgency. your pussy feels so good and he’s so close. you can tell by the way he keeps muttering fuck, fuck, fuck.

you press a few sloppy kisses to his jaw, before pulling back, “gonna cum for me, si? hm? want you to fill me up, make a mess of this pussy.”

simon’s not sure if it’s your words, or the way you’re writhing on his cock, but as soon as his hips start to stutter, he’s cumming in your pussy with a cry.

when he starts to pull out, you stop him, asking him to stay inside of you a little longer.

and you know simon, he can never say no to you.

“i love you,” you sigh out happily once you and simon are lying down, his cock still in you.

you can’t see his face, but simon’s eyes are bright when he says, “i love you too.”

a/n: idk i was listening to

simon riley/f!reader

warnings: simon is an amputee, implied alcoholism, implied painkiller addiction

Johnny forces Simon to a veterans support group. The latter is less than pleased with the idea—that is, of course, until a little birdy catches Simon’s eye.

—

Simon smells you before he sees you.

However, it's been five months since his honourable discharge, and he's a dead man walking, so he supposes the same could be said for him.

It's the roasting stench of pungent malt. Permeating through the froth of his balaclava and burning his nostrils. He canters his head to the side, sweeping the basement with his hackles raised.

"What's your name?" Comes from the front of the room, scotching Simon's thoughts, to which he mumbles, "Simon."

A peal of "Hi Simon," ripples through the basement, and he cringes.

He was rotting in his flat when Johnny visited. Against everything, it was a sweet respite—seeing his face after so long. He filled him in on what he'd missed, though technically, that isn't allowed anymore. Simon isn't SAS. The only thing connecting him to the military now is his pension, sapped into streaming sites and grocery deliver apps.

He supposes Johnny saw his overripe, threadbare balaclava. Saw a spread of painkillers rooted on every surface. Saw the progress of Simon’s leg, how it ripened from a necrosed nub into an alloy, fused with the silicone of his prosthetic that is two shades too dark for his skin. Then, Johnny forced him here.

"I can't come—veteran's only, but my cousin used ta go to one of 'ese," Johnny said, "it'll do you good."

It's a room with various breeds of military personnel. All at various ranks. Extensions of themselves in crutches and wheelchairs; regressions of them in eyepatches and arm-casts.

The man says, "Well, you’re late. We’re almost finished here."

Simon blindly nods. He can smell you again. Pervasive ethanol and barbed impurities, swirling around his head. He finds a chair too small for him and sits down, heeding how it wanes under his weight.

The man starts talking again. But for Simon, the voice turns to filaments. Droned out and greyscale against his impaired senses. Fermented sorghum burns his eyes as Simon sweeps his head to the side, catching a glint of light winking back at him. 

He finally sees you.

Simon finds himself back in the jungle, in the middle of an operation. Sweaty and damp and dewy between clement leaves as he eyes down an X-ray. 

Your eyes hold the same sentiment of intimidation. They’re red-rimmed with veiny scythes but bore a glimmer bespoken for the stars. Your hard stare inspires a flare in Simon’s heart. Something so off-putting that it drills itself into his bones and burns the sealant in his prosthetic.

You part your lips. They have a forgone softness to them, now cut and peeled in different corners, akin to the ruins of Babylon. Vodka sticks to the roof of your mouth as you dart out your tongue, wetting your lips.

"See that guy over there?"

Marginally, Simon flinches. Your voice is softer than anticipated. Softer than your rotgut scent and your strands of silage hair.

He follows the streamline of your gaze. To an underdeveloped man sitting with his back hunched, eyes puffy, across the room.

"He's here 'cause he got home and caught his girlfriend fucking another bloke," a wheeze collapses your sentence, "isn't that hilarious?"

Simon stares at him. Then he hangs his head, staring at his leg. He sees his prosthetic jut out and distort the denim of his jeans, and, in spite of himself, Simon chuckles. It is hilarious.

"He calls it traumatic," you slouch in your seat, "try seeing your mate get blown to pieces."

Simon is quiet. But that doesn't off-put you, because you're leaning in closer and examining his mask.

"What branch were you?"

He keeps his eyes locked on the opposite wall. "Parachute reg."

"Battalion?"

"... Third."

You narrow your eyes. "So, Special Air Service."

He expels a loose laugh. Scratches the scruff of his neck. "Sure."

"Could've just said that," you frown, “I was SRR, so we might’ve crossed paths.”

Simon hitches his eyes up, chancing another glance at you.

You don't look SRR. But again, Simon doesn't look SAS.

He grunts, “How the mighty’ve fallen, eh?”

A lukewarm chuckle escapes you. “Yeah.” 

The sound of your laugh inspires warmth in Simon’s belly. He doesn’t know what to say, but he knows he wants to say something. He feels a chord to keep the conversation going; to not disappoint you.

Simon feels like Icarus flying too close to the sun. 

“Why’d you leave?” He says, leaning a little closer.

“You’re never supposed to ask that,” you murmur, “but I like you, so I’ll bite. OTH. Got nicked in Bulford for radical interrogation tactics. Whatever that shit means.”

Simon grunts. His cadence offers a hint of condolence, but you just laugh. “I’m glad to be out of there. And you? Why are you here?”

“C4 explosion,” he grumbles, “honourable discharge.”

You hum. “Goody two shoes.” 

A waspish blush dominates the furrows of Simon’s crows feet. He brokenly mumbles under his breath, embarrassed, preening under your gaze.

His rebuttal idles at the threshold of his mouth. It collapses on his tongue when you stand up, fishing cigarette from your breast pocket.

“I’m going,” you say, “will I see you next week?”

Simon’s neck twitches and rockets into a nod. Immediately, he is looking forward to next week. He believes a byproduct of second-hand drinking has vitiated him, as when you walk away, hips swaying, Simon feels drunk.

As Simon sits stupefied, left without a heart as you’d taken his on your way out, he curses to himself.

Simon didn’t get your name.

I’m just imagining Simon who happens to stumble upon your roommate ad. And of course he thinks he’d be a perfect candidate. He’s clean, minimal and of course, gone most of the time. He’d still pay, he’s good mannered, quiet- he would absolutely be good for this pretty girl whose profile picture on his phone he can’t stop looking at.

He just wants you to be comfortable with someone like him, with someone who looks like him- but when he meets you, all those fears go out the window. You’re kind, so warm and open to him. You’re receptive and he’s so unnerved by it. You’re not what he was expecting at all, but he’s so in love with you right from the get go.

It makes leaving for missions so much harder. Especially on nights like tonight when you’ve made dinner for two, you’re looking absolutely gorgeous in your pajamas, you’re smiling sweetly at him. Bloody hell, the things he would do to you if had the chance-

It doesn’t really click with him until this moment that he actually can do something about it. In his head, he’s conjured you up to be so out of reach and untouchable. But that’s not true at all, it’s just a fear that he’ll overstep. However at this point, the night before he goes, it feels now or never. He supposes he can always move out if it doesn’t work, he’s just got to know.

“Simon? You okay?” You ask gently, taking your apron off and hanging it back up on the pantry door.

He gets up from the table and heads straight for you. You stand there in shock as he removes his mask, he takes your hips into his grasp and pins you against the door.

His forehead meets yours and he closes his eyes, inhaling your scent and enjoying this moment being so close to you. Your hands automatically latch onto this shirt, toying with the fabric, eyes moving to admire his face, his lips.

“…want you.” Simon murmurs out, his mind is reeling and he wants needs to feel you on him, to have you at least for tonight. At least to try. He just needs you to reciprocate, show him some kind of sign you want this too.

“Please”. You beg and just like that he springs into action. His lips latching onto yours, he’s shoving his leg between your own and you’re writhing against him and the door. Your hands in his blonde hair, exploring his chest, you go until you run out of air. He’s digging his thumbs into your hips, cherishing this moment and heavens above - you feel so good on his body, better than he could have fathomed.

Simon ends up making quick work, bringing you to your bedroom where he lays you down, his body on top of yours. Grinding into you, his mouth never leaving yours, your neck, your breasts. He then moves to take off your clothes, making his way down your body. Gently removing your panties and kissing your inner thighs, the scruff of his slight beard making your skin tingle.

He laps at your folds, his tongue circling your bud, his fingers deep within you. You cum around him and he’s in awe at the sight, your back arching in pleasure. You glance down at him and he’s smirking, it makes him feel good to know he made you come undone like this, that you’re all his.

“You’ve got me all night, love. There will be plenty more of this when I get back.”

break time.

Staring problem

All I need is for someone to gently cup my face and tell me I'm not as doomed as I feel.

Y/N, leaning on the counter: Hey beautiful, come here often? Simon: Is this the part where I remind you we've been married for four years or do I play along? Y/N: Play along! Simon: Alright. Sorry, I'm not interested, I'm married

sorry, this was born out of a need to indulge myself featuring: gaz, ballerina!reader, stalking, intrusive thoughts, delusion, mentioned SA and kidnapping

Kyle first spots you on the Piccadilly line in London's underground.

He's usually wary of public transport – would really rather walk the hour from Knightsbridge to Hammersmith than risk the inevitable unsavoury interaction bound to happen in an overcrowded tube – but it was late at night, he'd just spent his day sitting in a hotel lobby gathering intel for Price, and the idea of ducking down narrow streets in the blistering cold was the last thing he wanted coming to fruition. That's how he ended up in a (thankfully empty) train car anyway; hoodie up and hands stuffed deep into his pockets, thumb brushing over the handle of a switchblade.

He's focused on the shady character stretched across three seats adjacent to him when you happen to prance in. Perhaps prance isn't that accurate an account either, but it's hard to attribute much else to you when you're dressed like a character from one of his sister's childhood storybooks. Angelina ballerina, or something of the sorts – mismatched leg warmers, knitted bolero sleeving a black camisole, basketball shorts over nude-coloured tights, and dance booties that look like little puffer coats for your feet.

The duffel bag slung over your shoulder concerns him briefly – it's hard to look at carryalls the same after serving the military, he finds – but the tired look on your face pacifies any suspicions he might have of your intentions. Wouldn't be wise to execute an offensive when one of your operatives is weary, especially given they're the only agent in sight. Regardless, he's hit with a distinct trepidation that takes a while to name.

You slide past the figure he'd been observing early, hop over Kyle's boots as well, fingers clasped over your behind as if to protect yourself from any wandering hands. The feeling rippling in his chest worsens, yet it's only as you slot yourself onto a far-away seat is he able to recognise it.

You shouldn't be here this late. This isn't the place for you.

With your hair neatly pulled away from your face, he's given full reign to ogle at your darling features. Round cheeks. Hydrated lips. Pretty thing. His molars grind against each other. There are no doubt men on this train that'd want to take advantage of that. Press your mouth open with a thumb on your tongue, rub themselves raw just to see cum decorate your lashes and drip over your brow. Barrack talk, the type of shit he hears floating between his comrades-in-arms when missions drag a little too long. Perversion brought on by desperation.

The intercom dings, and the lady with the soothing voice announces their arrival to Hammersmith. His stop, yet the thought of getting off and abandoning you is enough to keep him stuck to his seat. His stomach upturns as possibilities occur to him like frames in a technicolor film; none pleasant, all ending with you tied up in the trunk of some random van. Some part of him recognises his paranoia, the ridiculousness in his attachment to a perfect stranger (which chides him in a voice eerily similar to Price's, all gruff vowels and whispered consonants), but it does not change the fact that when the doors open to his station, he does not move.

Yeah. He stays on so long as you do – which fortunately is not an extensive length of time. You collect your stuff one stop later, standing to wait at the door once the lady announces Acton Town. He doesn't get up until you're a few seconds out though, slipping through the closing panels of the entryway to follow a few paces behind your heel. Up the escalator and down the block.

The night air nips at his nose, chilling his knuckles so they creak if he curls them. Are your nipples knotted under your layers? Or would they need the help of his fingers to perk up? His throat stiffens. He shakes the thought from his head.

You make a turn. Kyle stops for a second, breathes in, before veering left behind you. Heading towards the west part of town, now. It's a good place to live, all things considered. Still, he wonders if you deadbolt your doors, if you keep yourself safe online. You seem smart, but there are people who won't rest until they get their way. People like the one's he deals with at work – amoral men with biceps that could crush your head. Rotten, horrible men who are only rotten and horrible to cope with the tasks assigned to them. Depraved enemies, depraved friends. Only difference between the two being which flag they fight for.

You throw a look over your shoulder, shoulders shrinking as you wrap your arms tighter across your chest. He looks around, seeking the threat you seem to be so put off by. Nothing but brick-and-mortar storefronts and flattened cigarette butts.

He's compelled by the urge to shush you, to scratch your back as he tells you that there's no need to worry. He'll walk you all the way home. Make sure you get nice and situated, listen for the tell-tale lock of your deadbolt, watch for the dimming of your light. He'll stay until you fall asleep, then walk back to where he came from, take the returning line to Hammersmith – so when he flops back down into his own bed, he'll be reassured by the knowledge that you're safe a mere 4 miles away.

Might take a shower before then, though. Your arse looks great when you're speed-walking like this, pronounced even behind the loose material of your basketball shorts. He hopes the image remains as vivid when he's attending to the heavy mass between his legs later.

Kyle halts right in his tracks.

What is he doing?

You're nearly running now, shrinking away from him at an exponential rate, and duck another corner when you look back to see that he's no longer in pursuit. Completely out of sight.

His Captain’s voice comes to life once more, echoing in the part of his brain he has yet to compartmentalise.

You draw the line wherever you need it, Sergeant.

Simon is the type to put his wedding band in the velcro pouch on his chest when he’s out on the field, mostly because he can’t wear it for work, but he also doesn't want to get it dirty or taint it with the violence his hands see.

Sometimes, he wears it around his neck on a chain under his balaclava when he's away from you for an extended period of time, hoping it’ll help him find his way back to you—that one of these days while tucked away in a window, Simon won’t be on the receiving end of a barrel—and when he's home again, it returns to his finger. 

He silently takes in how your wedding bands look next to each other—shining silver staring back at him, scarred hands next to unblemished ones—when he places your intertwined fingers on his chest before he falls asleep at night.

The only time he allows his wedding ring to get dirty is when he's knuckles deep between your trembling thighs—your sticky-wet slick glinting in the low light of the room—or when Simon pushes those same fingers into your mouth to keep you quiet as he fucks you into the squeaky mattress deep and slow, grunting under his breath about how messy you are when your spit bubbles between your kiss-bitten lips.

You tell him how good he feels under a hitched breath, and his chest tightens because he can’t remember the last time someone used an adjective like that to describe him. Good. It’s weird how such a simple word can make Simon’s head spin and make him feel like he’s anything other than the man he is outside your bed.

A soldier. A killer. With you, he’s a husband—a best friend.

He ducks his head down to suck a little bruise right above your nipple, the corners of his mouth curling slightly, knowing that he’ll be the only one that’ll know it exists—that it’ll still be there long after he’s gone.

“Come on, love,” he breathes harshly, already close, wondering if this will be the time it finally takes. “Just a little more,” a small lie because there’s never just a little more when it comes to you.