#biker!simon

simon rarely takes you for a ride on the back of his bike—not because he doesn't like showing you off, but because he's too scared you'll get hurt somehow. it doesn't matter how good of a rider he is, he doesn't want to risk you just for some fun.

granted, when you beg enough, he caves. he just can't resist his sweet little bird begging to ride on the back of his sport bike, the feeling of your arms laced around his waist, tightening whenever he pulls back the throttle and shifts up another gear.

but when you start getting handsy? that is dangerous because simon is easily distracted, and he'll have nothing of your hands roaming down to his thighs, cushioning between his thick legs and the gas tank as you squeeze his flesh.

he'll reach back to slap your thigh in warning, a grunt coming through your shared comms before ordering you, "watch it." his tone authoritative.

he loves when you touch him, and it does make his armoured pants tighter in the crotch, but he doesn't want to take his chances by being distracted.

Biker!Simon who’s tatted uppp. He’s rolling up his sleeves while he rides to let everyone get a look at his muscly arms laced with inked designs because yes, he does want to show off

Biker!Simon who's rolling up next to you at a red light, head turning while he thrums his fingers on the seat under him. He can feel your heated gaze through your window.

Biker!Simon who flips open his visor and lets his eyes find yours. He wants you to know that he sees you staring and he's staring right back at you

Biker!Simon who passes his phone to you with the new contact sheet open on his screen, ready for you to fill out

Biker!Simon who trashes on the TikTok bikers and calls them cornballs but doesn’t hesitate to send you photos of him in a compression shirt and helmet at any chance he gets

a/n: that second photo makes me so feral oh my days it just SCREAMS SIMON the tats the bicep the BALACLAVAUAHDF. also thank you all on 1k+ notes on my husband!simon riley post. I ADORE U GUYS and i'm so glad that you guys like my writing, it means a lot 🥲♥︎.

biker!simon riley who rides a bike as powerful as him: a gorgeous kawasaki ninja h2. he modded it so now it’s fully blacked out. he didn't bother upgrading bikes over time like most riders so they can get the hang of simply riding. he bought the h2 as his first one ever and kept it since (which is insane bc this man bought a liter bike for his first bike ever but he handles the bike flawlessly so it's okay).

biker!simon riley who definitely has a keychain for the bike that says something funny/stupid just for the giggles. something like “kawasexy” or “forget the bike, ride the biker.” he has even has one that has skulls on it in honor of his callsign.

biker!simon riley who before you rode with him, helps you put on your helmet. he tugs you closer by the straps, making your legs stumble closer to his body. he makes sure both his and your visors are up just so he can steal some eye contact with you, passing you a cheeky wink in the mix.

biker!simon who, when he picks you up on his bike, gives your helmet a solid pat and knocks it against his

biker!simon who, during the ride, reaches back to give one of your thighs, bracketing his on the bike, the same firm squeeze

Teheeeeee period wooshhh

simon 'ghost' riley

tags: smut/pwp, plug!reader, biker!simon, rough sex, semi-public sex, rough wall sex, mean!simon, mentions & use of recreational drugs, dub-con (!!!), breeding kink, dark themes

a/n: wow that was something!

simon knew when the trust his gut. it was what kept him alive for so long. good things didn't come to those who tried to over-think things and just like emotion take over. problem was, sometimes the gut wasn't right and simon may go a little overboard.

moments like that were also what had kept him alive for this long. but maybe he was overacting when he got in your face, little plastic baggie in his hand (damn thing had hearts printed on it for christ sake). he may have been a touch too mean.

"ya fuckin' bitch." he snapped, "tryin' to over-charge me. is that what they teach ya nowadays?"

3989 words (not really edited, sorry for any mistakes)

cw: slight NSFW, mdni, mentions of death, if there’s anything else I should mention, pls lemme know.

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~

As soon as he stepped into the familiar house, Simon immediately kicked his boots off, bending over with a groan, his stiff muscles practically screaming at the sudden pull when he placed the boots on the shoe rack. His mask almost instantly got pulled off his face and thrown into the pocket of his hoodie, discarded and unnecessary. 

He knew his mother hated it. 

Slowly and silently he headed over to the kitchen, opening one of the windows to let some fresh, crisp spring air in as he proceeded to boil the water in the kettle, grabbing his mug, gifted to him by Joseph one Christmas. It was hand painted, chipped at the handle and a bit ugly. But to Simon it was one of his most prized possessions. That’s why when he was away, it lived right at the back of one of the higher cupboards, so that his mum wouldn’t accidentally knock it down and smash it.

Whenever he held something close to his heart, he would cherish it. Protect it. Do anything and everything not to break it. And for a man who’s job was to break stuff, he had to put quite a lot of effort into it. 

He was made to break and he knew it. Everyone who looked at him knew it. Strong, heavy muscles rippled under the inked skin, with every single movement. Hands that should be permanently stained with blood, were clean, only because he spent over an hour under a hot stream of a shower, meticulously scrubbing them, and the rest of his body, after returning to the base. The scars on his skin just reminded him that although he bore many, he probably caused hundreds if not thousands more through the years of being in the army. 

So now he was blankly staring at the teabag that currently sat in the hot water, as he oh so gently stroked his large finger over the little crack (that wasn’t his fault, Joseph dropped it himself whilst he was sat in Simon’s lap, explaining what each of the painted monstrosities was), eyes narrowed, cogs turning in is brain. 

He needed to find you. 

You. 

His beautiful, sweet, stranger with eyes that he was willing to do anything for and driving skills of a grandad with myasthenia, unable to press the gas pedal hard enough.

There was no point crying over spilled milk. Simon knew that. He had his chance and he fucked it. But maybe that was for good? Maybe he would have spooked you if he suddenly decided to beg you to marry him with a bolt nut instead of a ring? Maybe you’d have hated that? A woman as beautiful as you deserved only the best. 

He was a fucking twat, of course you wouldn’t want a fucking steel nut instead of an engagement ring.

In all fairness, you already looked like you were a split second from a breakdown, he was sure that even if he asked for your name, for your number, for anything at all, you’d have just deteriorated.

His poor, little driver. 

If only you knew how much he wanted to soothe all the stress that so clearly held you in its tight grip. 

To take it away. Calm you down.

Fuck knows well, he knew how. 

He struggled himself. He was running on fumes. The past months being away took their toll on him, they always did, no matter how much he tried to keep all of that inside. Maybe that’s why, when he saw those vulnerable, teared up eyes in the reflection of your rear view mirror, Simon was instantly and utterly gone? 

So genuine. So true.

Don’t worry sweetheart, from now on he would make sure that the only tears that would be guesting under your eyelids and sliding down your cheeks were those of happiness. Or overstimulation, from when he would fuck you breathless in the back seat of his car. Legs shaking, hands weakly holding onto his scratched up shoulders. Don’t worry, sweet thing, it wont scar, and even if it does, these will be some of his proudest scars that he acquired yet. Just trust him. Dig in deeper. Harder. Make it stick. He’ll kiss all those tears off as he drives his fat cock into your crying cunt again and again and-

But how? 

Simon took a sip of the hot tea, his calloused hand sliding over the tightness by the zipper of his cargos, humming quietly, grinding his teeth together. He rolled his neck, closing his eyes for a moment, taking in a deep, deep fucking breath, knowing he needed to calm down. Desperately. 

His mother could wake up and come downstairs at any minute and he didn’t really want her to see him sporting a raging hard on, or at worst explain to her that it was because he could not get his future wife out of his head. That wouldn’t be fair to you, sweetheart. But then again, it would probably never get mentioned. 

Not if he could help it.

Fast forward a few hours, Simon was comfortably and rather peacefully asleep on the soft sofa in the lounge, covered up with one of the knitted blankets his mother started making after her retirement. He was warm, his stomach was full, his mind was (somewhat) at ease after being pampered and waited on as soon as Anne found him sitting at her dining table. 

He knew she would do it, she always did. At first it annoyed him. The learned independence and self sufficiency from the years of growing up under his father’s iron fist and later the military made him struggle to adjust to her suddenly overbearing care. It took some time for both of them to adjust. A long time in fact. Before she stopped letting her paranoid thoughts take over every single time Simon would be sent away. And before he let her mother him whenever he was back without a grumble of complaint. 

So now he just let her.

Of course he did. 

He knew how hard she was trying to take care of him and Tommy whilst they lived with his father. How difficult it was whenever she’d try to help them after yet another beating, which would result in her getting one too. Anne was so fucking full of love and care that Simon began denying her that for years, afraid that it will end critically for her. He knew that one day he would have to stand up to his father and when it finally happened, he needed his mother by his side. Because fuck knows that Tommy wasn’t in the state to do anything.

Losing people made him both desensitized to death and yet so incredibly, overly aware of it. 

He knew he’d lose Anne one day. 

So if she fucking wanted to treat him like a kid whilst he visited her between the missions, he’d let her.

And although the sleep was truly a blessing, it was disrupted when he heard the quiet sound of the door opening, the metal squeaking against the hinges, wood brushing over the doormat and quiet rustling of something being passed between hands. Simon’s eyes staying closed but body instinctively tensed up, so that he was ready to throw himself off the sofa and straight at the potential danger. 

“Oh, ta lovey, you sure spoil me wi’ all these! Do you wanna come in? I’ll make us a brew. Me lad’s come to see me, but he’s fast asleep in’t living room, it won’t bother ’im, pet.” 

“No, no, Anne, thank you, I’ve got a tonne of work to do at home, got a new commission so I’ve got to work on it, but I’ll pop in for a brew at some point in the week, yeah?” 

Simon’s shoulders relaxed and he breathed in deeply, hearing an unfamiliar feminine voice decline his mum’s invitation, grateful that he wouldn’t have to deal with one of her gossiping friends. In moments like this he was jealous of Tommy being all hitched with Beth and their lil shitling attached to his hip. He was officially off the table when it came to the matchmaking. 

Simon wasn’t ever interested, of course. But that didn’t mean that his mum and her pain in the ass friends didn’t try.

But now you have so serendipitously appeared in his life. 

He just had to secure you permanently somehow. 

As the front door shut, he got up from the couch with a groan, his knees and shoulders cracking as he stretched. He met his mother half way to the kitchen, where she gently patted his upper arm (struggling to reach the shoulder with the arthritis slowly settling in her joints, bless her heart) and nodded at the kitchen.

“Just me neighbour’s made us some biccies, she’s a good hen like that. Come on, I’ll stick the kettle on, make you a coffee, an’ you can ‘ave some. You’ve proper lost weight fightin’ out there. They wanna feed you lads better in’t army if they expect you t’scrap proper.”

And to his satisfaction, the biscuits were truly great. Crunchy, but not overly dry. Not too sweet to cause heartburn either. They were a buttery goodness that melted on his tongue as he chewed one by one, unable to stop. 

Anne and her feeding habits were a welcome change. The hunger that he suppressed for such a long time was demanding to be felt too.

But with every single bite he couldn’t help but think about biting into you. 

Sinking his teeth into your soft looking skin, anywhere and everywhere you would let him leave a mark. He’d be gentle of course, he could not risk hurting you (too much). A sensitive thing like you, who clearly was struggling to drive faster than 30 miles per hour must have been delicate. 

He wondered how the rest of your lesson went. 

He really should have followed that stupid white car just to make sure no driver who was stuck behind you would stress you out more than you already were. 

If anyone as much as tried to use their horn, he would deal with them. Don’t you worry your sweet, little head. He saw how you reacted almost crashing into the hedge when he revved the engine. The sound of a car horn would likely send you spiraling and he could not let that happen to his brave little driver. It’s okay sweetheart, you’d never have to encounter that dumb fuck again. Why? Well, silly goose, you can’t really use the horn or even drive for that matter, if you don’t have arms, no? Oh wait, you can? Well, he’d make sure to discourage them from getting behind the wheel ever again. He’s good at threatening people into submission. That’s kind of a part his job.

He’d happily cuddle you afterwards. Wrap his big arms around you tenderly, stroke your soft hair and tell you how well you did and that one day you’ll own the roads. Even if he had to somehow close off the whole city so that you could drive stress free. Bomb threat perhaps? Terrorist threat? Murder every single driver registered as living in Manchester and close off all the entry roads into the city? Slash the tires of every single car? Johnny would surely help with that. Especially if he was doing it for his lieutenant’s bird.

Before Simon knew it, he was standing in front of the neighbour’s door, helmet in one hand, empty and washed out tupperware box in the other, knocking against the hard wood with the tip of his shoe. “Seein’ as yer not stayin’ over tonight, pet, can yer take that tupperware box next door? If yer don’t, I’ll only forget, yer know what I’m like, Si.” He once again couldn’t say no. He ate majority of the biscuits anyway, the least he could do was return the bloody plastic box to the owner. 

He heard snapping of the lock bolts as the key turned from inside and then the door opened, revealing you.

The air got knocked out of his fucking lungs, eyes opened wider, the grip of his hands tightened, afraid that he was going to drop everything he was holding as he stared into those beautiful eyes which haunted him every single time he closed his own, even to blink, since this morning. 

Looks like he didn’t have to spend his evening planning on how to find you at all. 

You were right here, under his fucking nose this whole time and he had no idea. Now staring up at him, chin darted up, head tilted back a little to accommodate for the height difference between the two of you. 

Future Mrs Riley was so much prettier when there wasn’t a car window in the way. 

You stood there, one hand on the doorframe, ready to shut it closed (good girl, look at you, staying so careful, he’s so proud of you), eyes narrowed a little as you studied his features, clearly not recognising him, but sizing him up. He was a stranger after all. 

Strangely handsome, but still, a stranger who was for some reason stood at your door, staring at you silently, making it impossible to tear away from his intense, dark gaze (was it dark or were his pupils just abnormally blown? Was he on fucking drugs? Nah, Simon was in fucking love, and when someone is in love, their pupils dilate. But how could you know sweetheart? Just stay oblivious for now.). You weren’t entirely sure why. Maybe because it felt like a challenge? First person to look away loses. As if you were both taking part in some dumb staring contest, but from the way he was looking at you, you could tell it wasn’t a fight for dominance. 

At least not anymore. 

Because as much as you always read in your silly books, the author describing that someone’s gaze softened, you didn’t really understand what that meant. Until now. Because a couple moments after your eyes met his, you could see it happening. 

The whole demeanor shifting. His furrowed eyebrows relaxed, deep set wrinkles disappearing from between them, although still leaving delicate lines in their place. The eyes seemed to have lost their sharp edge, that intensity remaining, but now having taken on a gentle way to it. They weren’t indifferent, cold, even scrutinising anymore. No. 

Simon cleared his throat, looking away first, down at the tupperware box in his hand. 

Something he rarely did. He was a manmade predator. He knew how to intimidate, scare, make someone feel like a little roach about to be squashed under his boot. But in this moment, standing at your door, he couldn’t help but want to drop to his knees and beg for you to walk all over him. Just to confirm this was not a fucking daydream and that for once, life has fucking smiled at him and said ‘hey, there you go, have it the easy way mate’. Walk over him like a fucking marching band, please, pet. Run him over with a car for all he cares. At the speed that you drive at, the worst he’d get was a couple broken ribs and a sprained wrist and that is nothing, lovey. He’s been through worse.

Fuck, you turning in the opposite direction on that junction this morning seemed to hurt worse. 

You still stared at him, curiosity flashing through your eyes as he dropped his, but you let yourself study his face for that quick moment. The slightly crooked nose, messy blonde hair that he clearly put no effort into styling, sharp jaw with a freshly trimmed beard, a few scars, a particularly nasty looking one that ran down the length of his cheek, a split bottom lip that was almost healed and a yellow bruise painted on the temple. 

Man’s been through shit.

“Hi?” You said quietly, a little hesitantly as you attempted to catch his eyes again, tilting your head to the side.

Simon’s eyes snapped back up to yours as if your sweet voice gave him the permission to indulge in the beauty that you oh so kindly provided and blessed him with.

He couldn’t believe his luck. Maybe he choked on one of the biscuits that turns out you made and now he was dead and somehow he made his way to heaven. Somehow. If he clawed his way into there, he didn’t remember that, but surely he wasn’t just invited. Not with all the fucked up things he’d done in his life. But if this was the promise of heaven, he’d happily do anything to experience even the snippet of it.

He needed to say something, anything that would make you stay, indulge you, keep you from shutting the door in his face, something that would portray all the fucking intensity of scrambled up emotions he was feeling right now. Fuck, would it be weird if he ran to his bike now and undid one of those nuts and came back asking for your hand? He couldn’t ask without a ring. He didn’t have anything on him that could imitate one. “Th’ biscuits were mint, pet.” 

You raised your eyebrows as he extended the tupperware box to you, realizing that he must have been the son Anne mentioned earlier when you dropped the sweet treat off. You assumed she was talking about Tommy, Tommy was often over.

Not this absolute behemoth of a man who, for a brief moment after opening the door, you expected to pull out an axe and just kill you on the spot. 

She spoke to you about him over a cuppa one day. Samuel was it? You’d never seen him, only heard about him, which made sense since he was a soldier who apparently spend majority of his life away on deployment or out at the base. 

Well, now he was here and he complimented the biscuits you stress baked after yet another unsuccessful driving lesson. You were surprised he enjoyed them. Thought the tears that streamed out of your eyes as you mixed the batter would have made them a tad too salty.

“Oh, I’m glad. Thanks, Samuel.” Big, well deserved pat on the back for you, showing off that you listen, that you know who he is, without him having to introduce himself. You’d known his ma for a few months now after moving next door to her. She almost immediately decided to kind of adopt you, after learning that ‘y’ were just a teeny thing, livin’ all on ‘er own.’.

He appreciated the try. Really. No, honestly. If you wanted to call him Samuel, he’d let you. Hell, he’d change the name in all his documents if it made you happy. “‘Ts Simon, love.”

And he fucking immediately wished he never said that and actually went with the idea of a name change, because the way your eyes instantly saddened broke him. There was that worry in them again that he saw in the morning. The expectation of punishment almost. Guilt. Upset. You looked as if you just admitted to killing his childhood pet, not accidentally calling him the wrong name. 

No, no, no, sweetheart don’t be upset with yourself. In his head he already promised himself to only make you cry for two specific reasons. This wasn’t one of them. Please don’t beat yourself up for it. He should have taken it back, the nervous stuttering of all the half words and sorries filled his ears and he wanted nothing more than to cup your flushed cheeks and kiss those words off your lips. 

Don’t be sorry, sweetheart, don’t apologize, not to him, not to anyone, ever. You tried. That’s all that matters. He can be Samuel from now on, really. Promise.

Just like when you mouthed the ‘I’m sorry’ through the closed window of the car. 

Poor thing. 

Guilt didn’t suit you.

But your name that you introduced yourself with in the midst of all that babble did indeed suit you. He chewed on it for a moment as he repeated it in his head, memorizing it, tasting it, almost choking on it as he finally said it out loud.

He watched your eyes wonder to his motorbike helmet as you tapped your thumb quickly on the lid of the plastic box that you held in your little, slender hands. 

Were you realizing who he was? Were you remembering the intimate (intimidating), heartfelt (angry) looks he was giving you as he stared at your reflection in the rearview mirror of your car? 

Surely you must realize.

He would recognize you just by your eyes anywhere. How could you not do the same?

Did you just not care? 

Were you truly this fucking oblivious? 

Or were you just pretending?

“Let me get you some more of those biscuits. As a sorry for getting your name wrong. I think I’ve got some left…” 

He stared at the open door as you rushed back into the depths of your house. 

Stranger danger, did your parents not teach you about it? 

But he wasn’t really a stranger was he? You shared someone in common. Anne told you about Simon. He was her fucking son. And she lived next door, it’s not like he would do anything to you, at least in your head. In his head he wanted to do everything to you. But you’d enjoy it, obviously. 

So at least both of you were sure that no hurt was on the cards.

He would never do anything to hurt his missus.

Now standing in the doorway, was he supposed to follow you? Was that an invitation?

He fucking hoped it wasn’t, because if he walked in right now, his claws would settle deep into the floorboards and he’d refuse to leave. Would you even want him to leave? Would you ask him to stay? He never stayed. He never accepted any food offered to him just like he never opted for the post fuck cuddles. That wasn’t something he ever wanted really. 

Nah, he had shit to do. Reports to write. Places to be. People to train. Guns to clean.

He was full, he didn’t need more biscuits. His mother fed him more calories today than his usual weekly allowance was during deployment. 

But then again, if his future Mrs Riley insisted, he’d gladly stuff those biscuits down his throat, even if it meant his stomach was going to suffer. He’d do it with a damn big smile. Just to show you how much he fucking appreciated you feeding him. Hoping that you’d feed him forever. Was your pussy a meal you’d consider giving him too? Because fuck, he’d devour it as a pallet cleanser between all the biscuits he was willing to eat. Just let him have a taste. Please. He’d make it worth your while. His face stuffed between your legs, hands tightly wrapped around your thighs, keeping you nice and spread open for him as he munched on you like a man starved, singing praises into your pretty cunt about how nice she tastes. Drinking up all the juices. Staying hydrated was important after all.

That’s when you could cry, lovey. He’d lick those tears right off too. Can’t let your sweetness (or saltiness in this case) go to waste.

“Come in, Simon, shut the door behind you, the draft’s chilly!”

Without thinking twice, Simon stepped into the house, shutting the door quietly behind him. Hearing his name in that sweet voice of yours was like a call to prayer. Like a call from the goddess who he swore to worship until the day he died. You were cold? Oh you poor, pretty eyed thing… Don’t worry, angel, he’d happily set himself on fire if his body heat itself was not enough to keep you warm.

~

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