#˚ʚ���ɞ˚: rylea writes

[ebodebo]

hey, so…bull rider!simon??

more bull rider simon

“You come to wish me luck?” Simon purred in your ear as his hands gripped the back of your thighs and his body pressed onto yours, stabilizing you against the wall of a rundown dive bar’s back room.

“You’ve gotta be as dull as an ox if you think I’m here for any other interest than self, Beef-head,” you hiss as his fingers dig into the fat of your thigh, etching closer to slide your panties off.

“Beef-head, huh?” He murmurs against your neck as your hands fumble with his buckle, unclasping it before sliding the zipper to his pants down.

“Seems fittin,’” you prompt, as your panties slide to dangle around your ankles. He slips his jeans and boxers down in one swift motion. You slip your hand between the two of you to gently tug on his painfully erect cock.

You lean closer into him, lips barely grazing his temple. His sizzling breath fanning across your cheeks as you stroke him. “I bet this one gets taken care of when you’re tourin.’ Huh?” You tighten your grip around him; he releases an anguished groan, fingers digging deeper into your thighs.

“Ah—fuck,” he whizzes as one of his hands releases your thigh and instead braces against the back wall.

“Ya—I bet you find a pretty girl who's just jumpin’ at the chance to touch ya in every city,” your fingers move quicker on their volition, “you don't even have to try.”

If Simon didn't know you, he'd assume you were doing what everyone else does: stroke his ego, but he knew you.

You were majorily fucking with him.

“Fuck—don’t tell me you're—ah—jealous, babydoll,” Simon murmurs, his tone is dripping in arrogance. You let out a dry laugh, tugging his cock slightly harder, making him groan.

“Come on, Beef-bead. You know I don't have to do a damn thing before your comin’ up to me beggin’ for a taste,” you drag lips down his temple to his busted lip. “Beggin’ for a feel of me.”

He quickly moves his hand braced onto the wall onto your face, pulling your lips roughly onto his. He tasted of blood and Nicorette, which did nothing to tamper your reclusions.

Your teeth scrape against each other as the kiss becomes more fervent with each passing moment. The air is now dense and burning with desire.

His hand moves from your cheek to his erect cock still in your hand, cheekily pulling your fingers off to push himself inside your soaked cunt.

“Shit,” you wheezed, fingers digging into his shoulders. His hands wander, gripping your waist impossibly closer, back pressed tut with the cracked walls behind you.

“You’re right—fuck—been waiting to come back,” he pants as he increases his pace. “Just to get a God-damn look at ya,” he spits.

It’s almost pathetic. Almost.

“Suppose this ain’t half bad,” he brashly says. You find a slight smirk pulling at your lips at his quip, though your humorous expression quickly dissipates almost as fast as it came when he plows into you.

You lean your head into his neck, nipping at the flesh, then quickly soothing it with a swipe of your tongue. “Damn firecracker, you are,” he groans into your hair.

When you feel his impending orgasm nearing, you swing your legs down, easing his cock out of you. Slight regret passed through you at losing contact, but you would finish yourself later.

Simon hisses, gripping his cock, attempting to regain any ounce of stimulation, but to his dismay, it had passed.

“If I know one thing about you, champ, I know you don't like it easy,” you pant out. “So I’ll be damned if I let you think for a moment you got it easy with me,” your eyes lock to his.

You’re surprised to find his face paler and eyes smokier. Though they weren’t filled with anguish, it was more admiration.

“I didn’t get to finish last time, so you don’t get to finish this time round,’” you say, pulling your jeans back on and buckling your belt.

“Suggest you find one of your buckle bunnies to help ya out—with that,” you gesture to his now half-erect cock splayed out.

You reach into your back pocket, grasping a five-dollar bill, pushing it into his chest because you could at least give him enough to cover an ice pack.

He grips the money, an irritated smirk playing on his lips. As you leave, you approach the door, dipping your head to avoid catching attention.

You hear Simon murmur a faint, ‘Firecracker, my ass, that's a whole damn bomb.’

You smile because, well, karma is karma.

a/n: come on yk thanksgiving brings out all the freakies hence this!

[ebodebo]

The Bewitching

—thinking about roommate!simon riley seeing you in your halloween costume… MDNI

"Where's your sexy roommate anyway, babe?" Your friend, dressed as a sexy witch, purred from her spot on a stool around the kitchen island. You had invited two friends over to spend Halloween with you since your roommate, Simon, had to work.

"He, uh, had to work," you say, taking a sip of your wine. Your witchy friend's eyes widened as she carefully dipped a pita chip into some hummus.

"On Halloween?" She gawked, pushing the chip into her mouth, eyes wide. You also take a chip and swirl it around in the hummus before shrugging.

"Seems so," you say, inhaling the chip. You turn to pull open the fridge, reaching for a bottle of champagne. Once you turn back, you see your other friend dressed as a sexy police officer, head slightly titled in confusion, her eyes carefully observing your costume.

"So, what are you supposed to be? A sexy nurse?" She questions. You raise your brows, perplexed that she couldn't tell who you were.

"You're kidding, right?" You urge, waiting a minute before continuing to see if she is joking. She shakes her head no, pursing her lips. You shake your head in disbelief. "Debs, I'm one of the nurses from Silent Hill."

"Should've gotten Simon to dress as pyramid head," your sexy witch friend instantly says. You flick your eyes to hers to see a smirk spreading on her lips.

"Oh, please," you laugh out. "Over his dead body would he ever willingly dress up." You take a sip of your wine, stalling when you hear the sound of a familiar truck pulling into the driveway.

"Oh, looks like your big guy is home," Debs winks. You roll your eyes, set your wine glass down, and head for the front door. You step out to see Simon searching for something in his truck.

"Hey," you greet. "What're you doing back so early?" He doesn't avert his attention from some loose papers he was scanning over.

After a minute, he says, "Price had a Halloween thing for his kid." He continues sifting through loose papers. "So, here I am," he dryly says, eyes still focused on the papers.

"Okay. FYI, the girls are inside—" You start before he interrupts, finally turning around to face you.

"If you want, I can just go to a bar, or—" He abruptly stops, eyes wandering down your body, taking in your costume—which included a very provocative dress. He swallows deeply as his eyes sweep over your exposed thighs, up to the deep dip of your breasts on display.

"Simon?" You prod, trying to understand why he has stopped speaking. He drags his eyes up to look into yours.

"You—what are you supposed to be?" He lazily questions.

"Um, a nurse," you say; he tilts his head to the side.

"Never seen a nurse look like that," he sticks his tongue out to wet the seam of his dry lips. You feel a sudden rush of embarrassment.

"It's from a—a game," you quickly say, rocking back on the heels of your feet. "It's kind of stupid," you turn your head away from him, trying to hide some embarrassment from his gaze.

"I like it," his eyes shamelessly drag down the length of your body. You flick your eyes back to him, offering him a small smile, noting the way his eyes become darker as the seconds pass.

"Ya?" You're shocked that you managed to get a word out since your mouth had turned to ash. Dry as a bone.

"Mhm," he hums as he takes a step towards you. You swallow hard as he steps closer to you, close enough for his fingers to graze the hem of your dress, tugging it down gently so it covers a little more of your thighs.

"Simon," you breathlessly say as you feel his fingers graze your bare skin.

"Dress ridin' up a little high," he murmurs, though he doesn't take his fingers away from you. He looks down at you, taking in your lazily closed eyes. "Have you gone out yet?"

"Wha—no. Didn't really want to," your tone is a little wobbly now as his hand slowly skimmed under your dress. You release a shallow breath.

He tilts his head back slightly. "No? What is it you wanted to do then?" He continues his movements, skimming his fingers up your thigh, slowly maneuvering between them. You find yourself gripping his shoulders. "Huh?" He tuts.

"I don't—I don't know," you choke out, dropping your head slightly as his hand grazes your cunt over your already wet underwear. You find yourself pushing yourself into his palm.

He leaned in closer to you, his hot breath grazing against the shell of your ear. "Did you want me to see you in this little outfit?" He whispers. You lean into his words flowing in your ear. "You knew how badly I wanted to touch this pretty pussy. Didn't you?" You let out an involuntary moan at his words, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

His pointer and middle finger slip into you through your underwear, grazing your clit. You find yourself rocking against his fingers to get more friction. "Ah, fuck. That's it, pretty girl," he groans, moving his fingers faster. "Keep fucking my fingers—just like that."

He pulled you closer onto him with his other hand, gripping your ass tightly to get you more friction. You leaned your head into his chest, moaning as his fingers continued to move in you.

"Fuck, baby. Look at me—look at me," he commands. You flick your head up to look him in the eyes; his mouth is slightly parted from panting. "Just like that," he pants, watching your mouth agape as he coaxes your orgasm, making you come in your underwear.

He holds you up as your body spasms, gifting him with the sweet mewls you spew. Once your orgasm subsides, he grips one side of your soaked underwear, slipping it down your thighs and tucking it into the pocket of his cargo pants he wore.

You look up at him, doe-eyed, before you look around in horror. "Oh my—you just, you just fingered me in the front yard," you frantically say, taking a step away from him. His lip quips at your genuine anguish.

"I know. I was there," he monotonously says. Anxiously, you bring your hands to thread through your hair. Your eyes widen even more.

"Oh my—my friends," you exclaim, whipping your head to your house.

"Guess you'll have some explaining to do," he casually says.

"Fuck you," you remark.

"Hungry for more already?" He smirked, pulling you by the arm closer to him so you rested flat against his body.

"No—you know that's not what I meant!"

a/n: happy almost halloween! take my treat to u all! divider!

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[ebodebo]

"Si, you owe me a new couch," you half-joke, trying to ease some of the palpable tension in the air, as you sit next to your boyfriend, Simon, on your couch, cleaning the gash on his side with a face cloth.

The poor guy had shown up at your door in the middle of the night with the nastiest gash to his side. It was a superficial cut, so nothing that needed immediate medical attention, but it still bled—a lot

He wouldn't say how he acquired the laceration, but you suspected it couldn't have been good. You kept your assumptions to yourself and have been tending to them for the last five minutes or so.

"I'll buy you any kind you like," he picks his head up from its place on the back of the couch. You catch his eyes boring into the side of your head as you continue cleaning the area, finally looking up to lock eyes with him. The sincerity in his eyes has you letting out a small laugh.

"You don't have to," you murmur as your eyes shift to the gauze to your side. You carefully open a fresh piece, place it on the cut, and secure it with paper tape. You gently press the sides, securing the tape to his skin. "All done. Good boy," you jokingly say, tossing the gauze's empty packaging onto the coffee table in front of you.

You feel his hand grip your chin, pulling you towards his lips. You are slightly taken aback, even making a noise of surprise, but you quickly reciprocate the kiss.

He tasted of Nicorette gum and cigarette smoke with a hint of liquor. You would scowl at him later for the cigarette smell since he had supposedly quit, but right now, you could feel by the way he gripped your face he craved a taste of you.

You raised your hand to grip his jaw, trying to bring him closer. He senses your desire, gripping your hips and swinging you over his legs so you are now straddling him, never once disconnecting his lips from yours.

While you adjust to the new position, your knee grazes his gash, making him grunt into your mouth. You pull back slightly to speak; both of your chests are heaving. "Am I hurting you?" Your brows furrow in concern as you gently bring your hand to rest in his messy hair.

He knots his hand in your hair, lips brushing against yours. "Only if you stop,” he pants, deepening the kiss.

You smile into his lips, gripping his jaw, feeling his teeth clash against your own. One of his hands lingers over your hip once again, kneading the fat of it. The other lingers from your hair to pull down your shirt on your shoulder, revealing your collarbone.

His lips hover over your clavicle, eyes flicking to take note of a new, very small ‘s’ inked into your flesh. He brings his hand up to brush his fingertips over the tattoo.

“You got this for me?” He enunciates the ‘me,’ like it was just so unable to believe you would ever want to taint your skin for him.

“You like it?” You chew on your bottom lip, giddy with anticipation. He leans back against the back of the chair, shifting his torso a little. You let out a slight moan when you feel how hard he is.

“Do you feel that?” He gruffs, gripping your waist and grinding you against his clothed hard-on. You grip his shoulders with each of your hands tightly, hissing through your teeth, “How could I not?”

He leans forward, lips hovering over the shell of your ear so you can feel his hot breath against your skin. “I fuckin’ love it.”

a/n: a little fic just bc it's been a hot sec<3 divider!

[ebodebo]

Tough As Nails—Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy

thinking about cowboy!simon riley… MDNI | part one |

next ->

He had become a nuisance. A pest, a headache. Every single adjective you can think of to describe a pain in the ass he was.

Your father's ranch hand, whom he hired all of six months ago, had become something of a bother, an inconvenience to you. He was annoying and stubborn. Narrowed his eyes at you too often for your liking. Scoffed when you would correct him. And scolded you when you would have people on the property when your parents would leave town—even going so far as to kick your guests off the property altogether.

But tonight would be different; it was the Fourth of July. You would happily throw your party in the barn your family owns, on the property they own. You weren't going to let him order you around tonight.

"What the hell is all of this?" Simon seethed, taking in the concrete floor covered in empty beer bottles and spilled grain. His booming voice caused some partygoers to straighten up, though no one dared to speak.

He clenched his jaw at the lack of cooperation. "Huh?" He paused, his fists clenching so hard they began to turn white.

"So, no one can speak?" He walked over to a guy sitting on a bale of hay, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and yanked him off the hay tossing him aside.

"Get the fuck off my hay." He gritted to the guy.

"Where is she?" All he could think about was the little pain in his ass who was responsible for this. The guy he pulled off the hay immediately pointed towards an old wooden outhouse away from the barn.

Simon rolled his eyes, sucking in a sharp breath. "If I come back and any of you are still here." He looked over everyone.

"I will not hesitate to shoot you for trespassing."

Safe to say, everyone in the barn scrambled out of the barn at that very second. Simon turned on his heels and stalked over to the outhouse, where he saw you leaning up against the outside with a guy's hands roaming your body, making out.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" You jumped at the sound of his voice, pushing the guy on you off your body.

"Sim—"

"Don't." He moved closer, standing directly in front of you, pointing his finger at you. "Don't Simon me."

"It's the Fourth of July, Simon. Lighten up."

"Do you realize your idiot friends spilled hundreds of dollars worth of grain and fucked with your dad's equipment?" All he had to do was glance at the guy just kissing you for him to go scurrying off.

"Shit, I shouldn't have left them alone. I wasn't thinking." You curse, looking up at him to meet his eyes.

"Ya, you're right." He stepped closer.

“You don't��think." He gritted out before continuing.

"You're impulsive. Reckless."

Your eyes widen at his words. Who does this guy think he is? "Don't forget you work for me."

He lets out a deep, dry chuckle. "Actually, I work for your dad." 

"Whatever." You scoff as you take a step to walk past him.

"We are not done talking." He reaches out to grab your wrist; you swiftly turn your head to look up at him.

"I'm done listening to you." You grit out, eyes full of anger.

"Oh, is that it?" He scoffs out as you take a step away, only to trip over a wide hole in the ground, making both of you topple over, him falling on top of you. He's quick to plant a hand on the ground before, so his entire body weight isn't on you.

After you recognize the pain from the fall, you look up at Simon, who's on top of you, eyes boring into yours. Your pulse increases at the proximity, and your breath becomes more shallow.

His eyes blazed with fury, yours full of irritation. You can't help but glance at his lips, hovering not too far away from your own. This little action made him lose it. His self-control was already hanging on by a single thread, and the look you gave was what finally cut through. His lips crashed onto yours with such force that it took your air away.

It wasn't gentle or tender. It was desperation, months of built-up vexation. It was downright sinful.

You gasp once his lips meet yours but quickly return the sentiment. Your hands move to glide through his light hair, gently tugging on the roots, making him groan.

He yanks his cowboy hat off as he grips your waist to flip you so you are now on top of him, straddling his waist as he sits up.

"I thought you didn't like me." You smugly remark as he connects his lips to the side of your neck, and his hands start undoing buttons on your top.

"Like has nothing to do with this." He murmurs into your neck, lightly nipping at your sensitive skin, making you sigh.

"Keep telling yourself that, Cowboy." You jest, grabbing the back of his neck bringing him back up to your lips, already greedy for another taste of him.

He continues working on undoing your top buttons as his tongue collides with yours, and your teeth graze his own.

He cups your breast over the fabric of your bra as soon as he gets the buttons undone, making you whimper. His hand slips down to grip the fat of your ass as he leans in so his lips are lightly grazing your ear.

"You do it on purpose, don't you?" You could feel the roughness of his voice so close to your ear. You leaned into his lips grazing your ear.

"Do what?" You breathe out as his hand roams from your ass to the front of your belt, gently unclasping your belt buckle.

"You playin' dumb now?" He questioned, gently nipping at your ear lobe. The sensation made you let out a low moan before roughly grabbing his face and connecting your lips back to his.

He matched your hungry kiss, reciprocating an even hungrier one of his own as he tossed your belt off to the side and slid off your pitiful excuse for jean shorts down past your thighs.

He quickly undid his belt buckle and threw it off to the side, sliding his jeans down.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this." You breathe out, reaching between the two of you to release him from the confines of his boxers.

His mouth went dry at your touch. "Do what exactly?" He choked out as you carefully pumped him up and down.

"Ride you." You casually said as you slipped your already-soaked thong to the side to accommodate him. He could have come at your words. He almost did, but a quick relay of the steps to clean an AR-15 suppressed the urge. 

You grip him and slip him inside your dripping cunt, hissing at the contact. He grips your hips and gently sinks you lower, groaning as you grind into him. 

He brought his face closer to plant deep, wet kisses on your lips before groaning into your mouth as you continued your movements. "Fuck. Just like that." 

Your entire body erupted with goosebumps, and your nipples hardened at the sentiment. You grip his shoulders tightly, but before you pick up your pace, you hear a familiar truck pulling up to the gate of your family's ranch.

"Is that—" You begin before he thrusts into you, making you moan and throw your head back.

"So fuckin' sensitive." He leaned into your exposed neck and licked a strip up to your lips that were slightly parted. 

"Better come quick, sweetheart." He pants, gently bouncing you up and down on his cock, fingers digging into the tender flesh on your hips. 

"Wouldn't want your parents to see you riding me. Would you now?" You let out a pathetic whimper, bringing your hand down to swirl circles on your aching clit, while he wraps a strong arm around your waist to hold you in place as he drills himself into you.

Each thurst, each swirl of your finger, made you feel a sense of nirvana you didn't even know was possible to get to. It was pure bliss. That and his dirty tongue were spewing such filthy words that were making you wetter than you ever knew was possible.

"Tell me you're about to come because—” His pleading voice sends a final wave of heat through you.

"Fuck. Yes, I'm coming." You yelp, slipping your fingers through his hair and pulling on the light roots again. He silently curses as he comes, gripping you tighter and pressing your chest against his own.

By the time both of your orgasms subside, he silently and gently eases you up to assist you in pulling your thong and jean shorts back on. Then, he casually fixes his jeans and grabs his belt to put back on.

You glance at him, picking up his cowboy hat from the ground and carefully wiping off some dirt that had gotten on it. Though he doesn't slip it back on his head, as a shock to you, he places the hat on your head. It was a little big on you, so it fell a bit more in the front, slightly covering your eyes.

"Keep it.” He says, bending down to pick up your belt and buckle, gently slipping it around your waist and clasping it. He gently pats the buckle clasped in the front, then looks down at you before speaking.

"You earned it."

a/n: who the fuck even wrote this

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[ebodebo]

"Come to bed," Jason calls out, his voice a low murmur as you stand in the bathroom, carefully brushing your teeth. 

He’s lounging shirtless in your shared bed, the sheets barely draped over the sweatpants he’s wearing.

"I'll be there in a minute," you call back, your voice muffled by the toothbrush in your mouth.

He groans at the response, and you giggle.

You're sporting his oversized, worn-out tee that reads, "Property of Gotham City," paired with just a set of daring red panties.

You can feel his eyes on you, his gaze like a warm caress on your skin. In the mirror, you catch him stealing a cheeky view of your panties as the shirt rides up, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

“Bad boy,” you playfully scold, reaching for a magazine on the back of the toilet and holding it up to browse through.

He throws his head back against the headboard, overwhelmed with despair. "You’re killin’ me, Baby."

You let out a chuckle as you rinse out your mouth, quickly wiping it clean with a towel. Suddenly, you freeze, your eyes locking onto a new article that catches your attention.

You grab the magazine from the counter, feeling the paper crinkle in your grip as you turn to face Jason. He sits upright, his relaxed demeanor radiating an easy confidence.

"Listen to this," you say, clearing your throat with a cough before adopting a playful, sultry news anchor tone as you begin to read the article.

"Red, Hot, and Ready: The audacious vigilante, Red Hood, knocks the charming Nightwing off his pedestal in Gotham Time’s Sexiest Vigilante Poll," you teased, drawing nearer to him.

“Uh-huh. You done?” He drawled, a playful spark dancing in his eyes.

"The majority of pollers found Red Hood's enigmatic presence rather…” you pause, shifting onto the bed and positioning yourself to straddle his lap as you draw closer to him.

His hands find their way to your hips, raising an eyebrow as you lean in closer, holding his gaze without breaking eye contact.

"…alluring," you finish, as Jason makes an amused face. 

"That was…captivating," he sarcastically says, his tone dripping with dry humor.

"I can't believe my boyfriend is a celebrity," you say with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Can you still love a nobody like me with your towering  status?" You question, with a sarcastic inflection that's hard to miss.

"It'll make me look more humble than I already am, so yes," he jokes.

You laugh. "Yes. Oh, so very humble."

He laughs softly as his hands slip beneath your shirt, his fingers gently gliding over your bare skin. You lift the magazine again, your eyes quickly scanning the 'Poller's Insight' section.

You can’t help but chuckle, clearly entertained.

"Oh my God. When asked what pollers thought of his rather blunt demeanor, they responded, ‘It’s hot. Like really, really hot,’" you say, grinning widely, your eyes locking back onto his.

“Why are you laughin?’” He asks, adopting a mock-serious tone, his eyes filled with admiration as they gaze intently into yours.

"It's just, so...hilarious," you sputter.

"You jealous you got some competition now?" He quips, fingers greedily gripping the fat of your hips.

"Hah! I'd like to see someone try to deal with you, especially in bed," you cackle.

"You wound me," he jests, with mock outrage.

You grin, casting the magazine aside, bringing your hands to sqeeze his cheeks. "You know what I mean. Baby, you're insatiable."

"I just can't get enough of you," he utters, his pupils dilate as he peers at you.

He is the spitting image of devotion. 

"You're so...perfect," you murmur, finger running down his cheek to easily trace the outline of his lips. "So perfect."

"Seems you're the only one to think that," he mutters, his fingers tracing random shapes into the skin on your hips, eyes moving to glance at your lips.

"That's alright," you begin, tone just above a whisper as your eyes flick over his shamelessly hone in on your lips. 

"You'll be just my perfect boy."

He inhales a deep breath, his fingers stop moving, and his eyes flick back to yours in an instant. You give him a light smile, lightly moving your fingers against his cheek.

He dips his head forward, lips brushing against yours. You lean into him, hand resting on the nape of his neck. His hands move to grip your waist, holding you in place as the kiss becomes more fervent.

You grip the hem of your shirt, pulling it up slightly before Jason pulls it back down. Your protests die on your tongue as he slips his tongue in your mouth, fingers moving to fiddle with the waistband of your panties, easing them down behind your knees.

He pulls back, reaching for his sweatpants and boxers, which are stretched over his thighs. "Nah. Leave it on. Wanna fuck you in it," he finally mumbles.

Jesus Christ. 

"Okay," you mechanically say, already breathless.

You would do just about anything he told you to.

He grips your waist tight, moving you so you hover over his erect cock. "Ready, Baby?" He asks, eyes locked on yours. 

You grip his shoulders. "Ready," you affirm.

He hisses as he slides his cock into you with much ease. You let out a pathetic whine at the contact. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning against your skin as he grunts, helping you move against him. 

"Ride me, Baby. Ride me," he breathes into your neck.

You let out something of a moan and whine as you place one of your hands over one of his hands positioned on your waist, and the other stays gripping his shoulder for support. 

Your hips move back and forth, his rising to match your rhythm. He leans his head back, releasing an anguished moan in the process, his fingers digging into the fat of your hips.

"Am I doing alright?" You ask with only slight apprehension. 

"Yeah, Baby. Doin' so good—so good," he amends through labored breaths. 

"Yeah?" As you speed up the pace, you retort, desperate to make him feel good. 

"So fuckin' good," he groans, throwing his head and hitting the bed's backboard as you sit completely on him, his cock slipping deeper into you. 

Leaning down, you press a kiss to his Adam's apple as you go up and down on his cock, occasionally grinding down to give your clit some more stimulation. 

His fingers dig into your flesh with much pressure. "Fuck, Baby. I'm gonna—" he grunts.

"Yeah, me too—me too," you affirm, grinding yourself against him until you're wailing his name and he's mumbling curses.

You rest your forehead against him, both of your chests heaving, and sweat gathering around your temples. "We should do that—" you begin, catching your breath "—more often."

He lifts his eyes to look at you, his mouth contorting into a cheeky smile. "I'll do anything you want, Baby," he affirms through ragged breaths. 

"See, you are perfect," you jest, releasing a stifled laugh.

He playfully rolls his eyes, hands moving to get a handful of your ass, grinding you into him a little. You moan at the contact, still sensitive.

"And insatiable," he smirks, flipping you onto your back.

You ready yourself for a long night and can't find it in yourself to be mad about that. 

a/n: another self-indulgent fic🤰<-me rn divider!

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[ebodebo]

Dinner, Dinner!

—jason misses your anniversary dinner, but makes it up to you…MDNI

"Would you like to browse our dessert menu, madam?" The waiter asks in a thick French accent as he stretches his arm out to pour your second glass of wine.

Your brain is fogged as your fingers fiddle with the stem of the glass as you swirl the crimson liquid around, splashing all sides of the glass. 

"Madam?" The waiter repeats. You hadn't even realized you hadn't answered his previous question. You flick your eyes to his.

"I…um—sorry, can you repeat the question?" Your mind is clouded with a storm of fury and hurt. Jason, your boyfriend, had forgotten your anniversary dinner, leaving you to endure the sympathetic glances of strangers as they noticed the empty seat across from you.

"Of course, madam. I asked if you would like to see the dessert menu," the waiter repeats, his voice a distant echo. You turn your head to the empty seat in front of you, the thought of enduring the restaurant's atmosphere a daunting prospect. 

"Could I just have the cremé brûlée?" You finally ask, your eyes still fixed on the empty seat, your voice trembling slightly. "In a to-go box, please."

It was the first dessert you and Jason shared at this very restaurant, three years ago today. 

"Of course," the waiter said curtly, turning slightly before you raised your voice.

"And, um, could you take the other wine glass?" You awkwardly ask. He simply nods again, carefully placing the stem between his index and middle fingers upside down before turning away to tend to another table.

You should just leave.

It was clear he wasn't coming.

A light smile etched into your face as the waiter set the to-go box with the fancy dessert. You carefully reached into your purse, steadily gripping your wallet to pay. The waiters brought his hands up, shaking his head side-to-side.

"Please. No payment is necessary, madam. Enjoy the dessert," he says kindly. You sniffle, a stray tear falling down your face. You nod gently, issuing a strained, 'Thank you.'

He curtly nods, turning to go back into the kitchen. You gather your things, including the dessert, and move to walk out of the front door.

Upon stepping outside, you are met with the cold Gotham air. Your dress even sways in the wind as you walk, and your heels clank against the pavement. 

The walk home wasn't too long, maybe six minutes or so, but God, did it feel like an eternity. All you could think about was how hurt and disappointed you were and what you would say to Jason when you inevitably saw him.

Your brain tried to conjure all the reasons he didn't show.

Did he forget, or did he purposefully not come?

Now, you knew it couldn't be the latter, Jason wasn't a dick. 

He was just an idiot. 

Your thoughts continued as you stuck your key in the lock and carefully twisted it to unlock your front door, pushing it open quickly.

You set your purse down on a table next to the door, glancing at a framed photo of you and Jason happily eating ice cream on Jason's birthday last year.

You felt sick.

You quickly flick your attention away as your eyes begin to well with hot tears, easing your way into the kitchen. You stand on the cold tile for a minute before getting a sudden inspiration rush.

You didn't want to think about him any longer tonight. You'd prepare a hot tea, watch a movie, or perhaps even read a good book. 

Yes. That sounded like a fine plan.

As you were steeping the leaves in hot water, a knock on the front door pulled your attention away. You left the bag to steep and returned to the door. Pulling the door open, you were met with Red Hood—aka your boyfriend, Jason—gripping a bouquet of fresh flowers.

You're tempted to slam the door in his pretty face, but you don't—not yet, anyway.

"I'm an asshole," he says, his voice distorted from his modulator. 

The sight was ridiculous; if you weren't so pissed, you'd laugh.

He realizes the absurdity of the situation. "God damn, fuckin' helmet," he irritably gruffs, ripping off his helmet. Your eyes widen, your mouth hanging open. 

Anyone could simply walk by and figure out who the highly sought-after vigilante was.

"Jason, you can't just—get inside!" You grip his arm, dragging him inside the confines of your home—an action you immediately regret. 

"Fuck, baby," he begins. "I'm—I'm so sorry," his tone is sincere as he anxiously drags his hands through his hair. 

"I looked like an idiot, Jason," you breathe out, reaching for the bouquet of flowers he brought. 

Hell, it wasn't their fault Jason was stupid. 

"I know—" he says, following you into your kitchen as you fill a vase with water for the flowers.

"A fucking idiot," you snap, setting the flowers gently into the water. You reach for a pair of scissors. "I requested an extra wine glass when I sat down, and I had to be the one to tell him to take it away," you angrily say, snipping some of the leaves off.

"Baby, I'm really, really sorry. I got caught up with—"

"Where were you?" You set the scissors down, turning to look at him.

"Dick needed some help scouting a potential crime circuit in Blüdhaven," he sighs. "He told me it wouldn't take long. Should've known better," he wipes his hand over his face, hissing at the contact.

Your eyes sweep over his face, taking note of the fresh cuts and bruises that now taint his face. Fresh blood prickled from some; others were caked in layers of it.

"Are you hurt?" You ask, concern lacing your words.

He raises a brow. "Don't worry about me, Sweetheart. I'll be alright. I'm more concerned about you," he admits honestly. 

"You're bleeding," you observe, wincing at the sight.

"Just a hair," he lightly smiles. "I'm okay."

Sure, you were pissed at your boyfriend, but you wouldn't let him be in agony like he was. 

He was bleeding, for God's sake.

"Let me clean them up," you simply say.

"No, no. I'm fine—" he began, shaking his head lightly.

"Please," you insist.

He huffs, then accepts defeat. He takes your hand stretched out and follows you to the bathroom. He sits on the toilet as you fumble through your medicine cabinet to gather band-aids and Neosporin. 

"I hope it's okay. I, um, only have these band-aids," you awkwardly say, holding up a box with a familiar blue hero on the cover. 

"Baby, why do you have Nightwing band-aides?" He questions skeptically.

"Dick brought them to white elephant last year, and I got stuck with them," you lightly laugh. "He's a horrible gift-giver."

Jason laughs. "Promise to remind me to take them off before I leave. He cannot see me with these on. He'd have a damn field day," he grumbles as you laugh. 

"I promise I'll remind you," you affirm, pulling a small step ladder in front of him so you could sit before carefully squirting a bit of the ointment out onto your pointer finger and pressing it to each of Jason's cuts.

He barely winces or whines as you continue the action, delicately tending to each cut. His eyes wander to yours, focusing heavily with determination on what you are doing, even sticking your tongue out to concentrate. 

"I don't deserve this," he heaves as you open some band-aids.

"What? To have ten Nightwing band-aides on you all at once?" You laugh, carefully laying each of the band-aids over the cuts.

He snickers. "That and you taking care of me."

You pull back slightly. "What?"

"I ruined our anniversary tonight. I left you alone in that restaurant and, look at you, still taking care of me," he exasperates. "I don't deserve you."

You frown. "Don't say that. I mean, ya, it was shitty, but just because you did something shitty one time or even twice doesn't make you undeserving of my love, Jason," you gently say, fingers moving to caress his jaw on their own volition. 

He leans into your hand. "I just don't want to lose you. I love you."

Jason and you have exchanged hundreds, if not thousands, of "I love yous" throughout your relationship, but this one felt different. 

It felt more like a sacred prayer spilling from his lips—a tender plea from the depths of his soul. It felt all that much more divine.

You found yourself leaning to kiss his lips, your hands moving to thread through his hair. His lips instantly moved with yours, and his hand gripped your cheek.

It was a tender kiss—an 'I'm sorry,' wrapped in an 'It's okay.'

As the seconds passed, the kiss became more fervent—urgent. You even slipped off the step ladder and moved onto Jason's lap. He welcomed you with open arms, encasing you tightly with each of his hands on your hips as you straddled him.

Your hands glided through his hair messily and eagerly as his hands massaged the fat of your hips. You let out a whine that Jason catches as he slips his tongue in your mouth.

You find yourself rocking against him, desperate for friction. He groans, gripping your thighs tightly as he stands with you, guiding you towards your bedroom.

Never once did your lips disconnect.

He gently lays you on the bed as he hastily sheds his boots, armored jacket, gloves, and pants. Your breathing is labored as you follow suit, gingerly slipping off your simple black dress and kicking off your heels, revealing your matching red bra and pantie set you had worn.

Jason stands in front of you in nothing but his boxers, eyes soaking you in.

"What?" You question nervously, feeling self-conscious with his eyes so focused on you. 

"Did you—did you wear that for me?" He asks lazily.

Your lips quip. "Duh. Who else?" You giggle. "You like it?"

He lets out a dry laugh, moving to hover over your body, sticking his arm out to stabilize himself so as not to crush you. "I think I need to take a closer look," he cheekily says, moving his mouth closer to the strap of the bra, taking it between his teeth, pulling a little, then flicking it back. You let out a small whine, feeling the fabric snap back on your skin.

"Sure is sturdy," he observes, fingers coming to slip it down your shoulder. "And a nice color," he murmurs into your shoulder, sending goosebumps down your arm.

"Ya?" You idly question as his lips skim your collarbone.

"Mhm. It's very nice, Baby," he mumbles into your skin, fingers moving to skim the band of your panties. "And these," he begins. "Don't even get me started." He lightly nips your skin with his teeth, eliciting another whine. 

His fingers slip under the band, pulling them down so they sit around your lower thighs. "Ah, there she is," he coos, cupping your dripping cunt with his hand.

"Jason," you moan, pushing yourself into his hand more.

"What, Baby?" His words were low and dragged out, almost breathy.

"I—I need more," you groan, hand moving to rest on his hand on you, encouraging more movement from him. 

"I'll do you one better," he takes his hand away, making you frown, though he moves to slip his boxers down, showcasing his erect cock. 

He strokes himself once before guiding himself into your entrance, leaning down to kiss your temple lightly as he pushes himself inside your cunt. You hiss at the contact, gripping his shoulders tightly.

He groans as one of his hands comes to grip behind your neck, and the other moves to lift your leg up slightly so he can grip your thigh, giving a better angle as he moves at a consistent pace.

A desperate mewl escapes your mouth as his pace fastens. Jason's hand has moved to rest on your breast in your bra as he throws his head back, groaning and spewing curses.

You sit up slightly, gripping his neck, pulling him down to your lips. He kisses you roughly, even sucking your bottom lip in the process. You bring your leg up to wrap around his torso, pushing him even more deeply; he groans as his hand slides to grip the hinge of your leg.

"Jay, I'm gonna—" You begin breathlessly.

"I know, Baby. I know," he purrs into your mouth. "Feel so good."

You grip his neck tighter, lips pressing into his shakily, as you feel yourself tighten around him. All you have had to do was moan his name into his mouth to have him following suit, even moving one hand to grip the sheets beneath as he comes.

You're both gasping for air. Jason eases himself out of you and plops beside you, pulling you close so your face rests on his chest.

"As far as orgasms go, that one was great," you pant, fingers moving to trace the lines between Jason's abs.

"Ya? Do I get a golden star?" He tuts, fingers playing with your hair.

"Sorry, Babe. I only give golden stars for extra credit," you jest, looking up at him.

"Extra credit, you say?" He asks, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. "I think I can do that." He lifts up abruptly, getting off the bed.

"What're you—" You begin to question before he's tugging you towards him by your ankles, planting his face in between your legs.

"Jay!" You shriek, though make no effort to move as his tongue lapses at your sensitive clit.

"I really want that golden star," he mumbles into you.

a/n: finally finished this fic that has been haunting my drafts for months upon months ( ͡ಥ ͜ʖ ͡ಥ)

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[ebodebo]

The Girl Can't Help It

-thinking about bodyguard!simon with princess!reader... MDNI

An unfamiliar knot twisted in your stomach at the sight. It was preposterous. Unbeknownst. A damn eye sore. A throng of women, all betrothed, all but ripping Simon, your bodyguard's, clothes off his body. 

How unbecoming.

You did not heed what the Prince of Prussia said, perhaps something about his recent diplomatic mission in Tahiti. All you could think about was Simon and the slew of women around him, boasting as if he would care about the wealth and jewels the women possessed or the innuendos they slipped into conversation.

Granted, he only replied with a bland array of 'mhm' or 'how insightful.' His disinterested tone did nothing to nudge the woman away.

"Your mind appears elsewhere, Princess," The Prince of Prussia remarked, absolving you of your thoughts. You flick your eyes to his, sucking in a breath.

"My apologies," you say. "I am feeling rather ill. Pardon me." You quickly issue. You are sure your mother and father would reevaluate your informalities, but you would deal with that when it came.

You find yourself turning swiftly to approach Simon. He's as poised as always, his hands neatly in front of him, resting on the other, despite the conversation around him.

Your eyes shifted between the women. You are sure one scowled at you for 'interrupting.' "I am feeling quite daft. I shall like to leave," you proclaim to Simon. His eyes flick to you, but his head stays stationary.

"Your father has asked that you say the entire time," He says casually. "For prospects." You tilt your head a bit, releasing an irritated sigh.

"I believe you should have more regard for what I am asking of you," you exasperated. He tilts his head slightly, merely squinting his eyes, clearly aware of some underlying factor in your sudden mood change.

"I'm afraid the king's orders are final, Princess," he says, fixating his eyes back on the crowd. You swear you see one of the women smirk, and suddenly, you get an urge to drag her through the mud in the pig's pen, and maybe that will wipe that smirk off her face.

If not, the sheep's pen shall do the job.

"The princess has finally felt the sting of rejection," one of the women whispers under her breath to another, loud enough so she knows you hear her. "Oh, I do wonder what that will do to her psyche," the woman snickers sarcastically looking directly into your eyes.

You suck in a breath. "You should be wary of your words," you begin; the woman's brow lifts up slightly, a conceding expression taking over her face, "I shall be the next sovereign, commanding a whole country, and you shall stay just as you are, in a loveless marriage, betrothed to a man who initiates more moves on your milkmaid than you," you enunciate.

The woman scoffs, her face blushing, as she tries to discredit your words. She dishes out every excuse for her husband's endeavors, but it is hard to discredit fact, which is what it was. She instead calls you foul-mouthed and haphazardly turns to go towards the drinks.

The other woman hurriedly followed her out of fear.

You turned towards Simon, who couldn't help how the corner of his lips quipped. "Big words for a princess," he remarks.

"Well—I would not have to use such...vocabulary if she would have minded her own business," you defend, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Whatever you say," he smirked a little before returning to the crowd, returning to a serious expression. You eye him, feeling slightly intimidated by his stature.

"I shall still like to leave, Simon," you press. He turns to you, his eyebrow raising impatiently.

"I told you—" He begins, his tone dry.

"I am aware of what you told me all of two minutes ago, Simon," you roll your eyes. "I still want to leave. There are no men to consider for the prospectus. And I am growing quite weary of you not listening to me," you conclude, eyes narrowing at him.

He lets out a dry laugh. "Alright, Your Highness. Let's get your poor, weary body out of here." You find yourself rolling your eyes yet again at his sarcastic tone. Though, you don't speak on it. You turn to walk out of the grand doorway, carefully moving through the sea of other patrons, many attempting to stop your stride to converse. You keep moving, with Simon following close behind.

Once you step into the hallway, you quickly scan the area, checking for loose guests. You smile when you realize everyone is occupied in the stateroom, swiftly gripping Simon's hand and moving the two of you into the small closet adjacent to your father's music room.

Simon locks the door to the quaint closet, his eyes burning into yours as he tightly grips your waist. "A closet?" He props as you delicately untie his tie, tossing it to the side.

"We cannot simply go into the music room. Did you forget what happened last time?" You raise a brow. He leans his face down, pressing deep kisses to your temple while slipping the short sleeve of your dress down your shoulder.

"I have no idea what you're talkin' about," he mutters into your collarbone, lips dragging to kiss your sternum. You release a small, breathy moan, bringing your hands to thread through his light hair.

"You broke my father's piano," you meant for it to come out assertive, but it came out more breathless. He snakes his hand around your back, carefully dragging the zipper down, making your dress pool at your feet.

"I seem to remember you were the one on the keys," he gruffs into your lips before engulfing them with his own.

It had only been a few days since the last time you and Simon had...connected. However, with how both of your bodies react to a simple kiss, you would have guessed it has been months.

"Because you put me on the keys," you choke out as Simon's tongue drags across your sensitive skin, starting at your neck all the way until he's sunk down on his knees in front of you.

"Since you have a better memory than me, what did we do after I put you on the keys?" He murmured into the flesh of your thigh, teeth grazing the fabric of the waistband of your panties. You grip his head, pushing more into you, desperate for more friction. "Huh?" He tuts against your skin.

"I—you, well, we had intercourse," you say earnestly, gripping the shelf behind you to gain more stability. His gruff laugh traveled up your leg all the way up to your mouth, eliciting a moan from you.

"Intercourse?" He jibed. "No. Gimme all the gruesome details, baby. None of that proper shit." He moved his face from your thigh to press a deep kiss to your clothed cunt.

"I do not know—ah—what you speak of," you choke out, attempting to push yourself into his face more with your hands gripping either side of his cheeks.

"Come on," he urged, his nose rubbing against your clit in the process. "Don't play dumb with me, sweetheart." He grips your thighs, tugging himself closer to you. He substituted his nose in favor of his mouth, hurriedly pressing his hot, wet lips to your aching clit.

You whine as you feel the friction increase. "Tell me, or I won't let you come," he groans into you. You reply with a pathetic whimper, body shamelessly grinding against his face.

"You used—you used your fingers," You grit out, throwing your head back as his teeth pierced through the thin fabric. He slips his tongue through the new tear, lapsing at your throbbing clit.

"That all?" His brisque voice vibrated against you.

"No. You, you fucked me," you voice. You receive a low groan in response. Got him. "I was so wet you just, you just slipped in," you continue, moaning as you see one of his hands slip from one of your thighs to massage his clothed cock.

"My, my. Sure got a tongue on you for a princess," he jests, a strain in his voice as he massages himself with much pace. His mouth picks up the pace on your cunt, tongue continuing to lapse around your sensitive bud.

"I could say the same for you, Simon. " Your voice is hoarse. You feel the corners of his mouth lift at your innuendo, which makes you form a smirk of your own.

"Keep talkin' to me," he almost begs. His hand and mouth are moving briskly; you're grinding against his face, hands gripping the back of his head.

"Fuck, you, you feel so good," you whine out. You swear you hear him moan, but you can't be too sure as his face is currently suffocating against your skin. You would ask him if he could breathe, but you knew he wouldn't move until you came.

"You always feel so fucking good," you wail as your orgasm hits you like a train, Simon's following shortly behind. He's gripping you tight so as not to fall over, leaning his forehead into your stomach as his orgasm settles.

Once both of your post-orgasmic haze dissipates, Simon stands to straighten out your dress. You bend slightly to pick up his tie strung on the ground, carefully tying it around his neck neatly.

"You have soiled your trousers," you observe, looking down at the wet spot on the front rise of his slacks. He lets out a quiet laugh at your inspection, leaning his head down to kiss the shell of your ear, muttering a gruff, 'And whose fault is that?'

Shit, maybe this whole bodyguard thing wasn't so bad.

a/n: boomshakalaka yesss gawdddd

reblogs & comments encouraged!

[ebodebo]

Hot For Teacher!

—professor!simon riley teaching anatomy… MDNI

(DISCLAIMER: in this fic, the reader is getting their master's, so reader is an adult! that said, this is still a student-professor relationship, so beware!)

"I heard he was from Germany….or somewhere."

"He's probably sooo old."

"I can't find his rate my professor anywhere!"

"I heard he only has one leg!"

Murmurs can be heard spread around the room; your fellow graduates flooded the lecture hall seats, not an empty seat out of fifty in site. They were itching with anticipation and anxiously awaiting the arrival of your new gross anatomy professor, including yourself.

You were even more nervous than when you had to present your senior thesis for your bachelor's to four of the most knowledgeable, bright minds you had ever come into contact with.

That was intimidating, but this somehow feels worse. You find yourself sinking into the squeaky plastic chair, praying that whoever walks through that door is as gracious and kind as your last professor.

Heavy steps echoed down the hallway, slowly and steadily etching closer and closer to the room you sat in. Your eyes nervously shifted up to look at the wide open front door, and you tapped your foot, restlessly, to a non-existent beat in your head.

The footsteps became louder and louder until the man finally stood in the doorway, sparing the class not even a singular glance. He steadily turned to the right and walked up to the chalkboard, back towards the class, carefully etching something onto the board with a small piece of chalk.

The murmurs around the room seized as the screeching noise of the chalk against the board bounced off the walls and went straight into everyone's eardrums.

It was a quick, illegible scribble.

He set the piece of chalk down and turned to face the class, eyes roaming around the room, allowing you to get a better look at him.

He wore a black surgical mask just below his nose, covering his lips and jaw. And, God, was he tall. He had to be at least six-two, maybe even six-four. He wore a charcoal gray button-up tight enough to display his broad shoulders and buff biceps, with kaki cargo pants that did nothing to hide his thick thighs. 

Fuck, he was hot.

"Your last professor was quite lenient," his gravelly voice echoes around the room as he begins, leaning his hip on the table before him. "Don't expect that from me."

His eyes roamed some more, and the murmurs you heard about how hot he was seized as he spoke again. "If you think this class will be easy, you're sorely mistaken. Excellence is the bare minimum I expect from each of you," he sternly says. "I don't tolerate excuses. You're in the wrong place if you can't meet the deadlines."

You didn't know the first time meeting your professor would just end up with him lecturing you about his obscure conditions and rules like this was a damn military base.

You try to remember if this course was even required for your degree: it is.

"If you miss class, don't bother returning," he continues. The mood in the room had shifted entirely. There was no excitement left; it had been completely sucked out and replaced by regret and anguish. You swore you even saw some people with their computers quickly going to your university's directory, hoping they could still withdraw from a course.

"Lastly, mediocrity has no place in here. Push yourselves or find another course," he gruffed, pushing himself off the desk he leaned on and maneuvering back over to the chalkboard.

"What are the instructions on the board?" Your eyes snapped to a random girl raising her hand adjacent to you, and you were surprised by her bravery in speaking.

The professor glanced at the girl.

“Ah, yes. These are instructions on how to withdraw from this course if you so choose," he said. "Save me the headache and you, your dignity, and withdraw now if you cannot abide by my terms," he almost seemed disinterested. "Also, you will call me Dr. Riley."

He picked up the chalk, quickly etching a strand of words onto it. "These are my office hours," he says, setting the chalk back down. "Any questions?" He asked, turning to face the class.

Not a single peep can be heard. There was only a tiny squeak from one of the chairs. He crosses his arms. "Alright. Quiz tomorrow. Class dismissed," he concludes. You freeze up in your chair as everyone around you starts moving as quickly as possible to get out of there.

You're wondering what you learned today that could be material for a quiz. Instead of waiting behind to ask, you shuffle your things in a bag and speed walk out of there.

This was going to be a long semester.

It was three months in, and this class was kicking your ass. 

No, that's not right. The class was outwardly blistering your entire existence. You pulled countless all-nighters to try and keep up with the material, but it was too much. There weren't enough hours in the day to study the copious amount of material.

It didn't help that Dr. Riley was a bit of a dick. He gave no leniency. Can't make the exam? Too bad. F. Didn't make class? Yikes. Get ready to recite the last lecture in front of the class when you return! Can't answer a question he asks? Well, well, it looks like we have a slacker on our hands. Have a lovely time writing an entire essay on the topic question you failed to answer!

"Can anyone explain the process of bone repair following a fracture?" Dr. Riley questions, taking his eyes off the chalkboard and turning towards the now half-full class. You snap out of your daydream, carefully looking back to your computer to continue typing what he writes.

Everyone averts their eyes from him to avoid getting called on. "No takers?" He asks once more, eyes narrowing slightly. You look over the top of your computer, eyes wondering over the messy array of notes he wrote to try and decipher them. "You," he says, flicking a finger towards you. "Give it a go."

Your eyes flick to his before widening in horror. Shit. You hadn't even gone over this week's slides because you were still working on the hundreds of slides from last week. 

"Preferably today," he raises a brow, impatience written all over his face, crossing his arm over his chest. You take a deep breath, quickly scan your notes, and sublimely thank God you found what you needed.

"Well, first the bone goes through clot formation, then callus formation, then new bone tissue forms, then finally the bone remodels," you explain, issuing a polite smile after you finish, breathing out a sigh of relief as he nods.

"Uh-huh. It's a very interesting process. And do you know which of those processes has the longest duration?" He says blandly. You tilt your head a little, surprised to see he has another question.

"Well, I think that would be the bone remodeling," you affirm, shifting in your seat a little.

"And the shortest?" He quickly supplements. 

"Clot formation?" You say unsurely. 

"You seem unsure of your answer. Do you truly think it is clot formation?" He crosses his arms over his chest. 

You were sure of it, but then again, why would he ask you if you thought it was wrong if it was right? You open your eyes wider, almost like you have just had an epiphany. "I—no. It's callus formation," you say matter-of-factly.

"Incorrect," he says, uncrossing his arms and turning his back to you. "I suggest trusting your instincts next time." You sink deeper into your chair, hoping that somehow it will shield you from his scrutiny. 

"On that note, class dismissed." You quickly gather your belongings, but not before Dr. Riley pulls you aside to assign you a three-page, single-spaced essay about the formation of a bone after having a fracture due in two days.

"Also, be sure to discuss clot formation heavily," his voice carries a condescending tone. "So that when you present to the class, they understand the concept better than you did." 

Your brows furrow a little. "Wait, I do understand—" You begin, though he interrupts.

"That's all," he cooly says, turning to grab his things from the desk in the front before switching the light switch off and stepping around you to leave the room. "See you and your paper Wednesday." You scowled as he turned away from you to go to his office.

This was such bullshit. You answered all his question, but God forbid you answer one incorrectly—well, not even incorrectly; he just made you feel it was wrong.

This was far from over.

"Dr. Riley. I, um, I don't understand why I have to write an essay," you found yourself saying later that day in his office, around six p.m. or so, when most of the faculty had already called it a night and left. His eyes stayed laser-focused on some papers he was going over.

"You didn't answer my question," he says, scribbling something on the paper. 

You find yourself coming in, shutting the door behind you, and sitting on the chair before his desk. "Yes, I did. I answered all one hundred of them," you say matter-of-factly. The corners of his eyes crinkle as they finally flick to yours, clearly amused by your exaggeration. 

"One hundred, huh?" He sets the pen down, leaning back in his chair, threading his fingers together. Your eyes wander to his arms. He had rolled up his sleeves to reveal his veiny forearms covered in tattoos. 

You flick your eyes back to eyes in a panic, praying he didn't notice you essentially checking him out. "Yes, sir," you tried to keep your voice even.

"So, you want out of an essay I assigned to you? 

"I—well. I was hoping…" You trail off, eyes averting his.

"No," his tone is authoritative, final. You release a small breath, sagging into the chair, feeling defeated. However, you caught your eyes wandering back to his forearms before moving up to his biceps. Fuck. They would have busted out of his button-down if they were any bigger.

He was a massive asshole. But, so fucking hot nonetheless. Had the most enormous thighs and arms you'd ever seen. Taller than anyone you'd ever met. Had a gruff, thick English accent you drooled over. Not to mention his raging ego, which did something for you.

"What is it?" Your eyes snap to his. Oh, God. Not again. 

"Nothing," you said quickly. He looked puzzled. You sat back in the chair, smiling awkwardly. He followed, leaning back in his seat and spreading his legs wider to get more comfortable.

You find your eyes drifting down, observing his clothed cock in his pants. "Nothing? Huh?" The corner of his lip quirks. You stare back at him; your face is hot, and your hands are clammy.

This time, there was no denying what it was you were ogling so intently. 

"Listen," he sits up a bit, placing his elbows on his desk and threading his fingers together. "I sympathize with your situation." You raise a brow because there is no way in hell he was sympathetic. His lip quips at your expression. "So, I believe I have a solution to your dilemma." That has you perking up in your seat, feeling a sense of hope.

"It's a bit...unorthodox," he mumbles, eyes boring into yours.

You squint your eyes in confusion. "Okay..." You trail off uneasily, sitting up a little straighter. "What did you have in mind?" He tilts his head up a little, carefully observing your face, before standing up and gripping the knot of the tie and carefully pulling it down so it rests lazily on his sternum. 

"Tell me," he prompts, easing his way around his desk to lean against the side you sit in front of. "What is it that caught your attention earlier?" You raise a brow, not only at his new position but also at his question.

"Pardon?" You prod. He lets out a small, scruffy, breathy laugh, crossing his arms over his chest and showcasing his huge biceps again. You release a slight breath as your eyes wander back to his arms. He tilts his head back as he examines your facial expression, dragging his eyes down your line of sight. He gives a breathy laugh as he realizes you are shamelessly checking him out. 

"Mhm," he hums. You snap your eyes to him in an instant, though this time you aren't embarrassed at the notion of him catching you. No. You wanted him to notice. Maybe, just maybe, then he'd finally find the courage to fuck you over his desk like you'd wanted since the first day he had arrived. "Your mind seems elsewhere," he observes.

"No, I'm—I'm just thinking," you whir, sitting in your chair.

He tilts his head back slightly. "What about?" His tone dripped with condescendence. He most definitely knew. He could read you like one of those fancy anatomy books he frequented. You lean back in your chair, legs spreading ever so slightly. His eyes glided to leer at your slightly agape legs. 

God, you had on that little fucking skirt you wore every so often. The damned thing was a couple of pieces of denim fabric. Not too short, but, ya, if you opened your legs at just the right angle, you could get a nice shot of your panties underneath. How lucky for your professor, who was at the receiving end of that.

"Oh, I don't know. Just things, you know?" You spread your legs just a little wider, and you swear you hear him release a breath. "It's the first day of fall tomorrow. Did you know that?" You casually say, spreading your legs that much further so he could get a better view of the wet spot already growing in your panties at him watching you. 

"I did." His voice was dry; he was surprised to get a damn word out. 

"Crazy, huh? Also, I'm thinking about our lecture tomorrow. What's it going to be on anyway?" You find yourself dragging your hand up your leg to the buttons of your shirt, carefully unclasping each of them gently. He could feel his cock straining against his jeans seeing you, legs spread, fingers fiddling with your cute little button-up top with frilly sleeves.

"Sexual reproduction," he gruffs, fingers moving to undo the buttons on his shirt. You get the final button of your shirt unclasped, carefully sliding it off and onto the floor, revealing a lacy bra that matches your panties. You honestly thought you'd be more nervous, but with a guy that hot and educated staring at you like you were the sexiest thing alive, how could you be?

"Maybe I should get a head-start, no?" You proposed as he unclasped his final button, slipping his shirt entirely off. Good-God. The man was chiseled and hairy. The scars etched into his skin only made him that much sexier. He reached for his tie next. "No, no. Leave it on," you voice, getting up from your chair to stand before him. 

His greedy hands instantly sought refuge on your waist, dragging his fingertips along the waistband of your panties, giving them a little pull. You release a slight whine as the elastic slaps back onto your skin.

"Like fuckin' music to my ears," he groans, pulling you flush to his body, ripping his mask off to encapsulate your lips with his hungry ones. 

You yelp into his mouth at the sudden sensation, though you find yourself getting into a rough rhythm. His hand's paw at your ass as yours covetously grips his shoulders. Although you were flush against him, you sought more contact. "I need—I need," you whined in his mouth. 

"Need me to what? Say it," he urged, hands slipping to thread through your hair, pulling it gently. Your mouth falls agape at the action, allowing him to slip his tongue in your mouth. You moan into his mouth once more.

"I need you to—to," you stutter, unable to speak from how out of breathe you were.

"Say it," he hissed, pulling your hair harder.

"Fuck me. Please," you finally managed to say. He wasted no time picking you up by the back of the thighs and hastily placing you on his desk, flinging the loose papers and books that dawned it on the floor.

You reached between you to undo his belt and pant button as he slipped your panties down so they dangled loosely around your ankles. 

Your lips never disconnecting once. 

Once you got his pants undown and he your panties, he gripped your waist, hoisting you so he could pound his cock into you. You both moan at the contact, gripping each other tighter.

"Fuck," he groans, "Feel so good." You press your lips back to his as he makes work pummeling into you, his hands digging into the flesh of your hips to get as much friction as he can.

You were sure you'd have purple and blue bruises tomorrow.

He brings his mouth to nip and kiss at the side of your neck, his teeth gently grazing against the sensitive skin. "Drivin' me fuckin' insane," he grits, teeth nipping your skin again. You whined, bringing your hands to thread through his hair.

"I drive you insane?" You breathe out, dumbfounded, his cock still sliding in and out of you at a hurried pace. His tongue brushes your neck until it reaches your lips, quickly bullying itself into the sanctity of your mouth.

"Such a good student. Aren't you?" He gruffs into your lips; your mouth hangs agape at the feeling of him in you. "Always do such good work. Don't you, sweetheart?" You moan at his words; he presses a thumb to stimulate your clit. "Fuck—you, you drive me mad," he grits, moving his thumb faster.

You let a string of incoherent words, too caught up with his cock in you and thumb on you to form any real words.

"Huh? Ya, ya. But you must know that already. Or else you wouldn't have worn this—" he signals to the matching bra and panty set you had worn, "to meet with me," he finishes. You respond with another pathetic whimper, feeling your impending climax.

The moment he whispers into the shell of your ear, "Better come quick, or I may change my mind about that paper," you're a goner. You clamp around him at record speed, gripping his shoulders impossibly tighter, as you loudly moan in his mouth. His fingers dig deeper into the fat of your hips as his orgasm chases yours.

It takes both of you a second to catch your breaths, both heaving and chests rising with much pace. After you have caught your breath, he helps ease you off his desk, deftly reaching for your panties that slipped off your ankles in a frenzy and softly putting them back on you, followed by your skirt resting on the floor nearby.

You slipped your shirt back on, buttoning it as he focused on dressing himself. It didn't feel awkward like you had thought it was going to. Sure, it was quiet, but it was comforting.

You grabbed your bookbag, giving him a slight smile as you walked over to the closed door. "I appreciate you meeting with me. See you tomorrow, Dr. Riley," you kindly say.

He nodded, pulling his tie to rest neatly on his neck. "Don't forget about the paper," he plainly said, moving to pick up some of the loose papers on the floor.

A confused expression overtook your face. "I thought—" you began.

"I don't play favorites, sweetheart," he interrupted. "Write the paper."

Okay, he was still a dick, but oh well, sure, you'd write the damn paper, maybe even put a couple of errors in it so that he could deduct some points off, and you could request to meet with him again.

Ya, that sounded like a fine plan indeed.

a/n: inspired by a lovely who commented on my poll about professor!simon <33 @aiqsa (this took me so long omg)

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[ebodebo]

You and Simon had spent the better part of the morning indulging in the decadent breakfast you had prepared as the sun rose over the horizon.

He pleaded for you to stay in bed and not fuss about making him breakfast. He’d get you those bagels you loved from the shop down the road and some fresh cream cheese from the dairy to slap on top.

You leaned closer, placing a smack of a kiss on his cheek. “You deserve it, hon,” you smiled, slipping on your cozy slippers and one of Simon’s hoodies, happily making your way into the kitchen. He couldn’t help but sink into the mattress. How did he manage to find you? A divine blessing you were.

You thought you overdid it with all the food you made. Crepes, waffles, bacon, sausage, eggs, all to be washed down with some fresh-pressed juice from your orange trees—far too much for just the two of you. But Simon would be damned if he left even one piece of the crispy bacon uneaten.

“Good?” you asked with a smile, fiddling with a waffle on your plate as you watched Simon demolish his food.

“Damn good, baby. Got me such a pretty chef,” he muttered, biting some egg. You flashed him a smile, tipping your head towards him as you reached for the syrup, filling every hole on your waffle.

A comfortable silence fell over both of you. The occasional ‘clank’ of silverware and the soft hum of the heater kicking on were the only noises to be heard. The doorbell sharply rang, echoing off the walls of the hallway and bleeding into the kitchen.

You sat your fork down, easing your way up before Simon shooed you back down and placed your fork back in your hand. “Eat,” he mutters as he walks to the front door.

Simon swings open the front door to be met by the postman, who is staggering with excitement as he hands Simon a loose envelope. The postman tips his head slightly, viewing you inside, standing, and placing more bacon on Simon’s plate. Simon’s hoodie hit just below the curve of your ass, and as you moved, it shifted a little higher, giving him a view of your panties.

“I suggest you stop making looks at my wife, or I’ll do more than just kill that pretty pension check,” Simon says, ripping the envelope from the postman’s hand. The guy's eyes flick to Simon’s in record time, full of worry.

“I don’t know what—” he starts, his tone defensive.

“You think I’m an idiot?“ Simon stoically says, crossing his big arms over his chest. “Huh?”

“No—I, I,” The post guy stutters.

Simon raises a brow. “Can’t speak now?” The post guy says something incoherent, and Simon breathes impatiently.

“Use your fuckin’ words,” Simon hurriedly says.

“I—I you know what, I, I, I’m gonna go,” the post guy stammers, almost falling over the porch's front steps, flalling to his mail truck, but not before shouting, “The next shipping is on me.” You bet your ass it is.

Simon clenches his teeth as he closes the door, turning to see you standing behind him. “Baby, I think you scared him,” you laugh out. Simon reaches out, grasping your hand and pulling you closer. You yelp as Simon pulls you flush with his body, placing a kiss on the top of your head.

“Fuckin’ animal, that one,” he mutters into your hair.

Simon never really believed in coincidences. His brain was too methodical—calculated. It was something you learned from your long history together.

So, it was odd to hear him say to the police that it must have been a coincidence that the same day he gets into a scrabble with the postman, he goes missing and is then found dead in a lake with bruises covering his body.

It was definitely a coincidence.

a/n: your honor my client didn't commit that crime! just trust me!

[ebodebo]

Nuts And Bolts

—mechanic!ghost with psychologist!reader…MDNI

Stepping out of your office and onto the town's bustling streets, you admire the Christmas decorations the city has set up. But, it does nothing to settle your soured mood.

Simon and you had gotten into an argument the previous night, and you haven’t heard or seen him since. You assumed he went to his car garage to let off some steam, but, as his wife, why the hell were you left to wonder about your husband’s whereabouts?

To set the scene, it had been an ordinary night. You had gotten off work before Simon, so you thought you would prepare a nice dinner with a glass of red wine.

Simon swings open the door as you season some vegetables, dawning an unpleasant expression. You turned to face him, raising a brow.

“What’s the matter?” You ask, setting your tongs down to walk over to him. He simply shakes his head and heads straight for your shared bedroom.

You tilt your head and head straight towards the bedroom after him, unable to let him writhe in his agony alone.

“Simon.” You stand in the doorway, observing him as he sits on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t so much as spare you a glance, making you worry.

You make your way to him and sit on the edge of the bed next to him. “You want to talk about what you’re feeling?” You insist, making him finally look at you.

“Stop it.” He firmly states. Your eyes widen at his tone.

“What?” You ask, keeping your tone soft to avoid antagonizing him.

“You’re tryin’ to do that shit again.” He scowls, standing up to walk back through the bedroom door. You quickly follow suit as he continues.

“Trynna’ pick my brain.” He walks over to the liquor cabinet and grabs a bottle of whiskey.

“Like I’m a fuckin’ patient.”

“No. I—” You intently pause, thinking. “Okay, you seem upset, stressed even.” You watch him grab a glass and pour some whiskey into it.

“Alcohol isn’t a good way to cope.” You say, adopting your signature calm voice you use on your patients.

He laughs dryly, even though the burning amber liquid coated his throat.

“And, there you go again.” He sighed, looking up at you.

“I’m trying to help you, Simon.” You insist, reaching out to gently grab his forearm, though he quickly retracts from your touch.

He lets out another dry chuckle before setting down his glass and walking to the coat rack to grab his coat. You attempt to question his whereabouts, but he fills in the space first.

“I don’t need a shrink. I need my wife.”

And, with that, he left. Leaving you to stare helplessly at the front door, not knowing where you went wrong and not knowing where to go from there.

You recounted yesterday’s events in your mind all day today, even during patient sessions. You always left your personal matters at the door, but this was different because you were genuinely dumbfounded.

Even walking out of work, you still thought about the whole ordeal. However, your thoughts were absolved when you saw the familiar mechanic shop sign out of the corner of your eye. They would be closed about now, but, knowing Simon, he would still be there.

You walk into the garage part to see a body under a truck, working on it. You delicately press the little bell, you insisted he get, on the desk closest to the doors.

“We’re closed.” God, it had only been a day, but you missed his voice.

“Even for me?” You question, feeling a little shy. He paused his movements before scooting himself out from under the truck. Your eyes shamelessly glazed over his body, looking at what he was wearing: an old white shirt covered in grease and gray sweatpants with oil marks.

“No, not for you.” He stated, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he grabbed an old rag to wipe his hands clean.

You gave him a half-smile. “Been working overtime, I see?” You try to keep your tone playful, but judging by how he slightly frowns, you can tell your voice has defiled you.

“We should talk.” He stated, with almost a cringe on his face. You nod and sit on a chair adjacent to him as he leans on the hood of the truck he was working on.

“I’m sorry.” He sighs out, clearly disappointed in himself. “Was havin’ a shitty day and brought it onto you.” You look up at him and give him a frown.

“I’m sorry, too.” He snaps his eyes to yours, a puzzled expression taking over his face.

“For what?” You gently tug on your bottom lip before answering.

“For treating you like a patient and not my husband. It’s not fair to you.” You sigh, avoiding his gaze.

“Sweetheart, look at me.” He lightly demands. You bring your head up and bring your eyes to lock with his.

“This isn’t your fault. I was bein’ a dick.” He walks over to you and reaches for your hand, which you grasp. He guides you from the chair so you’re standing before him, looking up at him.

“Are you gonna come home?” You softly question as he stares into your eyes, mentally kicking himself for making them look so sullen.

“Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.” He says, bringing his hand up to sweep a stray piece of your hair away from your face, leaning down to kiss your lips sweetly. You could feel your skin sizzle from only a slight touch, internally sighing as he pulled away to speak.

“Should get goin’ then.” He says, walking over to the truck's hood and gently slamming it shut. “Johnny’s gonna come check the exhaust.”

“When’s he coming?” You absentmindedly ask as you watch Simon slip off his white shirt, observing his toned body.

“Eh, half an hour.” He casually says, turning away from you to walk over to the cabinet to grab a clean white shirt.

“So, we’re alone?” You question, bringing your hands up to untie the front of your blouse.

“Uh, huh.” He agrees, still rummaging through the cabinets, back towards you. You hum a sign of approval as you open your blouse, then move to unclip your bra, your breasts spilling out as soon as you do.

He finally finds a clean shirt and turns toward you, eyes widening as he sees you, chest bare. Your pulse quickens as he stares, unsure of his thoughts. When he doesn’t speak for a moment, you start to lose the confidence you had garnered.

“Is it too much?” You shyly ask, starting to feel insecure. He can’t speak; his mouth has gone dry at the sight of you. He drops the shirt in his hand and walks over to you, bringing his hand up to trace the curve of your breast.

“Fuck.” He manages to get out as your breathing becomes more ragged and your pupils dilate at the sensation.

“It’s never too much.” He answers your earlier question, cupping the bottom of your breast, making you sigh. You bring your hands up to grip his shoulders as he caresses your breast.

He leans to press a hot kiss onto your lips as he rolls your nipple between his pointer and thumb, making you moan into his mouth. He roughly grips the back of your thighs and picks you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he hauls you over to the hood of the truck.

He hikes up your skirt and hurriedly connects his lips back to yours before kissing down your neck, gently sucking on the tender skin, making you whine. He sinks to his knees in front of you, bringing one hand up to grab ahold of your calf, raising it slightly so he can slip the heel off your foot.

Once he gets one heel off, his other hand drifts to your other foot, slipping the heel off as he plants kisses up your ankle, and calf, stopping at your mid-thigh before nipping at the pantyhose encasing your cunt with his teeth, making a tiny hole. He slightly raises his hands and uses his pointers to split the pantyhose further.

“Hey! Those were Falke.” You urge, referring to the German-made, almost three-hundred dollar silk tights he had soiled.

“I’ll buy you more.” He amends, gripping the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, slipping them down simultaneously. His cock immediately shot up, so visibly hard. You brought your hands to gently pump him up and down as his hands went to massage your tender breasts.

He groans at the contact, gripping your breast a little firmer. You moan at that contact, pulling his cock a little firmer.

“You’re killin’ me, baby.” He chokes out, gripping the back of your neck as he roughly kisses your lips. With your hands still on his cock, you gently pull him closer by it, making him hiss as you guide it to your slit.

“I need you in me.” You whine as he brings his hand to twirl in your hair. In one swift motion, he thrusts into you. You both groan at the swift contact, even throwing your heads back.

His movements continue; over and over again, he thrusts into you, making you dig your nails into his skin, desperate for stability. You knew you wouldn't last long and could tell Simon wouldn't either. It has been only been a God-damned day, and you ached for him. Nothing but him would suffice your craving.

“So, fuckin’ good, baby. So, fuckin’ good.” He gruffly repeated, making you clamp around him tighter until you felt that familiar all-consuming euphoria you had so ached for.

As you reached your peak, Simon followed suit, coming with your name on the tip of his tongue. You were both panting, even after both of your orgasms subsided. You looked up at him as he tied your blouse back so your breasts were concealed, bra be damned.

“You did good.” You praised as he reached down to pick up your abandoned skirt from the floor.

“Yeah?” He lightly laughed out, finding humor in your statement.

“Yeah.” You nod as he grips your waist and pulls you off the hood of the car.

“Can you walk?” He questions, his hands still on your waist to help steady you as he carefully slips on your skirt.

“No. Might need you to carry me.” You sigh as you bring your hand up to fake an anguished expression.

“Uh, huh.” He rolls his eyes, though they contain no actual annoyance, as he goes to pick you up bridal style.

“Let’s get you home, Drama.”

a/n: this is the pipeline i’m here for

ur honor i’m just a girl

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[ebodebo]

Tough As Nails—Giddy Up, Cowboy

thinking about cowboy!simon riley… MDNI | part two |

<- previous next ->

It had been about a week since your rendezvous with Simon. And, God, had it been consuming every waking and not waking thought.

Every breath, every touch had become engrained in your brain.

Him groaning into your mouth as you rode him. His fingers digging into the tender flesh of your hips as he whispered how fucking hot you looked on him. And, him casually giving you his cowboy hat after he gave you the best orgasm you’d ever had.

You hadn’t spoken since your little sexcapade, not because either of you were ignoring the other but simply because you were both so busy. He had to tend to the livestock and such, and you were up to your head in college work. Busy bees you both were.

But, your mom had made you take a break from your studies to come downstairs to join the camaraderie. So, you found yourself sitting on the corner cushion of the oversized white couch that takes up half of the living room, your family filling in the other seats.

The next half an hour is filled with questions regarding college, city life, and the age-old question of when you will bring a man home. Ah, gotta love being home.

You try to change the subject and bring it back to your cousin, who is engaged, but a figure moving outside catches your eye.

You squint a little to get a better view. It’s Simon. What the hell? He’s still working, and it’s eight o’clock at night. You decide to investigate, quickly excusing yourself and glancing outside until you see his figure walking towards the barn.

“Hey, Cowboy.” You shout, shuffling to his side. He doesn’t even have to look to know it’s you.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” He gruffs out as he steps inside the barn.

“It’s eight.” You roll your eyes as you watch him grab a bale of hay. Watching his biceps flex, making his veins bulge, causes you to gulp.

He throws the hay over the fence to where the horses are and turns to face you, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Any reason you’re out here?” He asks, walking past you to grab a bucket of grain.

“I came to help you.” You lift your chin to look at him as he strolls past you again to pour the grain for the sheep.

“Don’t need help.” You tug on your bottom lip as you see his arms bulge again and sweat beads gather around his abdomen, just enough to where you can see the outline of his muscles. God, this is so pathetic.

“It would go by faster with me helping.” You urge, as he doesn’t so much as spare you a glance as he replies.

“Doubt that.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Your defensive tone finally makes him look at you.

“I don’t mean anythin’ by it. I’m just sayin’ that it doesn’t seem you know a lot about doin’ this kind of stuff.” He casually says as you narrow your eyes.

“This kind of stuff?” You repeat his words, your hands finding refuge on your hips.

“Labor intensive work.” Your eyes widen at his words. Of course, he thinks you’re some rich girl who can’t do anything except shop and date. Asshole.

“Wow.” You gawk, as you bring your hands up to cross across your upper body, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“I didn’t think you thought so little of me, Simon.” Oh shit. You didn’t use that stupid nickname he claims to despise so much; you used his name.

He sighs, dipping his head to look at the ground, pondering a response that won’t piss you off further.

“I don’t think little of you.” He sets the empty bucket down before continuing. “I shouldn’t have said that, okay? I’m sorry.” His words sound genuine, which you know he wouldn’t fake.

“You’re forgiven.” He curtly nods, thinking you’re done. “Only if I get to help you.” You smile as he briefly closes his eyes and sighs, fine.

You spend the better part of an hour assisting him with various tasks, including feeding the calves, fixing a broken fence, and chopping firewood, which quickly became your favorite activity. Primarily because, in between the first and last log, Simon pulled his shirt off, revealing his toned body and hairy chest.

After finishing up, Simon tells you he’ll drive you back to the house since you had to go pretty far to chop the wood.

You stand outside the passenger door as Simon carefully locks up the barn door. Before he makes his way to the driver's door, he stops before you.

“You did good work.” He praises you as he opens your door for you. You don’t step in immediately; you tilt your head up, cheekily smiling.

“Do I get a reward?” His eyes darken at your innuendo, and your breath quickens as you see his body flex.

“You want a reward? I’ll give you a reward.” He steps closer to you, grasping your waist with his hands. He dips his head down and hungrily encases your lips with his own.

It's the same hunger as your first kiss but with less urgency. You could taste your shared breath and feel the thud of your combined heartbeats. Your hands roamed up his chest while his slipped into your hair, threading his fingers through the strands.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” You murmur into his mouth as he slips his tongue into yours. He grips you tighter, moving his mouth lower to press deep kisses on the tender skin of your neck.

“Scared your little boyfriend is gonna see us?” He murmurs into your skin. Referring to your guy friend, who you had been friends with for years and who was currently inside chatting with your mom.

“Fuck off. He’s not my boyfriend.” You say, gripping the back of his neck and bringing him back to your lips. “He’s a friend.” You gently nip his bottom lip, making him groan at the sensation.

“Gotta’ lot of guy friends?” He cheekily says, slipping his hand so it’s gently grazing the hem of your shirt.

“Just him.” You breathlessly reply as he slips his hand up your shirt, grazing your stomach as his lips graze against your ear.

“What about me?” He murmurs, gently nipping your ear lobe, making you grip his forearm.

“We are not friends.” He lets out a deep chuckle as he slips his hand past the waistband of your jeans, down to the button, gently unclasping it before pulling your zipper down.

“No? What do you suppose we are then?” He roughly asks as he slides your jeans down a little.

“I don’t know. Acquaintances?” You choke out, gripping his shoulders, as he grazes your cunt over your soaked underwear. He leans down, hovering over your ear.

“Don’t think acquaintances get this wet over each other.” He gently slips a finger under your underwear, carefully grazing your slit. “Do you?”

You can’t even speak. You’re too busy focusing on the way his finger feels in you. Too busy making sure you don’t fall over onto the dirt.

“Huh?” He tuts, slipping his finger entirely in you, grazing your sweet spot. You moan at the direct contact, fully leaning against the side of his truck.

“Probably not.” You manage to choke out as his fingers pump in and out of you, as he dips his head yet again to engulf your lips with his own, only pulling back slightly to praise you.

“Atta’ girl.”

Jesus Christ. You never understood how one single word or phrase could make a person lose it, but, in that moment, you almost came on his hand right then and there.

“You need more?” His husky voice rumbled through your ears, making you ferociously shake your head. He chuckles at your enthusiasm and slips another finger into you, this time lapsing around your clit.

“Fuck.” You moan out, pressing your forehead into his chest. “Feels so good.”

“I can feel.” He murmurs, referring to the multiple times you have clamped around his fingers. His fingers continue to move harmoniously inside you, grazing your clit in the process until you feel your impending orgasm.

Your orgasm hits you like a train. It was strong and intense. You thought riding him gave you the most intense orgasm you’d ever had, but he managed to intensify that with just his two fingers.

After a moment of you slumping against him to come down from your high, he zips and buttons your jeans and opens up the truck door for you to slide in.

Once he slips into his seat, he turns to you.

“You got your reward.” He breathes out, watching as you gently bite your lip.

“Now where’s mine?”

a/n: thank u guys for all of ur kind words on part one! i really appreciated it:)) hopefully, you enjoyed this💕

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[ebodebo]

more bull rider!simon.... MDNI

some context

"What the hell are ya doin' here?" You hiss under your breath as the wooden bleacher next to you sinks to accommodate Simon's weight. You briefly glance at him before refocusing on the rider in the arena.

The rider in question was a guy you had met while in Wisconsin some months ago. You had found him a little aloof but charming. He had that boy-next-door look—cute face, crooked smile, soft-spoken. 

He was the kind of boy you bring home to your parents—the boy your mother gushes over to her church friends, and your father pats on the back and whispers to your mom, 'Real nice kid.'

It wasn't anything serious between you and the rider. You were strictly friends.

You couldn't see yourself with a cookie-cutter like him.

But Simon didn't know that.

"Just came to watch the show," he casually says; you don't miss the smug tone his words carry. You roll your eyes, hands gripping the edge of the wooden bleachers tighter, even letting out a dry, unamused laugh.

His mere presence annoyed you. 

But his presence in an arena alongside others rattled you to hell.

All eyes were on him. 

They were always on him. 

God knows you despised the man, which was a shame because he was such a good lay. And you hated to admit it, but he was a powerhouse of a bull rider—one of the best in the country.

His skill and charm were undeniable, but his arrogance overshadowed those qualities for you.

These unredeemable qualities you despiesed did nothing to deter everybody and their mothers from moving mountains just to get a glimpse of him.

"Bullshit, Simon," you shake your head, eyes focusing back on the rider. He let out a laugh, scooting himself forward so his back lay against the back of the bleachers. 

"You think I'd lie to ya, Babydoll?" He quipped a self-satisfied smirk on his lips that fiddled with a toothpick between them. You whip your head to face him, eyes widened in amusement. 

"I do, actually," you say, tipping your head towards him. "I know you're here because you heard about him," you casually say, turning back to face the arena. 

"Is that right?" He lazily says, taking the toothpick settled between his lips and twirling it with his finger. 

"Yes," you breathe out, slight annoyance in your tone. "I'm just wonderin' why ya care so much?" He throws his hands up in surrender, making you turn to face him again. 

"Woah, woah. Hold on now," he begins. "Since ya got me all figured out," he pauses, pointing his finger at you. "You tell me." You let out an irritated sigh, hands coming up to rub your eyes and temples.

"You smug bastard," you huff.

"Come on, Babydoll. Do ya really take me for the jealous type?" He probes, pushing the toothpick back into his mouth. 

"Well, ya are a big baby when ya don't get your way," you jest.

"Am not," he quickly supplies with a smile. 

"You sure are, Beef-head," you insist, the corner of your lips pulling into a slight smirk. 

"That reminds me," he leans closer so only you can hear him. "I still haven't forgiven ya for leavin' me high and dry the other day."

"You had that comin,'" you shrug, humor dancing across your face.

"I didn't leave ya on purpose, hon. You planned that attack," he exasperates dramatically.

"Attack? Oh my God. You're so dramatic," you groused.

"Was up all night icin,'" he griped, face contorting at the remembrance of the pain. 

"I doubt that," you roll your eyes, still laughing. "I'm sure you had one of your, what do ya call them? Buckle-bunnies? Tend to ya."

"I don't call them that," he firmly says.

"Sure you don't, Beef-head," you absently agree, eyes locking back to the arena where the rider you were watching stands off to the side.

Your eyes widen, while your mouth hangs open.

"What is it?" Simon's voice is laced with concern. You stand abruptly, gathering your things next to you. 

"You made me miss it," you mutter. 

Simon smiles. "Can't help you didn't wanna look away from me."

"Shut up," you scoffed, though a slight smirk pulled from your lips as you walked away from him, shimming between the people in the bleachers.

Simon couldn't help the smirk that simultaneously pulled at his lips, though it quickly dissipated as he saw you lean over the fence to talk to the bull rider you were so hell-bent on watching. 

The guy's fingers reaching over to straighten your slightly lopsided hat about made Simon reach out to break the very fingers he used.

It didn't matter that there were now about five women surrounding him, showering him with compliments. All he felt was a pang of heat in his chest, like a knife turning in a fresh wound.

He'd be damned if he let this cheesehead take his girl. 

"Hey, Simon. Is that—" One of the cowboys with Simon questioned, as he dipped his head towards you, barreling towards the pen he was in, anger written all over your face, crushed magazine in hand. 

"Sure is," Simon smirked, tongue poking into his cheek with amusement. He dismounted from the horse, taking his hat off as he approached you. "Hey, Babydoll. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"What the hell is this?" You grit, shoving the magazine in his face. 

"Looks like a tabloid," he simply says.

You pull the magazine back, reading the front cover. "Acclaimed bull rider Simon Riley trades rodeo for romance as he's seen cozied up with a local country girl as PBR tour starts to wrap up in Texas," you snap. 

"Why on God's green Earth is this sayin' we're datin','" you say through gritted teeth. 

"Simple. I told them we were," he shrugs.

"You did what?" You bark, face burning in anger. 

"Eh, my publicist wanted me to chat with some news station, and they asked about ya," he plainly says. 

"What exactly did you say?" You urge impatiently. 

"That we were involved," his voice was full of unambiguity.

"You—you're a damn, a damn—" You drift off, voice searching, unable to even conjure any words. 

"Come on, Babydoll. Don't get so bent out of shape. Technically, we have been involved," he gruffs, eyebrows raising cheekily.

Oh, so he thinks this is all some big joke.

You grip the collar of his simple white shirt, pulling him down to eye level. "Ya better get on your knees and pray that this hasn't reached the townsfolk yet," you snarl. "Or, with God as my witness, I will snip your balls off just like one of those damn steers."

You let go of him roughly, shoving him back slightly, turning on your heels to leave, yelling back, 'Get your fancy PR team to deal with this, Dumbass.'

This is followed by many snickers from the other cowboys still in the pen, who have witnessed the show that was you snapping Simon into place. 

"Well, hell, Simon, you didn't tell us you got yourself a little firecracker," one of the other cowboys roars, hitting Simon in the chest playfully when he returns to them.

"She ain't no firecracker. She's a damn stick of dynamite," Simon remarks, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. 

It had been two weeks or so since you had last seen Simon. And, along with him, that tabloid bullshit had since gone dormant. You had to hand it to him, he made the whole story disappear into thin air. 

Well, with the help of his many connections. 

The air felt crisp and refreshing, not having that asshat around to taint it. You could get used to this. Hell, who knows, maybe you would never have to see the smug bastard again.

"Hey, Babydoll," Simon quips. "Long time, no see."

You spin on your heels, turning to him, a mixture of surprise and annoyance evident in your expression. 

"Why are you back in town?" You exasperate.

"Finals," he states, his eyes glinting with determination. 

"You actually qualified?" You snarkily remark, eyes finally taking note of his chaps, padding, and mouthguard hanging out of his mouth by his teeth.

"Babydoll, I'm not just good; I'm one of the best damn riders in the country," he proclaims with a confident smirk. 

You roll your eyes. "And a humble one at that," you say, eyes wondering behind him to see one of your friends in the audience waiting for you.

“Break a leg, Beef-head," you quickly spew, patting him on the chest before you walk away. 

"See, I have a gut feelin' you really do want me to break a leg," he yells back to you. 

"Always trust your gut," you exclaim, not sparing him a glance as you approach your seat. 

He smiles before making his way to the arena, but not before glancing at you one last time on the bleachers before securing his helmet on and going straight into the fray.

You shouldn't even be surprised. 

Not even a little bit.

Simon's victory was not just a win but a triumph that catapulted him to the pinnacle of bull riding. Now, he was one of the most sought-after bull riders on the planet, a title that came with a deluge of attention. 

You begrudgingly expected that. 

But you didn't foresee the enthusiasm of the women attached, each making a bold attempt to catch Simon's eye. Dressed to the nines, they were all vying for even a moment of his attention.

You thought you should at least congratulate him a little, so you walked over to the gate where he would leave, but hell, it seemed you weren't the only one. 

These women were not just there; they were making an effort. They batted their lashes, puckered their lips, and pulled their tops slightly lower, hoping to catch his eye.

To his credit, he was too consumed with the numerous news outlets and interviewers shoveling microphones and cameras in his face and asking him how it felt to receive this distinguished honor to notice them. 

Well, until his publicist pulled him away from the throng of people, guiding him quickly out of the arena. All of the women immediately surrounded him, showering him with compliments, fingers delicately running across his biceps. 

"You did so good, Si," one woman mewls.

"How you gonna celebrate your win, Bigboy?" Another woman coos, lashes fluttering. 

"I'm sure he has big plans," the first woman answers, eyebrows raising.

It was pathetic, but you couldn't pull your attention away. 

As the women surrounded him, their flirtatious gestures and polished nails caressing him, you felt a sinking sensation in your stomach. You couldn't understand why, but the longer they lingered, the more you struggled to tear your gaze away.

His cheeky smirk only made it worse. It was clear he was reveling in the attention. It felt like a betrayal, and you couldn't help but feel a surge of jealousy and anger. 

You were thinking of simply walking away, your head already clearing at the thought of not seeing him for a while, until one of the women leaned in to press a lipstick-covered kiss to his lips. 

Before you knew it, your feet were moving, and you were pushing through the women to get to him. You grabbed his hand, your grip tight with desperation, and pulled him away.

His eyes lit up when he saw you, and his hand returned the contact and wrapped it around yours tightly. 

"Where we goin', Babydoll?" He coaxed, with a flirty undertone. 

You don't respond; you move faster toward the line of portable restrooms behind the bleachers. Many Patreons attempt to talk to Simon on the way, but you don't stop, and he doesn't either.

Once you reach one of the vacant portable restrooms, you quickly twist the latch, open the door, and pull Simon inside swiftly. You reach behind him and twist the lock to show that the stall is occupied.

Your hands were racing, fingers reaching to undo each button on his long sleeve.

"Thought you were pissed at me?" He murmurs. And, fuck does it tick you off because you can just hear the smugness in his tone. You look up at him; his pupils have dilated. 

"I am," you grit, hands moving to unclasp his buckle.

"Not too pissed to sneak me off to have sex. Huh?" He tuts, his hands moving to unclasp your belt, slipping your denim jeans down.

"Stop talkin,'" you snarled. He smirks, dipping his head to meet your lips. You turn away slightly, hands haphazardly moving to grab a piece of toilet paper and swiping it across his lips to get rid of the lipstick smudged.

He lets out a dry laugh, gripping the waistband of the underwear, snapping the band of your underwear back onto your sensitive skin. In response, you let out a breathy whine, hands gripping his shoulders tightly.

"Oh. I see," he begins, quickly slipping his hat off to hang on the hook by the toilet, bringing his lips to run across the skin of your neck lightly. "You markin' your territory, Babydoll?" He whispers; his hot breath fanning your skin sends shivers down your spine.

One of your hands moves to thread through the back of his light hair, gently tugging on the roots, while the other moves to rest on the back of his neck. "And, if I am?" You whisper.

He pulls you closer to him, his clothed cock pressing against you.

"It's about damn time," he sneered, as his teeth lightly nipped the skin on your neck. You issue a breathy moan directly in his ear that sets him off.

In one swift motion, he pulls down his jeans and boxers frantically, desperate to feel you around him. He's sliding down your underwear so it pools around your ankles, gripping you by the back of your thighs, picking you up before easing himself into your dripping cunt. You're quick to cross your ankles behind his back. 

You both moan at the contact as your lips find his greedy ones. Your teeth are clashing, chest heaving as he drills into you, all while his tongue tangles with your own, teeth occasionally tugging on your own.

His fingers are digging deeply into the meat of your thighs—you're sure to have bruises tomorrow, but you don't care, not even a little bit, because you couldn't even stop even if you wanted to; it felt too good.

"Fuck, Baby. I've been—ah—thinkin' about this for weeks," Simon groaned into your lips, as his pace picked up. "Needed you so bad."

You let out a moan that he catches in another groan. His lips move to press deep kisses onto your neck, even licking a stripe with his tongue, all the while movements only increase in speed.

"I'm—I'm so close," you whine, already feeling your impending orgasm approaching. 

"I know, Baby. I know," he grits through his teeth as he feels his orgasm near. 

He plows into you one last time before you both come simultaneously, him groaning into your skin, as you moan into his hair. You take a second to recuperate, legs slightly shaky as he sets you back on the ground.

"You know everyone saw you drag me in here, right?" He leers, pulling his boxers and jeans back up and clasping his belt.

Your eyes widen. You hadn't even thought about what you were doing, you had just reacted. "Shit," you exasperate. "The tabloids are goin' to have a field day with this. I don't—"

He tips his head towards you, bending down to ease your underwear and jeans back on. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it," he plainly says.

You release a received sigh. "Thanks. I appreciate that, Beef-head."

"Welcome, Babydoll," he smiles as he buttons his shirt.

A brief pause occurred in the conversation as you both finished dressing. As Simon placed his hat back on, his eyes locked back to yours, a smirk growing on his lips.

"Now will ya let me take ya out to dinner?" He asked with a playful tone. 

You titled your head to the side, letting out a dry laugh. "You askin' me on a date?"

He shrugs. "Suppose I am," he begins. "What do ya say?"

You press your finger to your chin, an inquisitive expression on your face. "I say no."

His expression twists in confusion, maybe almost hurt. "No?"

You laugh, hand coming to rest over your heart in amusement. "I'm just busting your balls, Beef-head. I'll go on the date with ya," you cackle.

He lets out a deep sigh of relief, muttering, "Hell, you're gonna be the death of me."

Maybe this entanglement you found yourself in with Simon wouldn't be so bad after all.

a/n: thank u for the submission and ur kind words! i hope u like what i cooked up:)) side note, my bestie queen, @artemis-b-writes , helped me in making this! this also became longer than i originally intended, but oh well! also, divider!

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[ebodebo]

I'm dreamin' 'bout silver and gold

-getting jealous over dick talking to a girl at bruce's new year's eve party... MDNI

You stood in the corner of the Wayne Manor ballroom, quietly sipping a glass of champagne at Bruce's New Year’s Eve celebration.

The drink had an unexpectedly dry taste as you observed the scene unfolding before you. There was Dick, your charming boyfriend, effortlessly chatting with none other than a senator's daughter.

You shouldn't feel this way.

You trusted Dick completely, but that minx with her perfectly manicured fingers and captivating smile was a different matter altogether.

You just couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was off.

You felt the tight hands twist your insides like a relentless ivy, tightening with each lingering touch and laugh that wasn't meant for her.

Your last straw was when she lowered her head and casually mentioned her father's purchase of a new beach house in the Hamptons, suggesting he should come to stay for a few days loud enough for you to hear.

Christ's sake, did she just wink at him? She did.

Your feet are moving faster than your brain can process. As you glide past them, Dick calls your name, but you ignore him and keep walking. Suddenly, you feel a slight tug at the back of your dress, which causes you to lean back and spill champagne all over it.

"Oh dear. It seems you've spilled a little," the minx says, peering over her champagne glass, a slight smirk playing on her lips.

Dick speaks with deep concern, reaching out his hands toward you. “Baby,” he utters.

You feel tears welling up as you realize people are staring. Before more embarrassment sets in, you turn on your heels and hurry out of the ballroom towards the bathroom.

Dick is closely pursuing you as you speed toward the door, calling your name. You don’t look back, simply pushing the door open and slamming it in his face, twisting the lock to prevent his entry.

You run your fingers through your hair to calm yourself as Dick fiddles with the doorknob. "Dick, stop," you say, a little more harshly than intended.

“Let me in. What's going on, sweetheart?" He asks worriedly, still fiddling with the doorknob. "I'm not leaving until I see you.”

You remain resolute, grabbing a handful of paper towels and soaking them in water to try to remove some of the champagne from your dress.

He grunts while fiddling with the doorknob. "Jason and I have done ten-hour stakeout missions, Sweetheart. I can wait it out," he confidently states.

You let out a deep sigh as tears streamed down your cheeks.

Perhaps you were upset with him, but you were mostly embarrassed that one girl could have your head in such a tailspin. You needed some comfort.

You reluctantly reach for the doorknob and fling it open, revealing Dick standing on the other side.

“Oh, honey,” he coos softly, noticing your smeared mascara and swollen eyes. He steps closer, resting his hand on the back of your head and laying you against his chest.

"You’re going to ruin your suit," you say, referring to the mascara stains that will definitely be left behind.

"I'll get a new one," he says casually, his fingers running through your hair to comfort you.

You both stand there for a moment as he whispers sweet words into your ear, and you continue to cry on his chest.

You're the first to pull away, your eyes looking down at your now-stained dress. "Sorry, I, uh, ruined the dress," you awkwardly shuffle away.

“It wasn’t your fault. Don't worry," he reassured, threading his fingers through yours. "I'm sure Barb has something you can wear.”

"She won’t mind?" You timidly ask as he leads you to the guest room, where Barb keeps her overflow of dresses.

"She'd kill me if I didn't let you borrow one of them," he chuckles, leading you to the bedroom door.

Once inside, he helps you sit at the edge of the bed while he searches through Barb's gowns.

"What color?" He prompts.

You think for a moment. "Blue."

He hums. "Like music to my ears."

You chuckle softly, tugging at the hem of your dress as Dick selects a shimmering blue dress from the rack.

“So," he said encouragingly, "tell me what upset you.”

Your eyes lock onto his, and your lips purse. "Well, I—" you start, abruptly pausing and feeling bashful.

He tilts his head to the side, the corner of his lip quirking. "Since when have you ever been nervous around me? Tell me," he prods, laying the dress next to you on the bed.

“I guess I just felt a little... you know,” you say, raising your hands as if to dismiss the question.

He takes your hand in his. "No, I don't know. Go on."

You grip his hand tighter and playfully roll your eyes. "Jealous.”

He opens his mouth slightly but quickly shuts it again.

“I mean, can you really blame me? She wanted you, Dick," you ramble. "I’ve never seen a woman flirt so openly and blatantly with a guy already taken." Suddenly, you stand up and pitch your voice higher, mimicking her, “"You fill out that suit nicely, Dickie! Who says that? Who says that?"”

Dick laughs. He laughs. 

"I'm upset, and you're laughing! Laughing!" you exclaim, crossing your arms over your chest.

He stands, his hands coming to rest on your elbows, gently rubbing them. "I'm only laughing because you have nothing to be jealous of. You're perfect, baby. I only want you. You're my perfect girl," he coos lowly.

You merely hum in response, turning your head away from him.

“Do you need me to show you how much I love you?" His voice dropped an octave. "Show you that you're my perfect girl?

You squeal as he pulls you so you're flush against his chest, his hands moving to caress the back of your neck, leaning his head down so his lips skim the side of your neck.

"Tell me," he goads. "Tell me, Baby."

"Dick...we can't. The party—" Your protest dies on your tongue as his tongue slides across your sizzling skin. Your hand moves to thread through his hair, hoping to gain a little stability. 

"Fuck the party," he murmurs into your skin, nipping your sensitive skin a little with his canines. You let out a pathetic whine, gripping him tighter. "Let me show you," he almost begs, his voice hoarse. 

"Please."

You pull his face from your neck, guiding his lips to yours to kiss them with firey intensity. "Show me, Dick. Show me," you mutter into his lips with much anguish. 

He hums a sound of approval as he grips you tighter, tongue sliding in your mouth. You continue the fervent exchange, tongues battling, teeth clashing, and greedy hands moving to grip any skin they can.

"Get on the bed," Dick croaks into your mouth.

You hurriedly move to lay on the bed as Dick grips your ankles and pulls you toward the edge so your legs hang off. 

"Gonna make you feel so good, Baby," he mumbles, dropping to his knees and pushing up the tool of your dress so it pools around your waist. His lips skim from your ankle, up your calf, to your inner thigh, where he plants deep kisses that have you squirming.

His fingers move to shove your panties to the side, moving his head to prod his tongue into your cunt. You whine at the action, bringing your hand to thread through his hair.

"Only want this pussy," he mutters into you, tongue lapsing around your clit. "Fuckin' made for me."

He grips your thighs so his biceps rest under the hinge of your knee, pulling you closer to roll your clit between his teeth.

"Dick," you moan out, writhing under him.

"What, Baby? Feel good," he grumbles, massaging your thighs with his hands. 

You nod fervently, unable to speak.

He continues rolling and flicking at your clit until you grip his head tightly, pushing him where you need him until your arousal coats his tongue and lips.

He makes sure to leave you sparkling clean with the help of his tongue. 

He pulls your dress back down only when he's completely done, moving to lay next to you, pulling you close so you rest on his chest.

It's silent for a moment before you hear the beginning of what sounds like a countdown.

3...

2...

1...

'Happy New Year!'

You hear the party downstairs yell. 

You look up at Dick, whose eyes are already on you. "Happy New Year, Dickie," you murmur, smiling. 

"Happy New Year, Baby," he smiles, pressing a kiss to your head.

Best New Year ever. 

a/n: first dick fic feeling horny💔

reblogs & comments encouraged!

[ebodebo]

Tough As Nails—Cowboy Like Me

thinking about cowboy!simon riley… | part four |

<- previous

The beginning of August usually brings the peak of summer warmth, but unfortunately for you, it seems the end of July supplied the real heat—just not in the ways you had expected. 

Even all of two weeks after your encounter with Sam, you seethed. Harsh anger and heat spread through your being, boding for a tiny little catalyst to ignite your flame. And you weren't the only one feeling the feverish heat.

To say that Simon was angry would be a gross understatement. A storm has been brewing inside him ever since he pulled up to that shitty dive-bar, seeing you sitting on the dirty curb, smudged mascara dripping down your plump cheek, tainting your beautiful face, eyes blood-shot and swollen. Your voice strained and cracked as you said his name, questioning if it was really him. 

The real nail on the coffin was what you had confessed to him in his truck. Sam had insinuated you were a slut. Simon's muscles tightened, and his jaw clenched every time he remembered what that deprived asshole told you. The only reason he didn't flip the truck around and speed back to that dive-bar, grab Sam's sorry-ass out of the seat he sit in, and slam him into the wall, was because you had pleaded he didn't.

He was gracious to you by respecting your wishes, but this ordeal festered in him too much to leave it untouched. Simon was a God-damn machine with no impulse control. A loose-canon. And this canon was ready to blow right through that city-slicking prick's front-fucking-door. 

Which was preciously what he did.

Simon threw himself inside his truck at about eleven at night, a Manila folder tucked gently away in his jacket, not even bothering to strap on his safety belt as he drove to that bastard's house. Simon hoped, prayed, that Sam was asleep so that he could be the one to jerk him out of his peaceful slumber and make him wonder if he was in a nightmare. 

He halted as his truck brushed against the curb in front of his house, turning off his engine and stepping out of the truck. He scoffed as he took in the sight of the house. It was huge, no, enormous. Creamy, muted blue paint coated the paneled front and sides of the house, and a classic picket white fence encased the backyard. 

Two white Range Rovers and a white Porche sat in the driveway, along with two golf carts sequestered to the right side of the house. Simon noticed the Porsche's shit parking job and dirt-covered windows and noted it was Sam's car, just for future reference. 

After his observations, he casually strolled up to the front door, pressing a little bell encased in a palm leaf cover. It didn't take long for Simon to hear the soft pad of feet descending down what he assumed was a staircase. 

The door swung open to reveal a disheveled Sam; clearly, he was asleep. Simon smiled internally. Sam's eyes looked like saucers when he realized it was Simon. His face paled like he had seen a ghost or something.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Sam spit, perplexed at Simon's presence.

"Came to chat," Simon says cooly. "Preferably outside."

"Fuck no." Sam gnarls. "You need to leave my property."

"Ah." Simon tuts as he reaches into his jacket to grab the nicely tucked-away Manila folder. He carefully opens it and reads the first couple of lines. 

"Ryan Jennings worked for Capitol Guild Investment Firm before it was found he had embezzled a million—"

"Hey, hey. Where the hell did you get that?" Sam quickly supplied, stepping away from the door to try and snatch the folder from Simon's grasp. Simon jerked away from him, holding his finger up as he continued reading. 

"—dollars from the firm's clientele, though no legal action was taken, Jennings was to return all assets, estimating one million dollars, and issue his resignation promptly." Simon neatly closed the folder, eyeing Sam.

"So, as I said," Simon began. "Let's talk outside." Sam sighed deeply before turning to close the door gently.

"I have my resources." Simon casually says, stepping into the grass on the front lawn, with Sam following suit.

"So, what, what do you want? Money?" Sam timidly asks, running his hands through his hair.

Simon lets out a gruff laugh. "Money? You think I want money?" 

"You don't?" Sam questions, unable to believe a man like Simon could be doing this for more than monetary gain.

"You don't talk to her. Ever." Simon roughly says as a sly smirk spreads across Sam's face.

"Is it that good?" Sam smugly asks, placing his hands in his sweatpants pockets.

"The fuck you talkin' about?" Simon cocks his head, narrowing his eyes at Sam. 

Sam shrugs. "Her pussy."

Without warning, Simon lunged forward, his fist aiming straight at Sam's jaw. An immediate stinging pain spread that radiated through his face and head, making him falter back. Blood seeped out of his mouth, and a faint ringing noise could be heard in his ear. But, he quickly gained momentum, his own fist coiling like a spring.

He unexpectedly connected his punch to Simon's face head-on with a swift, decisive motion. Busting his bottom lip, with blood seeping down his chin and jaw. Simon quickly spit out some extra blood onto the grass before grabbing Sam by his shirt. 

"I know guys like you." Simon roughly says, his own blood and spit spurting onto Sam's face. "Pretentious little bastards who only think about themselves." 

He gripped his shirt tighter, making him slightly hover above the grass. "I bet you'd blow yourself if you could." He grits out, forcefully throwing him onto the ground.

"Stay the fuck away from her." Simon wipes his lips with the back of his hand as he turns to go to his truck.

"You know I'm not like that anymore," Sam speaks, making Simon roll his eyes. Simon turns to face Sam, who is still on the ground.

"You can change your name. Run from the city with your tail between your legs, but nothin' can change the greedy fuckin' animal you are." 

With that, Simon turned away and went straight for his truck, leaving Sam to sulk with the ants.

On the drive back to the ranch, Simon regretted not doing more to Sam, but Sam had a worse punishment than Simon releasing his venom on him: living the rest of his life as a nobody with his legacy cloaked in disgrace. 

Simon pulled up in front of his house, hissing as the cold air brushed against his busted lip, as he stepped out of his truck. He pulled open his front door to meet you sitting on the couch in the living room. 

"You haven't been answering your phone." You somberly say from your position on the couch, not noticing his busted lip and bruised face because it was dim where he stood.

"I know." He ducked his head, not moving closer to you, not wanting you to see him so clearly in the light.

"Come here." You pat the cushion next to you, tilting your head as he turns to go to the kitchen instead. You stand, following him to the kitchen, observing him as he fills a glass full of water at the sink, his back to you.

"You should be asleep," He gruffly says, taking a sip of the water, swirling it in his mouth to remove some of the coppery taste, and spitting it into the sink.

"Don't change the subject." You scowl, moving closer to him, bringing your hand to touch his own gently.

"Why won't you look at me?" He takes another sip of water, this time swallowing it.

"Cowboy?" You softly urge, your fingers gently brushing his forearm. He takes a deep sigh, though his lip quirks at your nickname.

"Please look at me." There is a pleading note in your voice. He takes a longer sip of the water, swallowing, before slowly turning to face you. Your eyes widen as you observe the purple bruises covering various parts of his face, his busted lips caked in dry blood, and the blood dripping down his chin and jaw pooling onto his shirt.

"What happened?" You quietly question, raising your hand to brush your fingers along his lip delicately.

"Ah, just some shit." He vaguely says. You narrow your eyes at him, but you see it in his eyes. He was tired. Worn-out. It could wait until tomorrow, you thought.

"Okay. I won't push tonight, but tomorrow, we will talk about it." You affirm, giving his arm a soft squeeze. He nods as you grab his hand, lacing your fingers and dragging him into the bathroom.

"In the meantime, let's get you cleaned up."

You made him sit on the toilet seat as you reached under the sink to grab an emergency kit. You opened the kit and grabbed some alcohol and some gauze. 

"Si, you need stitches." You say, observing a muscle of his lip sticking out.

"You can do it." He assures, looking up at you. 

"Last time I checked, I don't have a medical degree." You laugh out.

"It's easy. Just need some dental floss and a needle." He reaches into the kit and grabs a needle, bending it into an arc, and a pack of dental floss. "Learned it in the military."

"You were in the military?" You question washing your hands before taking the needle and cleaning it with some alcohol to sterilize it. 

"Course I was." You smiled down at him as you wiped his lip with some alcohol.

"How long?" You ask, throwing away the cotton pad.

"Long time." He vaguely answers with a slight smile.

"You're always so vague." You roll your eyes as you step between his legs, bringing your hand up to grip under his chin, tilting it up slightly. He brought his hands to rest on the sides of your thighs, lightly massaging the fat.

You hold the sides of his lips together, carefully suturing the skin back together. You had no idea what you were doing, but Simon didn't say anything, so you assumed you were doing alright. 

Simon flinched as the needle pierced his skin, coming in and out of his lip. His eyes fell shut as you worked, occasionally twitching, his hands still kneading your thighs. 

Once you finished, you cleaned up the area, put away the kit, and threw away the needle. 

"Forgot somethin.'" Simon huffed, still sitting on the toilet seat. You raised your brow, giving him a curious look.

"What?" You question, leaning against the counter facing him, your hands on your hips.

He pressed his pointer fingers to his lip, slightly puckering them. You brought your hand up to cover your mouth as you let out a laugh, walking over to him and pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"I could use some more." His lips form a smirk, just beckoning you.

"Ya, I bet you could."

a/n: idk why i include an authors note bc i literally don’t say anything interesting

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[ebodebo]

Tough As Nails—Lasso

thinking about cowboy!simon riley… | part three |

<- previous next ->

You would have never guessed your summer away from the confines of the city would have brought you into an entanglement with your father's ranchhand. It was unprecedented. Scandalous. But, so fucking hot, nonetheless.

"What're you thinkin' about so intently?" Your thoughts subsided as you glanced next to you to see a shirtless Simon beside you, curious eyes dull into your own. 

You really tried to sleep in your room because you didn't want to disrupt his sleep, but once the clock struck eleven and you were lying awake, making friends with the ceiling once again, you decided to give him a visit.

"You." You cheekily smile as you move to rest your head on his chest, his arms coming up, engulfing your waist. 

"You're trouble. You know that?" He murmured into your hair before kissing the top of your head.

"So, I've been told." You laugh out as you hear your phone ding from under your pillow. Then, ding again and again. You reach under the pillow and retrieve the device, only to see four texts from your friend.

Sam: I'm sitting right where you walk in.

Sam: Text when you're on the way.

Sam: Where are you?

Sam: Did you forget we're meeting at the bar?

Shit. You were supposed to meet your friend at the bar thirty minutes ago. You sprung out of Simon's bed as you frantically grab your boots and slip them on.

"Your boyfriend mad?" Simon sarcastically says, a smirk playing on his lips as you roll your eyes, though your annoyed front dissipates as a slight smirk plays on your lips too. 

"I think you're the one who's trouble." You suggest, walking over to him, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. 

"Is that right?" He gruffly mumbled into your lips, chasing yours as you pulled back, grabbing your hat off his side table.

"Nice hat." He laid back down, putting his arm behind his head, making you question if you wanted to leave.

You look away from his arms and into his eyes, as you raise a brow before speaking. "It's yours, Simon." 

"I'm aware." He cockily smiles as you turn to head out the door, a smile spreading across your face.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆𓃓⋆⭒˚｡⋆

You had been at the bar for maybe thirty minutes, and your friend, Sam, was already shit-faced, and you were tipsy at most. 

Sam and you had been friends for as long as you could remember. But, always just friends, platonic. So, the following words that shoot out of his mouth come as a shock to you.

"God, you look so fucking hot." He slurs out as you take a sip of your drink. You look up at him, eyes wide, as you take in what he said.

You should give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he meant it as a friend simply uplifting another friend. 

"Thanks," you say, looking away from him to observe an old Budweiser sign daunting the wall, hoping to absolve some of the awkwardness you felt. 

"No, no. I mean it. You're so fucking hot." He says, leaning back in the booth a little. "I've always thought so." His voice is earnest as his confession rings in your head. 

You look back at him and gulp before continuing. "What do you mean?" He lets out a laugh. 

"Don't play dumb. You know I have feelings for you."

You take a big gulp of your drink, hoping the alcohol will help ease the uncomfortable turn this night took and the guilt that is starting to eat at you. Truthfully, you've never had any romantic feelings for Sam, and you thought the chaste feelings were mutual, but it seems you were very, very wrong. 

"Been too busy screwing that ranch hand to notice." He murmurs, almost low enough to where you didn't hear him, but you did. 

"Excuse me?" You say, narrowing your eyes.

He scoffs, leaning closer so his elbows rest on the table. "You heard me." He takes another sip of his beer before continuing. "Since you two started dating—" 

"We aren't—" You interrupt before he does the same.

"Don't." He pauses, throwing his hands up and clenching his jaw. "Don't start that bullshit. We both know you are." He hisses, grabbing his beer yet again, taking a swig.

"You wear his hat, for Christ's Sake." 

You stare at him, eyes wide. You are completely taken aback by his words, simultaneously shocked and hurt. You try to ease the tension, but he manages to get his words out first.

"Just didn't think you were so easy." 

His words felt like a gut punch. Here was your supposed best friend insinuating you were a slut. No way would you sit and listen to whatever else he had been sitting on, drunk or not.

"Talk to me when you aren't shit-faced." You eruptly stand and throw a fifty on the table before walking out the front door. 

A part of you is upset when you step out the door and turn to see that Sam didn't follow you out. Another part of you is grateful because as soon as you step out of those doors, tears start pouring out.

You sit on the curb on the street and swiftly pull out your phone, your finger hovering over the call icon and pressing the contact you know would always answer.

"Date go well, then?" Simon's gruff voice filled your ears, offering you comfort. 

"Simon." You try to hide the wobbliness of your voice, but to no avail.

"What's wrong?" His voice is filled with urgency, switching entirely from how he playfully answered.

"I—can you—can you come get me?" You stutter, wiping the hot tears streaming down your face.

"Where are you?" You can already hear the raddle of his keys and the swing of a door opening. 

"The bar on fifth." You supply, sniffling.

"I'll be there in ten." You don't even touch how the bar is a good thirty minutes from the ranch. You don't care; you need to get out of there.

Simon makes you stay on the phone until his truck pulls up, probably ten minutes or so. Then he steps out and walks over to you, sitting on the concrete ledge. 

"Let's get you home, okay?" You weakly nod as he helps you up into his truck.

You feel a little guilty leaving Sam behind drunk, but he's friends with the guy who owns the place, so he'll just stay in the basement part of the bar until he sleeps away the drunkenness.

The drive back to the property is silent but comfortable. You're glad Simon doesn't ask for details because you would feel embarrassed relaying what Sam said to you. But you had been thinking about one thing Sam said intently, repeating it over and over again. You don't mean for it to slip out, but it does.

"Do you think I'm easy?" Simon glances at you, looking out the window.

"What?" He questions.

"Like...you know." You trail off, hoping he'll fill in the rest.

"No. I don't know. Tell me what you mean." You fidget with your fingers, thinking of a less blunt way to express what you mean. But, you just let out what you mean, blunt and all.

"Slutty." You murmur, looking up at Simon. He swiftly turns his head towards you and pulls the car over to the side of the road, switching on his hazards. 

"Who told you this?" He demands, his hands gripping the steering wheel as they slowly turn white. 

"No one." You insist, bringing your hand up to pull one of his off the steering wheel. 

"No. Someone told you that, and I want to know who," he says as you take his hand off the wheel and encase it in your own.

You look up at him and close your eyes briefly before murmuring, Sam. Simon closes his eyes as he takes a long, deep breath. You stare up at him, nervously chewing on your bottom lip.

"Please don't say anything." You finally say, gripping his hand tighter.

"He called you a slut, and you don't want me to say anything?" He finally looked down at you to see your pleading eyes. He sighed and gripped your hand back.

"Fine." He sucked his teeth as he turned off the hazards and pulled back onto the road. 

It was silent as Simon drove the rest of the drive back to the ranch, but you spoke once he made it through the gate.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" You shyly ask. 

"Where do you think I was headed?" You look out the window to see you're going toward his house on the property.

"Oh, you're good." You smile, feeling a sense of joy for the first time since you stepped into that bar.

"You're even better."

a/n: kitten whiskers i finally got my lazy ass up to make part three ( ͡ಥ ͜ʖ ͡ಥ)

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[ebodebo]

Red Is Dead

previous

—you find a familiar friend in an alleyway

—red hood x f!reader

—2.4k

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The rain fell gently, a soft patter that barely disturbed the stillness of the evening. The smell of damp soil and blossoming flowers filled your nostrils as you made your way home. You felt a sense of calmness wash over your body as you walked. It was honestly pretty surprising that a city as crime-ridden and lively as Gotham could invoke any serenity.

You weren't even from the city, but people talked. They criticized the city for being perilous since it was full of criminals and villains alike reaping havoc on the city every night—well, except from the looks of it, tonight.

Maybe tonight was their night off, you thought, before following with a small laugh.

You glance at Tom, your newish bodyguard, steadily walking behind you—poised as always. Your father had insisted he hire one since Gotham was unsafe, and some people would love nothing more than to see your father hurt—even if it meant going through you to do it.

Your father had insisted, more like forced, that you take him with you on your little expedition. Truthfully, you had really no idea why you had decided to leave the apartment you stayed in when you were in town and walk down the strip.

It was most likely to try to get a certain blue-eyed boy out of your head. It was odd; you couldn't get that guy out of your head since Bruce's gala. You two had slept together—on a roof. It was a one-night stand, and you couldn't forget about it. What was wrong with you?

"It's quiet," you say, trying to hide your embarrassment from laughing at seemingly nothing.

"Quite," Tom agrees. You sigh as you drudge your legs, irritated by his lack of conversion.

"Did you have to take a communication class before you got this gig?" You offhandedly ask as you walk past an apparent new burger place with a flashy sign that reads 'Between The Buns.'

"I don't believe so," he hums, not sparing the tacky sign a singular glance. You glance back at him, humming a sound of acknowledgment.

"You didn't need to trouble yourself with walking me home, Tom," you assure, stopping in front of him to admire another storefront, this time of a flower shop named 'The Flower Pot,' which is oddly next to an alleyway.

"It's my job to protect you, Miss," he informs, voice steady.

"I know, but—" you begin, turning your head to look down the alleyway, noticing a figure hunched against the shop's bricked wall, softly cursing. Your eyes widen, taking note of the reflective shiny red of his helmet that you could see even in the shitty lighting.

"What's the matter?" Tom questions, wondering what you're looking at. You spare him a glance before sprinting over to the hunched-over figure. Tom yells your name, trailing behind you.

Once you reach the figure, chest heaving, you look over the side of his abdomen, seeing blood spatters seeping through what looks like a shirt. You breathe out, hand coming to cover your mouth.

"Oh my—oh, he's, he's dead! Oh my—Tom! Tom!" You squeal, pointing at the bloodied and beaten person in front of you—that looked a helluva lot like a certain vigilante you spotted in a tabloid. Tom stepped closer to the guy, carefully observing him to see if he was in fact dead.

As he tried to reach down and grab the guy's wrist, his hand came up to grasp Tom's.

"Not dead," the guy murmured, moving his hand to hold his abdomen. "Kinda wish I was, though." Your eyes widen again, eyes scanning his helmet and the guns strapped to his thighs, and ears taking notice of the modulation of his voice.

"Hey, wait. You're that Hood guy," you announce, pointing a finger at him.

"Maybe, maybe not," the guy shrugs, clutching his side tighter, clearly trying to suppress losing any more blood.

"No, you're totally him," you tilt your head, bringing your hands to rest on your hips. "I heard about you from the Gazelle—Red Hood, right?"

"Hey, hey. Keep your voice down," the guy urged, slightly sitting up, hissing at the action. He leaned back against the wall, throwing his head back as he did. He flicked his eyes back to yours, briefly taking note of your soured expression.

"Fine. You caught me," Hood groaned, raising his hand to observe it and cursing as he saw it caked in a mix of fresh and old blood. You look at Tom before bending down, putting your body weight on your toes.

"Fuck. You need to go to the hospital," you murmur, looking into his eyes.

"No hospital," Hood's gaze flicks to yours; his tone is unmistakably serious.

"You'll bleed out and die," you attest, eyes glaring at his.

"I'm not going to a hospital," he says, turning his head away from you.

"I can't—are you serious?" You dryly laugh.

"Dead," he insists.

"Well, I'm not leaving you to die," you cross your arms over your chest, clearly not budging.

"Why? Would it hurt your feeble conscience?" He gibed, hissing as he brought his hand to grip the gash.

"I—you can't just ask me to let you die, Red," you affirm, bringing your hands to put more pressure on where blood seeps out.

"I'm not," he hisses. "I just said no hospital."

"So, then, where do you suppose we take you? You hiss, agitated at his lack of cooperation and appreciation that you didn't just leave his ass to bleed out. "That fucking burger place across the street?"

"Wouldn't chance it," he begins, wheezing as Tom picks his shirt up a little to expose the bloody gash, carefully pressing his handkerchief that was tucked nicely in his coat pocket onto it to try and stop the bleeding. "They might put me in the burgers."

"Gross," you roll your eyes at Red before turning to Tom. "What the hell are we going to do with him?" Tom takes a breath before pulling his phone out to text someone.

"No, seriously, they would put me in that meat grinder," Red deadpans.

"Shut up," you grumbled, pressing his abdomen harder. "Let me think."

"And then feed me to everyone," his voice is indifferent before it turns curious. "Wonder if I'm tasty?"

"Oh my god, you're impossible," you deeply sigh.

"The limo is pulling up," Tom supplies, tucking his phone into his jacket pocket and glancing at Red and then at you. “I'm sure you don't want to hear this, but I work for your family, so it's your call. Where do you want to take him?" Tom says coolly.

You look back at an anguished Red, silently cursing from pain. Taking a deep breath, you look at Tom, nodding towards Red.

"I'll take him to my apartment," you declare. Red lets out a dry chuckle as Tom helps him up, bringing his arm to grip Red's lower back tightly, while Red's arms drape over his shoulders.

"Woah, woah. I'm not just some stray cat you can take in cus' I'm cute," Red groggily says.

"I don't think you're cute," you plainly say as you and Tom guide him into the back of the limo. The driver holds the door open, paying no heed to what is happening.

"I actually think you're a bit of a dick," you shrug, getting him situated in his seat as you sink into the seat next to him, gently placing your hand to put more pressure on his wound.

"Do those things have to be mutually exclusive?" Red quips, tilting his head back on the headrest.

"To me, yes," you simply say, hearing Tom mutter something to the driver. "To be considered cute, you can't be a dick, and if you're a dick, you aren't cute."

"Mhm. You're an odd one, alright," Red murmurs, putting pressure on the wound himself. Your eyes flick to his as you feel his hands lay on top of yours on his abdomen, surprised to find his eyes already dulling into yours.

"You—we probably, um, we probably only need one pair of hands for pressure," you feel your face heat as you pull your hands off of him, laying them on either side of your thighs instead.

"Okay. We'll be there in fifteen," Tom says, turning to look at you and Red. He raises a brow at how you sit straight up in the seat and your hands tightly tucked to your side. You are grateful when he doesn't question why. "Also, just for the record, I had no prior knowledge of this happening. Yes?" Tom asks, tilting his head towards you.

"Got it. You don't want to be my accomplice," you amend, tipping your head towards him.

Once you reach your apartment, Tom helps you bring Red inside to rest on the couch. You assure him you will be fine. He says he is only a call away if you need anything.

You were honestly surprised that Tom willingly left, but maybe he was finally starting to see you as an adult and not a child, or perhaps he didn't want Red's blood on his hands if he did die while under your roof. You hoped the former.

"So, uh, are you thirsty?" You yell from your place in the bathroom, opening the cupboard under your sink and fumbling with the cleaning supplies to try and grab your small first aid kit. "Hungry?"

"Not really," Red gravels, pressing a button on his shiny red mask to open it before ripping it off to reveal a simple black domino mask.

"You should probably have some water at least," you say, heading into the kitchen to fill a fresh glass with tap water from your sink. You walk into the living room, gently placing the water next to him on the side table while you sit on the coffee table, shuffling through the first aid kit.

"Thanks," he gruffed, reaching for the cup of water and chugging down almost the whole glass, wiping some of the water that dripped down his chin with the back of his gloved hand.

You looked up, a hint of humor in your eyes at his chugging before you saw it. His lips. You knew those lips. You were sure of it. You fiddled with a piece of gauze you dipped in saline in your hand as your eyes examined him further.

"What?" Red curiously says, taking notice of fervent staring. You dart your eyes back to his before moving back to the gauze.

"Sorry. You—you just look a little familiar," you admit, moving closer to him. He gently lifts his shirt just high enough so you can clean the wound.

"Ya," he winces as he feels the gauze gently pat around the gash. "Knew that wouldn't last long," he utters as he rips off his black domino mask, tossing it to his side.

You are slightly startled by his swift movement, pulling back. "Wha—Jason," you exclaim, shock and disbelief coating your face. "You—you're," you stutter, unsure of what to say.

"Ya," he awkwardly says, cringing from pain as he scratches the back of his neck. "Fuck."

"Shit. Okay, okay. We need to take care of this before we dive into—you use your hand to gesture towards him—that." He lightly nods as you delicately place the gauze onto the gash.

"Fuck—fuck!" He curses, throwing his head back, jaw clenching as he grinds his teeth.

"You okay?" You halt your actions, staring at him with more gauze in hand.

"Does it look like I'm okay?" He grits, tipping his head down to look at you. Your eyes are wide at his tone. He sighs. "M'sorry. Just—just keep going," he exasperates, laying his head back down, inhaling and exhaling slowly as you finish placing the gauze and taping it thoughtfully to ensure it was secure on his skin. He pulls his shirt down almost immediately after you finish.

"It should be okay tonight, Red. But you should really get it checked out tomorrow," you begin, closing up the kit. "You know, by a doctor."

"You can," he pauses momentarily. "Just call me Jason."

"Okay, Jason," you smile a little, "Please get it checked tomorrow." He nods as you get up to put the first aid kit back in your bathroom. You come back to see him staring up at the ceiling.

"I, uh, died," he mumbles as you take a seat on the couch cushion farthest from him. You let out a laugh, turning your head to look at him. His face is still looking at the ceiling, but it lacks humor.

"What do you mean?" You question.

"Just—I don't know," he raises his hand, trying to shoo away the question. "Forget it."

"Jason," you softly say, hand lingering closer to his own. "Tell me." You bring your hand to lay on top of his; he turns towards you swiftly at the contact. You lightly smile to let him know it's okay. He takes a deep breath before revealing more.

He doesn't go into detail about what occurred during his time in Arkham, but he did talk about his resurrection from Lazarus Pit; you didn't even know what the hell that was. He just said it can revive someone from the dead if they have just died.

"Then you became Red Hood?" You quietly asked, your hand gripping his tighter. You had not even realized it, but sometime during the conversation, you had scooted closer to him.

"Then I became Red Hood," he agrees, a light glint of humor dancing across his face. You hum a sound of acknowledgment, contemplating your following words.

"Does your dad know?" You ask, tilting your head a little. He raises a brow, clearly confused.

"Does my—" he begins to question before he lets out a slight huff, "Bruce?" You nod.

"He does," Jason affirms without the sarcastic commentary he would typically enforce since you just looked so sincere.

You both sat in silence for a bit, heads leaned back on the headrest of the couch, staring at the ceiling, fingers now interlaced. Oddly, it felt so casual—like you had just done this a million times before. You had only met him once before, but you felt like you could just trust him with your life—I mean, he had trusted you with his.

"You should sleep," you break the silence, slowly turning your head to face him, cheek smushed against the leather of the couch.

"Nah. Sleep is for the weak," he mumbles, turning his head to look at you. "Would you mind just, uh, staying here?" He awkwardly asks. "Please."

"No need to beg, Jason," you snicker. "I won't leave. I promise." He slightly flinches at your words. You don't question why; instead, you interlock your fingers tighter so he knows you aren't fibbing.

You get the feeling he's never really had anyone to take much care of him. So, you'll sit on the ugly brown leather couch you despise while the air conditioning turns on, sending shivers and goosebumps down your bare arm because everyone deserves to have somebody.

Even if that 'everyone' just so happens to be a stray vigilante with a massive ego.

a/n: posting this then running away (also still very new to dc so plz don’t be mean to me about the lore if it’s inaccurate)

reblogs & comments are encouraged!