#simon x reader

Simon Riley really delving into his oral fixation.

See, you'd asked Simon to stop smoking after reading that it would damage his sperm. Trying for a baby apparently meant he needed to give up his vice.

But you were his missus, and he'd learned a long time ago—don't fucking argue with the missus.

Already by day three Simon was buying multiple packs of gum a day. Grumbling around base and the house. But he wouldn't take it out on you, never on you.

Your tits? Different story.

Simon had been sucking on your tits for almost an hour, switching between your now swollen and spit slick nipples. Yes, it felt fantastic—but Jesus Christ what was his obsession tonight?

"Simon." You murmur, tugging at his hair to pull him up. "You're usually inside me by now."

Simon grumbled, licking his lips. "You had me quit smokin' my fucking mouth needs to be doin' somethin'"

After that confession, Simon was always on you.

He comes home from work, and he pushes your shirt up while you read some book on the couch. His mouth immediately locking around your nipple. The tension built throughout the day leaving his body.

He'd suck on your tits of a morning instead of going for his usual smoke. Though you point out that he spends a lot longer on your nipples than he ever did his cigarettes.

You can't even take your shirt off around him without Simon pawing at your tits and sucking on you for at least five minutes before you finally batt him off to go cook dinner.

After a long weekend though, you went to work with sore tits. Your coworkers getting excited after hearing you'd been trying for a baby and now you were adjusting your bra all day.

Simon only chuckled when you complained to him that afternoon, letting you frustratedly throw your bra at him. "Just tell them that your husbands helping you practice for when you're actually breastfeeding."

He then had to dodge your heel at that comment.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

Buy my cat a treat? (•˕ •マ.ᐟ

when you first moved in, you were wary of the big, brute of a man that lived next door. you'd seen him, for the first time, taking his trash to the end of his driveway for the garbage truck to pick up while movers lugged boxes and furniture inside your house. he spared a single glance, offering a nod at your small wave before retreating into his house.

you thought that was that.

for weeks, you lived without any interaction. settling into your new home, coming back and forth between the hardware store and your house for new projects. taking out your trash before you go to work. you'd seen him take out his own trash once, but you watched from your window, so he never noticed.

you felt weird doing it. watching the thick muscles of his biceps flex against his filled out sleeve, dusting his veiny hands on his jeans before adjusting his balaclava. you wondered why he wore it, but you moved on. you'd likely never interact.

until a couple weeks later, you had arrived home with new groceries. a lot of them. it would take multiple trips that would make your arms ache.

you barely opened your trunk when a dark mass appaeared at your side. you gasp in surprise, head craning. damn, he was taller than you thought.

without a word, he reached in and grabbed at least ten grocery bags with ease. it didn't even seen to bother him as he carried it into your garage and to the door. he didn't struggle to open the door, inviting himself in and leaving you dumbfounded.

what the hell?

the next time his weird behavior manifested was when you were at work. you got a notification from your doorbell camera about some movement, expecting a salesperson or jehovah's witness. instead it was your neighbor—the one who's name you still don't have.

he carried a tackle box, and you were about to speak to ask what he was doing when something compelled you to just watch. he seemed to take apart something on your porch, taking and replacing a piece of the light before screwing it back. he left without a word.

when you got home, your porch lights shined brighter than before—they were dim and on the verge of burning out. why would he do that?

you wanted to confront him, but you appreciated these small things. he still appeared out of thing air to take your groceries in, leaving before you could thank him.

he even started pulling out your bin for you, sitting it at the end of the driveway and dragging it back to the garage when the truck came by.

it perplexed you. why was he doing this for you? did he do it for his other neighbors? he had to, you couldn't be that special.

so you continued living life, welcoming the small actions as they made everything easier. besides, you enjoyed the company, even if he never said a word to you or looked in your direction.

the first time you approached him was on the drive home when a light appeared on your car's dashboard. you had no clue what it meant, though you probably should've. when you arrived home, you debated taking it straight to the autoshop, but instead you tried your luck with your neighbor. he likes to help, so you're guessing he wouldn't mind.

with a soft knock to his front door, you stood waiting patiently, and wait you did. a few minutes later, you contemplated turning back because he wasn't answering the door despite being home (his car was in the driveway).

just as you turned, the front door creaked open, revealing your neighbor clad in nothing but a white towel around his waist, balaclava shoved on haphazardly. his chest glistened with water as it glifed down his skin. oh fuck.

you could barely keep your eyes off his toned chest, abs flexing under your gaze before they snapped back to meet his dark ones. he lifted his brow in question.

"uh, hi." you said awkwardly, rocking on your feet. you hadn't even properly introduced yourself to the man, mostly because he disappeared so quick that you didn't have the chance. "a light came on in my car, and I was wondering—"

the door shut mid-sentence. it left you dumbfounded, mouth hanging open in shock as you stare at the door like it may open again. maybe his generous actions ended at bringing the groceries in. maybe he didn't want to get dirty after just showering. you couldn't expect the man to be ready to help any time you needed it.

after a minute of contemplation, you turned to walk back down the path. you'd have to get it to the mechanics and figured out how much it'd cost you.

when you reached the last step, the door opened again. still shirtless but now looping a belt around his jeans, he walked out, bare feet padding on the concrete. he nodded to your house, signaling you to lead.

you lead him back, hand him your keys and let him do his thing because now you get a free show. his muscles flex as he works under the hood, dirtying himself in a way that's sinful. after a while working in the hot sun, you go inside and bring back a drink, which he gratefully accepts—still without saying anything.

he's a bit weird, refusing to talk to you, but he's fixing your car so you can't complain.

"is this your official uniform to fix all your single neighbor's cars?" the words slip out before you can stop them. mortification warms your face, but it forces a deep chuckle from your neighbor, whose eyes crinkle under his mask.

he glances up at you, dirt smearing his skin. "only the pret'y ones."

your heart flutters. his voice was deep, gruff, like he smoked cigarettes, but it was satisfying to hear.

"so you do talk." you tease whilst biting back a smile. you'd finally gotten words out of him. a small victory. "what's your name?"

"simon."

"really? you look like a greg."

he shakes his head with a smile and continues working, leaving the two of you in silence. what you don't know is that simon's heart is nearly pounding out of his chest. it's beating so hard, he's worried he'll break a rib.

simon has been working up the courage to say anything to you every time he helps you, nervous as hell to talk to his pretty neighbor who he likes to help. hell go home and think about that interaction for days—or until you ask for his help again.

Three guard dogs might’ve been overkill. 

Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller. 

He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—

Laughter stops him in his tracks. 

Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it. 

And you? You’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears. 

“Cute pups,” you say. 

Cute...what? 

You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile. 

“You military?” 

He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip. 

“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”

You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.

Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs. 

And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet. 

You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl. 

Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.

“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”

As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.

And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all. 

He might just have to become one himself. 

he hates it. he loathes it. what, you think he's not good enough to satisfy you?

arriving at your door, he can hear small whirs and moans coming from the other side. at first, he thinks you're cheating on him but it's much worse.

the door opens rapidly, the sound startling you badly. then, he sees the obscene sight before him.

you're using a fucking toy? over asking him?

he doesn't know what kind of conundrum you're in, but he doesn't like this situation one bit. honestly, it's a bit traitorous to trust a stupid silicone toy that vibrates over your own man that's literally fucked you into oblivion a million times before this.

"really? a bloody toy?" he asks, accent heavy.

you stare at him dumbfounded and the vibrations of the device inside you seemed to have stopped, when it really didn't. but, all you could do was watch in shock as he walks over towards you, shutting the door behind him, both offended and angry.

your legs are spread, hand right against your folds that are filled with the thing he hates so much. there's a tinge of humiliation that makes your cheeks turn pink.

then, without warning, he presses against your clit with the pad of his thumb, sending a huge wave of pleasure over you.

"i-i thought you were busy..." you mutter, back arching in heavenly pleasure.

"me? not if it was for you," he replies.

he pulls the toy out, tossing it across the room, sending your slick pretty much flying everywhere. he doesn't think twice before putting his hand back between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you mewl.

"ngh— i'm sorry!" you yelp.

"and i'm sure ya' are," he says. "now, do you want me or the stupid toy?"

you're quick to answer: "you,"

it doesn't take long for him to fill you up with his huge fingers, one already stretching you out more than the sex object you used previously. you let out a loud moan when he enters another finger, adding more to the burn.

you squirm, feeling him start to move, the friction helping you continue approaching the orgasm. he's so mean. he doesn't let you adjust before finger-fucking you to the next world, digits pushed in and out of you rapidly, pace consistent.

the room is echoing to your moans endlessly, the lewd sound of his fingers squelching accompanying it. your noises grow louder, more desperate.

"you wanna cum?" he asks, watching as your facial expressions change from one of fear to overstimulation.

you nod frantically, drool travelling down your chin.

"use your words, baby," he says.

"y-yes!" you yell.

and he quickens, faster than you think was possible, the tips of his fingers hitting all the right spots exactly. you can feel the roughness and warmth of his hand, feel it moving in and out. then, you feel it.

you release, letting evidence of your orgasm coat his fingers fully, watching as he pulled it out and held it right in front of your eyes to see before licking it off in one go.

"next time, just call me," he says, leaving the room.

You’d woken up late, hair a mess, throat scratchy, body sore in that way that only meant one thing; Simon had been entirely too much the night before… like usual. Your phone buzzed that morning and Simon, already half-dressed and standing by your dresser, looked at the screen and raised a brow.

"Doc visit?" he questioned, voice deep, lazy.

You blinked at your phone and realization hit you. "…shit." You did have a scheduled appointment for today which you entirely forgot about.

He shrugged. "I’ll drive."

And like an idiot, sleep-addled and still sore from the night before, you let him come.

Now here you are, spread on the exam table like a goddamn starfish, feet in the stirrups, paper gown bunched up around your waist, fluorescent lighting making everything feel ten times worse… and Simon is in the corner, his legs spread, elbows on his thighs, and scrolling on his phone like he’s in a dentist’s waiting room.

Not one once of shame. You shoot him a look. He doesn’t even reciprocate it but just mutters, "Told you t’ put it on the calendar."

Before you can hiss back at him, the door opens.

Your gynecologist steps in, a nice, polite, middle-aged woman, all business and just stops dead.

Her eyes flick from you and your very exposed situation, then to Simon. The six-foot-something wall of tattoos and muscle, who by the way is generally not in the room. Then back to you.

“Oh!” the doctor says, pleasantly startled. “I… wasn’t expecting a guest today.”

Simon finally looks up. Nods once. “Ma’am.”

Just ma’am. Like he’s greeting a cashier.

You wish the earth would open and swallow you whole.

The doctor put on her gloves with that clinical snap that somehow made this even worse.

You stare at the ceiling like it owes you something. Simon goes right back to scrolling.

The paper under you crinkles as you shift, cheeks hot. The doctor sits on her stool, rolling close between your legs.

“Just going to take a look,” she says. “Any pain lately? Discomfort? Irregular bleeding?”

You open your mouth to say 'no, everything’s fine' but then she hums.

A concerned hum.

You freeze.

“Not alarming,” she assures, too quickly, “Just… some residual bruising on the cervix.”

Your soul leaves your body. “Bruising?” you croak.

Simon’s thumb stops mid-scroll.

The doctor nods. “Yes. Fair amount of tenderness and discoloration.” She pauses, then looks at you knowingly. The doctor hums again, then says the absolute worst possible thing.

"It’s nothing dangerous, but I’d recommend you avoid prolonged, intense activity for a day or two. Especially with something…" She paused. Looked directly at Simon. "…that big."

She does not say big casually. She emphasizes it. Bold. Italic. Underline. Triple-sized font.

BIG.

The room goes silent and the air stops moving for a moment. Even the HVAC system seems to hesitate.

Simon slowly sits back in his chair, like someone just handed him an award.

A slow smirk creeps onto his face, subtle but smug as hell. He doesn’t even pretend humility. Doesn’t cough. Doesn’t deflect. He just stays, quiet and cocky.

You want to die.

The doctor keeps talking, clinically unbothered. “If your partner has a… larger anatomy, you need to take breaks, communicate, maybe use positions with less depth. Going too long can cause bruising or strain.”

The doctor continues, completely unaware of the war happening between you two.

“I’d recommend abstaining for a few days—”

Simon snorts.

You whip your head toward him. “Do you mind ?!” You are going to punch him.

Right here. Feet in the stirrups. Gown open and you’re going to assault this man.

Awhile after, the doctor gently removes her gloves. “All done. You can get dressed.”

As she stands, she looks at Simon again, still uncertain why he’s here at all.

“You’re welcome to wait in the lobby next time,” she offers kindly.

But Simon just stands, stretches, and says “Nah. ’m her support.”

Support.

Support.

As if he didn’t break open your insides twelve hours ago.

You slide off the table, teeth clenched, grabbing your clothes.

The doctor exits politely.

You round on Simon the moment the door shuts. “Next time you’re keeping your ass home”

He shrugs casually, taking your purse for you like the smug bastard he is. “Not my fault the doc praised my dick.”

“She did not praise your dick—”

“She said big.” He leans down, voice low in your ear “Emphasized it too.”

Simon’s eyebrows lift. “Larger anatomy,” he repeats under his breath like he’s tasting the words.

You point a murderous stare at him.

You shove his chest. He catches your wrist. Presses a kiss to your temple.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Get dressed. I’ll take y’ home. You can be mad in the car.”

You mutter, “God I hate you so much right now .”

He smirks. “mhm… right”

it was a nasty habit he's had since his teens, his way of dying a little bit with each lit cigarette. he never expected to last this long, with all the packs he goes through, bullets dodged, and the battles he's barely survived. he never thought to quit, always itching for a stick between his fingers to ease his anxiety and shaky hands.

before he met you, he never had a reason to. now that he has you, tucked into his side and leeching off his warmth, he knew he had to change. the little looks of disappointment every time he went for a smoke gutted him, or when you'd grimace every time you had to swallow his cum made him grit his teeth. or simply the idea that his smoking could kill your pretty lungs.

he quit cold turkey, like an idiot. it was the hardest thing he's been through, even if he wouldn't admit it, and he's been shot, stabbed and many other questionable things.

but it'd be easy in comparison if it meant keeping you healthy, giving you the live you deserved with him.

sure, he was as grumpy as ever and itched to put his lighter to good use, his hands shaking at his sides with restraint. he needed something to do, something to take his mind off the bad thing he craves.

and there's nothing more he craves than you. lips wrapped around your clit as he feasts on your puddy. tongue laving over the swollen flesh with half lidded eyes, murmuring excuses of, "jus' need m'lips 'n 'ands busy, luv." plunging thick fingers into your plushy cunt, slick and soaked with arousal as you let him. you're so proud of him for quitting, letting him overstimulate your pussy if it meant he never picked up another pack.

so instead of smoking ten a day, he'd eat you out ten times more instead.

older!simonriley who is a little bit surprised when you ask him to sleep with you. you tell him how inexperienced you are and that you wish to learn how to properly pleasure someone. he's not sure if he's gonna say yes but, you're probably going to ask someone else anyway, and the mere idea makes him sick. he doesn’t regret it when he sees your big doe eyes looking up at him as you're on your knees, his fat cock standing proudly before you. he snickers at your intimidated expression before grabbing gently your hair and guiding your lips on his lenght, a sigh escaping him as he feels the warmness of your mouth. even as you gag and that tears are threatning to spill, he doesn’t stop, you'll have to learn the hard way anyway.

𝗦𝗶𝗺𝗼𝗻 𝗥𝗶𝗹𝗲𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝗛𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿. 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪 𝟭𝟴+

Simon had learned over the years to keep his voice down during sex—finding it embarrassing that a hulking man like him would whine like a bitch during sex.

Foolishly, he didn't change his habit when he got with you. Believing the quiet grunts he would allow to be enough for you. Like the other women he'd been with.

God, it was pissing you off.

He didn't account for the fact you'd lost most of your hearing. You never wore your hearing aids during sex because the itch of them wouldn't allow you to concentrate.

Simon was a fantastic lover—gave you exactly what you needed, had you coming until you couldn't fucking think anymore. But he just wouldn't make any sound. You know you should've been used to guys not making sounds by now at your big grown age, though you got your hopes up with Simon.

Simon was holding back his moans as he fucked into your perfect pussy, thrusting at that perfect angle that made you keen—Only allowing quiet masculine sounds to rumble from his chest.

But you finally had enough of seeing his mouth part, while being unable to hear anything.

"Simon," you pant, grabbing his jaw roughly "fucking moan, goddammit. I can't fucking hear you."

Simon stilled, looking down at you with flushed cheeks. "Y'sure? Didn't think women liked I' when a man makes noise."

"Need to hear you." you whispered, grinding your hips upwards impatiently.

Simon finally broke down that wall in his mind, leaning down to your good ear and letting out a loud groan, thrusting frantically. His big meaty paws clawing at you.

"Fuck!" Simon babbled "Feels so good, so tight. So so so tight."

You gasp at how loud he was being—getting what you always wanted from a lover.

"y'don't get it. Wanna be inside you all the time. Just wanna fill you over and over and over." He groaned, his hips becoming erratic and needy as he brings a hand to your clit—desperate to get you off before he came himself.

Your nails clawed down his muscular back, leaving red streaks in their wake. But the unrestrained whimper Simon let out in response?

You were coming with a squeal, locking your legs around his hips as he fucked his come inside you.

"Don't" you pant "You ever hold those sounds back again."

Simon huffed, wrapping his arms around you. "'s embarrassing, love."

"I just came harder than I ever have in my life, you can handle some embarrassment."

You stash the fact Simons softening cock twitched inside you at the thought of being embarrassed for later. Fucking pathetic thing, your boyfriend.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

Buy my cat a treat? (•˕ •マ.ᐟ