— elizabeth, nsfw blog — support me! : kofi — top posts: husband!simon, piercer!simon, husband!simon

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you and your boyfriend had a great relationship. you've been together for years, and it was secure. he loved you, albeit more than you loved him. it was like a safety net, something you knew you could fall back on if you needed emotional stability.

but you weren't 100% compatible. don't get it wrong, you loved him—for the most part—but there was a little something to be desired in the bedroom. you couldn't understand why.

maybe it was because he was too careful, too nice, when he fucked you. it was slow and worship, and while you enjoyed vanilla sex, you wanted more. you craved more, but he had offhandedly mentioned before that anything crazier wasn't in his wheelhouse. therefore you were never fully satisfied.

you felt guilty, especially since having sex began to feel like a chore rather than a connection you craved, and you had a high drive that even he couldn't sate. you just needed more.

for the last couple of weeks, you've been dropping hints to your boyfriend about the possibility of a threesome—to add some spice to your life—with one of his friends. any of them would do, even if you had pictured a specific friends of his. saying stuff like along the lines of, "I wish I had two of you," or "imagine how fun it'd be with another you."

your boyfriend wasn't dumb. he knew what you were hinting at, and yeah, it was out there. he also knew how you looked at his friend whenever you two went to the pub for a drink with his friends. how you got flushed whenever his brooding friend looked your way, or when you grazed each other.

he thought if he invited simon into your shared bed, you'd scratch the itch that's been gnawing at you. a single night to get what you wanted, and everything would go back to normal.

but he underestimated just how well simon could satisfy you.

simon was the opposite of your boyfriend. all rough touch and calloused skin, with dirty words and hard thrusts that punched the breath from your lungs and tore tears out of your eyes.

his cock stretched around your drooling pussy, filling you in ways you'd never felt and hitting spots that had you mewling. his balls slapped your clit with the relentlessness of his hips, thighs slapping against him and turning red. his hands were wrapped around the entirety of your neck, using it as leverage to pull you back against him. it left you breathless and keening for more.

and your boyfriend watched helplessly. reduced to a naked cuck, he sat back on his knees in front of you, still hard and unsatisfied, while he watched his precious girlfriend get defiled in a way he's never even considered. he didn't think you'd be into hardcore sex—because this was hardcore to him.

hands around your neck, one leaving to slap your ass occasionally before finding its home on your throat again. strangled noises he's never heard you make before, moaning louder after every dirty word whispered to you. the rotation of positions, not stopping after one, two, three orgasms as he put you into a mating press, doggystyle, missionary, cowgirl, you name it.

simon didn't purposefully leave out your boyfriend. he fully expected him to be just as engaged in the threesome as he was. after all, your boyfriend suggested it to him, but it didn't go farther than sinking his half hard cock into your pussy while you choked on simon's dick.

this was a bad idea because it brought him to the realization that this is something that can't be fucked out. he liked safe and vanilla sex, and you wanted wild, energetic, and borderline toxic fucking.

because the weeks that followed—yes, your boyfriend didn't take it as a sign to break up—was a significant sign that the relationship had changed, and not for the better. after that night, you got simon's number and kept in touch, often spending most of your time exchanging messages or talking about if you could convince your boyfriend for another threesome

things have been going, for the most part, smoothly. you still haven't managed a full conversation, but he's helped you with everything you've asked for, including planting pretty flowers at both his and yours house—you insisted on matching ones and he couldn't refuse.

but with the way it's been pouring down rain for the past few days, you haven't seen him. it's not like you would've dragged him out of the comfort of his house so he could come help you.

so you relaxed on your arm chair with a warm drink and your kindle, taking another lazy day to read with rain pattering in the back. until you heard a noise that was too loud to be rain. it sounded like heavy footfalls on top of your roof—impossible, it's pouring rain and slippery as hell.

another thud jolted you, and you threw your head back with a gasp. okay, who the hell is on your roof? they're disturbing the peace, and frustration mounts with every bump and thud.

grabbing the nearest jacket without bothering to put on shoes, you stormed out the front door—the sounds came from the front of the house the loudest. you couldn't see anything from the protection of the porch, forcing you under the spray of pounding rain.

and who do you see but simon.

you had a suspicion it was him, but seeing his dark silhouette on your roof made your heart flutter and something in your abdomen warm. the rain quickly soaked your hair and clothes, but it couldn't be worse than him. he looked like a wet dog.

"what are you doing?" you called out over the pummeling rain.

he scowled when he finally noticed you. "wot the fuck are you doin'?" his voice boomed louder than the occasional thunder.

"I asked you first!"

with a grunt, he climbed down the house with ease, manifesting at your side like your own rain cloud. his body shielded you from the spray of rain that fell at an angle.

"y'could get sick." he nudged you towards the ajar front door.

you roll your eyes, ignoring the flutter over your body. "you could get sick!" you parroted but allowed him to guide you back inside. without being asked, he stepped out of his soaked boots and shrugged his dripping coat off. underneath, his white shirt was completely see through, clinging to the divots of his abs and chest.

you fought the swallow in your throat and the warmth that bloomed over your face. jesus. you'd seen him without a shirt before—when he fixed your car—but this was different, sinful.

if he notices your stares, he doesn't say anything. just pushes past towards the closet, that he somehow knows where it is, to grab towels. you think he's helping himself before he's taking off the coat you're wearing, that's soaked, and replacing it with a warm towel.

why is he fussing over you? he's the one who's been outside in the rain for god knows how long.

"mind telling me what you were doing on my roof in the pouring rain?" no doubt, it was him finding another way to help you. as you wait for his explanation, you grab him by the belt and tug him further into your house.

"gutter's were clogged."

you wait for him to say more, but he doesn't. he lets you drag him along until you're in your tiny hallway bathroom. it fits you just fine, but with him looming over your shoulder, it feels crowded. you've noticed in the past just how massive he is, but now that he's beside you, your arm grazing and bumping his abdomen, the size difference really is astonishing. heat radiates from his skin, and it could be feverish.

"you could've waited until the rain had stopped." you scold. "what if you got sick?"

he just shrugs, and a groan of frustration rumbles in your chest. his eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement, and he swipes a stray drop of water from your hair off your neck.

"you're impossible, simon." you turn your back to him, setting the towels you grabbed on the countertop. "you should shower unless you really want to get sick. leave your clothes outside the door and i'll dry them for you."

without waiting for a response, you leave. the door clicks shut, and you're left in the hallway, listening to the rustle of wet clothes as he undresses. you shake the thought of him naked from your mind, heading down the hall to start a warm drink for him. while the water warms, you go back to collect his clothes and throw them in the dryer—after ringing out the excess water trapped in the fabric.

when the water's done heating, you prepare a drink you think he'd enjoy. too wrapped up in the preparation, you don't hear the water shut off down the hall, the door, or the soft falls of his footsteps—to be fair, he walks like a ghost. turning around, he's just there. against the doorframe, towel low on his hips to expose the veins that disappear past it. he tied one around his head, concealing his face while his other mask was getting dried. it almost made you laugh.

your throat goes dry again, and with shaky hands, you set the mug down and slide it towards him. "here. you should drink this." the words are hoarse when spoken. "your clothes are almost done, I can go check."

he shakes his head, disappearing from the kitchen. its annoying how well he knows your house. simon's only gone for a minute, maybe less before he appears—still shirtless. you think he's about to put on his shirt because he's holding it, but he thrusts it towards you.

"go change." he orders.

it remind you that you're still wet from the rain, which you hadn't even noticed because you were too focused on him. you still are, considering he'd been out there for longer. but you listen to him regardless, slipping into the same bathroom to change. it was really only your shirt and pants that got wet, so you stripped and put his shirt on. it's massive on you, the hem falling to your knees and the neckline slipping off one shoulder. it still reeked of him, and you couldn't help but hold the fabric over your nose and inhale deeply. it's a warm scent.

when you emerged back down the hall, there was another mug to join the one he sipped from. he put his coat back on, but it was unzipped to expose his bare chest underneath. hyper aware of your lack of clothes, you settled on the stool next to his. steam curled over your face, and you took a moment to let it. it warmed what the rain had frozen, but something else was burning your skin. simon's eyes were trained on the side of your face, just watching and observing like you were the most fascinating thing on earth.

you turned to meet his gaze, noticing the pink that tinged the skin under his eyes and across his nose.

tattoo artist!simon riley and his new favorite client

this could go one of two ways.

the first dainty reader with tattoos to match, not many decorating your skin. each of them are fine line, or some sort of script, that perfectly match the way you present yourself.

you only looked for a new tattoo artist after yours moved away. while you were devastated, you accepted it and began searching for a new one around the time you wanted another tattoo.

that's how you found simon. his studio was nothing more than a 10 minute drive from your place. his style was the complete opposite of your vibe, but it was his eyes and the rest of the man that lured you in. deep brown irises, sunken lids with hidden features behind a black mask. tight, dark shirts that strained against his muscles and inked skin.

he was perfect.

and simon doesn't usually take tattoos that don't require multiple sessions, but when you walk in for your appointment, he makes a big exception for the pretty girl in his chair. he's enamored.

definitely checks in with you way more than he should for a standard tattoo placement, offering you free snacks and drinks, wiping away bleeding ink with extra care. he won't tell you, but he'll shave off a few tens off the cost.

or...

reader who is covered neck down with tattoos. symmetrical and mirrored on your body. some are light and dainty, others are dark and heavy lined.

the other artists in the studio are drooling with the hope that you're their next appointment while simon smirks behind his mask. he knows that's his girl, and that you're going to be a dream to tattoo.

and yeah, he still checks in with you more often than normal, even though you're not even wincing. in fact, you're...dozing off. its not the first time he's had a woman dozing off during a tattoo.

he doesn't know you. yet. he just knows that you're new to the gym, based on the fact he's never seen you around. simon would've remembered a girl in tight biker shorts and skimpy sports bras, taut workout jackets, and the occasional oversized hoodie. adorned with a cute matching water bottle to whatever you wore that day and headphones.

he's never seen someone so polished for...the gym. a place meant for getting dirty and sweaty after a good workout, but he doesn't mind. not at all.

especially when you're doing leg and glute day. bending over for stretches, squatting with a full rack of weight—or whatever your body can carry. the grimace on your features with a heavy hip thrust. it rushes all his blood down south.

it's barely been a week since you'd joined this gym, and he's already enthralled—and a downright dog.

but he wasn't used to talking—just staring someone down until they noticed, which he did a lot. when he approached you, he didn't know what to say, and you felt the looming presence over your shoulder. well, there he was, staring you down.

lifting off your headphones, you spared him a sweet look, "you need something?" he just pointed to the machine you were using. "oh! i'm almost done, you—"

he threw you a thumbs up and turned away as quickly as possible, leaving you dumbfounded. instead of continuing the exercise he interrupted to approach you, he sat back on the machine and watched you finish your set. adjusting his heavy erection that wasn't hidden by his gym shorts. you felt his eyes but didn't dare look his way.

just as you finished and were about to clean off the seat, he appeared at your side and stopped you. simon was filthy, seeing the sweat marks left on the seat made his cock throb. "'s fine." he grunted, sitting his heavy body right down. your perfume still lingered when he did.

it wasn't even part of his strict workout routine. he was working legs that day, you were doing arms. he didn't care.

numerous other times stuck out. moments you caught him turning his head over his shoulder to stare at your ass when he walked by, picking machines right behind where you squatted, hijacking your machines after a heavy workout, or picking a treadmill right beside yours when all the others were empty.

until he finally worked up the courage to ask to spot you. he knew you didn't need it, but god, it was the only way to get close to you, to touch you.

he was surprised you even agreed, but you saw what he did. perving on you any time you went to the gym at the same time—which was often because he learned your gym schedule.

he was helped you squat, hands unnecessarily on your hips, chest way too close to your back. every so often, a certain squat slotted his hard cock against your ass, and he didn't hide the grunt. adjusted himself shamelessly while he did so.

it's not like you reprimanded him, but you also didn't feed into it—though, by default, not saying no to him was a greenlight in his eyes.

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.

simon always knew when you were still mad at him. it wasn't a cold shoulder, or talking back to him, but the way you packed his lunch.

due to the early hours he had to get up, you woke up earlier to prepare a lunch for him—something he never took for granted. however, the previous night, you got in a small argument you were still salty about come the time to pack his lunch the next morning.

and simon could tell.

it wasn't a lack of food or effort. it wasn't a passive aggressive note—although there has been times. it was the presentation of the food and how you prepared it.

these particular mornings, he would hear the clanging of containers and pots from the bedroom, whereas on normal days, you'd encourage him to get as much rest as he could. you slammed around cabinet doors that didn't deserve your abuse, shoved containers together, and tossed whatever pot or pan you used into the sink without a care in the world.

next was the food itself. you never depraved him of nourishment. you weren't a monster, but you didn't go the extra steps you normally would. it was subtle, yet he noticed.

like the whole strawberries—normally cut into heart shapes—you had thrown in the yogurt container, still having the leaves attached.

the sandwich he requested that you made perfectly, if you ignored the fact it looked like you laid on it.

or the can of his least favorite flavor drink instead of the good ones that he knows is still sitting in the fridge, waiting to be packed for a day you don't want him to suffer.

simon opens his lunch with a chuckle and returns home to eat you out over the kitchen counter to make up for it, with dinner being ready right after.

—price when you banish him to the couch, he could be one of two ways—mature and forces you to talk it out nicely or toxic, flat out refuses, and fucks you back to your senses. the first way, when the words spill from your mouth, his shoulders slumped with dejection as he steps from the room. no point in arguing when you're worked up. after stewing in your anger for thirty or so minutes, he returns—armed with food—and talks it out with you. the other way, he flat out refuses to sleep on the couch. i could see him manipulating you with the "I paid for that bed, and I'll sleep in it." you're stubborn, muttering something about you sleeping on the couch then, which is how you end up getting your brains fucked out.

—soap I imagine soap just pushed your buttons way too much that day. you know how he is sometimes—over the top, hyper, and an all-around instigator. he was looking for a reaction, and he found it—just not the one he wanted. immediately pouts, acting like a dejected child before he goes on to try and convince you to change your mind. real annoying about it too, doesn't give up until you're at your breaking point.

—kyle the only one that I see actually accept his banishment with stride. he knows he made you upset, respects the boundary you placed with him and doesn't take it to heart. there's also a big possibility that, by the end of the night, you end up talking it out anyways like mature adults. he knows you needed to get it out of your system, and you serving punishment to him did just that.

—simon the second the words leave your mouth, he shuts down. you see the moment he deflates, doesn't try to reconcile, and just accepts it. he doesn't want to upset you further or make you more mad than you already are. simon doesn't respond well to domestic conflict. the second his back hits the cushions? he's tossing and turning. he barely fits the couch to begin with, and you both learn you need each other to sleep—bonded like a pair of cats.

simon riley who loves your hair

he loves how long it is, the feeling of it in his big, calloused hands. the soft strands that seem endless to him. calls you his rapunzel because of its length, reminding him of the princess.

if you're ever frustrated with the upkeep, he definitely takes over. taking care of you is already one of his favorite things, so indulging your hair routine is something he does naturally. whether it's a bunch of products to run through your damp hair, or hair oil when it's nice and dry. he likes brushing it out, making sure it's knotless and smooth enough that he can run his fingers through it. he takes the time to braid it when you want your hair up, and whenever you aren't around, he's teaching himself different styles to try out.

ever since asking simon for help on your car, it's like a floodgate has opened up. first you're asking him for help on your car, and the next thing you know, he's in your house every few days with a new repair you've roped him into. he doesn't talk much. actually, you haven't been able to get another word out of him since he was on his back, under your car.

you've tried, you really have, but the bastard won't give in. you think he's just closed off—in reality, simon's heart is beating a mile a minute, and his mind is repeating over and over again not to make himself a fool in front of his pretty neighbor.

so you figured that asked him to help around your house would do the trick, luring him into your space in order to open him up. it's not like you'd get around to these tasks yourself. they just weren't your area of expertise.

and for a decently new house, you sure had a lot to be repaired.

first, it was those squeaky hinges on some of your doors. now, in the beginning, you were still hesitant to wander over to his front door to get his help, but after his eagerness the first time, it gave you the confidence to return. simon was in your house faster than you were, already taking a guess as to which door it was—since he knew his way around from bringing in groceries and such. armed with a lubricant and a few other tools, he got to work. within a few minutes, they were good as new. you couldn't thank the man before he was out the door.

it was off-putting, but you were still determined. it was unlucky that the first thing you asked him to do took only a few minutes of his time, and even less for cleanup.

with every day that passed, you were grasping at straws. how could you get this man over here? your house was in perfect condition, and you barely saw the recluse of a man, as he remained in his house most of the time. save for the times he takes in your groceries or takes your bins out, you don't see him.

until you notice something odd.

coming home from work—this time, your car light remains off—you get out of your car and notice a bit of chopped grass that's been left behind. with furrowed brows, you took a moment to look at your lawn.

what are the chances that, after living here for a few months, the grass doesn't decide to grow?

yeah, none. the bastard has been doing it for you, and you never noticed. he never mentioned or made a big deal out of it, and somehow, it got missed on your motion activated doorbell cameras that has a perfect view of the lawn. even the hedges are trimmed.

so what do you do? take the opportunity to stop over to his doorstep, rapping your fist on his door until he opens. eyebrows raised, ready to take on the next task at your house, he steps out and shuts the door behind him. with a nod, he gestures you to lead the way.

except you don't have a repair for him. "have you been mowing my lawn?" the words spill from your lips before you have a chance to reign yourself in. the absurdity of the situation is making you loose-lipped.

his eyes widen, and you swear you see a faint blush on the pale skin behind his balaclava. he just nods, gaze softening as he stares down at you.

"thank you." you sputter out, in shock at his brazen admission. he just nods again, and you're at a loss for words. how do you keep his attention, keep his eyes on you? "well, I'm gonna need your help planting flowers."

planting flowers? that's all you could come up with? your face flushes with embarrassment, bracing yourself for his reaction. the man could easily say no because mowing the lawn and changing your lightbulb and fixing your squeaky door hinges is considered masculine. you could've insulted his masculinity by suggesting he plants flowers.

but he just stares at you some more. "let m'know when," and he shuts the door in your face.

but you turn around with the goofiest smile on your face and pump your fist with a soft "yes" before skipping back down the path and road towards your house just next door. little do you know, simon's face wears a smile just like yours as he watches the dorky display.

simon riley with low sex drive!reader

I feel like simon would not be bothered by this, if we are thinking of the deeply traumatized part of him. he's fine without sexual intimacy, especially if it's not something you're up for at the moment.

he would never push you to do anything you didn't want to do, and he savoured the moments he gets to hold you close. it was perfect for when he had to disappear on deployment, knowing he wasn't leaving you unsatisfied.

in the of chance you were in the mood for something, he could tell. the way you'd squirm in your seat, shooting him conspicuous looks that he caught. he'd take care of you sooooo gently, constant check ins.

"y'okay, luv?" he asked the second he got your clothes off, staring down at the body he cherished because it belonged to his beautiful baby.

"I was the first thousand times you asked, si."

pinching your hip, he halfheartedly glares down at you. "curse me for being cautious." it didn't stop him from asking, all the way until he was buried inside of you. your bodies rocking together so smooth and slowly, you almost didn't believe he was capable of such affection.