i read a submission wrong and wrote divorced!simon x neighbor reader instead of divorced!reader x neighbor simon.. so take the draft as an apology for disappearing
// cheating, some piv sex, crude language
︜︜︜ ⚠︜︜ ŕ¨âĄŕ§ ︜︜︜ ⚠︜︜
There were two things you liked about your neighborhood: the cheap rent, and your gorgeous neighbor.
The landlord hadnât lied in her listing. LOUD! PARTY NEIGHBORHOOD! COLLEGE STUDENTS! It was right there in all caps. And honestly, for less than a thousand a month, how could you pass up a townhouse â noise or not?
Still, you donât think she fully prepared you. Actually, you think she lied. Sure, you were young, a fresh graduate who liked a good party as much as anyone. But these kids? They didnât just party, they made it a competitive sport. Who could have the loudest, most obnoxious party on the block? Whoeverâs headboard smashing against the wall can be heard down the street gets a surprise! A million fireworks to set off at 3AM!!
You were going to move. This wasnât just a threat, it was a promise. You were browsing apartments, your screen cluttered, brows furrowed, and your nails gnawed down to the skin when you saw him.
At first, you thought he must be lost. No way a man like that would willingly move into a neighborhood like this.
 Mr. Riley was older, noticeably so. Rugged, big, menacing but like in a scare you out of your panties way. He wasâŚdistracting.Â
You found yourself lingering longer outside of your door during the week he moved in, pretending to fumble with your keys to watch the sweat slide down the sculpted marble he had the audacity to call a body. Skipping to your mailbox in your lace nightgown and robe to catch his gaze. You could feel it, hot and heavy. His eyes raking down your exposed legs, lingering on your chest as you pretended to be interested in your spam mail.Â
Simon wasnât stupid, he saw you. Always flittering around like some nervous little bird, staring at his windows from your car, then ducking your head when he caught you. Peeking through your blinds as he carried boxes inside. He could feel your eyes. Lingering on his hands, his crotch.Â
You wanted something. Him? His attention?
And the way youâd bend over in that tiny nightgown, pretending to fuss with the grassâŚwho exactly did you think you were fooling? More importantly, who were you trying to impress?
Simon had been warned before he moved in.
The neighborhood was crawling with college kids, always drunk, always loud. Parties spilling into the street, music rattling windows, couples rutting in the backs of their cars like rabbits. He thought he could handle it. Noise didnât scare him.
Were you like them? Were you loud? The kind of girl who got sloppy on cheap vodka and let anyone touch you? Would he catch you one night in the backseat of your car, palms pressed to the glass, panties dangling from the rearview while you moaned for an audience?
Were you like her?
His ex-wife. His separated wife. His slutty, whoring separated wife.
The one who opened his bed to another soldier.
Did you cheat, too? Did you lie with that same pathetic breathless voice, choking on excuses while your phone told the truth? Would you cry even as he held the proof in his shaking hands?
Would you spit at him like she did? Call him weak? A bitch? While he broke apart reading the filth youâd written about him?
Were you worth two college kids fucking against his car? Was a glimpse of your panties and coy little eyelash flutter worth his patience, his sanity, his lack of sleep?
He had an answer to that one. Fuck no.
He was leaving! He was moving like yesterday! Heâd already found an apartment, scraped the money together, even bought the damn boxes.
You werenât sure how you gathered the confidence, the audacity to walk over to his apartment in the middle of the night to bang on his door. Maybe it was the tequila, maybe the ridiculous scrap of lingerie youâd thrown on, maybe the bass from the party next door rattling through your walls.
âI heard whoeverâs headboard is the loudest gets a cake delivered the next day,â you blurted the second he opened.
Simon blinked. âWhat?âÂ
âItâs⌠itâs a neighborhood rumor,â you stammered, suddenly aware of how ridiculous you sounded.
âMm.â His gaze dragged over you.. âAnd youâre trying to win this little challenge?â
You donât remember how you made it from the doorway to his bedroom. Only the desperate hope that he couldnât taste the cheap liquor on your lips when he finally pulled you in. His hands were hot, his touches desperate and angry.Â
He tugged at your lingerie, ripping it to shreds like it offended him. Then he had you tossed, bent, twisted into positions youâd never imagined. His hands digging into your thighs as he ate you alive. His massive body sandwiched between your thighs, his thrusts were..dominating. Like he knew he owned every part of you. Your body. Your pleasure.
You wondered, head spinning and the sheets soaked beneath you, if this was what it was like to be with a man like him. If sex could always feel this dramatic, if orgasms were always this mind shattering.Â
And thatâs exactly what you asked the next morning. If you could do this again.
For a second, Simon thought heâd misheard you. Hell, part of him still wasnât convinced you were real. The pretty neighbor heâd been stealing glances at for weeks, now lying tangled in his sheets. Bruised, glowing, hair a mussed halo around your face, lips curled in a smile that made something sharp twist in his chest.Â
You looked beautiful, and out of place. It hurt, having a woman here. Having you here. You were painful.
He was scared. He wasn't ready. So all he could say was no. That you were a good lay and nothing more. That your cunt was sweet, that he was lucky to fuck you, but thatâs all it would ever be.Â
That he hoped you got your cake.Â
And then he watched it happen. Watched the same bitterness heâd once seen in his own eyes creep into yours. Watched you yank angrily at the shirt heâd offered.
And then you did the one thing he couldnât seem to manage.
âFuck you,â you spat, storming out.
He watched you give his treatment back.Â
Stupid. You were so fucking stupid.
To think a man like that could ever want a girl like you. To believe, even for a second, that someone like him would kiss you, claim you, keep you. That heâd see you as anything more than a body to fuck.
You hated yourself for it. For hoping, for wanting, for falling.
So you stopped. Stopped looking. Stopped lingering. Stopped caring. Or at least you tried.
You didnât hear it the same anymore. The bass rattling your home, moaning, the rocking cars.
You didnât linger by the blinds. You didnât pause at your door, pretending to fumble with your keys. You didnât dare glance at his windows.
He noticed the way your car pulled in at night and the curtains stayed drawn. The way you walked faster from your mailbox, head down, no lace nightgown, no coy smiles. The way you no longer left him anything to catch, no bait.Â
He told himself thatâs what he wanted. That distance was good. Clean. Safer.
So, why the hell did it make him grind his teeth at night? Why did it feel worse than the parties, worse than the noise, worse than anything else on this goddamn street?
And why was he at your door?
He expected anger, sure. He deserved it. But he didnât expect the door to slam in his face.
Or for it to happen again when he knocked a second time.
Or for you to yell through the wood that if he didnât leave, youâd call the police.
The words stung but Simon stood there on your porch.Â
He wasnât that kind of man. He wouldnât let you believe he was that kind of man.
Not the kind whoâd bury himself in a girl and moan his ex-wifeâs name into the pillow, praying she wouldnât notice.
Not the kind to tell her she had a sweet cunt and was a good lay, nothing more.Not the kind whoâd prey on a girlâs obvious interest.Â
Not the kind to take out his messy divorce on a beautiful woman.Â
He didnât know what he wanted. At first, it was simple. He wanted to fuck you. And he did. But now?
Now he wanted to apologize. To see your nose wrinkle when you smiled, to run his hands through your tangled hair in the morning. To wake with you sprawled in his sheets, warm and soft against him.
A relationship? No. Not yet. He wasnât ready. He couldnât risk pulling you into the wreckage of her, to involve you in their shitty divorce.
But God, he wanted to see you again.
âI just want to sayâŚsorry.â
You stayed silent, praying heâd give up and leave. You couldnât take it, god, youâd break, youâd cry.
But he didnât leave. He stayed. He talked. And you found yourself listening.
You listened as he spoke about her. Thalia. About the divorce. His voice cracked when he admitted to the affair. How it hurts just to have a woman close to him.
And then he apologized. For the way he treated you. For unloading his bitterness onto you. For talking too damn much.
For hurting you. For taking without giving, for using your body like an outlet, for tossing you around and eating you out only for his own pleasure.
It took him a while to leave, to sit with what he had done with you. To accept that you werenât letting him in. He should probably move. The partying, the noise, the fact that heâd fucked and dumped his only normal neighbor.
But then there you were, grabbing his wrist and looking at him with those eyes. âI forgive you.â
Simon believed they called what he did a âfumbleâ but what do they call getting the girl back?Â
It wasnât easy. It wasnât quick.
You had forgiven but obviously not forgotten. .
So he worked. Slowly. Patiently. The way a man does when he knows heâs got one last chance.
He started with the little things. Carrying your groceries from the car. Fixing the hinge on your mailbox without being asked. Leaving bags of your favorite snacks at your door with no note, so you wouldnât have to look him in the eye when you took them.
Then came the longer things. A knock at your door, not with apologies this time, but with takeout. Waiting outside while you decided if youâd eat with him. Sitting on your porch steps in silence just to show you he wasnât going anywhere.
He never pushed. Never asked for more than you could give. If all you had in you was a nod, he took it. If it was a short conversation through the screen door, he treasured it.
And slowly, you let him back in.
You lingered at your mailbox again. You smiled when you saw him. You looked at him with that same hungry, lingering gaze that once made his chest tighten.
This time, Simon was determined to do it right. He was careful. Gentle. Slow and sweet, every touch deliberate, every kiss patient.
Until you caught his wrist, brows furrowing.
âSimon⌠what are you doing?â
He froze. âWhat? IâmâŚtrying to do foreplay. To be gentle.â
ButâŚI liked what you did before.â
The sex was great. He was great. Still in the doghouse. But somehow, you and Simon were great together.
And slowly, it started to be more than that. Coffee in the mornings. Shared errands. Clothes left in one anotherâs closets.
One evening, sprawled on his couch with the TV flickering, you nudged him gently. âSo⌠tell me about her. Thalia.â
Simon stiffened at the name but didnât pull away. âItâs complicated,â he admitted. âDivorce isnât⌠clean. Not for anyone. She made choices that left me⌠broken in ways I didnât even know I could be.â
âShe cheated,â he continued. âI found out in the worst way. And I⌠I wanted to be angry, I tried to be angry, but⌠it didnât make it easier. It just left me tired. Bitter. Careless.â
âAndâŚme? Us?â You ask, your voice quiet.
His eyes met yours, âYouâre not her. And Iâll do everything I can to make sure I donât⌠treat you like that again. I wonât fuck this up.â