Simon, tits or ass question
Simon never understood the whole ass or tits debate.
It was the kind of question that got tossed around by the younger recruits, the loud, cocky ones who acted like they’d never touched a woman—probably hadn’t—let alone knew where to find a clit. He’d hear it in the barracks, in the gym, during downtime on base, always the same brainless conversation.
And every damn time, his mind went straight to you. His fiancée.
Sure, Simon liked your ass. Liked the way it felt in his hands, the way he could squeeze it in public just to hear you scold him, swatting his arm and hissing about other people being around—like he gave a shit. He liked resting his head on it, treating it like a pillow when you laid on your stomach, liked feeling it press up against him in the middle of the night when you shifted in your sleep.
But he also liked your tits.
Liked watching them bounce when you ran on the treadmill in that little sports bra and shorts. Liked sinking his face into them after long, brutal days, letting himself get lost in your warmth. Liked sneaking up behind you while you got ready, pressing his hands over them just to hear you sigh, half-exasperated, half-amused.
But then there were your eyes.
Simon fucking loved your eyes. Loved that he could stare into them whenever he wanted because you were his and that meant he had that privilege. Loved the way you squinted when the sun was too bright, how you’d complain about it getting in your face while he just stood there, mesmerized by how it made your irises glow. He got grumpy whenever you wore sunglasses. Not that he’d admit it, because it meant he couldn’t see them, just his own damn reflection staring back at him.
Then there was your hair—your sweet-smelling hair that he could sit for hours just breathing in. He loved the way it felt against his skin, whether it was soft, loose or styled with care. Loved when you let him play with it, even if he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing half the time. And when you slept, he didn’t mind if it ended up in his face, didn’t care if it tickled or got in the way. he’d just bury himself deeper, content in the warmth of you.
Then there were your legs.
Simon liked them no matter what. He liked the slight prickle when your hair started growing back, liked running his hands up and down your thighs just to feel the texture. But he also liked when you let him shave them, taking his time, careful and precise, making sure not to nick you. Didn’t matter if they were smooth, stubbled, or fully grown out—he just liked you.
Your hands. Your belly. Your arms. Your face. Every part of you.
So no, Simon never really understood the whole ass or tits question. It was too small, too simple.
Because he didn’t just like your ass or your tits.
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