when simon's on a zoom call with t141, he knows better to make sure go on mute when his wifey prances her away over to him on the couch, a little sway in her hip and a bashful grin on her face. he only rolls his eyes when she climbs into his lap and chirps a sweet "missed you si," and begins to kiss down his neck and rub at his abs through his shirt.
simon's wife is truly insatiable.
simon grunts behind his teeth as his wife begins grinds her crotch against his without another word. they both are entirely clothed, but maybe thats why it clearly feels so good for her. she bites her lip, throws her head back in ecstasy as she rides him in the living room, using him for her pleasure.
there's not a single day that passes when he's home where she isn't trying to pull down his pants! simon knew his wife was a little bit of a nymph—they've produced three beautiful children in a marriage of five years, and she still blabbers about having another.
he should've expected less. before marriage she was constantly on him, aroused by him doing mere things, like taking off his shirt or drinking water the droplets running down his neck accidentally. she'd be on him in an instant, sucking on his neck like a thirsty vampire and calling him a slut. oftentimes simon tries to take a piss and struggles because his lady would suck him dry the night before :(
all simon can do is take it. he sighs heavily when he feels a telling hand rub down his spine and gives her what she wants. like now, when she's so close to orgasm and is whining like a bitch in heat he grabs onto the waistband of her skimpy little pj shorts and helps her grind onto him. for good measure he'll hike her top up till he can see her naked breasts bounce and pinch at her nipples till she's mewling out his name and cumming on top of his dick.
and he definitely doesnt enjoy it. there's definitely not a wet patch forming where his cock's tip is...
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.
find part two here.
————-
it’s honestly not even your fault.
you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.
simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.
needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.
he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.
“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”
the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.
“tha right?”
“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”
simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.
maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.
hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.
“you’re drunk,” he breathes.
you grin. “so’re you.”
“not even half as much as you.”
you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.
“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”
it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.
“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”
and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.
“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”
he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.
“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”
he exhales. slow. almost a growl.
“jesus. stop talkin’.”
“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”
his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.
“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”
he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.
and you?
you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.
“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“
he doesn’t let you finish that thought.
“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”
“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“
his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.
“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”
that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.
“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”
he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”
by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.
and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.
your thighs tense. he notices.
“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”
he pauses. boot in hand.
“…what?”
he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.
your lashes flutter.
“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”
he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.
your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”
he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.
“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.
“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“
“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.
the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.
not fully, but enough.
you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”
he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—
“only when i breathe.”
your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”
he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.
he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”
the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.
“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“
before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.
“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”
you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.
your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”
his eyes snap shut.
“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”
even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.
“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“
his palm tightens over your lips again.
“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”
then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.
“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”
“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”
Simon isn’t really big on texts. The occasional love heart sent your way between clashes while he’s deployed. When he’s home, a funny video or two. Perhaps a cheeky sext when you’re working late.
You always message him though. Thoughtfully thinking of little ways to brighten his day, a photo of a pansy with little patterned black and white leaves turning to the sun, or a picture of your coffee shared with the hope he’ll be home soon.
Does Simon relish the thought of your virtual offerings? Probably not. But still, you miss him. Even a picture of you in your nicest bra and panties might only get a cursory “I’ll take em off with my teeth later…” if he’s feeling frisky.
It’s fine. Really it is. Until the inside of your lip is chewed and anxiety starts to gather in the seams of your mind. One of your friends tells you it’s odd he has no social media, that it’s a red flag his digital footprint is bathed in shadows and secrets. No school reunion photos, or any evidence he exists at all.
But you suffer in silence. Until one day, you don’t text him good morning, or goodnight. The day spans silently between you both, quietly confirming that nagging doubt that he really isn’t interested in the cat that sometimes visits the entryway of your apartment.
Strange how that lack of something can be so loud. It echos, rings in all the corners of your psyche that wanted to be reassured. Only when you’re deep within the cave of isolation, do you realise how honestly you miss the light of the sun.
Two days pass. A full bloody moon rises and begins to blink across your living room, before you hear the slam of the front door. It makes you jump, twitching in your skin as though you’re suddenly uncomfortable in it. A heavy bag is deposited somewhere on the floor, while the metal on it twinkles innocently in the low light.
One heavy boot step, then another.
“Hi!” You smile at him softly.
Simon just glares at you, dark brown eyes seething pits. Two thick arms get crossed over his chest, the greyscale, faded ink under his skin bristling. His hair is tousled, the usual buzz cut a little grown out. Shadows wedged beneath hollowed sockets reminiscent of things that weigh heavily, more than one lifetimes worth of grief to bear.
“I didn’t expect you this early…” Trying again seems logical, even though the sternness in his face should raise alarm. Simon lets out a short chuffing nose, rolling his shoulders along with those ash framed, whiskey coloured irises.
Blinking at him, you wait.
“There’s dinner in the—”
“Is it over?” He rasps, quietly before you can finish. You notice then that he’s paler than usual, his freckles dotted against milky skin.
“Huh?! Is what over?” Perplexed, your mouth opens with a pop.
“Us - this.” Simon gestures between you jerkily, heavyset and blunted fingers that could eclipse yours shaking slightly. “This your way of finishin with me?”
You’re so shocked, for a second all you can do is look blank. Simon sniffs like he’s holding himself together with brute force and clenched teeth. His hand falls to his side limply, jaw working as though chewing something intensely unpleasant.
“You didn’t text me.” He grunts finally, when you’ve caught a few flies through sheer incredulity. “Two days I ain’t had a peep. Not of the cat or nothin. Expected a fucking dear John letter left on the kitchen counter.”
He actually scuffs his boots on the floor restlessly, a little boy about to throw an almighty tantrum. Usually he’s so restrained, operating under a fine layer of almost icy disregard. His bottom lip pouts and the wild urge to giggle makes you clench your own teeth.
“You like my cat pictures?!” It’s about the only thing you can manage to leverage off your tongue.
“Yeah I do actually.”
“Oh, I didn’t realise…”
“Like anythin you send me. Specially tha voice notes n’ videos.” Finally the truth starts to unravel, while you both gaze at one another. “Have I fucked up? Why ain’t you been talkin to me?”
“Well…I wasn’t sure if you even read them to be honest! Also it gets boring having a one sided conversation sometimes Simon!” Defensiveness leeches into your tone, while he tilts his head, the scar slicing through his upper lip drawn tight.
“Alright. What do I have to reply then?”
“Pardon?”
“What do I have to reply to get you to send more?” Earnestly he stares at you, and the desire to laugh madly starts to make your throat hurt.
“Are you being serious?!”
“Deadly.” He replies without hesitation.
“You don’t have to reply! But just a thumbs up emoji would do fine.”
“How do I do tha?” He frowns at you, brows knitting in the middle. “Send ya a photo or somethin of my hand?”
You can’t hold it in anymore, a snort of laughter escapes and bubbles in the air. Once that’s out, several more follow, until he looks entirely hurt at the sound of it.
“Don’t fuckin laugh. M’all pent up. Been worried sick about it.”
“Oh my fucking god Simon come here!”
He doesn’t even take off his boots, crawling into your lap on the couch, resting his head on your chest like a huge, black clad weighted blanket.
“I wouldn’t leave you a letter on the kitchen counter.” You tell him gently, while his breathing regulates. “I’d FaceTime you at least before I posted my key through the letterbox.”
“S’not funny.” He mumbles and gradually your laughter subsides.
“Don’t ever think I ain’t interested in you. S’been shite wakin up without your messages.”
“I’m sorry! You can have all the cat pictures you want going forwards!”
simon chuckles, standing to his fullest height and making no accommodations for you. this has been going on for at least ten minutes now – the bastard just won’t let you have your way. mask off and wearing civilian clothing, a rare occurrence, he washes the dishes in the kitchen, refusing to give in.
“si, don’t be mean. i want a kiss.” you groan when soap suds find their way onto your face. “ugh, don’t flick soap on me. please, si. just kiss me. once. once is all i ask for.”
his back muscles ripple with barely concealed laughter. “don’t be botherin’ me when i’m washin’ up, lovie. ain’t wise.”
“give me a kiss!”
glancing down at you, eyes crinkled in the corner with mirth, his lips twitch. “get it y’rself, woman. go on. come take it from me.”
you creep under his beefy arm, tucking yourself between his broad body and the cold sink. truly cruel, you know he knows that you can only reach his chin on your tiptoes, jumping a little. still, you don’t give up. brushing kisses onto his chin, his neck, his jaw, you do everything in your power to lay a solid one on his lips.
to no avail.
forehead pressed to his chest, you sigh. “fine, mean bastard. you win. i give up. no kisses for me tonight, i guess.”
soaked, fingers pinch your chin, tilting your head back. you see simon’s eyes soften, drifting to your mouth before he leans in, grazing your lips with his tenderly. he doesn’t slip a tongue in, doesn’t deepen the kiss, just lingers, like he’s absorbing your warmth, processing the softness of your skin, and rejoicing in the comfort of being at home.
“mmm, missed ya,” he says.
you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close and pecking his lips over and over again. “i missed you too, si. always.”
he kisses your forehead. “won’t have to soon. i’ll do right by ya. promise.”
“i know.”
oh, but how little do we know when blinded by love and carried through only by faith and hope.
Boyfriend!Simon kisses it better cw: fluff, angst..ish, ghost is a big meanie but he makes up for it
“Mum, Si would only be home for a couple of hours, we just can’t justify the trip-“ You stood by the kitchen stove, cooking up dinner for the both of you.
The last supper, as you liked to put it. Dreary and dreaded. You poked at the sausages in the pan as if to say ‘come on, do something’. But no amount of will could stop the inevitable from happening. Simon was leaving tomorrow, you wouldn’t see him til December.
Speaking of, your mother was currently trying to coax you home for the holidays. She seemed to think that harassing you over the phone would somehow change Simon’s schedule. You two couldn’t make it this year, much to your mother’s dismay, but you and Simon couldn’t wait to spend Christmas together, your first in the new flat. You’d already been browsing decorations on amazon, wanting to make it special for him.
You took a deep breath, trying to ignore the way your mother’s voice coming from the phone felt like an ice pick, slowly chipping away at your will to live.
Everything seemed to be chipping away at you recently. For starters, you were on your period, desperately trying to handle the convulsing pain in your abdomen and back, your mother had been nagging you all week, and to top it all off, the only person keeping you sane was leaving tomorrow. For three months.
“I’ll call you back, mum.” You cut her off, hardly listening to her anyway. You’d apologise later.
You tossed your phone onto the kitchen counter with a sigh, focusing back on the pan in-front of you. Maybe if you didn’t feel like such a sack of shit today, you’d have done something special for Simon. Should I have done something? God, you felt like the worst girlfriend in the world.
Minutes later, you were plating up the potatoes and sausages, looking at your sorry excuse for a meal with disdain. It was all piling up, this overwhelming sense of dread, of not being enough. You just wanted him to stay a little longer. At least long enough for you to feel like you liked yourself again.
You walked into the living room, where Simon was, setting the plates down on the coffee table. The football was on. Simon wasn’t really paying attention.
He set his phone down when you walked in, sitting up with a smile that faded almost as quickly as it formed. “Sausages?” He glanced up at you.
Thin ice.
“But we had these last night.”
Crack.
“It was the only thing in the fridge, I wanted to use them up.” You defended your cooking, already feeling like you were seconds away from crumbling.
“Fuckin’ hell…” He muttered under his breath, dragging a hand over his jaw. He’d at least expected a more extravagant send off from his girl than sausages and potatoes.
“Fine.”
Shatter.
The tears started flowing before you could stop them, the weight of everything crashing over you in one fell swoop. Simon didn’t like your cooking, your mother resented you for ruining traditions, your own body hated you, the cramps persisting even in that very moment.
Simon immediately felt like an asshole. You, stood there in one of his t-shirts, your hair a mess, broken down into tears. Because of what he had said.
This wasn’t how he wanted to spend his last night with you. He’d eat the damn sausages, couldn’t give a shit about them. He just needed to make this right.
“No..no, baby- m’sorry, c’mere.” He opened up his arms for you, sat on the edge of the sofa. You walked over, still sobbing into your hands.
“Shhh..” He soothed, sitting you down on his thigh. He wrapped his arms around you, resting his head against your chest. You sniffled into his hair, arms around his neck.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered, craning his neck to press kisses up the column of your neck, gently pecking the skin there. He squeezed you tighter.
“Didn’t mean it, sweetheart.” He mumbled, rubbing a hand over your lower back where he knew you’d been aching.
You sniffled again, taking a deep breath to gather yourself. He pulled back just enough to look up at you.
“Don’t cry, love…please.” He brought his hand up, tucking your hair behind your ear, wiping your tears with the pad of his thumb. He cradled your jaw in his palm. “That’s better, eh?” He cooed.
He really was trying his best, bless him. You almost felt bad for him. You felt a lot of things, mostly you felt like a big blubbering baby.
“M’sorry I didn’t make anything-“ You croaked out, your voice thick with emotion. Simon cut you off, shaking his head in guilt, pulling you closer. “Don’t be silly.” He said. “Don’t need anything, just need my girl, yeah?” He was rubbing your back again.
You nodded in response, smiling, sniffling.
“There she is.” He smiled, eyes tracing your face. He peppered a few kisses along your jaw, up to your cheek, feeling his heart soften at the sight of your smile. He kissed your pretty pink lips, swollen and puffy from crying like the rest of your face. You felt him grab a handful of your thigh.
“M’gonna miss you so much.” You whispered as you pulled away, tearing up again at the thought of him leaving tomorrow.
“Don’t think about it.” He said, sensing the waterworks. “We still have tonight.”
You laughed, bitter, self-deprecating. “Yeah, and two plates of sausages.”
Simon glanced over at the coffee table, where your food sat, getting colder by the second.
Your eyes met his. “Chinese?” He asked.
An hour later, the takeaway arrived. You both sat on the sofa and watched some cheesy English rom-com that you loved. It wasn’t a completely perfect night, but it had ended better than it started, and you counted that as a win.
You caught Simon staring at you from the corner of your eye. You smiled, glancing over at him. “What?” You asked with a mouthful of Singapore noodles.
“Just love you, s’all.” He mumbled. Your smile grew a little wider as you swallowed the food in your mouth.
“I love you too, Si.” You replied, meeting him in the middle, pressing a kiss to his lips.
Thankyou for reading! I hope you enjoyed this quick drabble while I work on something nice and juicy for u all
Part 1: here
Want more boyfriend!Simon? Comment to be added to the taglist!
you’re sat on the kitchen counter, watching your boyfriend make lunch. he’s pretty like this, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, a hand clenched around the handle of a pan. and his ass—perfectly outlined in those grey sweatpants—so of course, you tell him about it.
“babe? nice ass.”
he sputters and blinks back at you, muscles tensing as he grips the pan, "m'cookin' for you, an' yer busy starin' at my ass?"
"fuckin' biteable biceps too," you double down, watching as it bulges through his shirt as he grips the pan. it really isn't your fault--he's just so pretty.
"fuckin' hell. no filter on you, is there?"
he's basically inviting you to continue, as far as you know. you smile, "and i like you in these sweats. shows your dick off, y'know?" you lean back on your ass, supporting yourself with your arms.
and simon would be lying if the words didn't go straight to his heart, through his blood and straight to his cock. "fuckin... shut up for once, eh?" he grumbles, biting at his lip, trying to concentrate on the food in his pan.
"...like when you bite those lips, makes me wanna bite you back," you hum, moving up behind him, hands gripping at his firm hips.
and to say simon is surprised when you sink your teeth into his arm would be an overstatement, but that is the least of his worries--his cock visibly twitches in his grey sweats.
"Can I ask you a question?"
You ask, relaxing on his chest in the tub.
"What is it, love?"
He asks, He's always open to your questions, even the weird ones
"Let's say that I'm pregnant..."
he sits up, moving his hands on your belly
"wait, you're...are you...? You-no, I thought that you were on birth control, that's why we don't use condoms, but we can-"
You turn cupping his face with your hands
"Calm down, cowboy. I'm not pregnant, it's just a hypothesis."
You say, caressing his cheeks
"a hypothesis..."
"Yeah, I had my period two weeks ago."
He takes a deep breath, his shoulder relaxing.
You sit on the other side of the tub, putting your feet on his chest, hinting that you want a massage. Without saying a word, he gently grabs your feet and starts massaging them. He's always gentle when he touches you, besides those times in the bedroom when you give him the green light to break you in half.
"Let's say that I'm pregnant, I am not. and at the moment of giving birth, you have to make a choice-"
"You"
He says without letting you finish the sentence
"I would choose you, without thinking twice."
His brows forros
"You would choose me over your child?"
you ask
"Yes, ma'am. We can make another baby, but there's only one of you. And I can't lose you."
"You would choose me..."
you say tearing up
"Oh, c'mon, don't cry, baby...Please, I didn't mean to make you cry. come here"
He says, pulling your feet, wanting to hug you. He wraps his big arms around your body
"don't cry"
He says hugging you
"I would always choose you...over everything"
He says
"You're the best thing that has ever happened to me, you're like...you're like walking into a warm room after spending a whole day in the cold, and like chocolate cake after a terrible week, you're like running into the sea during the golden hour...you're-"
You sob
"i would choose you over everything"
He says again, caressing your back
"You love me that much?"
You ask
"yes."
"and don't get me wrong...I would love to have a kid with you, but...if i had to make a choice...i would choose you, every-single-time"
You peck his lips
The cold shoulder every time he stepped into the house. And the worst of all punishments: sleeping on the couch. That goddamn couch, stiff and distant, miles away from your warmth.
He didn’t complain. Not when his back screamed in the morning, not when his neck cracked with every shift. Nothing.
Work was a blur. His focus, shot. Every time his phone buzzed, he snatched it up like it might be you.
It never was.
Nope.
Fucking Soap.
> “MY wife lets me sleep in bed with her. :]”
Asshole.
By the end of the week, Simon was in ruins—your absence chewing holes into what little remained of his sanity.
He needed to touch you.
Hold you.
Lay his head on your chest and breathe.
How were you fine with this?
How could you just shut him out?
And why, in God’s name, had he married such a stubborn woman?
…because he liked it.
That night, Simon did everything right.
Boots off at the door.
Duffle stowed neatly in the closet.
Gear stripped down and tossed into the laundry bin.
A real shower, not one of those rushed rinses—he scrubbed until the scent of Oakwood and Pines clung to every inch of scarred skin, drifting from the bathroom and bleeding into the bedroom.
You felt it before you heard him—the familiar pull of his presence mixed with the clean musk that always made your willpower falter.
Your fingers tightened around your book. You didn’t look up. If you looked, you’d fold.
You knew it.
But damn it, he smelled good.
Simon stepped out, towel drying his hair, shirt damp against the curve of his back. His pajama pants hung low on his hips, casual, familiar, like a memory you didn’t want to admit you missed.
You peeked. Just a little.
And he saw.
The flicker of your eyes in his direction set off something in him. Hope lit up his face like a dog hearing the treat bag crinkle.
He pounced.
No warning, just all six-foot-something of him crashing onto you like a damn tree falling.
“Oof—Jesus CHRIST, Si!” you gasped, struggling under the sudden weight. “You’re too big for that!”
“’m not,” he grumbled into your stomach, arms snaking around you, face pressed to your skin like he planned to melt into you. Honestly, if he could crawl inside and live under your ribcage, he would.
You sighed, tossing your book aside, hand finding its way into his damp hair. The tension bled from his body instantly under your touch.
“Big baby…” you muttered.
He tilted his head, just enough to look up at you.
Those brown eyes—eyes that had seen war, death, and worse—were impossibly soft now.
“You done ignoring me?”
His voice was small. Hopeful. Like he’d crumble if you said no.
You stared down at him for a moment, lips pressed tight, trying to hold on to that edge of power you’d clung to all week. You wanted to stay mad—hell, you should stay mad. But Simon curled around you like a man starving, clinging to scraps of affection like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
And maybe, just maybe, it was.
Your fingers slid slowly through his hair again. “I shouldn’t be done.”
His arms only tightened around you, body sinking deeper into your side, like the very idea of you pulling away would kill him dead. “I know.”
“You forgot our anniversary.”
“I know.” He groaned the words into your stomach, shame thick in his throat. “I’m the worst husband alive.”
“You’re up there.”
But your voice was already softer, that edge fading with each breath he took against your skin.
Simon peeked up at you again, brows drawn in that pitiful, wounded-puppy expression that always made your heart twitch no matter how pissed off you were. “I had somethin’ planned. Got pulled for a mission, got back late, then… I didn’t know how to bring it up.”
You gave a small scoff, fingers absentmindedly combing through his undercut now. “So your solution was radio silence and hiding in your own house?”
“...Y’weren’t exactly giving me a warm welcome,” he muttered.
“I wasn’t the one who forgot, Simon.”
He shut his eyes, face buried against your stomach again like he was trying to disappear.
You let the silence stretch for a few seconds, your other hand moving to rest on his back. He was warm—always so damn warm—and solid, like you could press your entire body against him and still not get close enough.
And that’s what made it so hard to stay mad.
“I missed you,” he said quietly.
You closed your eyes.
"Then act like it next time."
He nodded against you, barely more than a brush of movement. “I will. I swear.”
Another silence, but this one wasn’t heavy—it settled between you like a blanket, familiar and worn.
“You’re still not getting laid tonight,” you added.
Simon let out a pained noise, somewhere between a groan and a dying animal. “C’mon, love…”
“Nope.”
“Can I at least stay in bed?”
You looked down at him—his whole body wrapped around you like a lifeline, those big brown eyes begging without a hint of shame.
“…Fine.”
He exhaled like he’d just been released from captivity. “God, I missed this mattress.”
“I missed my space,” you shot back, but there was no bite left in it.
Simon wiggled just enough to fit perfectly against your side, one leg tossed over yours, his head nestled under your chin now. “I’ll sleep on the edge.”
“Damn right you will.”
A pause. Then, muffled into your chest:
“You still mad at me?”
You sighed, long and theatrical. “Ask me in the morning.”
-he sleeps better when you’re touching. doesn’t matter how—your ankle resting on his, your fingers tangled, your whole body draped over him like a blanket—if you’re not touching, he won’t sleep. just lies there, blinking into the dark.
-he never says “i love you” the same way twice. sometimes it’s “text me when you get home.” sometimes it’s “eat something.” sometimes it’s him holding your wrist a little too tight before he lets you walk away.
-every time you wear his hoodie, he watches you like it’s the first time. like he forgot how good it looks on you. he doesn’t say anything. just tilts his head a little. maybe bites the inside of his cheek.
-he always smells like smoke, metal, and your shampoo. he uses it when you’re not looking. swears he doesn’t. but his side of the pillow always smells like you. it’s better than that shitty 7-in-1 anyways.
-he’s terrifyingly quiet when he’s angry. except with you. with you, he talks. not loud. but honest. “that scared the hell out of me.” “don’t do that again.” “i can’t lose you.”
-he doesn’t take pictures, but he has so many of you. little ones. secret ones. blurry and off-center. your hand on his thigh. your silhouette in the kitchen. your laugh mid-bite. he looks at them when he misses home.
-sometimes he just stares at you mid—conversation, like he forgot everything you were saying because your face is doing something soft. like smiling, or existing.
-when you’re sick, he’s unbearable. no one else can take care of you right. he brings you water, meds, hot tea, his hoodie, five blankets, a knife, and a death glare for anyone who even breathes near you.
-he gets shy after sex. not during—he’s dangerous during—but after, when you’re in his arms and breathing hard, he gets quiet. almost sweet. brushing hair from your face like he can’t believe you’re real.
-he doesn’t say “forever.” but when he fixes the cabinet in your bathroom without asking? when he memorizes your coffee order? when he adds your birthdate to every form he fills out? that’s him saying it.
He's never been worried. Not at home, not when he could fight any assailants off himself. Hell, they'd be fucking loose in the head to think they could take him on. It's not like he had much to show either--he didn't have much in the ways of luxury, simply because he chose not to purchase it.
Until he met you. He was nervous then, suddenly fixing shit around the house he'd let slip by him--the broken security system, the hole in the ceiling where he'd ripped out the smoke alarm because of its incessant 'low battery' beeping. Sure it was dangerous, but he hadn't cared before.
What never changed was the fact he'd had guns all over the house. You told him before that you'd feel sorry for whatever poor bloke thought he could grab a quick check off of your home, and he'd laughed in response, told you not to worry about it. He'd deal with it, after all, should push come to shove.
So he's prepared when he hears rustling from downstairs, and the beeping of the security system he'd had installed beeping away beside his ear--quiet enough for you to never notice, loud enough for him to wake up. He slips out of bed, sooths the crease that forms between your brows when his warmth leaves from beside yours, and grabs the pistol under the bed.
Whoever's broken in is about to feel bloody sorry for even trying.
He's efficient. Makes quick work of checking upstairs, deems it all clear before he's creeping down the stairs--the perpetrator's back in immediate sight. He's rifling through the desk in the study, thumbing through cabinets for cash, or anything expensive.
He only notices Simon when Simon wants him to. It's a firm press of the gun to the guy's head, causing him to jump, flinching under the touch. "What the hell--"
“I’d shoot y’point blank right ‘ere if I could, but the missus is sleepin’ upstairs. So y’ve got thirty seconds t’fuck off before I turn y’into a stain on the carpet," Simon interjects, checking the clock on the wall absently. Like it's just an average weekday to him.
"Hey, hey man, I'm just--" he raises his hands placatingly, dropping the papers he had been holding.
"Aye. Don't give a fuck. Would rather not stain the carpet, though, missus really likes this one. Said it's real soft n' nice on 'er feet."
Simon catches the door as he practically sprints from the home, only to avoid it slamming--he wouldn't want to alarm you, of course. He hums, shuts it quietly, and goes to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.
When he's back upstairs, shuffling into the bedroom, your wide eyes looking at him and quietly asking him where he went--how dare he leave you when you were cuddling, he smiles, places the glass on the nightstand and sneakily slips the gun right where he'd first gotten it.
“Nothing, luv, was thirsty, needed t’grab some water.”
When it came to sex, Simon had a very specific rule: lights off.
It wasn't that he was shy during the act, no, far from it. He just didn't want to be seen. He hated being seen.
Simon always had issues with his appearance, the scars that were visible all over his body, the ones he could cover with tattoos, he covered, but they were still clearly visible. Not to mention that he didn't have a good-looking face, as it was also covered with scars and other marks. He just refused to show himself in such a vulnerable way to anyone.
But well, since he didn't have a nice face, he tried to compensate with his body. A stupidly strong man, muscular and juicy biceps with veins that popped every time he made the slightest effort, or mouth-watering meaty thighs. Not to mention his ass.
But what bothered him? That bloody soft tummy wouldn't go away. He had tried everything, but that soft layer of fat wouldn't budge, and he hated that shit.
So, every time he had sex with someone, it was always in a position where he couldn't be seen. Well, that is, until he started dating you.
You could soften his heart with a few words. He could swear that you only saw him as a big teddy bear to cuddle, and for you, the bigger the better. He lost count of how many times he got a hard-on while you talked about how you'd love to ride his thighs, and he would indulge every fucking time.
After much insistence, you managed to convince him to get completely naked for you, giving you the freedom to do whatever you wanted with him. And fuck if he wasn't in heaven with that.
Your lips kissing every part of his body, your hands tracing his scars with nothing but love in your touch, and just seeing you touch him as if he were the only man in the world made him hard as a rock, his thick cock resting on his stomach, pulsing from time to time without any local touch.
He should have been embarrassed to be so helpless in your hands, but how could he deny it? Your lips mapped every scar, mark, tattoo, even kissing that belly he hated so much.
Simon didn't cum quickly, really, because the focus was on satisfying you first. But once you ran your hand down his happy trail, all you could feel was a wet, sticky mess, seeing that he had came without you even masturbating him, in the most pathetic way imaginable.
“'m sorry...” He says, but his expression was anything but guilty.
You smile, licking the cum between your fingers. And to hell with any shame he had, because he was sure that he would repeat this.
“You just needed a little love, big boy.” you say, smiling as he pulls you down to sit on his face, wanting to suffocate between your thighs. He'd never let you without pleasure.
He would show you how grateful he was for what you did.
Bestfriend!Simon — Part 2 to this. cw: smut, suggestive content, mdni, alcohol misuse, porn with plot, basically boyfriend simon atp, mentions of vomit (not detailed), ruined orgasm, fluff
He trailed his kisses up the inside of your thigh, the alcohol in his veins fuelling his actions. Simon had always thought you were pretty. He had a crush on you back in secondary school, but he was too shy to do anything about it. Never had the balls. But right here and now, your scent alone had him going insane.
You pushed back into the sofa, widening your legs for him, the warmth in your belly spreading. Your breath picked up, your cheeks flushed bright pink. Oh god, this was actually happening.
Simon ran his hands up your calves, your thighs, thick fingers pushing under the material of your tight dress. And suddenly, his cheek was resting against the skin of your thigh, eyes fluttering shut like he’d just taken a hit of cocaine — no, heroin. You were far more addictive than cocaine.
His head in your lap, glossy eyes flickering up to meet your darker ones. You brought a hand down to run your manicured fingers through his short blonde locks. He needed you desperately, and yet he was completely at your mercy, your beck and call. He always had been.
Simon took a deep breath. “You’re drunk, sweetheart.” He stated, sounding almost disappointed, as if searching for an excuse to stop things from going further. Not because he didn’t want them to, but because he respected your friendship too much to ruin it on a drunken whim.
“So are you.” You replied, smiling, blushing, cradling the side of his face in your palm. His eyes fluttered shut again.
Simon turned his face into your palm, pressing a kiss against your skin. “You’ll regret it.” He murmured, but he was already lifting your thighs onto his shoulders.
“I won’t.” Your breath hitched, sinking into the sofa as he lifted your legs over his shoulders. It was as if you didn’t need words to communicate with Simon — he just knew. Knew that you wanted this, knew that you were far too irresistible for him to pass up the chance to show you how you deserved to be treated.
He was pushing your dress up, mouth grazing up your thigh as he got closer to the heat between your legs. You were practically soaking, poor thing.
“You say the word, I’ll stop.” He mumbled against your skin, and when you didn’t respond, too desperate to think, he nipped at your thigh to get your attention.
You nodded immediately, breathless, letting out a squeak. “Yes- yes, okay…”
He smirked, moving his mouth up higher, nails sinking into your thighs as he pressed a kiss to the wet patch on your panties. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, not wanting to interfere, just watching him work his magic.
He licked a stripe up the damp fabric, eyes lifting to yours as he heard your soft gasp. Attentive as always.
It wasn’t long before he was pulling the lace down your legs, tossing your panties somewhere across the living room, and diving back in again.
He pulled you further down the couch, relentlessly pushing your thighs apart for him as you giggled, feeling giddy from the alcohol in your system, and the overwhelming feeling of being loved by this man, taken care of for years. He was happy to do it. You were perfect.
He smiled as he pressed a kiss to your clit, lapping up your cunt to get a first taste. And god, you had him wondering why he’d waited all these years to make you his.
And you would be his, because there was no way in hell he was letting you go after this.
He hummed against you, smacking your ass and kneading it better. You moaned softly, hips chasing his face. He continued to lick through the pool of arousal you’d worked up. “Fuck” he rasped, and you swore you were seeing stars already.
“Si- mmphfuck..” You were babbling and he’d hardly even touched you. It was probably the alcohol heightening your senses, or maybe the fact that you’d been pining for this man for over a decade now.
He breathed you in, nose nudging against your clit as he licked into your leaking hole, your arousal staining the fabric of the couch below you. Simon’s aging knees were killing him, crouched on the floor for you, but he didn’t care. Not when he got to eat your pretty pussy and show you just what you’d been missing from him all these years.
Your eyes fell shut, your brain focused on nothing but the pleasure pooling in your abdomen — excluding the continuous ‘in-out’ mantra in the back of your mind as you manually breathed through your drunkenness. Was the extra saliva in your mouth because of Simon? Or were you… No, surely not.
He slid one thick finger into you, lips moving up to suck on your clit. That was when you felt the panic, the rush of nausea. Ohhh, shit.
“Si- Simon-“ You groaned, and when he mistook your attempt to grab his attention as pleasurable moaning, you grabbed his wrist.
“M’gonna puke-“
The three words you really didn’t want to hear when eating a girl out.
Luckily, he’d managed to grab the decorative bowl on the coffee table just in time. No late night carpet cleaning, touch wood.
And when he’d put you to bed later, and brushed your teeth and helped you change into your pyjamas, Simon brushed off your profuse apologies with a cocky, “S’fine, love. Suppose I was just that good, eh?”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you turned your face into the pillow. Simon sat on the edge of the bed, hand gently rubbing your hip through the sheets. He was smiling, how was he smiling? you thought, because if your ex-boyfriends had taught you anything, it was that this same situation would’ve definitely been handled differently if it were anyone else. Immature, is one way to put it.
But Simon wasn’t just one of your stupid past boyfriends. He was your best friend, even if that term had now…complicated itself. Friend first, and then whatever the hell was brewing between you both came second. He had zero intention of making you feel guilty about this.
“I’m never drinking again.” You mumbled into your pillow.
Famous last words.
Simon hummed, indulging you, because he knew you’d be calling him up again in a few days begging him for go out with you. ‘Oh but last time was so fun!’, you’d say.
“Sure, love. Sure.” He leant down, hand moving to the back of your neck, gently coaxing your pretty eyes back up to his face instead of hidden in your pillow. “Hey.”
“There she is.” He smiled, when you finally fluttered your lashes open. His thumb gently massaged into the muscle where your head met your neck.
You melted into his hand, staring into his eyes, watching as his gaze seemed to roam your face. He was taking you all in, like he’d done countless times before, but now in a completely different light.
You, not just as his friend — that wild girl from school, the sometimes still wild girl he met up with on his months off. You. With your one too many strawberry daiquiri’s, your messy hair and funny stomach. He loved you. Imperfections and all. It was simple, really. But he was in love.
Did you vomit mid-cunnilingus and completely ruin his efforts at making you see just how perfect you two were together? Sure. But he wouldn’t have it any other way. The chaos was what made your friendship so good, it was the perfect start to what he hoped would be an even better romance.
You smiled softly, when the silence stretched long, his gaze not wavering in intensity. No one had ever looked at you like this before. He’d never looked at you like this before. It made you nervous.
You knew better than to apologise for the hundredth time tonight, but hell you wanted to reassure him.
What came out of your mouth was a promise.
“Promise me we can pick up where we left off when I’m not so utterly drunk and stupid?” You mumbled, smiling sheepishly.
He smiled, lip quirked up at one side, the side not paralysed by battle and scar-tissue.
He leant in, further and further until his lips were hovering just above yours.
“I promise.” He replied, fingers tangling in the hair at the back of your head as he kissed you.
You tasted like toothpaste.
Thankyou for reading!! Sorry to edge you guys but good things come to those who wait, trust
"do you love me?" you muttered as you two were in bed. the question already being heard over three hours in different moments.
"yeah" he said, with his face against the pillow.
"but love me how? like... love me like a lover or love me just like 'i can't stand you but i still accept you'?" you asked again, going over and over about the same stupid question.
"we're bloody married."
"yeah— but my father said the same thing and then he divorced mum, so—"
"shut up," he hissed as he throw his arm around your neck. not to choke you but to shut you up, indeed.
"mhm, kinky."
"okay, you know what—?" he pulled away and started to sit.
you were quick to hug him from behind between giggles.
"sorry, sorry— let's go back to sleep," you smiled. then, peppered his tired face with kisses. he sighed and lay again, hugging you as you cuddled.
Bestfriend!Simon — Part 2 to this. cw: smut, suggestive content, mdni, alcohol misuse, porn with plot, basically boyfriend simon atp, mentions of vomit (not detailed), ruined orgasm, fluff
He trailed his kisses up the inside of your thigh, the alcohol in his veins fuelling his actions. Simon had always thought you were pretty. He had a crush on you back in secondary school, but he was too shy to do anything about it. Never had the balls. But right here and now, your scent alone had him going insane.
You pushed back into the sofa, widening your legs for him, the warmth in your belly spreading. Your breath picked up, your cheeks flushed bright pink. Oh god, this was actually happening.
Simon ran his hands up your calves, your thighs, thick fingers pushing under the material of your tight dress. And suddenly, his cheek was resting against the skin of your thigh, eyes fluttering shut like he’d just taken a hit of cocaine — no, heroin. You were far more addictive than cocaine.
His head in your lap, glossy eyes flickering up to meet your darker ones. You brought a hand down to run your manicured fingers through his short blonde locks. He needed you desperately, and yet he was completely at your mercy, your beck and call. He always had been.
Simon took a deep breath. “You’re drunk, sweetheart.” He stated, sounding almost disappointed, as if searching for an excuse to stop things from going further. Not because he didn’t want them to, but because he respected your friendship too much to ruin it on a drunken whim.
“So are you.” You replied, smiling, blushing, cradling the side of his face in your palm. His eyes fluttered shut again.
Simon turned his face into your palm, pressing a kiss against your skin. “You’ll regret it.” He murmured, but he was already lifting your thighs onto his shoulders.
“I won’t.” Your breath hitched, sinking into the sofa as he lifted your legs over his shoulders. It was as if you didn’t need words to communicate with Simon — he just knew. Knew that you wanted this, knew that you were far too irresistible for him to pass up the chance to show you how you deserved to be treated.
He was pushing your dress up, mouth grazing up your thigh as he got closer to the heat between your legs. You were practically soaking, poor thing.
“You say the word, I’ll stop.” He mumbled against your skin, and when you didn’t respond, too desperate to think, he nipped at your thigh to get your attention.
You nodded immediately, breathless, letting out a squeak. “Yes- yes, okay…”
He smirked, moving his mouth up higher, nails sinking into your thighs as he pressed a kiss to the wet patch on your panties. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, not wanting to interfere, just watching him work his magic.
He licked a stripe up the damp fabric, eyes lifting to yours as he heard your soft gasp. Attentive as always.
It wasn’t long before he was pulling the lace down your legs, tossing your panties somewhere across the living room, and diving back in again.
He pulled you further down the couch, relentlessly pushing your thighs apart for him as you giggled, feeling giddy from the alcohol in your system, and the overwhelming feeling of being loved by this man, taken care of for years. He was happy to do it. You were perfect.
He smiled as he pressed a kiss to your clit, lapping up your cunt to get a first taste. And god, you had him wondering why he’d waited all these years to make you his.
And you would be his, because there was no way in hell he was letting you go after this.
He hummed against you, smacking your ass and kneading it better. You moaned softly, hips chasing his face. He continued to lick through the pool of arousal you’d worked up. “Fuck” he rasped, and you swore you were seeing stars already.
“Si- mmphfuck..” You were babbling and he’d hardly even touched you. It was probably the alcohol heightening your senses, or maybe the fact that you’d been pining for this man for over a decade now.
He breathed you in, nose nudging against your clit as he licked into your leaking hole, your arousal staining the fabric of the couch below you. Simon’s aging knees were killing him, crouched on the floor for you, but he didn’t care. Not when he got to eat your pretty pussy and show you just what you’d been missing from him all these years.
Your eyes fell shut, your brain focused on nothing but the pleasure pooling in your abdomen — excluding the continuous ‘in-out’ mantra in the back of your mind as you manually breathed through your drunkenness. Was the extra saliva in your mouth because of Simon? Or were you… No, surely not.
He slid one thick finger into you, lips moving up to suck on your clit. That was when you felt the panic, the rush of nausea. Ohhh, shit.
“Si- Simon-“ You groaned, and when he mistook your attempt to grab his attention as pleasurable moaning, you grabbed his wrist.
“M’gonna puke-“
The three words you really didn’t want to hear when eating a girl out.
Luckily, he’d managed to grab the decorative bowl on the coffee table just in time. No late night carpet cleaning, touch wood.
And when he’d put you to bed later, and brushed your teeth and helped you change into your pyjamas, Simon brushed off your profuse apologies with a cocky, “S’fine, love. Suppose I was just that good, eh?”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you turned your face into the pillow. Simon sat on the edge of the bed, hand gently rubbing your hip through the sheets. He was smiling, how was he smiling? you thought, because if your ex-boyfriends had taught you anything, it was that this same situation would’ve definitely been handled differently if it were anyone else. Immature, is one way to put it.
But Simon wasn’t just one of your stupid past boyfriends. He was your best friend, even if that term had now…complicated itself. Friend first, and then whatever the hell was brewing between you both came second. He had zero intention of making you feel guilty about this.
“I’m never drinking again.” You mumbled into your pillow.
Famous last words.
Simon hummed, indulging you, because he knew you’d be calling him up again in a few days begging him for go out with you. ‘Oh but last time was so fun!’, you’d say.
“Sure, love. Sure.” He leant down, hand moving to the back of your neck, gently coaxing your pretty eyes back up to his face instead of hidden in your pillow. “Hey.”
“There she is.” He smiled, when you finally fluttered your lashes open. His thumb gently massaged into the muscle where your head met your neck.
You melted into his hand, staring into his eyes, watching as his gaze seemed to roam your face. He was taking you all in, like he’d done countless times before, but now in a completely different light.
You, not just as his friend — that wild girl from school, the sometimes still wild girl he met up with on his months off. You. With your one too many strawberry daiquiri’s, your messy hair and funny stomach. He loved you. Imperfections and all. It was simple, really. But he was in love.
Did you vomit mid-cunnilingus and completely ruin his efforts at making you see just how perfect you two were together? Sure. But he wouldn’t have it any other way. The chaos was what made your friendship so good, it was the perfect start to what he hoped would be an even better romance.
You smiled softly, when the silence stretched long, his gaze not wavering in intensity. No one had ever looked at you like this before. He’d never looked at you like this before. It made you nervous.
You knew better than to apologise for the hundredth time tonight, but hell you wanted to reassure him.
What came out of your mouth was a promise.
“Promise me we can pick up where we left off when I’m not so utterly drunk and stupid?” You mumbled, smiling sheepishly.
He smiled, lip quirked up at one side, the side not paralysed by battle and scar-tissue.
He leant in, further and further until his lips were hovering just above yours.
“I promise.” He replied, fingers tangling in the hair at the back of your head as he kissed you.
You tasted like toothpaste.
Thankyou for reading!! Sorry to edge you guys but good things come to those who wait, trust
Bestfriend!Simon taking care of you after a night out cw: fluff, suggestive content, mentions of alcohol and smoking
You and Simon had been friends for years, always counting on each other for a good time. It was guaranteed with Simon, easy. You used to skip class and go smoke on the back field together as teenagers, and when he enlisted, you’d kept in touch as often as you could. But the real fun happened during your nights out together, like this one.
Simon had flown back from god knows where that morning, and after a meal at your favourite restaurant in the city, and a hazy few drinks at a bar, you two had ended up in a taxi home. It had been months since you’d last had the chance to talk, and you weren’t sure if you wanted the night to end.
He sighed, shifting his hips forward in the cramped back seat, his palms spread out over his thighs. Simon had a way of dwarfing everything around him, making the taxi seem like it was made for a doll, and not a six foot, two-hundred pound machine of a man.
You were drunk. You both were, some more than others, Simon had poignantly mentioned as he made fun of your swaying, half silly state. The streets passed like memories, forgotten almost as soon as remembered. You watched the window with your head lolled to the side, slumped back in your seat like you were glued to the leather.
Simon glanced over at you, careful not to hit his head on the roof of the car.
“You alrigh’?” He rasped, poking your shoulder a few times to grab your attention.
You breathed in, as if waking up from a daydream, sitting up straighter and swatting his hand away. “Yeah, yeah...feel fine.” You mumbled. “Feel great actually.”
“Yeah?” He smirked, the scar on his bottom lip tilting upwards. There was something about you like this that he loved, carefree, giggling like you did when you were teenagers. It made the heaviness in his chest a little lighter, like the weight of the world didn’t rest on his shoulders, and he wouldn’t have to return to a cold barrack somewhere half the world away. He was here, with you, and that was worth every bullet it took to come home.
“Mm-hm.” You nodded, as if you’d never been surer of anything in your life. Work had been kicking your ass lately, and tonight had been a well-needed reminder that the world wasn’t all bad, neither were the people.
He hummed, hand resting on the middle seat between you both. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of you, you, looking gorgeous in your dress, your hair down. Because you didn’t care what you did with it, not when you had no-one to impress, no-one to bullshit. Simon knew you, better than most, and you felt comfortable around him. He thought you were beautiful no matter what you looked like.
You watched him as he watched you, the buzz in your body lowering your restraint. You reached over to hold onto his arm, cheek slumping against his shoulder. You shut your eyes.
He moved wordlessly, cradling the back of your head in his free hand, fingers tangling in your hair. He smiled gently, not that he’d ever let you see, glancing out the window for the rest of the journey.
The taxi pulled up outside of your flat, and Simon paid the driver before you could protest. You sat up with a deep breath, thanked the man at the wheel, and pushed open the door to attempt at standing up. Simon was at your aid in no time, rounding the boot of the car and wrapping an arm around your waist, reaching down to pull you up and out of the back seat. “Up you get, love..” he grunted.
Simon shut the door, letting you slump against him as you both staggered up the steps towards your flat. He smirked, slightly tipsy but too self-aware to ever be sloppy, unlike you. You held your bag in one hand, the other pressed against Simon’s back as he held you up by the waist. You walked in step with him, the sight of your stilettos next to his boots bringing a smile to your flushed features.
He took your bag from you as you reached the front door, rummaging through the sea of lip gloss and tampons for your keys. You opted for resting against the wall, you eyes fluttering shut, a stupid smile on your face that Simon didn’t know if he wanted to punch or kiss.
A few turns of the lock, and he was in. Simon pulled you over to the door with his hands on your waist, shaking his head fondly at how drunk you were. And when your feet didn’t quite step high enough, he lifted you to make sure you made it into your flat without falling face first, muttering something about how useless you were.
You laughed, in awe of how weightless you felt in his arms, like you’d never been freer in your entire life. He held you against him with his arm around your waist as he stepped inside after you, shutting the door securely. “Si, m’fine..” You grumbled, trying to free yourself from his grasp, to which he responded with a swift arm under your knees, carrying you bridal-style into the living room.
“Not so fast, sweetheart.” He tutted, smirking as he placed you down on the sofa.
Simon knelt down in-front of you, getting to work, pulling off those stilettos with the red sole that he knew you loved so much. Why you protected them like they were your babies, he could never understand. He didn’t understand fashion trends, didn’t need to. His tactical gear served him just fine. Although he had worn a simple t-shirt and jeans tonight to save you the ‘embarrassment’.
If only he knew how badly you wanted to see him in that gear, how much the mask turned you on.
Your eyes fell shut, your body moulded into the shape of the sofa, the carefree parting of your knees giving Simon the perfect view of the underwear you were wearing, black with lace. Fuckin’ tease.
“Please stay..” Your voice came out soft and breathy, almost desperate, and Simon couldn’t resist. He didn’t plan on ever denying you anything.
He glanced up at your smile, those sparkling eyes. He gently massaged your foot in his hands.
“Okay.” He rasped, without hesitation. “I’ll stay.” And pressed a kiss to your knee.
thankyou for reading!! i might do a pt2 to this, so please let me know if you’d like more (with some much needed smutty drabbles) 🫶
- anna
Call Me Ria🐻 @ghostsbuttcheeks - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
