You and Simon are that one couple who, when asked what your plans are for the weekend, will give a vague answer that folks usually interpret as a shit ton of sex, but in reality you two are just knocked the fuck out in bed with your awesome blackout curtains. Simon is snoring the whole damn house down.
Sometimes the house became almost painfully quiet when Simon was away. Not the good kind of quiet, the kind that settled softly over the room and let you breathe for a while. This was different. A strange, persistent silence that felt like something was missing from the walls themselves, like the whole place had forgotten how to sound like home.
You did your best to fill it.
Books, music, little cleaning spurts that turned into reorganizing entire shelves, and, most often lately, cooking. Cooking helped. It gave your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on. It was soothing, for the most part, until you made something you knew Simon would have loved, and there was no one there to tease, taste, or steal the first bite.
Still, tonight’s recipe had gone well. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, all garlic and herbs and something sweet lingering underneath. You stood there with a plate in one hand, ready to finally serve, when you heard it.
A shuffle. Then a low groan from the front door.
Your whole body went rigid.
Simon was not supposed to be back for another week. You were alone. No guests, no deliveries, no reason for anyone to be at the door at all.
Someone was breaking in. Shit.
You went cold all at once, every lecture Simon had ever given you on self defense flashing through your mind, but panic left no room for careful thinking. You grabbed the plate tighter, your knuckles whitening around it, and moved before your brain could catch up.
The lock rattled, the door bursting open and you swung.
The plate shattered spectacularly against the head of the very tall intruder.
For one breathtaking second, you stood frozen, half expecting a stranger, a threat, anything else.
Instead, a familiar grumble filled the doorway, "Fucking hell."
Your soul left your body.
“Simon?” you gasped, throwing your hands up in horror as adrenaline shot through you so fast your fingers trembled.
He staggered inside, a duffel bag slipping from one shoulder and thudding to the floor. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to the side of his head.
“Are you okay?!” you gasped.
“I got smashed with a plate. What ya think?” he muttered, eyes shut tight.
“You were supposed to be back in a week!”
“Mission ended early,” he said with a pained groan.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Wanted t’ surprise ya.”
You stared at him.
Then gestured wildly at the ceramic graveyard on the floor.
"That is objectively the worst possible strategy for someone who constantly tells me to be careful because of all the enemies you've made."
He gave you a flat look. “Nice. Blame the victim.”
"The victim broke into the house like a raccoon with military training."
He huffed "rude."
“Just go sit down,” you said, already ushering him toward the sofa. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
He kicked off his boots with a grunt and dropped onto the couch like all the bones in his body had collectively decided to quit. By the time you returned, kit in hand, he looked tired in that deeply worn-out way that made your chest ache, guilt gnawed at you like a tiny feral creature.
"Si, I'm so sorry," you blurted the second you sat beside him. "I genuinely thought someone was breaking in and then the door opened and I panicked and my body moved before my brain did and I hit you and—"
"It's alright, swee’heart," his voice came soft, steady.
You worked carefully, cleaning the scratches on his forehead and the small cuts along his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch much, though he did keep staring at you with that quiet, warm look that always made you feel like you were the only light in the room.
“Been through a dangerous mission,” he said, “an’ get home to get clocked by me wife.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, glaring at the cotton pad like it had personally offended you.
“Never said it was.”
“You are being very smug for a man who got ambushed by dinnerware.”
He huffed a laugh. “Usually wives greet their husbands with kisses and hugs. Not ceramic warfare.”
“I was trying out a new greeting method.”
He raised one brow. “Next time, how about a pan to the face?”
You let out a helpless laugh. “Shut up.”
“You hit me.”
“I thought you were breaking in!”
“Still counts as domestic violence, luv.”
You snorted despite yourself, and he looked absurdly pleased with that.
Once you finished, he leaned back into the couch with a long sigh, still horrified and still trying not to laugh at the stupidity of this entire situation. He tilted his head toward you.
“On the bright side,” he said, “I do know for certain you’re safe when I’m gone.”
You’re curled up against Simon beneath the heavy comforter, your cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of his toned chest. One of his arms is wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close. The other hand moves lazily along your back, fingertips tracing slow, absentminded patterns through the thin fabric of your shirt. Every touch is gentle, warm enough to melt the last bit of tension from your muscles.
The apartment is wrapped in that late-night stillness that only settles in after midnight. Somewhere in the distance, rain taps softly against the window, and the muted glow from the bedside lamp paints everything in soft gold. His thumb drags lightly across your shoulder before his voice finally breaks the silence, low and rough with exhaustion.
“Wanna hear a joke?”
You already know he’s going to tell it no matter what answer you give. That alone makes the corner of your mouth twitch.
You let out a sleepy hum, somewhere between a groan and permission.
Simon shifts slightly beneath you, like he’s preparing to deliver the greatest punchline of the century.
“Why did the scarecrow get promoted?”
A soft sigh escapes you as you bury your face further into his chest, already bracing for impact. “Why?”
“Because he was outstanding in his field.”
The terrible joke is followed by his own quiet snicker, you can feel the vibration of it beneath your cheek.
You groan softly, nudging him with your knee. “Go to sleep, Simon.”
simon is a dinosaur when it comes to technology, which makes having a high-maintenance, drop-dead gorgeous bimbo for a girlfriend a daily test of his patience. he belongs in the dirt, handling mechanical parts and heavy artillery, not squinting at a glowing smartphone screen with his reading glasses on. but you? you live on your phone, constantly sending him updates, and he is absolutely obsessed with every single one of them.
right now, he’s sitting on his cot in the middle of a dusty base, staring at his phone like it’s an unexploded mortar. he had been trying to open a basic encrypted file from command, but his massive, scarred thumb hit the wrong notification bar entirely. instead of military data, a message from you pops up.
attached is a picture.
simon’s breath hitches, his jaw locking instantly behind his mask. it’s a mirror selfie you took in your bathroom back home. you’re wearing a tiny, lacy matching set, your long manicured nails gripping the pink phone case, your hair perfectly done, and your lips glossed to perfection. you look incredibly soft, completely plush, and your body is curved beautifully in the frame. you left a little text caption at the bottom: missing my big soldier boy, come stretch me out soon pretty please? xx
his heart hammers violently against his ribs. his thick fingers hover over the screen, suddenly terrified of deleting it by accident. he tries to zoom in to see the details of your pretty face, but his heavy, calloused skin taps the screen too hard, causing the photo to completely disappear and the phone to lock.
“fucking hell,” he growls into the empty room, a dark, dangerous edge to his deep voice.
he panics for a solid ten seconds, aggressively tapping the glass with a heavy thumb until the lock screen finally prompts his passcode. his knuckles are white, his breathing ragged as he maneuvers back to the messaging app. when your gorgeous picture fills the screen again, a low, guttural groan rips from his throat. the sheer contrast between his rugged, violent surroundings and your bright, hyper feminine, pampered energy makes his blood run completely hot.
he can’t even figure out how to type a proper response without hitting three letters at once. his large fingers clumsily tap out: miserable without you. don't delete this.
the ache in his trousers is heavy and immediate, throbbing fiercely against his tactical pants. he stares at the photo for another long minute, tracing the line of your soft waist with his thumb against the glass, wishing more than anything that his hands were on your bare skin instead.
adjusting his weight on the cot, he slides a hand down to grip himself through his trousers, his white-knuckled grip tight as he imagines returning home to his sweet, spoiled girl. <3
I love how Zohran Mamdani is wearing a suit everywhere. And if he has anything else he puts it ON TOP of the suit. A basketball jersey. A high-vis vest. All worn over the suit. He’s like the mayor character in a cartoon who’s always dressed as The Mayor. If I didn’t know who he was and he biked past me in NYC I’d be like holy shit was that the mayor
shy nerdy gf who is a closeted freak with too many secret unholy thoughts vs confident bf who talks big game about what he would do to you but is all bark no bite and is kinda scared when you show him your true freak levels
he was terrifying to everyone else. that was the funny part.
people saw simon riley and immediately straightened up. lower voices. nervous glances. pure intimidation wrapped in broad shoulders and a skull mask.
simon riley did not know how boyfriends worked. this became obvious very quickly. not because he was bad at caring about you. god, no. if anything, simon cared too much. he just… didn’t know the rules.
there were rules, right?
in his defense, most of his life had been violence, military missions, and surviving things that should’ve killed him. nobody exactly handed him a guidebook titled how to be someone’s boyfriend without internally panicking every five minutes.
so instead, he improvised.
badly.
the first time you called him your boyfriend, he short-circuited. completely.
you were introducing him to a friend at a coffee shop, smiling casually like it was the most natural thing in the world. “this is my boyfriend, simon.”
boyfriend.
your boyfriend.
simon nearly forgot how human speech worked. he stood there in silence while your friend greeted him. then silence continued. “simon?” you said carefully.
“hm.”
“you okay?”
“fine.”
he sounded deeply unwell. you didn’t realize what happened until ten minutes later when he was still weirdly quiet, stirring coffee he hadn’t touched.
“wait,” you said slowly. “are you freaking out because i called you my boyfriend?”
his eyes snapped up immediately. “no.” pause. “maybe a little.”
you stared at him. then laughed softly. not meanly. just fond which somehow made him more embarrassed. “sorry,” he muttered.
“why are you apologizing?”
“shouldn’t be weird about it.”
“si.” your hand slid over his carefully. “you are my boyfriend.”
the way he looked at your intertwined hands could’ve shattered hearts like he still couldn’t believe someone wanted him like this. wanted him gently.
he overthought everything. every single thing. especially texting. you discovered this after catching him staring intensely at his phone one evening. “what are you doing?”
“answering your message.”
you blinked. “i texted you twenty minutes ago.”
“yeah.”
“simon.”
he looked genuinely stressed. “don’t know what this one means.”
you walked over, peeking at the screen. your text read: miss u <3 “si.”
“what’s the heart for?”
his expression turned defensive immediately. “don’t start.”
“you think the heart means something secret?”
“could.”
“it means affection, babe.”
“right.”
he sounded relieved. eventually he grumbled something under his breath and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you against him to stop your teasing. except he was smiling too.
in general, simon also had absolutely no understanding of normal relationship habits. one time he disappeared for three days on a mission. when he came back, exhausted and bruised, he showed up at your apartment at 2 a.m. carrying six grocery bags.
you opened the door half-asleep. “why are you holding forty pounds of pasta?”
he looked uncertain suddenly. “people bring things for their partners, yeah?”
“usually not factory quantities of spaghetti.”
“right.”
he looked genuinely disappointed in himself. you had to physically drag him inside before he attempted to apologize for “failing at groceries.”
“si,” you said, trying not to laugh, “you don’t have to earn being loved.”
“don’t know how t’do this properly,” he admitted.
your chest hurt instantly because there it was again. that honesty he only gave you. careful and bruised around the edges. you walked over slowly and took his hands. “you know what i like about you?”
his eyes narrowed slightly. “concerning start.”
“you try.”
“yeah, well.”
“no, listen.” you squeezed his hands gently. “you try so hard, simon. even when you’re scared you’re getting it wrong.”
he looked down at your joined hands for a long moment. then whispered: “always feels like i’m one mistake away from ruining this.”
your heart nearly broke on the spot. you stepped closer instantly, touching his face softly. “hey. you’re not gonna scare me off because you don’t know boyfriend etiquette.”
a tiny huff of laughter escaped him. “boyfriend etiquette.”
“very serious business.”
“sounds terrible.”
“it is. there’s quizzes.”
he snorted quietly and there it was. that rare softness. that version of simon nobody else got to see, certainly not on the battlefield. you brushed your thumb along his cheek. “you know what being a good boyfriend actually is?”
“what.”
“caring.”
his gaze flicked to yours. “that’s it?”
“that’s it.”
silence filled the apartment for a second. then simon leaned down slowly until his forehead rested against yours. “think i can do that,” he murmured.
you smiled immediately. “yeah?”
his arms wrapped around your waist carefully, like holding something precious. “yeah,” he whispered. “think i’m already pretty gone for you, sweetheart.”
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
snowghoul
discoholicmusic
