I've been thinking about this for a while, but could you write a drabble or something about Simon's reaction to you trying to sleep on the couch after a fight?
Would he be mad and fight with you more or drag you to bed or silently let you sleep on the couch??
lmk × ×
It’s rare the two of you fight.
Argue? Sure.
Purposefully annoy each other? Definitely. Simon loves crawling under your skin just so he can watch you ride your frustrations out on his cock. He can’t help it, you’re cute.
But fighting? Petty comments, growling harsh words at each other, suffocating tension, silent treatment, and stubborn avoidance? You and Simon don’t do that.
Simon admits, he’s not exactly the easiest person to date, but you’re incredibly patient with him, even when he’s not communicating the way you need him to.
He’s a work in progress.
So, when you walk out of the shower, tugging on one of his oversized shirts, he thinks you’ll crawl into bed next to him like always. Instead, you grab your pillow, an extra blanket, and leave the room. Riley follows behind you, his own dog betraying him.
You have to be teasing, trying to teach him some lesson, remind him what it feels like to sleep in an empty bed if he doesn’t straighten up. He should be the one out there, sleeping in the dog house.
He lets you lay out there for exactly 12 minutes.
When he scoops you up, you pretend you’re asleep. Even when he lays you down on your side of the bed and slides in, you keep up the act.
“Oy,” He grumbles, pinching your cheek lightly, “I know you’re awake, dove.”
A breath of a smile twitches at the corners of your lips, but you turn your face into the pillow. No problem, he hoists you in his lap easy enough, pressed against the bed frame, and rests his hands on your spread thighs.
“Why the bloody hell you sleepin’ out there?”
You scowl at him, “Don’t wanna sleep with you.”
“No?” He tilts his head, smoothing his palms under your, his, shirt, “Why not, pretty girl?”
“Mad at you.”
He huffs a laugh, “Wearin’ my shirt, but don’t wan’ sleep with me?”
You start to peel the shirt off begrudgingly, but he swats your hands away, holding you in place with his thumb on your chin.
“ ‘nough of that. What kinda man d’ya think I am? Letting my bird sleep on a bloody sofa.” He says, “Send me out there.”
“But your feet hang off the edge.” You frown and it tightens his chest, even when you’re mad you’re thinking of his comfort.
He’d wake up with a hunched back and cramped legs if it made you happy.
“Exactly, ‘ts why we both belong right here.” He pats the mattress, scooting back down the bed to lay down, holding you against his chest. He presses his lips against the crown of your head, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
