Gonna keep hopping on here late at night to write shitty drabbles that I don’t wanna give the attention of a full google doc. You’re welcome/I’m sorry.
Simon as Lara Croft below the break:
Content warning: extreme Baz thirst
I don’t know how Simon does it; how he continues to screw me over without even trying because one minute I’m complaining to Shepard about the evils of monetized misogyny in the video game industry and in the next second Simon’s proving me wrong.
“What do you think?” He asks, stepping out of our bedroom and into the spontaneous spotlight the flat now appears to own. (It’s the only explanation I have for how he is literally glowing with sex appeal right now.)
“Glurg,” I answer, intelligently.
Shepard manages to lower the conversation even further. “Holy tits, Simon!”
And. Indeed.
Because my boyfriend, a man who not only allows me to touch him but even encourages it, is dressed as a genderswapped Lara Croft and my prick may never know peace again.
Seriously. Even if he fucks me tonight I’ll be wanking myself raw to this memory for ages.
I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that his beefy thighs make me appreciate the sight of cargo trousers or that the way his nipples peak out of his thin blue tank top make me reconsider the appeal of tits.
(Just kidding: even gay men appreciate the aesthetic appeal of breasts and Simon’s pecs are better than Pamela Anderson’s.)
And sweet Circe he’s even got leather knife holsters strapped to both thighs. Honestly, it’s like he wants to test the theory of whether vampires can die of sudden thirst-induced heart attacks.
“Raid my tomb,” I sputter, and I’d be embarrassed but even Shepard is drooling. “Please,” I add, to pour salt to the wound.
Simon perks up under the praise. “You like it?”
“Simon,” I say, in my best ‘you’re an idiot’ tone. “I want you to ruin me while wearing that outfit.”
“Is that an archeologist joke?” Shepard asks, proving once again that everything sounds more stupid in American.
Luckily for all of us, Simon ignores Shepard’s inane interjection. “Shoot!” He curses. “I forgot my boots.”
Shepard only laughs a little when I choke on my own saliva, and I consider taking back my internal American-slander. (But like, only briefly. There are some sins even kindness can’t erase.)
In the corner, Simon bends down to pull boots over his muscular calves and I don’t know whether to pray for his trouser’s proud attempt to contain his arse or for my trouser’s proud attempt to contain my erection.
I’m one humanah humanah away from becoming a cartoon character cliche.
Simon hums. “Do you think Penny still has that wig from Halloween? I need a braid.”
I lie down on the floor in revolt. I literally cannot. “Someone wake me when I’m not longer the embodiment of the male gaze.”
“Babe,” Simon laughs, walking over to straddle me where I’m protesting my own libido on the dirty carpet of Shepard and Penny’s flat. He bends down and I swear I hear the fabric stretch around his thighs muscles over my pained whimper. “You don’t have to apologize for reducing me to your sexual fantasy.”
“It’s gross and I’m better than that.” Simon’s arse hovers over my aching cock and oh Merlin I am lower than locker room banter; I am the worst.
Simon’s hot breath ghosts over my cheek when he whispers, “I like it when you’re gross,” and then he sits on my hard prick.
“Glergen,” I sputter.
“Maybe I should leave you two alone,” Shepard says, his trainers squeaking as he retreats from his own living room.
“How long until the party?” I manage to ask.
“Do you really care?”
I sigh.
I really, really don’t.
