Right, we all know about frat!johnny and how much of a love sick little puppy he is. But what about frat!simon, huh? why is no one talking about him?
Honestly, you don’t know how you’ve ended up here, because you can’t stand the guy. It’s not that he’s ever done anything bad to you or someone you know, it’s just that you can smell the fake don’t-give-a-fucker in him from like an hour away. He acts so nonchalant, so confident. It’s like him being the calmest person in the room it’s a given. Bullshit.
You see right through him, every time. And you’ll do anything to prove it.
Somehow, through the many and misterios ways of life, «anything» ends up being waking up with him half-sprawled over you in your bed. Very warm, very comfy, very naked.
You stay still for a second, think about pretending to sleep until he leaves, maybe make up an excuse and give a reason as to why he has to leave now. But you’re in a competition that only you know about, and you have to prove he does care while you reign as the nonchalant one. It’s a must.
So you get out of bed, not really caring if he’s woken up by it or not, and start your morning routine. You do all of it, the skin care, the getting dressed, having breakfast and getting things ready for class. All while your playlist is on, and he somehow sleeps through it.
Whatever, the guy is a deep sleeper. You just send an obscure, non-identifiable picture of him in your bed to your roommate so they know a guy might still be there when they come back, and leave a little sticky note that tells him to leave when he awakes stuck on his jeans.
He’s not there by the time you come back, and that’s the last thought you have of him for about a week. Until your phone pings. One new follower, you click on the profile and a laugh leaves you as soon as it loads. Pictures of Mr nonchalant himself filling your screen, meaning that he had to look or ask around to find an account you never gave him the name of. You get out of bed, still laughing, calling out for your roommate to fill them in. Don’t bother to follow back.
It does seem to bother him, though. Seems like it might be making him crave some attention, because just a few days later, he’s the first to like you recap post showcasing the weekend you spent back home. Not even the friends featured and tagged in said post were that fast. Of course, it prompts no real response from you, just a knowing smile as you look at the new notification.
Which brings you to this moment, slightly tipsy in one of the many parties thrown by his frat house, dancing and having the time of your life with your friends. Shamelessly ignoring the looks he has been giving you since you got here, sending a wink to your roommate instead.
When you realise your red solo cup is empty you sign to your friends that you’re heading to the kitchen —trying to yell over the thumping music would be useless anyway—, slinking through the crowd to get to the counter full of drinks. It just takes a few seconds before he’s standing beside you, just so happening to need a refill himself. You take immense joy on making the moment last as long as possible, noticing his sideway glances towards you.
“Oh, hey!” There’s a bright smile on your lips when you finally turn towards him, tone cheery and fully casual. “How’s it been?”
He doesn’t seem to want to chat much, because he just gives a few short answers to your casual questions before he has you pinned against the counter, tangled in a kiss that is mostly teeth and tongue. You shoot your roommate yet another triumphant smile when you follow Simon —tugged by your hand—, out of the kitchen and up the stairs, directly into his bedroom.
You stay there for a few hours, enough rounds for the party to have died out and most of the people having left, for your body to buzz with satisfaction in more than one way. You wait in his bed enough time for your breathing and heart to get back to regular speeds before you’re stretching and slipping out of bed, already pulling your clothes back on.
It makes Simon, who had been rummaging through his nightstand to get a cigarette, blink twice. “Gonna leave?”
You give a light shrug, finishing getting your shoes on before looking at him, “party is over, right?” Without really waiting for an answer, you finish gathering your stuff. “Well, see you around.”
Simon is stunned for a while, eyes pinned on the door that had smoothly closed behind you, cigarette hanging from between his lips and body buzzing with a mix of shame and desire he can’t explain.
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Frat!simon who’s still convinced there’s no way whatever you have is more than sex because why would it be?
The same simon that picks up as soon as you call, who’s rock hard after hearing a simple “come over” come from your side of the line.
The simon that holds you close in every round, who finds any position that will let him keep eye contact with you, that makes it possible to keep his forehead on yours. There’s no connection, nothing deeper than physical attraction to what you are, but it’s like he can’t cum anymore if it isn’t with your lips slotted against his and your moans in his ear.
Same Simon that has to bite his tongue to avoid saying something stupid when his balls draw tight, choosing to suck a mark on your neck instead of letting out the confession that so badly wants to slip out while he fills you up.
Simon who holds you close as the two of you come down from your latest orgasm, making sure his whole body curls around yours while you watch the latest show you’ve been hooked on while spooning.
Simon, the guy you kick out once the episode is done, saying something about an early class and being busy all day tomorrow while you hand him his clothes. The one that makes his way back to the frat house admittedly a bit disappointed because he’d much rather spend the night in your arms and smelling like you than on his own.
Yeah, that Simon, the one that knows he’s screwed up because when he gets into his own bed well past 2am instead of feeling angry or used, or even being neutral about the whole thing —like he probably should really be—, he’s all giddy.
All excitement and big smiles about the fact that even if you’re busy you called him, and no one else. Same guy that will absolutely show up tomorrow next time as long as you dial his number again.
Imagine frat!simon, who has been teasing johnny for months for how weak he is for his darling, how he broke his one-night rule for a good lay after a party and has become the most devoted puppy ever.
Now imagine that same Simon dropping everything he’s doing when he gets a text from you. It’s been almost two weeks since he last knew about you, since you left his bedroom at 4:37AM, halfway dressed. To add insult to injury, it’s not even a text, it’s a DM. Barely any effort put into it, either.
«Mine in 15?»
He’s there in 10, loitering by your door, too embarrassed to knock so your roommate can let him in, too desperate to leave and play it cool until it’s a few minutes past the hour you cited him at.
Of course life has a knack for not going his way, so the door to your place opens then, your roommate looking at him for a moment before her face quickly changes from surprise to amusement. She pokes her head back inside the apartment to call out an embarrassing “your plaything is here!” back at you.
He doesn’t get a chance to scoff and say how he is not your plaything, because she is already leaving while quietly giggling, way too satisfied with herself. Doesn’t get to dwell on that for too long, either, because then it’s you at the door, brows lightly raised. “Gonna come in, or…?”
A small huff leaves him, the closest he gets to being sassy with the embarrassment and a little bit of fluster that he refuses to acknowledge, before he’s squeezing between you and the doorframe and walking in.
You’ve barely muttered something about your room before he’s making his way down the hallway. He takes his shirt off almost as soon as he walks in, letting it fall somewhere around your dresser before he’s confidently sitting at the foot of your bed, one hand lightly rubbing the chub that is beginning to form under his jeans.
If he’d been embarrassed at the front door, it’s so much worse now, when you walk in still completly dressed and carried an open laptop on your arms. You raise a judgy brow, walking past him and to your desk, opening a document that was easily 50 pages long.
“You’ve had Professor Davis, right?”
He’s stunned for a moment, staring blankly at the wall behind you until he hears your sassy “Simon?”. He blinks a couple times before finally standing up and leaning against the desk beside you, nodding as he reads over the notes of the course he had taken just last year.
“Great. Have an exam in a week and i don’t understand 95% of it.”
While you grab a notebook for him, he’s moving to fetch a chair from the small living room. The moment spent alone giving him the chance to realise he’s rushed all the way across campus, not for a booty call —which was already something he should reflect on—, but to be your goddamned study buddy.
Frat!simon is 100% the kind of guy that just randomly decides to get a buzz cut, damning his soft little curls out of existence due to an impulsive decision.
He simply wakes up one day, wets his fingers to run them through his slightly —barely even so— overgrown curls and immediately decides he doesn’t feel like having to style it. Not today, not next week, not next month.
So he goes across the hallway to Johnny’s room, waking him up by constantly knocking on his door, all to get the half-asleep Scott to bring his clippers out and buzz all his hair off over the sink.
No one in the whole house bats an eye at it, because again, it’s such a Simon thing to do. He gets a couple light slaps to the back of his neck, some lighthearted teasing and then he simply goes on with his weekly schedule as if he hadn’t done a big change in his personal aesthetics before the clock even hit 9am.
Which makes me think of some time later that week. This time the party is at someone’s parents house, who are out of town for the next few days. You’d gotten there early, one of your friends staying in a rental just down the street giving you the perfect excuse to pregame before heading straight to the party.
It could be said your whole group has a couple more drinks on them than you’d usually do by this time. But it’s a Friday night, just at the beginning weeks of the semester, and all the exams and due dates are so far still that using up a weekend to nurse a hangover seems like a proper pay off.
Still, despite the ease with which you fall into a fit of giggles and the general carelessness that wraps over your every thought, you know you’re not drunk enough to be imagining things. As tipsy as you may be, you’ve noticed throughout the night —and mostly just out of the corner of your eye— that this random guy constantly lingers close to your group.
You don’t know what his intentions are, and you don’t really care. You’ve come here to enjoy your night, as have your friends, and you’re not going to let a weirdo ruin it by lurking around.
So, fed up with the borderline harassment —because you refuse to give this dude any grace in thinking he’s just saying close by accident, even if the place is surprisingly packed for a party that was meant to be invite only—, you take your chance to confront him when most of your friends shift to the improvised dance floor in whoever’s living room.
With a smile you wave them off when they insist on bringing you along, a scoff leaving you when the asshole moves even closer. Quickly turning around you come face to face with the last thing you’d expect to see: a curl-less Simon who seems at least a little surprised by your sudden movement.
You blink once, and then twice. It’s like the sight in front of you has ridden your system of any alcohol, your eyes widening in the sudden sobriety before your face is scrunching up in a mix of disapproval and disgust. It dawns on you then, that fuckass you’d been ignoring this whole time was no other than the one you’d expected to hit up when heading to your place after the party.
Admittedly, the tipsiness might cling onto your brain harder than you though, because before you can think twice about it, the words are leaving your glossy lips. “Ew, what the fuck. What happened to you?”
A mix of a laugh and a scoff leaves him, his eyebrows raising to a height that would normally make them brush against sandy curls, instead just causing a now-visible crease on his forehead. “Good to see you too, lovie.”
You roll your eyes but still step closer, ignoring the way his hands seem to instantly rest on your hips, as if pulled in by a magnet. Instead focused on running one of your hands over the tingle-inducing buzzcut. “Why?”
Simon just shrugs, and conveniently seems to shift one of his hands to your lower back, pulling you closer when someone clearly drunk stumbles past the two of you, keeping you there even after they’ve gone into another room. “Seemed like a good idea, don’t gotta deal with it in the mornin’.”
“Yeah well, Mr Lightbulb.” You hand slips to the back of his neck, the free one moving to rest on his shoulder. A fake pout forms on your lips, and you make sure to give him a mock-sad little look before leaning to talk against his ear. “Where am i meant to hold on when you go down on me now?”
You feel his grin before you see it, lightly bitting you lip in a fruitless attempt to hold back a matching one when he tugs you to close the small distance between your bodies, your chest now flush against his. “Might take a few attempts, but i’m sure we can figure it out.”
Likes, comments and reblogs are welcome and appreciated. Askbox is open. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.
Ugh frat!simon who is constantly trying to convince himself that he’s in control of whatever you guys have, that he’s winning the don’t give a fuck olympics. Seeing you at least once a week is not affecting him at all, even if sometimes he dillydallies around your place a little longer than necessary to see if you let him stay instead of calling him out —he’s been successful two out of the last six times—.
He sees every late night text you send him like a small win, because it’s you reaching out first. Is it just to get a couple good orgasms before kicking him out? Maybe. Is he rushing through campus to get there before you can get a toy out and do it without his help? Perhaps.
However, the important thing is that you send him a message and not anyone else. Does he torture himself ignoring his boners in case you’ll finally hit him up? Honestly, none of this is that relevant to the point he’s trying to make —but yeah, he absolutely does, and thinks of you if he ends up having to deal with it on his own—.
The thing is, Simon is winning. If he scrolls through your shared texts most of the beginning messages are yours and that’s more than enough to feed his ego. He’s getting in your head and making you need him and that’s his victory that no one is taking away.
So what if it’s three am when you call him, making him immediately open his eyes and reach for his phone —because you never call, you just text, most of the time not even to his number but through some social media’s dms—. Who cares if the teasing reply about how bad you need him dies on his tongue as soon as he hears you sniffle on the other side, already sitting up and tugging a pair of jeans on as he murmurs your name.
“Hey, uhm…” you have to pause again, sniffling and probably pushing tears back. “This is very stupid and you can say no—“
He’s already lacing his shoes, grabbing a hoodie and his keys as he makes his way to the front door. “What is it, love?”
Neither of you acknowledge that.
“Can’t sleep,” it’s chocked up, barely audible. “Go on a drive with me?”
You’re about to fall into rambling justifications again, to say how it’s a stupid idea and you should probably go to bed and let him sleep too, chastise yourself for needing company in a moment of weakness—
He’s already out of the door, “Picking you up in five.”
“Si, you live ten minutes away,” it’s chocked and shaky, but the small chuckle that leaves you sounds like music to his ears.
“It’ll be fine. No one uses crosswalks at this hour, anyway.”
a/n: idk how i feel about this tbh but at this point having my notes full of unfinished and un-posted stuff is not helping my mental health at all, so might as well post it. maybe will change it at some point.
I've been thinking about frat!Simon again. You've barely seen each other, occasionally making out at a party here and there, perhaps sleeping together one or two more times. Still, barely even bothering to acknowledge each other's presence in any other circumstance; Simon gave a subtle nod of greeting once and then felt the weight of his embarrassment for a week after when you didn't greet back. For both his ego and mental health, Simon has convinced himself you just didn't see him.
From then on it's not exactly like he has been avoiding you, however he definitely has been mentally chastising himself like one would an over-eager puppy that tries to jump onto people as a greeting. He just has to mentally slap himself when he feels the rush of adrenaline and dopamine swish through his nervous system whenever he spots you at the crowded frat house, always taking a long swing of his beer to wash down the need to get you in his room.
It usually works, settles his churning stomach and embarrassingly fast-paced heart like a slow deep breath could. It hasn't now, though. Because it's like you know, like you have a sixth sense for the moment his cravings get too big to ignore. And he feels it too. The way you look at him out of the corner of you eye, how you're never close enough for him to reach but definitely for him to notice.
The only time he manages to catch your eye, you make him regret it. Because you just look back, hold his gaze while you keep up with conversation and calmly sip your drink. Your brows raise a bit and your head tilts to the side once you lower your solo cup, and —fuck, he's seen that look before, late at night while tangled in your sheets, the silent challenge that lies in it— he can't handle it anymore.
He quickly pawns off what's left of his drink to Johnny and pats Kyle's shoulder while getting a cigarette from him and heading to the much less crowded front yard. It's peaceful there, just a few people having their own smokes and conversing, a couple first-year kids sitting in the curve trying to hold back the one-too-many drinks they've had. He just acknowledges a few familiar faces before sitting on a beat up couch by the side of the house.
That peace lasts no more than three drags of his cigarette, his ears perk up at the sound of your voice, and it barely takes him a second to spot you. You're waving off your friends and patting down your pocket for what Simon can only guess is a pack of cigarette of your own. He hears your groan when you pull the cardboard box open only to realise it's empty.
You're still for a moment, contemplating what to do now, and when you look around trying to figure out a solution, your eyes fall on him. In less than a couple of minutes he's gone from enjoying a smoke on his own to having to crane his head back to meet your eyes.
"You mind?" The words have barely registered in his brain when he feels you pluck the cig from his lips, eyes focused on you as you take in a drag and let a pleased hum out, eyes fluttering as you feel the hit of nicotine. He has to try all too hard to not think of how many times he's been the one to cause that same expression.
You've managed a couple more drags before he snaps out of it, a light frown forms on his brows and he sits up, trying to take it back. You chuckle lightly, pulling it away from your lips and outstretching your arm so he can't reach it. He's about to get up when you place a hand on his shoulder, not-so-gently shoving him back down on the ratty couch. "Okay, okay. I'll stop hogging."
He doesn't have the time to gather his words and make it clear you've done much worse than hogging, because your hand cups the back of his neck and you pull him closer. Your free hand brings the lit stick to your lips and you take a deep breath before you fully close the distance between the both of you, letting the smoke slip from your mouth to his.
All of your wrongs are immediately forgotten, his hands moving to your waist to pull you in and onto his lap, your legs easily adjusting to straddle his as you pull back for another drag before doing it again.
"Are we even now?" He just gives a light grunt in reply, guiding your hand back to your lips and barely waiting for you to take another drag before his lips are back on yours.
Likes, comments and reblogs are welcome and appreciated. Askbox is open. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.
Frat!Simon who's had a long ass day. Never-ending lecture after never-ending lecture, followed by a too-long study session at the library due to the quickly-approaching midterms, plus a gym session that was cut short due to a disciplinary meeting caused by unruly pledges. He's exhausted by the time he makes it to his room, taking a quick shower and flopping down in bed.
He reaches for his phone while halfheartedly watching a show on his laptop, lazily scrolling through social media while he fights the urge to close his eyes and snooze off before dinner can be served. After a few longer blinks, he scrolls onto the next post, eyes widening and whole body feeling awake now as a deep groan rumbles all the way up from his chest out into the air. In a matter of seconds he's sat up, unwatched episode paused as he just stares at his phone.
In his screen, a repeating loop of photos and short videos of you plays along a suggestive song, a sequence of images taken in front of you floor-length mirror showing how good you feel about yourself in increasingly more revealing outfits. His thumb comes down onto the screen at the last picture, making sure it doesn't restart the loop as he takes in every little detail of both the thin material barely covering you and, specially, all the skin it reveals. Exhaustion quickly forgotten, he's up and out of his room, heading down the street and directly to where he knows your place is.
You're quite confused at the sudden, incessant and loud knocking of the door of your shared apartment, even more so when your roommate called you over, saying something along the lines of it being «your circus». That confusion does nothing but grow exponentially when you see Simon there, breathing fast like he's run all the way over, barely having time to speak before he's reaching a hand over and taking yours.
For a moment all you can do is stare into his eyes, then down to his very-clear boner he's guided your hand to, before looking back up. As if it were of any explanation, he nods in the direction of your bedroom. "The mirror."
"Excuse me?" your eyes drift down again, still unsure of what is happening yet not moving your hand again. He waits for your eyes to be back on his before he repeats himself, right before dragging his hips against your palm.
There's a bit more staring between the two of you, and then it finally clicks, the thing he wants yet doesn't dare to say. "Oh, you've seen the pictures," it's a good thing you've made no effort to hide your amusement, because it wouldn't have worked. "That's what caused this, huh?"
His eyes almost roll all the way to the back of his skull when you give him a squeeze, making the per-dampened fabric of his boxers drag against his sensitive tip. There's another roll of his hips, one that seems to happen more out of instinct than choice, and suddenly you're seeing everything upside down.
A laugh leaves you at your new spot thrown over his shoulders, one that cuts off with a light gasp when his big hand lands on your ass, making it jiggle. A hum of approval vibrates against you when he feels you wrap your arms around his torso to avoid slipping, already being carried towards your bedroom.
Likes, comments and reblogs are welcome and appreciated. Askbox is open. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.
In case you haven't noticed, I'm always thinking of new ways to torment frat!Simon. Anyway, here's another one.
We've already established your relationship -if it can even be called that, given the circumstances- consists on making out during parties, possibly having sex after said parties and the occasional booty call here and there. That's it. It doesn't even get to be called 'Friends with benefits' because you don't consider Simon your friend and you highly doubt he'd think of you as one, anyway.
All of this is a long-winded way of saying, there's no real compromise between the two of you. No expected commitment and probably no real willingness from either of you to think, much less ask, for one. At least for now. That's what Simon has been telling himself for the duration of this whole stupid kegger. No matter how many times he's tried to distract himself, it's like his body thrums with the incessant need to have you close, and somehow his eyes always manage to spot you in the crowd.
However, there's a special reason for his anguish this time, one that has his frustration burning just a little brighter with every minute that goes by. It doesn't matter how many times either of you move, if everyone crowds around an impromptu beer-pong game, or one of you move to the alcohol-filled kitchen for a refill, even when the frat brothers take their usual spots on the main couch and lounge chairs. You're there, and you're not alone or with your usual group of friends.
Every single time Simon has seen you since the stupid party started, you've been with Kyle. Throughout the whole night, you've been stuck by his friend's, his brother's, side. Animatedly chatting, laughing, leaning against each other and even dancing. He's had to watch you do everything you've never tried to do with him, at any of the many parties you've both attended. And it's not like he cares, but he does think it is a little unfair that your attention is fully on Kyle when he's the one that has proven multiple times how good he is at making you cum.
Still, that is all the two of you have going on, shared orgasms. Sure, they're very good orgasms and definitely worth having to ignore the clench on his jaw every time he sees one of your hands land on Kyle's arm or chest, but that's all there is. At least that's what he keeps telling himself while he finally manages to rip his gaze away from the two of you and head to the kitchen for yet another beer.
He sort of manages through most of the night, getting busy in conversations with John and a few other guys from the frat, teasing Johnny a little bit more than usual for the heart-eyes he gets whenever he spots his bonnie and overall enjoying spending time with his friends. That is until the night is almost over, until only fraternity members and close friends are left in the house and someone that sounds a little too drunk to really be paid attention to offers up a game of truth or dare.
Maybe it's because drinks have been incessantly flowing this whole time, or due to the fact that the clock is much closer to early morning that it is night by now, but the offer is surprisingly met with a general acceptance and quickly enough a broad circle is formed in the middle of the living room. One of the empty bottles gets set in the centre and just like that, round after round of embarrassing dares and even more embarrassing truths go on.
At some point your name gets called out by an over-eager and possibly too-hopeful pledge, which makes not just you and your friend you were talking with perk up, but also Simon. Before you even answer, just by the look on your face, he already knows what you're going to say. He's already bracing himself by the time the simple word leaves you. "Dare."
Just as fast, the pledge nods his head and sets the challenge out, "Dare you to walk to the hottest guy in the room and make out with him." It earns a mix of groans and laughs -the complaints mostly coming from those closer to graduation, often more interested in the blackmail worthy admissions of the truths than the lewd intentions of most dares-, and the guy even gets a few praising pats from his equally newly-pledged friends. Still, no one says anything against it because after all, it is a game you're all willing to play, and a light air of expectation settles in the room as you look around, as if taking every guy in and ranking them before making your decision.
Simon doesn't like how little your eyes seem to stay on his figure, although he also wants to believe its due to you already having a very clear stipulation on were he lands on your list. Still, his jaw gives a light hitch when he sees you look at Kyle a little longer than anyone else. You stand then, and Simon's eyes follow you every step as you slowly make your way closer to him.
He's confident now that you're choosing him, adjusting a bit his position on the couch so you can get comfortable in his lap. His heart might be picking up a bit on speed, just something silly that he decides to ignore when your eyes meet his. And then it feels like it might have fully stopped, because after giving him a knowing look you've changed directions and have started to make your way to Kyle instead, on the other couch.
Before he can think twice about it, Simon is leaning forward, one of his hands catching your wrist to pull you closer, enough that the other one can wrap around your waist and pull you into his lap. He sees the amusement in your eyes as soon as you're face to face and before he can give you the chance to make this any more embarrassing than it already is, he's leaning in. He barely murmurs a quiet "bullshit" against your lips before he's catching them into a kiss. It's as slow as it is deep, the hand that had been around your wrist now cupping your chin to tilt you head back, giving himself the perfect angle to push his tongue into your mouth. He tastes all of you, tongue, cheeks and even the back of your teeth and takes note of the sweetness of your chapstick and the mixer on your drink, how the perfectly blend into the flavour of you.
He only lets the moment break when the burning on his lungs caused by the lack of air is too great to ignore, a light string of saliva connecting your lips when he pulls just far enough to look into your eyes. That glint of amusement is still there, but your pupils are blown the same way they always are whenever he has his mouth on any part of your body. The light squeeze to your hips is request enough, and given how generous you're feeling, you give in, lightly swiping his lip with your thumb to break the stringy bond.
No one dares to bring up the fact that you didn't even get to actually choose who to kiss or question why you've comfortably settled on Simon's lap like it's your particular throne. Instead, someone in the circle reaches forward to spin the bottle once more, and when the group focuses on the next juicy confession after the new pick went for truth, you look at Kyle instead, earning a knowing wink when you regard him with a triumphant grin.
Likes, comments and reblogs are welcome and appreciated. Askbox is open. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.
