god i can't stop thinking about douchebag!simon it's a problem...
you're drunk. not wasted, not sloppy, but enough that your head is light, your body warm, your inhibitions dull. enough that you don't think twice when you call him.
it rings twice before he picks up.
"you've got some fuckin’ nerve." his voice is rough, edged with irritation, but he doesn’t hang up, doesn’t tell you to fuck off, and that’s the only invitation you need.
you show up at his door twenty minutes later, and the moment he sees you, lips parted, cheeks flushed, standing there like you belong to him, he just has to laugh.
"couldn't help y'self, huh?" he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking at you like he already knows the answer.
"fuck off," you mutter, shoving past him into his flat.
he lets you. lets you walk right into his space, lets you toe off your shoes and settle into the familiarity of it, like you haven’t done this before.
but before you can say anything, before you can even utter his name, he's on you. grabbing your wrist, spinning you around, backing you against the wall. his knee parts your thighs, his mouth finds the shell of your ear.
"y'keep pretendin' you want more than just m'cock inside you, but look at ya sweetheart." he murmurs, dragging his nose down the side of your throat. "back here, lettin' me have at you. wonder what that says about you, love."
his hands are on you and it feels like worship, they squeeze and grab, they take. and when he finally pulls back to look at you, really look at you, his expression is unreadable.
"last time," you lie, voice barely above a whisper.
he smirks.
"sure it is."
it's over too soon. or maybe not soon enough.
you're still catching your breath when you drag your fingers down his stomach, slow, absent, tracing the soft ab lines, teetering over scars like you’re allowed to. like he’ll let you.
his hand snaps around your wrist. firm. final.
"don't."
you blink at him. "don't what?"
he turns his head, eyes meeting yours, and you hate that fucking smirk. all cocky and lazy and unimpressed.
"that." he nods toward your hand. "the touchin'."
your stomach knots. "jesus, simon, it's just-"
"-sex, sweetheart. just sex."
he sits up, your hand falling from his stomach as he does.
just as you're about to sit up, about to pretend it doesn’t fucking sting and throw on your clothes, he grabs for your wrist, eyes flickering shut as he tenderly presses his lips to the inside of it. he can feel your pulse against his soft lips.
he leans back, eyes flicking up to yours
"just sex, love," he reminds you, voice a lazy drawl, fingers still curled around your hand. "best y'remember that."
douchebag!simon mlist