18+ mdni simon riley is a horrible lay, everyone says.
that’s what you’ve heard around base, from men and women alike. he’s too fucking big, apparently, fucks like the mean bastard that he is. hurts. apparently, he’s so cold he doesn’t even care for his partner. and apparently, every time anyone’s tried to sleep with him, they’ve always stormed out of his room, pissed off at him because his room is a hellhole.
apparently. it’s all word of mouth, but you believe it.
but after the end of the month drinks at the local spoons, you can barely get simon off you, he’s pawing at you with his big hands. the two of you split a cider in two, and he looks at you with his big brown eyes, “y- you’re really fucking hot.” he blurts out, kissing your nose with chapped lips.
his face is red, blushing deeply as you try your best to not flush the same. “and johnny told me you can’t ever think about the pretty lass on floor 3 with the filing cabinet, but guess what, i can.” he kisses you on the side of your head this time, and you’re enjoying his affections.
it’s only back in his room on base that he fumbles with his belt, before he looks at you again, “s-sorry, it’s just, i don’t really get to spend the night with pretty women like you-“
you want to hide your face in his pillows, his room is really fucking nice. he has plants, actual plants growing from gaz, sketch drawings from johnny, photographs of him and the captain.
his cock is huge, hard and leaking, slapping against his stomach, but he still looks at you with his sweet brown eyes, “love, it’s okay if it’s too big…” he sounds dejected already, but you just shake your head, it’s nowhere near as big what the word around base was.
“it’s fine simon-“ you whisper, licking your lips and placing kitten licks on his length, feeling the taste of him coat your tongue.
“no no no-“ he shakes his head, pulling away before his hands touch your wet panties, “fuck, you’re so wet love.”
and then he dives in, tugging them off, before licking at your cunt with a sloppy tongue, he doesn’t have a technique down but whatever the fuck he’s doing it’s good, your legs are shaking as his tongue dips inside you.
“gotta make sure it’s good for you-“ okay, what the fuck was anyone talking about?
he slides into you with ease, and thrusts into you? his hands above your head, his eyes still looking at you. “you’re very fuckin’… mmmph… hot.” he says, with a grin on his scarred face that would look terrifying if it wasn’t for the way his brown eyes shone with sweetness.
it wasn’t long before his cock twitches inside of you, and his eyes roll back, “oh fuck love, right there— fuck!” he was filling you deep, his cum thick in your stomach.
“love?” he asks, whimpering, his head on your chest, “love, did you find it good?” he’s desperate for your fucking approval.
you kiss his head, his soft curls growing out of army regs.
“yes darling.” fuck the word of mouth, did anyone even try this with him?
“th-thank you dove-“ he pants, his cock deep inside you as you keep stroking his hair, feeling his breath even out.
patience was worked through simon. etched, carved into every fiber of his being. he was born with it, the rough military work simply engraving it deeper. it came easy to him, he knew the mistakes when it came to rushing, he knew the risks of impatience, disobedience.
yet patience burned away at his nerve endings, sizzling out the tips of his fingers, his toes. he was never patient with you, all hands and teeth. and here he was, fingers wrapped tight around a beer with you in his lap. his poor cock oozing into you, slathering your soft walls disgustingly.
but the most disgusting part. you weren’t even fucking moving, not an inch, he couldn’t even feel your breaths. just your pretty pussy planted onto him, sucking him in and holding there nice and warm. it was so cruel, had his mind dripping in cruel, poised thoughts. knuckles white at the back of your neck, pressing your tears into the couch cushions as his hips fucked… no. no.
his hips bucked just slightly, subconsciously as want, need, began to consume him. and the slight movement had him whimpering out, had his head rolling back against the wooden framing of the couch. if he could just…. just once more.
“simon.” your tone was berating. you couldn’t even bother him a look over your shoulder, just a demand. a demand that had his balls aching, his poor cock thudding inside of you, milking itself dry without even a fucking release.
he breathed slowly, shallowly. before he smiled gently, free hand resting just gently on your thigh. his motive clear as his thick, rough fingers stretched out. his movements were slow, precise, desperate to not distract you, fingers just ever so slightly brushing across the slick nub of your clit.
slap!
“keep tryin’ it ‘nd you’ll be here all week.” you snapped, chin jutting angrily. he was so damn impatient, always expected to get what he wanted the second he wanted it. he needed to learn obedience, to be a good boy. “and i won’t let you fuckin’ cum once.”
he whined, vocal cords going raw as it pitched into a greedy growl. he was panting, so worked up, so needy. he couldn’t help the roll of his hips despite your threatening words, couldn’t help the shudder, the shaky, desperate thrust of his hips as he came.
“m’sorry, mmph… so sorry, love,” he couldn’t even form a sentence, rocking into you as he worked himself through his own pathetic release. you tried shoving him down, but his hips were stronger, glued to your backside as he shook. “just…. i-i had to…. hurt so bad, baby, don’t you understand? needed to cum so b- hah- bad.”
he was babbling, beer spilling onto the couch cushions, release so heavy his thighs pressed together beneath you. his head lolled back, hips stuttering to a slow halt, his tongue drooling out at his bottom lip as he whimpered out low, heavy breaths. he couldn’t get a grip of himself, especially not with the way his cum began to seep out of you, pooling at the base of his cock.
when he finally blinked, fluttering the blurry haze away from his vision, his heart was stopping next. you were glaring back at him, teeth just ever so slightly bared… and god, he fucked up.
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
repost from my old deleted account tobeholyistobeempty - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.
————-
it’s honestly not even your fault.
you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.
simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.
needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.
he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.
“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”
the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.
“tha right?”
“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”
simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.
maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.
hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.
“you’re drunk,” he breathes.
you grin. “so’re you.”
“not even half as much as you.”
you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.
“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”
it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.
“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”
and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.
“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”
he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.
“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”
he exhales. slow. almost a growl.
“jesus. stop talkin’.”
“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”
his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.
“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”
he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.
and you?
you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.
“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“
he doesn’t let you finish that thought.
“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”
“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“
his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.
“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”
that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.
“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”
he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”
by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.
and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.
your thighs tense. he notices.
“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”
he pauses. boot in hand.
“…what?”
he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.
your lashes flutter.
“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”
he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.
your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”
he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.
“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.
“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“
“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.
the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.
not fully, but enough.
you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”
he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—
“only when i breathe.”
your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”
he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.
he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”
the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.
“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“
before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.
“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”
you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.
your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”
his eyes snap shut.
“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”
even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.
“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“
his palm tightens over your lips again.
“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”
then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.
“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”
“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”
You hated when people looked at you after they looked at Simon.
Because it always happened in that order.
Their eyes would land on him first— broad shoulders stuffed into dark clothes, that permanently tired stare, the kind of presence that made rooms quiet without him even trying — and then they’d shift to you.
And every single time, you swore you saw the same flicker of confusion.
Them?
It made your sick.
You knew Simon didn’t notice it. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. But you noticed. God, you noticed.
Especially at the pub near base.
You worked there most evenings, weaving through crowded tables with cheap trays balanced on one hand, apron dusted with flour from the kitchen because the cook kept dragging you back there to help plate when things got busy. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t important.
You were just… you. A waitress.
And Simon Riley was him.
Lieutenant. Decorated soldier. Feared. Respected. The kind of man people whispered about before he even entered a room.
The kind of man who looked absurd sitting in your tiny apartment kitchen at two in the morning drinking tea from a chipped mug while your socks slid across the floor.
You still didn’t understand why he stayed.
“You’re staring again.” Simon muttered one night from your couch.
You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. “Sorry.”
He watched you from beneath heavy lashes. “What’s goin’ on in that head?”
“Nothin’.”
A lie. Simon always knew when you lied.
He sat forward slowly, elbows on his knees. “C’mere.”
You obeyed automatically, crossing the small apartment until he tugged you between his legs. His hands settled on your hips, warm and heavy even through your clothes.
“You’ve been distant all week..” he said quietly. “Talk.”
You tried to shrug it off. “I’m tired.”
“Try again.”
Your chest tightened.
You hated this part. Hated saying things out loud because they sounded even stupider once they existed in the air.
Simon waited patiently.
That made it worse.
“I just…” You laughed weakly, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“This.”
One of his brows twitched.
“You.” Your voice got quieter. “Us.”
Simon stared at you like he genuinely didn’t understand the question.
Which was insane.
“You could have anyone.” you murmured. “Anyone, Simon.”
His grip on your hips tightened slightly.
“And you’re with…” You gestured vaguely to yourself with a self-conscious smile that hurt more than it should’ve. “Me.”
Silence.
Not angry silence.
Not cold silence.
The dangerous kind — the kind where Simon got very, very still.
“You think I’m too good for you?” he asked finally.
Your face heated immediately. “When you say it like that it sounds—”
“Answer me.”
You swallowed.
“A little.”
Simon leaned back against the couch slowly, eyes never leaving yours. There was something awful in them suddenly. Something wounded.
Like you’d hurt him.
“You think I come here because I settled?”
“No—”
“You think I look at you and see someone lesser than me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you think it.”
You looked away.
That was answer enough.
Simon exhaled hard through his nose, jaw tightening beneath faint stubble.
“Christ.”
Your stomach dropped. “I’m sorry.”
That made his head snap up instantly.
“There you go again.”
“What?”
“Apologizin’ for existing.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it.
Simon’s hands slid from your hips up to your arms, gentler this time.
“You know what I see when I look at you?” he asked quietly.
You shook your head.
“I see someone good.”
You almost laughed at that.
But Simon continued before you could.
“I see someone who remembers how I take my tea. Someone who works ten-hour shifts and still manages to smile at strangers.” His thumbs brushed absentmindedly against your sleeves. “Someone who treats people kindly even when they don’t deserve it.”
His eyes softened.
“You look at me and see the rank. The size. The scary reputation.” A humorless huff escaped him. “You don’t see what I see.”
“And what’s that?”
“A soldier.”
You frowned immediately. “Simon, I’m literally a waitress.”
“Aye.” He nodded once. “And every day you deal with rude customers, drunk men, shitty management, sore feet, exhaustion, bills…” His gaze locked onto yours. “And you keep goin’.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“You think strength only looks like violence,” Simon murmured. “Like guns and combat and knowin’ how to kill.”
One hand came up to cradle your jaw carefully.
“But I’ve seen men in the military weaker than you.”
Your eyes burned.
“Simon…”
“I mean it.” His voice dropped lower now, rough around the edges. “You walk through life soft. Do you understand how bloody difficult that is?”
That finally broke you a little.
Because Simon said it like softness was something sacred.
Something rare.
You looked down quickly, embarrassed by the sudden sting behind your eyes.
“I’m not special.”
Simon’s expression twisted like the sentence physically hurt him.
He stood abruptly, forcing you to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Big hands framed your face completely.
“Don’t do that.” he said sharply.
You startled.
“Don’t tear yourself apart in front of me.” His voice cracked slightly around the edges now. “Not when I love every part.”
The room went silent.
Simon wasn’t good at saying things like that. He showed love easier than he spoke it. Through quiet touches. Waiting outside your work after late shifts. Fixing things around your apartment without being asked. Standing between you and the world like a wall.
But this?
This was raw… and terrifyingly honest.
His forehead pressed against yours.
“I don’t need someone impressive.” he whispered. “I need you.”
Your chest ached so badly it almost hurt to breathe.
“You make my life quiet.”
One of his hands slid into your hair carefully.
“You make me feel human again.”
Your eyes finally spilled over.
Simon caught the tears immediately with his thumb, looking almost angry at them.
“Don’t cry.”
“You’re being too nice.” you whispered shakily.
A small, disbelieving laugh left him.
“Too nice..” he repeated. “That’s what did it?”
You laughed weakly through tears.
Simon stared at you for a long moment before pulling you against his chest so suddenly you nearly stumbled.
His arms wrapped around you tight. Protective. Certain. Like there had never been a question.
“You are not lucky to have me.” he murmured into your hair.
Post-mission Simon “Ghost” Riley who refuses to sleep in the same bed as you, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s certain that one bad dream, one flash of training, one second of not being in control will turn him into something you can’t wake up from.
So he stays in the chair.
Every night.
Fully dressed, mask still on, boots planted like he’s still on duty. Like rest is something other people get to have without consequences.
You notice it in pieces at first—the way you wake up slightly too warm, then slightly too watched. The way the room is never fully dark, not really, because there’s always that faint outline of him across from you, completely still, like a statue carved out of restraint and guilt.
He never speaks when you catch him. He never moves, just watches.
That slow, steady attention fixed on your chest rising and falling, like he’s counting every breath to make sure it still happens. Like if you stop, he’ll finally have something to panic about.
Sometimes you pretend to stay asleep longer just to feel it—his presence sharpening, like he leans forward just a fraction when he thinks you’re not aware. Like you’re the only thing in the room keeping him anchored to anything human.
He tells you once, in a voice so low it almost gets lost in the dark, that he can’t risk it.
Not you. Never you.
He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to. The words sit heavy between you anyway, full of things he’s done, things he’s seen, things he still hears when everything else is quiet.
After that, you stop asking him to come to bed.
But you don’t stop waking up.
And every time you do, he’s still there, perfectly still, perfectly alert, like sleep is something he refuses to earn if it means you might not make it through the night without him watching.
You woke up today, mind reeling and full of excitement, after all, today was your anniversary with Simon and your heart was fluttering at the thought of spending all the day with him.
He has the day free (miracle), so your mind was already spiraling with the things you prepared for him.
You looked at your side, just to find it empty, a small pang of sadness creeped on your heart but it was quickly pushed aside.
"What if he's making breakfast for us downstairs?"
You thought and the smile went back to your face , a little brighter.
You got up, made your side of the bed, brushed your teeth, took a quick shower, and put on a pretty sundress, prettier than the usual robes you pranced around on, fixed your hair, applied the perfume you know he loved, and looked at yourself in the mirror, fussing over your lipgloss.
You walked downstairs, trying to look not too excited.
"Babe?, sweetie!"
You called out softly, walking through the living room, heartbeat quickening as you entered the kitchen.
But you didn't find anything, it was as clean as you left it, your heart sank a little. Well maybe he was going to take you out for breakfast?.
You walked slowly towards the garage, just to find him there, fixing his car, clothes dirty and concentrated.
"Good morning sweetie" you whispered softly, hoping he'd jump in joy, maybe kiss you and tell you how grateful he was to be with you, instead, you were met with a quick "morning, love, thanks to the free day I'll do some stuff I have to get done by dawn"
Was all what he said, and you felt a lump form on in your throat, did...did he forget?.
You nodded, blinking back the sudden sting of tears and stepping back slowly.
You walked back in the house, mind reeling with thoughts of he forgetting one of the most special days in your life, the day he got down in one knee, flustered but vulnerable, telling you with a smitten expression about wanting to spend the rest of your life next to you in the rain.
The rest of the day you stayed with him, but not as you hoped for, for fucks sake your anniversary was even marked in big bold letters in the calendar you put in the fridge, and you were so excited of finally giving him the gifts you've been working on for months.
You accompanied through the day, to Johnny's house where they shared a beer and talked for hours, to the pub where he met with some friends you didn't know and left earlier bcuz the pub was disgusting, even to the supermarket to buy some stuff Gary told him he needed like Gary himself wasn't a grown ass man with his own money and legs to come to the supermarket.
Once you two where finally back home, your heart was destroyed, he forgot, your anniversary gift was in the closet of your shared bedroom still hidden and you couldn't hold back the tears.
Until Simon gave you a small peck on the cheek "Love, I'm sorry, I gotta go I have to do something important".
You heart leaped on your throat, maybe he did remember and he was going to take you to that restaurant you've hopping going for months, or to a romantic walk in the streets.
You nodded, suddenly joyful, not noticing his confused expression at your behavior, once he was gone, you did it everything, expensive dress, perfect makeup, perfect hair and your favourite jewelry, you looked stunning.
And decided to sit down on the living room and wait.
You sat down there, the first half an hour hopeful, the next hour your heart slowly stopped getting excited at any sounds of he maybe being home.
And by 11AM, you got up, not being able to hold back the tears, and got upstairs, the small heartbroken sobs wrecking your frame, with gentleness that was only betrayed by the tremble of your hands, you cleaned your face, took a long hot shower, and to pamper yourself a little you put on your favourite pink pajamas.
You didn't even notice when Simon was back home until you saw him on the bed, your wounded heart fluttered, and for a moment you thought you were going to burst in tears again, but you didn't, so, without greeting him, you sat down next to him in the bed.
Fucking hell, he wanted to play it like that?, well we were going to play like that cuz this game was invented by women.
For a moment you stood there, looking at him while he was reading, hoping just a little, even if your heart was shattered, that he'd even whisper a gentle "Happy anniversary love" and apologize.
But he didn't, he was clueless, treating this like any other day and not the day you vowed in front of your family and friends that you'd be next to him and grow old with him for the rest of your life.
You were sat down in the bed, Simon was leaning down next to you, already with his eyes closed, hair muffled, sheets messy, but not entirely asleep.
"What are you even waiting for?" He asked tiredly, just wanting to cuddle with you.
You kept your gaze locked in the pink digital clock on your nightstand.
"4...3...2...1"
When it hit 12AM, you turned to look at him with a sweet smile
"you forgot our anniversary"
To those words, his eyes snapped open, frozen in the sudden darkness when you got up, clutching your pink sheets, clad in your pink pajamas, pink bonnet and pink fluffy shoes, walk down the hall to sleep in the guests room and not with him.
like the dog he is, he was sent to the dog house tonight—the guest bedroom. it's only been an hour since he hit the hay and his bones are already aching and screaming for reliet.
but he ignores the soreness in his limbs, his brain ruminating over a single moment that occured earlier in the day, the whole reason why he's in the guest bedroom and realizing that every single piece of furniture in this room is clearly just for decoration rather than comfort.
his stomach falls—you're mad at him.
you're not annoyed from him pinching the fat on your tummy or for taking an obnoxious bite of your sandwich, no, you're mad at him.
you rarely get mad at simon. sure, you bark at him here and there but the two of you have always been able to shrug it off and cuddle under the bedsheets at the end of the day but tonight you're so mad at him that you don't even want to sleep next to him, breaking the three year streak the two of you built together. the thought of that alone makes simon clutch at his pillow with a sadness that scratches at his throat.
his eyes open to darkness. only the bedside clock being the single source of light. it reads 2:02 AM. simon blinks, he's been thinking for longer than he thought.
initally he went to bed with a huff and pride in his chest, believing you were the one being immature and stubborn but now he feels a cold chill spread throughout his body as he begins to internally panic and regret his actions. suddenly the cold room feels hot and he jumps up and throws the blanket off him but finds no relief still.
his brain replays the dinner he had with you. simon had a long day—training thick skulled recruits, a disgruntled captain price, a nearing deadline that has come too close for comfort.
all of that was a heavy weight on his shoulders that he believed he could manage; he just needed a nice dinner with his lady and a good sleep. but you had a small complaint, "simon, you didn't kiss me goodbye this morning." you were genuinely sad. pouting and pointing your fork at him. normally, simon would shrug it off, say a quick apology and swear he would never do it again, but in the moment it was the cherry on top of his shitty banana sundae and he snapped at you.
"dammit woman, can't we have a bloody peaceful dinner for once?" he spat, fists curled tightly and teeth clenched.
immediate silence.
simon's face, tight with frustration and momentary anger, immediately fell once the words left his mouth. he never yelled at you before like that, as he swore to god he'd never intend to make his lover feel scared of him, but he could see in the shake of your hand that was holding the fork and the tremble in your lower lip that you were frightened by his sudden outburst. who wouldn't be?
a bark is a warning.
and simon loves you for the same reason he is sleeping alone tonight, for you immediately snapped back, "a simple kiss is not too much to ask for-who made you this meal? who made you your lunch? you wanna fuck me whenever but a goodbye kiss in the morning is too much to ask for?"
you shook your head at him. simon began to cower, eyebrows furrowed as he watched your eyes begin to turn glossy with tears. without another word you stood up from the table and left to the master bedroom, closing the door.
simon sat at the dinner table for a good while, clenching and unclenching his fists before laying them flat and looking closely at the calluses and scars on his palms. he lost all appetite, eyes flickering guilty from were you were sitting opposite from him to the door of the master bedroom. he knew immediately he fucked up.
and he still believes so now, as the clock reads 2:07 AM and he still doesn't feel an ounce of sleep within him. he breathes shallowly, running a hand through his short blonde hair in an effort to calm himself down, but nothing calms him down better than the feel of your touch. but you're mad at him, rightfully so.
he feels mentally stuck. simon has always believed in listening to the brain; he thinks that if he lets you have space and sleep this off you'll maybe be better in the morning, as he'd like that if the situation was switched around. but his heart stutters painfully at the image of you on the brink of tears at the table—you're just a room over after months of being thousands of miles apart and wishing upon lucky stars to be with each other, and now you're still both so alone.
alone and sad, under his watch, by his doing. simon in the past has given you a million reasons for you to be mad at him, hardly sending texts throughout the day or abandoned dates due to his hectic schedule, but you've maintained patience and kindness to him throughout it all. and he knows how much you do struggle with it, even though you try not to show it. this is ridiculous, simon thinks. you just wanted a fucking kiss for christ sake.
his back pops from how fast he gets up from the bed but he takes the pinch of pain that accompanies it as punishment for his deeds and practically throws open the door to the guest bedroom and rushes his way to the master bedroom. when he's face to face with the door he freezes in place, staring down the knob like it's his longtime enemy.
a thousand thoughts run through his mind. what if you're not even awake? what if you really don't want to talk to him? should he just wait until he blushes, frowning nervously. but he reaches out for the door knob anyways, turning it slowly.
the door opens with a low creak.
he opens it a few more inches, his eyes meeting partial darkness and the soft light of the tv running through roku city. illuminated is the bed and a few lumps under the blankets. simon's heart flutters at the mere sight of you curled up alone, you're laying on his side of the bed, clutching the pillow he uses the most which just weighs down his shoulders even more.
he softly patters towards the bed, climbing on with the lightest of movements like a scared stray dog who knows nothing better.
"y/n," he murmurs, reaching out a light hand to tap at your hip. he murmurs, reaching out a light hand to tap at your hip. he's not surprised when you flinch easily, he knew you wouldn't sleep either, not when you feel so deeply about everything. back in the beginning when he was just beginning to know you it used to annoy him so much but now he almost admires you, that you find beauty and care in even the smallest of things.
he shuffles closer to you, his hands planted on your shoulder and hip as you slowly sit up. you struggle to meet his eye, but his breath hitches when you finally do, seeing your face puffy and swollen from crying for god knows how long. he struggles to form the right words, panicking at the sight of you in distress from his actions but with a sharp exhale he scrambles onto the first words that come to him.
"i'm sorry, i—i didn't mean it," he rambles. he harshly swallows before continuing, "i was just already so mad, i shouldn't have.. yelled at you," he breathes hastily, his hands clinging onto you. you only blink hazily at him, surprised by this rare moment of emotional vulnerability from him.
"i'm sorry," he mumbles out once more, dread overtaking his body at the sight of you not engaging with him. he doesn't expect forgiveness outright, but damn does he wish you'd at least just say something—let him know you still feel something for him, that you don't hate him. hate. that word hate makes him shiver violently and scan your expression desperately for any sign of emotion.
you only sigh, looking at the nightstand's clock defeatedly. it's 2:13. you can't find the burn that builds up at your waterline again, your lips already beginning to quiver. "i just wanted a kiss."
simon huffs, swallowing again once more. "i know, ill do better, i promise," he swears, nodding up and down. you can't help but stare at him with wide eyes, he rarely ever promises anything. and with the few promises he has with you, he has yet to let you down.
you break eye contact with him, wiping the tears that fall down your cheeks. simon perks up when you begin nodding your head, "o-okay," you mumble. instantly relief washes over him, his heart pumping excitedly.
"okay," he breathes out, blinking slowly as he calms down. he watches as you look around sleepily before you begin climbing back under the blankets, still on his side but simon cares less and doesn't waste a second to get under the blankets with you. he's quick to wrap his arms around you, his body buzzing at the feel of your warmth on his skin.
there's a ease that washes over your body as well, sighing contentedly when he presses his entire body against yours, his chest to your back.
but just as you close your eyes, do you feel simon press a gentle kiss on the back of your shoulder. and then another. and another. and another.
"simon.. you don't have to," you say weakly, but simon only shakes his head no and continues to lay soft kisses along the bare expanses of your skin that is revealed to him. "i wanna," is all he says.
you don't fight it, you fall asleep back in his warm embrace with him peppering sweet kisses to the back of your neck. you won't forgive him yet, but you'll let him begin to earn your forgiveness.
you fumble with your keys. it's difficult to open the door with shaky hands. but you finally manage. you're too exhausted. and there's only one thing on your mind; curling up in bed with your man.
you kick off your boots and walk in your shared home, dropping your bag in the hallway with a loud thud. that's what lets him know you're back.
finally, simon emerges from the shadows, walking down the hallway to greet you.
"hey, love."
he takes your face in his hands. looking you over, he can see how utterly exhausted you are.
you wrap your arms around his neck, droopy eyes locked onto his as he leans in, stealing a kiss from your lips.
"i was just making your favorite."
you can't help but smile. simon had always been the type to show his love with small actions. no big gestures. no loud words. just loving you in his quiet way. and that's what made you fall in love with him in the first place. and every day from then.
"thank you. hope it wasn't too much work." you respond, resting your head on his chest as he wraps his strong arms around you in a much-needed warm hug.
"not at all, love. i just hope it's edible enough."
you chuckle, looking up at him, only to be met by his loving eyes. you can never get over his eyes. the deep brown, laced with the emotions he keeps locked away, the profound pain that courses through his veins, and the burning devotion he harbors for you in his heart. all on display right before your eyes.
"it will get cold, love."
his deep voice pulls you out of your trance, his tone slightly teasing. and you notice the knowing smirk plastered on his face. "right." you look away quickly, suddenly feeling shy.
simon leads you to the table, placing the delicious looking meal he prepared in front of you.
despite his calm demeanor, his heart is doing flips in his chest, hoping that it's all to your liking.
you quickly dig in, taking in the mouth-watering aroma before taking a spoonful of the food and bringing it to your lips, tasting the delectable flavor that you love.
you close your eyes and let out a delighted moan, making him chuckle and sigh in relief. "that good, huh?"
"hmm. fucking amazing!" you reply, filling your mouth with more of the delicious food.
you don't see the way he smiles at you. as if he's falling in love all over again.
when you're done, simon tags along as you do your nightly routine, sitting on the bed while you organize your stuff for tomorrow, following your every move with adoring eyes.
you stop for a moment, looking his way and smiling for the umpteenth time that night, before going to brush your teeth and do your skincare.
he walks up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and slowly leaning in, lips finding your neck, kissing softly, tenderly.
"it tickles." you giggle with your mouth full of foam. he chuckles into your neck, making you coil into yourself as it tickles even more.
simon watches you in awe while you do your work. and when you're done, he carries you to bed, gently placing you on the newly washed sheets and getting in after you.
he takes you in his arms, pressing your back onto his chest, legs tangled as he holds you tightly. safe and secure. you nuzzle closer into him, smiling to yourself.
"goodnight, love."
"night, si."
you smile softly at his image on your mind. only for it to falter as his phantom starts to fade away. your eyes sting as tears gather at the corners. you squeeze them shut, trying to fight the thoughts away, but fail miserably as it dawns on you that you have to learn to live with the truth that he's not real.
