Chapter Text
Simon does what he does best.
He observes, with a steaming cuppa in his hand, – a personalized cup you’d gifted him for his birthday this year, – leaning against the doorframe with his brows drawn together, forehead creasing as if he’s trying to solve a mystery.
But he’s just observing you, his girlfriend slash love of his life, sitting on the living room carpet next to the unnecessarily large Christmas tree, which you made him put up for you, untangling a long string of fairy lights with nimble fingers.
The bloody tree takes up way too much space; makes too much dirt, too, as he keeps finding its deep green needles everywhere after carrying it inside your shared apartment for you. A bloody waste of space and money.
It smells nice, though, he can give you that.
He takes a slow sip of his tea, smacks his lips before he speaks up. “Explain to me again, how watchin’ somethin’ die and wither away slowly in yer home is considered a nice tradition.”
“Simon–“ The exasperated sigh that is torn from your throat as you tilt your head back is enough to make him crack a pleased smile. If there is something he secretly enjoys more than anything, it’s teasing you long enough to have you make all those cute noises for him.
“Bunny, I truly am tryin’ to help here, but I have low elf-esteem,” he says dryly, lifting his cup up to his lips once more to gently blow on the hot liquid. “I’m worried ‘bout bein’ sleighed ‘ere.”
“Oh, hell, no! Not the Christmas puns, Simon!” You drop your hands into your lap, clutching the fairy lights as you glare at him from across the living room.
Simon cackles in rare delight, enjoying your over-exaggerated reaction immensely.
“One more?”
You huff and shrug, already focused on untangling the Christmas lights. “Will you implode if you don’t get them out?”
He sips on his tea, dark eyes twinkling with mirth, “Aye, I might, and ya don’t want tha’, do ya?”
“No,” you grumble, “I suppose not. I still need my big, thick man for cuffing season.”
His chest rumbles at your playful praise. As if you could ever get rid of him again. He takes a few deliberate steps into the room. “What carol do they sing in a Mental Hospital?”
You sigh deeply, rolling your eyes before gazing up at him with a frown. He knows you love his dad jokes, though. “I don’t know, but I’m sure you do, Riley.”
Simon snorts. “Do you hear what I hear.”
The way you blink up at him dumbly, face dropping in feigned disappointment, has his stomach fluttering. “Not good?” You shake your head slowly. “Terrible, actually.”
He hums and the corners of his mouth twitch as he lifts his cuppa up to his lips again. “Another?”
“Simon.”
Over the next few days of leave leading up to the dreaded holiday, the flat slowly but surely turns into some sort of winter wonderland under your care.
And while Simon keeps huffing and muttering in mock disdain like the Grinch with each colourful ornament you put on the Christmas tree and with each tray of gingerbread cookies you bake, he’s absolutely smitten by it and the way you’re actively trying to make him participate in the traditions you share with him from your upbringing.
He never really participated in any holiday, let alone Christmas traditions with his own family as a child. There was no money left for a nice tree or presents or groceries for a nice dinner. Sure, his wonderful mother had tried her best, always, for him and his brother’s sake, but with his awful father in the picture, nothing good had ever lasted long. Simon never had a chance to be part of traditions and he simply convinced himself that he doesn’t care for those anyway.
He starts caring about it all for you, though, because Christmas seems important to you. And whatever is important to you ultimately turns out to be important to him, too. Yes, he’s that devoted when it comes to you.
Bloody hell, he even stopped smoking, because you’d stopped, too. Perhaps not completely, but he’s turned it down – a lot.
Simon finds you in the master bedroom, a place he’s come to learn to appreciate since you two moved in together a few months ago. He can hear you singing “Last Christmas” to yourself softly as he sneaks up on you while you’re sitting on the floor, – always on the floor for whatever reason, – while the only thing visible is the crown of your head peeking over the side of the large box spring bed. He can clearly hear the cutting of scissors followed by the crinkling of paper, which leads him to assume that you’re wrapping presents again.
Before you and him had become official, his bedroom barely looked like someone was living in it. He had to sleep with a light on and spend most nights tossing and turning until his body was exhausted enough to fall asleep while his mind kept racing.
Nowadays, the bedroom looks alive, personal and homely. His sleeping schedule has improved, you practically demand to keep his balls empty and his belly full at all times if possible and his nightmares are less frequent – less violent, too. He’s almost too scared to even think it, afraid some higher beings could view it as an opportunity to fuck him up all over again, but Simon is happier than he’s ever been.
“Wot’s tha’? Presents? F’whom?”
The way you jolt and scramble on the carpet like a frantic, tiny rodent as soon as he speaks up with his gravelly baritone voice, has him crack a boyish smile, and he watches as you try to hide whatever it is you’re trying to wrap in colourful paper by throwing your whole body on top of it like a dragon hoarding its treasure.
Goofy woman. His goofy woman, though.
“Don’t look! Don’t look, Simon!” You whine as you blindly reach for a large shopping bag to cover the stuff that’s still unwrapped haphazardly while Simon snorts in amusement, eyebrows raised as he keeps watching you struggle.
He doesn’t care for presents; would rather not have you get him anything, actually, because he already feels like you’re doing way too much for him, being too good. Simon is absolutely satisfied with having you wake up in his arms every lazy Sunday or even when you’re on ops together, when he sneaks into your cot for a secret cuddle session while Soap or Gaz are on guard duty. Having you in his life like this is everything he could’ve ever wished for.
He did buy you a bunch of presents, though. They’re still hidden in his office on base; an array of stuff you’ve mentioned liking or wanting to buy over the course of the year. Bloody hell, he almost bought you a German Shepherd puppy, like your first dog, the one you’d told him about some night a long while ago on guard duty, but Price managed to talk him out of it. Someday, though.
“I’m not even lookin’,” he chuckles, rounding the bed to approach you, “c’mere a moment.”
And before you can protest, Simon wraps both arms around your midriff and yanks your body off the ground with a playful growl while you squeal and flail a little, knowing fully well what he’s about to do.
“N-No–!” You shriek and laugh when Simon throws you on the bed effortlessly and watches you bounce on the mattress before he’s on the bed in a split-second, wrestling you onto your back while you stop putting up a fight, knowing fully well how easily he can manhandle you anyway.
“Gotta put more bite into it, bunny,” he taunts with mirth gleaming in his obsidian eyes while he pins your wrists above your head with one mammoth hand, “You’re an easy target.” He clicks his tongue mockingly, shaking his head.
Your chest is rising and falling with deep breaths as you gaze up at him. “Only for you, though.”
“Aye,” he agrees, leaning down while his free hand slips beneath your sweater to tickle your stomach, “only f’me, bunny.”
Simon keeps his focus on the steady, harsh thud, thud, thud, thud of the headboard knocking against the bedroom wall instead of the keening, breathy moans you’re making underneath him. He must concentrate on anything but you. Otherwise, he would’ve shot his prodigious load into the condom right after rolling the bloody thing down to the base of his cock and slowly sinking into your welcoming, warm cunt.
Meanwhile, you’re meekly pawing at his sweat-slicked chest, flexing shoulders and bunching biceps, needing to feel more of him while he’s already covering your body with his massive frame; fucking you in a steady, sensual rhythm while he’s got you folded up in a mating press.
Your legs are shaking, your mind already scrambled and gooey, as Simon keeps making you cum on his cock, coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of your body, unable to even writhe beneath him from overstimulation as he keeps you pinned to the mattress. You can feel how your syrupy slick is gushing and dripping down your crack and onto the bed sheets while his cock keeps stretching and rutting into your fluttering walls.
“C’mon, bunny, one more f’me, yeah? Be my good girl, gimme one more.” His voice is so rough yet honeyed and soothing in your ear; it makes your skin pebble with goose flesh, your nipples peak almost painfully as his scarred chest brushes over them with each deep grind of his powerful hips, your sopping, gummy walls rippling around his fat cock when another climax starts building up low and intense in your belly.
“Come with me,” you whine with hiccupping breath as your nails dig into his biceps and the muscles in your legs start burning with the ongoing stretch, “Fuck, pleeease–!”
Simon snarls at your desperate plea and swallows your whorish sounds by crushing his lips on yours in a passionate, sloppy kiss as he picks up the pace of his thrusts, determined to feel you cum around his cock one more time before his own release crashes over him.
The steady thud, thud, thud turns into a louder, more rapid thudthudhuthudthudthud as he grunts and moans roughly against your lips; breaths mingling and saliva mixing as he fucks you into the mattress until it feels like he’s in your guts, choking your throat as you’re chanting his name, head tipped back against the pillows, baring your throat to him, and as the feral dog he is, he bites down, sucks your sweaty skin into his mouth with a guttural groan until he feels your pussy gripping his throbbing cock like a vice, rippling and convulsing with your orgasm.
That’s when Simon lets go and thrusts his prick so far into your perfect cunt that, in the back of his rotten mind, he’s sure it would’ve been a hole in one if it wasn’t for the bloody latex he’s wearing when he finally pumps his cum into the rubber with several long throbs.
His massive body is trembling with the intensity of his release as he licks and laps along the length of your throat, soothing his bite mark and his own need to burrow himself inside your body as the urge to be as close to you as physically possible is slowly overtaking his senses again.
“Love you, bunny,” he murmurs against your skin, still grinding his softening cock into your pliant pussy while you go limp in his embrace, “I love you.”
Your eyes have fluttered closed in bliss as you take it all and relish his ministrations. Always so soft and needy afterwards; it makes your heart swell and burst with love and devotion. You cup his face and pull him up to your face; you nuzzle your nose against his and give his lips a chaste kiss before tucking his face into the crook of your neck. His chest rumbles and vibrates against yours as he releases your legs from his grip and lets you stretch them out with a slight wince.
Despite his size, he slumps down on you like a weighted blanket. “How much does Santa pay for parking?” he murmurs into your ear, his voice so gruff, the words are barely audible.
“You can’t be serious right now, Si.” Your eyes crack open and you turn your face to glance at him, but his eyes are closed, his lips pursed as if he’s holding back a smirk. You huff through your nose; he’s never looked so handsome.
“Nothing, it's on the house.”