need our simon to come home from deployment IMMEDIATELY 🫶🏼 | p1 p2 p3 p4
your older bf!simon comes home from deployment at dinner time on a tuesday.
herb alpert on the kitchen radio, knife tearing through a bunch of parsley, garlic and onion simmering on the stove behind you.
simon can hear it- smell it through the mail flap.
smells like home.
your ears prick at the sound of the door swinging open, the hinges alerting you to a secondary presence. back tensing for just a moment before you hear steps you could pick out in a lineup.
he sees your fluffy slippers first, then your little shorts, then his t-shirt. finally, he’s met with wide eyes and the kitchen light hits the curve of your face so nicely.
simon could cry.
you already were.
“oh my god, si”
he doesn’t really want to touch you with his outside clothes, tactical gear smelling like the back of a cargo plane and you’re so soft and lovely he’s afraid he might mess it all up.
but there’s nothing stopping the way you leap at him across the kitchen and swing your entire self around him and he’s forgetting what he’s wearing and he’s wrapping his arms around you like he knows you won’t break.
his tongue is immediately in your mouth and he’s taking one gasping breath and filling his nose with the scent that’s overwhelming him.
simon realises right then that the house smells like dinner but you smell like home. you are home. he’s home.
when he finally lets you let him go you’re telling him to leave all his gear by the washer and you’ll sort it all out tomorrow but right now he needs to sit down so you can feed him.
he’s back in the kitchen with a sweatshirt and shorts on and he’s never found his own clothes so comfortable. maybe it’s because he can smell you on the fabric.
you’d only been cooking enough for one but at this point, you’re so happy to have him home that you’re plating up the whole thing for him as he sits at the dining table.
his chair scrapes back along the floor and he’s patting his thigh, simon eats his tea with you curled up in his lap telling him everything he’d missed.
apparently, old-mate next door broke up with his missus and it was quite the scene.
apparently, they finally finished the roadworks on the junction at the end of your street and there was no longer a blur of orange cones on the drive to work.
apparently, there was going to be a barbecue at the house down the street and the two of you were invited. you might make a salad to take with.
you could’ve been reading him the phonebook and simon would be a happy man. his hand was holding under your thigh and your face was in the crook of his neck.
he was home.
dishes done (together) and tea steaming on the coffee table in front of him, simon isn’t sure this couch has ever been this plush. he could melt into it, as long as it was just like this.
bare feet up on the ottoman and one arm wrapped around your side as your head lay against his chest. you could hear his heartbeat and he could hear the football you’d recorded for him whilst he was away.
deployment was fucking rough, seen and done things he didn’t even want to think about. but this is what he comes home to.
you.
you who curls up in his lap and idly twirls the drawstring of his shorts round your finger.
you who offered up all of your food to him to fill the pit that’d been growing in his stomach over the weeks.
you who couldn’t give less of a fuck about the football on tv but watches in quiet contentment for the sake of being closer to him.
you who doesn’t ask once about what happened while he was away but will always listen without judgement if he needs to get something off his chest.
ideally, simon would like to give you the world in return. then again, he doesn’t think even that’d be enough.
instead, he takes you up to your shared bed and, miraculously, he doesn’t fall asleep as soon as his back touches the mattress.
he could, very easily, but instead he pulls you down on top of him and gets his lips back on yours. the kiss when he came through the door had been passionate but it’d been fleeting.
simon had kept it like that, knowing if he spent a second longer with your tongue on his then he’d have you over the kitchen bench and that wasn’t what he wanted.
really, he wanted this. the full weight of you on top of him and your hips rolling messily against his as his hands went up underneath your his shirt.
he wanted to run his fingertips along your bare back and feel skin so soft he almost couldn’t remember the things his hands had done just last week.
he wanted to map out every spot, every freckle, every ridge across your shoulders and commit it to memory so the next time he had to up and leave he could trace you like a constellation in the night sky.
truthfully, simon didn’t want to leave next time. he wanted to get the call from price and tell him that he was sorry but he couldn’t do it any longer. he now had something- someone to live for and he just couldn’t gamble odds like he used to.
he wasn’t entirely sure he’d still hold the sentiment on the other side of blowing a load so simon put those thoughts in the back of his head and decided he’d work them out on tomorrow morning’s run.
right now, simon felt the soft skin of the inside of your cheeks and your spit tastes like the nectar those gods harped on about and he’s pulling hard on your hips as he rolled something hard between them.
you were moaning, whimpering, whinging into his mouth while you ground yourself into the hard line of his cock. raging erection didn’t even cover it and his head was tipping back as a-
yawn, deep and all consuming broke from his throat.
simon was fucking knackered.
exactly what he didn’t want to happen was happening in front of him, you were sitting up and cooing at him so fucking sweetly.
“si, you’re exhausted- we’ll go to sleep”
strong grip around your waist was anchoring you to the spot so you couldn’t climb out of his lap like you were currently trying.
“sweet’art”
you could hear it in his voice, he couldn’t even lift his head off the pillow. you conceded, however, letting him rub soft little circles into your hips.
“jus’ gimme’ one and then we’ll sleep”
laying back down against his chest, you felt the air woosh out of him as you relaxed your body on his. face fitting into the crook of his neck like you were made for him (you were) with a hand running along his collarbone.
“we’ve got tomorrow”
you knew it was futile, he was already slipping your shorts to the side. head tilting just a little to press a kiss to the top of your head.
“and i need you tonight”
settled.
you felt one large hand lift you up as his other freed his cock out his shorts. just enough, just enough to get the job done because any extra effort was going to render him unconscious.
bringing a hand to his mouth, he spit in his palm quickly before rubbing it along the head of his cock. deep groan rumbled beneath you as you felt him pressing against your entrance.
“lift y’top up, sweet’art- wanna’ feel y’on me”
you did him one better, leaning up enough to slip the shirt over your head and onto the floor. forcing him to hold his arms up for just a second, you pulled his sweatshirt off and discarded it in the pile.
bare chest to chest, you could feel simon shudder beneath you. snaking one arm under his armpit and the other around his ribs, you snuggled in tight as you felt him slip right in.
that’s all he wanted.
weeks of photos, videos, imagination to go off of. this was all he ever wanted. you so close to him that it was entirely possible to imagine the two of you as one. that there was no version of reality without you together in it.
lazily rolling his hips up into you as you met him halfway, rolling yours back down to share half of the load. simon’s arms wrapped around your back, keeping you close and keeping you moving against him.
“sorry love, s’not gonna’ be a long one”
you could only respond with a whimper, gently nodding your head into his neck as your lips press soft little kisses into the skin. you didn’t need a long time, you just needed him.
unable to help yourself from noticing the couple new scratches he’d come home with, your fingers idly traced along them as he sucked in a breath at the feeling.
what you wouldn’t give to keep him home and keep him safe.
a thought for another day as you felt yourself constricting around his cock, grinding yourself into his lap as firm muscle rubbed against your front.
tiny little gasps flitted from your mouth and into his ear, you could feel his body tensing up beneath you. it wasn’t just with sheer tiredness, you knew this man like the back of your hand.
left hand coming out from under where you’d buried it behind his back, you ran the tips of your fingernails down simon’s chest. you stopped at his nipple, gently scraping along the peaked flesh until you heard him.
“need y’to cum right now f’me please”
slipping your other hand between the two of you, you let your fingers wander against yourself until you could feel the tide breaking in the pit of your stomach.
body clenching involuntarily, your mouth dropping open against his skin. no doubt drool pooling against his collarbone as you came with a pathetic whimper. hips bucking a little crazy in his lap as his hand ran the length of your back.
“god that’s it, sweet’art”
simon went rigid, gripping you tight like you might go somewhere as the dams broke and he filled you up. hot and sticky and dripping out of you and onto the waistband of his shorts.
he fell so still the only way you’d know he was still alive was the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. his arms were already starting to fall limp around you.
coming back from the bathroom, slipping off the rest of your clothes and adding them to the pile. simon wasn’t asleep, there were no snores, but he had been rendered totally immobile.
pulling the remainder of his clothes off for him and settling in beside, you pulled the sheets up over the both of you as his arm began drawing you in.
draped across him, you could feel his lips pressing against the crown of your head.
“m’gonna’ rock y’world in the morning”
you snorted a little laugh, nuzzling in closer as his breathing starts to even out. no use in replying, snorings about the only answer you’re going to get.
not that you’d mind.
he was home.
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you're grabbing lunch with a nice man and he gives you that strange grimace-smile that's popular right now; an almost sardonic "twist" of his mouth while he looks literally down on you. it looks like he practiced the move as he leans back, arms folded. he just finished reciting the details of NFTs to you and explaining Oppenheimer even though he only watched a youtube about it and hasn't actually seen it. you are at the bottom of your wine glass.
you ask the man across from you if he has siblings, desperately looking for a topic. literally anything else.
he says i don't like small talk. and then he smiles again, watching you.
a few years ago, you probably would have said you're above celebrity gossip, but honestly, you've been kind of enjoying the dumb shit of it these days. with the rest of the earth burning, there's something familiar and banal about dragging ariana grande through the mud. you think about jeanette mccurdy, who has often times gently warned the world she's not as nice as she appears. you liked i'm glad my mom died but it made you cry a lot.
he doesn't like small talk, figure out something to say.
you want to talk about responsibility, and how ariana grande is only like 6 days older than you are - which means she just turned 30 and still dresses and acts like a 13 year old, but like sexy. there's something in there about the whole thing - about insecurity, and never growing up, and being sexualized from a young age.
people have been saying that gay people are groomers. like, that's something that's come back into the public. you have even said yourself that it's just ... easier to date men sometimes. you would identify as whatever the opposite of "heteroflexible" is, but here you are again, across from a man. you like every woman, and 3 people on tv. and not this guy. but you're trying. your mother is worried about you. she thinks it's not okay you're single. and honestly this guy was better before you met, back when you were just texting.
wait, shit. are you doing the same thing as ariana grande? are you looking for male validation in order to appease some internalized promise of heteronormativity? do you conform to the idea that your happiness must result in heterosexuality? do you believe that you can resolve your internal loneliness by being accepted into the patriarchy? is there a reason dating men is easier? why are you so scared of fucking it up with women? why don't you reach out to more of them? you have a good sense of humor and a big ol' brain, you could have done a better job at online dating.
also. jesus christ. why can't you just get a drink with somebody without your internal feminism meter pinging. although - in your favor (and judgement aside) in the case of your ariana grande deposition: you have been in enough therapy you probably wouldn't date anyone who had just broken up with their wife of many years (and who has a young child). you'd be like - maybe take some personal time before you begin this journey. like, grande has been on broadway, you'd think she would have heard of the plot of hamlet.
he leans forward and taps two fingers to the table. "i'm not, like an andrew tate guy," he's saying, "but i do think partnership is about two people knowing their place. i like order."
you knew it was going to be hard. being non-straight in any particular way is like, always hard. these days you kind of like answering the question what's your sexuality? with a shrug and a smile - it's fine - is your most common response. like they asked you how your life is going and not to reveal your identity. you like not being straight. you like kissing girls. some days you know you're into men, and sometimes you're sitting across from a man, and you're thinking about the power of compulsory heterosexuality. are you into men, or are you just into the safety that comes from being seen with them? after all, everyone knows you're failing in life unless you have a husband. it almost feels like a gradebook - people see "straight married" as being "all A's", and anything else even vaguely noncompliant as being ... like you dropped out of the school system. you cannot just ignore years of that kind of conditioning, of course you like attention from men.
"so let's talk boundaries." he orders more wine for you, gesturing with one hand like he's rousing an orchestra. sir, this is a fucking chain restaurant. "I am not gonna date someone who still has male friends. also, i don't care about your little friends, i care about me. whatever stupid girls night things - those are lower priority. if i want you there, you're there."
he wasn't like this over text, right? you wouldn't have been even in the building if he was like this. you squint at him. in another version of yourself, you'd be running. you'd just get up and go. that's what happens on the internet - people get annoyed, and they just leave. you are locked in place, almost frozen. you need to go to the bathroom and text someone to call you so you have an excuse, like it's rude to just-leave. like he already kind of owns you. rudeness implies a power paradigm, though. see, even your social anxiety allows the patriarchy to get to you.
you take a sip of the new glass of wine. maybe this will be a funny story. maybe you can write about it on your blog. maybe you can meet ariana grande and ask her if she just maybe needs to take some time to sit and think about her happiness and how she measures her own success.
is this settling down? is this all that's left in your dating pool? just accepting that someone will eventually love you, and you have to stop being picky about who "makes" you a wife?
you look down to your hand, clutching the knife.
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i need to get this out of my head before i continue clone^2 but danny being the first batkid. Like, standard procedure stuff: his parents and sister die, danny ends up with Vlad Masters. He drags him along to stereotypical galas and stuff; Danny is not having a good time.
He ends up going to one of the Wayne Galas being hosted ever since elusive Bruce Wayne has returned to Gotham. Vlad is crowing about having this opportunity as he's been wanting to sink his claws into the company for a long while now. Danny is too busy grieving to care what he wants.
And like most Galas, once Vlad is done showing him off to the other socialites and the like, he disappears. Off to a dark corner, or to one of the many balconies; doesn't matter. There he runs into said star of the show, Bruce who is still young, has been Batman for at least a year at this point, but still getting used to all these damn people and socializing. He's stepped off to hide for a few minutes before stepping back into the shark tank.
And he runs into a kid with circles under his eyes and a dull gleam in them. Familiar, like looking into a mirror.
Danny tries to excuse himself, he hasn't stopped crying since his parents died and it's been months. He rubs his eyes and stands up, and stumbles over a half-hearted apology to Mister Wayne. Some of Vlad's etiquette lessons kicking in.
Bruce is awkward, but he softens. "That's alright, lad," he says, pulling up some of that Brucie Wayne confidence, "I was just coming out here to get some fresh air."
There's a little pressing; Bruce asks who he's here with, Danny says, voice quiet and grief-stricken, that he's with his godfather Vlad Masters. Bruce asks him if he knows where he is, and Danny tells him he does. Bruce offers to leave, Danny tells him to do whatever he wants.
It ends with Bruce staying, standing off to the side with Danny in silence. Neither of them say a word, and Danny eventually leaves first in that same silence.
Bruce looks into Vlad Masters after everything is over, his interest piqued. He finds news about him taking in Danny Fenton: he looks into Danny Fenton. He finds news articles about his parents' deaths, their occupations, everything he can get his hands on.
At the next gala, he sees Danny again. And he looks the same as ever: quiet like a ghost, just as pale, and full of grief. Bruce sits in silence with him again for nearly ten minutes before he strikes a conversation.
"Do you like to do anything?"
Nothing. Just silence.
Bruce isn't quite sure what to do: comfort is not his forte, and Danny doesn't know him. He's smart enough to know that. So he starts talking about other things; anything he can think of that Brucie Wayne might say, that also wasn't inappropriate for a kid to hear.
Danny says nothing the entire time, and is again the first to leave.
Bruce watches from a distance as he intercts with Vlad Masters; how Vlad Masters interacts with him. He doesn't like what he sees: Vlad Masters keeps a hand on Danny's shoulder like one would hold onto the collar of a dog. He parades him around like a trophy he won.
And there are moments, when someone gets too close or when someone tries to shake Danny's hand, of deep possessiveness that flints over Vlad Masters' eyes. Like a dragon guarding a horde.
He plays the act of doting godfather well: but Bruce knows a liar when he sees one. Like recognizes like.
Danny is dull-eyed and blank faced the entire time; he looks miserable.
So Bruce tries to host more parties; if only so that he can talk to Danny alone. Vlad seems all too happy to attend, toting Danny along like a ribbon, and on the dot every hour, Danny slips away to somewhere to hide. Bruce appears twenty minutes later.
"I was looking into your godfather's company," he says one night, trying to think of more things to say. Some nights all they do is sit in silence. "Some of my shareholders were thinking of partnering up--"
"Don't."
He stops. Danny hardly says a word to him, he doesn't even look at him -- he's sitting on the ground, his head in his knees. Like he's trying to hide from the world. But he's looking, blue eyes piercing up at Bruce.
Bruce tilts his head, practiced puppy-like. "Pardon?"
"Don't." Danny says, strongly. "Don't make any deals with Vlad."
It's the most words Danny's spoken to him, and there's a look in his eyes like a candle finding its spark. Something hard. Bruce presses further, "And why is that?"
The spark flutters, and flushes out. Danny blinks like he's coming out of a trance, and slumps back into himself. "Just don't."
Bruce stares at him, thoughtful, before looking away. "Alright. I won't."
And they fall back into silence.
Danny, when he leaves, turns to look at Bruce, "I mean it." He says; soft like he's telling a secret, "Don't make any deals with him. Don't be alone with him. Don't work with him."
He's scampered away before Bruce can question him further.
(He never planned on working with Vlad Masters and his company; he's done his research. He's seen the misfortune. But nothing ever leads back to him. There's no evidence of anything. But Danny knows something.)
At their next meeting, Danny starts the conversation. It's new, and it's welcomed. He says, cutting through their five minute quiet, that he likes stars. And he doesn't like that he can't see them in Gotham.
Bruce hums in interest, and Danny continues talking. It's as if floodgates had been opened, and as Bruce takes a sip of his wine, it tastes like victory.
("Tucker told me once--")
("Tucker?")
("Oh-- uh, one of my best friends. He's a tech geek. We haven't talked in a while.")
(Danny shut down in his grief -- his friends are worried, but can't reach him. When he goes back to the manor with Vlad, he fishes out his phone and sends them a message.)
(They are ecstatic to hear from him.)
It all culminates until one day, when Danny is leaving to go back inside, that Bruce speaks up. "You know," He says, leaning against the railing. "The manor has many rooms; plenty of space for a guest."
The implication there, hidden between the lines. And Danny is smart, he looks at Bruce with a sharp glean in his eyes, and he nods. "Good to know."
The next time they see each other, Danny has something in his hands. "Can you hold onto something for me?" He asks.
When Bruce agrees, Danny places a pearl into his palm. or, at least, it's something that looks like a pearl. Because it's cold to the touch; sinking into Bruce's white silk gloves with ease and shimmering like an opal. It moves a little as it settles into his hand, and the moves like its full of liquid.
Bruce has never seen anything like it before, but he does know this; it's not human. "What is it?" He asks, and Danny looks uncomfortable.
"I can't tell you that." He says, shifting on his foot like he's scared of someone seeing it. "But please be careful with it. Treat it like it's extremely fragile."
When Bruce gets home, he puts it in an empty ring box and hides the box in the cave. He tries researching into what it is. he can't find anything concrete.
Everything comes to a head one day when Danny appears at the manor's doorstep one evening, soaking wet in the rain, and bleeding from the side.
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