an affinity for touch vols. I and II (simon/alisha, misfits)
title: an affinity for touch in two volumes
pairing: simon/alisha
fandom: misfits
rating: pg to nc17
disclaimer: do i look like i own anything of worth?
summary: vol. I: Future!Simon, on human connections (drabbly moments from 2.03). vol. II: Present!Simon and Alisha, redefining touch.
spoilers: 2.03 etc.
words: 2834
an: what even is this? i don't fucking know, written at 3am this morning in a bout of insomnia. second time going, hopefully this is alright, still getting into things and sometimes it feels off but learning curve, yes? this really came from a weird place. i'd written notes about these two, and simon's turned into this. i also like to write onscreen moments a lot in fanfiction, and see if i can interpret things in some small way, perhaps redundant. i will now stop apologizing for this, i hate that, forgive me. so vol I is my attempt at that for super!simon. the second story is present!simon (sort of) and alisha at some point in the near-distant future. not beta'd, any lingering errors are mine.
feedback: actually makes my muse behave and is better than simon's back muscles.
an affinity for touch vol. I
He had always loved the feel of a camera in his hands, cool and hard with mechanical buttons that are easier to understand than most things. There was a cleanliness about them that appealed to him. He would squint through the viewfinder, this extension of his eyes and hands, and watch everything pass by.
He now sits in the loft, austere with its gray-painted walls and black furniture and white lights, and red-eyed clocks and watches the compilation of film he came with, against his better judgment.
She’s laughing at him through the lens, her fingers beckoning, her eyes sliding into a wink before she shrugs and walks away. She’s throwing something at Nathan’s head; nudging Kelly in the ribs and the two of them are laughing uncontrollably at some joke; holding hands with Curtis.
In another, a cigarette hangs limply from her mouth and she’s crying, eyeliner smudged, black rings on her face and half her lipstick chewed off so instead of a bright slash of red her mouth is dull pink. He still wants to kiss it, and taste it.
The him holding the camera says something, probably an awkward reassurance or an observation that has no bearing on anything. She looks up; her eyes are crystal shards and smiles. Then she puckers her mouth and leans forward to kiss the camera. He reaches up to touch his own lips, imagining for a second that he felt it.
-
He follows her a lot. Sometimes, it’s because he knows he needs to protect her and he’s timed it down to the very last second. Sometimes not.
He likes to follow all of them really, when he does it helps him to remember why he’s doing this.
The goggles make everything murky green at night.
He stands on the rooftop and they’re walking and laughing together. Nathan in the middle, gesticulating wildly and making some offensive comment; Kelly rolling her eyes; Curtis mumbles “prick” under his breath. He - the other he - walks to the side with his hands in his pockets trying not to laugh at the joke but finding it funny all the same. She’s giggling and shaking her head.
He feels a tightening in his chest, and when they turn the corner of the next building, he stops and doesn’t trail any further.
-
Eight seconds.
That’s all it had been but in eight seconds, a life could flash and end, everything could go to shit. He’d learned that the hard way more times than once; he’d learned it every single time he’d come back.
Today he’d been scared though, more scared than he’d been in a long time. When he saw her thrown against the wall, it had nearly torn something inside of him.
He watched her sleep now, or, more accurately, sleep off a knock to the head he was partly responsible for. The clocks on the wall glimmered in the dark. They hadn’t done him much good at all and even if he spent hours watching the numbers shift and transform, he’d failed today, and almost been too late.
She’d been like a rag doll. Limbs askew, body bent at a strange angle, head propped up and bright red blood seeping from a cut on her forehead. He’d panicked right then, skidding on the slippery floor, and leaping down, four stairs at a time to get to her.
This wasn’t how he’d imagined it’d be like. Actually, he hadn’t planned on ever letting himself meet her - it made things that much more dangerous. He had reasons for coming back, reasons that were bigger than him and her, the two of them. But he knows deep down that he wouldn’t have come if it hadn’t meant that he’d be able create a world with her in it. To find her lying like that, looking almost-dead, was like losing all over again and he’d had to fight the urge to cry underneath the stuffy rubber mask and instead bit his cheek hard enough to bleed just to stop from yelling.
He’d reached out to touch her then. Just a finger to a curl on the temple, brushing it aside, and he’d fallen all over again.
-
Her skin is smooth, soft. He’s mapped it with his lips and tongue, and fingertips more times than he can count. He lets his hand hover above the smattering of freckles on her left shoulder, his favorite spot. He doesn’t touch for fear that she’ll wake too soon and so it’s more of weighing the narrow film of air above her skin, in the way he used to back when he couldn’t touch her at all.
-
The last time he saw her room it was half-empty; brown-colored packing boxes plopped all over the floor and her things stuffed inside; the walls bear and the translucent lights scattered all over the wall unlit. Her mother was sitting on the bed and it had been like looking at an older version of her with curled hair and cat-like eyes, and a sad smile.
He’d sat awkwardly a foot away from her and held out his hand to her shaking shoulder.
“I’m not sure what to do with all of this stuff,” she had said quietly and her hands were folded in her lap, he could see her fingers tight and curled, control bound up but fraying at the edges. "She was always getting things - addicted to shopping that one."
“I can help.”
“No - no, I’ve got some of her cousins coming in - but thanks.”
He’d bitten his tongue then, forced himself not to say anything. Because he’d wanted to do it; to pack away each photo, each pillow, the clothes covered in her scent; the candles. He’d wanted to let his fingers remember her.
When her mother left to put a kettle for tea on, those curled hands at her mouth as tears streamed down her face, he’d looked around the room and found a faded, dark blue head band with a flowery bow tied to the handle on the closet door. He’d picked it up, lifted it to his nose and remembered an afternoon spent dragging it across her skin, down the line of her arm.
When he’d left out the window, later that night, the bit of ribbon was stuffed in his pocket.
Now he climbs through the window into the same room and savors the signs of life, of being lived-in. Her laptop on her bed luminous in the dim, the decorative lights glowing against the pink walls, the ruffled bed clothes and a half-open tube of lipstick on the dresser. He drags his head gear off and takes it all in.
He looks closer at the computer screen and sees a picture of her with Curtis, and tries to tell himself that it’s silly to be jealous. That Curtis doesn’t have her for much longer anyway. But there’s still a sour taste at the back of his throat. He turns away and drops his goggles on her bed.
He hears the door click and dives to the floor, snatches for his mask - a thoroughly useless attempt at being stealthy.
She finds him in no time and when she asks very seriously and a little disgustedly if he’s come back to sniff at her knickers, he remembers again why he fell in love with her.
-
“What do you - want to happen?”
“I don’t know.”
He should never have let them meet like this; it was careless.
He inhales in her scent and closes his eyes. He wonders if he’ll really be able to let her go this time, if he’ll be able to hold on faith that when he gets back to where he’s supposed to be, he’ll find her there, waiting.
He kisses her. It’s a mistake - possibly the worst decision he’s made in a line of shitty decisions but he can’t stop himself.
-
They’re curled up around each other, conch-like. He thrusts and she draws him in wetly. He drags his open lips across her temple, her cheek, and mouths the words to himself because if he said them out loud, she’d probably freak out and run off or something.
I love you.
He brushes his hand through her hair and glides inside her, in and out. She’s exhausted, they both are, but half of him is afraid that if he doesn’t take everything he can now - he never will again. It’s slow this time, gentle, every movement deliberate, thick and heavy. Her eyelids flutter open on a quiet moan. He feels her tighten around his cock and her fingers twine with his.
-
“So… are we seeing each other now?”
He ducks the question, and moves to put his dumbbell in its slot, it feels heavier than it was before.
“Yes.” It’s selfish and fucking stupid, one more thing to add to his list but he doesn’t take it back - it won't matter much soon.
He stops caring as soon as his lips touch hers and the weight of her hand rests warm against his cheek.
an affinity for touch vol. II
“Here, I want to try something.” He’s leaning up on his elbow and watching her. She’s in her knickers, the straps of her bra stuck halfway down her arms, pushing her chest out and up. Her skirt’s ruched around her waist and he can see the damp spot on her knickers from where she touched herself while he touched himself, and they both came.
“What?”
“I'd - um - I'd like to touch you.”
She frowns and smiles. “Hm, well, in case you’ve forgotten - that’s sort of impossible.”
Simon’s hair is also impossible and she finds that she likes it better that way with the dark ends sticking up in every direction, mussed, very boyish. He’s in a pair of boxers, black, and nothing else. He doesn’t hide or hold himself awkwardly as much as he used to when they first started going together. She puts it down to the whole watching each other get off but it's probably down to a lot of things.
He's looking at her in that still way of his, and shakes his head. “Not the way I’m going to do it now.”
She's amused. "Ohh, really and what way would that be?" She fingers the scarf hanging on her headboard nonchalantly before folding her arms behind her neck. “Also, just in case I haven't told you already - you are so weird.”
He smiles at the halfhearted insult; he knows his 'weirdness' is something she's come to like about him even when she won't admit it.
“Do you trust me?”
Her gaze is measuring and suspicious. “Fine, okay - just get on with it.”
He rolls his eyes. “Watch,” he says. “Lie still.”
She frowns again and he bites back a smile - another thing she hates is taking orders from him.
When he leans toward her, she lurches away. “What the fuck are you doing?” Because if there’s one thing she doesn’t want to deal with it's having Simon touch her, and turn all veiny and start spewing crazy shit about shagging her with a screwdriver and pissing all over her tits.
He shakes his head and tells her to hold still again. “Just feel. Trust me, okay? No moving.”
She does but she still holds her breath in dread when she sees his hand move close to her brow, her eyes growing wide and a clutch in her throat. But then he stops a hairsbreadth away, just near her cheek. One flicker of a movement, a twitch, and he’d be touching her. So she freezes and tries to keep breathing to a minimum.
“You can breathe, you know.” He chuckles right by her ear; his breath warm against her skin. He glides his hand slowly along the side of her face, down to her neck, all the while keeping the same tiny distance. It’s like he’s touching her; touching the air above her skin. It’s close enough that she can feel the heat from his hand, from his body - like an echo.
She swallows thickly.
“Can you feel it?” he asks, his voice low and quiet.
-
And it’s amazing or just plain ridiculous - but she can. She nods and he bows his head, a little smile lifting one cheek. She looks down at his hand, startlingly white just above her breasts, her nipples peaking above her bra and whimpers, tension squeezing down on her throat. He traces the outline of her body, like he’s molding the air around her and between them.
Her belly tightens; a wet slide between her legs and she can’t believe that whatever he’s doing is working. It’s like gravity, a push and pull, and her body’s responding to the temptation of it - the nearness, the possibility.
-
He ducks his head to blow softly along the curve of her neck. She’s whimpering above him, and squirming below, her thighs pressed together. He watches, fascinated, at the goose flesh that rises on her throat, the fluttering pulse he can see through the thin layer of skin, the way her coppery-brown nipples contract. It takes everything he has to not lean down and taste, suck, bite.
“Do you feel that?” He glances up and she’s nodding at the ceiling, an expression of confusion mingled with arousal on her face that makes him smile.
He lowers his head again to breathe, open-mouthed and moist along her stomach, right down to her belly button. Her abdominal muscles, contract and release under smooth skin, and he can hear her breath coming a little harder and jagged.
“Okay, take off your knickers.”
"Seriously?"
He just nods.
There’s a moment when she looks at him like a deer in the headlights with some skepticism thrown in but she does as asked. Her hands slide slowly down to her hips, fingers hooking on the bright blue and pink-flowered knickers, and she slips them off and throws them to the side of the bed. She shoves her skirt off too.
He follows the half-awkward striptease, and there’s something sexy about the way her thighs are trembling and the mix of trepidation and want on her face. He almost wishes he had a camera, something to remember her the way she is now with her lips swollen from her own teeth with her bra half-undone, waiting.
He moves to lie between her legs, his forearms supporting his weight. He can see the dark pink flesh and the dampness streaked along her thighs. She’s watching him intently, chewing on her lower lip and her feet planted firmly on either side of him so her legs are as wide open as she can manage. He doesn’t break their eye-contact as he leans forward and breathes in her scent, musky and sweet, real.
-
His breath strokes coolly against her cunt and a shudder runs through her. She screws her eyes shut and digs her toes into the mattress to keep from wrapping her legs around his shoulders, or drawing him closer.
There’s also something about the picture he makes: that mussed hair, his pale shoulders, his gray eyes focused on her, lips pursed. She clutches at the pillow and cups her breast with her left hand just to avoid pushing down on the back of his head. She squeezes her nipple hard and there’s a stabbing burst of pleasure in her tummy that dissipates to every part of her body.
“Yes - oh- ”
-
He varies the intensity. Sometimes, close-mouthed and cool, and others he opens his mouth like a gasp and exhales along her inner thighs, humid enough that he can see the sheen he leaves behind. He has to be careful though. Whether consciously or unconsciously, she’s started moving her hips in slow, undulating circles and her body’s straining upwards. He’s hard, pressing his cock into the sheets trying not giving into the urge to wank off, not yet.
-
She’s slick and wet and desperate. There’s this awareness, almost like she’s outside of herself. She’s awake to every single nerve-ending in her body and the air’s charged, crackling with it. She looks down at him and says his name hoarsely. “Simon.”
He looks up at her, and there’s a trace of sadness in his hungry stare. His hands are fisted to keep from touching her and he’s breathing just as heavily as she is.
“I wish I could taste you,” he says. He wets his mouth and she feels it like a lick to the skin.
“Shit, oh - wow…” She arches her back, pinches her nipple again and his breath is a warm feather, and then she’s coming. It takes her by surprise, peaks through her and she’s teetering on her toes, her inner muscles gasping and grasping at nothing but pleasure.
-
When she blinks into herself and finds him watching her from his position between her legs she can’t help but flush in embarrassment and surprise - he does that to her more times than she'd care to admit even with all that awkwardness. He wasn’t a virgin, she knew that but how - ? Wasn't there some rule that said she was the teacher in this relationship?
“Where did you learn that?”
He looks well-pleased right then, smug even, and says plainly, “I read about it - on the Internet.”
And it’s something so Simon and just fucking weird that she bursts out laughing.
fin
an 2: i realise that i implied super!simon came back more than once. yes, this was deliberate, in this story, he's probably come back to different points in time in the hopes of changing things. who knows if it works that way in canon.
pairing: simon/alisha
fandom: misfits
rating: pg to nc17
disclaimer: do i look like i own anything of worth?
summary: vol. I: Future!Simon, on human connections (drabbly moments from 2.03). vol. II: Present!Simon and Alisha, redefining touch.
spoilers: 2.03 etc.
words: 2834
an: what even is this? i don't fucking know, written at 3am this morning in a bout of insomnia. second time going, hopefully this is alright, still getting into things and sometimes it feels off but learning curve, yes? this really came from a weird place. i'd written notes about these two, and simon's turned into this. i also like to write onscreen moments a lot in fanfiction, and see if i can interpret things in some small way, perhaps redundant. i will now stop apologizing for this, i hate that, forgive me. so vol I is my attempt at that for super!simon. the second story is present!simon (sort of) and alisha at some point in the near-distant future. not beta'd, any lingering errors are mine.
feedback: actually makes my muse behave and is better than simon's back muscles.
an affinity for touch vol. I
He had always loved the feel of a camera in his hands, cool and hard with mechanical buttons that are easier to understand than most things. There was a cleanliness about them that appealed to him. He would squint through the viewfinder, this extension of his eyes and hands, and watch everything pass by.
He now sits in the loft, austere with its gray-painted walls and black furniture and white lights, and red-eyed clocks and watches the compilation of film he came with, against his better judgment.
She’s laughing at him through the lens, her fingers beckoning, her eyes sliding into a wink before she shrugs and walks away. She’s throwing something at Nathan’s head; nudging Kelly in the ribs and the two of them are laughing uncontrollably at some joke; holding hands with Curtis.
In another, a cigarette hangs limply from her mouth and she’s crying, eyeliner smudged, black rings on her face and half her lipstick chewed off so instead of a bright slash of red her mouth is dull pink. He still wants to kiss it, and taste it.
The him holding the camera says something, probably an awkward reassurance or an observation that has no bearing on anything. She looks up; her eyes are crystal shards and smiles. Then she puckers her mouth and leans forward to kiss the camera. He reaches up to touch his own lips, imagining for a second that he felt it.
-
He follows her a lot. Sometimes, it’s because he knows he needs to protect her and he’s timed it down to the very last second. Sometimes not.
He likes to follow all of them really, when he does it helps him to remember why he’s doing this.
The goggles make everything murky green at night.
He stands on the rooftop and they’re walking and laughing together. Nathan in the middle, gesticulating wildly and making some offensive comment; Kelly rolling her eyes; Curtis mumbles “prick” under his breath. He - the other he - walks to the side with his hands in his pockets trying not to laugh at the joke but finding it funny all the same. She’s giggling and shaking her head.
He feels a tightening in his chest, and when they turn the corner of the next building, he stops and doesn’t trail any further.
-
Eight seconds.
That’s all it had been but in eight seconds, a life could flash and end, everything could go to shit. He’d learned that the hard way more times than once; he’d learned it every single time he’d come back.
Today he’d been scared though, more scared than he’d been in a long time. When he saw her thrown against the wall, it had nearly torn something inside of him.
He watched her sleep now, or, more accurately, sleep off a knock to the head he was partly responsible for. The clocks on the wall glimmered in the dark. They hadn’t done him much good at all and even if he spent hours watching the numbers shift and transform, he’d failed today, and almost been too late.
She’d been like a rag doll. Limbs askew, body bent at a strange angle, head propped up and bright red blood seeping from a cut on her forehead. He’d panicked right then, skidding on the slippery floor, and leaping down, four stairs at a time to get to her.
This wasn’t how he’d imagined it’d be like. Actually, he hadn’t planned on ever letting himself meet her - it made things that much more dangerous. He had reasons for coming back, reasons that were bigger than him and her, the two of them. But he knows deep down that he wouldn’t have come if it hadn’t meant that he’d be able create a world with her in it. To find her lying like that, looking almost-dead, was like losing all over again and he’d had to fight the urge to cry underneath the stuffy rubber mask and instead bit his cheek hard enough to bleed just to stop from yelling.
He’d reached out to touch her then. Just a finger to a curl on the temple, brushing it aside, and he’d fallen all over again.
-
Her skin is smooth, soft. He’s mapped it with his lips and tongue, and fingertips more times than he can count. He lets his hand hover above the smattering of freckles on her left shoulder, his favorite spot. He doesn’t touch for fear that she’ll wake too soon and so it’s more of weighing the narrow film of air above her skin, in the way he used to back when he couldn’t touch her at all.
-
The last time he saw her room it was half-empty; brown-colored packing boxes plopped all over the floor and her things stuffed inside; the walls bear and the translucent lights scattered all over the wall unlit. Her mother was sitting on the bed and it had been like looking at an older version of her with curled hair and cat-like eyes, and a sad smile.
He’d sat awkwardly a foot away from her and held out his hand to her shaking shoulder.
“I’m not sure what to do with all of this stuff,” she had said quietly and her hands were folded in her lap, he could see her fingers tight and curled, control bound up but fraying at the edges. "She was always getting things - addicted to shopping that one."
“I can help.”
“No - no, I’ve got some of her cousins coming in - but thanks.”
He’d bitten his tongue then, forced himself not to say anything. Because he’d wanted to do it; to pack away each photo, each pillow, the clothes covered in her scent; the candles. He’d wanted to let his fingers remember her.
When her mother left to put a kettle for tea on, those curled hands at her mouth as tears streamed down her face, he’d looked around the room and found a faded, dark blue head band with a flowery bow tied to the handle on the closet door. He’d picked it up, lifted it to his nose and remembered an afternoon spent dragging it across her skin, down the line of her arm.
When he’d left out the window, later that night, the bit of ribbon was stuffed in his pocket.
Now he climbs through the window into the same room and savors the signs of life, of being lived-in. Her laptop on her bed luminous in the dim, the decorative lights glowing against the pink walls, the ruffled bed clothes and a half-open tube of lipstick on the dresser. He drags his head gear off and takes it all in.
He looks closer at the computer screen and sees a picture of her with Curtis, and tries to tell himself that it’s silly to be jealous. That Curtis doesn’t have her for much longer anyway. But there’s still a sour taste at the back of his throat. He turns away and drops his goggles on her bed.
He hears the door click and dives to the floor, snatches for his mask - a thoroughly useless attempt at being stealthy.
She finds him in no time and when she asks very seriously and a little disgustedly if he’s come back to sniff at her knickers, he remembers again why he fell in love with her.
-
“What do you - want to happen?”
“I don’t know.”
He should never have let them meet like this; it was careless.
He inhales in her scent and closes his eyes. He wonders if he’ll really be able to let her go this time, if he’ll be able to hold on faith that when he gets back to where he’s supposed to be, he’ll find her there, waiting.
He kisses her. It’s a mistake - possibly the worst decision he’s made in a line of shitty decisions but he can’t stop himself.
-
They’re curled up around each other, conch-like. He thrusts and she draws him in wetly. He drags his open lips across her temple, her cheek, and mouths the words to himself because if he said them out loud, she’d probably freak out and run off or something.
I love you.
He brushes his hand through her hair and glides inside her, in and out. She’s exhausted, they both are, but half of him is afraid that if he doesn’t take everything he can now - he never will again. It’s slow this time, gentle, every movement deliberate, thick and heavy. Her eyelids flutter open on a quiet moan. He feels her tighten around his cock and her fingers twine with his.
-
“So… are we seeing each other now?”
He ducks the question, and moves to put his dumbbell in its slot, it feels heavier than it was before.
“Yes.” It’s selfish and fucking stupid, one more thing to add to his list but he doesn’t take it back - it won't matter much soon.
He stops caring as soon as his lips touch hers and the weight of her hand rests warm against his cheek.
an affinity for touch vol. II
“Here, I want to try something.” He’s leaning up on his elbow and watching her. She’s in her knickers, the straps of her bra stuck halfway down her arms, pushing her chest out and up. Her skirt’s ruched around her waist and he can see the damp spot on her knickers from where she touched herself while he touched himself, and they both came.
“What?”
“I'd - um - I'd like to touch you.”
She frowns and smiles. “Hm, well, in case you’ve forgotten - that’s sort of impossible.”
Simon’s hair is also impossible and she finds that she likes it better that way with the dark ends sticking up in every direction, mussed, very boyish. He’s in a pair of boxers, black, and nothing else. He doesn’t hide or hold himself awkwardly as much as he used to when they first started going together. She puts it down to the whole watching each other get off but it's probably down to a lot of things.
He's looking at her in that still way of his, and shakes his head. “Not the way I’m going to do it now.”
She's amused. "Ohh, really and what way would that be?" She fingers the scarf hanging on her headboard nonchalantly before folding her arms behind her neck. “Also, just in case I haven't told you already - you are so weird.”
He smiles at the halfhearted insult; he knows his 'weirdness' is something she's come to like about him even when she won't admit it.
“Do you trust me?”
Her gaze is measuring and suspicious. “Fine, okay - just get on with it.”
He rolls his eyes. “Watch,” he says. “Lie still.”
She frowns again and he bites back a smile - another thing she hates is taking orders from him.
When he leans toward her, she lurches away. “What the fuck are you doing?” Because if there’s one thing she doesn’t want to deal with it's having Simon touch her, and turn all veiny and start spewing crazy shit about shagging her with a screwdriver and pissing all over her tits.
He shakes his head and tells her to hold still again. “Just feel. Trust me, okay? No moving.”
She does but she still holds her breath in dread when she sees his hand move close to her brow, her eyes growing wide and a clutch in her throat. But then he stops a hairsbreadth away, just near her cheek. One flicker of a movement, a twitch, and he’d be touching her. So she freezes and tries to keep breathing to a minimum.
“You can breathe, you know.” He chuckles right by her ear; his breath warm against her skin. He glides his hand slowly along the side of her face, down to her neck, all the while keeping the same tiny distance. It’s like he’s touching her; touching the air above her skin. It’s close enough that she can feel the heat from his hand, from his body - like an echo.
She swallows thickly.
“Can you feel it?” he asks, his voice low and quiet.
-
And it’s amazing or just plain ridiculous - but she can. She nods and he bows his head, a little smile lifting one cheek. She looks down at his hand, startlingly white just above her breasts, her nipples peaking above her bra and whimpers, tension squeezing down on her throat. He traces the outline of her body, like he’s molding the air around her and between them.
Her belly tightens; a wet slide between her legs and she can’t believe that whatever he’s doing is working. It’s like gravity, a push and pull, and her body’s responding to the temptation of it - the nearness, the possibility.
-
He ducks his head to blow softly along the curve of her neck. She’s whimpering above him, and squirming below, her thighs pressed together. He watches, fascinated, at the goose flesh that rises on her throat, the fluttering pulse he can see through the thin layer of skin, the way her coppery-brown nipples contract. It takes everything he has to not lean down and taste, suck, bite.
“Do you feel that?” He glances up and she’s nodding at the ceiling, an expression of confusion mingled with arousal on her face that makes him smile.
He lowers his head again to breathe, open-mouthed and moist along her stomach, right down to her belly button. Her abdominal muscles, contract and release under smooth skin, and he can hear her breath coming a little harder and jagged.
“Okay, take off your knickers.”
"Seriously?"
He just nods.
There’s a moment when she looks at him like a deer in the headlights with some skepticism thrown in but she does as asked. Her hands slide slowly down to her hips, fingers hooking on the bright blue and pink-flowered knickers, and she slips them off and throws them to the side of the bed. She shoves her skirt off too.
He follows the half-awkward striptease, and there’s something sexy about the way her thighs are trembling and the mix of trepidation and want on her face. He almost wishes he had a camera, something to remember her the way she is now with her lips swollen from her own teeth with her bra half-undone, waiting.
He moves to lie between her legs, his forearms supporting his weight. He can see the dark pink flesh and the dampness streaked along her thighs. She’s watching him intently, chewing on her lower lip and her feet planted firmly on either side of him so her legs are as wide open as she can manage. He doesn’t break their eye-contact as he leans forward and breathes in her scent, musky and sweet, real.
-
His breath strokes coolly against her cunt and a shudder runs through her. She screws her eyes shut and digs her toes into the mattress to keep from wrapping her legs around his shoulders, or drawing him closer.
There’s also something about the picture he makes: that mussed hair, his pale shoulders, his gray eyes focused on her, lips pursed. She clutches at the pillow and cups her breast with her left hand just to avoid pushing down on the back of his head. She squeezes her nipple hard and there’s a stabbing burst of pleasure in her tummy that dissipates to every part of her body.
“Yes - oh- ”
-
He varies the intensity. Sometimes, close-mouthed and cool, and others he opens his mouth like a gasp and exhales along her inner thighs, humid enough that he can see the sheen he leaves behind. He has to be careful though. Whether consciously or unconsciously, she’s started moving her hips in slow, undulating circles and her body’s straining upwards. He’s hard, pressing his cock into the sheets trying not giving into the urge to wank off, not yet.
-
She’s slick and wet and desperate. There’s this awareness, almost like she’s outside of herself. She’s awake to every single nerve-ending in her body and the air’s charged, crackling with it. She looks down at him and says his name hoarsely. “Simon.”
He looks up at her, and there’s a trace of sadness in his hungry stare. His hands are fisted to keep from touching her and he’s breathing just as heavily as she is.
“I wish I could taste you,” he says. He wets his mouth and she feels it like a lick to the skin.
“Shit, oh - wow…” She arches her back, pinches her nipple again and his breath is a warm feather, and then she’s coming. It takes her by surprise, peaks through her and she’s teetering on her toes, her inner muscles gasping and grasping at nothing but pleasure.
-
When she blinks into herself and finds him watching her from his position between her legs she can’t help but flush in embarrassment and surprise - he does that to her more times than she'd care to admit even with all that awkwardness. He wasn’t a virgin, she knew that but how - ? Wasn't there some rule that said she was the teacher in this relationship?
“Where did you learn that?”
He looks well-pleased right then, smug even, and says plainly, “I read about it - on the Internet.”
And it’s something so Simon and just fucking weird that she bursts out laughing.
fin
an 2: i realise that i implied super!simon came back more than once. yes, this was deliberate, in this story, he's probably come back to different points in time in the hopes of changing things. who knows if it works that way in canon.