JUST LIKE THAT
masterlist
Simon Riley x f!reader
summary: You are not dating but after every deployment, Simon comes back to you. Nothing is defined but but it's already too intimate to call it nothing.
cw: smut, pussy talking, making out
A/N: not completely satisfied with the smut but I hope you'll still like it
wc: 2k
It starts casually enough that neither of you notices when it stops being casual.
A shirt left behind after a rushed morning.
Sweatpants hooked over the end of his bed because Simon likes you in his clothes more than he’ll ever admit out loud.
A hoodie abandoned on his bedroom floor for three straight weeks that he never tells you to take home.
The arrangement between you has always been messy by design.
No labels.
No expectations.
Just late nights and rough kisses and Simon Riley opening his apartment door already knowing exactly why you came over. Sometimes you disappear before sunrise. Sometimes you stay three days. Sometimes he comes back from deployment and shows up at your place without warning, exhausted and touch starved, and you let him in without a word.
It works because neither of you asks for more.
At least that’s the lie.
Because Simon starts memorizing things.
Which side of the bed you unconsciously drift toward.
Which shirts you steal most often.
The fact you hate wearing jeans the morning after staying over.
And slowly, without discussion, pieces of you begin appearing inside his room like evidence.
Hair ties around his lamp.
Your moisturizer beside his sink.
A pair of shorts folded at the end of his bed.
You expect him to eventually get irritated by it. Simon likes order. Clean spaces. Everything controlled.
Instead, he starts making room.
Literally.
The door barely shuts before Simon’s hands are on you.
Rough palms sliding under your coat, dragging you against him hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Rainwater still clings to your coat. He tug your coat off your shoulders.
Three weeks gone.
Three weeks with barely any contact beyond short texts sent at impossible hours.
alive.
home tomorrow.
miss the way you sound.
And now he’s here, standing in the middle of his flat looking exhausted enough to collapse but still kissing you like he’s starving.
“Missed me that bad?” you murmur against his mouth.
Simon answers by gripping your jaw and kissing you deeper.
That’s enough of an answer.
You stumble backward together through the apartment, half laughing when your hip bumps the kitchen counter. Simon doesn’t laugh. He just stares at you with those dark, heavy eyes like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re actually here.
His thumb brushes under your lower lip.
“You cut your hair.”
“You noticed?”
“'Course I noticed.”
The words come out almost offended.
Something twists low in your stomach.
Then his mouth is back on yours before you can answer, all heat and desperation and restrained aggression. Simon kisses like a man trying not to lose control entirely. Every movement feels deliberate. Tight with restraint.
Which only makes it worse when that restraint slips.
He immediately crowds into you again, large body forcing you back toward the hallway wall.
“Simon-”
“Been thinkin’ about this all week,” he mutters against your throat.
His voice is wrecked. Deep. Honest in a way he never is outside moments like this.
You feel his hand slide beneath your shirt, rough fingertips dragging slowly over bare skin like he needs the reminder.
Still here.
Still real.
Your fingers hook into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you at all.
“Bedroom,” you whisper.
Simon exhales sharply through his nose, almost a laugh.
“Yeah.”
But neither of you makes it there gracefully.
Halfway down the hall he kisses you again and suddenly you’re both distracted, tangled, bumping into walls and furniture while trying to pull clothes off each other.
“You’re impatient,” you breathe.
“You’re talkin’ too much.”
“You like when I talk.”
A dark look flashes across his face at that.
Then he grips the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly, pinning you against the wall. The sound that leaves you makes his head drop briefly against your shoulder.
“Christ.”
It’s the closest thing to losing composure you’ve ever seen from him.
You run your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the tension there. The exhaustion. The lingering adrenaline from whatever mission he just came back from.
Simon carries everything inside himself like a wound stitched shut too fast.
But with you, sometimes it cracks open.
His forehead presses against yours for a brief second.
Too intimate.
Too soft.
You feel it the moment he realizes it too, because he immediately kisses you harder, one hand gripping your waist tightly enough to bruise.
The bedroom is dim when he finally gets you there.
He pushes you gently onto the mattress and stands between your knees.
Simon Riley always stops right here like he’s checking whether you’re still certain.
Whether he’s still allowed to have this.
You reach for him first.
His expression shifts instantly.
Then he’s back on you, slower now, heavier somehow. The earlier desperation melting into something more deliberate. His hands roam like he’s relearning your body after every absence.
His lips brush your skin like a whisper, light and deliberate, sending a shiver that travels from your collarbone down to your core. You catch your breath as his fingers tighten around the sheets beneath you, the subtle sound of your gasp fueling his hunger.
He presses his mouth deeper, first with gentle sucking, then with teasing bites that leave a trail of warmth and excitement in their wake.
Simon watches you with a sly smile, a spark of satisfaction glowing in his eyes before he claims your lips again. Your hands find their way into his hair, fingers tangling and pulling just enough to elicit a soft groan from deep in his throat. With your other hand, you trace slow, teasing circles along his shoulders, feeling the tension and release beneath your touch.
His hand slides beneath your shirt, fingertips exploring the smooth planes of your stomach and the curve of your waist. The unexpected contact makes you gasp, a sound swallowed quickly by the press of his mouth against yours.
Breaking the kiss, he tugs at your shirt – a silent question that you answer by lifting your arms, letting the fabric fall away. The shirt hits the floor somewhere out of sight, irrelevant to the two of you in this moment.
Simon’s lips travel down your jawline, planting soft, lingering kisses that make your skin bloom with sensation. He moves lower, savoring every sigh and breath you offer. His fingers cup your breast, kneading with a roughness that betrays his need to feel something tangible, to ground himself in this intimate space.
His lips shift to your other breast, pressing gentle kisses before capturing your nipple between his teeth. A moan escapes you, raw and unguarded.
“Quiet was never your thing, huh?” he murmurs against your skin.
You smile against him. “Don’t pretend like you want me to be.”
“Fair enough,” he replies, voice low and amused.
His lips descend again, hands deftly working to pull down your pants. When he reaches your panties – simple cotton, softened and soaked –he chuckles with dark fondness.
“She missed me,” he murmurs possessively. “Missed her just as much. Can’t wait to have her all over again.”
“Wait, are you–”
“Yes,” he interrupts smoothly. “We both know you can’t do what I do. Fill her up with just two fingers. Don’t think I forgot your complaints.”
Before you can protest, he strips your panties away, admiring your bare skin with hungry eyes.
“So beautiful,” he breathes.
His fingers glide to your thighs, caressing tenderly now, a stark contrast to his earlier urgency. His lips follow, planting soft kisses that send tingles through your body.
“I dreamed about her,” he confesses, voice thick with desire. “Every moan of yours, every shudder while I buried myself inside her. How she took me in, missed me.”
His fingers find his belt, undoing it with practiced ease as he removes his pants and boxer briefs. The cool air brushes his skin, heightening the tension between you.
He positions himself, slowly entering you. The sound you make– a moan, a gasp– is the music he lives for.
“Yes,” he groans, voice rough with need. “My favorite sound, right after hearing my name on your lips.”
You move together, bodies syncing in an ancient dance of desire and connection. His hands grip your waist, pulling you close, while his lips trace fiery paths along your neck, biting and kissing as he burries himself inside you. The passion between you blazes bright, overwhelming everything but the raw, perfect moment you share.
One night you’re digging through the pile of clothes you left on his bedroom chair trying to find a clean shirt while Simon sits on the edge of the bed watching you silently.
“You’re lookin’ for somethin’?” he asks.
“My dignity.”
“Won’t find that in here.”
You snort softly and throw one of his shirts at him.
“Most of these are yours anyway.”
“Exactly."
Simon catches the shirt one handed. Watches you for a second too long.
Then he stands.
You think he’s going to help you look, but instead he walks to his closet. Large hand gripping the handle before pulling open the bottom drawer.
It’s half full of neatly folded shirts and dark cargo pants.
Without looking at you, he starts taking some of them out.
Folded carefully. Methodically.
Your stomach tightens immediately.
“Simon…”
He shrugs like this means nothing. Like his pulse isn’t visibly beating in his throat.
“You keep leavin’ your clothes here.”
There’s something dangerously casual about the way he says it.
Like he isn’t aware this feels more intimate than him having you in his bed.
You stare as he clears the entire left side of the drawer.
Space.
For you.
Inside his room.
Inside his life.
Simon finally glances over, expression guarded already, like he regrets it now that you’ve gone quiet.
“Don’t make a thing out of it,” he mutters.
Which, of course, guarantees it immediately becomes a thing.
“You’re giving me a drawer.”
“It’s storage.”
“In your bedroom.”
“You complain every bloody morning you’ve got nothin’ to wear.”
You lean against the dresser slowly, studying him. “So your solution was domesticity?”
His jaw tightens instantly.
“Jesus Christ.”
The panic in his eyes almost makes you smile.
Not because he’s afraid of you – Simon Riley fears almost nothing – but because he’s terrified of what this gesture reveals about him.
That he thought about you when you weren’t there.
That he wants you there often enough to justify permanent space.
That somewhere along the line, your presence stopped feeling temporary.
“You don’t have to freak out,” he says gruffly.
“I’m not freaking out.”
“You’re lookin’ at me weird.”
“That’s because this is weird.”
Simon scoffs and moves to shove the drawer closed again. “Forget it then.”
But you stop him first.
Your hand wraps around his wrist.
Gentle.
He stills instantly.
Then, without breaking eye contact, you walk toward the pile of clothes abandoned near his bed, pick up one of your hoodies, and fold it carefully before placing it inside the drawer.
Simon watches the entire thing silently.
You add another shirt.
Then another.
By the third item, something in his expression shifts. Subtle. Almost impossible to catch.
Relief.
It hits you so hard your chest aches.
Because this massive, terrifying man had genuinely prepared himself for you to reject the offer.
“Happy?” you ask quietly.
Simon looks at the drawer for a long second before answering.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher now.
Then after a pause:
“Looks right.”
