#NYOOOM possessive simon kills me i want him deeply viscerally carnally

[tojisun]

simon comes with you inside the fitting rooms so that he can be your little – ironic, yes – helper.

there’s something about these moments that simon really loves. it wasn’t really about seeing you undress – not that seeing your bare skin before him doesn’t make his blood vessels sing – but what simon cherishes more was the quiet intimacy of the moment.

the way you would turn to him and ask him to zip up the back of your dress or how you would huff and ask him for help as you pull up a tight shirt that didn’t quite fit well.

simon adores these moments, the one where mundanity settles deep underneath his scarred skin to cradle his beating heart. the one that reminds him of home because home has always been with you; has always been within your arms.

“so? what d’you think?” you ask, turning to him.

he watches as you fluff up the hems of the dress’ skirt before you run your fingers along the material it’s made from, soft hums rumbling from the base of your throat.

“let me see you well, darlin’,” he replies, straightening up from the cushioned seat. you tilt your head at him in question. simon chuckles. “twirl for me, sweetheart.”

excitement bleeds into your pretty face before giving him just that – a quiet twirl since you’ve long discarded your shoes, your hands hooked at your waist to give way for the skirt to flutter. when you face him again, a beautiful smile is etched on your lips, your eyes wide with glee.

“you look gorgeous in it, love,” he whispers, spreading his legs open and beckoning you close. you pad to the space between his legs, huffing a fond laugh when simon’s hands trail from your bare thighs to the swell of your ass, the skirt pooling along his forearm.

“it’s that pretty?” you quip, squeaking when simon lightly pinches your skin.

“yeah,” he says, and he isn’t even shocked at how breathless he sounds. “fuckin’ pretty.” he meets your wide eyes. “all f’r me.”

you roll your eyes at him before pressing your lips on his forehead. “all for you,” you murmur as you pull back.

simon chases you with a hand on the small of your back and the other looped around your wrist, pulling you to his lap with ease. you let yourself be manhandled with a giggle, only for all noise to be snuffed out of you as he finally slots his lips against yours.

that’s right. you are his. all that you are – his to love.