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Taken is on tv, half way through, and you and Simon are halfway watching it, curled up together lazily after dinner, sleepy and content. The kitchen in your small flat is spotless, dishes dried and put away properly, Ghost's mask on the counter. The weekend offers an enticing gap of nothingness, no chores to be completed, no work to be done, no deployment in the near future. You're drifting, soothed by the steady thumping of Simon's heart, his muscular chest cushioning your head, strong arms wrapped loosely around you, his fingers tapping a familiar rhythm that you can't quite place, like an old song on the radio. His eyes are on the screen, but every so often he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head.
“What if someone took me?” You're sleep drunk, the words stumbling out before you've really considered them, the sound of violence and Liam Neeson's gravelly tones in the background, almost drowning you out.
Simon stiffens beneath you, arms tightening, and you squeak at the pressure, the sound of his heart louder in your ear. His voice is flat like a blade, careful ease slipping off of him like an ill fitting coat. "I would never–"
"I know," you cut him off, too tired to pick up on the tension, nuzzling deeper into him. "But what if someone did? Do you think–" you stifle a yawn. "Would you come find me?"
Simon sits up fully, and you let out a huff of complaint, looking up at him with a ready pout, but any trace of playful drowsiness is chased away by the somber look in his dark eyes.
He grabs your face with one hand, strong fingers digging into your chin, forcing all your attention on him. “I would never let anything happen to you.”
“Si–” you start, but he cuts you off with a fierce kiss, your face still held firmly in his grasp, his mouth hot against yours, hungry and demanding. You let yourself be pulled into the sudden rip current of intensity, digging your fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt, warmth curling low in your stomach.
Simon drags himself away from you slowly, his mouth trailing along your jaw, his voice like crushed velvet.
“If someone took you, or tried to, or even looked at you for too long,” he presses a worshipful kiss at the base of your throat, dragging his nose lightly up the side of your neck to place another kiss under your ear, just the smallest hint of his teeth nipping at the soft flesh.
“I'd gut ‘em. I'd cut off their fingers and make ‘em eat ‘em.”
“That's morbid, Si.” You murmur reproachfully, and he huffs a laugh, all gravel, warm against your skin, and you can’t suppress a shudder at the sensation.
Simon leans in to kiss you again, his hands wandering. One settles on your hip, anchoring you in place, thick fingers kneading into the soft flesh, the other dragging up under the loose tshirt you wear to cup your breast, rough thumb rolling over your nipple. You squirm in his lap, the hard line of his growing erection pressing against you, and he drags his hand from your breast down to your shorts, slipping inside. The angle isn’t perfect, but Simon’s undeterred, his palm pressing against your clit as he glides a finger along your folds, teasing at your entrance.
“So wet,” his voice is like distant thunder, rumbling softly in his chest. “She knows I’ll take care of ‘er.” He presses his mouth against yours again, swallowing the noise you make when he slides a thick finger inside of you, curling it to stroke the sensitive walls, his palm grinding firmly against your clit. Simon adds a second finger and you whimper into his mouth, walls fluttering around him. He’s still got his hand on your hip, holding you in place, keeping you steady as he fingers you. His cock is rock hard in his sweats, and you break the kiss, leaning your forehead against his.
“Simon please,” you pant, not caring how desperate you sound, consumed by the hungry look in his eyes. “‘I need you.”
Simon abruptly stops his movements, fingers still buried deep inside of you. His face is flushed, his chest heaving as he breathes, iron intensity unwavering.
“I’d never let anything happen to you. Say it.”
When you don’t immediately respond, he grinds his palm into your clit, the fingers on your hip digging in hard enough that you know you’ll have bruises. “Say. It.”
“Simon I know–” You start to say, and he pulls his fingers out of you. Before you can even complain about the sudden emptiness, he's flipped you both over, pinning you beneath him. You gasp out, eyes wide, heart hammering in your chest.
“Never let anything happen to you. Say it.” He demands, shoving his sweats down, just enough to free his cock. It presses up against his stomach, flushed deep red and leaking. You feel yourself clenching instinctively, eagerly pushing your shorts down.
“You’d never–” Simon slots himself against you, giving you no time to breathe before he's pressing the head of his cock inside of you. You're still soaking from his fingers, and he slides in, both of you moaning at the sensation of him filling you. He's so big, making you feel impossibly full, and he barely pulls out before grinding his dick back into you, unwilling to part from you even for his own pleasure, keeping you pinned with the sheer weight of him, content to buck against you, breathing heavily against your neck.
Simon's single mindedness is impossible to deter, and even as he groans, hips shuddering against yours, he's repeating himself, "I'd never let anything happen to you. Say it."
You're past the point of composure, his pelvis rubbing against your clit in a way that has you seeing stars, his cock dragging against your walls deliciously with ever tiny motion. "You'd– nev–ah! Let– anything–” Simon sinks his teeth into your neck, and you cry out, clenching around him, your nails biting into his shoulders.
“If somethin’ happens to me,” he grunts, breathing heavily, finally drawing his hips back until just the head of his cock is inside of you. “Johnny'll take care of you. And he'd never let anything happen to you.”
"Johnny?" you gasp, and Simon surges forward, setting at a bruising pace that has you moaning, clenching around him with every thrust.
Simon speaks through the pleasure, swallowing his own moans, punctuating every thrust, his rhythm wild in a way that tells you he's going to cum soon. “Who's gonna take care of you?”
You're so close it almost hurts, the tension twisting, every thrust hauling you towards the edge, your brain leaking out of your ears, so consumed by the feeling of Simon inside of you, on top of you, all around you. “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Simon oh—” You clench around him with a sharp cry, body writhing in pleasure, your nails raking down Simon’s back.
Simon cums the same time as you do, his mouth on the crook of your neck, burying himself as deep as possible, cock twitching inside of you, warmth flooding your abdomen as he fills you. You’re both breathing heavy, bodies slick with sweat, and he presses a soft kiss to your bare skin. You know you both need a shower, but exhaustion is creeping back in, the comforting weight of Simon lulling you into a relaxed state, temporarily ignoring the mess you’ve made of the couch. Simon seems just as content to remain on top of you, weight carefully shifted so he doesn’t crush you.
“You made Johnny promise to take care of me?” You yawn, trailing your hand up to stroke at Simon’s hair. He grunts, nuzzling against you.
“Made ‘em all promise. Johnny's just the only one who'd be able to fuck you proper.” Simon's softening cock twitches, and you smack him lightly on the shoulder.
“You're a pervert.” You say accusingly, and he just lets out another rough laugh. The silence between you two is comfortable, content, and you let your eyes drift closed.
“You're the only one who I want taking care of me” you murmur, turning your head to kiss Simon gently. He hums in response.
Bonus:
The pub is dimly lit, football match playing, the muted sound of conversation worming through the space. Ghost is in their usual spot, the first round of beers sitting ready, still foamy. Johnny's freshly showered, his mowhawk damp and unstyled, an easy smile on his face as he slides into the booth next to Simon.
“How’s the missus?” Johnny asks, his eyes twinkling, and Simon waits until he’s taking a swallow of beer to answer, his voice casual.
“Made her say your name while she came last night.”
Johnny chokes hard, beer shooting out of his nose, spraying the table. He spends the next five minutes coughing, throat burning, his face bright red, and his eyes full of tears.
Simon sits quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching.