Part 6 Of College!simon X Reader God The Way He Does Anything And Breathesokay Pls Comment And Reblog

Part 6 of college!simon x reader 🤍✉️ god the way he does anything and breathes—okay pls comment and reblog to share love 🥺

Masterlist here ✉️

He couldn’t sleep. The memories of your kind gesture played over and over in his mind. The way your scent lingered for just a second when you leaned in to put to next to his leg—and then how you walked off, earmuffs sitting snug.

What kinda’ sorcery was this?

Simon had to ask himself, brows furrowed. An arm was flexed, hand under his head, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling uselessly. His box fan spun loudly, sounding smooth in the dark of the night. When his eyes shifted from the ceiling, to his window, revealing the campus walkways, then his desk, there was your cup, lipstick marks slightly faded and empty.

He did drink it all.

Was it his fault the damned thing tasted so good? He didn’t even know those things tasted heavenly. Packed fulla’ sugar too. But it was fine. He trained hard and long—the sugar would be outta his system in less than a second.

When he checked his cracked phone, it was 3am. He had classes at 9am, and groaned softly. Blonde eyelashes brushed his cheek as he attempted to close his eyes, nestling in his bed. His hunky form had a hard time sleeping on it, the bed too small. Sometimes his leg would slip off in the night, or arm, hanging lazily. Blankets would fall to the floor and pillows.

Simon was a picky sleeper.

Back at base, Johnny always had been taking pictures of Simons sleeping form. He’d cackle in the morning as Simon arose, mask on, wearing all black for the briefing meeting. Making a pot of coffee—hearing Johnny’s bickering, along with Price.

“Lieutenant—this a nice sight fa’ sore eyes, aye?” Johnnys thick accent rung out like alarm bells behind Simon who remained flat faced. He sipped his black coffee.

“That one needs a swaddle—aye?”

“Shut it, not another word.” Simon said roughly at Price and Johnny who grinned silently.

Simon eventually fell asleep to the memory.

——

When he made his way out for class—somethin’ about enlightenment and Kant versus Hume—he saw your door. He shoved the key in his lock, hearing a click. His head was craned to yours—were you up?

His lip tilted in a grin for the morning as he remembered your gesture. He wasn’t sure what to make of you yet. Was he trying to make something of you? The thought shook him.

Was he attempting to get to know you?

Part of Simon wanted to reel and flee, at the idea. All he ever knew was base and team 141. It was his comfort zone. A tight knit ship at that. And you—you were like the moon beckoning the ship at night. Full of secrets.

“Huh. Best leave er’ be.” He’d mutter and walk off.

Later on, grabbing food at one of the many dining halls, Simon managed to find a seat upstairs. Not ideal, as it wasn’t close to the exit but instead by a window. He did sit angled to see the exit—as usual. He was going to lift his mask to eat the salad when a girl spoke up.

“Do you always leave that on? The mask?” When he looked up, he saw a short blondie. Cherub cheeks and big eyes.

Roughly, he set his fork down on the plate—CLANK—and sent a glare her way, muttering, “Wots’ it to ya?”

She scampered off, leaving Simon to stew for a second. Damn bloody hounds. It’s a damn mask, ensuring his privacy. What was so hard to respect about that?

And then he thought back to you. You hadn’t pressed on about the mask nor asked of his scars. It was as if you’d seen him as a person beyond it. He chewed at his salad with a glare of focus, turning his head out the window. He felt slightly guilty scaring off the poor lass, she seemed much younger than him after all.

Kids. He had to remind himself. He was much older and all age ranges existed. He forgot not everyone was a war criminal at the age of 33 and 50, scarred.

Not everyone was a war princess.

When he turned his head over, he saw a fluff of hair sticking out. Then ear muffs, trailing down to a red soft leather jacket. It was worn and faded, giving it that vintage look. There you were. Sitting back facing him, eating just a salad and off to the side—pasta.

He didn’t say anything, but just watched for a minute. He then turned back to his plate, finishing off the scraps as students poured in. As usual at this hour. His eyes shifted to glance particularly at a rugged boy, holding his backpack strap with a sleazy walk in your direction. His grip tightened on his fork.

He then heard a plate clank behind him, and a voice rang through the air, “You got that work done I asked for?”

When his eyes glanced to his rear flank, he saw the rugged boy leaned over the table, fingers splayed on the table over you.

You cut into your chicken, not sparring him a glance. “I said I’d have it done, didn’t I?”

Clearly the rugged puppet didn’t enjoy that response—because he leaned closer and his shaggy hair blew slightly, revealing narrowing eyes. You glared.

Simon knew something was wrong. He already sniffed the bullshit a mile away. He got up, smoothly, resting his fork and stood behind you, hand resting on the edge of your chair. He felt you stiffen up in confusion—turning to look at him. But he never removed his eyes from the skimpy lad.

“Simon—“ You said.

“You got a problem, boy?” Simons guarded voice rang out, and the students watched on. Some went quiet, and all he could head were subtle forks clanking—slurping. It was like tunnel vision—everyone focused on you.

The boy leaned up, swallowing and shaking. His eyes were narrowed and Simon didn’t like that one bit—so he leaned forward, hands bracing on the back of your chair, looming over you just to get a closer look to him. Almost like a silent threat.

The entire time your heart was pounding a million miles, face heating up. Attention was drawn to you and you didn’t want it. You had half a mind to run—but Simon held your chair there.

“She said she’ll ave’ the work done, yea? So off wit’ it.” Simon said, not leaving room for argument.

The boy ran off, not even bothering to pick up his plate which made Simon scoff. He then sat next to you, plate landing beside yours. He shoved away the boys plate, quite roughly at that—he wasn’t going to leave you to the wolves. Everyone went back to their food, muttering.

When you found your breath you spoke, “I had that handled, you know.”

“Did ya’?” Simon said gruffly, hunched and picking at his chicken to bite. He didn’t sound rude, just slightly amused and still ruffled from the situation.

Your brow cocked and you looked at him. You looked confused—not sure of what to think when it came to him, and his intentions.

“He looked like he was gonna bite ya.” Simon added, although he knew the boy was skin and bone. He just wanted you to understand. His head lifted to pierce his gaze into yours.

You caressed your fork for a moment, thumb stroking.

“I would’ve bit back. I got some spunk in me after all.” You scoffed and shook your head, although grinning slightly. You bit into your pasta, which was mediocre for university food.

“I’d like to see ya put em’ in its place.”

“It?”

“It. Not even a man, balls avent’ dropped yet. Damned dog just breathin’ down on women.” Simon muttered, cup raising to brush his lips.

You had to bite back a laugh at his roasts. He was right though. Damned boy clearly didn’t know his place. You ears warmed slightly under the muffs and you could’ve sworn it was from the muffs itself.

Simon finished his food and then looked at you, leaning back in his chair. Arms crossed round’ his broader chest, blue eyes not leaving you. He then remembered how the boy demanded for work to be done—not that he gave the boy his mind—“What kinda’ trouble found ya?”

“I—“ You began. You chewed before speaking., eyes shifting away, “I just get payed to do…people’s assignments.”

Simon tutted and shook his head slowly, then leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table to gaze closely at you. You could make out his pupil, blonde thick lashes curling out, the eye bags from under the mask—and wrinkles. “Out here doin’ gods work, aye?”

“Damn right. But if I’m caught that’ll end badly for me.” You scoffed, rubbing your wrist in a self soothing manner.

“You’re desperate aren’t ya?”

“I need the money—“

“Then come work with me.”

You froze. You jerked your head up at his smooth request, tongue poking at your cheek, pondering.

“Work…with you?” You then repeated.

“It ain’t a request—I’m telling ya.”

ur comments have me fan girling over the shit i write

Version 1 of barry sloane picking up girls to kiss them 💙

version 2 here

Part 9! College!simon x reader. Hope yall enjoy—UGH the slowburn is slowburning 🥺 feel free to leave feedback & like/reblog!! Even more motivation.

Masterlist here ✉️

You’d been working the bar for some time now, four days a week. You’ve had some hiccups along the way, trading shifts with Simon when you needed to stay back to study. First, he was firm about it and looked displeased.

He did that usual thousand mile yard stare into your soul.

“Come on, Simon—I’ll do your assignment as a way to pay you back.” You groaned.

“No.” He stood behind the counter, burly arms crossed and lips pressed thinly. He resumed his stoic face. That was exactly why he pulled you to work at this bar—not to do some illegal shit.

You sighed and rubbed at your nose bridge, desperately needing a plan. Then, you perked up, brows raised and looking at him with that twinkle in your eye.

“I’ll fix your jacket.”

“This bloody lass…wot now?” Simon purses his brows, finger tapping impatiently on his elbow. He stared at you, meanwhile the sunset was setting behind you.

“Your jacket? It looks faded and broken. The one that says Lieutenant.” You slowly egged on, hoping he’d catch on.

He stiffened for a moment, eyelids widening for a split second. Then he cast a side glance at his hanging jacket in the closet. It was indeed ripped, buttons hanging loose. He inwardly cursed. Of course you just had go catch on. But curiosity sparked in him—the idea of your hands on his jacket gave him a rush.

So then, he looked at you.

“Bring it back neat n’ pretty, yea?”

That’s how you won. Now, after a long night of studies all you wanted to do was collapse and sleep. But no, instead your fingers worked deftly to fix the buttons hanging off loosely.

His jacket. Now it lay in your arms, spilling into your lap.

It even smelled like him. Musky. Maybe you went too far, but you repaired the leather on it. Only with distilled water did you carefully wipe it down, removing the dirt. Then with some saddle soap—rubbing a rag over it—you worked gently in circles over the leather.

“Cannot believe he has me doin this—“ You grumbled under your breath. Although it was your fault—needing to swap a shift again. Twice. You knew he felt irritated, but you hoped to make up for it by restoring his jacket.

After letting it dry for about 15 minutes, to which you nearly dozed off in bed—your alarm went off.

“Goodness Christ—“

You then got to work. Some youtube tutorial you watched years ago on caring for leather got you here. You owned a leather jacket anyway, red and hidden away in your closet.

“Alright…conditioning it is.”

Shortly after finishing, you managed to fall asleep in the chair, his jacket covering your lap.

——

“Ya done fixed er’?” Simon said, almost at a loss for words when you showed up the next day. His hands that were cleaning the glass now slowed, rag hanging limply. Lips parted in pleasant surprise, brows raised. A scar on his brow shined in the light.

There you were, holding his jacket folded in your arms. The brown leather was as good as new, and shiny. The cracks had faded and the buttons were sewed on.

“There she is. Told ya I’d have it done.” You said with that usual sarcastic tone. Your lip lifted in a smirk.

“Where in the hell d’ya learn t’do sum’ like this?” Simon asked, brow cocked and reaching out to grab his jacket from behind the counter. He sniffed it. It smelled new to which he’d have to drown it in his cologne. Rough fingers traced the soft leather, feeling its weight.

“I just happened to whip it outta my ass when I needed it the most.” You joked, hopping up on the bar stool and perching a hand on your chin.

It was then Simon noticed the bags under your eyes and he hung his jacket on the hook. He returned to glass cleaning, as the bar was quiet for now. It was you and him as Johnny and Price were most likely on the way.

“You didn’t sleep much, did ya?” Simon asked gruffly, eyes flickering to meet your dazed look.

“Studies.”

“So you really were busy—aye?” His eyes did this sudden gleam—and you found yourself staring. A rare look. You moved and put your arm in your lap, tearing your gaze away.

You didn’t want to be caught staring.

“Arabic class. You know how that goes.” You mumbled and sighed, shaking your head.

“Lass, since ya swapped the last few shifts, I needed to give ya’ this.” He then held out your tips from the first shift. Simon remembered the few times he’d try to find you to give it to you—but you were always busy. At a table, cutting up lemons, headphones in your ears, or cleaning the ice maker. And then last shift he heard you swapped.

You watched his movement, then eyed him, sliding the cash into your pocket. You shifted on the bar stool.

He had half a mind to ring your ear for leaving it—but the eye bags suggested he hold his tongue.

“Don’ leave it, yea? Some’ will give ya’ tips, so take it.”

“Got it.” You said, momentarily biting your lip.

Simon caught onto the movement and then shifted his gaze away, chest puffing slightly.

He then cocked his head at the window, light illuminating the hook of his nose and strong jaw. Motorcycles pulled up at the front and laughter ensued.

“Look who’s ere’. Troublemakers.”

“Gotta babysit em.” You joked which earned you—and lately—his wider grin.

You liked it.

——

The bell rung—and suddenly you found yourself spinning around. Another day another shift. Simon stood there, clad in his grey zip up, balaclava, but you recognized his eyes and that gruff tone of his—and boots. A backpack was slung onto his shoulder.

“I need ya’ to cover f’me.” He said lowly, his heavy eyes staring into yours.

Just then, your lip tilted up—amusing how now he was in your position.

Just days ago you begged him, if you remembered correctly.

“Only if ya give me your tips.” You beamed, unable to help to cat like smile.

He furrowed his brows and then leaned in—cologne and musk rising to your nose. His blonde lashes brushed faintly his cheeks, and then lips parted. You could see the scarring from his past so clearly, and now you wondered. What exactly was the training he went under? You knew he was Lieutenant…

But now you hugged your breath in—at his proximity. Your hand stalled from cleaning the glass.

“Lass, you can ave’ my tips. Don’ need em anyway.” He spoke gruffly.

“I—“

“Don’ want ya strugglin’.”

He then moved away instantly and straightened up, clearing his throat. He left no explanation.

You then resumed cleaning the glass, impossibly faster this time as if you’d turn it into a damned cup. Your neck flushed and it spread to your ears.

Simon thought he saw it, only to see you turn away.

“Is tha’ a yes?” He called out, gruffly.

“You got a yes, Cap.”

He then made his way out, bell jingling and boots thudding against the pavement. You watched his back, curious and slightly flustered from the whole scene.

You finger tapped the counter, “Hate to see you go, love to see you walk away.” You gave out a dreamy sigh.

Lately you’d been thinking about him more—and not necessarily in a friendly way. But more so—the way his cologne smelled, the eyes peeking from the balaclava mask, the flex of his biceps. The way his words rung out teasingly, and then some days—grumpy and stone cold when Johnny questioned him.

My god.

You were really getting sucked into him.

You wondered if he even felt that way for you too. Goddamnit. You’re a 27 year old woman, not a teenager. You knew money was tight ever since you moved apartments. This one was slightly above your pay grade—and then again, the old apartment, broken sink and regular gas leaks just wasn’t cutting it anymore.

Remembering his words, that he didn’t want you struggling something warm fluttered in your chest. You shifted slightly, unable to help the flush that deepened.

——

Close to the end of your shift, you and Johnny had been cracking a beer. Well, he did. You? You kicked back to some whiskey. Beer wasn’t your type. You know both sat on kitchen tables, all cleaned off. Johnny’s long legs braced the ground, perched at the edge, beer in one large hand.

“Dinnae think ya’ had it in ya’ handlin’ this job.” He muttered, taking a swig.

“Asshat tried to make a move on me earlier—wasn’t having it.”

He barked out a laugh, cheeks raising. They developed a slight flush from the beer now, and it only made his skin glow.

“Gotta’ show em’ what they shouldna’ mess with. Do what ye’ will.”

You grinned, bashfully looked down at your glass. Your finger tapped the side, seeing the whiskey sway a bit form your movement.

“I told him to get a pussy that can take a pounding or two.”

At that, Johnny bursted out laughing. His hand slapped his thigh, and you joined in, chest rumbling. Your head tipped back as you finished the last of your whiskey, hearing him howl.

“Goodness—lass. Remind me t’never bother ya.”

Thud.

Just then, the door swung open revealing Simon. He went behind the counter, back facing you.

You stiffened up, sensing something wasn’t right. You kept your eyes trained on his back, seeing his shoulders were tense and movements—half a second scurrying to punch numbers in the calculator.

Johnny watched, although not surprised or shocked at all. He’d gotten used to see his mate like this. But you—oh that would be entertaining to watch. So he sat, sipping his beer and eyes wide.

“Simon?” You got up and approached, resting your glass near Johnny who fished it and placed it in the sink. You emerged out the kitchen archway and into the bar. When he turned, your breath caught and your hand involuntarily flew to his arm.

Johnny couldn’t help the long glances as if this were some telenovela.

“What the hell—“ You hissed.

“Is’ nothin.’” He’d say flatly, cutting you off. He was sporting a black eye, lip busted. It looked nasty. The cut looked fresh, although not bleeding anymore. His lip was swollen from the hit, and knuckles grazed red. His clothes were wrinkled and shifted off his broad form slightly.

“You can’t just say that and not explain.” You said stiffly, arms crossed and glaring up at him. You were adamant, and defiant. And if he wanted to play this game of hide and seek—you’d find the truth eventually.

But Simon knew better now than to hide from you. He scratched at his neck with an arm raised. He initially didn’t want to worry you, but now—the plan went to shit.

So his eyes slowly followed yours as you assessed the rest of him. He couldn’t fight the sly grin that pulled on his lips, lips aching and all. He was Lieutenant after all, and after years of combat, training, near death experience, he’d never seen a lass so wound up over a black eye and scratch.

“Ya know I’ve andled’ worse.” He said with less of a bite this time.

You shook your head and out the corner of your eye saw Johnny leaned against the crate, smiling widely.

“You can’t leave it like that. What. Happened.” You repeated again, this time enunciating it. You walked to the back of the bar, past Johnny who sent Simon a wink.

Simon—just in time sent him a glare to shut him up, then returned to you, eyes softened just slightly. He perked up when he saw the first aid kit you brought out and nearly stifled a laugh. He found it endearing in a way—how you got all pissy and frantic over some scratch.

“Aye, the brute fought wih’ sum’ rascals is what.” Johnny said. You glanced at the Scottish man, shaking your head scoldingly at Simon. You dragged him to sit him down on the kitchen table edge, brows furrowed in thought—and irritation.

“Aye, ya’ heard the man. Few rascals were gettin’ feisty with the store manager. One of em pinned me.” Simon muttered, rolling his eyes. He could’ve fought better—but sleep deprivation made him lose his touch.

“One of em? Lieutenant, ya’ losing it?” Johnny said, cocking a brow amused and half concerned. “Is’ all tha’ damned Geek gettin’ to ya’.”

“Greek.” Simon corrected, although not necessarily caring.

Meanwhile, you got an ice pack, and squeezed it. A pop was heard and you grabbed his larger hand, placing it in his hand. Simon glanced where your hands touched, feeling sparks shoot up. He was hunched, the other hand resting on his knee, shoulder angled. He raised the icepack to his eye.

“I ain’t losin’ it. Jus’ went easy on em’ is all.” He gruffly said.

Johnny snickered and you moved to his lips, placing a small bandaid on it. It was a hello kitty one.

When he saw it, he glared at you. Brows slashed down, displeased. A pinch between the brows—and eyes narrowing.

You couldn’t fight the grin. “Sorry. Its all we had.”

“Ahh. Ya see. Knew this woulda’ happened.” Johnny grinned mischievously, so you put two and two together.

You scoffed and then moved back, eyeing Simon who never removed his eyes from you. You held your breath at the sight of his darkened gaze, something dark in them. Why was he staring like that? You thought.

“I look pretty now, is tha’ it?” His voice rung out, deep and smooth.

Johnny finished his beer, washing up your glass. He turned his back to you both.

You shifted, then gave out a quick reply. “You look like you belong in a tea session with hello kitty.”

Johnny bursted out laughing, shaking his head as he scrubbed the glass. “Lassie—you really makin’ me piss my pants tonight.”

Simon then got up, arm brushing yours to walk past. You followed with your head—then walked behind him, leaning on the archway of the kitchen entrance.

Simon began wiping down the bar counter.

You didn’t say a word, but eventually spun to face Johnny who was as red as a tomato. He couldn’t help his massive shit eating grin, standing behind you.

When he muttered you smelled the beer on him. “Dinnae tell Lieutenant, but I may ave’ put the hello kitty bandaids in it.”

Despite everything, it's still you