Title: Simon Says
Fandom: Misfits
Author: Eliza Ann
Characters/Pairings: Nathan/Simon
Summary: Nathan's a lover, not a fighter, so when he does have to fight, he strikes for the erogenous zones.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Eh, general. This doesn't take place at any particular time.
Words: 1620
A/N: Why is there no fic for them? I get that it's a small fandom and that there's not a lot of fic to begin with, but I know I can't be the only one who ships it like burning. Ah, well, now there is.

Nathan's a lover, not a fighter, so when he does have to fight, he strikes for the erogenous zones. So, really, this whole thing could be construed as his fault. He prefers to blame Simon, though.

Simon's not a lover or a fighter, just kind of a weirdo.

This is what Nathan had thought as they cleaned garbage off the gum-spotted sidewalks a few yards away from each other, sun beaming a sheen of sweat down onto both of them. As it turns out, Simon is both. Pretty much at the same time.

They're in a rather populated area today, and it would have been a refreshing change from the usual alleys and backstreets that they find themselves doing work on most often, if not for the looks they kept getting from passerbys. Yeah, they're in orange jumpsuits, they're petty criminals. That doesn't mean they automatically want to steal crappy, knock-off designer handbags, so people can just stop shielding them, alright?

A couple of young teenage girls pass by, quickening their pace when they notice the two blokes doing community service.

"That's right, ladies," Nathan calls after them, pointing at Simon, "this one's got a bit of a pedophile record, so you should probably run faster than that."

The girls speed up, seemingly less affected by Nathan's humor and more by how he deigned to speak to them.

Simon just glares at him. "I'm not a pedophile," he says, for about the hundredth time. The lady doth protest way too fucking much, if you ask Nathan.

"And I suppose you carry that creepy little camera around with you because you just enjoy home movies ever so much?" Nathan counters.

"It's my phone," Simon says quietly, "don't you carry yours around with you?"

"Yeah, to make calls and texts, not to add to my personal wank collection." He hold his garbage-picking stick out in front of him and rubbing it, taking on what is supposed to be Simon's voice. "I got some footage of super-sexy Nathan picking up garbage off street corners today. So hot!"

Nathan continues to rub the stick, making grunting noises and jerking up and down, oblivious to the rage forming in Simon's eyes.

Thinking back on it, Simon never really got that angry when Nathan made fun of him. He supposes that it's because none of what he'd ever said was true. It stands to reason that when Nathan did stumble onto something that wasn't completely fiction, that's when Simon would really lose his shit. But standing out on the sidewalk in the middle of a bright saturday afternoon, pumping away at his make-shift dick, Nathan doesn't really think of this.

That's why he doesn't notice anything but a "shut-up" and sharp breath from Simon, before he's shoved into the wall of the adjacent building, garbage-picker falling from his grasp, effectively ending his make-believe wank session and pulling him into one that is much more real.

"Would you look at that?" Nathan says to no one in particular, because the rest of his ASBO-burdened friends, and the term is being used very loosely here, are nowhere to be found, "he really does want to shag me."

He's giggling so delightedly, like someone's just told the best joke, that he doesn't realize that he should be scared instead.

"Shut-up," Simon's voice is quiet, but so strong that he might be yelling at the top of his lungs.

Nathan just laughs harder. "Help me! I'm about to be raped by child molester. Aren't I a little old for you, weird kid?"

He thinks they're playing. Everything is a game to Nathan, everything he says and does, it's playing with other people and watching their reactions as he pulls on puppet strings and giggles merrily.

Only when Simon thrusts his hand out and pushes his head back into the wall does Nathan realize that they're not playing, and if they are, he's certainly not winning.

"Jesus," he says, wincing against the bricks of the wall, "you really like being up close to me, don't you?"

It doesn't matter if it's a game or not, Nathan is always going to play.

"I don't," Simon says, removing his hand away from Nathan's face like he's been burned.

"Then why do you have me pinned to a wall unless you're trying to get some?" Nathan asks, mock thrusting his hips up at Simon.

Simon's throat constricts and he visibly starts breathing heavier.

People are walking past on the street, not sparing them more than a glance or two. This is, after all, what petty criminals are meant to do. Nothing out of the ordinary here.

Except it's a bit strange how noticeably flustered Simon is getting, and how that's making him infinitely stronger than he would normally be, or so Nathan guesses. He's about to get beat up by the weird kid with no friends, and as much as he doesn't give a fuck about what the rest of them think of him, he doesn't think he could get out of bed with a shame like that hanging over his head.

But he's a lover, not a fighter, so when he goes to push Simon off of him, his hand brushes by his crotch and he finds it a lot harder than he might have expected.

It's all well and good to joke about Simon being attracted to him, but it's another thing when he's got Nathan pinned to a wall, erection poking into his hand. So Nathan does the one thing he can think to do.

"Rape!" he yells out, "I'm being raped."

Immediately, Simon pushes him around the corner and back behind the building before anyone can take notice. Nathan's not sure whether it's to shut him up or just because he's a sick pervert, but Simon shoves him back and kisses him, hard and on the mouth and it's pretty much the gayest thing in the world.

Except then there's a tongue, clashing against his teeth and forcing it's way into his mouth, and a hand cupping him through his jumpsuit and it's been way, way too long since he's gotten laid, and he's not even sure if he's counting the surprise granny sex, so probably longer than that.

Simon pulls his mouth away for a moment, and Nathan takes the opportunity to choke out, "you sick bastard," into his face, even as he's thrusting his hips into Simon's hand.

"Do you want me to stop?" Simon asks, voice betraying the absolute ecstasy he's feels from the power that he's suddenly got over Nathan.

And Nathan knows that he's got no control, could say yes, but where does that lead him? He just glares and says nothing, moving his hips even harder against Simon's hand, which is pumping him sloppily through the material, trying to get as much friction as possible.

Simon leans in, kisses him again, but that doesn't seem to be enough. They always say that when certain people get a little taste of power, they go all mental and need more, like super villians and that lot. That's a bit like how Simon's acting just then, except that he's always been a bit mental, so that's not really much of a change.

"Say my name," he says against Nathan's ear, his voice harsh with strain.

Nathan bucks up when he pulls his hand away slightly, relieving the pressure somewhat. "Fuck you," he nearly spits, breath erratic.

In an attempt to regain some semblance of control, Nathan mirrors Simon by pressing his hand against his bulge and squeezing roughly. Simon's eyes go wide, having not expected that and Nathan takes glee in the small victory.

"When I play doctor," he tells Simon, still managing to be cheeky even in his current position, "I play to win."

Simon doesn't seem to find this as amusing as it obviously is, shoving him roughly back once again. "Say it!"

That knocks the air out of Nathan, half-coughing, half-laughing, and Simon kisses him again before he can even catch his breath.

"Say it," he whispers menacingly against his lips.

Nathan feels any control of the situation that he might have fooled himself into thinking he had slip away, balls tightening and head pounding, as Simon slips his hand into Nathan's jumpsuit, reaching down and wrapping his hand around him.

"Say it, say my name," Simon tells him again, squeezing harder.

Nathan feels sick and so fucking hard and he just really wants to come, and then possibly kill Simon.

"Fucking perverted wanker," he gasps out, and Simon steps back, pulling his hands away.

"Just say my name, Nathan," he says, a lot more calmly than he has any right to.

Nathan considers just giving in. He's a lover not a fighter, and even if said loving is coming from a guy, not to mention a total creep, it's still better than nothing.

"Please," he says, finally, "Barry." The last part is coarse and mocking, a giddy, sick laugh bubbling out of his throat along with it. He knows his name, as much as he hates to admit it, he definitely knows his name. But there's no fucking way he's ever going to say it.

Simon seems to realize this, stepping back even further, his usual weirdo look on his face as he turns around and begins walking away, calm as ever. But as he goes, a proud smirk forms across his lips, because behind him Nathan is still trying to catch his breath, painfully hard against the material of his jumpsuit, and left with nothing to do but wank off against the side of a building.

Nathan may have turned it into a game, but that's okay, because this time Simon won.