No

"Come look at this," you hear Simon call out from the bed. He's still naked from your last round, scrolling through his phone.

You plop right onto his back, your tits squishing against him and your mouth instantly finds its way to his skin.

"What's up?" You ask softly while planting kisses across the back of his shoulders. You place intermittent nips and you can feel your arousal grow.

It shouldn't. You've had 3 rounds of 2 hour long sessions. Your legs are sore. They can barely open, and you struggled to make it out of the bedroom all day now.

You need to stop. You should stop.

You're not going to though.

"If you're going to bite me, then actually bite down baby girl," Simon purrs and rolls his shoulders so you have better access.

That's all the encouragement you need. You're teeth dig into the muscles along his back and where normally you'd be worried about accidentally breaking his skin and hurting him on accident, you're not worried about anything right now other than your aching cunt. You grind yourself against him and whimper. You teeth dig into him harder now and you can faintly hear him talking you through it, praising you for your efforts.

"That's it. You're doin' so good for me, princess," he coos as your mind gets fuzzy. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and then you feel it. It's sudden and surprising and you really want to pray to any god that's listening that you are not actually cumming right now.

But you are and it's a little dry and weak, but you're still cumming after humping and biting him like some reddit incel right now.

Simon freezes under and goes silent, and you slowly remove yourself from the top of him and stand.

"Sorry," you mumble while trying to catch your breath.

"Did you just cum?"

"Yeah," you reply shakily. You're vibrating. Your legs wobble like you're standing on Jell-O instead of flesh and bone.

You can see his bottom half move off the bed and then his hand is grabbing your throat and throwing you onto the bed.

"I'm gonna give you something to cum about. Open your legs," he growls.

The next hour is a blur, but somehow you get from lying on the bed to being pressed against the shower tile. You can only whine and moan and do your best to weakly meet his pace.

Eventually, though, Simon lets up again.

"I feel like a god right now," Simon hums as you just slump against him. The hot water is still hitting your entire front and to be honest it's overstimulating.

You just might pass out. There's a high possibility, but with the way that Simon's kneading at your plush hips, you almost want to go another round. Almost.

"Why?" You mumble, already half-asleep. He wraps his arms around you and gently pets your wet hair.

He’s dying. His insides are failing. Slowly but surely. They’re giving out. 

He’d warned you. He’d said he’d had one too many heat strokes, concussions, and what-have-you’s while deployed. You had taken him seriously, sure, but you didn’t think it was all failing *that fast*. You didn’t think you could possibly lose him before even getting close to what you called “too old”.  

The quick research on what each blood test meant had sent you into a downward spiral and now you were just sitting here, in the middle of your apartment’s living room, staring at your husband’s medical paperwork while trying your best not to cry.

You feel cold and your chest is heavy and the feeling doesn’t go away even when you somehow pull yourself to stand. You make dinner so that Simon has something nice and warm and filling to eat when he gets home, if he gets home.

The “if” plagues you. It always has, but right now it seems so much worse. It’s eating away at every fiber of your being as you cut up chicken and vegetables and wash rice and try to pretend that everything is okay.

You don’t feel when you slice your hand, but you panic as you try to clean your blood off of everything. 

You feel ill. Not because you’ve gotten blood everywhere or that you’ve seriously injured yourself, no, you’re nauseous because now you’ve burdened a dying man once more.

How many times have you complained? Have you brushed things off and inconvenienced him? 

How long will you spend your life regretting it?

You’re stuck there again, staring, when Simon finally comes home. It’s late, but he’s already texted you a few times that he had to stay on base longer than he had originally thought. 

You hadn’t answered. You were trapped inside of yourself, internally screaming and crying, and he’d been worried.

The guilt bubbles over, spills out into the kitchen alongside of your blood that you hadn’t cleaned up yet. 

He slowly approaches you, like he always does when your emotions bubble over like this, and he wraps you in his arms. 

He stinks. He smells like sweat and carbon and cigarettes and his breath has that odd twinge to it.

But he’s alive. His heart is still beating in your ear despite everything. He’s still talking and trying to get you to calm down.

And he’s here. He’s alive. 

For now at least.

Do you think in those few seconds it took for him to pass, because it wasn’t immediate, that he was just happy it was over?

The job wasn’t done, no, and he’d die with some guilt over that. Some more guilt about how Roach is dying right next to him. A lot more guilt about how the Captains have to go on without a few team members.

Ghost was the one that got them out of Roba’s torture. He was the one that dug them out of the grave.