Currently: living in my imagination

Johnny is well aware of the pitiful reputation that the Scottish National team has but just like most of his fellow Scottish brethren, they find themselves learning to not care too much about scores- lest they fall into a pit of football-fueled despair. He’s managed to put on a small performative grin, one of minor comfort as he settles on Gaz’s couch nursing his scotch with a minor ache of disappointment at another pathetic zero-goal loss. Lord let him drink like he’s licking his wounds.

“It’s alright mate’ always next time for you jocks!” The slang for his fellow scots rolls of Gaz’s tongue with a condescending snicker and Soap can’t help the little huffed whine that slinks from his throat.

“Oh shush yer mouth ya tommy, not like England’s got much to shout about” He points an accusing finger at the little digital banner that displays the England v Ghana’s loss when the score pages flashes up. It’s a sudden show of his true disappointment which he tries to dampen down. Soap immaturely sticks a tongue out trying to hide his subtle frustration behind childish acts but can feel the slight embarrassment as the rest of his English crew laugh. He can hear Price muttering defensively about the England loss with Ghost nodding along, all too concerned with their own country’s score to really dig into Soap's own self-pity. Sucks being stuck in a room of Englishmen during world cup season, he laments not watching the match by his lonesome, at least then he wouldn’t have to pretend it didn’t ache him to see the amount of sad blue-drabbed fans leaving the stadium on screen.

He’s about to beg Gaz to switch the channel for a bit, at least until the post game commentary humiliation ritual is done, when there’s a loud knock on Gaz’s London apartment door. All of the boys look toward the door with curious glares, Gaz getting up steadily as he puts his drink down and goes to greet the outsider. When the door creaks open, Soaps eyes nearly miss the small figure that stands in the doorway, it’s the happy sound of Gaz’s greeting that catches Soap’s interest:

“You all good babes?” 

“Yeah, except my TV's fizzled out and I want to keep watching the Czech v Mexico match later. Got spare room?” Your voice speaks with a familiarity, as if your presence is normal for Gaz and Johnny can’t stop himself from perking up from his slump. Bonnie, polite thing you are. And he stares. You’re pretty, a quaint looking thing nicely dressed in loose joggers and a tank top that is distractingly fitting. His londoner buddy lets you in with a gentle laugh and ‘of course’ that has you smile so bright that Soap thinks you’re radiating more energy than the summer heatwave sun they’ve all been exposed to. As you pad over to flop onto the couch, Gaz announces who you are, a sudden introduction that would seem awkward if not for how delighted you greet their team.

“Lads, This is my trusty neighbour who always watches the flat for me when we’re gone.” He embellishes your name with the explanation and Soap notices the way your blush a little while you give them all a wave. You catch his puppy-eyed gaze with brilliant coolness. With Price’s manspreading and Ghost’s intimidating mask, you choose to settle yourself in the spot Gaz had left empty, sitting beside Soap, your thighs pressing against his own. With a few hours before the next proper match, and to the insistence of their captain The tv flickers back on to post match musings from the various players. Soap pouts even more, his sudden good mood from your feminine presence shot, sinking further into the cushions as the Brazilian team’s coach postures about tactics.

“What’s got you so down?” You mutter, amused at the stocky figure looking so small and defeated; you give him a slightly concerned smile and before Soap can wave your worry off Ghost chimes in rather annoyingly.

“Scotland got wankered.”

“Oi Quit!” As Johny covers his annoyance with an arm on his face. He feels warm as you, a stranger he’s only just met, gives him more care and comfort than the idiots he’s worked with for years. “Don’t mock me in front of the pretty lass.”

He flushes bright red when he realises what he’s said.

You giggle, eyes widened in the accidental slip of a compliment from him. You give him another apology for the tremendously upsetting score but unlike the rest it’s not one of insult or pride; it’s genuine amusement and empathy for him and his injured ego. You pat his shoulder and the Scot can’t help but lean into it. While the rest of the crew continue to pour drinks and enjoy the rest of the football commentary you decide to entertain the heartbroken Scot with tiktok reels and pictures of the tartan army invading Boston. 

“Lost the game but won everyone’s hearts, If it helps Johnny, I think Scotland’s my favourite.” You say quietly, calmness and admiration pouring out in your words as you continue to wax poetic about the fun of just being a fan regardless of winning and losing. You’re refreshing about it; not trying to reason with failure but instead turning it into something still worth cherishing. His heart feels like stuttering, a bit too warm and delighted when you call him home your favourite.  By the time kick off for the next match plays and you’re clutching a drink cheering for teams that you don’t even belong to, Soap can’t help but push his warm body closer to yours.

You don’t waver, instead adding more to his recovered mood when you start grasping at his jersey in excitement anytime someone goes close to scoring. His focus on the ball falters, too enamoured by the way you cheer and bounce with such hypnotising energy; More entertained by the way your brow furrows when there’s a bad pass and the way your eyes widen when the ref calls a dodgy card. He doesn't notice the raised brows and the amused laughs under their breath as the other three men quietly try to not draw attention to the blatant blooming PDA unfurling on Gaz’ couch; the chemistry between the two of you palpable.Gaz thinks he should bring you to their next pub outing, for the Scot’s sake. A part of him gets cocky enough to drab his arm over you when the games lull into awful hydration breaks, and much to his satisfaction you let him pull you closer, shooting a smirk that makes the whole night much more enjoyable. He wonders what you might say if he invites you to watch the next match at his…

Variations on that conversation have taken place between soldiers of all ranks and nationalities that have had the privilege of crossing paths with the inimitable Sergeant MacTavish.

Johnny deals with his burning need for physical affection by whoring himself out in exchange for human comfort.

Whenever he gets lonely or particularly depressed he heads straight for the nearest bar, lines up several rounds of shots and takes home the first lass to offer to neck one with him.

He plays his part brilliantly, spewing dirty talk like it’s a second language in an accent that drives girls of all backgrounds wild. He fucks rough and thorough and makes sure they have a good time.

And then he gets his end of the deal; after-sex cuddles. The only time it’s appropriate for Johnny to curl up in the warmth of another person and finally breathe a sigh of relief.

Of course, that relief is often interrupted by the poor girl getting the creeps from their one night stand’s extended spooning session and jumping up to leave suddenly.

When they leave like that, Johnny feels their absence like a knife in his chest. The sudden lack of warmth feels suffocating and he folds in on himself to try and chase the remnants of the comfort he’d just been feeling.

Then he meets you, out late one night in a foreign city he can’t pronounce the name of. You’re a uni exchange student; he couldn’t care less. He rushes you out of the pub and back to your shabby uni accommodations, cooing filthy nothings into your ear the whole walk back.

He takes his time lapping at your cunt until you’re shaking and moaning, but when it comes time to push himself inside and you catch his eye, you can tell he’s somewhere else.

His thrusts are robotic, rehearsed even. He’s just going through the motions, like this is a means to an end. What end? you wonder to yourself.

You get your answer when you notice the way he’s gripping your hips; not possessively, but desperately, like you’re tethering him somehow.

Realization dawns. Ohhhhhhh; this big strong masculine military man really just wants a hug.

“Hey, um, can we stop?” you ask timdly and Johnny’s body immediately ceases all movement, “I’m kinda not feeling it,”

“Oh my god, yeah, of course; bon I’m so sorry,” he stammers, pulling out of you and shuffling away from you on the bed, “I’ll be going, you just get some rest; all good love, all good,”

His cheeks are flushed red and his hands are shaking as he reaches for his boxers.

“Wait! You don’t um, don’t have to go….” you stammer, playing it up perfectly, “it sounds kind of dumb but, uh, we could just cuddle? Like, hang out? If you want to, of course,”

Johnny’s ears go red to match his face as he stares into your eyes with wide-eyed appreciation. No one’s ever asked to stop having sex in favor of cuddling instead before.

He shakes his head slightly, as if to check that his ears heard you correctly.

“Bonnie, that’d be great, I’d love a cuddle” he stutters, rushing to get back into bed with you. You smile; he thinks this is all just for you. Now he can get what he needs and not feel weird for asking.

After pulling on your underwear and t-shirt, you insist on putting Johnny in a little spoon position. You lean back and spread your legs, patting the spot of bed between them.

Johnny bounds into place like an overeager Labrador. He nestles his head right beneath your sternum, his torso framed by your inner thighs, arms along the outside of them, hands rubbing absent circles on your calves.

You both make easy conversation as your hands begin to roam his body gently. After a few minutes Johnny just closes his eyes and sinks into a state of bliss he’s never felt before.

You rub his arm muscles, massage his neck and draw invisible patterns on his lean chest with your warm fingers. His breathing is slow and deep and a permanent smile remains tugging at his lips.

You periodically pull his calloused hands up to your mouth to pepper with soft kisses. He’s sighs contentedly each time and returns the favor, practically worshipping your hands with his lips.

When your hands begin to slowly knead and rub his scalp, some band of resolve in Johnny just snaps. Slowly, small sniffles begin to escape his throat while hot tears well and eventually fall down his weathered cheeks.

“I’m sorry, fuck-so sorry. Steaming bloody Jesus, I’m a mess bonnie,” he stammers, face going red in embarrassment. He goes to sit up, to pull himself away from you because he thinks it’s what you’d want.

Because here he goes again, fucking crying at the feeling of finally receiving the physical affection his body’s been screaming for. How pathetic, how needy, how ridiculous is he to be sobbing in some poor girls arms who just wanted a one night stand with a sexy military man.

He can’t stand himself and his stupid bloody needs. The monumental hole in his chest that felt almost filled as you caressed his body.

But you push him back down into you and wrap your arms tightly around him. Of course he could easily break out of your grip if he wanted to but he stays like he’s trapped.

“You’re ok, Johnny, you can cry. I’ll just hold you,” you murmur in his ear. That phrase is all it takes for the damn to fully break. The sobs come more ragged, he lets every tear fall uninhibited as he holds onto you like he would a life raft in a hurricane.

He cries until there’s nothing left, with you planted firmly in place, keeping him emotionally and physically tethered.

“Thank you, fuck, I’m sorry, thank you,” he blubbers through his shame.

“You’re welcome, Johnny; anytime,”

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+

There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.

You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.

You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.

You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.

A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.

The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.

It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.

There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.

That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.

You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.

"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"

He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.

"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."

His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."

"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."

The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.

"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"

"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"

He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.

"Suppose."

"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"

He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.

"Wot's tha' include?"

"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."

"Tha's my specialty, love."

"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."

"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."

"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."

A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.

"'m Simon."

The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.

You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.

"Olright, love. Lead the way."

Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.

"This wot he stole?"

You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.

"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."

The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.

You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.

"What the fuck is this?"

You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.

"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."

"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."

"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."

Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.

"Who the bloody hell is that?"

You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.

"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"

Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.

"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"

Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.

"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."

Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—

Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.

He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.

"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."

"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"

"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"

"Please…"

"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.

"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"

"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.

"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."

He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.

"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.

"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.

"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—

Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.

"Ahh—fuck."

You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.

You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.

"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"

It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.

"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"

"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."

You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.

"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.

"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.

"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"

"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."

"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"

Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.

The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.

Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.

Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.

Nothing at all.

He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.

"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Never better."

Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.

Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.

It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.

She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.

You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.

By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.

And things had only been official for a week.

You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.

He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.

Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move

Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.

You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.

“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.

You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.

“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.

Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”

He slid deeper for emphasis.

You didn’t.

You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.

“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.

Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.

This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.

Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.

“Better?” The man’s question was simple.

Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.

You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.

Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.

“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”

“I—I know, I just can’t—”

At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.

You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.

“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”

The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.

“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”

“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”

“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”

But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.

Maybe you’d never found that place after all.

This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.

You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.

Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”

“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.

Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.

With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.

You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.

“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”

Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.

It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.

“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.

“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”

Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.

Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.

He still held onto your other hand tight.

Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.

Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:

“Higher.”

“Higher?”

“Um, to the…to the left.”

Simon tilted his hips left.

Yes.

That was just it. So close.

Almost…

Or, maybe…

“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”

Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.

Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…

“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”

The grin above you stretched even wider.

“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.

“Right there.” You nodded furiously.

A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.

“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.

“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”

Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.

The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.

Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.

You realized as much when he whispered it to you.

“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”

Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.

“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.

“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”

The ones that you’d been with before.

You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.

Simon was back inside you in a blink.

Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.

He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.

Vindicated.

“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”

You nodded in agreement.

You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.

“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”

When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.

And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.

Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.

“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.

His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.

You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”

“Feel good when I hit it?”

“Fucking perfect, Si.”

You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.

“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”

“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”

“Go on then, love.”

And, shortly, you did.

Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.

Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.

It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”

You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.

He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.

Humans were the ones to be feared, and humans were the creatures who had inflicted the most amount of pain on each other. Humans in the village you had come through were not sparing any mercy when they divided themselves by classes of power or money. They were inflicting the most amount of work and pressure upon those of lower social status or wealth because they believed that it was their right.

And then they had made themselves look like the heroes by promising the village would be safe if one human a year would be hunted down by beasts. The rumours, the tales and the screams, had all become stuff of nightmares for humans like you.

But the truth was incomparable to fiction.

The werewolves were not bloodthirsty beasts who tore into humans in order to rip them to pieces, whose jowels were marred with blood and flesh from the victims that were thrown into the maze. That was all a fabricated lie to make humans like you fear what was on the other side of the barrier, because if humans had really known how well the werewolves lived than those in power would have no more control.

Even in the short time that you had been here on the other side of the barrier thrown into the world of werewolves that you had been taught to fear, you had been treated like you were royalty. The beasts you were taught to think were mindless, had done nothing like what you had been told they would—you were treated as if you were their reason for breathing.

“Ya ‘ave no idea what you meant’us do you?” A voice rises from the space behind you, gruff and hoarse, and you know that it belongs to Simon without having to turn your head.

You know that he is one of the largest, bulk wise, and among the tallest second only to John. Simon appears to be the coldest of the werewolves with eyes that could appear black in the dim light, but his eyes are brown—cold, yes, but not without the ability to convey emotion.

“I’m your mate.” You recall what they had said earlier, during the celebration to mark the end of fall and start of winter. The party to welcome humans that have been settling in with their mates since the Hunt had taken place almost a month ago.

“Aye, our mate but there’s more to it than that.” Johnny huffs and tilts his head back, nose pointed in the air as his blue eyes are trained upon the moonlight that filters in through the canopy of trees. “Snow’s comin’.”

“You can smell the snow?” You follow the motion of his head tilted back and then your eyes follow a track down from his nose to his lips and the scruff of a beard that could be growing, only to stop at his Adam’s apple. And there, on the side of his neck, you can see healed bite marks, physical scars that mar his skin.

“Are ye tellin’ me tha’ yer wee little ‘uman nose cannae smell the snow?” He’s teasing you and he lowers his head to cast his glowing blue eyes upon you. “Cute little human has bad senses-“

“I’m sorry not all of us have instincts they get from changing into werewolves.” You snap at Johnny, your eyebrows furrowed and lips forming a scowl that is directed toward him. “Some of us are only human.”

“Oh, ye’r forgiv’n love.” Johnny continues the teasing nature of his words by delivering his cheeky statement with a wink and a playful half-grin on his lips. The sight of that grin has you turning on your heel away from him, you start digging your heels into every stamp of your feet on the mossy ground as you pick up your pace back to the house.

“M’only teasin’ love. No need to get all huffy.” Johnny’s shoulders rise and fall with the laugh that escapes his lips, and his longer legs trail off after you with little effort. Once he is in line with you again, he throws an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side.

“I’m not huffy.” You hiss and shove the point of your elbow into his side earning a grunt from the werewolf next to you, although you know it doesn’t actually hurt him. If anything, he’s acting it up to make you believe that you are strong enough to do him damage. “And I am not temperamental.”

“If I say yer not temperamental, do I get a kiss?” Johnny’s teasing is effortless and his smile is disarmingly charming, boyish with the ability to win people over regardless of their mood.

“Fuck off ya beast.” Simon speaks before you can respond to Johnny and reaches for him, grabbing the back of his neck like it is his scruff and tosses him aside. The force behind the action looks as if it should hurt yet Johnny merely rolls his eyes and flips Simon off with a rolling of his eyes. “Tonight, has been enough for ‘er.”

Silence settles between the three of you, two werewolves and the human that’s their mate. You are endeared to the silence, and you don’t seek to break it. Not until the pathway begins to widen and the first clutches of houses appear around the bend and through the trees. Only then do you stop walking and turn halfway toward Simon and Johnny, gaze flitting from deep brown eyes to blue irises that appear iridescent, and then back again.

“Where are John and Gaz?” You finally break the silence and ask the question that has been sitting on your mind since the moment that Johnny and Simon gathered you to leave the celebration. While you had wanted to ask before, it took time for you to be surrounded by the peacefulness of nature rather than the busyness of the party, for you to gather yourself to ask.

While the werewolves and humans at the party were welcoming and warm, it was a lot for you to embrace. You were not used to being around so many people who had genuinely cared for one another and hadn’t innately sought to overpower or take advantage of another. Sure, there were fights that took place when tension had gotten too high or they had drunk too much, but it wasn’t anything compared to the village you had come from.

The social statuses, the financial differences that separated people from each other was almost entirely inescapable. And you were not used to parties where there was such ease experienced by everyone and not just a few. It was overwhelming, to say the least, and had taken a toll on you—something that you were sure you would get over once you had been given enough time.

However, it was still enough of a difference that you were not used to, that you hadn’t garnered the energy to ask. Not until now, not until you had felt less crowded and closed in on by people who were eager to meet the newest humans.

“John and Gaz are bartering and trading for a supply drop at the house. Once winter hits you won’t be going out much, little luna.”  Simon answers your question with an answer that sounds entirely too reasonable and comprehensible, and you should leave it at that.

But you wanted to know more.

“We can hunt,” Simon, as if hearing your thoughts and understanding your need for more information, continues before you can even ask, “as werewolves, we go hunting for meat. We go deeper into the forest away from the villages, where humans are not allowed to go.”

“Why?” You cannot help it; you cannot stop yourself from wanting to know more even if you might not like or appreciate the answer. This is all new to you and you need to know, your curiosity will not allow you to have questions without answers.

“The winters are harsh and the forest is dense. It’s easy to get lost beyond the borders of the village.” It’s not Simon or even Johnny that answers your question, it’s John. And John steps through the treeline onto the path, followed by Gaz. The two of them do not appear empty handed, they have dense wooden crates that they are carrying, supplies you surmise, that are likely for you.

“Humans have been lost in the forest trapped in snowstorms that are blinding and cold so dense that it could freeze someone within an hour.” Gaz continues to speak where John had ended, adding onto the detrimental weather that is sure to hit the area if Johnny’s sense of smell is accurate.

“Wolves have lost their mates; their children. Human’s do not go into the forest.” John locks eyes with you as he speaks, holding your gaze to drive home the message that you cannot simply glance over. “You will not go into the forest during winter, am I clear?”

There is a sternness that builds on his face. From the furrowed brows that sit above sparsely narrowed eyes that convey the grey storm cloud colour that afflicts his blue eyes, to the firm purse of his lips. This is a facial expression that demands your upmost and focused attention, words that will be written in stone without the ability to remove them.

It’s not a suggestion; it is as close to an order as you think you will get from any of them. There are multiple freedoms that you are aware you have been given since you have come here but among them are distinct rules and constrictions that will not be removed. For your safety and wellbeing, for your protection as their mate.

And this is one of them, this is non-negotiable.

“Yes.” You reply with a single syllable, and a rush of fear rushes down your spine.

“Good.” With your acceptance, John’s face softens again as does his eyes. He looks you over and then motions his head in the direction of your new home, allowing Gaz to pass first followed by John. When those two begin their trek, you remain standing where you are watching them as they walk, and you remain still until Johnny’s fingers brush against the back of yours, and he grabs your hand like Gaz had earlier in the night.

He wakes up the sound of faint popping that is reminiscent of fire eating at wood. It should not stir him like it does, but he is accustomed to this, to waking up to the smallest sounds that are out of place. And a fire in the middle of the night in the hearth when everyone should be sleeping, is out of place.

It’s his role as the alpha of the pack, seconded only to Simon, to detect any threats and deal with them accordingly. He rises without making a sound, departs the bedroom that he finds solace in and passes the sounds of the other werewolves snoring.

He descended the staircase with cautious, careful patience. He is both man and beast, tactfully capable of remaining completely silent in the pursuit of a target. When he hears the popping of a fire in the hearth, he does not think of the boys, his pack—he thinks of you.

The shared mate, their little Luna.

John thinks of what kind of threat he might have to face to keep you safe; guarded and protected without knowing there was any risk at all.

But his descent to the lower level has his guardedness lowering until it evaporates. It isn’t some kind of intruder that has broken into their home and started a fire to burn the house down, it is you.

Their Luna, lying before the hearth with your hands tucked under your cheek as you rest. Your lips are parted and you seem to mumble in your sleep, things that don’t relate to the life you have, but rather things of your past. John stands at the threshold of the living room where you are laying before the dimming firelight. There are pops and crackles of the fire as it burns, and his eyes are drawn from the burning flames to the woman that lays before it.

John crosses the little distance between yourself, observing the way the blanket falls down your shoulder. Beneath the quilt he can see the shirt that you stole from Simon, worn and weathered yet coated with his scent. It’s comfortable and acts as a cooler blanket beneath the thicker material that covers you.

He crouches and picks at the blanket, lifting it to bring it back up over your shoulder. He sees you shiver from the feel of the material being pulled back up onto you, and then he hears your breath hitch.

John knows you are awake even before your mind can catch up to you, because he understands your apprehension. He comprehends that there is a natural fear that prickles under your skin.

They may be your mates, but they are still werewolves. They are predators that are capable of destruction, of coating their maws with blood when they become the beasts.

That fear clashes with the feeling of security and safety that they can provide. He is capable of giving you everything you need, they all are, and just as now he will provide for you.

John draws himself from your side and moves toward the hearth. He crouches and grabs a chopped piece of wood, corded with knots that make it only useful for fires, and then he throws it into the burning flames.

As he chokes the fire to keep you warm, he hears you moving behind him, shifting and turning on your makeshift bed.

“I couldn’t sleep.” You explain your reason for being down here instead of tucked in your bed; you answer before he can even ask but you both know he doesn’t have to. “My-”

“-head is too full.” John poked at the fire, stirring the coals to kickstart the flames that eat at the wood inside the hearth. “I understand how tiring that must be. To not sleep and have your mind racing.”

He looks at you over his shoulder, his blue eyes meeting your tired gaze as you lie on the floor with a blanket covering you. Your hands are tucked under your cheek, your eyes flutter shut with tiredness before they open again. You look at John with a frown on your lips; your chin tucked to your chest.

“I don’t understand this all or why I feel so comfortable here. But the humans…there is so much about them that…”

“You know you are safe here, yes?” John approaches where you are lying and crouches in front of you. “That you are our mate, and no one will hurt you?”

You are silent for the time being and John takes the opportunity to reach out and brush your hair behind your ears. His fingertips are rough against the shell of your ear, weathered and toughened from the years of whatever taxed him, just as your hands have always carried testaments to your status.

As someone who was not high on the social ladder in the human village you had come from, you were one of the cogs in a machine that made the nobles and upper-class function how they deemed they should have.

Which had ultimately meant that you, and others like you, were meant to be the sacrifices that were given to appease the blood thirsty beasts that were on the other side of the barrier. Only you had learned that it wasn’t the werewolves that were the frightful creatures you had thought them to be, that title was reserves for humanity.

Werewolves were not the nightmare that hid in the closet to prey on children’s peaceful dreams and terrify them into submission. They were nothing like you were taught as a child, and being here was not the death you anticipated you would receive. But that was, in part, why there was such an emphasis on how deadly the werewolves could be—for control.

If the general population of humans knew that werewolves were not blood thirsty animals, then there would be a clear and distinct shift of power within the social classes that were so clearly drawn. The nobles and the people in power that extended their desires upon people like yourself, would lose what hold they had on the classes.

However as unlikely as the werewolves were to be the beasts of legend, there were some obvious exceptions. There were some werewolves who were driven mad, to the point of becoming more animalistic than they would ever appear to be human. They were lost mentally to some kind of sickness that adhered themselves to the stereotypical and nightmarish image of a beast with blood on its maws.

And those few werewolves had aided in the human’s twist of the narrative; it had driven the fear to a place where it could not be denied. Because no werewolf would allow their mate to go back through the barrier even if it was possible due to the risk of death. None of the humans would allow a sacrifice to come back to the village to put an end to the ingenuine lies that had such a hold over the villages.

“I cannot sleep.” You repeat yourself and shift positions to sit with your back resting upon the one of the couches in the living room. You draw your knees toward your chest and press the heels of your hands against your eyes to rub the hard edge against your eye sockets, but you only do it twice before hands steady yours.

John’s hands grab your wrists, and he pulls your hands away from your eyes and settles them against your knees. He does not let your wrists go like you anticipate, rather he keeps a hold upon them and brushes his thumbs back and forth against the junction where your wrist meets your hand.

“You are safe here, safe from them.” John’s voice is husky and rich, yet his tone is soft and tender. It never wavers, it is continuously strong and steady, and its message settles over you like a warm blanket. Comforting. Protective. A stronghold where no one can reach you.

“I think I’ll wake up, and it will all be over. I think I’ll be back there, in the cold village where everyone is walking on eggshells.” You speak before your mind can prevent the truth that falls too easily from your lips. It is a leap of vulnerability that you can only let go because of how safe you feel here.

“Where you work yourself to death for the nobility that lord’s wealth above you, where you would spend your life wondering if you had survived the Hunt just to die from the cold. Or worse.” John’s hand finally releases one of your wrists and he moves his hand to cup your cheek, to brush his thumb against your skin as he feels your exhale shakily.

“You are our luna, it is the most coveted position in a pack. It means more than just being a mate, you are the centre to our whole world, you bind every one of us to each other. You function as our core, the pack’s heart, and soul—yes, even if you are human.” John’s explanation of the term that you had only ever heard here, is both simple yet offers so many more complexities if you had wanted to ask.

However, he is quick to offer a definition to your unaired question, knowing that you will soon default back toward sleep, because you are exhausted.

Whether you would like to admit it or not, the festival had been both the most fun you had in your human life and the ultimate source that drew out your energy. Which had left you socially drained and a little numb, needing to ultimately recover away from the curious eyes of Johnny’s nieces and nephews, and the generous welcoming of their community.

“C’mere.” John rises to his feet and then settles himself upon the couch and invites you to join him by patting the thick density of his powerful thigh. He sees your hesitation and he knows that you want to withdraw yourself back to the floor—maybe because that is where you think you belong and maybe because you are still cautious—regardless, you join him on the comfortable cushions.

But you do not sit upon his thigh like you think he wants, rather you lay upon the couch and rest your head upon the warm, firm muscly thigh. You twitch and squirm until you have found a position that you desire and then you sigh—a weary, stretched out and tired sigh that falls heavily from your chest.

Your eyes centre upon the fire that’s burning in the hearth while you feel John’s fingers brushing and stroking your hair. The feeling of those rough fingertips is cathartically soothing, so much so that your eyes grow heavy.

Your breathing begins to slow down and relax; you are being calmed and soothed until the warmth of sleep begins to settle over you.

With his fingers brushing against your hair, you are welcomed into a deeper, calmer sleep than you had every gotten before.