mooncalfed

Once again gone with the wind, something you reconciled a while ago. For a while evenings were unbearably difficult – you sitting in bed, the quiet of the streets allowing your inner shame to run amok. That night with Simon reigns supreme above all others. It is ever present, abating with the sun but returning with the darkness. 

These days you try not to think too much of him. Try not to torture yourself with all the things you shouldn’t have said, because the moment is over and despite his reaction, you meant every word. Some things can’t be taken back, and some things can’t ossify into regrets. 

But in making friends with the shame and the longing, you had to accept that your attachment to him runs deeper than you thought. Whatever pours out onto the pads of your sketchbooks carries him – more subtly in the landscapes (thinking of him as you dot your way into art), but accepting that the notebook that burns a hole your pocket is full of him, full of his hands, scarred and strong and for some reason, the part of him you remember best. 

A daydream you keep hidden in your heart of hearts is the feeling of his hands. Would they be rough? Does he run hot? Is he dextrous, or are his fingers merely tools? You’ve imagined it so many times that some part of you has already decided that yes, he does run hot, and yes he’d open his palm to reveal large calluses, but no he wouldn’t be rough, in fact he’d be surprisingly nimble. Sometimes you fall asleep to the idea of his hand in yours, and when you jerk awake around midnight the shame and loneliness that fills you sets off days of unyielding insomnia. 

On those days, you think you are breaking your own heart.

A breeze rustles through the trees and goosebumps erupt over your arm. They join the ones permanently raised on your neck. You smother a smile and look down at your sketchbook, half-filled with a pouncing grey squirrel.

Simon is difficult to say goodbye to because he’s still around. At first you were so mired in your own misery you could barely feel your own hands, and then post-depressing your heart felt like such a raw, pulpy mess that you weren’t bothered with feeling your body, but now that things have rounded out, you have come to the conclusion that you are being watched.

Unlike the last time though, you aren’t afraid. Something about the way the wind caresses you, the way the sun warms your back makes the instinct a little less terrifying. You laugh at yourself a little. Alternatively you’re the only person to happily be stalked into a horrible death. 

But the flowers on your sister’s grave have never left your mind, and the appearance of goosebumps on your neck shortly after is a sign. 

You’re being watched. Looked after. Stalked. Observed. Hunted. 

Whether it’s Simon or a harbinger of death, you don’t really care. Either way the result can only be both bliss and pain, so for you they’re basically the same. 

You know for certain that he is back though because Emir let it slip one night as you were leaving that you and Simon seemed to be ships in the night, appearing at his cafe only when the other wasn’t to appear. 

That had hurt you deeply. It embarrassed you, knowing that Emir and the other inhabitants probably saw you most nights and thought you were a lonely girl waiting for her man, but to say you weren’t would also be a lie. At first you thought maybe Simon was avoiding you, but decided to release yourself of that particularly poisonous thought. 

If he was, so be it. If it were simply coincidence, then so be it. 

On you go with your life. 

The breeze shifts. 

Your neck prickles.

A scent fills your nostrils. Clean, masculine, earthy.

A figure sits down next to you, clad in all black and wearing heavy black boots. His mass is enormous, so much bigger than he seemed when sitting across from you. 

You keep your eyes down on the paper before you, but you know who this is.

The hand that holds the pen begins to quiver.

Beside you, he sits with legs splayed open but body learning forwards, elbows resting on his thighs. You can feel the tension and heat rolling off of him in waves.

He clears his throat a few times but you don’t move your eyes. 

His voice is gravelly, and unsure. “Dot… I–”

You slam your sketchbook shut. 

part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii, part ix, part x

I went back and read the last few chapters, to really get myself in the correct mindset. To really feel her pain all over again.

These days you try not to think too much of him. Try not to torture yourself with all the things you shouldn’t have said, because the moment is over and despite his reaction, you meant every word. Some things can’t be taken back, and some things can’t ossify into regrets. 

That's a good strategy...try not to think of him. Easier said than done, but at this point, a couple of months later, she's getting there. I'm sure each day she thinks about him a little less. Maybe she'll go a full hour without him popping into her head. Maybe two hours. Maybe she'll make it all night without dreaming of him. She's trying so hard to move on.

But I absolutely understand torturing yourself over something like this. I certainly would. But at some point, you have to try to stop.

I love the fact that she's tried to tell herself that she just needed someone. Someone so she's not alone. Someone to hold her, because it's been so long. He just happened to be the one, because he's the one who happened into her life.

But now she's realized that's not all it is.

But in making friends with the shame and the longing, you had to accept that your attachment to him runs deeper than you thought. Whatever pours out onto the pads of your sketchbooks carries him...the notebook that burns a hole your pocket is full of him, full of his hands, scarred and strong and for some reason, the part of him you remember best. 

So many times when they were in the cafe together, she was drawing. So she was looking down at the table. And she wasn't good at eye contact with him. So of course his hands are what she remembers the most. That was a nice touch.

Remembering that he had watched her from a distance before, makes it totally believable that he's doing it again. And I would find that very comforting. Because it would make me think he still wants to be near me, but he just can't bring himself to talk to me, because of the whole mess of how things went down last time (of the poor way HE handled it, not me.) But there would still be hope. Someday. If he could ever get over whatever hurdle was keeping him at a distance. And even if I might be annoyed with myself that I couldn't just move on, I would also accept that it's totally understandable. There was such a connection between them, that doesn't just go away.

You know for certain that he is back though because Emir let it slip one night as you were leaving that you and Simon seemed to be ships in the night, appearing at his cafe only when the other wasn’t to appear.  That had hurt you deeply.

And yes, that would hurt. A lot. But I would keep telling myself, but he keeps coming around. He's fighting an inner battle too. He's struggling. In a different way maybe, but struggling nonetheless.

I think I could tell myself at that point that I didn't do anything wrong. Even if I was still embarrassed, I would still be glad that I was brave enough to say what I did. I hope maybe Dot can get to that point too.

And then when he finally sits down:

You can feel the tension and heat rolling off of him in waves. He clears his throat a few times but you don’t move your eyes. 

I couldn't breathe at that point. And I love her reaction.

You slam your sketchbook shut. 

He deserves that. He has to know how miserable she was for so long. How she was beating herself up. So he can't just expect her to be excited that he finally decided to come out of the shadows.

I'm on the edge of my seat wondering what will happen next, but no pressure. I know you don't usually plan ahead and might not even know yet what's going to happen.

And it's interesting what you said about Simon leading her on a bit. Of course, I can only go by what you post, so I won't know what you're thinking or planning or how you're viewing the characters. Not unless it shows in your writing.

And with the information I had in the chapters posted, I didn't even think about him leading her on. So, I find that fascinating. What I thought was probably happening was that he is emotionally distant with walls that are difficult to break through. And I actually pictured him as being more scared of what he might be feeling, and what she might be feeling, than actually leading her on.

Maybe that's because I did that with a couple of guys in college. I hadn't spent as much time with them as Dot and Simon had. I didn't let it go that long. I got scared sooner than that and ghosted (pardon the pun.) I even almost did it with my now husband early on. I about ran away, because I was scared of what I was feeling. And I was scared when I realized his feelings were becoming stronger. It's only because he was so patient with me that I stuck around. And we just had our 24th wedding anniversary, so I'm so glad he was.

So yeah, I think my personal experiences were coloring how I saw Simon here. And I'm not saying how he handled the situation was good. No, it wasn't good at all. It was very hurtful and disappointing. But I can kind of see why he might have reacted that way. But if you feel like he was kind of leading her on, then that changes the way I see that a bit. Now I'm even more curious where the story will lead them!

Once again gone with the wind, something you reconciled a while ago. For a while evenings were unbearably difficult – you sitting in bed, the quiet of the streets allowing your inner shame to run amok. That night with Simon reigns supreme above all others. It is ever present, abating with the sun but returning with the darkness. 

These days you try not to think too much of him. Try not to torture yourself with all the things you shouldn’t have said, because the moment is over and despite his reaction, you meant every word. Some things can’t be taken back, and some things can’t ossify into regrets. 

But in making friends with the shame and the longing, you had to accept that your attachment to him runs deeper than you thought. Whatever pours out onto the pads of your sketchbooks carries him – more subtly in the landscapes (thinking of him as you dot your way into art), but accepting that the notebook that burns a hole your pocket is full of him, full of his hands, scarred and strong and for some reason, the part of him you remember best. 

A daydream you keep hidden in your heart of hearts is the feeling of his hands. Would they be rough? Does he run hot? Is he dextrous, or are his fingers merely tools? You’ve imagined it so many times that some part of you has already decided that yes, he does run hot, and yes he’d open his palm to reveal large calluses, but no he wouldn’t be rough, in fact he’d be surprisingly nimble. Sometimes you fall asleep to the idea of his hand in yours, and when you jerk awake around midnight the shame and loneliness that fills you sets off days of unyielding insomnia. 

On those days, you think you are breaking your own heart.

A breeze rustles through the trees and goosebumps erupt over your arm. They join the ones permanently raised on your neck. You smother a smile and look down at your sketchbook, half-filled with a pouncing grey squirrel.

Simon is difficult to say goodbye to because he’s still around. At first you were so mired in your own misery you could barely feel your own hands, and then post-depressing your heart felt like such a raw, pulpy mess that you weren’t bothered with feeling your body, but now that things have rounded out, you have come to the conclusion that you are being watched.

Unlike the last time though, you aren’t afraid. Something about the way the wind caresses you, the way the sun warms your back makes the instinct a little less terrifying. You laugh at yourself a little. Alternatively you’re the only person to happily be stalked into a horrible death. 

But the flowers on your sister’s grave have never left your mind, and the appearance of goosebumps on your neck shortly after is a sign. 

You’re being watched. Looked after. Stalked. Observed. Hunted. 

Whether it’s Simon or a harbinger of death, you don’t really care. Either way the result can only be both bliss and pain, so for you they’re basically the same. 

You know for certain that he is back though because Emir let it slip one night as you were leaving that you and Simon seemed to be ships in the night, appearing at his cafe only when the other wasn’t to appear. 

That had hurt you deeply. It embarrassed you, knowing that Emir and the other inhabitants probably saw you most nights and thought you were a lonely girl waiting for her man, but to say you weren’t would also be a lie. At first you thought maybe Simon was avoiding you, but decided to release yourself of that particularly poisonous thought. 

If he was, so be it. If it were simply coincidence, then so be it. 

On you go with your life. 

The breeze shifts. 

Your neck prickles.

A scent fills your nostrils. Clean, masculine, earthy.

A figure sits down next to you, clad in all black and wearing heavy black boots. His mass is enormous, so much bigger than he seemed when sitting across from you. 

You keep your eyes down on the paper before you, but you know who this is.

The hand that holds the pen begins to quiver.

Beside you, he sits with legs splayed open but body learning forwards, elbows resting on his thighs. You can feel the tension and heat rolling off of him in waves.

He clears his throat a few times but you don’t move your eyes. 

His voice is gravelly, and unsure. “Dot… I–”

You slam your sketchbook shut. 

part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii, part ix, part x

I went back and read the last few chapters, to really get myself in the correct mindset. To really feel her pain all over again.

These days you try not to think too much of him. Try not to torture yourself with all the things you shouldn’t have said, because the moment is over and despite his reaction, you meant every word. Some things can’t be taken back, and some things can’t ossify into regrets. 

That's a good strategy...try not to think of him. Easier said than done, but at this point, a couple of months later, she's getting there. I'm sure each day she thinks about him a little less. Maybe she'll go a full hour without him popping into her head. Maybe two hours. Maybe she'll make it all night without dreaming of him. She's trying so hard to move on.

But I absolutely understand torturing yourself over something like this. I certainly would. But at some point, you have to try to stop.

I love the fact that she's tried to tell herself that she just needed someone. Someone so she's not alone. Someone to hold her, because it's been so long. He just happened to be the one, because he's the one who happened into her life.

But now she's realized that's not all it is.

But in making friends with the shame and the longing, you had to accept that your attachment to him runs deeper than you thought. Whatever pours out onto the pads of your sketchbooks carries him...the notebook that burns a hole your pocket is full of him, full of his hands, scarred and strong and for some reason, the part of him you remember best. 

So many times when they were in the cafe together, she was drawing. So she was looking down at the table. And she wasn't good at eye contact with him. So of course his hands are what she remembers the most. That was a nice touch.

Remembering that he had watched her from a distance before, makes it totally believable that he's doing it again. And I would find that very comforting. Because it would make me think he still wants to be near me, but he just can't bring himself to talk to me, because of the whole mess of how things went down last time (of the poor way HE handled it, not me.) But there would still be hope. Someday. If he could ever get over whatever hurdle was keeping him at a distance. And even if I might be annoyed with myself that I couldn't just move on, I would also accept that it's totally understandable. There was such a connection between them, that doesn't just go away.

You know for certain that he is back though because Emir let it slip one night as you were leaving that you and Simon seemed to be ships in the night, appearing at his cafe only when the other wasn’t to appear.  That had hurt you deeply.

And yes, that would hurt. A lot. But I would keep telling myself, but he keeps coming around. He's fighting an inner battle too. He's struggling. In a different way maybe, but struggling nonetheless.

I think I could tell myself at that point that I didn't do anything wrong. Even if I was still embarrassed, I would still be glad that I was brave enough to say what I did. I hope maybe Dot can get to that point too.

And then when he finally sits down:

You can feel the tension and heat rolling off of him in waves. He clears his throat a few times but you don’t move your eyes. 

I couldn't breathe at that point. And I love her reaction.

You slam your sketchbook shut. 

He deserves that. He has to know how miserable she was for so long. How she was beating herself up. So he can't just expect her to be excited that he finally decided to come out of the shadows.

I'm on the edge of my seat wondering what will happen next, but no pressure. I know you don't usually plan ahead and might not even know yet what's going to happen.

You looked at him warily.

“Sorry, I’m bad with faces, do I know you?” You asked sheepishly, a bit concerned that someone in this seemingly parallel world recognized you.

He looked as if you shot him, hackles raised like that wasn’t the response you should have given, but still hefted himself across from you in the booth where you sat nonetheless.

You looked around, flighty as your eyes landed on the exit, hopefully you had a running tab here too.

“-Simon.” He interjected with clear urgency, a last ditch attempt to hold your attention.

You stilled, looking at him with owlish eyes. “Did you… know him?”

Was this one of his military buddies crawling out of the woodwork after all these years? His private life wasn’t something he was one to divulge so readily, there were a lot of little mundane and domestic secrets he took with him to the grave, still, it wasn’t impossible. Clearly he recognized you, maybe Si had been in this timeline too.

“Know him?” The big man across from you asked, frowning, “-I am him.”

You mirrored his expression, was this a sick joke? Looking over the man, it was obvious he was someone else—he was both bigger in height and bulk, deeper timbre, tattooed, older, dark brown eyes, and an entirely different face; the most important difference, however—

“—Simon is dead.”

He grimaced at your response, eyes drinking you in—he was almost always one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but this was different, this was you.

He was desperate.

The door of the flat opens and within moments you are barrelling down the hall and slamming into his body. Simon lobs his keys in the direction of the hallway table and reaches down to mash your lips against his. You sigh happily into his mouth and jump up into his arms. Gathering you into his arms, he hopes you ignore the fact that he’s hard. 

Your kisses smack noisily as he carries you into the bedroom. Once there he turns around and falls back on the bed with you in his arms. Squealing at the descent, you pull back just enough to make sure you don’t split your lip on his teeth but then dive right back in. It’s a blissful exploration of tongues and roving hands

Eventually he breaks through the fog of desire to realise that you are rolling your hips over his… Wave after wave of agonizing undulation that makes him pant like a dog in summer. 

You’ve never been so bold, but–

Can he do this right now?

“Love.” He stills you with a hot hand on your hip.

You sit up, your t-shirt crumpled and lips wet and swollen. You’re so beautiful that he forgets why he stopped you in the first place.

“Is it too much?” You move to clamber off of him. His hands twitch in indignation although his arms remain solidly at his side. Simon stares up at the ceiling, hating himself. 

“Baby?” Your warm hand cups the side of his face and he turns to look at you. Darling thing you are, you sit there looking thoroughly ruffled though your eyes are concerned. There’s not an ounce of pity in them and while it doesn’t make Simon want to fuck you, it does make him want to hold your hand for the rest of his days.

“We don’t have to do this now, Simon,” you whisper as you curl close, “I was just excited about having you home.”

The last part is said quietly, confession-like.

He rips his face from your tender grasp and blinks up at the ceiling. His throat works and nose burns. Bloody fucking hell. There’s no way he can cry right now. Man the fuck up Simon Riley you piss weak piece of shit.

A rogue tear slips down the cheek that doesn’t face you. For you not to see it, he throws a thousand thanks to whatever is up there watching him.The truth is he’s not ready for this, but he’s ready for you. It’s a difficult juxtaposition but it’s the truth. He just can’t manage to vocalise it – can’t even bear thinking about it. 

Beside him, you make yourself still. He can feel it and is afraid of your judgement, so he places a hot, shaky palm over your hip as a consolation prize. It grounds him to feel the gentle rise and fall of your body. Your breathing slows down and he is soothed by your benevolent presence. 

Before you, war made Simon believe that the world was just never-ending bloodshed and that everyone was doomed to the same fate. Whether or not you got any goodness in your life was entirely luck, and Simon had run out of luck when his family died. Then you came and stayed, and he finds himself close to throwing prayers out… there. To keep you safe. To keep you from harm. To keep you with him. To make him a better man. 

You fall asleep and so does he, and then both crawl up close to midnight for a snack of cheese and biscuits. You make him a cuppa and sip your warm water and lean in under his arm as the two of you eat quietly in the dark of your kitchen.

It’s the best homecoming he’s had his whole life. 

Belly full and arm locked around your waist, Simon falls asleep quickly.

His dreams, though, are haunted. 

Simon is standing at the foot of the bed, dressed in civvies. His mind is foggy and his eyes are heavy. He knows this is the bedroom but can’t figure out why he feels so sluggish in his body. His eyes rove over the door to the bedroom and then the bathroom. Secure, though he has no real way of knowing. Something deep inside him just knows there’s no threat on the outside. 

“Simon…”

Your voice draws him back to the bed.

He turns slowly and is electrocuted by the shock of what lays before him.

You, on all fours, arched and bare. Your hair is covering your face and it’s slightly turned to see him but he can’t make out your features. 

You’re wet and unshaved and he feels his mouth salivate. 

He looks down and realises he’s hard. It feels strange though, because he’s not quite caught up with what’s going on. 

“Mmmmm, Simon…” You sway your hips from left to right, tantalizing him. 

His eyes are locked on your cunt, but he can’t quite believe it. He has the feeling he’s missed something… How did you get in this position? What happened before?

His body moves; his hand reaches out. He catches a drip of slick and without thinking, sucks at his fingers. His cock jumps. 

He reaches out to feel you again. He’s met with warmth and the soft press of skin, and he hears you sigh in satisfaction. He digs a thumb into your arsecheek and squeezes as hard as he dares to, watching your pussy clench and hips sway. 

He grunts, stepping closer to you as though magnetized. His other hand reaches to pull out his cock but instead of cloth he meets his own skin.

Struck, he steps back and looks down. He’s completely naked. 

Simon inhales sharply. His cock is hard and leaking come but where the fuck have his clothes gone? He’s completely bare, from head to toe. His hands come up to feel for a mask but touch nothing and the light glancing off his skin makes his insides churn with nausea. He wants to reach for clothes but his body won’t move and he doesn’t understand where his clothes have gone when he was just wearing them before–

“Simon?”

He looks up, chest heaving, and is horrified to find that you have become… he’s no longer looking at you.

The person looking back at him is some other woman, someone from his past. Her body is different, leaner than yours and he rakes his eyes down her figure and snags on a tattoo on her lower back. You don’t have tattoos.

His hand is on her waist.

What? How is that– he was just looking at– he doesn’t want to touch this person–

Gasping, Simon reels back. 

He wants to leave but his feet are glued to the floor and panic crawls up his throat in such a vicious way that for a moment his eyes are filled with tears and his throat full of heat and sand and despair.

“Baby?”

Your voice snaps him back into focus.

It’s you! It’s you. You are on the bed, bare-bottomed but clothed from the waist up and the relief he feels makes his nostrils sting. You don’t seem to have noticed what happened.

“It’s okay baby,” you sing, “I won’t look.”

Huh?

He looks down and like a bucket of water has been doused over his head, is again shocked to see that he is clothed once more. His cock is still hard and wanting, but no longer visible. Nor are the scars and burn marks and bruises.

What he feels isn’t close to relief because suddenly he’s aware that you are waiting for him but he’s afraid to even go near you because he has not fucking clue what’s going on with him–

“Come on baby.”

His blood freezes. That isn’t your voice.

This time he doesn’t even deign to look up at your face because he couldn’t bear it if he didn’t see your lovely eyes staring back at him. 

His gaze draws slowly to the exposed cunt in front of him and a whimper leaves him when he realises that it’s not you. The colour of the pubic hair is wrong, the shade of skin entirely too dark. Simon knows that with the weakness he feels right now, to be met with the face of another person would destroy him.

“You can do it baby, just take me.”

Simon squeezes his eyes so tightly he sees sparks, and screams.

“Simon!”

He chokes awake.

Sweating, gasping, back damp and lashes wet.

You float into his view, visage open with shock and concern. You aren’t touching him, because night terrors end badly when you do, but you’re on your knees close to him, hands fisted in your lap.

“Darling,” you say softly, with great kindness, “you’re alright. You’re here, with me. We’re home.”

Simon throws an arm over his eyes and coughs a sob into his elbow. He doesn’t believe it’s you, doesn’t believe that he can share this body with you, doesn’t believe that you want something as used and ragged as him. But if you leave, it’ll be the end of him. 

He’s never cried like this in front of you, but the nightmare has made mincemeat of his heart.

“Simon…” you whisper, voice wobbling. 

Slowly, his tremors die down. His nose is clogged and his throat is sore but he gives it just another moment before moving. He doesn’t know what he wants, and he’s so fucking tired of it. Why can’t he just give you what you want?

He feels you lean closer to him. Ordinarily he would be repulsed by the thought of you touching him after a night terror, but this time he finds that all he wants is to dig his fingers into your flesh so hard it hits bone. 

Loose-limbed and eyes sore, Simon slowly peels his arm off his face and beckons you to come closer. You do, immediately. The moment your knees hit his side he drags you up and over him so that your legs straddle his hips. 

Even through his swollen eyes, he can see yours fly open in shock. 

He knows you feel his cock pressing against your ass. He can feel you bending forwards in an effort to not touch it. You’re unsure because this is new territory. Never has he reached for you after a nightmare, not even neutrally, let alone with such brazen honesty. 

“Simon…” your voice is even softer now. Not with pity, but with concern. 

He brings you down to kiss you softly. It’s early in the morning, and the gentle light caresses the both of you as your lips stick together. The sound crinkles in his ears and unwinds the knot in his gut. 

“I don’t– I want–”, he wants to say something, to tell you something about how much he wants you and how much he can’t do it, but nothing useful comes out.

You hush him and press your cheek against his. Your hand comes up to stroke his hair, the other running up and down his clammy shoulder. 

“Do you want me?”

He nods. He closes his eyes because they’re growing wet. He wants you so much.

“Then let’s try something, okay?”

He nods. He trusts you with his life, with his body. Because he cannot trust himself.

You raise yourself slightly and place a hand on his cheek. His eyes open and you smile warmly at him.

“Just keep looking at me, and let me know.”

Hypnotized, all he can do is nod.

Suddenly, he’s aware of all that is happening. He can see your nipples under your shirt, he can see the way your underwear is sticking to your cunt, and the moment he clocks it he is absolutely locked in. 

The vision is reminiscent of his dream, though the reality is far different because he can feel your skin warm on his and he can smell your hair and your skin and your lotion and he can smell your pretty pussy, too.

Your hand dances along the line of your underwear, touching everything with a lightness that entrances him. He watches your fingers reach down to rub at your clothed cunt and his mouth is flooded with saliva. He wants to taste, but he wants to watch even more. 

Your chest rises and falls heavily. You’re panting slightly, and rocking a little against your hand.

“Baby, can you take yourself out for me?”

Simon’s hand fumbles to bring his cock out. The proximity to your cunt is torture – he wants to see you sit on him and take him, but maybe it’s not something you’re ready for. Maybe you’ll get halfway and he’ll tap out. The backs of his knees begin to sweat again. The prospect of failing makes him clench his cock just a little too hard. 

“Simon.” Your voice is firm. His eyes dart up and catch your sober expression. Feeling chastised, he tries to lock away the self loathing, but does a poor job at it.

“All I want is to feel you, okay? Nothing more.”

He understands. 

Your fingers resume their motion, and on the third swipe you curl your fingers on one side of the gusset and pull to reveal your cunt. Simon can see your wetness lingering on your pubic hair, slightly catching light from the open drapes. A wave of emotion rushes over him as he looks at your core. 

Benediction. 

He holds himself up and watches with bated breath as you sit close, lips grazing the angry tip of his throbbing cock. The moment you make contact, he releases a shaking breath, and you, a tiny, controlled moan.

The sound snaps him back into his body, and suddenly he is hurtled back to the months prior when he was home and deeply acquainted with the sounds you made with his mouth and fingers in you and on you. 

War has scrubbed his ears clean and he has forgotten… you.

Desire roars through him like a hydrant suddenly bursting. 

This is you, soft, adoring, wonderful, erotic you. Giving him this, giving yourself this. He mustn’t waste the chance. 

Simon steels himself, and lifts a hand to support your thigh. You’re shaking, and it occurs to him that you might be waiting for him.

“Go on, love.”

It’s all you need, and what follows is the most loving embrace he’s had his whole life. The sight of your cunt slowly swallowing his cock fills his vision, entrancing him in a way that endows him with the knowledge that he has never experienced awe as he is experiencing right now – your slick sliding down his cock, your hair meeting his and your body melting down until you sit right on him, gasping and panting like the siren you are.

You look down at Simon, sweat dotting your brow and a small, proud smirk on your face.

Your chest rises and falls erratically, seemingly the only sign that you are just as affected as he. 

He can feel your heartbeat like this, cunt tight and sealed around his cock. Simon is absolutely taken aback because fuck knows if sex ever felt like this before. In his mind he knows that this is different, that nothing that came before ever counted. All the people before, all the bodies and the motels… all of it just washed away like a castle in the tide.

All you’ve done is sit on him and here he is, about to blow his fucking load.

“Fuckin’ amazing, love,” Simon grunts, “you fuckin’ wild thing.”

His words make you giggle, which in turn creates a churning in his cock that makes him grit his teeth.

“Just this?” He says, willing himself not to come and to just… enjoy.

“If you want,” you say above him, but your hand leaves is perch on his chest to slide up your shirt. You cup your breast and maybe you squeeze because your head drops back in a sigh and your thighs relax just that much more on his hips. 

Simon sits up and slowly adjusts you so that you’re sitting in a tight embrace. Your eyes roll back from the movement and your hand is lax under your shirt, then trapped between your chest and his. 

He leans forward to place a small kiss on the corner of your mouth. You crane your head slightly to catch his mouth, but he has a different intention in mind. 

His fingers circle the elbow of your arm, then follow it up under your shirt. You allow him to cup your breast instead, and when his calloused thumb brushes your nipple your stomach tightens, making Simon grunt. 

With his other hand, Simon begins to lift your shirt. 

Your eyes open and you look down with curiosity at his actions.

Simon pulls only so much that your breast is exposed to the cool morning air, leaving the other side untouched. His breath tickles your nipple and he squeezes it carefully between his thumb and forefinger. You shiver and lean in close.

For a moment he thinks you’re going to kiss him, but instead you whisper in his ear, “I’m always dreaming of you, Simon.”

His thighs quiver, and Simon closes the gap to take your breast in his mouth. The feeling of soft flesh under his teeth strums a deep desire in his bones. The feeling is so soothing, so comfortable, that he feels he has entered limbo. Your hand twines into the hair at the back of his skull and pulls slightly. He takes more of you into his mouth. 

Your breathing slows, as does his, and the two of you sit in the morning light, pressed close and even then even closer.

I really only expected this to be two parts - I had them having sex in this part but it just didn't make sense with the amount of time they took leading up to this so... there will be a part three.

This part is more meditative than the first... the third will take on another tone.

It’s Christmas, and you spent the morning bringing holly and a hot toddy to your sister’s grave. You drink it in her honour and tell her as much. It’s exactly as it was when she was alive – you can see her laughing as your face twists. 

You said hello to Jane, the widow who cleans her husband’s headstone more fastidiously in lieu of crying, and you walk by several families who have come to pay their respects. 

As you walk by one of the families you spot the parents crying, particularly the mother. Her child, a boy of no more than three or four wriggles impatiently at her feet, a small child’s bouquet in his fists. He doesn’t have the misery of the parents (particularly the mother), but his boredom also feels apt - life goes on and we only grow into our awareness of deaths.

“I’ve got something for you.” 

You can’t help the way you perk up in your seat. Simon’s mouth quirks and like the child in the cemetery, you are suddenly restless and eagerly await the next moment.

Simon seems to want to say something else, but wrestles with the words and skips it entirely. Oh, how you’ll be thinking about this tonight, the shape of his lips and the possibility of his voice. 

He reaches into the breastpocket of his jacket and produces something delicate. A slip of waxed paper, folded in two. It’s small, no bigger than the nail of his thumb. 

You lean in and try to parse out the shape that hides between the waxen sheets. 

Above you, Simon chuckles, and you realise you’ve practically crossed half the table with the way you’re peering at his hands.

Abashed, you lean back. 

“Ah… what is it?”

His hand follows you and part of you can’t really believe how gentle his thick fingers are at handling the paper. A soft crinkle reveals a papery, dusty yellow and the dark veins of dried petals. 

“Is that a flower?” you say with an exhale of astonishment. 

It’s unlike any flower you’ve seen around here. It seems to have been pressed a while ago, but not so long that the petals have lost complete moisture.

“Brought it back from Brazil.”

You look up at him fully, back straight and eyes wide. This man went overseas for an unknown amount of time, bearing scars and knicks and burns and a body more damaged than before. But he came back carrying a carefully pressed flower for you. Because you draw flowers.

You want to say something but you’re afraid that opening your mouth wil make room for something that isn’t ready to be named yet. 

Simon doesn’t falter under your stare. 

Your hand darts into your coat pocket and you fumble with the thing you have prepared, at first afraid it was too small and also too much but now you know, now you know that you are on the same frequency. 

In your hand you produce a black daisy, hand stitched and even smaller than the flower sitting in his palm. 

“For you.”

Simon stares at the black leaves and swallows.

“I imagine you have things that need repairing. Clothes, I mean. You iron this or stitch it across the hole.” You slide the patch carefully onto the table and push it with your fingertips in his direction.

“I chose black because it seemed right.”

Simon takes the daisy with a trembling hand and places it in his breastpocket. His hand rests there for a moment. 

Your smile broadens. 

You fold the wax paper and pinch it between your fingers like it were a butterfly wing.

It will sit in your box of precious things, next to your sister’s picture, a lock of her hair, and the last photo you took together. An addition of care to your box of Big Sad Things. 

“Merry Christmas, Simon.”

part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii

Distantly, you wonder how many cups of tea Emir has left for you, waiting and watching it go cold. You have no way to prove this assumption of loyalty, but at the same time you know it to be true. 

How many is it? Twelve, thirteen? Your blooming depression blurred everything after day four. 

You have spent the days wondering how long this feeling of being held underwater will last. It has saved you from the sharpness of hurt, the rancid humiliation that lanced you in the first few days, but you also know that whatever this is – this long, silent scream – will also kill you. 

The rotten part of yourself says you're a coward, a fool’s fool for letting this one stupid experience ruin what was originally yours. The horrible part says that you gave up too much too quickly and that it is shameful to be seen wanting with such desperation. 

The larger, more tender part of you is smarting with loss – a child wandering alone at a playground wondering why they are suddenly alone. 

But the truth is that this feeling is not new. Delayed perhaps, suppressed perhaps, momentarily relieved, perhaps, but never fully gone. It predated Simon and he was just a moment of reprieve that you desperately needed. 

You have survived worse, and this you will survive too. 

So with a survivor’s will you drag yourself to the café just after one in the morning, far earlier than your usual time. 

Even from the outside you can see that the café is dimly lit but buzzing with energy; teenagers occupy the far corner booth and are chatting away over coke cans and plates of chips; two older women are closer to the front and playing a game you will later find out is called Barjis. 

When you enter and hear the familiar shoop of the door, the sound of it sparks tears in your eyes but the unfamiliarity of the occupants keeps them at bay. Your senses are assaulted with the smell of tea, spice, and sugar. Emir walks out from the back and seems shocked to see you. A quick succession of emotions flitter across his face, but you are too slow to catch them, and nor do you want to know.

He hurries over with a tea in hand and ushers you to your chair. Proffering your best smile, you try to lamely find an excuse for your absence but it seems Emir doesn’t need one – he hurries back to the counter and brings plate after plate of dessert: halva as rippled as the sky; Turkish Delight that wafts white sugar from being carried over, cardamom rice pudding so hot the steam curls in a stream over Emir’s shoulder. 

He offers you these plates and arranges them in front of you as a grandparent would. He says nothing but before he leaves he places a hand on your head and murmurs something in his language. Neither of you can look the other in the eye, but the act of kindness is enough.

You don’t move for a while. Being presented with plates of sweetness and warmth feels alien to someone that has been subsisting on very little.

Eventually you manage to swipe a finger through the dusting of sugar that has fallen off the Turkish Delight. The spark of sweetness is so intense as to be almost bitter, but it whets your appetite and you chance a spoon of rice pudding next. It’s glorious, and you reach for your tea to wash it down.

Each mouthful of dessert warms the embers deep inside you, and you are brought back inside your body. You are suddenly awake to the pangs of hunger and thirst and aware of how deeply you have denied yourself.

When you are almost done with the rice pudding, something outside the window catches your eye. 

You look up, spoon in mouth and pudding melting on your tongue, and spot a young couple walking on the street opposite the café. The boy has his arm around the girl but they walk loosely, hips colliding and feet stumbling. You get the sense that it isn’t due to alcohol that they walk like this, but rather a sense of joy in the present, a deep delight they have in being in each other’s company. 

The boy stops for a moment and uses his hand that is intertwined with the girl’s to twirl her in a circle. The shape of it is ungainly and brittle, but the girl bursts into laughter that is free and wild and the boy yanks her in so that they are chest to chest. From where you sit you can see their hot breaths puff in the crisp air.

It’s in that moment you realise this: to deny your desire to share your physical body with the ghostly man with whom you shared your tears and fears is to lie to yourself. The truth is that it has been years since you felt the warmth of someone else’s embrace, the feeling of being wanted so badly that you are dragged into their body, the possibility of dancing in the dark with someone to hold you from flying away.

You have no proof that it was ever going to happen to you, but as you watch the young couple disappear from view and take stock of your aching heart, you are disappointed to find that your heart latched onto Simon and led you astray anyway.

part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii

This actually brought tears to my eyes:

He says nothing but before he leaves he places a hand on your head and murmurs something in his language.

The hand on her head was so gentle and kind. He's glad to see her back, but I'm sure he knows she's hurting.

It’s in that moment you realise this: to deny your desire to share your physical body with the ghostly man with whom you shared your tears and fears is to lie to yourself.

You have no proof that it was ever going to happen to you, but...you are disappointed to find that your heart latched onto Simon and led you astray anyway.

Distantly, you wonder how many cups of tea Emir has left for you, waiting and watching it go cold. You have no way to prove this assumption of loyalty, but at the same time you know it to be true. 

How many is it? Twelve, thirteen? Your blooming depression blurred everything after day four. 

You have spent the days wondering how long this feeling of being held underwater will last. It has saved you from the sharpness of hurt, the rancid humiliation that lanced you in the first few days, but you also know that whatever this is – this long, silent scream – will also kill you. 

The rotten part of yourself says you're a coward, a fool’s fool for letting this one stupid experience ruin what was originally yours. The horrible part says that you gave up too much too quickly and that it is shameful to be seen wanting with such desperation. 

The larger, more tender part of you is smarting with loss – a child wandering alone at a playground wondering why they are suddenly alone. 

But the truth is that this feeling is not new. Delayed perhaps, suppressed perhaps, momentarily relieved, perhaps, but never fully gone. It predated Simon and he was just a moment of reprieve that you desperately needed. 

You have survived worse, and this you will survive too. 

So with a survivor’s will you drag yourself to the café just after one in the morning, far earlier than your usual time. 

Even from the outside you can see that the café is dimly lit but buzzing with energy; teenagers occupy the far corner booth and are chatting away over coke cans and plates of chips; two older women are closer to the front and playing a game you will later find out is called Barjis. 

When you enter and hear the familiar shoop of the door, the sound of it sparks tears in your eyes but the unfamiliarity of the occupants keeps them at bay. Your senses are assaulted with the smell of tea, spice, and sugar. Emir walks out from the back and seems shocked to see you. A quick succession of emotions flitter across his face, but you are too slow to catch them, and nor do you want to know.

He hurries over with a tea in hand and ushers you to your chair. Proffering your best smile, you try to lamely find an excuse for your absence but it seems Emir doesn’t need one – he hurries back to the counter and brings plate after plate of dessert: halva as rippled as the sky; Turkish Delight that wafts white sugar from being carried over, cardamom rice pudding so hot the steam curls in a stream over Emir’s shoulder. 

He offers you these plates and arranges them in front of you as a grandparent would. He says nothing but before he leaves he places a hand on your head and murmurs something in his language. Neither of you can look the other in the eye, but the act of kindness is enough.

You don’t move for a while. Being presented with plates of sweetness and warmth feels alien to someone that has been subsisting on very little.

Eventually you manage to swipe a finger through the dusting of sugar that has fallen off the Turkish Delight. The spark of sweetness is so intense as to be almost bitter, but it whets your appetite and you chance a spoon of rice pudding next. It’s glorious, and you reach for your tea to wash it down.

Each mouthful of dessert warms the embers deep inside you, and you are brought back inside your body. You are suddenly awake to the pangs of hunger and thirst and aware of how deeply you have denied yourself.

When you are almost done with the rice pudding, something outside the window catches your eye. 

You look up, spoon in mouth and pudding melting on your tongue, and spot a young couple walking on the street opposite the café. The boy has his arm around the girl but they walk loosely, hips colliding and feet stumbling. You get the sense that it isn’t due to alcohol that they walk like this, but rather a sense of joy in the present, a deep delight they have in being in each other’s company. 

The boy stops for a moment and uses his hand that is intertwined with the girl’s to twirl her in a circle. The shape of it is ungainly and brittle, but the girl bursts into laughter that is free and wild and the boy yanks her in so that they are chest to chest. From where you sit you can see their hot breaths puff in the crisp air.

It’s in that moment you realise this: to deny your desire to share your physical body with the ghostly man with whom you shared your tears and fears is to lie to yourself. The truth is that it has been years since you felt the warmth of someone else’s embrace, the feeling of being wanted so badly that you are dragged into their body, the possibility of dancing in the dark with someone to hold you from flying away.

You have no proof that it was ever going to happen to you, but as you watch the young couple disappear from view and take stock of your aching heart, you are disappointed to find that your heart latched onto Simon and led you astray anyway.

part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii

Distantly, you wonder how many cups of tea Emir has left for you, waiting and watching it go cold. You have no way to prove this assumption of loyalty, but at the same time you know it to be true. 

How many is it? Twelve, thirteen? Your blooming depression blurred everything after day four. 

You have spent the days wondering how long this feeling of being held underwater will last. It has saved you from the sharpness of hurt, the rancid humiliation that lanced you in the first few days, but you also know that whatever this is – this long, silent scream – will also kill you. 

The rotten part of yourself says you're a coward, a fool’s fool for letting this one stupid experience ruin what was originally yours. The horrible part says that you gave up too much too quickly and that it is shameful to be seen wanting with such desperation. 

The larger, more tender part of you is smarting with loss – a child wandering alone at a playground wondering why they are suddenly alone. 

But the truth is that this feeling is not new. Delayed perhaps, suppressed perhaps, momentarily relieved, perhaps, but never fully gone. It predated Simon and he was just a moment of reprieve that you desperately needed. 

You have survived worse, and this you will survive too. 

So with a survivor’s will you drag yourself to the café just after one in the morning, far earlier than your usual time. 

Even from the outside you can see that the café is dimly lit but buzzing with energy; teenagers occupy the far corner booth and are chatting away over coke cans and plates of chips; two older women are closer to the front and playing a game you will later find out is called Barjis. 

When you enter and hear the familiar shoop of the door, the sound of it sparks tears in your eyes but the unfamiliarity of the occupants keeps them at bay. Your senses are assaulted with the smell of tea, spice, and sugar. Emir walks out from the back and seems shocked to see you. A quick succession of emotions flitter across his face, but you are too slow to catch them, and nor do you want to know.

He hurries over with a tea in hand and ushers you to your chair. Proffering your best smile, you try to lamely find an excuse for your absence but it seems Emir doesn’t need one – he hurries back to the counter and brings plate after plate of dessert: halva as rippled as the sky; Turkish Delight that wafts white sugar from being carried over, cardamom rice pudding so hot the steam curls in a stream over Emir’s shoulder. 

He offers you these plates and arranges them in front of you as a grandparent would. He says nothing but before he leaves he places a hand on your head and murmurs something in his language. Neither of you can look the other in the eye, but the act of kindness is enough.

You don’t move for a while. Being presented with plates of sweetness and warmth feels alien to someone that has been subsisting on very little.

Eventually you manage to swipe a finger through the dusting of sugar that has fallen off the Turkish Delight. The spark of sweetness is so intense as to be almost bitter, but it whets your appetite and you chance a spoon of rice pudding next. It’s glorious, and you reach for your tea to wash it down.

Each mouthful of dessert warms the embers deep inside you, and you are brought back inside your body. You are suddenly awake to the pangs of hunger and thirst and aware of how deeply you have denied yourself.

When you are almost done with the rice pudding, something outside the window catches your eye. 

You look up, spoon in mouth and pudding melting on your tongue, and spot a young couple walking on the street opposite the café. The boy has his arm around the girl but they walk loosely, hips colliding and feet stumbling. You get the sense that it isn’t due to alcohol that they walk like this, but rather a sense of joy in the present, a deep delight they have in being in each other’s company. 

The boy stops for a moment and uses his hand that is intertwined with the girl’s to twirl her in a circle. The shape of it is ungainly and brittle, but the girl bursts into laughter that is free and wild and the boy yanks her in so that they are chest to chest. From where you sit you can see their hot breaths puff in the crisp air.

It’s in that moment you realise this: to deny your desire to share your physical body with the ghostly man with whom you shared your tears and fears is to lie to yourself. The truth is that it has been years since you felt the warmth of someone else’s embrace, the feeling of being wanted so badly that you are dragged into their body, the possibility of dancing in the dark with someone to hold you from flying away.

You have no proof that it was ever going to happen to you, but as you watch the young couple disappear from view and take stock of your aching heart, you are disappointed to find that your heart latched onto Simon and led you astray anyway.

part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii, christmas special, part viii

This actually brought tears to my eyes:

He says nothing but before he leaves he places a hand on your head and murmurs something in his language.

The hand on her head was so gentle and kind. He's glad to see her back, but I'm sure he knows she's hurting.

It’s in that moment you realise this: to deny your desire to share your physical body with the ghostly man with whom you shared your tears and fears is to lie to yourself.

You have no proof that it was ever going to happen to you, but...you are disappointed to find that your heart latched onto Simon and led you astray anyway.