#cod x oc

something something, husband Konig absolutely obsessed with his smaller than life little wife -- all 5'0 to be exact to his 6'9 frame

Sometimes he still can't believe she's real.

Scheiße sometimes he just can't help but stare at her like she was a daydream. Something conjured out of sheer desperation and too many lonely years. Scared that if he blinked too long, she'll inevitable vanish in a puff of soft sweaters and sweet perfume.

And so verdammt klein (fucking small) that it drives him half-mad.

Sometimes he just watches her do the most mundane things -- brushing her hair, standing on her toes to reach coffee mugs, waddling across the kitchen in his oversized hoodie that swallows her whole after a particularly rough night with him -- and it hits him all over again like a freight train: that's mine.

His wife.

His tiny, soft-spoken, fire-hearted wife who hums when she cooks and curls up like a kitten when she sleeps. The same woman who threw a slipper at his head the first time he tried to pick her up like a princess and carry her to bed. The same woman who now was pressed face down, ass up, drool and pleasured sobs running down her cheeks as he thrusted his girthy shaft deeper into her cushiony and tiny pussy.

Fists tangled in the sheets. Breath hitching in quiet whines and whimpers as Konig drove his hips into hers in renewed and desperate fervor. Not caring if their mattress practically sunk in the center at this point at his merciless thrusting.

Her petite little hole dripping with her previous orgasms and arousal from when Konig buried his face in between her thighs -- coarse and warm mouth sucking on her engorged and swollen clit until she begged for him to stop making her cum. Twitching and quivering. Letting out a soft wanton sigh of relief as Konig finally pulled away.

And from when Konig took her from the front. Hands stretching the backs of her thighs until her legs met her head. Lips brushing her jaw as he whispered praises in broken German.

Absolutely enamored at the sight of his tiny little sweet wife in paralyzing pleasure. Mouth half-open. Lips red and puffy. Perky tits bouncing along as he continued the punishing roll of his hips. Groaning lowly at the feel of his big dick's tip try to punch farther into her womb. Entranced at the sight of his precious mouthy girl's little tummy bulging every time he pushed his cock into her small pussy.

Moaning and growling lowly as he pistoned mercislessly at the feel of her velvety walls cradling his penis like it was reluctant to set him free. So tight and so so perfect.

Konig was Trying. Really trying. Trying so fucking hard to be gentle. But when he had her like this. Impaled on his enormous cock. Whining and whimpering helplessly every time her cunt stretched to accommodate more of him. Konig can't help it.

Konig was done for.

So now here. Where Konig had to take her from behind. He just had to. One hand holding her neck down and the other gripping the doughy meat of her smooth hips. Bare chest heaving, hair mussed, and brows furrowed as he tried to rein it all in for her.

Room dimming since they started this afternoon and now into the night. The homey space awash in the low gold of their bedside lamp. Casting shadows over the sweat-slicked lines of his back and the trembling outline of her spine.

She was so small beneath him. So so small and so achingly soft and warm and his and and and--.

And she took him so well. So fucking well that Konig's hands can't help but change their position. Wanting her closer. Nearer. Deeper to the point that her womb would permanently be rearranged by his cock and his cock alone.

Moving her into careful precision -- never wanting to hurt his sweet little wife -- Konig pulled her arms back. Locking them securely against her body. Tender yet firm. Would rather brand his arm clean and cauterize it than ever hurt her.

Before she could even process what was happening, however, her wrists were pressed firmly against the back of her head, her arms trapped in a powerful grip. Konig's broad chest pressed into her back. Breath hot against her ear as he held her in the full nelson, the vulnerability of the position causing her breath to catch in her throat. Eyes rolling to the back of her head and unable to stifle the scream of absolute pleasure that coursed through her as his shaft was plunged deeper into her cervix.

The drowning and immobilizing feeling making them both gasp and groan lowly. Having to momentarily both pause to take it all in.

Konig's grip was unwavering, forcing her to remain pliable, utterly at his mercy. Legs spread wider and open near her head and astride his shoulders.

Her body now completely controlled by his strength -- every inch of her bound to his hold and speared by his girthy wieghty member. So overwhelmingly full.

But despite the pressure, the way he held her wasn’t entirely forceful. Nein nein. Konig always made sure there was a certain care to the way his hands rested, even if he made sure she couldn’t escape his grip.

"Mein Gott," he groaned, biting his lip to try and smother the soft hitch in his breath after starting a slow and tentative pace. Muttering a soft scheibe as he felt his manhood plunge deeper into her cushiony womb. “You were made for me, weren’t you, Liebling?”

"Oh m-my God! --nghhh--", She gasped -- choked on something between a sob and a whine -- and he stilled briefly. Murmuring soft apologies even as continued the fevered pace of his hips meeting hers. The room echoing nothing more than the soft plat-plat-plats and squelches of her gooey and wet hole meeting her hard and aching balls.

“You’re alright, mein schatz,” he whispered, mouth to her shoulder. “Doing so good for me. Just like always.”

His voice cracked with awe. With something dangerously close to worship. Because for all the filth he could whisper in the dark, at the end of it all, it came down to this -- her trembling in his arms, his name on her tongue, his cock propelling deeper into her like there was still so much space left for her to give him. Hole gaping and messy. Wet, crude, aching, and her heartbeat under his hand.

His wife.

His everything.

"Pretty like this. So -- scheibe -- p-pretty. So stuffed full of me"

Sure, there was a flight cancellation because of the sudden heavy rain and high winds that brewed well into the swelling afternoon, suspending his trip until the earliest available date that is still unposted, but he brought his car with him. He could have driven out and crashed somewhere close to the terminal to pass time, and yet he chose to stay.

He chose to stay because it has been years. It has been years and yet you continued to haunt their memories, appearing like an omen out for vengeance. John knows that it is a ridiculous thought—you have loved no one in the way that you have loved your sister; John, in fact, was a witness to your devotion, so he knows that this is an unfounded nagging thought—but he succumbed to the twinge and decided to stay.

Perhaps, his decision is an act of penance. For him to make up for the years that you have lost taking care of such a fragile home while he and Diana clawed their way into a new life. And if it is penance, he prays that he finds closure in his stay.

He is saying goodbye to Diana on the phone when you knock on the door of the spare room that you and Aunt Lily have kindly offered to him, popping your head in with a tilt, before asking, "Jus' wondering if you've eaten yet?"

He has not because he did not expect to stay this long, in the first place. He says this to you with a chuckle, joking, but your face falls like you did not hear the humour in his voice.

"You should've told me earlier," you say, still hovering by the entrance door like you're being physically held back. "I can prepare somethin' for you right now–"

"Kid, i'm fine," John cuts off as gently as he could because he's noted the way that you've curled into yourself, hesitant and tensed, and John realizes that he is an idiot.

You've spent a lifetime walking on eggshells; a lifetime of interpreting the angry lines on your deceased old man's face and tracing the ridges of your mother's spine. You've only ever lived in survival mode, leaving you to be jumpy, and here comes John screwing with you.

Christ. Has it really been that long? He doesn't even know how to talk to you anymore.

The static from his phone snaps him out of his bubbling worries and it gives him an idea. A way out too, really.

"I’m just on the phone with Diana," he says, licking his lips. "Wanna c'mere and say hi?"

Distantly, he recognizes that he's still treating you the way he used to when you were just the quiet kid, awed by his and your sister's rebellion. When you still used to run after them, asking shyly if you could come for a sleepover, unable to see past their lies and so trusting of their honeyed words. He remembers Diana indulging you, turning what was supposed to be an escape into a babysitting bore, snuffing her chance of way out again.

John used to resent you for it—you were Diana's burden, her cross—but as he watches you now, creeping close, dropping beside him to hesitantly call out your sister's name and shooting an awkward glance up at John like you couldn't fathom why he even offered, the guilt presses on his ribs. You were just a kid trying to find solace too. Trying to find a balm to the tender wounds.

He stays still, watches as your walls fall just a bit while you talk to Diana, your eyes ducking away to meet his every now and then. You're not as tensed but you're not relaxed at all, wound up tight, and John's head rears, overprotectiveness budding in the tender chaos of his ribs.

You're pressed so close, smelling so faintly of pomegranates and some lotion. It was a disservice to treat you with kiddy gloves and John—

He sees you, for the first time.

You are soft-spoken, shy, and tender. You are everything that Diana isn't. Where there is fire in her eyes and courage in her voice, where confidence ripples from her in cosmic waves, you hunch in on yourself, swallowing your own words to make room for others. It is an odd sight altogether—you look so much like her but the two of you seem to exist in different realities, and he fumbles, stumbling, before finally filling up the vast space with his chatter.

He talks about Diana, watches the way you and Aunt Lily soak up every word like you have been starved of everything Diana. Perhaps you were—John didn't really care what she wanted to do about her past, so focused on shaping their future together.

There were times, yes, when they'll reminisce, your name interwoven in those memories, but John made sure to silence them, filling Diana up with everything that they are and have now to remind her that she got out. That she's fine. That John is here to stay.

And the way his wife looks at him every time John comforts her is addicting. It is like John was allowed to hold onto her beating heart because she trusted no one else but him. That in the grand scheme of things, he was the only one she could lean on. It gave John a purpose, burning within him a fire that he took good care of cultivating. He fostered such a deep connection with Diana that everything John is comes back to her. And Diana, she loves him with the same reverence. She looks upon him like he was the one to light up her life, the one who made miracles and saved her. The one who whisked her away. The one who gave the princess her happy ending.

Amidst his tales, John notices the way your looks lingered, dragging from his face to his gesturing hands, and down to his lap. You are studying him, consuming him with enraptured curiosity. And John—

He feels tickled by the attention.

The rain rages on, dousing the streets with a budding flood. You flutter between Aunt Lily and John, caring for them in the same magnitudes, calling their names with the same quiet hum. He truly feels like he is imposing but you wave him off, asking him to allow you to take care of them.

It is a change that he isn't quite used to.

Back home, he is the one who works the house. The one who cooks, the one who dials a cleaner, the one who does the laundry. Diana is focused on her work, with her passion dripping from her fingertips, and John gave her the space she needed to bloom. He adores being the one to provide for her, the one who fosters her security. He loves that Diana’s found a comfort in him. He loves nothing more, but John watches the way you command the house in tender thrum, so maternal in the way you see into his every needs, and he feels a stirring in his belly.

A sort of unforgiving thing—still unnamed because John will be damned if he recognizes it for what it is—but it drums, slowly frying his veins and consuming him from within.

Countless times have you caught him staring at you, studying the way you worked and the way you spoke. He's noted the way your eyes always ducked away from his, so meek and careful, putting a distance between the two of you. It is an endearing thing altogether, how you're so conscious of him. So hyperaware of what he does and what he says, gulping down the inch that he offers with such veneration that it threatens to choke him whole.

John should've left then. He should've taken the car and braved the rain because that would've been a whole lot better than letting you misconstrue what you feel about him, your sister's husband. He should've been the one to take the step into the proper direction. He should've been the bigger person.

He didn't.

It just sort of happened.

One minute you're avoiding him, and the next you're pressed so close that all John could smell is the soft waft of your body wash. It's still pomegranates and it is so tantalizing that he finds himself leaning close, tugged into your quiet lull.

He doesn't even realize that he's crossed boundaries, that you're shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh, warmth reverberating from your skin to his and back. It is your aborted gasp that yanked him back into reality and John scrambles, trying to put space in between again, murmuring apologies, only—

"John?" His name spills from your lips like it is made of milk, delicate and rich, and he feels the stirring return full-force. It feels like a choking type of greed. An animalistic type of hunger.

John looks at you—he really looks at you—and he tries to find the kid that they left behind; the kid who followed them with a sort of naivety that used to piss him off for days, but that kid's gone. In her place is you, all grown up. All beautiful. All soft and broken and in need of protection. All curling voice and hesitant touches and a mature love.

You are nothing like that kid anymore. Hell, you are nothing like your sister, and something about this pushes John.

The kiss is searing. It is all teeth and tongue and desperate hands pawing at each other. It is your body wash filling his lungs and John's voice purring into your maw, his big hands gripping the fat of your ass, squeezing, pulling you ever closer.

It is your hiccupping breaths, the way his name keeps spilling from your tongue like he is all that you revere, and John is a simple man, he is a needy man, and the way that you worship him fills him up. It erases his conscience, plugs up his guilt. It strokes the thrill-seeking cavern yowling within him, heightening the hunger, bloating the sin.

He tears your clothes off your body, squeezes himself between your legs, and spits on your slit to finger you. He doesn't look away from your leaking cunt, in awe of the mess it is—unkempt bush, weeping slit, puffy clit. It is a pocket of delight. A gift for his stay.

He fingers you until you're spilling, cream coating up to his palm. The ambrosia shocks him, fuels him with such visceral need, and John pushes himself in, in, in. Fucks himself snug in your cunt, buries his cock until he is pressing on the pucker of your cervix.

He doesn't even want to pull out, the thought alone vexes him—you feel so perfect around him, like you were made for his prick. Like this is where he's always belonged, wrapped in the tender loving warmth of your cunt, feeling you spasming around his girth, pussy doing its very best to swallow all of him.

You mewl below him and John finally looks up, tearing his eyes from the prize that your cunt is to meet your gaze, and oh, the look in your eyes is enough to shock him into orgasm. He spills without having even fucked you properly, shooting into the rubber with a groan.

He's heaving when he pulls out, satiated, and the warmth takes a second to wrap around him before the guilt shatters the euphoria.

What has he fucking done?

"John, please!" You cry, running after him. "John, please let's talk about this!"

He turns, angry—at himself, at you, at this goddamn weather—vitriol rising on the back of his throat but one look at you and just.

How is it that he gets one look at you and his anger dies down?

You look like a mess, all tears and your heartbreak etched on your face. You look like you've been snuffed out of anything that brought you joy, like there is nothing else to hold you up. You look so small in your agony, and John settles.

He stares at his wife's little sister, stares at this cowering woman he embraced just hours ago, and John feels the itch of his guilt thrum. the burden of his sin is bearing down on him but as John looks at you, in dire need of a direction in your life, he makes a decision.

He follows you back to your home.

The mistake doesn't happen again—John's made sure to leave any room you entered before you could even settle. It is a direct buffer, a consequence of your mistake, and you know that John is doing this because he feels something for you too, surely he does, but seeing his sudden detachment, the way he forced himself back into his cocoon, you wonder if it would have been better if John just left.

The storm's settling, soon there will be nothing to tether John in this place. Diana wouldn't come back, she's made that clear, especially now that she's pregnant too, and when John leaves, that will be it. The memory will just live on, cherished by your fragile heart and surely beaten out of John's conscience.

You know that after what happened, John would make a concerted effort to make your sister even happier than she already is, using his misgivings as a catalyst for a total change. You know that in his reformed future, you will have no place to claim for yourself. John will push you away out of his guilt, and you know it. And you tell yourself that you don't care—you've wronged your sister, who are you to demand John any more than what he's allowing now?—but, god, do you want him.

When he stuffed you full that night, carving out a space to make himself fit, you finally understood why your sister's greed ran deep. John is such a beautiful and perfect man. He is so handy. Dependable. He fucks so good, working your body and coaxing out spots of pleasure that you never even knew existed. You felt like a virgin under him, shaking with the weight of your desires and manhandled into a blinding orgasm.

How lucky of Diana to have this sex every chance she gets. How lucky of her that this is the man who fucked her pregnant. How lucky that she gets to live this reality that John had blessed you with a glimpse of. How lucky of her.

But why is it always her?

She got to leave. She got to live. She got to get the best man out there. She got to make a reality out of your daydreams.

Why her? What is it about her that warrants such blessings? Why couldn't you even have scraps? Why couldn't you even have the man she didn't want for so long?

These thoughts barrage you, replacing the fulfillment of your debauchery with a riptide of jealousy, tearing apart the facade that you held onto with pale-knuckled fists. You hated your mother for being a shell of who she was, but look where you are right now.

Just—all you want is John. You didn't need the house with a picket fence or to move to the city, far from here. You didn't need the gallery, the city friends, the city life. All you really needed, all you ever wanted, is John.

Is that too much to ask?

"We can't do this again, kid," John says and he sounds broken himself. He doesn't look like the bright boy that he once was or that ragged man who was brimming with such happiness that all you wanted was to lick it from his fingertips.

He's looking at you with such a warped concern, like he is seeing beyond you. Like he isn't really here, but trapped somewhere else you couldn't really follow.

"No, John, please," you whimper. It seemed like this is all you could say ever since he came back. "I just want you, please, John? I just want some pieces of Diana's life—you don't even have to love me. You don't even have to choose between the two of us, I'm not asking you to, John. Just- just fuck me, please?"

John stares at you for a while, studying you like he is battling with himself, then he nods, tentative, before pulling you to his lap. You expected a kiss, heated like it had been before, but John just looks at you, rubbing his palms on the expanse of your back in a quiet comfort and this gentleness breaks you even more.

The lies that you just said fizzle out because of course you want him to love you. You want him to choose you. You want him to leave your sister for you and to see you beyond the ruins of your childhoods. You even want him to be the bridge between your sister's sparkling life and your own dull one. But this is all he could give you, and who are you to even dare to ask for more?

John holds you for a while, letting you blink your tears on his clavicle, hugging you close like this is how it should've been.

He fucks you that night, huddled in your room, far from your mother's locked door. He settles between your legs again, dragging his lips from your shin to the inside of your thigh, his eyes persistently on you with every kiss.

"Don't look," you rasp out, covering your chest with your arms. John tugs them away with a soft shh.

"Show me," he says and he sounds so drunk off of you. "Wanna see you, kid."

The pet name makes you whine because he says it differently this time. He says it like it is a secret, curling in the same way that you remembered his voice sounded like when he called Diana's name. And now, after these long years, you are the recipient of the same softness. It fills you up, like even your lungs are stuffed with the churning hunger, and you buck in his hand, weeping at his tenderness.

John doesn't wear a rubber this time, and you sing at the bruising pleasure.

Everything feels more intense than that first night. You are overwhelmed by the crushing hunger, your appetite matched by his ravenous desires, and John isn't even rushing through it this time. He takes you apart and savours every piece, dragging you at the precipice of your undoing. You feel vindicated with every kiss, gasping out his name and hearing him return the worship with a rumble of your own, and like this, like this, John belongs to you even for a moment.

He cums inside and it is almost a religious experience. You do not feel it in your cunt, but you hear him groan like a wounded animal, his grip on you tightening, his hips pistoning without a break, skin slapping against skin, until you are reduced to your pleasure, your veins singing atop each other, howling at John's peaking euphoria. Then, his release.

"Fuck, kid," John rasps out before he smothers the rest of what he wanted to say on your skin. You hum through it out, blinking dazedly through the bliss, floaty in your own mind, your body humming an overture.

John sits you on his face and licks you until you spill on his tongue.

Curled up in his arms, you tell him how you can't even fathom how he knew what he did to your body.

"Is that why Di finally dated you?" You ask with a giggle, teasing. Maybe a sharp mean, trying to test where you stand.

John's lips pinch just for a moment before he's pulling you to lay on top of him again. You protest, telling him that you're heavy, but he silences you with a kiss and his capable fingers teasing along your cum-dripping pussy again.

"The sun's finally out, sonny," your mother says after John sits beside her. "When will you be returning to my dear Diana? Can't keep her waiting for too long, especially now that she's pregnant."

John doesn't falter, telling her that he'll return soon with a promise that he won't leave your sister this long ever again. He laughs with your mom, falling into the ease of a conversation, and your body locks up at the reminder of a borrowed time, of a borrowed love.

You don't meet John's gaze any more after that, trying to blend into their normalcy as your mother asks about you—when will you find someone to settle with? To make a life with? Have children with?

From the corner of your eyes, John jolts at her words. You pretend that it didn't make your heart flutter—seeing John react vehemently against the idea of you finding someone else that isn't him.

"Pregnant, huh?" John says, his cock still stuffed in you. "Would y'want that, kid?"

You can't answer, still too caught up in trying to catch your breath. How John managed to make you squirt is beyond you but your body is overwhelmed, your mind ragged at all the clashing sensation, your synapses buzzing with the unexpected cataclysm.

John laughs at your struggle. "Cute," he croons.

You garble something, still out of it, only feeling the remnants of your spasming bliss. John hums, busying himself, talking about something again, but what pierces through your bubble is the way he cups your stomach, his thumb just underneath your belly button.

"Imagine it, kid. You, pregnant, huh?" John sounds drunken when he says this, drawling out his words like he is deep within his mind again.

You're slipping into your exhaustion when you faintly hear him add, "Yeah, you'd look pretty when y'r all full."

Ever since your mother's comment, John's been filling you up every chance he gets. It doesn't matter that it is still bright outside and that your mother is still awake, John whisks you somewhere private and spills his cum in you.

He fucks you like a man possessed, rutting and humping, smothering his moans by biting into the tender stretch of your skin, leaving you to cover up every marks with longer collared sweatshirts and hoodies. You are full every time now. Full from his attention, from his love-making, full from his seed.

Your birth control pills are flushed down the toilet, your Plan B's are dumped in the garbage chute. You know that you should be scared with how John is acting, especially with his flight rebooked already, but his hunger fills you with such fulfillment that you let him rewrite your life because it is a promise, isn't it?

Because if it takes, won't John come back?

John's making a tether for himself in this city so who are you to deny him this? Better yet, why would you want to?

Maybe you and Diana could even raise your kids together. Live a better life than your parents ever did. Especially with john around, you are sure that you and Diana would be taken care of. That the two of you would be loved and adored the way your mother never was.

Surely this is a good ending.

Maybe this is why John even stayed.

John flies back to Diana.

You'll have to buy a pregnancy test in two weeks to check if there is a happy news.

Your mother stares at you, the landline phone gripped in her hand.

"I told her," is all she says.

You expected the house of cards to tumble, for the shock and betrayal and guilt to shred you apart, but all you feel is the churning in your belly. A promise that took root.

"Okay," you tell her. "Maybe this is how we'll get Diana to come home–"

"How could you do this to your own sister?"

"I love John, mum." You lick your lips. "And I've always loved Di too, you know that."

You know that.

oh my god anon i hope i did this justice!!

oki extra notes:

john and his saviour complex. had to save diana, and now when he sees how you're still struggling, he is overtaken by the need to save you too hence the 'john is a complicated man' tag. plus the whole getting over cheating on his pregnant wife with his pregnant wife's sister classifies complexity 4 me! and i gave him a brush of mommy issues :p

also, anon's extra ask made me lol:

i had so much fun writing this so thank you very much anon for pushing me there <3 the other icky themes were not expounded but thats on ME. i shall try to venture further out more!!

And when you’re in the trenches, and you’re under fire, I will cover you — Brother, Kodaline

“Right. Glad that’s over,” Johnny groaned, handing you and Simon a bottle of beer each and sitting on the other end of the plush, brown leather couch, its cushions worn but well kept. You weren’t planning on getting plastered yet—that was tomorrow’s plan—but a couple of beers to take the edge off wouldn’t hurt.

After dinner, Lorraine and Douglas quickly cleaned up the mess and retreated to their room, leaving the three of you to your own devices. Johnny suggested taking the “party” to the living room as the night was still relatively young, and the three of you needed to catch up. Three months is a long time.

You were still pleasantly buzzed from the four-ish glasses of cabernet that Lorraine and Douglas had so graciously poured for you. The lager was a bit more bitter than expected, but that was fine—you’d probably drink that one and be done for the night. The last thing you wanted was a hangover.

“So,” Johnny began from your left.

“So,” Simon continued, filling the loveseat to your right.

“What d’ya make of ‘em?”

“Your parents?” You asked, shivering under the warm quilt Johnny offered. It was a lovely thing, hand-stitched from Johnny’s sibling’s childhood blankets, Lorraine’s project during the pandemic. “I thought they were lovely.”

“They’re… alright,” Simon said.

“By ‘alright’ ye mean annoying,” Johnny lamented. “Ah know, ah know.”

“I never said that.”

“Aye, but ye thought about it, didnae think ah didn’t catch how red ye got.”

You smirked, pulling the bottle up to your face and taking a swig. “That’s just how he is. He blushes easily.”

Simon rolled his eyes. From this angle, you caught the redness spreading across his neck and ears.

Johnny smirked. “Ahhh, does he?”

You chuckled. “Yeah. He’s a shy boy.”

Simon glared at you both. “Enough.”

“Didnae think I’d see this side of ye,” Johnny snorted.

“Stop it.”

You and Johnny cackled at his response. An embarrassed and red-all-over Simon Riley was for sure a sight for sore eyes.

As the laughter died down, you caught Johnny eyeing your boot as it peeked from under the blanket, and then the crutches.

Flashes of the incident flooded your brain right then. A pool of blood. Gunshots. Fists cracking bone. Johnny’s unconscious body. A knife.

You gripped the bottle a bit too tight.

“So how’s that coming along?” He asked, swirling his bottle around.

You blinked, coming back to reality and finding Johnny’s earnest gaze. “Ugh, I can walk now, for sure, but not for long. I hate being wheelchair-bound but it is what it is. Simon’s been helping me through PT.”

“That’s good, that’s good… and yer ribs?”

“No better since you crushed them hours ago.”

At that, Johnny went pale. “Oh! I’m sorry, I forgot—”

“Relax, man, I’m okay, I was just fucking with you,” you smiled. Johnny sighed in relief. “Yeah, no my ribs are okay. They’re healed, but still a little sore. At least I can breathe normally again.”

He nodded, and then the room fell into silence, only the faint beat of the music Johnny played on his father’s old sound system, a large, sophisticated thing, with speakers all over the living room and a large CD collection on display above the sound system. You couldn’t make out the artist exactly.

“I don’t think I ever thanked ye for what ye did,” Johnny said after a long gulp.

You dismissed him with a wave, as if he were thanking you for something as inconsequential as giving him a lift. “For sure you did.”

He shook his head. “No, no, ah don’t think so.”

“Yes, you did, Johnny,” Simon said, sinking further and further into the leather loveseat.

“Well, ah didn’t thank ye properly, then.” His accent thickened up considerably. “Last time ah saw ye was at the tarmac. Ah don’t think we spoke for more than a minute, and most of what ah did was cry.”

You chuckled. “I cried a lot too. You crushed my ribs so hard I wondered how the fuck you even managed.”

Johnny mirrored your smile, then took another sip of his beer. “Ye saved me.”

“Nah, that was the whole team at work, I played moral support.”

“Ah didn’t mean from captivity.”

You looked at Johnny, melancholy in his deep blue eyes, and then at Simon, who gripped the neck of his beer bottle so tight his fingers were turning white. You wondered what was going through his head—if he was reliving that day over and over just like you. You hoped not.

“Johnny…”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ye could’ve ran away. Ah told ye to run away.”

“I wasn’t going to let you alone with that man,” you said, refusing to utter Makarov’s name again. That man was dead and buried. It was over. “I promised you we would get him.”

“And ah promised ah’d keep ye safe.” He shrugged. 

You looked back at Simon, who all of a sudden found the carpet really interesting.

“You alright?” You said, reaching out for his bicep and squeezing it gently, you couldn’t even imagine what went through his mind the day he found you lying there, minutes away from death, and with Johnny gone… 

He bit his lip, taking a second before speaking. “It’s not a memory I look fondly upon.”

Johnny chuckled. “Ye tell me…”

Simon finally loosened his grip on the bottle and sighed. “But we’re here now, right?”

“Aye,” Johnny nodded. “We’re here now.”

You rubbed up and down Simon’s arm, watching the rise and fall of his chest until it leveled. Until now, the Makarov incident had become somewhat of an unspoken thing amongst the team, hardly mentioned or revisited. You inevitably spoke about it with Simon, but only in the context of your injuries, nothing more.

The room settled into silence. The song continued its low hum, the sound coming from every corner. A slow, instrumental piece filled with melancholic strings and a moody piano riff. The three of you sat with it for a moment, not filling the silence, letting it be what it was.

Then Johnny exhaled and leaned back into the cushions.

“Right,” he spoke softly, as if afraid to startle either of you. “That's enough of that.”

Simon cleared his voice. “Agreed.”

You nodded, taking a pull of your beer, the weight lifted, though not really gone, just set down for now, acknowledged and returned to its shelf. Pinned to the corkboard. 

Worth talking about this in therapy, you thought, and made a mental note to write it down in your journal later.

“Kyle and Price are coming tomorrow,” Johnny said, shifting to face you both. “Getting in around noon. They're staying here too so we have to pick them up from Central.”

“Kyle's probably bringing something embarrassing,” you said.

“Obviously,” Johnny agreed. “Last birthday he got me a personalised beer stein with my face on it.”

“Ah, but that doesn’t sound ridiculous at all…” you said.

“My face was on a beer stein, Micky.”

“He took the time to select a picture of your face and have it personalized,” you corrected. “Intention makes a huge difference.”

Simon made a sound that might have been amusement. Johnny pointed at him. “Yer boyfriend agrees with me.”

Your boyfriend.

Boyfriend. Hmm. 

Somehow the new label felt both way too easy and too difficult to wrap your head around.

My boyfriend.

But was he not? After these exhausting months by your side? After agreeing you’d take things slow only for life to explode in your face? Had he not earned that label by now? Didn’t you deserve it too?

You weren’t mad that Simon had taken the reins during that awkward chat with Johnny’s parents. Had they asked you directly, you probably would’ve fucked it up. But not getting to talk to him about it first stung.

At some point tonight you were going to talk to Simon about it, because how come Johnny’s parents got to ask the “what are we” question first and not you?

Simon crossed his arms. “I am staying out of this.”

“Wise,” you said.

Johnny grinned. Then: “Ah should warn ye—my school mates are coming tomorrow. They’re… a lot.”

“How many?” Simon asked.

“Fifteen, maybe twenty by the end of the night. Some of them ye'll love. Most of them are harmless. There's one—” he paused, appearing to consider something “—there's one called Fraser who will try to arm wrestle ye.”

Simon looked at him.

“Ah'm just warning ye,” Johnny said. “So ye don't kill him.”

“I wasn't going to kill him.”

You snorted before taking a swig.

“Just… maybe let him win. It means a lot to him.”

Simon scoffed. “I'm not letting him—”

“Simon,” you warned.

“Fine,” Simon sighed dramatically, as if he were making a significant concession.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Johnny pointed at you now. “And you—don’t think yer gettin’ out of this one. Gemma will try to take ye out for cocktails. She means well but she doesnae understand the word 'no' and she'll have ye doing shots by nine.”

“I'm in recovery,” you said.

“Tell her that.”

“Bet.”

“She'll bring ye a water and then pour something in it when ye're not looking.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Johnny…”

“Ah'm just preparing ye,” he said innocently. “Forewarned is forearmed.”

You and Simon shared a look. We’ve gone through worse, you thought, hoping he’d magically listen to the words in your head. 

A comfortable silence settled. Then Johnny said, more quietly: “Ah'll also be back at base after New Years, by the way.”

The room shifted. Not dramatically, not really—the music kept playing, the beer bottles stayed where they were—but something changed in the quality of the air. Out of the corner of your eye you spotted Simon’s jaw tensing. You looked at Johnny, squinting in confusion.

“What? So soon?”

“Desk duty,” he added. “Zero deployment, barely any even training. Just… getting back into it. My therapist cleared me. Price knows.” He paused. “Ah'm ready.”

You held his gaze for a moment. He looked surprisingly steady and settled; he made his choice and it was final. No room to argue.

Still, something inside you wished to tell him to take his time, to sit it out until he was better, but who were you to tell him what to do or not do? Johnny and Simon were cut from the same cloth—both unable to sit still, scrambling to find something to kill time whenever they were free. Perhaps the structure, the routine, would help him better than staying here in Scotland. 

“You sure?”

He smiled from ear to ear. “Positive.”

You nodded.

Across from you, Simon had gone quiet. You could feel it, how he was desperately trying to find the words to speak. How nothing would fully convey what he had in mind. He admitted it time and time again—he wasn’t good with words.

“Good,” he said.

One word. But the way he said it—low and certain and charged—made Johnny look at him properly for a moment.

“Aye,” Johnny said. “Good.”

The two of them held each other's gaze for a beat. No words needed. Then Johnny reached forward and picked up his beer and the moment passed and the music kept going.

“Right,” Johnny said, settling back. “Anyone up for another round?”

“I’ll pass,” you said, already having hit your quota for the day.

“Simon?”

“Aye, go on then.”

Johnny disappeared to the kitchen. You reached out for Simon’s hand and he grabbed it without question, thumb tracing over your knuckles absentmindedly.

“You okay?" you murmured.

“Yeah,” he said. A pause. “You?”

“Yeah.”

Outside, the pitter-patter of the rain mixed with the soft rock from the speakers, filling in the silence. Simon never once dropped your hand, still rubbing your knuckles gently. The warm lights added an extra layer of coziness to the picture, and for a moment you let your imagination wander. Perhaps two, three years down the line, if your relationship was as serious as Simon claimed it was, maybe the two of you could just sit there, in your shared living room, in a flat of your own, away from the weapons and the drills and the deployments, binging TV under a thick blanket, holding hands.

A girl can dream.

Johnny came back a minute later holding two beers, handing one to Simon and dropping back into his cushion with a sigh of contentment, eager to keep the conversation going. The three of you sat there as the night went on around you, warm and slightly tipsy, with red cheeks and lungs filled with laughter, alive.

Hours later, after thorough conversation and stumbling up the stairs and bidding each other goodnight, you sat on the bed—sheets fresh off the dryer and smelling of peonies—hair still damp from the shower you just took, scrolling aimlessly on TikTok. Simon exited the shower in nothing but boxers, drying off his hair, looking absolutely delectable, steam billowing out of the bathroom before he shut the door.

If he doesn’t kiss me in the next five minutes…

“No cold shower tonight?” You cleared your throat, keeping your eyes on the salmon salad recipe that appeared on your For You page. Maybe that way Simon wouldn’t notice how you were ogling him like a piece of meat.

“Needed to relax,” he shrugged, sitting on the edge of the bed, right next to you, towel slung over his broad shoulders. The bed creaked slightly. He patted his meaty thigh. “How’s your foot?”

You set your foot carefully over his lap. He fiddled with the wraps for a bit.

“Still hurts,” you said. “Gotta change the wrap tomorrow morning.”

“Need help with that?” He asked, leaving your broken foot alone and beginning to massage your calf.

Your throat went dry.

Fucker. He knows what he’s doing.

You nodded. “How’s your nose?”

“I’m breathing fine,” he said. “No coughing today, either. The shower helped clear up my sinuses, too.”

“Good. You took your meds?”

“Yes, love.”

His rough, calloused hands massaged your thigh now.

Jesus Christ. I am not your strongest soldier. Quit testing me.

You took a deep breath. “Good, good…” Then silence settled for a second. Until: “Babe, I need to talk to you about something.”

His hands stopped and he turned to you, wary. “Is this about… the girlfriend thing?”

“Hmmhmm.”

He bit his lip sheepishly. “I forgot to ask.”

“We both forgot to talk about it, to be fair.”

He blinked, stunned. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m… I don’t know. Didn’t we both agree that this,” you gestured between you and him, “was serious?”

“Yes. It is. We are. Very serious,” he mumbled.

“I mean, I don’t blame you for not asking… we aren’t exactly traditional…”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“How many dates have we been on?”

He paused. “Well, there’s the time we binged like three movies in the rec room.”

“Uh-huh, and then?”

“...Okay, you’re right.”

“Exactly.”

He bit his lower lip again and began rubbing your leg up and down, most likely to soothe himself, squeezing your thigh like a stress ball.

“When Johnny’s parents asked about us being official,” he began. “I panicked and said ‘yes’ just so they would drop it.”

“I figured.”

“You’re not mad about that?”

You chuckled. “I panicked too, but then I found your response hilarious.”

“So…”

“So?”

“What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Us.”

“Isn’t our relationship serious enough?” You questioned. “I mean, I know we forgot to label it, but haven’t we been through enough already to doubt if we’re serious about this? We’re meeting each other’s families in a matter of weeks.”

“Well, yes, but… Don’t you think it was stupid of us not to talk about it in the first place?”

You watched his hands kneading your leg like it was dough, relief coursing through your entire body and warming your face. You were glad for the warmth of the bedside lamps, or else he would’ve noticed how red your face was getting.

“Not really. We just had other things on our plate.”

“Okay…”

“But I did find it funny that you would decide unilaterally that we’re an official couple right in front of Johnny’s parents.”

He sighed. “Again, I panicked.”

“I know.”

“Well, do you want to be my girlfriend, then?”

“I am already your girlfriend.”

“But, like, officially.”

“Haven’t I been your official girlfriend this whole time—”

“Love, just say yes.”

“Yes,” you smirked.

He shook his head and sighed, then patted your leg. You slid it off his lap. “The things you do to me, Micky.”

“Will you be my boyfriend?” You pouted mockingly.

“What if I say no?”

“No sex for a month.”

“I can live with that.” He leaned closer, cupping your face.

“No sex for a year.”

“Rookie numbers,” he said, bumping the tip of his nose against yours. “I’m like a monk.”

“Okay, bu—”

The kiss was soft. Softer than you expected. Simon had quite a way of showing the tenderness underneath his gruff exterior—his lips were as light as a butterfly’s wings, and the innocent kiss left you wanting more from him.

“Is that it?” you challenged.

“Hmm?” He smirked.

“Are you just gonna kiss me like that and hope I’ll shut up?”

“Affirmative.”

“Fuck you.”

He laughed, kissing you once again before standing up to hang his towel back inside the bathroom. However, when he came out, he sneezed once, twice, three times, before his nose was slightly runny again.

“Fuck’s sake,” he grumbled, blowing his nose in front of the sink. “I thought I was done with this.”

“That’s what you get for jogging in the rain,” you chastised, back on your phone and now tucked under the covers. “Did you take your meds?”

“You already asked me that,” he said, shutting the bathroom door. “The answer’s yes.”

“Hmm, then you should put a shirt on. The night’s cold. And maybe some vapor rub will help you sleep better.”

He looked at you, standing by the desk where the rest of his things were methodically laid out. “Vapor rub?”

“Yeah.”

“What am I, a five year-old?”

“Honey, vapor rub has its uses. It helps clear your sinuses and breathe better. Plus, it smells nice.”

“I’m not gonna put vapor rub in my nose, love.”

You glared at him. “Who said anything about putting it on your nose?”

“My mum, she—” He sighed. “She did that when me and Tommy got sick. I hated it.”

You sat back up. “Look through my bag, pink glitter pouch, there’s a small tin. Hand it over.”

He did as told, and then he sat on the edge of the bed, careful with your leg. You uncapped the tin and scooped some with your index, then smeared it on his chest.

“This’ll do the trick,” you said. “My mom also used vapor rub on us all the time, even my dad fell victim to her tyranny.”

Simon snorted, watching as you rubbed right on the center of his chest, then scooped some more of the minty ointment, and worked on his pecs, and then his neck, making sure to rub it in properly. 

“I also hated when she put it on my nose. It was a nightmare,” you explained. “This was the only way for me to stomach it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s good for muscle pain, too.”

He swallowed thickly. “Uh-huh.”

You looked up at him and found him staring at you right back, almost transfixed, so you took a closer look at his skin and found his chest and neck glowing pink.

Lord have mercy.

You decided to ignore it. You couldn’t handle Simon getting turned on from you rubbing vapor rub on his chest. No. No fucking way.

God, I want him to rail me. Do something, Simon! I can’t do all the heavy lifting here!

“There,” you said, putting the lid back on and placing the tin on your nightstand. “Now go put on a shirt.”

Or don’t.

“I don’t really feel like it,” he said, finally snapping back to reality, blinking rapidly. “I’ll just get uncomfortably hot during the night.”

“Alright, suit yourself.” You lied back down, the sheets up to your chin, and grabbed your phone. Out of the corner of your eye, he quickly walked towards his side of the bed and got under the covers, the bed creaking slightly. Soon enough, he was reaching for your hips.

“Put the phone down and come here,” he groaned. “Come spend time with your boyfriend.”

You chuckled. “Jesus.”

“Come,” he commanded, wrapping a strong arm around you, lips finding your shoulder. You finally relented and surrendered to his hold. Your lips crashed right away.

You were wearing that fucking perfume again.

Were you trying to kill him? At Johnny’s house? With Johnny’s parents right across the hall? When Simon was trying his best to hang onto whatever bits of self-control he had left?

Your fingers found his hair almost immediately, and Simon inevitably sighed with contentment into the kiss, so you dragged your nails a little, just for good measure. His cock twitched in his boxers.

Kill me now.

He groaned low into your mouth and pulled you closer, hand splaying on your lower back and pressing you into him until there was no space left between you. You kept your nails in his hair, slow and deliberate, and he shivered.

Faintly, the bedframe creaked. That was like the fifth time it did that. Simon tried his best not to let it get to him.

The kiss deepened gradually, without any rush or urgency. He had the entire night and intended to use it to kiss you senseless. Your mouth was warm and tasted faintly of your toothpaste and the mint from the vapor rub.

His hand slid slowly up your back, tracing your spine through the thin fabric of your tank top.

Okay, he thought. Okay, this is—

You bit his lower lip, gently, and his brain went completely offline.

His mouth moved to your jaw. Your throat. The specific spot below your ear that he'd decided was his and visited every single time without fail, which was becoming a problem, with how hard his cock was getting.

It was funny, really. Hilarious, even. How something so innocent as you rubbing a fucking ointment on his chest could get him rock hard in seconds.

“Babe,” you breathed.

“Un-fucking-believable what you do to me,” he muttered into your skin, nipping at your earlobe. 

You slid your hand over his chest. “You get so worked up over nothing.”

“Untrue.”

As if to prove a point, you cupped his length over his boxers, and at the slightest touch, Simon hissed. You gave him a look.

“Babe—”

“No comment.”

“It’s vapor rub, Simon.”

“And you were rubbing it on my chest, so what did you expect?” He buried his head in your neck, hand sliding under your shirt, caressing your lower back. Fuck, your skin was so soft. And it smelled too good. “I can’t help it. You’re wearing that bloody perfume.”

“I’m wearing it nearly every night, lately.”

“Uh-huh, precisely,” he said. “And it’s been a few days since we—”

“I know.”

“So this has been—”

“Simon.”

“—building for a—”

“Please,” you said, placing your index over his lips, “stop talking.”

He swallowed thickly, but did as told. If anything, the order had his cock twitching, aching for even the slightest touch.

She has to know how weak I am for her. She has to. Otherwise she wouldn’t be torturing me like this. Can’t I have some respite?

Did you know how hard Simon was trying not to put you through the mattress in this very second? That the possibility of being heard mortified him and his sanity was hanging from a thread? Did you know how much Simon fisted his cock in the shower for the past two and a half months knowing he couldn’t have you?

“I'll just sort myself out,” he said. “Bathroom. Two minutes.”

You pushed him off of you, looking at him fully, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. The bed creaked and Simon winced. “You'll what?”

“It's fine. It's not—!”

“Simon.”

“It doesn't take much—”

“And what about me?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. “Have you heard how much the bed creaks when we move?”

“What does that have to do with this?”

“It’s an inconvenience.”

“As if that stops us from—.”

“I don’t want—” He lowered his voice, wincing. “I don’t want Johnny’s parents listening. Their room is next to ours.”

“Because having neighbors has stopped you before.”

“It’s different in the barracks.”

“Oh, right, it’s different because our coworkers are there.”

“It’s different because we live there.”

He lied back down, pulling you closer until your head was on his chest, an arm wrapped around you. The menthol made his head spin. And true to his words, the bed creaked significantly, causing him to freeze. 

“So were you planning,” you said pleasantly, “to jerk off in the bathroom and then come back and go to sleep?”

“...Yes.”

“While I lie here. Untouched.”

“I was going to wait until you fell asleep—”

“I'm not remotely asleep. If anything my eyes are wide fuckin’ open.”

He looked at the ceiling. The ceiling was not helping. “I could… sort you out first.”

“Oh, really?” You said incredulously.

“If you want me to.”

“We haven’t had sex in almost a week.”

“I know. It’s killing me.”

“Me too. So…?”

“So…”

“We can work something out, right?” You said, running your fingers all over his firm abs, dangerously close to the waistband of his boxers. Kill me now. “We can be quiet.”

“Don’t tempt me. If I’m not getting any, you’re not getting any, either.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Again, I don’t want to disturb Johnny’s parents.”

“It won’t come to that.”

He tucked a strand of hair to your ear. How do I get it through her thick head…? “I doubt that. And it’s not the way I’d like to do it, anyway.”

Your ears perked up. “Oh? And how would you like to do it?”

“Thoroughly,” he said, tracing your eyebrows, then the slope of your nose. “I’d take my time with you. I don’t like rushing.”

“So you’re not into quickies, then?”

Simon blinked. “I’m not sure we can do that considering your current condition.”

“That wasn’t the question,” you said, fiddling with his waistband, the slight raking of your nails against his lower stomach sent electricity down to his fingertips.

“Mick…” He warned.

“Just answer it.”

“No, I’m not into quickies,” he relented with a sigh, eyes glued to how your hand threatened to disappear below the comforter. Don’t do this to me. I’m weak. Don’t torture me like this, please. 

“What are you into?”

He swallowed thickly and finally looked at you. “Hmm?”

“We’ve never talked about it. Have we? I mean… I just want to know what you like. What works for you.”

“You,” he said without hesitation.

You chuckled. “That’s obvious. I mean what you actually like during sex.”

“I…” He looked at the ceiling for a bit, as if it would magically solve his problems. Much to his luck, your hand trailed back up to his chest. “I’m not really that experienced.”

You blinked. “What do you mean? This isn’t about experience.”

“I don’t… I haven’t… Been with anyone for years.”

“And what about it?”

“I don’t think I know what I like.”

To think that, before you, Simon couldn’t genuinely remember the last time he slept with somebody… He could point out things he liked in porn, but that would be a waste of time. He hadn’t watched a single video since the gym incident all those months ago.

“Yes, you do, you just haven’t stopped to think about it,” you said. “Okay, so picture us fucking—”

“Now, that’s a sight,” he said.

You rolled your eyes. “Picture us having sex, and focus on the things you enjoy feeling, or doing.”

“So… what you do to me and what I do to you?”

“Yeah, that’s a start. Name one of each and I’ll do the same.”

He sighed, then closed his eyes for a second, recalling all of his latest shower fantasies, when he indulged in warm water and furiously jacked off to the thought of you. One thing he enjoyed doing to you… Hmm.

“Okay,” he said. “I like… going down on you.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he said with conviction. “I like making you feel good. And it’s hot.”

“Huh.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, on the contrary… It’s just… rare for guys to say that.”

“Is it?”

Your fingers traced the valley between his pecs, gently roaming over the sparse hairs on his chest. “You’d be surprised. My first boyfriend was an idiot. It didn’t last very long, but he was my first in almost every category, except that he didn’t really like going down on me. He did it once and then never again. And the sex was terrible, really. At the Academy, the girls in my dorm, they dated around a lot more than me, so I got to hear all about their terrible hookups and whatnot… Turns out very few men actually like going down on their partner. I’ve only met two who’ve explicitly said that they like it, including you. The others either do it solely to get their dick sucked in return or just plainly don’t do it.”

“Whoever dislikes eating their girl is a right cunt, then,” Simon said.

You chuckled. 

“I’m serious.”

“I believe you.”

“It’s a beautiful thing.”

“You’ve only done it, like, once.”

“We keep running into logistic issues, love,” he said, tapping the tip of your nose. “But I enjoyed doing it. And I did it twice, mind you.”

“How charming.” You rolled your eyes, then kissed his chest. “Okay, keep going. What else do you like?”

“I like…” He sighed and pondered for a second. “I like it when you pull my hair. Or just when you have your hands on my hair. It doesn’t have to be sexual for it to work on me. It’s relaxing, I guess.”

You smirked. “Yeah, I can tell.”

“You do that and I feel like a dog getting scratched and wagging its tail.”

At that, you cackled. A certain warmth struck him then. Never in a million years did he imagine that he would be tangled in bed with the love of his life, just talking nonsense. This life seemed light years away at the beginning of the year.

“Now you,” he spoke softly. “Tell me what you like.”

You pursed your lips to think, cheek adorably pressed against his chest, looking up at him. “I like getting on your nerves.”

“So, like how you’re doing now?”

You chuckled, hand again treading downwards. “Kidding. I like… your hands.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “Big hands.”

“They’re like sandpaper,” he protested.

“No, they’re not.”

“Love.”

You chuckled. “They’re not!”

“You sure?”

“I mean, they’re well groomed,” you said, grabbing his left hand and examining his palm. At least it wasn’t on the seam of his boxers anymore. “Just because you got some callouses doesn’t mean they’ll give me friction burn. I’ve seen worse.”

“Yours are soft, though.”

“I exfoliate them once a week.”

“So that’s your trick?”

“It’s not a trick, it’s maintenance.”

“Maintenance for whom?”

“Myself,” you admit. “I just grew up like that. My mom’s pretty, uhh… vain. And my paternal grandmother is a tad self-obsessed. My sister and I were taught early on that we had to be pretty and stay pretty.”

“That sounds…”

“Don’t think too much of it,” you said, looking up at him once again, dropping his hand. “I took the advice and dropped what annoyed me. It worked, for the most part.”

“Is that why you’re so…”

“Feminine? Despite being in the military?”

“Yes.”

“I guess... When they found out I was enlisting, they flipped their shit… Thought I would become a cavewoman. But I endured, much to their relief.”

“So do you do it for them?”

“Hmm?”

“The… maintenance?”

“At first I did, but it grew on me,” you said. “It’s like cleaning your bedroom, or doing your laundry. And my mates back at the Navy hated it, so I kept doing it purely to piss them off.”

“And there it is.”

“What?”

He smirked. “You do enjoy getting on people’s nerves.”

You scoffed. “Only when they deserve it.”

“Did I deserve it back then?”

“You were an asshole, so yes.” You kissed his chest, tangling your legs with his. “I’d say you did.”

“You were pretty annoying too, to be fair.”

Your lips reached his clavicle and then his neck. Simon stared at the ceiling once again, his skin on fire. “Was I?”

“Hmm, got on my bloody nerves all the time, spraying me like a house cat whenever I misbehaved.”

You giggled. “That was one time.”

“I wanted to wipe that smirk off your face.”

“Well, the feeling was mutual.” The tip of your nose dragged over his freshly shaved jawline, ending with a kiss on his chin.

“Don’t do that,” he warned.

“Do what?” You asked innocently.

“Tease me like that.”

“You consider this teasing?” You kissed his jaw again for good measure.

“It is, when you’re all over me like that.”

“I’m not the one who gets turned on after getting ointment rubbed over their chest.”

“It’s the menthol,” he insisted.

“Right,” you smirked, finally landing on his lips, though the kiss was short-lived, adding to his suffering. “Sure you don’t want me to help you out?”

“If you do that, I’m going to end up inside you, and the whole house will find out.”

“It won’t come to that—you see, we don’t even have to move.”

He squinted. “You plan on having sex via osmosis or something?”

A snort. “We can just do as we did last week. Hand action.”

“Uh-huh. Hand action.”

“Babe, I’ve been dying over here for the past week.”

“And you think I haven’t?”

“I can’t control my uterus but you kinda brought that cold on yourself, if we’re being honest—”

“Again with that.”

“I’m being serious! I told you not to go and you went and did it anyway and now you’re suffering because I rubbed vapor rub on you and your balls are turning blue.”

Simon blinked.

Damn her.

He sighed.

“You know I’m right.”

“You are right.”

“So?”

“So.”

You stared at each other for a bit, defiant and smug. In a flash, he remembered all those times you’d fought like this, when all you wanted was to bite each other’s heads off, when his eyes would clash with yours until any of you surrendered.

He was pretty sure he was the one who surrendered most of the time. You had that power over him from the very first glance you shared.

No words needed to be spoken.

Your lips met, slotting into each other’s with ease. Simon grabbed your hand, pressed it flush to his chest as your tongue slipped into his mouth, right over his pounding heart, and wondered if you were as turned on as he was, even if you went off on 79 different tangents during the conversation. 

“You’ll be quiet about it,” he warned, almost breathless, lips wet with your spit.

“I think you should heed your own advice, babe,” you said, finally ripping your hand from his, shoving it inside his boxers and wrapping it around his cock.

His toes curled.

“Christ.”

“Shh,” you said, mouth curling up with glee. “You’ll be quiet about it.”

“Fuck you—hnng.”

You had squeezed his cock a bit too tight.

Jesus Christ, she really intends to kill me.

He breathed deeply to keep his composure, but your hand was already moving up and down, and he couldn’t really see under the covers. So he kicked the comforter away and pushed his boxers down just enough to free his cock, all for him to get a better view.

Again, the bed creaked. Just a bit. Enough for him to notice. Enough for him to ignore.

“Better?” You asked, thumb rubbing over his sensitive tip, gathering as much precum as you could and smearing it all over his shaft. He hissed, electricity running from the ends of his hair to the tips of his toes. His cock was an angry shade of red, balls tight and loaded with a week’s worth of cum that threatened to spill out at any minute.

“I might—” he fisted the sheets below him, then swallowed thickly. “I might not last.”

“That’s the point, babe,” you said, pressing your forehead against his, then kissing him deeply. You stroke him slowly, tightening your fist around his girth, not able to fully wrap your hand around it. It felt like heaven anyway.

“Hmm, you never finished…” He panted.

“What?”

“What you were saying earlier.” He kissed you again. “What you like in bed. You said you liked my hands, yeah?”

“I do, yeah,” you said, curling up into him. For a moment, you looked down at his cock, and licked your lips. What were you imagining? “They’re… big.”

“That it?”

“Well… You’re good at… you know.” Your face tinged scarlet. “Fingering.” Simon’s face also went red. “H-How did you get so good?”

“No clue, really. I don’t think I’m all that.”

“That’s bullshit,” you said, stroking him agonizingly slow. Simon’s hip bucked up just a little for some sliver of friction, but then he remembered that if he moved too much the bed would creak. “You knew how to make me come right away.”

“Because I watch, and I listen,” he reasoned. Isn’t that I’m supposed to do, anyway? “Enough about that. What else do you like?”

If it was possible, your face got even redder, but your hand kept stroking. “I… well… it’s not something I have tried with you yet.”

Now that piqued Simon’s interest. “Go on…”

You hastened your pace just a smidge. “I like… being restrained.”

“Restrained? As in…”

“Tied up, handcuffed, the like,” you said.

Now the image of your wrists bound tightly behind your back flooded his brain. Blood rushed down to his cock, now uncomfortably stiff and leaking all over your hand. He could picture it clearly: you, face down, ass up, cunt wet and glistening on display for him, ready for the taking, and a neat little bow made with hemp rope keeping your hands in place.

“I see,” he strained.

Your expression darkened. Simon wondered if you felt his cock pulse in your palm.

“Are you thinking about it?”

“Would it be bad if I am?”

You shook your head. 

“Didn’t peg you as the submissive type,” he said, then looked at how your thumb smeared precum all over the head of his cock. The room spun around him.

She’s going to kill me.

“I… don’t think I’ve labeled myself like that,” you admitted, nudging his jaw with the tip of your nose. “I just like getting tied up.”

Simon screwed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. 

“Would you like to try it?” You asked.

“You don’t have to ask,” he replied.

“I mean… I kinda do… I’m not a mind reader,” you grinned.

Simon chuckled and cupped your face until your lips touched once again. The image of you tied up for him was threatening to undo him quicker than he expected, so he had to pivot. If he wanted this to last, he had to fucking pivot.

He grabbed your hand, stopped it from stroking him further.

“Si—”

“I’m close,” he warned. “Don’t want to come yet. I wanna touch you.”

Your eyes met—hazy and blown out and consumed by lust—and you nodded, shuffling slowly until you were on your back and Simon on his side. This time, to his relief, the bed didn’t creak.

“Spread your legs.” The order came as a whisper in your ear, paired with a few soft nibbles over the shell of it. You shivered. “Good girl.”

He didn’t waste any more time.

Slipping his hands inside your cotton shorts, the pads of his fingers glided over your wetness. You were fucking drenched. All from light dirty talk and a couple strokes of his cock. Your breath hitched, and Simon thought that maybe he could come like this, teased and untouched, just from hearing those soft whimpers leaving your mouth. 

“Good?” He asked, claiming your lips once more. A short hum against his mouth was all he needed to keep going.

Just how long he stayed like this, kissing you senseless and teasing your wet folds, he didn’t know. But, frankly, he didn’t care. He could remain in this position for hours, days, weeks…

Your hand returned to his cock, squeezing gently from the base, palm still slick from his precum, and Simon groaned, kissing you harder, deeper. His index found and circled your clit, and your eyes rolled back. If anything, your grip on his cock got tighter. 

Finally, finally he was touching you again, after an excruciating week where you didn’t even sleep in the same bed. He’d make sure you’d never sleep alone again. Not if he could help it.

He slipped two fingers inside, drinking up your sweet moans as the wet squelch of your pussy bounced against the cream bedroom walls. You stroked him faster and the pressure within him grew. He really was going to come like this.

I should go down on her. Make her come on my face. How long has it been since I last did that? I miss it.

The kiss broke—a silvery strand of spit still connecting your glossy lips. His hand slowed, briefly peeking out of your shorts just to pull them down and fling them off the bed.

“I’m going to eat you,” he stated.

Your face remained neutral, though he could see the gleam in your eyes. “Thought you didn’t wanna move.”

He was already halfway there, carefully considering each move. If he moved slowly enough, maybe the bed wouldn’t creak. “I just really wanna eat you, love.” He tapped your thick thigh twice. “Open up.”

You obeyed. Simon tried not to think about how pliant you would be while tied up. It only hardened his cock even more, and he was already trying not to bust right then and there.

And there was your pussy, opened wide for him, wet and enticing and glistening under the warm lamp light, begging to be licked.

Simon gently settled between your legs, chest flush against the mattress, legs dangling off the bed, but he didn’t care. He dove right in, tongue licking a fat, indulgent strip up to your clit, and moaning to himself.

Yes, that’s better.

“Fuck,” you hissed, fingers immediately latching onto his hair, sending shivers down his spine.

In between soft licks, he unconsciously ground his cock into the sheets, lost in the bliss of your cunt…

…until the foulest, loudest fucking sound came from the bed. A full, resonant, structural announcement that traveled through the mattress springs and the wooden frame and almost certainly through the wall and the floor and the ceiling and into every room in the MacTavish household simultaneously.

Simon went completely still.

You went completely still.

The room got eerily quiet.

His brain, which had been operating in a specific register for the past twenty minutes, performed an emergency shutdown and rebooted in an entirely different mode. Assessment mode. Threat evaluation. He quietly slid off the bed, tucked his waning erection back into his pants, and stood right at the foot of the bed.

Great, now the night’s fucked…

The part of his brain that calculated entry points and exit routes and structural weaknesses now applied itself to the specific question of who in this house had just heard that and what exactly they had concluded from it.

Johnny's room—far end of the hall. Possible.

Lorraine and Douglas—adjacent room. Certain.

You stared at him in horror, and he stared back. And just then: footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. The footsteps of someone who had been woken up by something and was trying to work out what it was.

He heard the door across the hall open—heard it very fucking clearly. His throat constricted, dry and tight. The footsteps moved into the hallway, unhurried, and then they stopped, right outside your fucking door.

Simon did not breathe. He was not certain he would ever breathe again.

He stood there in the dim light with you absolutely frozen, covers up to your chin, as you listened to Douglas MacTavish stand outside the door and, presumably, do the mental arithmetic that Simon himself had just done and arrive at the same conclusion.

Three seconds.

Five.

Seven.

The footsteps moved again—away from the door now, toward the stairs—and Simon heard each one descending with that acute, specific clarity that only came from adrenaline and pure mortification. Down the stairs. A pause. The kitchen, probably. The sound of a tap running briefly. A glass.

Then back up the stairs.

The slow tread returning down the hall.

The door across the hall opening.

Clicking shut.

Silence.

Simon stood completely motionless for a further ten seconds.

Then he said, very quietly: “That was Douglas.”

“You don't know—”

“He stopped outside our door.”

“He was probably just—”

“He stopped directly outside our door, Mick,” Simon said flatly, bending down to retrieve your shorts and handing them back to you. This session was certainly over now. “He heard. He went downstairs to give us the opportunity to — to—” He couldn't finish the sentence. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “He knows.”

You sat back up and said nothing, looking at the wet patch in your shorts and then back up at Simon.

He could feel you trying not to laugh. He could feel it in the slight shaking of your shoulders and the way the corners of your lips tugged upward.

He sat down on his side of the bed with a sigh.

“Don’t,” he began.

“I'm not—”

“You are.”

“I'm genuinely—”

“Michaela.”

The laugh that came out of you was silent and total and devastating. He sat there, glaring at you with the very little dignity he had left.

“It's not funny,” he said.

You could not respond.

“This is not—” He stopped. Breathed. “Johnny’s father just stood outside this door and listened to—”

“He didn't listen—”

“He absolutely listened—”

“Honey—”

“I knew this would happen.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, it’s not like you were fucking the shit out of me,” you shrugged. “Yeah, it’s frustrating but it could be worse.”

He sighed, then rubbed the remnants of your wetness off his face with the back of his hand. The worst thing was that he really wanted to fuck the living shit out of you and now you’d have to delay sex a couple days more until you were back at the flat, after which you’d still have to be considerate of your teammates.

“I’m going to wash up,” he declared, and stood up ridiculously slowly.

You gave him a look. “So we’re not…”

He scratched the back of his head and winced. The last thing he wanted was to leave you hanging like that, but it was either that, or not being able to face the MacTavishes tomorrow.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said. “Promise.”

You sighed, clearly not satisfied but not angry either. “Fine. Just wash up and come cuddle with me, yeah?”

He nodded, and a couple minutes later, you were already tangled together again, your head on his chest, as if the last 30 or so minutes hadn’t happened at all.

You were quiet for a moment, but then you said: “For what it's worth, I think Douglas is the kind of man who minds his own business.”

“He stopped outside our door,” he pointed out.

“He was probably checking if we were alright.”

“He knows we were—” Simon stopped. Closed his eyes. “He knows exactly what we were doing.”

“And he went back to his room without saying anything,” you said. “Which is what a decent man does.”

Simon said nothing.

“He's not going to say anything,” you continued. “He's not going to look at you differently. He raised Johnny. He has probably seen worse.”

“That's not—”

“Simon.” Your hand found his chest, palm flat over his heart. “It’s okay.”

He lay there, heart beating somewhat faster than usual, and took a deep breath.

“I know,” he said. He wasn’t sure how the fuck he was going to look at that man in the eye now. He wasn’t sure how you weren’t absolutely mortified, either. But he decided that he would gain nothing from worrying now; you were in his arms and that’s all that really mattered. He was safe. He could sleep well tonight, despite the blue balls.

“Night, love,” he said, kissing the crown of your head.

“Goodnight, honey,” you said, and he could hear the smile in it, warm and slightly wicked, and he lay there in the dark with your hand on his chest. He pulled you closer.

The bed made one small sound of protest.

Neither of you moved again throughout the night.

crossposted on AO3.

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