#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!!

I stop and I stare too much, afraid that I care too much, and I hardly dare to touch, for fear that the spell may be broken — Sweetest Perfection, Depeche Mode

By the time your eyes fluttered open the following morning, the sun was already high up in the sky, seeping in through the sheer curtains in your room. A chill ran down your spine, and you shivered; your top half was exposed, only a thin, short-sleeve shirt shielding you from the late autumn cold. With your eyelids still heavy, you groaned and covered yourself again, and rolled to the side, until you met a warm, solid mass.

Simon was still sound asleep next to you, head peeking out from under the covers, his blonde, almost translucent eyelashes glinting under the diffused sunlight, completely relaxed. No sign of the crease that usually sits between his brows. He looked younger like this, no worries or stress to burn him out.

You smiled to yourself, unable to remember the last time Simon ever slept in. Better let him get as much sleep as possible. He deserves to rest.

Having rested enough, you mentally prepared to leave the bed, but the world outside was too cold for you to even set foot on the carpeted floor, so you stayed under the covers and reached for your phone instead, scrolling through social media on silent mode. Waking up late while in the military is almost unheard of; sleeping in with Simon was a luxury you wouldn’t take for granted.

At some point, you felt him stir, then groan, then his hot palm slithering under your shirt, flat across your stomach, as he buried his face on your neck with a long, satisfied sigh. You placed your phone back on the nightstand, then wrapped your arms around him, leaving feathery kisses on the crown of his head.

“Morning,” you muttered.

“Wha’ time’s it?” He said, voice deeper than usual, groggier. You grinned; there was something oddly adorable about it.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he groaned, but placed a hot kiss on your neck. “I don’t usually sleep in…”

Electricity shot down your spine. All of a sudden, Simon’s skin felt ten degrees hotter against yours. Good god. If he’s going to be this needy every morning… I won’t let him sleep in his room ever again. 

Isabel’s words floated around your head. Initiate affection. Ask for it. 

You took a deep breath as he gently pulled you closer, the rough, warm pads of his fingers roaming over your belly. “We’re on holiday, babe, live a little.”

“It throws me off-balance,” he half-joked.

“But did you sleep well?”

The tip of his nose traced your jaw, then your cheek. “...Yeah, I did.”

“Then it’s not so bad, right?”

He kissed your cheek several times, soft and slow, and then he took a deep breath. “Not if you’re next to me.”

You giggled, the heat creeping up your face. “Now you’re just bullshittin’.”

“I’m serious,” he said, finally gazing deep into your eyes. “I think I sleep better next to you.”

“Am I that boring?” You joked.

He chuckled. “More like I can relax around you.”

You dug your fingers into his hair. It was longer now, as was his beard. He’d shaved his hair into a buzzcut right after Johnny’s rescue, but Simon’s hair grew quite fast. If he shaved his face in the morning, he’d get a 5 o’clock shadow in the afternoon. He looked handsome either way, but there was something about his silky-soft blonde locks framing his face just so…

“We’ve slept together like, what, four times?”

“Three,” he said. You were hyper-aware of his hand still wandering under your shirt. “Counting this one.”

That’s kinda depressing…

“And you think that you’ve slept better just by being around me?”

He leaned down, the tips of your noses touching. “I know I have, because when we first slept together, I slept the whole night through for the first time in ten years, and it’s only happened again twice.” 

Then he kissed you tenderly, settling his hand on your hip, gently squeezing.

“Maybe you should keep me forever, then,” you said after the kiss, biting your lip, still tasting his saliva. Morning breath be damned. He doesn’t even smell bad, what the fuck.

He smiled. “Yeah, maybe I should.”

You pulled him down again for another kiss—his hand on your hip and yours in his hair, sharing the warmth under the covers. He didn’t set his weight completely on you; he was too cautious of that, even when distracted. Instead, he coaxed you by the hip onto your side, facing him directly, all while devouring your mouth.

It was the most intimate you’d been in months. 

Again, heat shot down your body and between your thighs. Simon was so warm and inviting and strong and firm, but still so soft on you; softspoken and touchy and needy and god you’d been ignoring, no, neglecting him, neglecting yourself, for far too long. 

His hand now roamed your back freely, raising goosebumps in its wake, mapping every scar by touch alone. You’d make your shirt disappear right now if you weren’t trapped in his hold, just so that devilish hand of his would touch your pert nipples, maybe put one in his mouth if he fancied. Or maybe slide that same hand under your shorts just to see how wet you got in the span of 20 seconds.

You remembered his face yesterday, flushed and sweaty from all that rowing, how he braced the chair and leaned into you, as if he was begging you to grab him by the collar and crash your lips against his.

Initiate affection. Ask for it.

Touch him. Give him what he wants. What you want.

You pulled slightly on his hair with your left hand, while the right one found its way under his shirt, dangerously close to his boxers’ waistband. The most sinful groan left his mouth just as his tongue locked into yours.

“Love,” he warned, face furiously red.

“What?” You whispered playfully, wrapping your injured leg slowly and gently around his torso. If you played your cards right, maybe Simon would be down to do it, and you could save yourself the embarrassment of asking for it.

But then he pulled his hand out of your shirt. Something flashed in his eyes, something sobering, something grounding. But what was it? Why was he faltering? Why was he pulling back?

“I-”

His phone vibrated on the nightstand. A call. You shared a startled look, and time slowed down for just that one second, and you knew right away that the mood was ruined.

“Take the call,” you offered, keeping your face as neutral as possible to mask the disappointment in your tone.

You didn’t need to tell him twice, because all of a sudden, he was on his feet, padding his way to the door while greeting Johnny on the phone, and leaving you a wet, hot mess beneath the sheets.

His head spun.

Close. 

Bare feet padding on the hardwood floor, Simon gripped his phone as he bolted to the kitchen with a raging boner, simultaneously thanking and cursing Johnny for giving him a call.

Too close. 

“So how’s the honeymoon going?” Johnny’s loud and chipper tone cut through his racing thoughts. His accent was thicker than usual. Maybe all that time spent with his family in Glasgow was getting to his head.

She’s not ready.

“Are ye two busy makin’ babies? Makin’ me an uncle? ‘Cause you know ah ‘xpect ta be godfather.”

I’ll only hurt her.

In his haste, Simon accidentally stubbed his pinky toe against the kitchen’s thick oak doorframe. He wanted to scream.

“Fuck off,” he groaned, bumping his fist against his forehead repeatedly until it left a red spot. Within his trousers, his cock deflated, but whether from shame or the pain in his pinky, he didn’t know.

“‘S tha’ a yes?”

“It’s a ‘fuck off’,” he repeated more aggressively this time.

“I’ll take tha’ as a no.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in therapy or whatever the fuck?” He said, finally leaning against the marble counter and taking a deep breath.

“Meeting my shrink at 14 hours,” he answered gingerly. “She’s solid, LT, she’s teaching me concepts such as ‘masking’ and ‘deflecting’... So easy to detect, that last one…”

Simon rubbed his temples. “Hmmhmm, and you’re telling me this, because?”

“Because ah’ve been trying ta figure out what’s wrong with ye lately. Ye’ve been ignoring my calls.”

“Nothing wrong here,” he said. “I’m resting. We’re resting.”

“Are ye, really?” Johnny questioned.

Simon sighed. Was he really resting? Today was the first day that he didn’t wake up at the crack of dawn to jog or row, and he actually slept the whole night through. Sure, he’s felt calmer than he’s ever been, but calm didn’t always mean okay.

“Y’know Mick is my priority.”

Johnny made a buzzer sound. “Wrong answer, yer deflecting again. See, I’m getting good at this.”

“How am I deflecting?”

“I know she’s your priority because ye’re never yers.”

For fuck’s sake, not this now. 

What was Johnny even getting at?

“That shrink of yours is showing her work, I see,” Simon said, scratching the back of his neck and looking past the kitchen entrance. So far, the coast was clear.

He walked over to the fridge and perused its contents mindlessly, the spoke with a lower tone. “I’m worried about Mick.”

“There it is,” Johnny sighed. “What’s going on now?”

“Nothing wrong, exactly, just…” He shut the fridge door and leaned against the counter once more. How could he put this?

My… girlfriend? Partner? Whatever? Is still in a very fragile state and my heart shrinks every time I kiss her because I want to devour her whole and I know I can’t; otherwise, who knows, I’ll probably put too much weight on her and mess up her ribs again and I don’t think I could live with that. But since yesterday, after two months of nothing, she’s suddenly touching me and being so sweet and… and I feel like my dick’s going to explode and my skin is on fire because I love her too much for my own good and I know if I give in it’s only going to end badly, but I’m so desperate for her I don’t fucking know what day of the week it is.

“She… uhh… she’s been acting weird lately.”

There.

“Right,” Johnny mused. “Might ye grace me with some fucking context?”

Heat crept up his face. He wasn’t used to discussing such intimate things with Johnny. Usually, their conversation topics ranged from weapons specs to whatever weird meme Johnny spammed his inbox with. Not sex. Never sex. Simon didn’t even remember when he last talked about sex to anyone that wasn’t you, and even then, it’s not like you’ve spoken much about the subject.

He bit his tongue, considering his words before speaking. “She’s… needy.”

Simon regretted that phrasing immediately. That’s not what this was. Not needy. It was something else that he still couldn’t grasp.

He could almost picture Johnny blinking on the other end of the call. “And that’s an issue because…?”

Simon sighed and rubbed his temples. His stubbed toe still throbbed. Somebody save me from this. Please.

“Because she wasn’t like that before yesterday?”

“Are ye sure she’s not ovulating?”

Simon grumbled. “Ovu—I don’t keep track of her cycle, I’m not a fuckin’ creep.”

“Dunno mate, ah’ve read they’re into that. Something about anticipatin’ their needs.”

“Think I’m anticipating most of her needs lately,” he muttered to himself. “Look… I don’t—”

“Are ye seriously complainin’ about Mick askin’ for it?”

“She’s not asking anything, mate, that’s the thing,” Simon said, exasperated. “We’ve not done anything in months, mostly because of her injuries, partly because, I guess, she’s not mentally up for it, and that was fine with me. I thought things would go back to normal in a couple of months—”

“So Mick, what, started rubbing herself on ye and it took ye by surprise?”

“That’s…” A sudden urge to strangle Johnny through the phone took over, and he had to take a deep breath. “It’s not like that.”

“Ye got tae work on your communication skills, mate.”

“I communicate just fine,” Simon said flatly.

“Ye just told me yer bird’s being weird and needy and that this is somehow a problem,” Johnny said. “Tha’s not communication.”

Simon opened the fridge again for no reason and closed it. The silence was deafening.

On the other end, Johnny sighed. “Have ye asked her?”

“Asked her what?”

“What she wants. What she needs. What she’s feeling.”

He frowned. “I know what she’s feeling.”

“Do ye? Do ye really?” Johnny said, not unkindly. “‘Cause from where ah’m standing, ye know what ye think she’s feeling, and ye’ve been making decisions based on that, and now she’s acting in a way that doesn’t fit yer noggin, and ye don’t know what tae do.”

Simon kept his mouth shut, thoughts ranging from what he was cooking for breakfast to every single interaction you’d ever had to you journaling yesterday afternoon after your session with Isabel and the sticky date pudding and—

“Fucking therapy,” he muttered.

“I know! Feel like a brand new person—”

“No, not you!” he sighed. “It’s Mick. She, uhh, she had an appointment with her therapist yesterday.”

Johnny hummed, considering Simon’s words with care. “She spoke tae Kate’s wife, aye?”

“Hmm.”

“And after that, she started being… needy, as ye put it.”

“Yes.”

“So maybe,” Johnny said, with the patience of a man who had recently paid good money to have things explained to him slowly, “maybe her shrink said something that rewired her brain, and that’s why she’s been acting different.”

Simon nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. Yeah, that seems like a reasonable explanation. Then he remembered this wasn’t a video call. “Uhh, yeah, sounds likely.”

“Right, so instead of whining about yer girlfriend trying to jump yer bones—”

“Don’t.”

“—ye could just ask her what’s up.”

Simon ran a hand through his hair. It was longer now. He could tangle his fingers in the strands and give them a harsh tug. It wasn’t the same as your fingers, but it would do. At least it seemed to calm him down.

The frustrating thing was that Johnny was right. Completely. He could just ask and avoid drowning in his own stress and, maybe, give you what you were both wanting. But then that rational part of his conscience struck again, the part that told him to behave, to not lay a single finger on you lest he squeeze too tight or maneuver you too harshly. He couldn’t live with himself knowing that he fucked with your recovery process and set you back even a day. It was the reason why he was so on top of your meds, your appointments, or your PT exercises, even though he knew how much it annoyed you. He just couldn’t help but worry.

“When did you get like this?” Simon groaned, still tugging at his hair. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine it was your hand pulling his hair instead of his own.

“Med leave’s given me a lot o’time tae think… and it doesnae help that my therapist is pretty.” Johnny explained. “Also, she almost died, mate. Ye both did—ye’ve been through hell. And now ye’re in a sexcapade without actual sex, and ye both clearly want each other but are too daft to say what ye mean.”

Simon exhaled through his nose.

“Just ask her,” Johnny concluded.

“Fine,” he conceded. “I will.”

“Great, and while ye’re on tha’, y’know my birthday’s coming up next week, and ah’ve been fucking lonely, so come up tae Glasgow for a few days. It’ll do ye two some good.”

“You think?”

“Mick’s never been tae Scotland, right?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Then there’s nothing tae discuss. Bring her, bring yer miserable face, bring whatever ye want. Everyone’s coming. Mum’s already plannin’ a menu and everythin’.”

“Planning a party?”

“Planning a medieval joust in yer honour.”

“Fuck off.”

“Seriously, mate, just come. Stay at my place, we’ll show Mick around. D’ye know how fucking bored I am? Every day’s the same. Wake up, eat bland food, work out and occasionally go to therapy. At least ye lot are havin’ fun at the Lakes. Poor Soap’s all alone in Glasgow without his best mates. Poor me, poor me, poor m—”

“Okay, okay, I’ll let her know,” Simon sighed, then tugged at his hair once more, feeling his heart race. It’s not like he didn’t want to visit Johnny, far from it, but just picturing the conversation that would inevitably come up either today or tomorrow… it made his stomach churn.

I just figured I’d have more time…

“Simon.”

“Yeah.”

“Just ask her.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Ask. Her.”

“Goodbye, Johnny.”

“Lov—”

He hung up, then stood there for another thirty seconds staring at nothing in particular, just processing.

Then he opened the fridge, with purpose this time, took out some eggs and bacon, and set them on the counter. Through the kitchen window, the sun shone with the full force of the day. He missed his daily rowing, but at least he got to sleep in and snuggle up to you. What’s worse is that he didn’t know that he missed it until he hid his face on your neck and breathed you in and his entire body tingled.

Ask her, Johnny said. Like it’s so simple.

But it was simple, actually. Annoyingly so. It took only a few seconds to spit it out. So why couldn’t he bring himself up to do it? He’d held you in his arms as you bled out, stuck around in a military hospital for 48 hours without eating or sleeping, just to see you when you woke up. He stood on emergency stairs and called your family, who still thought he hated your guts, and cried his heart out where nobody could see him, and he cared and cared and worried like no one else, and he nursed you until you got better, even though he knew you couldn’t stand to face him. He had done all of that, and he would do it again, without being asked.

And he couldn’t fucking manage to ask “what do you want?”

He cracked an egg against the bowl with perhaps more force than necessary.

Outside, a bird landed on the dock and regarded the boat for a moment before deciding against it.

Ask her, he thought. Right.

He turned on the hob.

Minutes later, the sound of your crutches against the hardwood floor brought him back to reality. He figured the scent of crispy bacon and scrambled eggs lured you in.

“Watcha making?” You said, resting against the counter.

“Breakfast,” he said, then pointed to the kettle, which was seconds away from boiling. “And tea, if you’re up for it.”

You analysed the eggs inside the pan, then looked up at Simon. “You’re still trying to convince me to try breakfast tea.”

“I swear it’s better than coffee.”

“Hmmhmm, sure,” you said, then wrapped your arms from behind and pressed your face between his shoulder blades, breathing deeply. His entire body shivered, goosebumps marring his skin. Innocently, you kissed his back, lips separated by the thin cotton of his shirt. “Guess I’ll give it a try and see what the fuss is all about.”

Why does she like to see me suffer?

“You’re needy this morning,” he blurted out, and then he mentally slapped himself because that’s not how he wanted to say it. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he didn’t want you like that. Because he did. All the time.

“Is that a bad thing?” You muttered into his shirt, thankfully not seeming to care. Simon shook his head, humming a small ‘no’. “You’re usually the needy one.”

He scoffed. “I’m not needy.”

Your hands roamed his stomach, then his chest, over his shirt. Simon shivered again. He could feel you smile against his back. “Sure.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck her, fuck me, fuck it.

He turned off the hob, the eggs were perfectly scrambled and seasoned, the bacon crispy as hell, the kettle about to boil, his knees about to give out, and he sighed as he grabbed your hands and spun around, almost resigned to his fate.

I can’t. I can’t fucking handle this.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he said, pulling you into a deep kiss, hands tangling in your hair and reaching for your waist.

You whimpered in surprise, then smiled into the kiss, clinging onto his shoulders. He slid his tongue into your mouth, tasting the remnants of your minty mouthwash, and hoisted you up, dropping you gently on the marble counter.

“I’m not needy,” he repeated, now kissing your jaw. “I just can’t help myself around you.”

He heard you giggle, and when he looked up, your face was on fire, absolutely flustered. His chest swelled up with pride, because if there was something Simon absolutely loved was driving you insane.

“You can’t just fucking say that,” you chuckled nervously, hiding your face in his chest.

He huffed, pulling your hair out of the way to kiss the (beet-red) shell of your ear, and then he whispered: “I’ve said worse things.”

God, he wanted you. Too much for his own good. He could rip off your shorts and go down on you for hours, right here, right now, if you let him.

But I can’t. Or rather, I shouldn’t. We shouldn’t. Not until her ribs are healed, at least. Until it’s safe.

He kissed the crown of your head and ignored the strain in his boxers. It baffled him how a gesture so innocent, such as you hugging him from behind and touching him over his clothes, could get him as hard as a rock. It was getting out of hand.

“Come on, love, let’s eat,” he said. “I’ll brew you a cuppa.”

But the words flew over your head. There was a glimmer in your eyes, a hunger that he’d only seen once—one night, months ago, when you told him to lock the door to your room…

“Babe?”

Simon swallowed thickly. “Yeah?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you pulled him by the collar of his shirt into another deep kiss.

Simon lost himself in it—in the plushness of your lips, the heat of your tongue against his, the softness of your breasts against his hard chest. It had been so long…

Ask her what she wants. Go on.

But if she wants sex? What will you say?

Does she even want it?

Or is she just doing it because she thinks you want it?

That… can’t be. Can it?

You pulled him closer, guiding his hands under your shirt and up your flank. His thumb grazed the underside of your breast just as you bit his lower lip. His knees buckled, but you wrapped your legs around him to get him even closer, and then—

You hissed in pain.

“Shit.”

Simon stood ramrod straight, dick deflating once more as he broke away from the kiss, hands leaving your shirt. He instinctively began to check on your ribs, then your legs, and your ankle.

Fuck. Okay. Something happened. Stay calm.

“Love? You alright? Something hurting?” He said, vision locking in your clenched fists, then the empty look on your face as you chewed on your lower lip.

“I’m fine,” you said. “I just banged my ankle a bit, that’s all.”

“You sure?”

You opened your mouth to speak, then diverted your gaze to the scrambled eggs, still in the pan, then you sucked on your teeth before answering with a softer tone that sent a chill down his spine.

“Positive,” you said, mustering the fakest smile he’d ever seen you give.

Did I do something wrong now?

“We should eat,” you suggested, hopping off the counter and landing on your good foot.

Unbeknownst to him, the kettle had come to a boil. You grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and two breakfast tea bags from the box Simon brought yesterday, and served them. There was tension in the air now, and none of the good kind. He could sense your disappointment from miles away. Was it because of him, or because of your foot?

“So you’ll try the tea?” he asked.

You grabbed your mug and then your crutches. “Let’s see if this was worth starting a whole war…”

Breakfast was brief. Not for a lack of words—if anything, you were as chatty as ever. You tried Simon’s favourite blend of breakfast tea and, much to your chagrin, actually loved it, and you devoured your entire plate. But there was a certain harshness to your movements, a fakeness to your laughter, that rubbed Simon the wrong way.

Something happened back in the kitchen.

Was it when he stopped to check? Did it annoy you? Did you feel rejected? Were you trying to get him to sleep with you? Why couldn’t you just say what you wanted? Wouldn’t it be easier?

Ask her, Johnny’s words floated in his mind.

Fucking Soap.

After your late breakfast, Simon suggested going out for a walk and taking in some sun before it got dark again. December loomed around the corner, and the days were getting colder, darker, and greyer. Today’s diaphanous sky just begged to be admired.

So you set out on one of the easier trails around the property, with Simon pushing your chair around. You didn’t talk much, though whenever Simon pointed out some ducks on the lake, or a squirrel climbing a tree, you didn’t hesitate to take out your phone to take a picture.

You walked around for almost an hour, stopping every few minutes so you could take more pictures. You even collected a perfectly dried leaf you wanted to stamp onto your journal. But otherwise, the walk was pretty silent.

Simon had more than enough time to spiral about your behaviour. But he decided that this time he wouldn’t let it turn into something greater. This time, he would cut the problem from its very root.

On the way back, he stopped by a bench right next to the lake. The cottage was just a few minutes away, and he could see the little dock he used every morning from this spot. You gave him a curious look as he set the wheelchair next to the bench, and he sat right on the edge, staying in silence for a bit while he gathered his thoughts.

“You, uhh, you okay?” He asked, fiddling with his fingers, puffs of vapour leaving his mouth as he spoke. “You’ve been acting weird lately.”

You blinked, then frowned. “I don’t know… I… weird?”

He sighed, thinking his next words carefully. “Since yesterday, you’ve… you’ve been touchier than usual, and now, since breakfast, you’ve been acting weird. Did I do something wrong? Did something happen in therapy?”

“‘Did you do something’…” You muttered, then flexed your fingers and ran a gloved hand through your face. “Am I doing something wrong?”

“What?”

Silence.

What on earth is going on?

You stared down at your hands, unable to meet his gaze.

“Mick?”

When you finally looked up, Simon noticed your face was tinged scarlet. “I-It’s been months,” you stammered. “I-I mean, I know we’ve focused on my recovery and all, but my ribs are fine now, right? A bit tender, I guess, but we can be careful, no?”

Now Simon stared at you, dumbfounded. “Love, what do you mean?”

You sighed in frustration. “That we haven’t had sex since the first time we did it, and I feel bad!”

Oh.

Oh. 

“Micky—”

“Simon—”

You shared a long, tortured look, not speaking for nearly a minute.

“I can tell you’re holding back,” you said.

He shook his head almost instantly, but he thought back on all the times he’s held himself back since returning from Kazakhstan in late September. But was he wrong in doing so? You were still in pretty bad shape.

“I’m not… I’m not holding back—”

“Yes, you are,” you said.

“Does it matter? Your ribs are still sore—”

“My ribs are fine—”

“—a-and you can barely stand upright for more than a couple of minutes—”

“I don’t need to stand to have sex, and you know it—”

“I don’t think I could live with myself if I hurt you,” he snapped.

But you scoffed, frustrated. “You won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that, Mick,” he said, and this morning’s makeout session in the kitchen flashed in his head. “One wrong movement and it’s back to square one. I don’t want to fuck this up for you.”

“That’s my choice, Si, not yours.”

Simon bit his lip, wanting to speak, but found he had no words to counter your argument.

“Isn’t it frustrating?” You asked.

“It’s not the end of the world if I don’t get laid for a few months.”

You stared at some ducks floating on the lake, just a few metres away, and shivered. While there was little to no breeze today, surprisingly, the air was so cold that Simon could feel it in his bones.

“You’re not doing anything wrong, love, if that’s what you think,” he said, reassuringly. The last thing he wanted was for you to think this was somehow your fault. No one was to blame here. Things just were the way they were, and that was that.

“Yeah, well,” you sighed and bit the inside of your cheek, staring bitterly off at the horizon. “Kinda feels like it.”

Oh my god, what the fuck do I do now?

It’s not like he didn’t want to have sex. He did. All the fucking time. That was the problem. He was only trying to be logical about the issue at hand.

“I’m gonna say something,” you continued after some silence. “I’ve been talking to Isabel about this a lot, a-and I know it’s my head fucking with me, and I know we’ve already talked about this, but I need to say it.”

Dread settled in the pit of his stomach.

“Go on,” he said.

“I feel like a burden.”

“Mick-”

You held up a finger. “Let me finish.”

That shut him up.

You swallowed thickly. “You’ve been doing all of this for me. Taking care of me, nursing me back to health, keeping up with my meds and PT and cooking and so on, and so on, and I’m grateful for it. I truly, truly am. Really. I’ve never taken it for granted. But I just feel like shit because I just sit there doing nothing all day—”

“Love, you almost died on me—”

“You nearly died on me, too,” you said.

“Yeah, but I came off fine, and you didn’t,” he countered, then grabbed your hands, rubbing his thumbs over the wool that covered your knuckles. “When medevac came, and they put you on that stretcher… I almost died right there.”

You looked down at your intertwined hands, then back up at him. Simon pressed his forehead against yours and breathed in your lavender perfume deeply. Such a calming scent. 

“You’re not a burden to me,” he said, kissing your forehead. “Not now, not ever. I’ll repeat it as many times as necessary until it gets through your thick skull.”

“Charming,” you said.

He kissed you sweetly in return, hiding a cheeky grin from you.

“And, what about the sex?” You asked after he separated.

Ask her what she wants.

Something still gnawed at him.

“Love, do you… Do you feel like you owe me sex? Is that why you’re asking?”

You blushed again. Hard.

“N-No? Yes? I don’t know,” you stammered. “I think I spent way too much time drowning in my own thoughts to even think about it at first… Like, the first few weeks post-op, I was in such a bad mood, remember?”

He nodded.

“I was so angry all the time. I pretty much ignored you. I neglected you.”

“You didn’t,” he pointed out. “You were recovering. There’s a difference.”

“But I was—”

“What? A bitch? Do you want me to agree and say that yes, you indeed were the bitchiest bitch to ever bitch in my presence, and that I felt deeply sad and neglected because I didn’t get my dick wet?” He raised an eyebrow. “Come on, love, you know me better than that.”

“I just feel like you didn’t deserve it,” you said.

“Neither did you.”

“And I felt guilty for ignoring you. I think I still do.”

He nodded—not because he agreed, he very much didn’t, but because he acknowledged your sentiment.

Sighing, he leaned in and kissed your forehead again. “I think you’re right.”

“What?”

“Your head’s definitely fucking with you.”

You huffed a little, in between a sigh and a chuckle. “Yeah, that’s why I talk to a shrink.”

Your hands searched for his this time. They were cold, bare and exposed to the elements, but wrapped in yours, they began to thaw. He leaned his head on your shoulder, grateful to even get to have this—to have you right there, next to him, by the lake, letting the sun shine on your faces. You rested your chin on his head and breathed in.

“Micky.”

“Hmm?”

Ask her.

He looked up at you, the tip of his nose brushing against your jaw. “Do you want it?”

You blinked. “Do I want… what?”

“Y’know… to have sex.”

Your cheeks went red again, and Simon fought back a smile. He did like to fuck with you like that a bit too much.

“Yeah, I do,” you replied without hesitation.

“Is that why you’ve been so touchy since yesterday?”

You suppressed a grin. “...maybe.”

“It’s not because you think you owe me?”

“No.”

“You really want to?”

“Yes.”

He smiled.

“Do you want to?” You asked in return.

“Yeah,” he said, “all the time, really.”

You chuckled. “I can tell.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You get hard if I stroke your hair.”

Now Simon’s face heated up. He looked down at your hands. “Christ.”

“It’s alright.”

When he felt the heat go down, he gazed back up. “So…”

“So…”

“Wanna head back?”

You nodded. “I’m freezing.”

“We good?”

“Affirmative.” You winked.

Feeling lighter, Simon stood up and began to wheel you back to the cottage, occasionally pushing the chair a bit too fast just to fuck with you.

Everything’s fine. I asked her what she wanted, and she told me. Now I can manage. Okay. We’re good.

“Johnny called, by the way,” he said a couple of minutes later, the cottage looming closer. “He’s inviting us to stay with him next weekend. It’s his birthday.”

“In Glasgow?”

“Yeah.” A couple of leaves crunched under Simon’s boots. “You up for it? It’s next week.”

You considered it for about five seconds. “Yeah, I’m down. Never been to Scotland before.”

He smiled. Today was looking up for him. “You’ll love it.”

An hour after making it back to the cottage, you were ravenous. It was well past your regular lunchtime anyway, so Simon heated some risotto leftovers from last night and grilled some steak to go with it. Yum. 

The conversation by the lake was very much needed, and you were glad he took the first step this time. You were mortified the whole way through, but it paid off. You didn’t feel obligated to do anything now. Simon made it clear that he wasn’t avoiding you, and it was pretty freeing.

Your phone rang midway through the meal, however. It was your mother, probably about to ask if you’d bought the tickets. You flipped the phone face down and ignored the call. Then it pinged five times. You weren’t about to disturb your happiness right now.

“Something wrong?” Simon asked, mouth still full. He surprisingly cooked a mean, juicy steak. You never imagined he had grill skills.

You sighed. “Just my mom.”

He swallowed, looked at the phone while he licked his lips, and then back at you. “She nagging you?”

You shook your head. “No, she’s just asking if I bought the tickets yet. To go home.”

He tensed visibly. The food in your stomach churned uncomfortably. You pushed the food around for a moment, considering what to say next, while Simon was probably overthinking just that one word.

“My parents want me back home for the holidays,” you explained after a hot minute. He relaxed.

Jesus. Okay. Crisis averted.

“Ah,” he sighed, slumping back into his chair. “For a second, I thought you were moving back to the States for real.”

You whipped your head toward him, as if the mere idea of leaving was preposterous. “Fuck no. I’m not doing that. I like the UK too much.”

“Hope it’s not just the UK.”

You chuckled, but it was still rather tense. “Uhh, yeah, no, I-I have just been putting it off. Buying the tickets, I mean.”

He took a sip of his ice-cold Coke. “Why?”

You sighed and leaned back on your chair, scratching your head. “There are two main reasons for that.”

How am I going to tell him my parents want me to drag him all the way to Miami? Would he even like it? We’re not even official yet!

“Have you talked to Isabel about this?”

“Extensively.”

“So?”

“The first one is that I just don’t think I can go through with it. Just… the idea of facing my parents and my whole extended family in the state that I’m in terrifies me. Not because they would be mad at me or anything, but… The last thing I want is their pity. They have good intentions, and they love me, and I know that, but—”

“It’s overwhelming.”

You nodded. “Yep.”

He sighed and crossed his arms, large biceps bulging out of his navy sweater. “I visit my younger brother and his wife for the holidays every year, but I never stay longer than necessary. I love him—he’s my brother after all. Can’t stand being around him for more than a week.”

You blinked. He has a brother?

Okay. New info. You logged it in your Simon folder. Perhaps that would be worth revisiting later. Right now, you couldn’t even process that he’d shared something so vulnerable.

“So… you two not get along?” The question was more hesitant than you realised.

“We do now, but that’s not the issue,” he answered carefully. You could tell he was still pretty guarded when it came to his family, even though you were probably the closest person to him right now.  “Our history’s complicated.”

“I’m all ears.” You smiled, hoping he would open up a bit more for you.

He nodded. “Well, our father would pit us against each other as kids, and after I enlisted, Tommy became an addict. I had to take a leave to pull him out of all that and put him into rehab.”

Oh. Okay. That makes sense. A lot of sense, actually. Taking a caretaking leave for his brother, and now… Me.

Jesus Christ.

Simon continued. “He got clean. Met a pretty bird and married her. They got a son now. Everything's fine.”

And he’s an uncle? He has a little nephew?

The idea of Simon entertaining a little kid was pretty appealing.

You nodded. “So?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Something about going back to Manchester irks me. It's not just Tommy. It’s the entire fuckin’ city. I don't like it.”

“Bad memories?”

He nodded. “Terrible. But it’s not like I can completely run from it. I hardly ever see Tommy, so Christmas is the only chance I get. I have to do my rounds, y’know? Make sure everything’s alright.”

“Yeah, I get it,” you said. “Eldest sibling shit.”

“Eldest sibling shit, yeah.”

You ate in silence for another while, until Simon finished his plate and looked at you. “You gonna buy those tickets?”

The piece of steak you swallowed nearly lodged in your throat, and it took every ounce of your willpower not to cough it out. Rather, you swallowed it down with Coke.

Here goes nothing.

“Actually, I've been meaning to tell you—to ask you, rather, if you would come with me?”

Simon blinked.

Please don’t say no. Or, actually, please say no and spare me the pain.

“To Miami?” He asked.

“W-Well yeah, m-my family wants to meet you…” Oh my god, why is this so hard? “You can totally say no if you don’t want to—”

“I’ll go.”

You stared at him for a few seconds. Did he just… 

He said it with such decisiveness, as if it were a given that he would accept. Like it had been decided months ago. Was that the real Simon in front of you?

“Y-Yeah?”

He took another sip of his drink, then set it down. “Yeah, but…”

“But?”

“I propose an exchange.”

You placed your elbows on the table and leaned closer. “What is it?”

“I’ll go if you come with me to Manchester for Christmas.”

That’s it? He’ll face your parents if you face his brother? That’s… not so bad, actually.

You blinked. “So… Manchester for Christmas and Miami for New Year’s?”

“Affirmative.”

“Sounds serious,” you said.

“Because it is.”

You grinned. “Are we getting serious?”

“Weren’t we serious from the start?”

“We fucked on our first date,” you pointed out.

“I don’t know, sounds pretty serious to me,” he countered with a smirk. 

You poked the inside of your cheek with your tongue and considered his proposal in about ten seconds. Today was filled with big conversations after days of lazing around. Three more trips in less than a month… My bank account will not be happy about this. It had you feeling all buzzy inside.

“Okay. Deal,” you said, smiling.

“Deal,” he replied.

After the conversation, lunch flew by. You moved to the couch for a much-needed post-lunch nap, sleeping for a good half-hour while Simon read quietly next to you, occasionally stroking your hair. After that, it was time for your daily PT exercises. They were pretty simple: a few stretches, resistance exercises, breathing, rotatory movements, and the like. You had already committed the routine to memory and could do it independently by now, but Simon, as always, insisted on being there “in case something happened”. You didn’t want to imagine what kinds of scenarios he was creating in his head. Luckily for you, he only sat on a chair and read, leaving you to it.

For the sake of keeping the peace, you let him be and started on your routine outside on the deck, enjoying the last few moments of sunlight before it got dark again. Fighting him on this one thing was futile—he was going to keep you company whether you wanted it or not. You decided to listen to your physical therapist instead and focus on your own movements, on your body, on what felt right and what didn’t. Thus, the routine flowed much better than usual.

Maybe Simon was right. Maybe your head was fucking with you.

“You done?” he asked, standing up. The sky had darkened now, and whatever warmth the sun had brought was now gone.

“Yep,” you sighed, lying starfish on the deck floor. You usually finished your routine with a five-minute deep breathing exercise to strengthen your ribs, which also doubled as meditation time. Lots of things to ponder.

Simon wordlessly helped you stand up as if you weighed nothing. “Should we head inside and finish The Pitt? We got like three episodes left.”

You nodded. “Sounds like a plan. I need to shower first, though.”

“Do you need my help?”

“Nah, I’ll be fine.”

“‘Kay, I’ll be waiting.”

You didn’t take long, but your body felt renewed after that shower. It was truly incredible how water, soap, and a spritz of jasmine perfume could make your day better. And what a day it was; Simon agreeing to go to Miami with you, to meet your family if you met his. Weren’t we serious from the start? He said. If somebody told you last year that you’d be making plans to meet each other’s families for the holidays, you’d deck them in the face because of how utterly ridiculous it sounded. But right now? You wouldn’t have it any other way. It was just logical that you’d advance so quickly; Simon had proven his devotion to you, time and time again. He wasn’t going anywhere, and neither were you.

Fast forward a couple of hours, and you were sprawled out on the L-shaped couch, your injured foot propped up with a pillow while Simon rested his head on your lap, gaze trained on the TV while the fireplace crackled nearby. Simon brought out some wine, leftovers from yesterday, and two slices of sticky date pudding, and now the cutlery lay used on the coffee table, the bottle of wine nearly empty, and your bellies full.

Pure. Fucking. Bliss.

“Remember how you said yesterday that if I kept stroking your hair, you’d fall asleep?” He mumbled. You could picture the look on his face—eyes droopy and lax facial muscles—while you dug your nails into his scalp and absentmindedly tangled your fingers in his silky blonde hair. It was so fucking soft it was beginning to lull you to sleep as well.

“Yeah,” you sighed, eyelids heavy, unsure if it was the two large glasses of wine you had or if you were just tired.

“I see why,” he replied.

You chuckled, watching Dr. Abbott help Dr. Mohan with a procedure on screen. Simon grabbed your hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing each finger, then each knuckle, then your palm. Goosebumps ran up your arm and down your spine.

“Good god,” you said.

“What?”

“That guy really wants to fuck her.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Abbott,” you said, playing again with Simon’s hair with your other hand. You liked it like this. Longer. Easier to pull. “I mean, watch how he looks at Dr. Mohan.”

Simon began to nip at the back of your hand. “Dunno, could be he’s just proud of her. That procedure seemed risky enough.”

“Nah, I know that stare. He’s a goner. Been there, done that,” you said.

At that, he turned around. “Oh, yeah? Enlighten me.”

Your face warmed a little. “Ehh, hehe, well…”

“Mick…”

“My ex—George, he… he was a lot older than me,” you admitted. For a moment, you expected Simon to tense up, as you had buried that topic months ago, at Nikolai’s base, but in his eyes, you only saw curiosity.

“How much older?” He asked.

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Twelve years my senior.”

His eyes widened. “Fucking hell. And he just… leered at you during training? Sounds like a dirty old man to me.”

You huffed. “Not that old… and no, that never happened. He was never inappropriate or anything. We just became close, that’s all. He was the first person on the team to be actually decent to me. I think he was the only guy there who wasn’t a raging misogynist. We got along at first, and then things just escalated.”

Something about talking to your current… whatever… about your dead ex-fiancé with such candidness took you by surprise. Maybe it was just the wine, or the fact that, for the first time in a while, both of you were finally showing each other things about their past. Perhaps honesty was in the air tonight.

“Hmm, he was still your boss,” he said.

“And are you not my superior, currently?”

“Now I’m your superior?” He scoffed, then tsk’ed. “You’ve got a type, love.”

“It was just a coincidence,” you defended. “I didn’t expect to fall for you—or anyone for that matter. I thought I’d die single and childless in some hole in the Middle East, or something.”

“Makes two of us,” he said.

On the screen, the credits began to roll, so Simon grabbed the remote and paused it before turning back to you and lying on his back. You still had one more episode to go, and yet… there were so many things you wanted to know; to ask him.

“When did you figure out you had feelings for me?” You asked, fingers latching onto his hair again. He sighed as his eyes fluttered, and a faint, pink splotch appeared on his neck and ears.

“Dunno,” he said, eyes still closed. “Guess I just felt it.”

You grinned. “Huh.”

“Probably around the time we went to the pub,” he continued, his speech slightly slurred. Perhaps the wine had gotten to him as well. “You sat on my lap on the way home, and you smelled… enticing.”

The grin became a smirk. “Ah, the perfume.”

“Yes, the bloody perfume,” he said, the pink in his neck getting darker. Did he not open his eyes because he was embarrassed?

You decided to test the waters. 

“So that was it?”

“I guess? I definitely felt something before that, I'm sure, but that was the moment I knew I was fucked.”

You snorted.

Finally, he opened his eyes, grabbed your hand again, and played with your fingers. You gave his hair a gentle tug and watched his eyelids flutter. He’s so malleable like this. 

“When did you realise?” He asked.

You thought back to all the instances that led up to the night when you finally gave in to your fantasy, when Simon heard you across the wall. It felt so long ago at this point…

“Probably after the gym thing…” You blushed. “But I kept torturing myself about it.”

“I never understood that,” he admitted. “I mean, the fraternisation thing, I can get, but the rest…”

“To put it lightly,” you sighed. Seriously need to know what brand of wine this is, because I don’t get why I'm being this open and not crying about it. “I felt myself wanting someone for the first time in years, and it scared the crap outta me.”

Simon nodded like he understood completely, like your feelings were his own. Again, he kissed the back of your hand. 

“Does it scare you now?” He asked, voice surprisingly soft, rich, and deep. The amber light of the fireplace turned his chocolate eyes into gold. He was a handsome man, despite his scars. Or maybe because of them. You didn’t really care, anyway. You had already fallen for him before seeing his face. You would’ve loved him regardless.

You smiled timidly, heart racing a thousand miles per hour. “No. Not anymore,” you said, then leaned down to kiss him tenderly. Light and airy. Just a tiny peck. Then you kissed his forehead, his nose, and his cheeks, as soft as cotton. He chuckled.

“Have I told you before that you’re incredibly handsome?”

Simon blushed a deep shade of scarlet, from his neck up to his cheeks and ears, and looked to the side. You’d never seen him so flustered.

He looked to the side, embarrassed, not used to receiving compliments.

“You’re just saying that because you like me,” he said, holding back a sheepish grin.

You grabbed his chin and forced him to look at you. “Yeah, dummy, that’s how it usually works.”

“Shut up,” he laughed, sitting up and pulling you into a kiss not unlike the one you shared last night, on this very sofa. For a moment, you wondered if he’d pull away like he’d been doing lately, but he cupped your face and kissed you deeper, and all your worries melted away with a swipe of his tongue on your bottom lip.

You’d never been kissed with this kind of hunger, with such ferocity wrapped with care. His kisses were intoxicating—salted caramel and wine coated his tongue, leaving you wanting more. You made out slowly but with purpose; Simon was nothing if not careful, it was in his DNA. All this babying had left an emptiness inside you that only his touch could fill. You needed more.

Then you bit his bottom lip and he fucking whimpered.

Can’t fucking take this anymore.

Armed with courage and slightly tipsy, you climbed onto his lap, knees on either side of him, leaving him stunned. You could see the apprehensiveness in his eyes, the way his mind shifted into Careful Boyfriend mode. You weren’t about to let that happen. Not tonight. Not after the conversation you had this morning.

“Hey,” you smiled.

“Mick… you sure about this?” He asked, still flushed, but sobering up quicker than you.

“I broke my ankle, babe, not my knee,” you reasoned, nudging his nose with yours. “I’m not putting any weight on it right now, so we’re covered, and my chest is okay. Technically, my ribs are not broken anymore.”

“But still tender,” he countered.

“Need I remind you that you were resting your head on my chest and putting weight on it this morning?” You smirked, then grabbed his hands and guided them to find purchase on your hips. “I’ll be fine.”

You kissed him again. “Please.”

Conflict was written all over his face. He sighed and pressed your forehead against yours, tightening his hold on your hips. You wrapped your arms around him, gently playing with the hairs on his nape, where you felt goosebumps immediately form.

“Si?”

He kissed your cheek. “Hmm?”

“Do you want me?”

“All the time,” he said, lips tracing your jaw. Heat coursed through your body. “All the fucking time.”

That’s when his hand wandered under your shirt, fingers tracing gentle lines over the small of your back, right above the waistband of your shorts. Your breath hitched.

“W-We can figure something out, right?” You whispered.

“I guess we can,” he said, and pulled your hips down onto him until you felt the thick bulge in his sweatpants.

Fuck.

He kissed you hungrily, hands never leaving your hips, shoulders, or face. This was already pushing a lot of limits. You knew it would take a long time before he felt confident enough to touch you there, but you would get there eventually. You were sure of it.

But your hands, however, could wander freely. They roamed over and under his clothes while his tongue explored your mouth, and you slowly rocked your hips against his. There was no need to rush here. There were no mission directives to follow, no meetings in your calendar, no city to save or compound to raid. There was only you and him and the crackling of the fireplace.

You weren't sure how long you stayed like that.

Long enough for the wine to settle warm in your stomach. Long enough for the fire to burn lower, casting the room in amber rather than gold. Long enough for the making out to slow from hungry to something more languid, more deliberate—his mouth moving against yours like he had nowhere to be and no intention of being there anyway.

When he finally pulled back to breathe, his forehead dropped against yours. His hands were still at your hips, thumbs tracing slow circles through the fabric of your shorts. Outside, the lake was invisible in the dark.

“Okay?” he asked. His lips were swollen. Kiss-bitten.

“More than,” you replied. “I missed you. I still do.”

He licked his lips, eyes dark but hesitant. “I miss you too, but… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You shook your head, reaching for the hem of your hoodie. “You won’t.”

He stared at you as if in a trance as you took off your hoodie, leaving you shivering in nothing but a thin, white tank top and your cotton shorts, with nothing underneath. You pulled him into a heated kiss before he could react.

“Unfair,” he said, now kissing his way down your jaw and into your neck, kneading your ass over your shorts. He breathed you in deeply, and you swore you felt his cock throb through his sweats. “So fucking unfair.”

“What is?”

“You’re wearing that perfume,” he said, licking over the spot he nibbled. “You tryin’ to kill me, love?”

You giggled, rocking your hips particularly hard against his. He hissed. “Maybe.”

“Fuck off.” He slid his hands under your waistband to cup your ass properly. “No knickers, either?” He tsked. “What am I to do with you?”

You grinned. “Maybe you could…”

You grabbed his hand and guided it from your back to your front. He understood right away, slipping under your waistband tentatively. The moan you let out when he finally touched your aching cunt, after nearly three long months of nothing, would’ve made Simon come right then and there, were it not for the fact that he was clearly too focused on not fucking it up. But the pad of his index dragged over your wetness so infuriatingly slow, almost as if scientifically prodding you.

No matter. Simon was finally touching you. Finally, you had gotten over that hurdle.

You looked down—his tattooed forearm disappeared inside your shorts, and the mental image of his hand on your cunt had your head spinning. A second finger caressed your folds. His mouth was slightly agape, as if he couldn’t believe this was happening in the first place.

“Fuck,” you whispered, hips tilting ever so slightly in hopes of feeling a bit more. Your hard nipples ached against the cotton of your top, way too sensitive despite the lack of touch. He captured your mouth in a sweet kiss, digging his fingers a bit more, never quite reaching where you needed it most.

“Don’t tease,” you whined after the kiss, breathless.

“I like to take my time,” he said, lips still lingering over your jaw. “Or would you rather I just shove my cock into you like that?”

Jesus.

You bit your lip and stared off into the distance, face growing hot.

“Christ,” he said, taking you in. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Shut up,” you giggled. “I’m just saying… we haven’t fucked in months, and now of all times you—hmm.”

Your eyes rolled back just as soon as his index grazed over your clit.

“You were saying?”

“Fuck off,” you replied, pulling him into a deep kiss.

For what felt like hours, you continued making out, your hands playing with his hair while his played with your clit, drawing out tiny whimpers that he swallowed gladly. It felt great to have him this close again, to feel so suffocatingly near and yet it not being enough. It would never be enough. Your first time together was proof of that. 

He pulled down your top’s strap to kiss your shoulder, nipping over your collarbone and back up your throat, never quite reaching your chest.

Not enough. Need him closer.

Your hips bucked into his hand, hands fisting the fabric of his sweater and pulling it up. He looked up at you.

“I want to see you,” you said.

He nodded, lifted his arms up, and that was that. The sweater fell to the floor, discarded along with your hoodie.

Simon’s bare chest was a sight for sore eyes.

The last few weeks of drills and deployments had hardened his abs again, but not quite to the shape they first were when you first had sex. Now there was an outer softness to them, protecting years of grind and hard work. If anything, he looked bigger than before. Softer and cuddlier. And hotter, too.

“‘M not made of candy, love,” he joked, but under the amber of the fireplace, you caught the redness in his cheeks. He wasn’t used to you ogling him like that.

You ran a hand across his chest with a smirk, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. 

“You kind of are,” you said, leaning to kiss his shoulders, then his neck. His hand returned to the wet warmth between your thighs.

“Y-Yeah?” He said, voice rippling through his neck and into your lips, low and deep and with a hint of desperation. Simon was easy to fluster. “So I reckon I taste good, no?”

You giggled, coming up to his jaw, then his lips, hand sneaking down to cup his length through his sweats. “Hmm, would you like me to give it a try?”

“If you do that, I’ll come in two seconds, and this party will be over,” he warned, voice strained. “And I don’t want you movin’ any more than necessary.”

You pursed your lips. “So what would you have me do?”

His finger pressed hard against your clit. Toes curled. Eyebrows scrunched. Dickhead.

He looked down at your hand over his bulge, and then back at you, dark eyes glinting under the firelight. “Take it out.”

His tone was definitive. No questions. A command.

He pressed on your clit again, nudging. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

“Mick.”

You obeyed.

His cock was as hard as a rock under his pants. Gently, you pushed the fabric away and pulled it out, weeping, heavy and hot, so thick you could barely wrap your palm around it. His breath hitched when you swiped your thumb around his angry, red tip, gathering the wetness and using it to slick up the shaft.

He kissed you with fervor as you stroked his cock, rubbing languid circles on your clit. Slowly, you became acquainted with each other again, mapping and relearning and enjoying what you could. It would take long before you were truly ready to have sex the way you wanted to. This was as good as you would get for now.

Every flick of the wrist, every new angle of your arm, Simon moaned into your mouth; so responsive to your touch… You couldn’t help but wonder.

“How have you managed?” You asked. His index circled over your hole now, eager to enter.

“Managed what?” He said, waiting for your confirmation. You nodded, foreheads connecting as he slid with ease up to the knuckle. You squeezed his cock perhaps a bit too tightly. “Christ.”

“The last few months,” you panted. God, he was in deep. Deeper than you ever could with your own fingers. “Without this.”

“Wank it off,” he said calmly, like it was obvious. “What else is there to do?”

You rode his finger slowly, a bit more intrigued about the idea of Simon masturbating. Your walls throbbed around his finger, and he hissed.

“And… w-what do you do when you jerk off?” You asked, somehow stringing coherent sentences in the midst of all this. “Do you watch porn?”

Before you knew it, he slid in a second finger; a pleasant, welcome stretch to your pussy.

“I used to,” he said, gazing up at you, almost hypnotized. “That’s it, ride my fingers, love.”

His cock pulsed within your palm. “Used to?” Your eyebrows scrunched.

He curled his fingers inside you, beckoning you to him. “Doesn’t cut it anymore.”

Your hand picked up speed, slick from his own pre-come. “And what does?”

Cheeks flushed, he pumped quicker into you as well, the heat between you growing and taking shape, changing into something solid, something inevitable. You both were about to come embarrassingly quickly.

“Thinking of you,” he admitted, cheeks fiery red. His free hand kept you steady, gripping your shoulder.

“Yeah? You picture me like this when you jerk off?”

“Fuck,” he whispered, connecting your foreheads. “I always think about you. Always.”

You had the feeling that he meant more than just masturbating.

“I’m close,” you whimpered. “Don’t stop.”

“Don’t you stop, too,” he said.

“You close?”

“Hmmhmm.”

You closed the gap with a hot, desperate kiss, pleasuring each other until the pressure became unbearable and any of you folded.

“M-Micky,” he called, breath uneven, curling his fingers into that one spot that had you seeing stars, the heel of his palm digging into your clit. “I missed you, love.”

You kissed his jaw, lingering over a thin, long-faded scar. “I m-missed you, too, Si.” Tension in your lower belly spread a wave of heat all over your body. “So fucking much, I—fuck, oh god, I’m going to come. Simon, I’m gonna—”

Your whole body curled into him, face hidden in his neck, spasming erratically as endless waves crashed into you. The pleasure of your release urged his name to fall off your lips like a prayer. Nothing mattered anymore, just him and his fingers inside of you and his length in your palm and all the love you had for the man that sheltered you and waited for you and loved you unconditionally—no takebacks.

In your stupor, you felt him shudder, and then the warmth of his seed leaking into your hand as he came, legs trembling underneath you, and then going slack. Spent.

“Fucking hell,” he mused about a minute later, when your ears stopped ringing and your vision unblurred, and you felt safe enough to poke your head out of its hiding spot. 

“You okay?” You asked, about to comb his beautiful hair back, but realizing your left hand was still coated with his semen. Embarrassed, you used your right hand instead.

He didn’t mention it, briefly looking down at his own cum-slicked fingers, but he smirked. “Should be asking you that.”

“Me? I’m great,” you chuckled. “I guess I needed that.”

“We both needed it,” he agreed, but then grasped your chin with his clean hand, forcing you to look at him. “Hey, sure nothing hurts?”

“Nothing hurts,” you reassured him. “I’m fine. I can handle a bit more than that, actually.”

“Hmm, well, tough luck, because we’re out of condoms,” he said. “But I can always head into town tomorrow and get some.”

“Please.” You pecked his cheek, then his forehead. “I’ll blow you.”

“Sexual favours for… sexual favours?”

“Quid pro quo, honey,” you said.

Simon looked at you for a moment with an expression you'd come to recognize—the one that was trying very hard to be neutral and failing completely.

“Quid pro quo,” he repeated.

“Quid pro quo,” you confirmed.

He shook his head slowly, but you could see the smile he was trying not to have. “Right.”

You settled against him, his arm around you, the fire reduced to embers now.

“Si?”

“Hmm.”

“Thank you.” You meant it for more than just tonight. You meant it for the lake bench and the forehead kisses and the months of careful waiting. He knew that. He always knew.

He pressed his lips to your hair and stayed there.

“Town tomorrow,” he said finally. “First thing.”

You laughed into his chest. “First thing.”

Outside, the lake held the dark quietly. The cottage settled around you. And for a long time neither of you said anything else, because there was nothing left to say that hadn't already been said, one way or another, across the longest and most complicated year of both your lives.

crossposted on AO3.

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