#mw2 fluff

Price gave a little nod, exhaling the smoke from his cigar. "I could use a drink."

"What about you, L.T? Y/N? Fancy a drink?" Soap asked the pair, who sat next to each other. 

The big, burly Brit gave a low hum which to anyone who didn't know him would've thought that was a clear no, but Soap laughed and Y/N smiled. "I say that's a yes."

He looked to Y/N, "That only leaves you, lass."

Y/N shook her head, waving a hand to brush off his proposal. "I think I'll pass." Ghost turned his head to look down at her.

"Oh come on." Gaz complained in the back while Soap crossed his arms. 

"What do ya got to get back at base to that's so important that ya wouldn't want to go with us?" Soap argued, his voice laced with playful intent. 

She snickered. "Take a shower for one."

"Are ya serious?" Soap huffed. 

"Look, I know you might like walking around like a human dust cloud but I can feel the dirt in places I'd rather not mention."  Y/N teased, and smirked his way.

She glanced over to Gaz who had let out a small laugh, which made her laugh quietly to herself. 

Soap leaned forward, "Come on, we don't need another ghost disappearin on us."

Y/N shook her head, "I'm not disappearing on anybody."

"Then come with us." Soap continued to prod.

The two stared at each other for a long moment before Y/N sighed and threw her arms in the air in mock annoyance. "Fine, I guess I'll come but only if I can change first." 

"Deal." Soap grinned as he held out a fist toward Y/N. She lifted a fist of her own, and bumped it against Soap's then leaned back in her spot in the plane.

Soon, the team made it back to base, filtering off the carrier plane one by one, and chatting amongst themselves. Price came off the plane first, followed shortly by Soap and Gaz then Ghost and Y/N. It was already dark out, the fluorescent lights from inside the base beaming out and onto the concrete floor that made up the helipad. 

Once stepping inside, Y/N departed from the men, reassuring Soap that she would meet them in the parking lot once she changed out of her uniform. She b-lined for her room, locking the door behind her and heaving a sigh, letting her shoulders relax and allowing herself a moment to herself. Even though she agreed to go out with the guys, Y/N was utterly exhausted; it seemed to take great effort just to breathe. It was as if her lungs were beyond their limit and wanted to rest. 

But Simon was going out too, while not rare, he never went out consistently. More often than not, he opted to stay behind and get some sleep. There were also occasions when he and Y/N would make tea in the break room and talk about everything and nothing in the lulling moments when the base was quiet. 

She loved those moments, appreciating the fact that on their off time, Simon liked to share his time with her. As much as she loved the guys, Simon provided an unknown incentive to go to the bar.

Y/N sighed, trudging over to her cot to undress. She traded her grimy uniform for a pair of clean jeans, a white tank top, and her typical combat boots. However, it was a bit cold outside so she decided to grab a hoodie. Her eyes immediately found the one that she kept folded at the end of her bed. 

It was a standard black hoodie, no flashy design or words, a simple color with nothing else. This hoodie was special though as it belonged to a certain 6'2" Lieutenant.

Y/N smiled to herself as she grabbed it and pulled it over her head. It hung loose on her body, the hem of it touching her mid thigh and the sleeves engulfed her arms but she felt safe in it., protected. She couldn't help to thumb at the fabric of the collar, thinking for a second before she dipped her nose down to breathe in the smell of it. 

Despite having worn the hoodie multiple times (mostly when she slept), the musky scent of Simon lingered there. It smelled of an earthy cologne that Simon wore, smoke with a twinge of metal.  She hummed at the scent, but before she got too caught up in her own mind, she grabbed her phone, wallet, and headed out to the parking lot. 

Y/N knew exactly where Soap parked his truck so she made a b-line straight for it, not too far from the front doors of the base. Walking out into the parking lot, she saw that the guys were already standing and waiting by the black pickup. 

Soap was the first one to see, and as soon as he did, his eyes widened. "Jesus, lass! You look like yer gettin swallowed whole inside that thing!" 

Simon whipped his head around to see what the commotion was about, his heart skipping a beat when he got a good look at Y/N, wearing his hoodie. 

Y/N felt the slightest bit sheepish at Soap's comment, but tried not to let it show. "I do not." She retorted, "It's windy out here and I'm cold." 

She walked past Soap to head towards Simon who stood beside the backdoor. Before she got in she glanced over her shoulder at the Scot. "Besides, I like'em big."

For a brief second, Y/N's eyes flicked from Soap to narrow in on Simon as she said that, picking up at the quick breath he took and held it in. She smirked then quickly climbed into the back seat. 

Simon briefly locked eyes with Soap, seeing a boyish smirk on the Sergeant's face. He huffed, then followed Y/N into the truck. 

He knew he shouldn't have let it slip to Johnny about his "admiration" for Y/N or else he wouldn't have that shit eating grin on his face.

Soap only laughed before climbing into his truck. Price sat up front with him while Simon, Y/N and Gaz sat in the back. It was a tad of a squeeze (mostly due to Simon's large stature), but it wasn't so bad. Though Gaz was the second to gawk at Y/N's ginormous hoodie, and she laughed saying that the bigger the hoodie, the more comfortable to which he then asked the rhetorical question of 'what is it with girls and hoodies?'

The team laughed, Simon on the other hand, kept peeking down at Y/N seeing her completely covered by the black fabric, remembering the night he gave it to her. It had been a night of hushed conversation, a shared moment of privacy among the chilled air, and as she shivered in her spot beside him, he took only a second to stop and pull off his sweatshirt then plop it in her lap. 

She had been stunned, it was evident from the look she gave, but she wasted no time pulling the fabric over her head. Once it engulfed her figure, she let out a relieved hum, a smile and tucked her face into the collar of it. 

Simon loved the way it hung around her, like she belonged inside of it. 

On any given day, Simon would not have done something that was clearly so intimate to him, but this was a moment that Y/N and him shared alone, without the eyes of anyone on base. However, seeing Y/N wearing it now with everyone to see felt scandalous, if he had to label it; a deeper peek into his psyche.

He couldn’t decide if he liked that or not. 

The sharp pause of the vehicle into a parking spot, provided Simon an escape from the suddenly hot air of the truck as he hopped out. Once everyone stepped out, following Soap, they all headed toward the bar. It was a small, modest place, nothing fancy but it would keep them busy for the next few hours. Soap walked up to the bars' counter to sit down, followed by all of 141.

Y/N sat beside Soap, who was already ordering a drink, and Simon came up to the empty seat to the right of Y/N with Price and Gaz sitting closer to Soap.

“Keep the drinks to a minimum, would you Soap? Last time you got drunk, we had to drag you back to the base.” Y/N pointedly suggested.

Soap scoffed, “Oi, are you my mother? I can handle myself.”

At that, Y/N let out an amused laugh coming from the gut. “No you can’t. You were so out of it that you thought you were being kidnapped when we hoisted you up into Price’s truck.” 

Soap paused for a moment, eyes drifting upward as if he were searching through his memories of that night. “I don’t remember that.”

“You wouldn’t remember, mate.” Gaz chirped in, “You’d put a sailor to shame with as much drink as you had.”

“More like the whole ship.” Price added with a huffed smirk and then took a drink of his whiskey. 

Y/N readjusted in her seat as she turned to slightly face the Scot, “I had to keep Ghost from killing you; you’d kicked him right in the ribs and you better believe you owe me.”

“Ah, Ghost woulda’ kill me. He’s too fond of my daring personality.” Soap teased, leaning forward to peer around Y/N to look at Simon. 

“Don’t count yourself lucky, Johnny. A kick to the ribs makes a compelling argument for killin’ ya.” Simon simply stated, thick accent and husky voice making him sound serious. 

Y/N chuckled to herself however at his obvious banter, taking a sip of her drink. 

A loud pfft sound left Soap’s mouth, waving off Simon’s words and swallowing his bourbon down in one go. 

Soap set his glass down onto the bar with a thud before he spoke again. “And of course, the only thing that could stop the giant was the fluttering eyes of our lass here.”

If she was honest with herself, that very idea made Y/N’s heart flutter and unconsciously, she bit her bottom lip, sparing a subtle glance up to Simon. His dark eyes glowed in the ambient light of the bar, casting a shadowed glare toward the Scot in an oddly defensive way.

He said nothing, but he didn’t have to. His expression said it all. 

“Aww, don’t get bent out of shape LT. No man could resist such beauty.” Soap holds up his hands in fake surrender.

“Shove off, Soap.” Y/N playfully pushed the Scot at the same time he slipped off his bar stool.

“Anyone want to play a round of pool?” Soap offered, taking a step back from Y/N’s strong left hook.

Gaz nodded, quickly finishing his drink and ordering another. “I’m in.”

“I suppose I could weigh in.” Price says, slipping out of his seat and following Soap and Gaz to the empty pool table off to the corner. 

Y/N leaves no time for Simon to give a definitive answer while she hops off her bar stool, leaving her cup behind. “May as well. You coming, Simon?”

She glances over her shoulder and It’s obvious that he is caught off-guard, making a great effort to look unaffected. However, he hums and gets up from his seat. 

He seems to automatically trail behind Y/N in her path to the pool table, where the rest of the team is waiting. 

“You and LT are a team; Gaz and I are a team. Alright with you two?” Soap automatically assigns, watching Y/N shrug. 

“Sounds good to me.” Y/N smirked, already picking up a pool cue.

While Soap and Gaz grab their own pool cues, Y/N takes this opportunity to let her hair (literally), pulling the hair band from the tight bun she had it in and letting the tresses fall to her shoulders. 

Simon watches as the thick strands fall from the bun, and lightly bounce once they hit her shoulders and back. The cool air of the bar wafting from outside, breezes past Y/N and into Simon; there’s a scent of gunpowder with an underlying smell of a fruity soap from her shampoo. 

Those two types of scents don’t belong, Simon thinks, however, he cannot deny that it suits Y/N in an odd way and he takes a moment to commit it to memory. 

“Woah, Y/N…” Gaz comments, looking up from the pool table. 

Soap whips his head up from aligning the cue ball with the solid and striped ones. “How the hell do you keep all that wrapped up?” 

“I’m just magic like that.” Y/N smirks, running her fingers through her hair to massage the soreness on her scalp. 

“Teach me your magic?” Gaz teases Y/N as he steps over to her. 

She hums, “I don’t know Gaz, you actually have hair in order to learn my ways.”

The group laughs as Gaz nudges her away from him, all in good fun of course. 

She takes the opportunity to spare a glance up to Simon, seeing that he is staring down at her with a shine in his eyes that tells her only the good things about what he must be thinking. Before he catches it, she smirks and turns back to the others to begin their game. 

From that moment on, for the rest of the evening, the tension grew with each passing second. Only ripening, the few times during their pool match, when Y/N leaned down to shoot her shot, and she would slide back to stand straight up, there Simon would be; looming shadow over her while keeping a respectful distance. 

It was all palpable in a way that only Y/N and Simon knew, but not bursting at the seams. No, it was slowly simmering, waiting for the right opportunity to be released. 

By the time the night ended, the boys buzzed and chipper, the squad made it back to base with little to no problems, from Soap that is who made it apparent that he was perfectly consciousness.

It got a laugh out of them, as Simon and Y/N departed and were finally alone.

They were heading to their respective rooms, the heavy thud of their boots hitting the ground, the only sound between them as they walked down a long corridor. It remained that way until Y/N broke the silence.

“Did you have fun, Simon?” 

He looked to her from the invisible spot on the ground that he’d been watching, “As much fun as I could, I suppose.”

“Me too. It’s nice to relax every once in a while.” She hums contently. 

“I imagine it’s not difficult to relax when you have a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big.” Simon remarks, hearing Y/N laugh as he does. 

“You have a point there!” 

There’s a brief pause before Simon speaks up again, “Do you fancy wearing clothes that swallow you whole?”

She stops in her path, suddenly standing in front of her room door, one that Simon almost missed as he came to an abrupt stop. “Only when I’m attached to it.”

They stand and stare, soaking in the implications, and reveling in the secret between them. 

Simon, in a moment of courage he’s not sure where it came from, raises a calloused hand to gently slide his index finger against the skin of her cheek. “Well, I’d say it suits you.”

Y/N smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges in a softness that she doesn’t direct to just anyone. No, this is only for him because despite all the teasing and flirting, that is not where her affection stops. Not when her heart is thundering beneath her ribcage with her skin completely flushed with desire. 

Without much thought, Y/N leans forward, forcing herself up onto her tippy toes and plants the softest of kisses to his cheek. Though it's covered by his balaclava, he feels the pressures of her lips against him, the warmth of them seeping past the mask and into his skin so much so, that when Y/N eventually pulls away, he leans forward the slightest bit to keep her there. 

Her eyes flick up to meet his, shining with something unspoken yet recognized as wanting. However, she doesn’t act on it, instead she keeps the small distance between their bodies and whispers three simple words. 

The little lock to your collar clinks as you whip your head towards the double doors of the balcony that the rain hits and melts itself against. Though your entire body years to rush towards the glass barriers and push them open to let yourself out, you bite your bottom lip to help yourself concentrate on staying in place like you had been ordered to do so. 

Your Dom, the much older and experienced Commander Philip Graves, doesn't have to look up from his laptop screen to know the battle you're fighting within yourself. It's his order against your impulse and the attentive soldier catches your smaller form getting fidgety by the second right away. 

You struggle for a few moments as your try to bring your eyes back to the spot that you are supposed to stare at while you kneel beside his couch and wait for his command -any command- to act upon. But it hasn't rained in a while and the louder and more aromatic it gets, the more restless you grow. 

You nearly jump out of your skin from the shock and sensitivity -because you're extremely shy around him; something about his aura- when your desperate gaze bounces from the door to him and you find him already looking at you. Your heart leaps up in your throat and a thousand butterflies stem from the base of your stomach all the way up to your chest. A deep red burns into your cheeks and you whimper from the amusement that is on his face. 

“Well?” He speaks when you choose to remain quiet. The two of you have never really needed many words to communicate. “Go on, then.” The Commander loves the colourful light that flashes in your eyes and your nervous expression turns into a big beam. Being the kind of Dom that he is, you suspected him of denying or teasing you about it just because he had the power to do so and you loved to surrender it to him. And unbeknownst to you, if it were any of his older subs and not you, Philip would have. He knows it as well as he knows the sun exists, he would have.

You are on your toes before the next second can start. The older man sits up a bit straighter to undo the leash that is attached to your collar and he cannot help but let out a little smile when you mutter a cute thank you, Master before bolting in the opposite direction. 

But then you halt midway and spin on your heels. Though your body is half cocked towards the doors, your eyes eagerly find him and you smile. “Would you like to come with, Sir?” You question with a meek politeness, fingers shyly toying with the ends of the fancy lace underwear you wear for him. 

Philip is taken aback, as he always is with you. He has never had this kind of a bond with any of his subs. Sometimes it's strange to him how you behave and care beyond your place as his sub. Of course, he cannot and would never harbor any ill feelings towards his past partners for not being like you as the conditions are always clear and strictly to be maintained within the Dom-Sub dynamic since his line of work doesn't allow him the liberty of a lover. 

But Philip appreciates you nonetheless. 

“Uh…” He looks down at his own navy blue sweatshirt dark grey trousers and then looks back up at you. 

You understand. “Is okay!” Your links clinks adorably as you excitedly rush to him and hold a hand out. “I'll clean the mess! But you must come, it's really so fun, Sir!” When Philip tilts his head to the side and looks up at you in a contemplative manner, you do a series of restless mini jumps. “Please, c'mon!” 

You'll be the death of him. 

“Alright, alright” he puts the laptop aside and takes your smaller hand before pushing his heavy and broad body to stand up and tower over you. You squeal from delight and begin to pull his bigger form towards the balcony. The man shakes his head to himself. 

Philip is in so much trouble.

His eyes follow your feverish form as he slowly lets you drag him towards the glass doors before he helps you slide one open since you are holding his hand in yours and are too small to manage to do so with one. You squeal again and this time the Commander cannot help but snort under his breath as reaction to your childish antics. Quirks of having a younger partner, he guesses. 

“Careful” he calls firmly when you get too excited and start slipping and skidding about on your naked feet, the wet marble underneath your feet helping your play and Phillip's grip serving well as an anchor for your body. “Don't go hurting yourself now.” 

But you're exhilarated as the cool water hits your face and semi-naked body. You giggle -though you're usually rather coy around him- and jump, you twirl and spin, you do a silly little dance sequence while holding his hands and making him copy you. 

And though Phillip tries to be the responsible one, he cannot help but scoff out a chuckle at your antics, his heart erratic as it revels in the melodies of your pouty whines when he refuses to let you go off by keeping a firm hold on you. 

And then the Commander surprises the both of you -as he is not one to show much affection- by suddenly pulling you closer until you are pressed against him and his arms coil around your waist. The hot kiss he connects your mouths in steals the very breath out of your lungs and the manner in which he refuses to let go makes you melt into him.

Oh, it's trouble alright. 

. . .

And if you do, irrespective of whether you fear what’s happening on-screen or not, his soul will ascend.

He can die happy when you hold on to him, nuzzling into his side while quietly asking him to “Hold me, Köni. Please.”

Makes him feel all big and important.

Wear his clothes around him, my God–

First time he saw you in his hoodie – after an impromptu visit from the Rain God made your original outfit unusable – he literally did a double-take.

He dropped the plate he was washing, grasped at it as it slipped between his soap-frothed fingers.

He just punched it into the sink, heard something crack, and turned his attention to you. And only you.

“I– You–” König couldn’t even form a full sentence as you stared at him, half-peeking from behind the door.

“You look…” He racked every file, folder and confine of his mind for anything to describe how he felt right now, how you made him feel.

It just came out as a strangled noise. And, smiling, you hurried into his arms.

You didn’t mind that they were soapy and wet. And neither did König.

Though, the only reason he didn’t was because his brain was so positively fried that he quite literally could think of nothing else except you.

The longer you’ve been dating, the more comfortable König becomes with being rougher with you, shall we say.

It all starts when you start doing things you never did before.

Like letting your hands slip lower beneath his waist, resting on his hips; Sitting on his lap when there are no other spaces available – and then eventually when there are seats available; saying his name like that – “Köni,” when you need help.

“I just can’t do it all by myself. I need someone big and strong to do it for me.”

And, regardless of how sincere you sound when you say it, regardless of how you bat your eyelashes and plump your lips when you look up at him, König is far too whipped to say no.

At first, König genuinely doesn’t think you’re doing it intentionally.

And neither do you, until you see the effect it has on him.

Making his cheeks flush and a pillow find its way to his lap when he sits on the sofa, your head placed precariously close to the growing issue between his legs.

Now, König isn’t the type to go throwing accusations around.

But when he catches you wearing his favourite hoodie, balancing on the edge of the kitchen counter to reach something placed on top of the cabinets (and I don’t mean the top shelf; I mean on TOP of the cabinets – like when you’re hiding a Christmas gift), your underwear peeking just below the hem, he can’t take it.

He knows what you’re doing.

And now that you’ve let onto him, with your doe eyes and your exasperated “Köni, I need you–” he’s gone. Snapped.

Just because you’re “innocent” doesn’t mean you’re exempt from König’s wrath.

To put it plainly, König didn’t seem so shy or frightful of damaging that night as he pinned you to the wall and took you for the first time <3

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

"I'm tired of using those things."

Simon rarely whispers, hardly ever murmurs, and never coos. But this time, his voice is deliberately soft. 

You sigh and put the condom package down on the table. This evening had been a nice change, a pampering for your poor, stressed-out nerves. He had done his best to take your mind off work ever since he got home: he took you out for a 3-course dinner – which reminded you of the early days of your dating – and it was all supposed to end in a good stress relief of a fuck.

You'd sent him suggestive texts all morning, knowing he was coming home today. Those messages were extra naughty because you happened to be ovulating, and juicy, and horny as hell.

And you know he has waited for this moment as well. Which is why you can't get your head around why he wants to raise the subject of using other methods of contraception right before you're about to have sex. 

Why would he suddenly start complaining when both of you are already naked – practically seconds before you're about to roll down the condom for him?

"You know I've tried, Simon," you sigh again – you don't even bother to disguise the annoyance in your voice. After all, you've tried basically everything to make it more pleasurable for you to make love without the risk of getting knocked up. You hate the rubber between the two of you just as much as he does, if not more. Apparently you need to remind him how the last attempt with the pill went.

"I become a bloated monster," you say, realizing you're pouting only when he laughs.

You absolutely love it when he does: it's a rare thing, even with you. Even after all these years of love and dedication, the warm, husky chuckle at the back of his throat makes your heart flutter and your head feel dizzy.

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean…?"

The man has a tiny twinkle in his eyes, and the flutter in your heart turns into something heavier, more serious. He looks you up and down as if to weigh whether you're ready to take in what he's about to say.

"How about we just ditch the bloody things?"

Your heart is truly getting it today: it skips a beat or two from what he says. From what he implies.

"But you…” you whisper, still unsure if you're truly discussing the same thing here. “You said that kids are a bad idea." 

"They are." 

The twinkle in those eyes turns into an amused gleam, the corner of his mouth lifts up a bit from seeing you so shocked. 

And Simon never said he didn't want children.

It's just that he has avoided the subject like it's a seasonal flu he doesn't want to catch. 

He would make the perfect father: you just know it. Sad to say, but it was one of the main reasons you fell for this man. It's stupid, but it's true: women look for these things. They can tell if a guy would be a good choice for a father. They notice safety, security, the willingness to support and provide.

Biology and instincts be damned, you simply can't deny that Simon is the first man who made you think about what it would be like to have children. And of course the perfect candidate for a father thought that kids were a bad idea…

It seemed like a cruel joke, the way he brushed you off when you first approached him with your shy request. You pussyfooted around the subject, were as delicate as one can be, knowing it might make him uncomfortable. 

And it did. It more than just did.

He freaked the fuck out, went to work, and worked himself nearly to death – literally almost got himself killed, and you understood that this was serious. His childhood, his past, the dangers of his work – of course he thought himself unfit for the role.

Infuriatingly, it only made you more convinced that he was the perfect choice. The man was just so fricking responsible.

You barred your mouth shut after that. Instinct told you Simon might just leave if you continued the talk about having kids. Not because he couldn't take it, but because he would want to give you a chance to find someone to raise a family with before it was too late. 

It was his view of unconditional love: he was ready to let you go if need be. He would set you free if he suspected it would make you happy.

But then you saw him look at tiny kids – usually the ones that had just learned to walk – with a fleeting longing in his stare. It always turned into a withdrawn sulk, the gaze of a man who has accepted his fate.

He seemed to have the softest spot for little girls, especially when they were laughing and giggling or being unruly rascals, and sometimes flinched when a baby started to cry in the store. He looked a bit distressed for a second, and not because of the noise – but because he couldn't locate the immediate source and go and calm the baby. 

That's when you realized he actually wanted kids. The biological clock on this man was ticking just as furiously as yours. 

Years passed, and you silently buried your dreams of raising a little family together. He was enough for you, more than enough: you would not break up because of this. No man could ever replace Simon. 

But it still hurt. It was like a wound that never healed.

Until this night…

This night, it seemed he would not only cure it but heal it so well it wouldn’t even leave a scar. 

You suddenly find yourself under him – his moves are so quick that it's almost like you're teleported there. He sometimes does that: lets you play with him for a while, have your fun on top before reminding you who is in control here.

And this time, he won't even let you play.

"Simon, what are you doing," you sigh with barely concealed exhilaration. 

As if you didn't know exactly what he is about to do. 

He looks at you with that possessive look he sometimes has when you two have been apart for far too long. And there's something more behind that stare. It tells you that this is serious; this means business. The package you placed on the nightstand remains unopened and, apparently, will be the witness to his mission tonight. 

Serves the damn thing right…

You take in the absolute beef of this man: the bulk of pecs above you, the wide, solid middle that nearly swallows you every time you're under him.

You almost disappear between him and the mattress when you two are doing missionary, and it's one of the best feelings in the world. You've wanted to sink your teeth in to those huge, solid shoulders for god knows how many times. Once or twice, you actually did give him a little bite, only a nib, really, during a good pounding – and giggled at the breathless grunt of "Hey" that followed.

The trail of hair, darker in tone compared to the hair on his head, spreads over his abs which rest under a thin layer of fat. The happy trail, as you call it, runs down until it meets the heavy cock that always makes your mouth water like it's your favorite meal.

His hand is weighty, adoring when it comes to rest on your waist – the callous of his palms feels just the right kind of rough as he gives you the softest squeeze and a caress.

And he must know from the wanton looks you gave him all evening that he can just walk right in. Probably knew from those texts already that you've been wet all day long.

You try to spread your legs wider than they can go as he grabs himself to be positioned to your entrance. The fat tip of him feels heavy on your folds as he lazily slides himself up and down your slit, teasing the opening but not going in. It feels heavenly to sense him, all of him, with nothing there between you. There's no lifeless rubber: just his thick velvet meeting your wetness and silk.

The darned man won't even answer your question… Probably knows it's not really a question, just an astonished sigh of love.

"It's…not safe," your head falls back as he pushes the first few inches in – teasing you still by not giving you the full length and thick of him.

"Tired of safe, too," he rumbles softly above you, feeds more of himself in, and you tighten around his cock: receive him with fierce love and yearning. He groans at the sensation – it must feel divine for him, too. It must feel like it's meant to be this way. Now and forever.

You sigh as he starts to move, slow and intense, just the way he knows you like it when there's been too much stress and life has been a bitch. He always makes you feel better, always makes you melt in his arms when you run to him from the unfair, fucked up world. 

He's got some bad days too, and that’s when you ruffle his hair, scrub his back in the shower, give him a sloppy little blowjob, or make him his favorite dish, anything to make the tension in those mountains of shoulders disappear. 

You two worship each other; there’s no question about that. 

"Simon–ah… Truly, are you serious…?" 

"Hell yeah."

The idea of him cumming inside you is thrilling enough, but it's not just about that. 

You're ovulating, and he's a man in his absolute prime. He reminds you of mountain lions and snow leopards, living their life in harsh conditions and in wandering solitude until… Until the perfect companion comes along. He's simply the most virile male there is; broad, wide, and heavy, always ready when you are.

A man like Simon just cannot be infertile.

His eyes are half-lidded already, and those pale eyelashes make you bite your lip and grab his butt like it would be a life or death situation if he chose to withdraw.

And you know he loves it when you grope his ass and try to assist him with the thrusts. 

His little helper, indeed…

"Bloody fucking hell, you feel good…"

His head rolls back, exposing the tendons on his neck, thick, like the rest of him. Everything in this man is thick and broad and good – and fuck – he glides in and out like a dream. Somehow the extra layer of rubber has taken the brunt of his thickness away, but you feel it now, all of it, and it's something you could die for.

He grunts and thrusts, then halts for a while, chuckles all breathless…

"It's gonna be one hell of a show, sweetheart."

He's talking about what comes after. How it will be when there's a new addition and not a crew of two anymore. It brings tears to your eyes to see how he's already thinking about the future – and how he does it with a smile and a pleased chuckle.

"I'm used to sleepless nights," he reminds you softly. "You're not."

Ugh – he's thinking about your well-being when it would only make you the happiest woman on earth to take care of his children. Your children.

"I'll manage," you whisper.

"I know you will."

The tears are so close now; he’s simply the one and only person in this world for whom your love is boundless. It’s endless, overflowing.

He pulls back a little, raises your legs to rest on his shoulders, then crawls forward – he’s about to go deep, and the indecent but insanely sweet position makes you quail from him at first. It’s just too much all of a sudden.

"Wait–"

"The boys said this'll do the trick," he explains, waits until you adjust under and around him.

"The–the boys?"

He had been discussing this with his workmates…? 

Discussing which position is the best to help conceive?

"Yeah. Wanna do this properly."

This man might actually be serious… He just might be serious about this, and you still have difficulty grasping it.

"I can't believe you want this," you whisper, still trying to catch your breath on what's happening.

"Believe it or not, it's gonna happen now."

The smallest tear escapes, and you purse your lips, shut them tight to prevent a tiny little bawl from erupting. 

"I've always wanted you, Simon," you breathe into the air between you as he starts to make love to you, fill you with intent. "Just you, all these years…"

He rarely whispers, but this time, his voice is the softest hush.

"Right back at ya, darling."

"I–I want to give you… want your kids," you whimper, tears coating your voice as he continues the torture while the sweet, tight love surrounds you both.

"I want a family, Simon," you pant weakly, almost distressed. So urgent, desperate, like the wound is yet to be healed. You've never said those words to him before because you were afraid he might leave. 

"Love… fuckin' hell."

He has to stop to catch his breath, to catch the truth. Of course he has known it all along without you telling him, because he simply has those instincts of a wild animal. 

But words are powerful… They are magic. And this magic wants itself spelled out.

"I'll give them to you," he promises. "All of it. I swear."

Your eyes drift closed from the full wave of his vow. This mission is a crucial one, then, one of his most important ones. The man loves challenges; he loves when you up the stakes. Perhaps that's what this is about: he doesn't want to be a coward about the thing you both want. 

The skulls, the brass and death that always surround him can't take away the fact that he's a lifegiver. No matter what anyone says, men can give life, too. He has already given you so much, and now he's going to give you children.

A few more tears push through, and it's one of the sweetest things in your life: to get fucked by him so good while you're crying from joy.

"Luv. You trust me?"

You open your eyes again, and the sight of him is crystallized through tears. It's the most beautiful thing. 

"I trust you," you answer with a shaky breath.

Your trust is even more drugging to him than the tightness of your cunt, it seems. The corner of his eye twitches once, his brows knit together, and a pained look passes in his stare: but it's the sweet kind of pain, just like yours is.

"Feels so good," you whisper, looking up at him with devout love. "So, so good…"

"You're damn right," he sighs, panting with strained, short breaths. "Never felt this good."

He rocks you like you're under the sea, at the bottom of the ocean where the waves are mellow and the seabed is made of the softest sand. You're squeezed between his arms, tightly; he pins you to the bed with his body. The flutter of those pale lashes with every thrust is illegally sweet.

Your lips are bolted shut from the raw sensation, the swelling waves, but when a noise finally erupts, it does so with force. 

You know it makes him wild whenever you cry and plead under him. You know it sends him straight to the edge, too: when you moan and tighten around his cock, spread yourself for him to plunder while you're clawing at his back. You were so embarrassed the first time you noticed the red marks on his skin after your little sessions, but he was only pleased and said you should never apologize for that. His body is full of past pain and torture, and still, still, he allows, even wants you to destroy it even more.

"Faster, Simon, please…" 

"Yeah, that's it. Beg... Beg for me, love… "

And damn right, he's eating up your wrecked state like it's time for Christmas dinner, and the table is brimming with his favorite food. You're close, so close it would be torture, devastation if he stopped. 

"Ya want me to give it to you?" His voice is more rough, more commanding. God, he's close too.

"Yes–give it to me, please–"

Just don't stop, whatever you do, don't stop…

You beg some more, but it's incoherent. Just the way he likes. 

Simon–fuck…

There's no reason to it, just ah's and fuck's and love's, all knit together in a sweet, heady mess as you come– 

Fuck–!

…the orgasm is so intense it points your toes, makes you wrap around his middle with what little strength you have in your arms and fingers and those tiny little claws. Your nails sink in, somewhere between his shoulder blades: he's so wide you can't quite reach to hug him, but you latch onto him like a drowning person nonetheless.

"Oh–oh fucking god…!" 

He comes, right after, buries himself so deep that it stings a little, but you would never, ever complain. He pumps you full, doesn't even move, only arches his back to go even deeper, although he's already buried there to the hilt.

And never has he in all your years together sounded so vulnerable. He usually just grunts and huffs when he comes, but now you get a whole string of words and a fragile, broken pitch. He sounds as if he's near the point of breaking into tears. 

It must feel divine to cum inside you instead of a condom, and what's even more, with the intent to fulfill a mission with that shot. Give life.

If you don't get pregnant from this, well… you doubt you ever will.

He's lying on top of you in a heavy, panting heap, sounding like he's just done ten deadlift PRs in a row. You can't help but laugh, breathless, too, and caress him as he comes down from his sex high.

"You can let me go now," you ghost your fingertips up and down his back when he still doesn't move. It's not that you want him to release you, but he's simply too heavy to be lying all over you like this for long periods of time.

"Nah not yet. Gotta make sure..."

He thinks you want him to pull out, and you giggle some more.

"You're crushing me," you laugh. "And we can do this all weekend, silly. If you want to make sure."

His middle contracts with a silent laugh, too.

"Got a fair point there, love."

Finally, he lets you out of the spread. He pulls out, too – that's not necessarily what you wanted, but when he takes you in his arms, you don't complain.

"That was… so nice," you say, suddenly shy. As if this was the first time he wrapped himself around you in a post-coital embrace.

"That was the best."

He's so warm, and the arm around you is heavy, even when lax. Especially when lax. You feel soft and sweet in his hold made of pure strength.

"I'd be surprised if not. You were very determined."

"You think that did it..?"

He's suddenly shy, too. You could swear he has never asked such a fragile question during or after a mission.

"No half-assing with my sweetheart."

One could say he really used his whole ass on this. You know it, because you're the one who spurred him on with weak but eager hands.

"...but I think it would be best to try again tomorrow. Just in case," he suggests, and you can hear the smile. God, that you love him.

"I wouldn't say no to that."

You imagine him waking up to your baby's cry with a sigh and a jaw-dislocating yawn, hushing you back to sleep by telling you it's his turn to go. He would finally locate the source of crying and make it his mission to cradle the little breadcrumb back to sleep, too. You just know Simon would sometimes fall asleep on the sofa while the baby is still in his arms, sound asleep just like their dad.

And you also know the child would make him laugh more. He would have the greatest time hearing all the silly (not to talk about the clever!) things the kid comes up with once it started talking. Simon would listen with a straight face, at first – out of respect – but then he would come to you with an unrestrained smile and a comment: "Did'ya hear what that little thing just said? Unbelievable..."

Whenever the kid had a tricky question, you would send them to Simon. It's decided already. You imagine him explaining things to the child with his steady and calm briefing voice while you're trying to keep your giggle in.

And when the little one was big enough to run around and poke things off the shelves, Simon would embrace you from behind while you're pouring some morning tea and say: "Should we make another one, hmm?"

After all, your little troublemaker would also need a friend to play with...

There's a gigantic, peaceful smile on your face, and Simon should be snoring by now… But he's still awake, and the arm around you draws you closer. He even tucks his hand partly between your body and the mattress. It's the sweetest prison from which you never want to escape.

"What if… What if I get grumpy when I'm pregnant?" You start to chit-chat nonsense while he holds you against a solid chest. You know he will fall asleep soon, and you wish to voice some fragile concerns before he does.

"I'll bring you ice cream to keep you nice and calm," he mutters in the back of your neck, sounding drowsy already.

"What if ice cream won't help?"

"I'll bring you chocolate."

You smile at him having a solution to every problem, no matter how minor. 

"You're really not afraid…?"

"Of you being grumpy? Nah I don't think so."

"No," you laugh at him joking around. "Of… changes."

"After all that we've been through? No." He brushes his lips over your neck, and you turn a little to look at him.

"Simon... What made you change your mind?"

He thinks on the answer for a good ten seconds. You know that inward look, which is both a gaze to the past and a shaky, hopeful glimpse to the future.

"Don't wanna die without knowing how our kid would look like. What they would be like."

You swallow past sorrow – it's such a beautiful thing to say that you have to catch your breath for a moment. Then you put your hand over his arm, the one keeping you close to him.

"Guess I got tired of living in fear," he sums up the change of heart, and you have to blink back more tears.

"I'm tired of living in fear, too," you whisper, and he entwines your fingers together. The kiss that follows is like a seal to your change of plans. It's pure hope.

"Could you... Could you say that we'll be fine?" You speak on his lips as softly as you can. You sometimes worry that he's annoyed by your constant need for reassurance, but he sounds as solid as a soldier can be.

"We'll be fine like always. Promise you that."

He doesn't seem to mind: if anything, you could swear that giving you encouragement only makes his chest puff up a little. The man gets satisfaction from you needing him in your life like this.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of us."

You ease fully into his embrace. He has said he'll take care of you many times before, but now your world is changing. It has changed already; you just know it. There's no more you and him, a team of two.