#plus size!reader

“I don’t want to leave you alone.” He swallowed thickly and glanced over his shoulder, as if confirming that an empty room wasn’t about to magically appear in the lobby. And when it didn’t, he gave you a nervous grin, his cheeks blooming with a soft pink. “Why don’t- why don’t you stay in my room with me? I’ll sleep on the floor.” He rushed to add on, his blush growing darker as he shuffled.

Your stomach fluttered. “You don’t have to do that, you deserve a good night’s sleep more than I do. But if you are insisting-“ he cut in with a quick ‘I am’, “-then I’ll take the floor.” His lips pulled downwards, tugging your heart with them. 

He looked around one more time, blue eyes sparkling with an idea that he seemed almost too bashful to admit aloud. One dark curl bounced against his forehead as he looked down at the floor, his shoes squeaking against the linoleum. “We could share the bed?”

Heat rushed through your body, the thought of sharing a bed with the dorky mountain man of your dreams filling your head before you could stop it, sending your heart into overdrive. It was no secret to anyone you worked with that you had a crush on Clark, being his designated photographer you had unparalleled access to the man, seeing sides of him that no one else had the privilege to. And you were not passing up this chance.

“Ok, just for tonight. I’m sure they’ll have another room open by tomorrow.” You prayed that they didn’t. 

Clark smiled and before you could move, he scooped up your bag and slung it over his shoulder. “C’mon let’s get you to bed, we can deal with everything else in the morning.” 

The lady at the front desk gave you a tired smile as you passed, a genuine look of apology on her face but at this second, you really just wanted to hug her in gratitude. You didn’t even realise the elevator doors had opened, too lost in the thought of just how warm his body would be next to yours as you settled under the cheap hotel duvet until Clark laid a massive palm against the small of your back, guiding you inside.

You bit down hard on your lip, swallowing back the whimper that almost escaped you. The elevator moved up with a deep rumble, leaving a charged silence hanging between you. With each floor that passed, your stomach knotted tighter and tighter until you were struggling to breathe normally while beside you, Clark was the image of calm.

The hallway that opened up in front of you was virtually identical to every other you had seen yet it felt so different as he led you forwards, the duffle bags hanging from his broad shoulder bouncing against his back, one hand already holding his key card, the other still resting on the dip of your spine. You wondered vaguely if he would insist on putting pillows between you, then your mind slipped into what he wore to bed.

“Here we are.” His smile was nervous and a little keen, the same smile he had given you when you were told that the two of you were going on this trip. The lock beeped and the little light turned green. This was it, finally something was going to go right. You let yourself imagine just how noble he would be, turning his back while you slid into bed, wanting to give you as much privacy as he could in the small room before he would join you, that adorable pink blush covering his cheeks as your legs bumped together. Maybe he would wish you a goodnight in that soft voice of his while turning out the lights, maybe it would get cold during the night and he would unconsciously tug you to his chest, maybe, just maybe, he would kiss your forehead to soothe you back to sleep.

Darkness encompassed the room, leaving you blindly fumbling for the light switch while Clark shuffled in behind you, blocking out the light from the hall. Your finger tips brushed against the switch and you took a deep breath, willing the butterflies in your stomach to stop for just a second, and then you flicked the lights on. Both of you froze as you took in the room.

There were two beds, two queen sized beds.

“Huh.” The sound came out as more of a laugh but it seemed forced. You turned to Clark, his mouth still hanging open, his shoulders slumped. As soon as he caught your gaze, he righted himself though he seemed so disappointed. “Why don’t you take the shower first, I should call Perry and leave a message for him.”

Your mood plummeted and suddenly your exhaustion returned. Of course the universe wouldn’t give you this. Maybe next time you thought as you took your bag from Clark’s hands, planning to sulk in the shower for a while before you had to suck it up and be normal about this whole thing.

The hot water helped relax the throbbing behind your eyes and washed away the stickiness between your thighs. You had thought briefly of taking care of it but Clark was right on the other side of that wall and as much as that made your mind fuzzy with desire, you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything about it. You cut off the water abruptly, resting your forehead on the tiles and letting the condensation cool you down. 

Just as your hormones levelled out, there was a loud scraping sound just outside the door.

“Clark?”  You called, stepping from the shower and wrapping a towel around your body. “Is everything ok?”

“Yeah! Yep! Totally ok here, just stubbed my toe against the desk.” He stammered, voice slightly muffled by the wood between you. You couldn’t help but smile. What a dork.

The room was considerably colder as you left the bathroom, donned in your pyjamas. You stumbled over the threshold making you miss the guilty expression on your partner’s face before he dashed to the bed. You giggled. “I think I’m a lot tireder than I initially thought.” And then you looked up, and for the second time in half an hour, you were frozen to the spot.

Clark was now lounging on the bed, the only bed in the room.

“What happened to the other bed?” His dark brows furrowed.

“There’s only one?” He responded, looking down at the single queen before back up to you. “I think you’re right, you are way too tired, especially if you're seeing double.”

He sprang up from the mattress, his hands immediately landing on your wide hips, and herded you towards where he had been sitting. You could do nothing except obey, your mind spinning with confusion. 

“Are you sure there was always one?” He threw the sheets open for you before helping you under them with a sad if not slightly guilty expression on his face. 

“Just get some rest, I’ll be back in a minute.” You watched him run to the bathroom, snagging his bag on the way. The door slammed shut and you rolled onto your back, eying the now weirdly empty room. The bed seemed too small for the space but he was right, there was only one bed with no evidence of another anywhere. The only weird thing was that the big window at the far end of the room was slightly cracked open.

You sat up, the sheets pooling around your hips. The shower turned on again. You could check it out and be back in bed in less than a minute but then you looked at the empty side of the bed. Clark was a big man, he would take up most of it, forcing you both to cuddle if you wanted to stay fully on the bed.

You flopped back down and something in your chest eased. The sound of water and the occasional movement from Clark provided the perfect white noise for your exhausted mind, lulling you into a contented doze. By the time he finally emerged, steam following him out of the bathroom, you were almost asleep but awake enough to open your eyes to catch the view of a lifetime.

His bare chest was the first thing you saw— he was toned but not ripped, a healthy layer of fat covering his body as well as a thatch of dark hair on his pecs that led to a trail of it disappearing beneath the plaid sweats he was wearing. He had left his glasses behind, letting you see his face completely unobscured. He was tired, no doubt, but blindly beautiful and you couldn’t keep yourself from smiling at him as he approached.

“Feeling better?” You nodded into your pillow and he graced you with a relieved grin. You had never noticed how pronounced his canines were before. “Good.” The mattress dipped with his weight, making you roll over slightly to his side of the bed. His shoulder brushed your cheek as he settled, his skin was warm and unbelievably soft, like he was born from sunshine. 

His arm pressed against yours, your thighs touching in a way that made many parts of you flutter. “This ok?” 

“More than.” You murmured, eyes shutting again. He hummed contentedly before he leaned away from you and the light by his side of the bed flicked off and he returned to you.

The night settled over you, dragging you closer and closer to sleep but your mind still gnawed at one thought. “I really thought there were two beds for a minute there. Thank you for letting me crash here, I can’t even think what would’ve happened if I fell asleep in the lobby being this tired.” 

Clark pressed his nose to the top of your head, his fingers plucking softly at your wrist. “You don’t have to thank me for that… not when it wasn’t really selfless for me to insist.”

You were wide awake now. “What do you mean?” You lifted your heavy head from the pillow, looking at him in the low light of the moon streaming over you both.

Clark refused to look down at you. “What man doesn’t want to share a bed with a gorgeous woman?”A few moments passed and he took a deep, shuddering breath, steeling himself. “And I, well this sounds really awful, but I was kind of hoping that this would happen. Is that wrong?”

You could feel his anxiety in the way his muscles seized beneath your touch, his fingers ceasing the gentle caressing of your skin. For a moment, you let it sink in, some part of you feeling completely vindicated in your disappointment. “No. I really wanted it too, how could I not? Not when you’ve always been so important to me.”

Your whispered admiration stilled him before, finally, blissfully he spoke once more. “Thank god.” 

His lips were just as soft as you had fantasised, his touch just as gentle. His nose pressed into the swell of your cheek while your hands grabbed at his shoulders, encouraging him to deepen the kiss till all you could think of was him. “God, you drive me crazy. Just so beautiful and smart.” He groaned into your mouth, his touch now firm on your hips, pinning you to him.

“Clark.” Your moan seemed to set him alight. 

“Please keep saying my name like that.” He dove back into your lips and rolled over, covering your body completely with his. He settled happily between your soft thighs, pressing close to your warmth. “Please.” His hips rolled against yours and you gasped. Pleasure rocketed through you, his cock rubbing your clit like it was made exactly for you.

Your ankles locked behind his back, meeting each roll with one of your own. He chased your lips as he humped you, his pants growing tighter to the point of tugging on him uncomfortably. 

“Can I take them off?” 

“Only if you take off mine too?” He shuddered above you.

“You’re trying to kill me.” He whimpered but quickly went about shedding both of your clothes and then laid down over you again, sending a whole new sensation through your veins. His skin against yours, his (fucking massive) cock resting between your lips, his curls which you loved so much obscuring your vision as he tilted his head to drink in the sight of your nakedness. It felt so right, consuming your exhaustion and frustration, leaving you only wanting for him. 

He gave a restrained thrust and immediately pulled himself away, one large hand grabbing the base of his cock and squeezing tightly. “You feel too good and we haven’t even done anything yet.” 

“Then maybe we should do something, cause I also need you so badly Clark.” He nodded and kissed you before scrambling off the bed, reaching for his bag. You caught the flash of the metallic packet in the moonlight. He quickly rolled the condom onto himself and crawled back onto his side of the bed. As he leaned back against the headboard, you finally saw the sheer size of him. Long and thick and painfully hard.

“It might be easier for you if you’re on top.” He pulled you into his lap eagerly and it was all you could do to watch his cock twitch with excitement as you settled above him. 

“Full of yourself Kent?” You teased though your heart twisted and your pussy fluttered at just the thought of trying to take him.

“No, but you’re about to be.” You froze as he easily lifted you, guiding his tip to your entrance. He inched inside and already you burned with the stretch. The whimper that escaped your swollen lips had him pausing. “We can stop, if it’s too much. I don’t want to hurt you.”

You pulled the hand on your waist into your own, twisting your fingers together with his. “No, it’s ok. Just give me a few seconds.” Clark tilted his head upwards, kissing you softly as you lowered yourself down, taking more and more of him with each shared breath and moan. His cock carved itself through you like he had done to your heart so long ago. Everything within you chanted his name, calling desperately for his mind, his body, his soul, and he was finally giving it to you, with each and every inch. 

In no world would you last long, already teetering on the edge but you had to last, for this to last. Your hips met his and the breath was stolen from your lungs. He squeezed your fingers like he was trying to comfort you but the way his jaw ticked and his muscular thighs spasmed beneath you told you that you weren’t the only one struggling to hang on.

“I can’t believe this is happening. I’m so scared I’m gonna open my eyes and this will all have been a dream again.” You slumped down, pressing your forehead against his own.

“You dream about me?” You lifted off of him, your wobbly legs keeping you up for only a few seconds before they gave out and you swallowed him to the hilt once more. He moaned and grabbed at your hip with his free hand.

“Every night.” You started to rock, gently at first, gauging just how much your body could take without breaking, then a little faster as Clark’s grip got tighter. “You feel so good, you can’t be real.” 

“I am. I’m real ‘nd I’m yours.” You pulled your joined hand upwards, letting his palm spread across your bouncing chest, right above where your heart was racing. “Feel me, ‘m real.”

His mouth chased your pebbled nipple, catching it between his teeth, making you gasp. “Yeah you are.” He snarled against your skin, now meeting each roll with a desperate punch of his hips, tying your nerves tighter to the point you found it hard to breathe. He sucked and licked, groaning loudly as you tugged on his hair with each motion.

“Clark I’m-“ You hadn’t realised how close you were until suddenly it was barreling right for you.

“Let go, it’s ok. I’ll catch you.” He held your hips, rocking them for you. The head of his cock brushed against that spot deep inside of you that had your fingers and toes go numb. 

“Want this to last.” The words forced themselves from your lungs and his pace stuttered just like his breath. You felt him twitch violently inside of you as he pulled you down all the way. 

“Don’t- don’t say that. I need you to finish first.” He planted his feet onto the mattress, now firmly in control, hitting that spot over and over again. “I’ll give you everything you want, need. You just have to ask.”

“You’ll sleep next to me again?” You were close, so close, just needed one little push. 

“Every night. Forever.” You shattered above him, your body seizing with pleasure you’d never felt before. Your moans echoed through the room, undoubtedly carrying out into the night but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Not when you felt too full and warm and finally content after so long yearning for it.

Clark moaned with you, his chest rumbling with its force, keeping his pace until your pussy finally relaxed around him and you were eased back to reality. “Cum for me Clark.” You whispered.

“God please!” He cried, thrusting up into you, chasing his own end. You grabbed onto his hands and threw your head back. Your pussy burned with overstimulation but you never wanted him to stop. Your neck rolled to the side, your vision swimming, but it was just clear enough to make out the weird shape in the tree right outside the window. It kind of looked like a queen sized bed, sheets and all. Just when you squinted to try and get a better view, Clark bucked up, his thighs seizing beneath your ass as he gave a loud cry of your name.

Your head snapped back and watched as he fell apart, shattering beautifully between your legs. His thumb found your clit, driving you to one last orgasm as his tapered off. “Clark!” You squealed, trying to get off of him but he was relentless, expertly throwing you into ecstasy. You trembled above him, just barely keeping yourself upright before he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

His heart hammered beneath your ear, bringing you back down to earth while he stroked your back. A hand on your ass helped guide your hips upwards and let his softening cock pull out of you. “Thank you.” He whispered into your temple, pressing kiss after kiss to your sweaty skin.

“I should be thanking you, you made me cum so hard I thought I saw a mattress in the tree outside.” You giggled, tracing the gentle lines of his body with your fingertips.

Clark’s eyes widened, not that you could see, and glanced towards the open window. He really thought he angled the throw perfectly so that the bed would miss the branches.

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Yandere!Femboy who walks around the shared apartment completely naked in the mornings after his showers because he needs to “air dry.”

When he’s not naked, he has on the tiniest booty shorts, showing off his perfectly rounded ass. Not that you were looking.

Yandere!Femboy roommate who is unbelievably loud when he touches himself in the solidarity of his own room. His whimpers, mewls, and moans can be heard very clearly through the wall.

Little do you know, he’s holding a dirty pair of your panties to his nose as he pumps his achy cock until it’s spurting white, pearly cum over and over again.

You knew he knew that the walls were thin! Hell, he told you they were when you first moved in.

Yandere!Femboy roommate who has done filthy things he is not proud of around your apartment in hopes that you would catch him.

He has fucked himself to pieces on your shared couch, imagining it’s your strap or your dripping pussy wrapped tightly around him. He often leaves dried cum stains too in hopes that you would notice.

Watching you sit in his dried cum is satisfaction enough sometimes.

Yandere!Femboy who purposely leaves out his sex toys for you to find and berate him about.

“Dude, you can’t just leave your plug on the bathroom sink!” you yelled as you chucked it towards where he was laid on his bed.

“Sorry, look I’ll put it to use really quickly!” he smiled as he picked up the plug.

He stared into your eyes as he made a show of him licking around the bulbous end of it, getting it wet. He sucked into his mouth sloppily.

You only had to pretend like your clit wasn’t pulsing for a split second because as soon as he reached back to pull down his pajama pants to reveal his juicy ass, you slammed his door shut and retreated back to your room.

Yandere!Femboy roommate who you have zero boundaries with.

Yandere!Femboy roommate who always ends up needing to pee whenever you happen to be in the shower.

He cards all the vivid images of your soapy body away for those late night jerk off sessions.

Yandere!Femboy roommate who cannot help but indulge himself!

“You know, you have really nice tits. Wait, can you like lather them with soap really quickly?” he giggles as he bites the tip of his finger.

Yandere!Femboy roommate who begins to grow hard in the confines of his short little shorts.

“Hey, don’t shave your cunt either. Looks nice,” was the last thing he said before leaving the bathroom. It barely clocked to you that he never actually peed.

Yandere!Femboy roommate who absolutely hates when you have guests over, specifically men. He always finds a way to get them gone.

Often times, he’ll barge in talking about some big exam or having to get up early the next day, so your guest has to leave.

You often ignore the evil glare he gives the poor boys you invite over.

Yandere!Femboy roommate who was particularly very angry about your most recent guest. Some guy in your lecture who asked you out on a date.

“Boring!” he said when you had told him.

Now all three of you were awkwardly sat in the living room watching some movie your date picked out.

Yandere!Femboy roommate who was cuddled up to you. It was just a coincidence! He was chilly! Your plush body kept him plenty warm. If he wanted to grope you a bit under your blanket, well that was his business!

Your date was not very excited about him being there. About half way through the movie, he had asked you where your bathroom was.

“Down the hall.” you had pointed.

As soon as he was gone, Yandere!Femboy was snuggling up closer to you.

“So have you kissed anyone before, well besides me?” he inquired as he loudly smacked his bubble gum.

“Yeah,” you shrugged as your attention stayed on the screen. This caused him to pout.

“Are you planning on kissing that douchebag?”

“I don’t know maybe? Not seeing how it would be any of your business,” you groaned and rolled your eyes.

“What if…what if we practiced really quickly! Just so that you’ll be prepared if he asks for a kiss huh?” he smiled, the light of the tv reflecting off of his glossy pink lips.

Before you could respond, he was leaning into you. His lips were plush and sticky from lip gloss. Sweet too.

The little cunt was quick to lick into your mouth, eager to taste you. Eager to have your spit in his mouth.

Shortly, your date had made his way back into the living room.

Yandere!Femboy roommate who makes direct eye contact with your date as he sticks his tongue out and gives a kitten lick to your puckered lips.

“I knew you two had something weird going on! Fuck this shit!” he huffed as he made his way out.

You quickly parted from Yandere!Femboy, startled. You had tried to defend yourself, but your date was having none of it.

Yandere!Femboy roommate who sat cozily knowing he had successfully ruined another one of your conquests.

Yandere!Femboy who had no clue what was in store for him.

Yandere!Femboy who you had fucked within an inch of his life!

You and him laid out on the couch as you rode his cock until his body felt like it was on fire.

“Please! I’m so sorry! I can’t take it!” he babbled as drool began to roll down his chin. His eyes rolled back as he gripped onto the fat of your hips.

“You want me all to yourself, huh? Can’t take what I give you? Fucking pathetic,” you spit down onto him.

He stuck his pink tongue out, gathering your essence. He gripped onto you harder before his body started spasming again, sparse cum shooting into your puffy cunt.

“Oh please, please let me pull out! I’ll eat you until my jaw burns! Your cunnie is milking my brains out,” he whimpered as he looked up at you through damp lashes.

You only rolled your eyes before climbing off and making him go to town on your cunt.

It comes at the window—three slow taps against the glass, patient as a funeral procession—and you know before you even turn your head. You know by the weight of it; by the way the sound doesn't ask.

Yves is mid-sentence. Something about a vineyard in Lyon, his mother's property, the way the light hits the grapes in September. He's nice. He wore a button-down and brought wine that didn't come from a Tesco meal deal. He is, by every quantifiable metric, a good date.

The tapping stops.

You don't breathe.

"Everything alright?" Yves asks, and you watch his face—open, earnest, completely unaware that the temperature in your flat just dropped ten degrees.

"Yeah," you answer before clearing your throat. "Excuse me a second."

You're already moving toward the hall when the front door opens. Not breaks. Not splinters. Opens. Because of course he still has the key. The landlord changed the lock three months ago. You don't know when he copied the new one and you're not sure you want to.

Your ex boyfriend fills your hallway the way smoke fills a room.

All ominous six-foot-four of him, still in full kit—plate carrier, tac belt, the Sig strapped to his thigh like it grew there. His hardshell mask is streaked with something dark. Mud. Maybe mud. The hall light catches the wet shine of it across the jaw and you tell yourself it's mud because the alternative makes your stomach fold in on itself.

He smells like diesel and copper and cold air, like he came straight from the tarmac. Like he didn't even stop at base to dekit.

He looks at you first. Always does. Those flat brown eyes finding you through the mask's sockets, dragging slow from your face to the silk top stretched across your supple chest, down the curve of your waist where your jeans sit snug against your plump hips.

And something shifts behind the mask. Not softening. Settling. Like a predator confirming its kill is still where it left it.

Then his gaze slides past you. Down the hall. Into the kitchen where Yves is half-standing from the stool with a glass of Côtes du Rhône in his hand and the dawning expression of a man who has just realized he is in the wrong story.

"Who's this then, pet?"

Low and conversational, like he's asking about a parcel you've received.

"Simon—"

"Didn't quite catch 'is name."

He hasn't moved nor raised his voice, which is even worse somehow. Hasn't done anything except stand there in your hallway with blood drying on his mask and one gloved hand resting almost lazy on the grip of his sidearm.

"Bit rude, innit. Not introducin' us."

Yves sets the wine glass down. You have to give him credit—his hand only shakes a little.

"I should go," Yves declares wide-eyed, already reaching for his jacket on the back of the stool.

Then he doesn't look at you. He looks at the door, and then at the six-foot-four obstacle between him and it, and something in his face goes very pale and very still.

Simon steps aside soundlessly. One measured pace to the left, his broad back pressing flat against the wall, giving Yves exactly enough room to pass. Generous. Magnanimous, even.

Yves doesn't take the space so much as bolt through it, shoulders pulled tight, not breathing, the way a mouse runs along a baseboard when it can smell the cat, and the front door closes behind him with a soft, apologetic click.

You stand in the hall with your arms crossed and your blood pressure somewhere in the stratosphere.

"Four months, Simon."

He tilts his head slowly, like a dog hearing a frequency it doesn't understand.

"Four months since I told you it was over."

"Mm."

He reaches up, unclips the mask at his jaw, pulls it off with the black cloth. Underneath, his pale face is all hard angles and shadows. There's a fresh split in his bottom lip, swollen and dark. He tongues it absently, watching you.

"Heard ya the first time."

"Then what the fuck are you doing in my flat?" Your voice goes up an octave and you hate it.

"Came home."

You almost stomp your foot. "This isn't your home anymore."

"Didn't say the flat."

That lands somewhere behind your ribs and sticks and you hate him for it—hate the way he can crack you open like a quail egg with four words while standing there looking like a war crime in boots. You set your jaw, hold your ground. You have practiced this; rehearsed the way this conversation goes in the shower, in bed, in the queue at Sainsbury's.

"I told you what I need," you say, and your voice is steadier now, which is a victory. "I need someone who's here. Present. Consistent. Someone who doesn't disappear for weeks and come home looking like—" You gesture at him. All of him. The blood, the gear, the split lip, the thousand-yard flatness behind his eyes. "—that."

"Fair."

"Don't—Don't just say 'fair' like you're humoring me."

"'M not."

Then he pushes off the wall. One step. Slow, the way he does everything when he's not working—deliberate and unhurried, like time is a thing that belongs to him. "Said ya needed space, pet. Gave you four months."

You roll your eyes in exasperation. "I said we were done, Simon."

"Nah."

Another step. Close enough now that you can feel the cold radiating off his gear, smell the copper-sharp tang of wherever he's been, see the dried blood cracking in the creases of his gloves.

"Y'said you wanted someone steady. Present." His head dips. Just enough that his mouth is level with your temple, his voice a low scrape against your ear. "Didn't say y'wanted someone else."

"That's not—"

"'Cause ya don't."

His hand comes up. Gloved fingers catching your jaw—firm, not rough, the leather cold and stiff against your skin. He tilts your face up the way he always does, like he needs the angle, needs to see all of it. Your breath catches and you watch something in his eyes go dark and liquid, the flat operational blankness cracking open just enough to show you what is underneath.

Hunger. Not sharp. Not frantic. The slow, bone-deep kind that lives in the marrow. The kind that has been sitting in the dark for four months, patient as a held breath.

His thumb drags across your lower lip and his gaze follows it, tracing the path, and you feel the moment his breathing changes—deeper, slower, controlled the way a man controls himself when he's choosing not to take.

"You want me," he murmurs. Not a question but a fact. Delivered the same way he delivers coordinates, with flatness and certainty, already confirmed.

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is the way your body answers before your mouth can. The way you lean into his grip, just barely, just enough. The way your lashes dip and your lips part against the pad of his thumb and something hot and liquid pools low in your belly, traitorous and familiar.

He clocks it immediately, because he's Simon Riley.

His other hand finds your hip, gloved fingers sinking into the soft give of your flesh, squeezing once—slow, proprietary, like he's relearning the shape of something that belongs to him. You feel the press of his belt buckle against your stomach, the hard edge of the holster against your thigh, and lower—the unmistakable, thickening line of him behind his tac pants, not hidden, not apologized for.

"Yves," you say weakly. A last stand. A white flag dressed up as a name.

"Who?" His split eyebrow quirks in amusement.

And then he kisses you.

Not gentle or careful or the way a man kisses someone he's trying to win back.

He kisses you like he's reclaiming territory—wet and filthy and all-consuming, his split lip smearing copper across your mouth, his tongue sliding against yours before you've even finished gasping. His hand stays locked on your jaw, holding you exactly where he wants you, and the other drags from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against the hard wall of his plate carrier until you can feel every buckle, every strap, every rigid unforgiving edge of him pressed into the softness of your body.

You make a sound. Something wrecked and involuntary that vibrates against his teeth, and he swallows it—greedy and thorough, like he's been starving and you're the first good thing he's tasted in months.

His tongue drags slow across your bottom lip and then he bites down, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to own, and the noise you make this time is worse. Needier. The kind of sound that undoes four months of conviction in a single breath.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Mouth wet. Eyes black. The smug bastard isn't even breathing hard.

"There she is," he murmurs, and his forehead drops to yours.

He breathes you in like oxygen after a dive, and when he speaks, it's so low you feel it more than hear it, a vibration against your skin, a thing that lives in your chest:

"Told ya, love. Wasn't a suggestion."

The wine Yves brought sits on the counter, warm and forgotten. By morning it'll be flat.

You won't notice. You'll be in bed with Simon's arm locked around your waist, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his breathing deep and even for the first time in four months.

You'll tell yourself you're angry about it.