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see you when the wrath comes | ch. 63 - but, like, officially

↣ pairing: simon "ghost" riley x OC ↣ genre: rivals to lovers, dramedy, hurt/comfort, smut, slowburn, idiots to lovers ↣ rating: +18 ↣ word count: 8.2k ↣ chapter warnings & tags: SMUT! (mutual masturbation, oral), use of vaporub ↣ playlist: kiss me slowly - parachute // brother - kodaline // us against the world - coldplay // i, carrion (icarian) - hozier previous // masterlist // next

↳ after dinner, you, simon, and johnny wind down.

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

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

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

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

“So,” Johnny began from your left.

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

“What d’ya make of ‘em?”

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

“They’re… alright,” Simon said.

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

“I never said that.”

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

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

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

Johnny smirked. “Ahhh, does he?”

You chuckled. “Yeah. He’s a shy boy.”

Simon glared at you both. “Enough.”

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

“Stop it.”

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

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

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

You gripped the bottle a bit too tight.

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

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

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

“No better since you crushed them hours ago.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah didn’t mean from captivity.”

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

“Johnny…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Johnny chuckled. “Ye tell me…”

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

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

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

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

Then Johnny exhaled and leaned back into the cushions.

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

Simon cleared his voice. “Agreed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My face was on a beer stein, Micky.”

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

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

Your boyfriend.

Boyfriend. Hmm.

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

My boyfriend.

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

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

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

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

“Wise,” you said.

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

“How many?” Simon asked.

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

Simon looked at him.

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

“I wasn't going to kill him.”

You snorted before taking a swig.

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

Simon scoffed. “I'm not letting him—”

“Simon,” you warned.

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

You bit the inside of your cheek.

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

“I'm in recovery,” you said.

“Tell her that.”

“Bet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? So soon?”

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

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

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

“You sure?”

He smiled from ear to ear. “Positive.”

You nodded.

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

“Good,” he said.

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

“Aye,” Johnny said. “Good.”

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

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

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

“Simon?”

“Aye, go on then.”

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

“You okay?" you murmured.

“Yeah,” he said. A pause. “You?”

“Yeah.”

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

A girl can dream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat went dry.

Fucker. He knows what he’s doing.

You nodded. “How’s your nose?”

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

“Good. You took your meds?”

“Yes, love.”

His rough, calloused hands massaged your thigh now.

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

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

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

“Hmmhmm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“How many dates have we been on?”

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

“Uh-huh, and then?”

“...Okay, you’re right.”

“Exactly.”

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

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

“I figured.”

“You’re not mad about that?”

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

“So…”

“So?”

“What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Us.”

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

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

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

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

“Okay…”

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

He sighed. “Again, I panicked.”

“I know.”

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

“I am already your girlfriend.”

“But, like, officially.”

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

“Love, just say yes.”

“Yes,” you smirked.

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

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

“What if I say no?”

“No sex for a month.”

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

“No sex for a year.”

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

“Okay, bu—”

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

“Is that it?” you challenged.

“Hmm?” He smirked.

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

“Affirmative.”

“Fuck you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

“What am I, a five year-old?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s good for muscle pain, too.”

He swallowed thickly. “Uh-huh.”

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

Lord have mercy.

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

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

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

Or don’t.

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

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

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

You chuckled. “Jesus.”

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

You were wearing that fucking perfume again.

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

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

Kill me now.

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

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

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

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

Okay, he thought. Okay, this is—

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

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

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

“Babe,” you breathed.

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

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

“Untrue.”

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

“Babe—”

“No comment.”

“It’s vapor rub, Simon.”

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

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

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

“I know.”

“So this has been—”

“Simon.”

“—building for a—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It's fine. It's not—!”

“Simon.”

“It doesn't take much—”

“And what about me?”

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

“What does that have to do with this?”

“It’s an inconvenience.”

“As if that stops us from—.”

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

“Because having neighbors has stopped you before.”

“It’s different in the barracks.”

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

“It’s different because we live there.”

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

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

“...Yes.”

“While I lie here. Untouched.”

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

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

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

“Oh, really?” You said incredulously.

“If you want me to.”

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

“I know. It’s killing me.”

“Me too. So…?”

“So…”

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

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

“You’re no fun.”

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

“It won’t come to that.”

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

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

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

“So you’re not into quickies, then?”

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

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

“Mick…” He warned.

“Just answer it.”

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

“What are you into?”

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

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

“You,” he said without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

“And what about it?”

“I don’t think I know what I like.”

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

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

“Now, that’s a sight,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

“Huh.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

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

“Is it?”

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

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

You chuckled.

“I’m serious.”

“I believe you.”

“It’s a beautiful thing.”

“You’ve only done it, like, once.”

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

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

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

You smirked. “Yeah, I can tell.”

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

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

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

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

“So, like how you’re doing now?”

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

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “Big hands.”

“They’re like sandpaper,” he protested.

“No, they’re not.”

“Love.”

You chuckled. “They’re not!”

“You sure?”

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

“Yours are soft, though.”

“I exfoliate them once a week.”

“So that’s your trick?”

“It’s not a trick, it’s maintenance.”

“Maintenance for whom?”

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

“That sounds…”

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

“Is that why you’re so…”

“Feminine? Despite being in the military?”

“Yes.”

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

“So do you do it for them?”

“Hmm?”

“The… maintenance?”

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

“And there it is.”

“What?”

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

You scoffed. “Only when they deserve it.”

“Did I deserve it back then?”

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

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

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

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

You giggled. “That was one time.”

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

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

“Don’t do that,” he warned.

“Do what?” You asked innocently.

“Tease me like that.”

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

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

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

“It’s the menthol,” he insisted.

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh. Hand action.”

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

“And you think I haven’t?”

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

“Again with that.”

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

Simon blinked.

Damn her.

He sighed.

“You know I’m right.”

“You are right.”

“So?”

“So.”

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

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

No words needed to be spoken.

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

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

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

His toes curled.

“Christ.”

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

“Fuck you—hnng.”

You had squeezed his cock a bit too tight.

Jesus Christ, she really intends to kill me.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm, you never finished…” He panted.

“What?”

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

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

“That it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Restrained? As in…”

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

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

“I see,” he strained.

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

“Are you thinking about it?”

“Would it be bad if I am?”

You shook your head.

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

She’s going to kill me.

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

Simon screwed his eyes shut and took a deep breath.

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

“You don’t have to ask,” he replied.

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

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

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

“Si—”

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

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

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

He didn’t waste any more time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m going to eat you,” he stated.

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, that’s better.

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

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

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

Simon went completely still.

You went completely still.

The room got eerily quiet.

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

Great, now the night’s fucked…

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

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

Lorraine and Douglas—adjacent room. Certain.

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

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

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

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

Three seconds.

Five.

Seven.

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

Then back up the stairs.

The slow tread returning down the hall.

The door across the hall opening.

Clicking shut.

Silence.

Simon stood completely motionless for a further ten seconds.

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

“You don't know—”

“He stopped outside our door.”

“He was probably just—”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t,” he began.

“I'm not—”

“You are.”

“I'm genuinely—”

“Michaela.”

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

“It's not funny,” he said.

You could not respond.

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

“He didn't listen—”

“He absolutely listened—”

“Honey—”

“I knew this would happen.”

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

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

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

You gave him a look. “So we’re not…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He was probably checking if we were alright.”

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

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

Simon said nothing.

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

“That's not—”

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

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

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

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

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

The bed made one small sound of protest.

Neither of you moved again throughout the night.

crossposted on AO3.

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