Archive of Our Own

Simon had tuned him out a while ago. Grace is pacing around the room, muttering to himself, chewing on the end of his glasses or his pen in between trains of thought. Most of those trains of thought are running into each other, tangling together into incoherent slop that probably makes sense to Grace but not to anyone else. Something something organic radiation shielding something space exploration something. A problem he’s been enmeshed in for the past, fuck, Simon can’t even recall. It’s been driving Grace crazy; now, the stress radiating off of him is driving Simon crazy, too. Sure, he tuned out the exact words, but the chatter is still inescapable.

There’s a small lab attached to their small house, added when Grace started collaborating with the Eridian scientists regularly. Whatever he’s working on now is something they asked him to help with, which seems to have added to the stress. Some of the Eridians seem…difficult to work with, to a degree, and have a lot to say about Grace’s human methodology. Every day there’s another thing Grace is complaining about, another critique that he has to incorporate, another edit he has to make to adhere to Eridian standards on an already-difficult project. Simon can see right through him, sees the internal struggle of Grace’s urge to prove himself to the inhabitants of his new home colliding with his stubborn, self-assured nature.

Having something to work on is good for him, though, and Simon wonders if the stress is part of how Grace keeps himself stimulated. Regardless, it’s gotten annoying. And hard for Simon to escape. 

“Ryland?” Simon asks from the chair, trying to get his attention. 

Ignored. 

“Ryland!”

Grace glances over at him, brows furrowed. “I’m kinda busy here, Simon.”

“Can you be busy later, or something? Table it for tonight?”

“Uh, not really, no,” Grace rubs his eyes under his glasses, making them fall off and hang from his face. “Sorry, look, I need to get this in by tomorrow night and I just need to work through this friggin’ roadblock before I lose the thread. You really don’t have to stay here if my thinking is bothering you so much.”

Seems like you’ve lost the thread already, Simon thinks. “I can hear you from every room.”

True, there weren’t many doors in the house. Fairly open floor plan.

“Well, that’s not my problem,” Grace mutters, then puts his glasses back on and starts paging through notes again. The same notes he’s been scrutinizing for hours. 

That’s it. 

Simon huffs and stands up. Goes to their room. Grabs a few things, walks back, leaves something on a side table next to the wall and carries something else around his wrist.

When he looks back at Grace, he finds him already pacing around again. 

Simon clicks the device in his hands while speaking. “Sit.”

Instantly, Grace kneels down. He doesn’t even have time to think, to process. 

“Cheese and rice, Simon—“

Click. “Quiet.”

Grace shuts up. He whimpers, nearly inaudible. “C’mon, now? Really?” he pleads, voice much more pathetic and soft than it was a second ago.

“Should I stop?”

“…”

“Speak.” Click. 

Grace barks, then blushes and hides his face in his hands.

“Good boy.” He returns to his seat in the chair. Click. “Come.” 

Grace obeys, crawls a few feet between them to nearly close the distance, but he’s trying to resist, trying to stop and stand up. He manages, somehow, and remains seated on the ground. 

“Rylaaand…” Simon raises an eyebrow, a warning.

“This is humiliating.”

“Is it? Seems like you need it.”

Grace refuses to make eye contact, knowing how easily he’s going to fold. He will. Its just a matter of maintaining some dignity by putting up a fight first.

Click. “Come.” 

That fight isn’t very effective. Moments later, he’s kneeling in between Simon’s legs.

Simon folds his fingers back into Grace’s hair, scratching long strokes across his scalp. There. Grace softens with ease. He tried so hard to be annoyed, and he still wants to be, but the way Simon is looking at him and taking control, the way it makes him feel, overrides any of that. He can already feel his brain slowing, the feeling of Simon’s hand in his hair waving through his cerebrum and calming everything going on in there, preening it into a rest position. His eyelids droop. 

The suggestion of training had, at first, been a joke. But like all such jokes that return too many times, they got curious. Simon knew dogs, once, before the Rapture, but the memories were vague and he didn’t know the details. A few videos and a lecture on Pavlov helped him get the idea. So here they are, well-practiced. This, however, this sudden introduction of the dynamic, is new. Up until this point, they’ve only ever explored it while having sex, or at other predetermined times. Purposeful, partitioned from their daily lives.

What’s the point of training, though, if not to keep your dog obedient at any time?

“Nod if this is okay,” Simon tells him, voice gentle. Not a command. His scratches behind Grace’s ear. 

Grace nods, leaning into Simon’s hand. 

“And tell me if you need to stop at any time, okay?”

Another nod. Grace doesn’t seem interested in stopping anymore, judging by the dreamy expression on his face, but they always keep the option open, always ensure they’re on the same page. 

Simon rests his hand on the back of Grace’s head to pull him in as he leans forward, pressing a firm, affectionate kiss to his forehead. He sits up and flips the clicker back into his hand. He keeps the clicker at the edge of his palm, pinky on the button, freeing up the rest of his hand; he’s had to get fairly dextrous, but it works. He holds the rest of his palm up. 

“Paw.” Click.

Grace’s hand comes up, reflex, resting in Simon’s hand. He still looks a bit bashful, eyes flicking to the side, distantly embarrassed by his own reactivity. He lets out small whimpers, and as each sound leaves it takes with it a little more of his own control and shame. 

“Look.” Click. Grace’s eyes flick back up at Simon, big and blue and a little wet. “Good dog.” Grace whines again, this time pleased by the praise. If he could wag, he would. 

With Grace’s hand in his, Simon maneuvers it to his fly. Grace looks down, then back up, hopeful, and Simon nods permission, lifts his hips up. Grace pulls the zipper down, uses both hands to shimmy Simon’s pants and boxers to his ankles, pulls them past his feet, continually glancing up for approval. He sets the clothes down nearby with little regard. Simon’s dick twitches at the sudden exposure, the look on Grace’s obedient face.

“Hold.” Click. 

Grace needs to put something, anything, in his mouth. The closest option is obvious. Simon’s cock is already starting to get hard, so Grace doesn’t even need his hands to scoop it up in his mouth, take it all the way in. Simon breathes heavy, twitches again at the contact, the warm feeling of being engulfed like this. His breathing deepens as he watches Grace, feels himself quickly getting hard inside of him. He’s so, so weak to those big eyes looking up at him pathetically, vulnerably, beautifully. He can’t wait to ruin Grace’s face again. 

It’s an exercise in self-control for Simon, too. He wants to start moving, or to direct Grace to do so, but he’s patient. 

Grace’s eyes flutter closed again as he adjusts to the presence in his mouth. The weight on his tongue grounds him, presses the last of his thoughts out and away. He’s let go of it all and lets the blissful, eager quiet take over his mind. He keeps his throat relaxed to make room for Simon’s cock as it reaches full mast. He breathes careful through his nose. Simon’s scent is strong here, comforting and familiar. 

“So beautiful.” Simon continues stroking his hair. “You’re being so good.”

Grace hums around him, and Simon groans at the vibration, head lolling back. He, too, works to keep his breathing steady, keep himself from bucking forward and choking his dog too soon. He makes Grace wait a little longer, lets his spit drip down around his cock, feeling the soft inside of his mouth and the slight movement up and down as he breathes. 

Simon lifts his head back up. “You wanna suck it?” he asks. 

Grace opens his eyes. He can’t say yes, can’t even nod, but the way the inner ends of his brows raise and pull his eyes into a plea tells Simon all he needs to know. 

“Go ahead, angel.”

At that, Grace pulls back and catches his breath before diving in again. Simon moans as Grace starts bobbing on his cock in earnest while moaning in satisfaction, those puppy eyes still looking up at him now and again, melting Simon’s heart which lets all the blood settle in his dick. 

“You feel so good,” Simon mutters, “you’re so good, so pretty. Look at you,” he pushes a strand of hair off of Grace’s forehead, “you don’t need to worry your pretty head so much, hmm?”

Grace moans and pulls off to lick at Simon’s balls, taking a moment to suck on each one, making sure something is in his mouth at all times. Simon grinds against his face, groaning in approval, whispering praises. 

“So beautiful, so good for me, such a good dog, yeah,” and then Grace licks up his shaft to wrap his mouth around the head again and Simon moans loud and deep and bucks his hips up into Grace’s mouth. 

Fuck, he almost forgot something. 

“Stop.” Click. 

Grace pulls off, brows knit in confusion, and his head cocks to the side—fuck, that’s adorable, holy shit—so Simon mutters “be patient, don’t worry.” He points to the side table at the edge of the room where he had set something earlier. 

Grace turns, and his breath hitches when he sees the collar and leash sitting there; he had been so in his head earlier that he hadn’t even noticed.

Click. “Fetch,” Simon commands. 

It’s too many steps to be full autopilot, but Grace is nonetheless jolted to obey, immediately moving in towards it. He pulls himself to his feet and Simon lets him, for now. Grace quickly grabs the items and turns. 

Simon points to the floor. “Down.” Click.

Back on his hands and knees.

“Good boy. Speak.”

Grace barks. Didn’t even need the clicker for that one. 

“Now bring it to me in your mouth like a good dog.”

“Do I ha-“

“Sorry, do dogs talk?” Simon interrupts. 

Grace whimpers. 

“You wanna be good, right?”

His dog nods. 

“Then bring it to me in your mouth, angel.”

Grace makes a face but folds the leash around the collar and holds it between his teeth. He’s losing the headspace a little; he just needs a little push. 

Click. “Come.” Familiar, practiced. Grace crawls back over, face flushed. 

Simon holds out his hand. “Drop it.” Grace deposits them into Simon’s hand and sits back at his feet. 

“Hey,” Simon softens his voice and sets the collar set down next to him, “you’re doing great. Very cute. Look at me.”

And he does. 

“Face.” Click. 

Grace plops his chin in Simon’s hand, gazes up at him with that adorable puppy expression. Simon scratches his chin and Grace melts right back into his touch. When Simon pulls his hand away, Grace’s head follows ever so slightly, reaching out to the touch. 

Simon unclips the collar, then twirls it around Grace’s head to wrap it around his neck with his singular hand. He clips it back together, centers it. It’s light blue to match his eyes, with a thin embroidered red line running through the center. It’s a martingale style, with a loop of xenonite chain holding the ends together in the front and connected by an O-ring that makes the whole thing tighter when pulled. (He’s a stubborn dog sometimes. He needs built-in discipline.) The clip is on one side, a simple buckle for ease of Simon’s use; the other side has a loop from which hangs a simple star-shaped tag with Ryland etched into it.

It’s a recent gift from Simon, a token of appreciation. He worked on it with Rocky. Simon had been nervous that it was too much, too possessive, too presumptuous; Grace had almost burst into tears at the amount of love it conveyed. 

He looks so pretty in it. He always looks so pretty. 

Simon clips the matching leash to the O-ring and leans back to admire him. The leash has a loop at the end which Simon threads his arm through, making sure it’ll stay connected to him even if he lets go. He tugs on the leash enough to pull a choked yelp out of Grace. His cock jumps at the sound. 

“You’re such a pretty dog,” he tells him, cooing like he’s talking to a cute animal. “Such a good boy for me, Ryland.” He pets him more, ruffling his hair. “You want a treat?”

Grace nods eagerly. 

“Tell me.”

“Wruff,” Grace barks in confirmation.

Simon grabs hold of the back of his dog’s scalp again. That spot’s gonna be sore in the morning. He pushes Grace back down onto his cock; Grace moans and opens his mouth eagerly, ready to get going again, taking Simon’s cock without a problem. Simon’s grip on his hair tightens. 

“Stay,” he commands, the weight in his voice unassisted by the clicker that dangles from his wrist. 

Grace’s eyes widen in anticipation. 

Simon adjusts so just his upper back is against the back of the chair for leverage, repositions Grace’s head, and thrusts hard into his mouth. Grace moans, and Simon pulls out and thrusts again. Grace stays in place, obedient, exactly where Simon is holding him, as Simon picks up a rhythm and starts fucking his face with fervor. It’s not the most efficient from this position, but it allows him to bend his knee and wedge a calf between Grace’s legs, pressing against his crotch. Grace lets out a long, muffled whine at the contact; he’s hard, probably dripping through his underwear, and completely neglected. 

Simon holds nothing back, ramming his cock into Grace’s mouth over and over, reveling in the whines and whimpers and moans coming out of Grace’s throat and into Simon’s body. He gags, not enough to need to stop but rather just adjusting to the feeling, and Simon can’t help but think it’s one of the hottest things he’s ever heard. Grace is a slobbery dog, indeed; he’s drooling for cock and the spit gets everywhere, pooling at the edge of his mouth and dripping down his chin, collecting at the base of Simon’s dick. 

Grace hollows his cheeks and peeks up at Simon again, eyes rolled up while his face is angled down.

“Fuuuuck, Ryland,” Simon groans, “if only you could—shit, if only you could see yourself right now, fuck, you look like such a whore.” There’s no vitriol to it, only affection. 

Grace whines at that, hips stuttering more against Simon’s leg. 

“You love this, don’t you? I can feel how hard you are from choking on my cock, huh?” 

Another affirmative whimper. Then he pulls off, spit dripping from his mouth. “Simon, please—“

“Did I say you could stop?”

“I’m sorry,” Grace mumbles, still humping Simon’s leg. “Can I just—please, Simon—“

“What?” Simon tries to keep the gruff facade up, but the sound of Grace begging never fails to do diabolical things to him, threatens his resolve purely by how hot it is, how pathetic. 

Grace buries his face in Simon’s thigh, mouths at the skin lightly, paws at his own pants. “Can I, mmph, can I take these o-off, please—“ he thrusts against Simon’s leg even harder, “pleeease, I need more, I need to feel youuuu…”

“Bark for it.”

“Come onnn, Simon—“

“I said bark for it like a good dog.”

“Arff—!”

“Good boy. Go ahead.”

Grace can’t stop his noises now, keeps softly ruffing and whining and growling as he chases the friction. His hands struggle to undo his own pants since he can’t seem to tear himself away from the feeling of Simon’s leg against his cock, but eventually he manages to loosen his clothes just enough to free himself. He’s obscenely wet, the head completely covered in smeared precum. He wraps one hand around the leg to pull it closer, add more pressure, and grinds and ruts against him. He’s so hard and sensitive that the now-bare contact against Simon’s leg makes him cry. 

The slide of Grace’s cock against his skin is so vulgar it sends electric shivers up Simon’s body, makes him leak even more precum that mixes with the saliva covering him. Grace’s eyes land on Simon’s cock again and he drools, still so hungry for it. 

Simon grabs the base of his cock, shakes it around a little to tease. Grace tracks it with his eyes; his glasses are still on. Simon loves how they look on him, especially at times like this. He tugs on the leash; Grace yelps as his head is pulled forward, Simon’s cock rubbing against his face, leaving fluid smeared on his glasses. His eyes plead for permission. 

“Take it.”

Grace doesn’t hesitate to put it back in his mouth. He’s too eager, goes down too fast, and chokes and gags obscenely for a moment before adjusting. 

“You’re such a mess right now, fuuuuck, yeah, just like that, good boy,” Simon babbles as Grace bobs on his cock. “Put that beautiful mouth to good use, fuck, so pretty like this.” 

He wraps the leash around his hand a few times to keep it taut, careful not to choke his dog too much, then presses his hand into the seat to help him raise his hips and fuck Grace’s mouth again. They move in tandem, Simon thrusting his hips up while Grace sucks him in, slides his tongue along the bottom, licks at the head when it’s in reach. 

One of Grace’s hands is still wrapped around Simon’s leg. The other reaches up to squeeze at Simon’s balls, thumb massaging the seam and space in between. 

“Fuck, baby, right there,” Simon pants, “gonna make me cum in your mouth, fuck—“

Grace keens at that, whimpers long and desperate at the thought of being filled, and Simon feels Grace’s cock flex and twitch at the idea, feels the slick of his precum all over his leg. Grace can barely move his own head again, held in place by the leash, eyes scrunched closed while he focuses. Simon can’t get enough of the view, watching the length of his cock slide in and out of Grace’s open mouth, between his wet and swollen lips, taking it so, so eagerly. He has enough room to pull almost all the way out on a few strokes, watches the head of his cock breach Grace’s mouth again just to see the visual again, hear his pathetic chokes as Simon rams into his throat. It feels so good deep inside his mouth, though, and Simon quickly returns to grinding quick and dirty and deep thrusts into Grace’s throat. The motion of his facefucking moves his legs just enough to stimulate Grace in time with it, and he pushes his leg against him even harder, reveling in Grace’s desperation, the indignity of having to hump him for relief. 

“Look at me,” Simon says, but Grace is in too deep to notice. He fidgets with his hand, manages to get the clicker between his fingers again without letting up on the leash; good thing he wrapped it around his hand instead of merely holding it. 

“Look.” Click. 

Grace sobs as his eyes open, brows raised in a beg, needy blue refracted through eyelash-captive tears and smeared glasses but fuck, the look of them on his face is too hot for Simon to make him take them off and it’s too late now, anyways. 

Simon teeters at the edge, grip on the leash pulling just a little more, and he drinks in Grace’s pathetic little noises as he feels his core tense and twitch and he’s getting so fucking close, mutters praises to Grace as he recklessly fucks his face and—

“Take it, good boy, fucking take it, yeah, fuck, gonna come, gooood boy fuck so good for me Ryland fuuuuck—“

—Grace whimpers in greedy anticipation and his vision tunnels as he focuses and sucks his cheeks in even more and stares up at him expectantly and fuck, that look, that visual of Grace looking completley debauched, sends Simon right over the edge and he moans loud and wordless as he comes, holds his cock inside of Grace’s mouth to shoot down his throat and coat his tongue. Grace cries through it, basks in the feeling of it, the heady taste of Simon’s cum in his mouth that he desperately craved. Simon’s coming hard, riding it out, and even once he pulls out and Grace’s hand starts pumping him through the last waves of the orgasm he shoots another ribbon right onto Grace’s face, onto his glasses, fuck he looks so filthy, so vulgar, so disgustingly erotic. 

Simon sits back for a minute, lets his breath steady itself, cooing “good boy so good so beautiful took it so good” as he exhales. Grace is still pent up, still rutting against his leg, all the more turned on by making his owner come in him, on him, marking him as his. 

The needy whimpers soon pull Simon back to the moment. He sits up, scratches a hand through Grace’s hair. 

“You want your turn now, hmm?”

Grace nods quick and desperate. 

Simon takes Grace’s chin in his hand, aggressive, squeezing the sides of his face, and Grace looks up with a dazed open-mouthed expression. 

“Speak.”

“Ghrrrrufff.”

Two firm pats on the side of his cheek. “Good boy.” Simon stands, maneuvers his hand to unwrap part of the leash, lets it slide across his hand to add more slack. He points to the ground. 

“Down.” Click. 

Grace immediately falls forward, onto his elbows. Wow, he’s still humping the air a little, completely worked up. 

“Lie.” Click. 

Grace lowers himself to the ground, prone. 

“Roll over.” Click. 

The dog obeys, now lying on his back, exposed, elbows folded up so his hands are near his face, held in a paw position. 

Simon kneels down next to him. “Good dog.” Grace’s shirt is riding up, so Simon gives him a quick belly rub. Grace barks softly without being prompted. 

Slowly, Simon’s hand moves down Grace’s stomach and traces his cock, earning a high moan as Grace chases the friction. 

He already seems close, red and hard and continuously leaking. Simon thumbs right over the tip, rubbing from the flushed top of the head to the sensitive spot on the underside and back again, and Grace’s whole body practically spasms as he pants and bucks up for more. Simon spits into his own hand to add even more slick than what’s already there and hesitates a moment to appreciate the view: Grace breathing fast and heavy, another whine loaded in the back of his throat at all times, trying to fuck the air in a useless prayer for friction, squirming and writhing when he doesn’t get it, back arching up and then falling back down with a defeated sob. 

Simon takes pity on him. “Yeah, you’ve earned it, you were so good,” Simon tells him as he wraps his hand around him again and starts jerking him off properly.

Grace yelps and babbles broken moans as his swollen, neglected cock finally gets the attention he's been needing. His glasses have been pushed askew, and it’s one of Simon’s favorite sights in the universe. The leash is still wrapped around Simon’s arm, a line connecting him to Grace’s throat, the collar still so beautiful against his neck. He wishes Grace could wear it all the time. They make eye contact, Grace’s mouth open, drooling and crying and an absolute mess. Simon holds his gaze, holds his hand where it is, lets Grace fuck his fist while he watches the look on his face.

Something about Simon’s expression makes Grace feel feral. Simon stares at him with a determined, near-placid gaze, but his eyes betray his thoughts, something burning behind them and boring a hole into Grace’s soul. It’s so intense, looking into those eyes, and Grace feels himself getting closer. Only two things remain active in his brain: the urge to be good, and the urge to cum. His own eyes widen as he gets closer, as the sensation he’s been chasing starts to overwhelm him. The weight on his neck constricts his breathing ever so slightly, just enough for him to notice now that he’s panting and trying to catch up, trying to inhale the oxygen that his body needs, but he forgets that that’s what it is; the source of that very air, right now, is holding the other end of his leash.

He can’t make any words right now, but he doesn’t need to ask. Simon can read his body perfectly.

“Hold it, not yet,” Simon guides. “You’re doing so good.” He positions his thumb under the head of Grace’s cock, rubs circles into it as he squeezes and strokes with the rest of his hand, rotating at the wrist, watching his dog fall apart.

Grace’s hands flex and writhe and form fists and release as he tries to control himself, completely lost in the pleasure, and his legs start folding up and kicking out involuntarily and fuck he really can’t take it much longer. His long whimper has the texture of a sob as he begs.

“Good boy, cum for me,” Simon demands.

It’s a hair trigger. Grace immediately tenses up, rutting into Simon’s hand, against his fingers, sliding in and out of his fist as he’s shot over the edge and comes all over himself, covering Simon’s hand and his own stomach and some even gets on the floor. The wails and cries as he comes are enough to make Simon’s cock twitch again; he files those sounds away in his mind to remember later. 

The world for Grace is blank for a moment. He feels his body twitch more, the effects of his orgasm still reverberating through him, Simon’s hand still loose around his cock. When he comes to, he tries to ground himself, but he only has a moment before Simon’s hand is in front of his face.

Simon doesn’t even need to tell him what to do. Grace opens his mouth and licks his own cum off of Simon’s hand, wraps his mouth around Simon’s fingers, looking up at him with those pleading eyes again as he sucks and licks and swallows.

“Good boy.” Such a beautiful thing to hear from Simon’s smooth, deep voice. He pulls his hand out of Grace’s mouth, a sticky trail lingering between them for a moment, and then wipes the rest of his hand off on his own shirt. Eh, whatever. He just takes it off. Might as well.

Grace still has enough brain cells to ogle him. 

Simon smiles, chuckles, and leans his back against the chair. “Come here,” he says, and Grace manages to scoot over, finally remove his glasses, and rest his head in Simon’s lap. His breathing remains labored, still recovering. Simon runs his hand through Grace’s hair again, scratches the back of his head. He establishes a slow, calming rhythm, just the way he knows Grace likes. “You did great,” he assures him, “you’re so perfect. So good.” And so on, filling the space until Grace can speak.

Soon, Grace’s breathing steadies, human brain activity slowly returning. “Th-that was, uh…”

“Hmm?”

“…Good. It was good.” He takes a deep breath. With his cognitive function also comes the return of self-consciousness. He tenses a little, hiding his face in Simon’s lap. God, it’s embarrassing sometimes, how easy he is to control when he gets like this, but he likes it. He does. He wanted it. But wanting it itself is…is it weird? This is weird, right, being into this? He shouldn’t be into it, dangit, his autonomy is historically something that he’s sensitive about, maybe that’s why…? Is that why he’s into this? It's escapism, surely, and maybe the feeling of that overrides any other issues he could have with it, or maybe he's trying to reclaim it or something, oh geez, now he's got weird fetishes from the weird stuff that's happened in his weird life and his wires got crossed—

“…Ryland.”

Grace blinks himself back. “What?”

Simon scratches the top of his head, slow and loving. “What’s going on in there?” His voice is soft, curious, even though he suspects he knows the answer.

“You’ll never guess,” he deadpans, and turns his head further into Simon.

“I like doing this with you,” Simon assures him, “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to. It's hot, and it's fun, and I'm into it. I don’t think any less of you. And it makes me happy to help you calm down, and that you let me treat you.”

Grace groans into Simon’s leg, petulant and flustered.

Simon chuckles. “And you’re too smart and determined for your own good sometimes. I’m honored to be the one to tune the noise down.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask you to—“

“…and I gave you the opportunity to stop. Should I have stopped earlier?” A pang of worry hits Simon’s gut. It’s a genuine question. 

“…No. I liked it.” He turns his head back to the side and Simon can see how much he’s blushing. “It’s true, I probably needed it.”

Simon nods. “Thought so.” He starts stroking up and down more of Grace’s body, down his side and over his hip and back up again. “Was it okay? That I just…started?”

“Yeah, yeah. I would’ve said something if it wasn’t.” His words are languid as he melts into Simon’s touch.

“And I would’ve stopped.”

“I know.” Grace smiles, exhales a tiny laugh.

They sit in silence for a minute, basking in each other’s presence, in their afterglow. 

“You know, you did great, too,” Grace says, “with all of it. Checking in, and stuff.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Simon sighs deep, relieved.

Grace rotates to lie on his back and look up at him. “Excuse me, were you nervous, Simon?” he teases.

“…A little.” Simon stares straight ahead.

“Well, gotta hand it to ya, you did a great job of hiding it.”

Simon just smiles at that, looks down at him, strokes down the side of Grace’s face. “I didn’t wanna push you too hard. But I had a sense you needed a small one. I, uh, hoped I judged well.”

“You did.” Grace holds Simon’s hand to his cheek. His eyes flutter closed. “You did.”

They stay like that for a while, more or less. Simon leaned against the chair, Grace curled up with his head in Simon’s lap, both of them peaceful. Simon eventually wiggles his hand free to undo the clip on the leash, untangles it from his arm, sets it aside. Grace stirs and nuzzles into Simon, finally letting himself drift off.

Then he jolts up.

“Oh, fudge, my deadline—“ Grace scrambles to his feet again. 

Nope. “Sit.” Click. 

Grace sits, because of course he does, and groans, annoyed. “Come on, seriously, I really do need to—“

“You have time tomorrow. You need to rest. We both do.” How the fuck does he still have energy after that, anyways?

Grace whines in protest, but his heart isn’t in it. 

Simon stands, holds out his hand to help Grace up. “Let’s go shower and then lie down, okay?”

Grace nods, sighing in concession. “Okay. Fine. But tomorrow—“

“Tomorrow you can work, yeah, that’s fine. I know you’ll be happy you took a break.”

Grace sighs, picks up his glasses, and starts absentmindedly wiping them off on his shirt; Simon wonders if he even remembers what’s on there. Whatever, his own shirt is already fucked, so they can do laundry later.

“Ugh, you’re right,” Grace admits. 

Simon pulls him in, kisses his forehead. Then his cheek. Then firm on his lips. “Yeah, I usually am.”