Hello! Have a request for price and bratty reader where they hate eachother and she refuses to listen and take orders from him to the point she nearly gets herself killed so he puts her on leave and she’s not happy about it and they get into a very heated argument where she starts taking low blows to get a rise out of him and he can’t stand it anymore and they fuck on top of his desk and someone nearly walks by so he’s covering her mouth and choking her
You hate Price—in and out of the bedroom.
pairing: John Price x fem!reader
cw: dom!Price, light spanking, choking, mouth-covering, oral (f receiving), hate sex (?), porn with plot.
wc: 10k (HELP)
an: KISSING YOU ON THE LIPS FOR THIS REQUEST. i honestly got too into the plot 😭 but i think the end is worth it!! it was so so fun, i hope you enjoy it!
You weren’t part of the 141.
You weren’t part of the 141, nor did you have the foolish, idiotic desire to be. The lads weren’t awful, in fairness. Gaz was charming and respectful enough to be tolerable, Soap had a thick skull, thick accent, and big heart, and Ghost was… well, Ghost. Whatever the hell there was to say about a man who dressed like the Grim Reaper and spoke like he was rationing oxygen.
The real pain was none other than John Price.
When they told you you’d be briefly reassigned to his unit for a coalition operation in Bosnia, tracking a merc you’d been following for months, you almost asked whether the bullet would come with the paperwork or if you were expected to provide it yourself. It was too convenient. Too much like someone, somewhere, had decided your life needed complicating in a way that wore a boonie hat and reeked of cigar.
You wondered, briefly, if Price had been involved in the decision.
Those suspicions were quickly proven right when he personally greeted you at the helipad.
The rotor sound tore at your jacket as you stepped down onto the ground, kit heavy against your spine, cold air sipping through the seams of your gloves. Bosnia was dull that morning, the whole base painted in grey. You adjusted the strap over your shoulder, lifted your chin, and found him waiting a few yards off with his arms folded.
John Price looked exactly as you remembered him.
Annoyingly smug and annoyingly calm. Beard a little fuller, eyes just as quick, posture loose but never relaxed.
His mouth twitched the second he saw you.
“Lovely to see you, rookie.”
The concrete could have cracked open under your boots and swallowed you whole, and you would have considered it a kinder welcome.
You stopped in front of him, keeping your distance. Never too close with Price, because he had a habit of making proximity feel more meaningful, even when it wasn’t. Especially when it wasn’t.
“Captain.”
“Lieutenant.”
He said it like he was humouring you.
You held his stare.
You had not been called rookie in years. Not by anyone with a functional sense of self-preservation, anyway. It was a nickname people only used when they wanted to remind you of a version of yourself that no longer existed, back when your boots were too clean and your hands shook after your first close call. Price, unfortunately, had known that version. Worse, he had survived long enough to keep referencing it.
“I was told this was a temporary coalition assignment.”
“It is.”
“I was also told Laswell requested my direct involvement.”
“She did.”
“And yet here you are.”
Price gave you a mild look, and it would have seemed innocent on a less irritating man. “That a problem?”
Yes. You wanted to say that being dragged into his orbit less than a month before your promotion meeting in late November was a problem. That you had spent the better part of the year being told, plainly and repeatedly, that you were on track to captain. That this could well be your last operation as a lieutenant, and instead of being allowed to finish it cleanly with your own people, you were standing on foreign concrete in front of a man who had once seen you at your worst and intended to keep the memory alive.
Instead, you shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “No, sir.”
Polite, for untrained ears. Damning, if one knew how to listen.
Price did.
His brows lifted a fraction. “Good.”
It became clear within the first forty-eight hours that you hated John Price. You didn’t only dislike him. No, you hated him with enough force that even a blind man would have worked it out.
You answered his questions when they pertained to Aleksandar Kovač and ignored most of the rest. On comms, your acknowledgements arrived late, shortened down to the barest syllable, and sometimes not at all when you decided the order did not require one. During briefings, you sat with your arms folded and your attention fixed somewhere over his shoulder, treating the entire affair like an administrative delay between landing and doing the job properly.
Price noticed every instance.
The first time, he let it pass. The second, his eyes narrowed. By the fourth day, he had begun saying your rank like he was imagining how satisfying it might be to demote you himself.
It did not help that you were good. Had you been careless, obstructive, or merely unpleasant without the competence to justify it, he could have removed you from the operation and sent Laswell a report thick enough to stop a door. Instead, every time you ignored his preferred approach, you produced something useful. You recognised one of Kovač’s couriers from the shape of his shoulders in grainy surveillance footage. You corrected a mistranslated call sign that had sent British intelligence looking for a village instead of a person. You identified three fallback properties no one else had connected because Kovač had purchased them through companies registered under the maiden names of dead relatives.
Aleksandar Kovač had been born in Mostar, trained in military logistics, and spent the better part of two decades making himself indispensable to people who preferred wars without official involvement. He moved weapons, men, forged documents, and occasionally bodies across borders with the same fluidity. Governments had been looking for him for years; you had been looking for him for eleven months.
No one knew more about Kovač than you did.
Laswell knew it. Price knew it. The lads knew it too, which meant everyone had to tolerate you regardless of whether they wanted to.
They did not.
Gaz had made an effort on the first evening, asking about your flight and offering to show you around the temporary barracks. You had thanked him, declined, and watched the friendliness retreat from his face by degrees. Soap tried once to draw you into a card game and received a look unpleasant enough that he never tried again. Ghost had dispensed with the pretence entirely and simply moved around you as though you were an unexploded shell someone had neglected to mark.
Still, they weren’t rude. They were professional, civil, and unmistakably loyal to Price.
You understood why.
Damn him, John Price was a good captain.
Now.
He knew when Soap’s knee was bothering him before Soap admitted it. He noticed when Gaz had gone too long without eating and pushed a protein bar across the table without interrupting the briefing. He adjusted patrols when Ghost’s shoulder stiffened in the cold, never drawing attention to the fact, and stood the least desirable watch himself when the team had been running too long without proper sleep. When plans went wrong, he absorbed responsibility before anyone else had the chance. When they went right, he handed the credit down.
The men trusted him because he had earned it.
That made your contempt worse.
To them, Price was the captain who brought everyone home. The captain who measured risk carefully, who never spent lives cheaply, who understood that the people under his command were not expendable simply because the objective mattered.
You had known him before he learned that.
The incident in the operations room did little to improve matters.
You had been leaning over a satellite map with one hand braced against the table, tracing an old smuggling road through the foothills when Price moved in behind you. He reached past your shoulder to shift one of the markers, his chest close enough to your back that cigar smoke clung to the air between you.
You stopped speaking. Price, either oblivious, left his hand on the table.
You planted your palm against the centre of his chest and shoved him backwards.
It was not hard enough to hurt him. It was, however, hard enough to throw him half a step back in front of his entire team.
The room went silent.
Soap stared down at the map trying his hardest to seem another piece of furniture. Gaz’s mouth tightened. Ghost did not visibly react, which in Ghost amounted to watching very closely.
Price looked first at your hand, then at you.
Something worked in his jaw.
You returned to the map and finished explaining the route.
He could have reprimanded you, and, frankly, he should have. Instead, he waited until the meeting ended and caught you in the corridor, one hand closing around your upper arm before you could walk past.
“Whatever this is,” he said quietly, “you keep it away from my op.”
You looked at his hand until he removed it. “The op is the only reason I’m here.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then we understand each other.”
His nostrils flared. For one brief, gratifying second, you thought you might finally have pushed him past that infuriating restraint. Price had always possessed a temper; age had merely taught him where to put it. You could see it gathering behind his eyes, pressing hard against the calm expression he wore for the benefit of everyone nearby.
Then his radio crackled with Laswell’s voice, and the moment passed.
Kovač had surfaced again.
You were needed.
Price stepped aside.
He was furious, but there was nothing useful he could do with the anger. He could not send you home. He could not confine you to base or remove you from field work without losing the only person who could reliably anticipate Kovač’s movements. Every alternative source had either vanished, been killed, or started lying the moment the money changed hands. You were not merely helpful—you were the reason the operation had moved at all.
So Price endured you.
By the end of the week, the tension had become another piece of equipment the team carried everywhere.
The forward camp stood beneath a range of black mountains, little more than two armoured vehicles, three tents, and a line of thermal sheeting stretched between the trees. Kovač maintained a hunting property somewhere beyond the northern ridge, though the house itself had never appeared on local records. The approach roads had been watched for two days. No movement. No lights. Nothing on thermal except deer and the occasional fox cutting through the snow.
Price ordered rotating patrols through the surrounding woods.
You drew Ghost for the midnight watch.
Neither of you objected, although Soap looked relieved not to be paired with you himself.
The temperature dropped drastically after dark. Frost gathered along the low branches, and every breath emerged white in front of your face. You moved along the southern part of camp with your rifle held close, boots digging into the crusted snow. Ghost kept several paces to your left, large enough that the trees seemed narrower around him.
For the first hour, neither of you spoke.
It suited you.
Ghost did not feel compelled to fill silence merely because it existed. He checked the tree line, paused when you paused, and shifted formation without discussion when the trail tightened. There was none of Soap’s restless energy or Gaz’s careful politeness.
Near two in the morning, Ghost stopped beside a fallen pine.
You watched him scan the ridge before lowering his rifle. He hooked two fingers beneath the edge of his balaclava and lifted it just enough to expose his mouth, then reached into his vest and pulled a battered packet of cigarettes.
He held it out.
You considered him for a moment before taking one.
Ghost placed another between his lips and struck his lighter. The flame threw a brief orange light across the lower half of his face, catching on old scars before he drew in and snapped it shut.
You stepped closer, cigarette poised between your fingers.
He raised the lighter again. As you bent towards it, he pulled it away.
You stared at him. Ghost stared back, smoke rising from beneath the raised edge of the mask. “What’s your issue with Price?”
For several seconds, the only sound was the wind moving through the branches. Then you scoffed as you reached into your own pocket, bringing out a lighter.
Ghost made no attempt to hide the satisfaction in his eyes.
You lit the cigarette, took a long drag, and resumed walking. The answer, when you gave it, had nothing to do with the light. “Worked under him a couple of times.”
Ghost fell into step beside you. “Figured.”
“Last time was six years ago. Joint task force running counter-proliferation across central Europe. Price wasn’t captain then, nor was I anything worth mentioning.”
Your boots found the narrow track between two rows of trees. Beyond them, the land dropped steeply into darkness.
“There was a broker named Milan Varga. He supplied rifles to militias, explosives to separatists, anti-air to anyone with enough cash and a border dispute. Half the weapons recovered from unsanctioned conflicts in Europe could be traced back to him if you had the time and enough dead informants.”
Ghost took a drag but said nothing.
“We had been trying to locate him for almost two years. Everyone knew his name, no one knew where he slept. He changed houses every few days, travelled in other people’s passports, never used the same driver twice. Price’s task force had lost three assets before I joined.”
You flicked ash into the snow.
“Found a guy.”
That had been the beginning of it. A young freight coordinator named Petar Radović, ambitious enough to work for Varga and frightened enough to regret it. You had noticed discrepancies in customs records, shipments declared twice under different weights, and spent months arranging conversations that looked accidental. A drink in Vienna. A cigarette behind a hotel in Bratislava. A train journey during which neither of you acknowledged the other until the final stop.
Radović had not trusted British intelligence—he had trusted you.
“He agreed to take me to Varga,” you continued. “One meeting. No phone, no comms, no weapon. I was to meet Radović alone, get into his vehicle, and go wherever he took me. Varga would speak to me if he believed I was ready to sell access to NATO procurement routes.”
Ghost’s head turned slightly towards you. “You went in as a traitor.”
“I went in as someone young enough to resent being overlooked and arrogant enough to think she deserved more. It wasn’t a difficult performance at the time.”
That earned no reaction, though you saw his gaze linger before returning to the woods.
“The meeting was set for eight in the evening. At nineteen forty-three, Price received an intercepted message confirming Varga already knew who I was.”
Ghost stopped walking.
You went another two steps before turning back.
“He knew?”
The cigarette burned between your fingers. You watched the ember brighten in the dark. “Yes.”
Ghost’s face revealed little even with the mask raised, but his stillness changed. He was no longer merely listening.
“There was enough time to stop it,” you said. “Price could have sent a team to intercept Radović’s car before it reached me. He could have triggered the abort through the secondary contact. Either option would have pulled me out.”
“But Varga would disappear.”
You looked at him, surprised. Ghost had already reached the same conclusion Price had years ago.
“Radović would have been exposed. Varga would have killed him, abandoned the network, and vanished for another five years. We would lose the first reliable route to him anyone had found.”
Ghost lowered the cigarette from his mouth. “So Price let you go.”
“He let me get into the car.”
The wind picked up along the ridge. Below, ice cracked with a sound like a distant branch breaking.
Radović had been nervous that night. You remembered that more clearly than anything else: the dampness at his hairline, the way his fingers kept tightening around the steering wheel, the smell of clove gum in the enclosed car. He had apologised twice for the blindfold before putting it over your eyes.
He had not known, that you were certain of.
“He took me to a warehouse outside Brno. Varga wasn’t there. Four of his men were.”
The old wound sat beneath three layers of clothing, invisible but suddenly present.
“They asked who else knew about Radović. I told them no one. They asked how long I’d been intelligence. I told them I worked in acquisitions. They broke two fingers before they stopped pretending to believe me.”
You had not spoken about it in years. The official debrief had reduced everything to sequence and duration, injuries described in detached clinical language by men who had not been there. Contusions. Fractures. Ballistic trauma. No permanent compromise.
The body could survive a great deal and still be considered an acceptable outcome.
“They moved me the next morning,” you breathed out. “Price’s people tracked the first vehicle to the warehouse, then lost the second in an underground loading bay. They found Radović dead in the original car.”
Ghost’s jaw tightened.
“I was held for thirty-one hours. They shot me when they realised the extraction team had located the compound. Through the abdomen. Low enough to miss the liver, high enough to make the surgeons complain.”
You took another drag and found the cigarette had burned nearly to the filter.
“Varga was captured alive. His records dismantled six trafficking routes and put fourteen men in prison. The press called it the largest counter-arms operation in a decade.”
Ghost’s cigarette had gone untouched between his fingers. “And Price?”
A laugh escaped you, but there was no humour in it. “He came to the hospital.”
You remembered waking to the smell of cigar smoke. Price had been sitting in a plastic chair beside the window, elbows on his knees, looking as though he had not slept. Younger then, less grey in his beard, but already practising the expression he wore now when carrying the weight of a decision he had no intention of regretting aloud.
“He said the objective had required a difficult call,” you told Ghost. “Said he knew I understood the stakes when I volunteered for intelligence.”
Ghost’s eyes hardened. You ground the cigarette beneath your boot.
“Three months later, he received a medal for the operation. Exceptional judgement under pressure. Decisive command action resulting in the capture of a high-value weapons trafficker. I was not included in any of the ceremonies.”
Ghost looked back towards camp, though the trees blocked any view of it.
“So that’s my issue with Price,” you said bitterly. “Your captain is very good at bringing his people home now, I’m sure that’s comforting. But know that he learned that from me.”
Ghost watched in silence before he held out the cigarette packet again.
You took one, and this time, when he flicked the lighter open, he did not pull it away.
The patrol ended just before dawn.
Price was waiting near the vehicles when you emerged from the tree line, cigarette in one hand, hat pulled down against the cold. His attention moved over Ghost first, checking automatically for injury, then settled on you.
“Anything?”
“Nothing on the ridge,” you answered. “Tracks near the eastern boundary, but they’re at least a day old. Two men, possibly three.”
Price nodded. His eyes shifted between you and Ghost, picking up whatever subtle alteration had occurred during the night.
Ghost handed him the patrol log.
“Lieutenant knows her work,” he said.
Price’s gaze lingered.
It was not praise. From Ghost, it was something more thought out: a correction entered into the record.
You continued towards the tents as the first weak strip of daylight appeared over the mountains, grey spreading slowly across the snow.
They found Aleksandar Kovač two days later.
A burst transmission intercepted shortly before dawn placed him at a hunting lodge eleven kilometres north of the forward camp, where he was expected to meet a transport team and disappear across the Croatian border before midday. The building belonged to a forestry company that had ceased to exist nine years earlier. No electricity on record, no legal road access, no reason for four vehicles to be sitting beneath camouflage netting behind it.
By four in the morning, the camp had been stripped down to essentials.
Price stood over the map with one palm pressed flat against the folding table, assigning routes while snow tapped softly against the canvas overhead. Soap and Gaz would take the eastern slope, where the terrain narrowed around the access road. Ghost would move above them through the trees and cover the upper windows. Price would approach the rear of the lodge through the service yard.
You were going with him.
Kovač knew you. More importantly, you knew how he ran. If he had built an exit into the property—and he would have—then it would not follow the most obvious path. Kovač disliked underground tunnels because they became graves when compromised, but he trusted old service corridors, drainage channels, and construction gaps that did not appear on plans.
Price finished outlining the breach and looked directly at you.
“We move together.”
You leaned against the table, eyes on the map. “I understand how pairs work.”
Soap became suddenly interested in checking the magazine he had already checked twice. Gaz kept his face neutral. Ghost, positioned near the tent entrance, watched without appearing to.
Price’s gaze remained fixed on you. “You do not break off. You do not advance without confirmation. You do not decide you’ve spotted something the rest of us are too stupid to see and vanish after it.”
“You’ve made your point.”
“I haven’t started.”
Price straightened and gathered the photographs from the table. Since the night patrol, Ghost had become less actively cold towards you, though not warmer. He had not repeated what you told him. You knew that because Price had not looked at you differently afterward, and John Price was not capable of hearing something like that without carrying it visibly somewhere in his face.
Still, Ghost had begun watching the space between you and Price with a new kind of attention.
The team moved before dawn.
The snow had deepened overnight, soft enough to swallow the sound of boots but deep enough to make every step dangerous. You approached from the south beneath a low canopy of pine, moving single file until the lodge emerged through the trees. It was larger than the aerial photographs suggested, built from dark timber over an older stone foundation. No lights. No visible movement. The vehicles behind it were cold.
That meant little.
Price crouched beside you behind a fallen trunk and raised two fingers to his headset.
“Bravo, report.”
Gaz answered first. “East road covered. Two outside, both armed.”
“Upper floor,” Ghost murmured. “Movement behind the northern window. Can’t confirm how many.”
Soap’s voice followed. “South side clear. Got a cellar vent near the foundation.”
You looked towards the rear of the lodge.
The service yard was enclosed by a low stone wall, much of it collapsed beneath years of frost. There were two doors at the back. One newer, reinforced, with a camera positioned above it. The other narrow and almost hidden beneath an overhang, the wood warped and grey.
Price indicated the reinforced door.
You shook your head and pointed towards the narrow one.
He frowned.
You moved closer, keeping low, and spoke beneath your breath. “Servants’ entrance. Original building is older than the upper structure. That door will lead into the stone section.”
“And?”
“Kovač always takes the oldest exit. Less likely to appear on updated plans.”
Price studied the building for another second, then changed direction.
The narrow door opened into a passage barely wide enough for Price’s shoulders. The walls were unfinished stone, damp near the floor, with electrical cables running overhead. A single yellow bulb burned at the far end. You entered first, pistol raised, moving past stacked firewood and shelves of cleaning supplies until the corridor divided ahead.
Price touched two fingers to your shoulder.
Hold.
Ghost had not yet confirmed the upper floor. Soap and Gaz were still moving into position. The breach was supposed to happen simultaneously, before anyone inside had time to burn documents or reach the vehicles.
You stayed where you were—for perhaps seven seconds.
Then a door clicked somewhere beyond the junction.
You knew the sound because you had heard it in three different safe houses connected to Kovač: a weighted fire door releasing from an electronic lock.
Someone was moving.
Price’s hand closed around the back of your vest as you shifted forward.
“Wait.”
“There’s an exit.”
“We hold until Ghost clears the second floor.”
“If Kovač reaches the rear channel, he’ll be under the tree line before we breach.”
“You don’t know it’s him.”
You looked down the passage. There was a scrape beyond the wall, then the unmistakable drag of something heavy crossing stone.
“He’s moving.”
Price tightened his grip. “Lieutenant.”
The warning in his voice should have stopped you, but you pulled free and rounded the corner. The corridor opened into a storage room with a second door at the opposite end. A man stood beside it with a rifle already raised.
The muzzle flashed.
Something hot tore past the side of your face. Stone exploded from the wall behind you, fragments striking your cheek and collar. Your ears rang so violently that the second shot seemed to happen at a distance.
Price hit you from the side.
He drove you behind a support column with one arm locked around your chest, turned, and fired twice over your shoulder. The gunman staggered backwards into the door, his rifle dropping from his hands before he collapsed against the frame.
For half a second, neither of you moved.
Price’s body was pressed hard against yours, his breath rough near your ear. His hand had closed over the front of your vest so tightly that the knuckles had gone pale. You felt the violent rise and fall of his chest before he shoved you further behind cover and checked the corridor.
“Contact rear,” he snapped into comms. “One down. Breach now.”
Gunfire erupted elsewhere in the lodge.
Soap detonated the eastern charge. Glass shattered above you, followed by Ghost’s rifle from the tree line and Gaz shouting movement near the stairs. Price grabbed your jaw and turned your face towards him.
A thin line of blood ran from your temple to the edge of your cheek.
The bullet had not struck you. A piece of stone had. It had missed your skull by less than an inch.
Price stared at the blood with fire in his eyes. “What the fuck did I just tell you?”
You pulled your face out of his hand. “We don’t have time.”
His expression changed, going from irritation to coldness in a matter of seconds. “Stay behind me.”
You stepped around him.
Price caught your vest again and slammed you back against the stone. “I said behind me.”
The wall jarred your shoulder. His face was close enough that you could see the burst blood vessels in the whites of his eyes, the fine snow melting into his beard, the restraint holding his jaw rigid.
The second door at the end of the room swung inward.
Price released you immediately and raised his weapon.
Aleksandar Kovač appeared between two armed men.
He looked older than the last photograph. Thinner too, his grey hair cut close to the scalp, one hand gripping a hard-sided case against his chest. Recognition crossed his face when he saw you, oddly…disappointed?
“Lieutenant,” he hummed.
One of his men fired.
You and Price moved in opposite directions. Price took the left gunman while you dropped behind a steel worktable and fired beneath it, catching the second man through the calf. He went down hard. Kovač turned and ran through the doorway behind him.
Price followed.
You were by his side despite the order.
The passage beyond the room descended sharply, the old stone stairs slick with moisture. Kovač abandoned the case halfway down and reached the lower door just as Price caught the back of his coat. The fabric tore. Kovač twisted, produced a compact pistol from beneath his jacket, and raised it blindly over his shoulder.
You struck his wrist with the butt of your weapon.
The pistol fired into the ceiling.
Price drove Kovač face-first into the wall, dragged one arm behind his back, and forced him to his knees with enough pressure to pull a strangled sound from his throat. You kicked the pistol away.
“Target contained,” he reported.
Soap answered through a wash of static. “Ground floor clear.”
“East clear,” Gaz added. “Two detained.”
Ghost’s voice came last. “Upper level secure.”
It was over.
Nearly a year of tracking shell companies, bribed customs officials, false passports, dead intermediaries, and abandoned houses had ended in a stairwell beneath a hunting lodge. Kovač knelt against the wall with blood running from his mouth while Price searched him and you stood close enough to feel your pulse beating in the shallow cut beside your eye.
Kovač looked up at you.
“He will spend you too,” he said, accent thick.
Price stopped searching him.
You met Kovač’s gaze without answering.
Price hauled him upright and passed him to Gaz when the others reached the lower level. He did not speak to you for the remainder of the extraction.
The flight back to London took just over three hours. Soap slept through most of it with his arms folded beneath his head. Gaz reviewed body-camera footage. Ghost sat opposite you, still enough to resemble part of the aircraft, his eyes occasionally moving to the plaster taped beside your temple.
Price remained near the cockpit.
Once, during turbulence, you looked up and found him watching you.
He looked away first.
Kovač was transferred into British custody shortly after landing. You were separated from the team for medical assessment, then debriefed twice by people who had not been in Bosnia and wanted to know why your camera footage showed you advancing before the agreed breach.
You told them you heard movement consistent with an escape attempt.
They asked whether Captain Price ordered you to hold.
You told them yes.
They asked whether you complied.
You told them no.
The second debrief ended at half past six in the evening. You expected to be released back to your own unit after that, perhaps with a formal reprimand waiting by morning. Instead, a uniformed aide intercepted you outside the secure conference room and handed over a visitor pass for the upper level.
“Captain Price wants to see you.”
You stared at him. “Where?”
“His office.”
Of course he had an office. A proper one, at that.
The brass plate on the door bore his name and rank. Inside, there were shelves, locked cabinets, a scarred wooden desk, and a wide window overlooking a section of Whitehall. A framed regimental photograph sat near the corner, beside a smaller picture turned slightly away from the room. Price had removed his jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves to the forearms. His hat rested on the desk beside a closed file.
He did not tell you to come in.
You did anyway and shut the door behind you.
Price remained standing. “Sit down.”
“No.”
His mouth tightened. “That wasn’t a request.”
“Then you can record my refusal.”
You stayed near the door, arms folded. The cut at your temple had begun to throb beneath the dressing. Price’s gaze flicked towards it before returning to your face.
“You’re suspended from field duty, effective immediately.”
For one clean second, you thought you had misheard him.
Then you laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ve already done it.”
“You don’t have the authority.”
He placed one hand on the file. “I do.”
“You are not my captain.”
“No?”
Something in his expression warned you before he opened the folder, but the satisfaction of saying it had already carried you too far. Price removed a document and slid it across the desk.
You did not approach.
“Read it.”
“I know who I report to.”
“Read the bloody order.”
You crossed the room, snatched the paper, and scanned the first page.
It was an operational attachment authorisation, amended three days earlier. Your placement under Task Force 141 had been extended through the formal closure of the Kovač investigation, including debriefing, evidence recovery, source review, and any resulting action against associated networks. Tactical and administrative control remained with Captain John Price until Laswell formally released you.
Laswell’s signature sat at the bottom. Beneath it was your own commanding officer’s.
You read the page twice.
Price watched you do it.
“This operation is finished.”
“Kovač’s in custody. His network isn’t. The operation remains active until Laswell closes it.”
“You had this amended before the raid.”
“Yes.”
“You went around me.”
“I went through your chain of command.”
“Without telling me.”
“Didn’t realise I needed your permission.”
You dropped the paper onto the desk. “You smug bastard.”
Price’s eyebrows lifted. “Careful.”
“No. You do not drag me into your unit, extend my assignment behind my back, then suspend me the moment you’ve got what you need.”
“You suspended yourself the moment you ignored a direct order and stepped into a rifle sight.”
“I stopped Kovač from escaping.”
“You nearly painted the wall with the back of your skull.”
“But I didn’t.”
The desk stood between you, though neither of you treated it as much of a barrier. Price planted both palms against the wood and leaned forward. “A round passed your head close enough to cut you with the debris.”
“Nothing else happened.”
“You think that makes this better?”
“I think we captured the target.”
“That was not the only acceptable outcome.”
Price’s face hardened. You stepped closer to the desk. “That’s interesting.”
“Don’t.”
“The target is in custody. The network’s compromised. No one on your team was killed. I would have thought that qualified as a success.”
“This isn’t Brno.”
“No. In Brno, you had the decency to let somebody else pull the trigger.”
His hands curled against the desk.
You saw it. The slight shift of his fingers, the tendons standing out through his forearms. Price looked down once, briefly, before meeting your eyes again.
“You don’t get to use that to justify what you did today.”
“Why not? You taught me the calculation.”
“I taught you the wrong fucking lesson.”
The room went still.
Rain ran in thin streams down the window behind him. Somewhere beyond the closed door, phones rang, footsteps crossed the corridor, someone laughed at something you could not hear. The ordinary sounds of the building continued while Price stood across from you and finally said what he had avoided for years.
You searched his face for mockery and found that there was none.
“What?”
His jaw locked. “You heard me.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Price pushed away from the desk and straightened. “I was wrong.”
You almost laughed again, but nothing came.
He continued before you could recover. “I was wrong to let you get into that car. I was wrong not to abort the operation the moment we knew Varga had discovered you, and I was wrong when I walked into that hospital and spoke to you like the result justified what happened.”
Your throat tightened, which only made you angrier.
Price’s voice remained controlled, but the effort had started to show. “There. Is that proper enough?”
“You had years.”
“I know.”
“You took the medal.”
“Yes.”
“You let them write your judgement into the citation and erase me from the report.”
“I know.”
“You knew I was walking into a trap.”
“Yes.”
Each answer came without defence, which should’ve helped your anger. To know he acknowledge how wrong he’d been, how he didn’t take pride in it—but it did little to ease the anger bubbling at the pit of your stomach.
“You can’t just confess this because one bullet came near me and frightened you.”
Price’s eyes narrowed. “Frightened me?”
“That’s what this is, isn’t it? You saw blood and decided to discover a conscience.”
“I watched that muzzle turn towards your face.”
“And you got me out. Congratulations. You’ve finally balanced the books.”
“This is not a ledger.”
“It is to men like you.”
Price came around the desk. “You think I suspended you because I’m trying to punish you?”
“I think you cannot tolerate that I don’t worship you like the others do.”
“You nearly got yourself killed to prove I couldn’t control you.”
“I did my job.”
“You disobeyed because the order came from me.”
“You don’t know why I did it.”
“I know exactly why.”
He stopped several feet away. Without the desk between you, the office felt smaller. Price was still in his tactical pants, shirt collar open, the smell of rain and cigar smoke clinging to him beneath the cologne.
“You heard that door,” he said, “and decided the objective mattered more than the instruction. You knew the risk. You took it anyway because you were certain you understood the situation better than the man responsible for you.”
“I did understand it better.”
“Perhaps you did. That doesn’t make you bulletproof.”
“It made me right.”
“It nearly made you dead.”
You scoffed and looked towards the window. “God, you’ve become tedious.”
“Look at me.”
“No.”
Price caught your chin and turned your face back towards him.
The movement was not gentle, but neither was it rough enough to hurt. His fingers stopped beneath the edge of the plaster at your temple. For a second, his attention shifted to the wound, and the anger in his expression became something more difficult to look at.
You knocked his hand away.
“Don’t.”
“You think because I failed you once, I’m required to stand back and watch you do this to yourself forever?”
“You didn’t fail me. You almost got me killed.”
“And I have lived with it every day since.”
You stared at him.
Price breathed through his nose, shoulders rigid. “You think I don’t remember that warehouse? You think I don’t remember how you looked when they brought you out? I can still tell you which surgeon took the bullet out. I can tell you how long the operation lasted and which corridor they made us wait in. I know you stopped breathing for forty-three seconds.”
The words struck hard enough to empty your lungs.
He had never told you that.
Price looked almost disgusted with himself for saying it, but he did not stop. “I know exactly what I did.”
“Then why did you never apologise?”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
You smiled without warmth. “Figures.”
“I didn’t think an apology would be enough.”
“So you chose nothing.”
“I thought staying away was what you wanted.”
“What I wanted?” You stepped closer. “I was twenty-four years old, half my insides were stitched together, and the officer I trusted most told me I understood the risk. You made it sound as though I had done it to myself.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“It’s the truth.”
“No, it’s what you say when you want credit for admitting something without having to repair it.”
Price’s temper finally broke through.
“What would you have had me do?” he demanded. “Turn up at your door every year with flowers and another fucking apology? Follow you from post to post until you decided I’d suffered enough?”
“You seem to enjoy following me now.”
“Because you are under my command.”
“There it is. Everything has to be an order with you.”
“Because that is the only language you’ve left me.”
The room had narrowed to the space between you.
You could see the pulse beating in his throat. Price’s anger did not make him loud so much as intensely still, every movement reduced to what was necessary. It was the same stillness he’d known before violence, and some unwise part of you recognised it with an awareness that had nothing to do with fear.
You ignored that too.
“With this attitude,” you said, breathing through your mouth as you tilted your head, “it’s no wonder your ex-wife doesn’t let you see your son, John.”
Price did not move.
For a second, you thought he might not have heard.
Then his face emptied.
It was not the anger you expected. It was more like an abrupt removal of every expression, every trace of the man you had been fighting with, until only the officer remained.
“Don’t speak about them.”
You looked towards the photograph beside his desk. A boy of perhaps nine stood beside a river, grinning at whoever held the camera. Price was not in the frame.
“You make every room a chain of command because it’s the only way anyone stays. Your wife left. Your son has to be kept from you. The only family you’ve managed to hold onto are three soldiers obliged to answer when you call.”
Price crossed the remaining distance.
“Enough.”
“Perhaps she realised what I did. That you can turn anyone expendable if the report reads well afterward.”
His hand closed around your arm.
You looked down at it, then back at him.
“Take your hand off me.”
“Stop.”
“Or what?”
His grip loosened immediately, but he did not step away. You could feel the heat of him through your uniform, his chest rising hard beneath the open collar of his shirt.
“You want me to be that man forever,” he said. His voice had dropped quiet enough that you had to listen closely. “Because then you never have to admit what you did today had nothing to do with Kovač.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You heard me order you to hold and went anyway. You wanted to know whether I would stop you this time.”
You shoved him. Both hands against his chest, harder than you had in the briefing room.
Price took one step back.
You followed.
“Do not try to climb inside my head because you’ve run out of ways to control the room.”
“You wanted me to make the choice again.”
“You see everything when it’s too late.”
“And you keep putting yourself in front of the gun.”
“At least I know where I stand when it’s pointed at me.”
Price caught your wrists when you shoved him again.
The movement happened quickly, his hands closing around yours and lowering them between your bodies. He held them while you stared up at him, both of you breathing too hard for an argument that had not become physical.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
The office seemed to tilt around the silence. Your wrists remained inside his hands, pulse hard and fast.
“Let go,” you said, though the words lacked the force they should have carried.
He did.
His gaze moved over your face, from the plaster at your temple to your eyes, then lower again. There was anger in it still, but no longer the clean sort. It had become tangled with recognition, with years of resentment forged into an intimacy neither of you had agreed to acknowledge.
“You hate me.”
You almost laughed. “Brilliant deduction.”
His jaw tightened at the answer, but the hand that rose towards your face stopped before touching you.
It hovered beside your neck.
A question, however badly phrased.
You lifted your chin.
Price kissed you.
There was nothing tentative about it. His hand closed around the side of your neck and his mouth met yours with all the restraint he had failed to maintain elsewhere, rough and furious and tasting of coffee and tobacco. The first impact pushed you back half a step.
Then you caught the front of his shirt and dragged him with you.
Price made a low sound against your mouth.
It went straight through you.
Your back met the edge of his desk, scattering the papers you had dropped there. His free hand found your waist and tightened, fingers spanning the space above your hip as he crowded closer. The kiss deepened without becoming softer. His beard scraped your skin. You bit his lower lip hard enough to make his grip flex.
He answered by pressing you more firmly against the desk.
It was hateful.
It was hungry.
It felt like every argument neither of you had finished, every conversation he had avoided and every accusation you had sharpened in his absence, driven into the space between your mouths until there was no room left for speech.
Your fingers slid beneath the open edge of his collar, feeling heat and the coarse hair at his chest. Price inhaled sharply. His mouth moved to the corner of yours, then along your jaw, beard scraping a raw path that left your skin singing. When his teeth found the curve where neck met shoulder, your head fell back without permission.
It gave him more room.
Price took it.
The hand still braced against your waist tightened, fingers pressing into the muscle above your hip bone hard enough that tomorrow there would be marks. He was not gentle, but you had not expected him to be. His breath came hot and uneven against your throat, and when you arched into him, the solid line of his body against yours answered with an insistence that bordered on demand.
“You never listen,” he said against your skin, the words muffled by proximity.
“And you never stop talking.”
His laugh was a short, humourless exhale. His free hand moved from your neck to your jaw, tilting your face until you had no choice but to meet his eyes. The blue of them had darkened to something nearer storm than sky. His thumb pressed against the corner of your mouth, and when you parted your lips in response—defiance, invitation, you could not have said which—his gaze flickered down to watch.
The thumb at your mouth pushed inside.
The taste of salt and coffee, the rough pad pressing against the flat of your tongue, shut you up more effectively than any shouted command ever had. Your teeth closed around the first knuckle, not biting, but threatening.
Price’s nostrils flared.
He withdrew his thumb slowly, dragging it across your lower lip until it came away wet.
“You want to know what I thought about,” he said, voice scraped low, “while you were in surgery?”
“Enlighten me.”
“What I would have written to your next of kin.”
Your fingers, still tangled in the open collar of his shirt, tightened until fabric strained against buttons. “Liar.”
“I had the letter drafted. Three different versions.”
“You’re a bastard.”
“I’m your captain.”
You pulled him down by the shirt and kissed him again, harder, all teeth and fury and a horrible kind of desperation. He met you measure for measure. His hand fisted in the back of your shirt, twisting the fabric until it pulled tight across your shoulders, and when you gasped at the pressure, his tongue slid past your lips and took what you had not offered.
The kiss went on until your lungs burned.
It ended only because his hands moved to the front of your uniform shirt, and the first button came undone with a jerk that sent it skittering somewhere across the floor. Then the second. The third.
“You’re breaking my uniform.”
“I’ll buy you another.”
“That’s government property.”
Price did not answer.
He opened the rest of the buttons with an efficiency that suggested he had done this before, though not to you, and the thought made something hot twist behind your sternum. The shirt fell open, and cool air hit your chest before his palm flattened against your stomach—just below the band of your sports bra—and pushed.
Your spine met the desk.
Papers that had not already scattered crumpled beneath you. Something hard—a pen, a paperweight—dug into your shoulder blade. Price followed you down, one hand braced beside your head, the other still splayed low on your belly, and the weight of him between your thighs made coherent thought impossible.
“The door,” you managed.
“Locked.”
“When did you—”
“The moment you walked in.”
That should not have been as attractive as it was. The forethought of it. The anticipation. As though he had known, even then, where this argument was headed.
Your hips rolled up against his without conscious decision.
Price’s jaw tightened.
The hand on your stomach slid higher, pushing the bra up—not off, just out of the way, the elastic band digging into the flesh above your breasts as he exposed you to the dim light of his office. The window behind his desk looked out onto a courtyard. Anyone walking past would see only the back of his chair and the top of his head. The angle of the desk, the height of the sill—he had thought about this too.
Bastard.
His mouth dropped to your chest.
The hollow of your throat first, where your pulse hammered visibly against the skin. Then the slope of your breast, the curve where rib gave way to softer tissue. His beard burned a path that you would have to explain tomorrow, and in the moment you could not find it in yourself to care.
When his lips closed around your nipple, your back arched clean off the desk.
He held you down.
The suction was cruel. Sharp pulls of his mouth alternating with the flat of his tongue, and between them the scrape of teeth—never hard enough to hurt, always hard enough to draw out a groan. His free hand found your other breast and treated it with the same merciless focus, thumb circling the bud until it ached with sensitivity, rolling and tugging until you made a sound that was hard to describe.
“Be quiet.”
You laughed, breathless and unsteady. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
He bit down.
Your hips bucked, and the seam of your pants ground against the front of his, and the contact was so inadequate it made you want to scream. Your hands, which had been braced against his shoulders, slid to the back of his neck and pulled.
Hair softer than you expected. You twisted your fingers through it and held.
Price made a sound against your breast and the vibration travelled through your rib cage and into your lungs. He pulled back far enough to look at you, and the expression on his face was a ruin of composure. His lips were wet. His pupils had nearly swallowed the blue. The flush that crept up his throat disappeared beneath the salt-and-pepper of his beard, and you wanted to follow it with your tongue.
Later.
He straightened.
The loss of his weight was a physical shock. You levered up onto your elbows, ready to protest, and found him looking down at you with an expression you could not read. His hands went to your belt.
“Lift.”
You did not lift.
“I said lift.”
“I heard you.”
Price’s eyes narrowed. For a long moment neither of you moved—you propped on the edge of his desk, shirt gaping open and bra rucked obscenely above your breasts, him standing between your thighs with his hands paused at your buckle and a muscle ticking in his jaw.
Then his hands moved anyway.
He unbuckled the belt without your cooperation, threading leather through metal with short, hard tugs. The button on your pants followed. The zipper. His knuckles brushed the skin below your navel, and the casual contact made your stomach muscles jump.
“You’re insufferable,” he grunted.
“And you’re still here.”
Your pants came down with your underwear in one motion—he did not bother separating them, did not bother with the boots you still wore. He pulled fabric down to mid-thigh and left you bare from the waist to the knees while you watched his face.
He looked at you the way a strategist looked at a map—cataloguing terrain, noting vulnerabilities.
Your first instinct was to close your legs.
You ignored it.
Price dropped to his knees.
The sight of him, between your thighs on the floor of his office, shoulders level with the desk edge and breath ghosting against the inside of your knee, did something horrible to your brain. His hands found your thighs and pushed them apart with an authority that demanded compliance.
You did not comply.
He pushed harder.
Your knees parted.
His mouth landed on the sensitive skin just above your boot, where leather met the bare stretch of your calf. The kiss was surprisingly gentle. Almost reverent. Then his teeth scraped upward along the inside of your thigh, and the contrast made your hips shift forward.
He took his time.
“Price.”
He ignored you.
His mouth moved to your other thigh and started the same slow ascent. His beard left a trail of sensation like sandpaper, and the wet heat of his tongue chased it, and by the time he reached the crease where thigh met pelvis, your hands had fisted in the papers beneath you and torn something—a report, a memo, you did not care.
Then his mouth reached your cunt.
The first touch was his tongue, flat and broad, dragging through the slick that had gathered there. Your head fell back against the desk with a sound that was louder than you intended.
“Quiet.”
The word vibrated against your clit.
You clamped your mouth shut so hard your teeth clicked. Above you, the ceiling was the same institutional white as every other ceiling in the Ministry of Defence, and you stared at it while his tongue circled the place that made your vision blur, and you did not make a sound.
His tongue was clever.
It mapped you with the same thorough attention he brought to missions—methodical, cataloguing responses, noting which movements made your thighs tremble and which made your breathing hitch. When he found the rhythm that made your hips chase his mouth, he settled into it and did not deviate.
The pressure built.
You bit the inside of your cheek and tasted copper.
His thumb joined the effort, pressing just below where his tongue worked, and the combination was other-worldly. Your foot kicked out involuntarily. Something fell off the desk with a clatter. Price’s free hand clamped down on your hip and held you in place while his tongue pushed you further, faster, closer.
Your back arched.
A sound escaped.
“I said quiet.”
He stopped.
His mouth lifted, his thumb retreated, and the sudden absence of sensation was so abrupt that your hips chased him without your permission. Price leaned back on his heels and looked up at you from between your thighs, and the smug satisfaction in his expression made you want to hit him.
“Or what?” You asked. The words came out hoarse, stripped of defiance.
Price stood.
The movement was unhurried. He rose from his knees like a man who had all the time in the world, and when he reached the desk, he bent to retrieve something from the floor. Your shirt.
He tossed it at you.
The fabric landed across your chest.
“Get dressed.”
Rage spiked through you like a flare. You pushed up onto your elbows, almost completely naked and furious and dripping onto the edge of his desk, and the look you levelled at him could have stripped paint.
“You chose the wrong woman if you think I’m going to beg.”
Price caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger. He tilted your face up until your neck strained, until you had to look at him, and the expression in his eyes was something that had no business being in a commanding officer’s face.
“I don’t want you to beg,” he said. Each word was a separate, deliberate thing. “I want you to shut up.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Your chin, still trapped in his grip. His thumb, pressed into the soft hollow beneath your lower lip. The wetness cooling on your thighs. The shirt crumpled against your sternum.
Slowly, deliberately, you lay back down.
Price watched you for another moment. His grip on your chin loosened, then fell away. His hand moved to the back of your neck instead, fingers threading through the short hairs at your nape, and the grip there was almost tender before it tightened—just enough to communicate that tenderness had never been the point.
He pushed you flat.
Your spine met the desk again. The shirt slid off your chest. You did not pick it up.
And Price went to town.
His mouth returned to your cunt like a man starving, like the interruption had only deepened his appetite, and the noise that tried to escape your throat was stopped only by sheer stubbornness. His tongue pushed inside you—deep, then deeper, then curling in a way that made your inner walls clench around nothing when he withdrew. His thumb found your clit and pressed circles that matched the rhythm of his mouth, and the dual sensation was so much, so fast, that your hips jerked against his hold.
He did not let you move.
His forearm braced across your pelvis pinned you to the desk, and the restraint itself became another layer of sensation. You could not grind against his mouth. You could not chase the pressure where you wanted it. You could only take what he gave you, exactly how he gave it, and the surrender of control was infuriating and intoxicating equally.
His tongue circled your entrance before two fingers pushed inside.
The stretch was immediate and perfect—callused fingers, thick knuckles, curling forward against the spot that made sparks burst behind your closed eyelids. Your hands scrabbled for hold on the desk and found none. The papers were gone, the pen and paperweight long since knocked to the floor. You had nothing to grip but the edge of the desk itself, and your fingers ached with the strength of your hold.
His fingers moved inside you in a rhythm that his tongue echoed on your clit, and the combination was building something behind your navel that you could feel in your teeth. His beard was soaked. You could hear it—slick sounds that filled the quiet office, obscene and unmistakable, and the knowledge that anyone walking past the door might hear only sharpened every sensation.
“Price—”
His mouth lifted. “What did I say?”
You bit your tongue so hard you tasted blood.
His lips curved against your inner thigh—insufferable, insufferable—and then he added a third finger.
Your vision whited out for approximately three seconds.
When it cleared, he was still working you, dragging you toward a precipice you could feel approaching like a wall of heat. His fingers curled and your hips tried to buck and his forearm held you still and his tongue was doing something you had no vocabulary for and—
He stopped.
Again.
Your snarl of frustration was cut short by his hands on your hips, pulling you forward. The movement dragged you across the desk, pants still tangled around your boots, until your legs hung over the edge and your ass was barely supported. Price grabbed the back of your neck and hauled you upright into a kiss that was more teeth than lips.
“Will you ever fucking listen to me?”
You could taste yourself on his mouth, the flavour strong on the wetness that coated his beard pressed against your chin. Your chest heaved against his, bare skin against the fabric of his shirt, and the roughness of it against your nipples made thinking impossible.
“Look where listening to you has gotten me,” you gasped.
The sound he made was barely human.
He spun you.
The movement was efficiency itself—one hand on your hip, the other between your shoulder blades, and suddenly your chest was pressed against the cool wood of the desk and your boots were scraping the floor for support. Your bare ass was in the air, and you could feel him somewhere behind you, still fully clothed, breathing hard.
His boots appeared on either side of your ankles.
Metal—a belt buckle, his belt buckle—clinked in the quiet.
The head of his cock pressed against your cunt from behind, and you felt him pause.
Waiting.
For what, you did not know. Permission? You had never given it—never even been asked. Perhaps he wanted you to say something. Perhaps he wanted you to object.
“Can you hurry up,” you said instead, voice muffled against the desk.
He slammed into you.
The sound you made was not quiet.
It was not quiet at all, and before you could draw breath for another, his hand clamped over your mouth from behind. His palm sealed across your lips, his forearm pressed against your throat, and the angle of his entry shifted with the movement until he was so deep you could feel him in your stomach.
“You’re in the Ministry of Defence,” he said against your ear, voice ragged, voice wrecked. “You will be silent, or I will stop.”
You bit his palm.
He fucked into you harder.
The rhythm he set was brutal, a pace that did not ask permission and did not offer reprieve, and your body took it and took it and took it. The desk creaked beneath you with each thrust. Your boots slipped on the floor. His hand on your mouth kept you still and quiet, pinned while he drove into you from behind with a force that felt like a tornado.
Your walls clenched around him.
He groaned directly into your ear, and the sound bypassed your brain entirely on its way to your cunt.
The hand that was not covering your mouth found your hip before sliding forward, palm flattening against your belly, and when you arched into the contact his fingers tracked lower. Through the thatch of hair, parting the flesh that his cock was already splitting.
His fingertip found your clit.
The touch was devastating.
It was the lightest pressure, but combined with the relentless rhythm of his hips, it was enough to send you hurtling toward the edge you had been approaching for what felt like hours. Your scream was muffled by his palm. Your body tightened around him, and he did not slow, fucking you through it while his finger circled your clit and his breath rasped against your ear.
The orgasm hit in waves.
Not one peak but several—each one triggered by a different angle, a different pressure, the sound of his breathing or the scrape of his uniform against your bare back. Your vision went white. Your hands, trapped beneath your chest, clawed at the desk and found nothing. The only solid thing in the universe was him—his cock, his hand, the weight of him behind you.
It went on long enough that you forgot how to breathe.
When it finally ended, when your body stopped convulsing around him and the world reassembled itself, you were limp against the desk and Price was still hard inside you.
He withdrew.
His hand left your mouth. You heard him breathing behind you, harsh and uneven, the sound of a man holding himself together by the thinnest of margins. His fist moved against himself in quick, desperate strokes, and when he came, it was across your back. Hot and thick and pooling in the dip of your spine.
His palm landed on your ass, the slap hard enough to echo.
“You’re still suspended.”
It took three full seconds for the words to register. When they did, you pushed yourself upright so fast your vision swam. Your trousers were still around your knees. Your shirt was somewhere on the floor. His come was dripping down your back.
“Excuse me?”
Price was already doing up his belt. His hands were steady. His expression, when he looked at you, was the same one he wore on the field—professional, impenetrable, completely and utterly unreadable.
“The suspension stands. Two weeks. Desk duty.”
“You absolute bastard.”
“I prefer Captain.”
You grabbed the edge of the desk because hitting him would have required standing, and standing required pulling up your trousers, and pulling up your trousers meant acknowledging that you had just let him fuck you on his desk while the afternoon light streamed through the window and his cum cooled on your skin.
His hand found your chin again.
The grip was gentler this time, almost caring. He tilted your face up until you met his eyes, and the storm-dark blue held something you could not name.
“This suspension won’t get in the way of making captain,” he breathed out. The words were quiet, each one placed like a chess piece. “So you’ll shut up and take it.”
Your jaw tightened in his grip.
“Or?”
“Or I will make sure you never see a promotion board for the rest of your career.”
The threat was delivered without malice or anger, only certainty—a man aware of how much power he held and had no fear of using it.
And, damn him, you had no spirit left in you to fight as you felt the warm liquid dripping down your back.
Summary: You and your husband John Price eat some suspicious food.
Warnings: swearing, Drug use, getting drugged
——————
“Mum, where’s your brownie recipe?” Lily asked, flipping through your handwritten recipe notebook.
You had made the little book over the years. It was a medium-sized orange leather-bound notebook covered in stickers of Bluey, FC Liverpool, flowers, and an old army logo. Your kids had decorated it through the years, which made it all the more sentimental.
The first page held an old Polaroid of you baking in yours and John’s old flat, back when you were only dating. That day was a fond memory because it was the day you decided you would become a good baker.
It had been for John, it was always for John if you were honest. He’d been laid up injured from a deployment and had asked you to bake sugar cookies. After that day, you never looked back, slowly becoming the great baker and cook you were today. It was a fond memory for John too, though he still complained that rainy Sunday was when the battle between him and his waistband began.
“I don’t keep the brownie or cookie recipe in there.” You spoke nonchalantly, walking by your fifteen-year-old and giving her a shrug.
“Where do you keep it?” Lily snapped the book shut and looked at you, rather annoyed.
You loved your children dearly, but each one of them became incredibly sassy in their teenage years, and you weren’t a fan of that.
“You’re not getting that recipe.” John interjected from his spot at the kitchen island.
John was sitting on the center bar stool, hunched over a bowl of rice, beans, and chicken while scrolling on his phone.
“Why!?” Lily gaped at him, offended. She turned to you since her father seemed too absorbed in whatever was on his phone to respond. You were at the stove, serving yourself a bowl of what John had cooked for dinner.
“Your dad’s being cheeky. I can give it to you, but you have to promise not to share it with anyone.” Taking your spoon, you pointed it at Lily to show you were serious.
Lily smiled brightly and nodded eagerly.
She was such a pretty young girl, although she didn’t believe it. Your dad said she dressed exactly like you had at that age, which Lily would always scoff at. The best way to describe Lily’s style was alternative. She liked loose-fitting jeans, thrifted sweaters, long sleeves stacked under T-shirts, dark colors, and Converse. Her brown hair was cut into a cute bob with wispy bangs and a single blonde streak framing the right side of her face.
To John’s utter dismay, she had four piercings in each ear, and you had taken her to get a cute little nose stud last month.
That had caused a huge fight between the two of you, but you told him that if Lily was anything like you, you’d eventually find blood in her sink and her trying to hide an infected piercing. So, you made the choice to have it done safely and let your daughter express herself.
It blew up after that. John had been irate with you and said Lily would end up with a tattoo at sixteen, just like you had.
As much as you and her older sister Evelyn were similar, Lily had gotten the bits of your personality Evelyn wasn’t capable of possessing. The hidden insecurities, the sensitivity, and the tendency to take things personally at times. Your shy little girl had grown up to be a shy, soft-spoken fifteen-year-old outside the house.
With you and John, though, she back-talked, rolled her eyes, and had recently started sneaking out.
“Darling, I don’t think Lily’s earned that kind of trust.” John finally looked up from his phone and gave you what Lily referred to as the look.
“Oh, come on,” Lily whined, already knowing where this was going.
“You gonna sneak out again?” you asked your daughter, your mouth around your spoon.
“Don’t have any plans you’ve said no to, so as of now, no.” Lily had that same playful grin John was known for.
You couldn’t acknowledge what she’d said, not with the amount of salt assaulting your taste buds.
“Lily.” John warned.
“It’s a brownie recipe. What could she possibly do with it besides make brownies with her friends?” You coughed through your words and chugged your water. You didn’t want to tell John how bad dinner was because it was sweet of him to cook.
“In this family? There’s bound to be plenty of trouble to be had over something like a brownie recipe.” John grumbled.
“Here. Don’t give it to anyone. I worked really hard on perfecting it.” Your voice was strained as you sent Lily the recipe from the notes app on your phone.
“Thanks, Mum.” She beamed.
“Now get yourself a bowl and eat dinner with us before you shut yourself back in your cave.” John’s joke earned an eye roll from both his girls.
“Oh, bleh, Dad, this is really bad.” Lily spat the food back into her bowl.
“It’s not that bad.” John’s voice cracked.
“Italian?” you asked.
“Let me grab my keys.”
“Brilliant!” Lily cheered.
——————
It was Friday night and neither you nor John felt like cooking. So you suggested hot pot, which had quickly become a recent favorite of yours. Lily had loved it the first time you took her and now asked every other week if you could go.
So here you were, gathered around a table with boiling broth and mountains of meat, noodles, dumplings, vegetables, and seafood.
“Dad, you’re such a good cook.” Lily snickered.
She held out her bowl while John dropped a bundle of noodles into it.
“Fuck off.” John snorted out a laugh.
He then served some into your bowl while you tossed another plate of meat into the bubbling broth.
This place was amazing for a man like John. All-you-can-eat was less a meal and more a challenge. You still found yourself watching in awe at just how much food he could put away.
“Darling, switch seats with me.” John nudged you with his elbow.
“Why?” you asked around your chopsticks.
“I think the spice is getting to you. Your eyes have gone bloodshot.” You simply smiled and ignored him while John leaned closer to make sure your eyes weren’t actually irritated.
You seemed fine, so he shrugged it off.
“Those brownies came out really good, Lil.” You smiled at your daughter.
Lily immediately began choking on her food. Her eyes went wide and she felt a weight settle on her chest. The suffocating weight of dread.
“What!?” she blurted.
You blinked at her reaction. Across the table, you and John shared a confused look.
“Were you saving them?” you asked.
“Yeah. Your mum cleaned out your bag before we left and had a few.” John shook his head. “Tasted bloody awful.”
“John,” you whispered, warning him not to be rude.
“What?” he asked defensively.
“You don’t even like chocolate, so your opinion isn’t helpful.”
“Yeah? You like them, then?” John’s eyebrows rose in challenge.
“Are you feeling fine?” Lily squeaked.
“What do you mean?” You frowned, struggling to grab a dumpling with your chopsticks. It kept slipping away, doing little circles and flips around your bowl.
John’s eyes narrowed.
He and Lily locked into an intense stare.
“Please don’t kill me—”
“Lily.”
John’s voice dropped a full octave.
“I can’t get this fucking dumpling.” You started giggling as it escaped you yet again.
John put down his chopsticks and buried his face in his hands.
“I get randomly drug tested. You’re aware of that, right?” He was so deadly calm it had the blood in Lily’s veins going ice cold.
“Drug tested? Why’s that coming up?” You stared at him.
John let out a long sigh, looking between your bloodshot eyes and the dumpling that had apparently become your mortal enemy.
Then it clicked.
“Oh shit. I’m high.”
“They were weed brownies. I’m so sorry.” Lily looked between the two of you, absolutely terrified.
“Good job.” You giggled, finally stabbing the dumpling and shoving it into your mouth.
“Oi, no condoning this!” John snapped.
“John, you said they were awful and then ate four.” You fell into hysterical laughter. This is what he got for his gluttony for baked goods.
“You’re not mad?” Lily asked, wide-eyed.
“No need for me to be mad. Your dad can handle that for both of us.” You pointed at John with your chopsticks.
“Or worried?” Lily added nervously.
“This is far from the first time I’ve been high in public. I can handle myself. Your dad, on the other hand, has never been high before, so Godspeed.” You patted John’s shoulder sympathetically.
“You’ve been high in public!?” Lily’s jaw dropped.
“Yes, but let’s not go there. I don’t think your father wants me sharing those stories right now.”
“Mum.”
“How do I know when it’s happening?” John asked, staring at you with growing concern while completely ignoring the rest of the conversation.
“You’ll know.” Your responce didn’t seem to calm John what so ever.
You turned to Lily.
“How much did you put in each brownie?”
You expected an actual measurement. Some idea of just how much you and John had consumed. Because there was a chance you’d just be a little high or you could end up stoned out of your mind.
“I don’t know. A lot.” She said just above a whisper, already cringing at your reaction before it even happened.
“That is not a measurement, Lily.”You blinked at her several times while that information settled in.
Honestly, that was more irritating than being drugged.
“Oh, you’re fucked, John.” Turning to your husband, you weren’t entirely sure you could find the humor in this one.
“Should I go throw up?” John looked genuinely panicked.
“Too late. Just enjoy it.” You shrugged and immediately went back to chasing another dumpling around your bowl.
“Lily, if you’re going to be doing stuff like this, you need to measure.” You spoke seriously.
“Um—”
“I mean it. It’s careless not to know how much you’re consuming or how much you’re giving other people. If you can measure sugar and flour, you can measure the weed going into the brownies.” Lily wasn’t sure why this was the part you were lecturing her on.
Instead of simply being angry, you seemed more concerned with safe drug use while her father was firmly on Team No Drugs.
“What are you, the food police?” Lily didn’t mean to sound sarcastic. She was genuinely confused how this had somehow become a quality-control issue.
“Don’t be cheeky. You drugged two people. It’s perfectly reasonable that we’d like to know how much we’ve taken.” You shot her an unimpressed look before turning to John for backup.
John was staring at his daughter with a murderous expression. Lily could practically feel the daggers coming from across the table.
“Why use your mother’s recipe!? If you’re making drugs, use boxed mix!” John hissed over the steaming pot.
You immediately burst out laughing.
You’d expected a lecture about drugs.
Not that.
“I wanted them to taste good!” Lily defended herself.
“Well, they were bloody terrible.”
“You ate four!”
“Disgracing your mum’s recipe. How dare you.”
John pointed the tongs at her accusingly before immediately going back to adding noodles to the pot.
“You’ve drugged your mother.” John tacked on looking fuming mad.
“Imagine how much worse they’d be with boxed mix.” you said casually while scrolling through the ordering tablet and adding more food.
“How are you so calm!?” Lily quietly shrieked.
“This isn’t my first rodeo.” You continued tapping the screen.
“Oh my God, and you’re okay with that!?” Lily turned to John, who still looked ready to explode.
“Yes. Because your mum is a grown woman who can make those choices. You’re grounded. So bloody grounded you’ll never see your friends again for as long as I’m alive.” John kept pointing the tongs at whoever he was talking to, occasionally flinging noodles across the table.
“Give it a year, Lil. One of us is bound to put him in an early grave with all the trouble we cause.”
“That’s not fucking funny!” John hissed.
His expression softened briefly when you showed him the tablet.
He nodded.
Apparently he approved of your food choices.
“I’m getting more noodles. What do you want, Lily?”
The smile you gave her felt like emotional whiplash.
“Uh—”
“Uh, nothing. You better eat. This place is forty-five quid a head.” John pointed his tongs at her before returning to cooking.
“Uh… more meat and tofu, please.”
“John? You sure there’s nothing else?”
“One hundred percent.”
“You sure?”
“I need a bloody break.”
John dropped his face into his hands.
“Double meat it is. I’ll get shrimp too.”
You immediately submitted the order. A second later, your attention was stolen by one of the little singing robots gliding past a nearby table.
You thought they were adorable.
“I’m so hungry.” John shook his head and went back to cooking vegetables.
“Dad, I’m so sorry.” Lily returned to her noodles while watching in awe at the amount of food you continued to order.
“You’re lucky we’re in public.” He hissed. And Lily was truly lucky. If this happened at home John would’ve been shouting until he went hoarse.
“I’m sorry.” She sounded like she was about to cry but John waved his hand for her to stop the water works.
“We’ll deal with it tomorrow.” John pulled out his phone and dialed. It took a few rings before who he called picked up.
“Jj, your sister drugged me and your mother. Take a cab, come join us for hot pot, and drive us home.” It sounded like an order because it was one. John didn’t give his son any other choice.
“Dad!” Lily shrieked.
Audible laughter came from the other end of the call. John couldn’t handle being laughed at so he hung up.
“Ooo! I get to order more food and see the robot again.” You sang happily to yourself.
“Mum—”
“Shush, it’s here! Isn’t he so cute?” You gushed over the little robot waiter delivering all your goodies.
John felt his face go slightly numb. He turned to you and gave a single nod.
That was it.
He officially knew he was high.
So John decided to white knuckled this. And just try and survive until Jj got there twenty minutes later.
Jj walked into the restaurant, eyes scanning the packed tables and booths. He was stopped at the register and informed there was a forty-five-minute wait, but after explaining he was meeting his family, the waitress politely pointed him toward their table.
Halfway there he had to stop as a four-foot-tall singing robot rolled down the aisle and parked itself beside a table.
Skirting around it, Jj finally caught sight of his family.
To his utter shock, what was usually a neat table with carefully stacked white bowls and plates was in complete disarray.
Jj watched his normally organized mother push stackable bowls around as if searching for something specific. Meanwhile, his father sat next to her, watching her closely while absentmindedly eating piece after piece of meat from a small bowl.
Lily spotted him first.
She looked pale, like she was about to be led to the guillotine.
Without a word, she slid over to make room. Dodging another singing robot waiter, Jj slipped into the booth and continued observing his parents.
“Thought it’d be Evelyn. Wasn’t expecting it to be you, Lil.” He nudged her with his elbow.
She immediately stomped on his foot.
“Eat, eat!” John ordered, motioning for Lily to fill Jj’s bowl.
“Thanks for picking us up. Hope you weren’t busy.” You smiled at your son before taking a large bite of noodles dripping with spicy red broth.
“I like the spicy broth, like Mum.”
Jj directed the comment at Lily, who quietly started cooking for him like an obedient employee taking orders.
No eye rolls.
No complaints.
No attitude whatsoever.
That alone told him she was in serious trouble. As he ate, Jj watched you and John whisper to each other and giggle like children.
John suddenly snorted and slapped the table, laughing hysterically at whatever you’d just said. A moment later he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at one of the singing robots gliding past while you remained completely fascinated by it.
“Oh my God, he’s so high,” Jj whispered.
“I know, but it hasn’t fully hit him yet. He hasn’t even acknowledged it.” Lily grabbed a shrimp and shoved it into her mouth when John shot her a look. Then he pointed the tongs toward the mountain of uncooked food waiting beside the pot.
“How much trouble are you in?” Jj asked.
“Grounded until Dad’s dead.”
“You’ll be alright. He’s ancient.”
“Lily, keep cooking.” John aggressively pointed at the pile of shrimp and meat before snapping the tongs together twice.
⸻
“You two okay back there?” Jj asked, checking the rearview mirror.
“How much do you think one of those robots cost?” you asked your husband.
Getting John out of the restaurant had taken far more effort than it should have.
At some point he’d become so uncomfortable that he’d refused to leave the table because people might look at him. Eventually you’d threatened to order every menu item individually just so the robot would keep returning to the table.
That had been enough to get him moving.
Now you and John sat on opposite sides of the back seat. You had your head tilted back, staring at the ceiling. John sat rigidly beside you, fidgeting with his jacket pocket. When you glanced over, your eyebrows lifted.
He was completely out of it.
His eyes kept darting between the windows and the road behind the car while he repeatedly tried to turn his pocket right-side-out.
“John, chill out.” You couldn’t stop giggling at how paranoid the weed had made him.
“I heard sirens.” John twisted in his seat to look behind the car.
You tapped his shoulder and motioned for him to face forward.
“Yeah, Dad. It’s just the weed. Nothing’s happening.” Jj adjusted the windshield wipers as the rain intensified.
“He’s right. I heard sirens too.”
“Oh my God.” Jj burst out laughing. “The sirens were in the song.” He shut the radio off and glanced back at his father, who was beginning to look slightly green.
“Eyes on the road!” John barked.
Jj had barely looked away from it.
“John—” John immediately looked at you with wild eyes. You startled him by saying his name.
“Do you think they lease the robots?” you asked seriously.
“Why’s my chest so tight!? Am I having a heart attack!? Is it finally my time!?” John was breathing heavily now. Hand pulling on his collar.
“Dad, chill out.” Lily turned around in her seat, attempting to comfort him.
“Sit properly and put your seat belt on!” John barked.
“Lily, just sit.” You waved her back before returning your attention to your husband.
You rubbed circles into his back. Leaning forward slightly, Lily watched with horror.
“Google the logistics of those robots and send it to me.” you whispered.
Then you immediately returned to soothing John.
“It’s okay, John. Everything’s fine.” You continued rubbing his back.
“I think I’m dying,” John wheezed.
“You’re not dying. You’re just insanely high.” You were trying very hard not to laugh. John was oddly adorable when he panicked and it’s not like you’d ever truly seen him like this.
“You’ve gone through war. Some weed is really going to take you down?” Jj laughed.
“Jj, leave your dad alone.” You sighed in relief as the car finally turned down your long winding road and the rain began to ease.
“I swear I’m dying.” John grabbed your shoulders, trying to make you understand the severity of his situation.
“I think you’re just panicking.” You looked slightly nervous saying it.
“I don’t panic.” He groaned in frustration.
“You’re right. You’re not panicking. You’re only dying.” You cooed sympathetically.
Both of your children sat quietly listening to their father spiral while their mother comforted him.
Honestly, it was kind of sweet.
A man who normally felt larger than life had been reduced to a panicked mess, and all it took to hold him together was your hand rubbing circles across his back.
“He had so much, Jj. He ate four brownies.” Lily lowered her voice.
“Is that a lot? How much did you put in them?”
“I didn’t measure.”
“You didn’t measure?” Jj stared at her. “How are people supposed to know how much to take?” It seemed like common sense.
He wasn’t expecting the murderous look Lily shot him.
“Shut up! You don’t think I’ve learned that after all this?” She threw her hands in the air.
“How high are you, Mum?”
“Yep!” You smiled brightly.
Your children stared at you in disbelief. That was the dumbest yet cutest way you could possibly respond to that question.
“Leave your mother alone. She’s the only thing keeping me sane.” John muttered into his hands.
When you stopped rubbing his back for even a second, he let out a small, deeply unhappy whine.
“John, they don’t need to know that.”
“Know what?” John looked genuinely confused.
You simply nodded and kissed his cheek.
“Mum, you’re not half bad right now.” Jj scoffed.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Jj immediately looked back as he pulled up the driveway and parked.
Shrugging him off, you climbed out of the car. The cool damp night air lit up your skin and forced a deep breath from your lungs. Walking around to John’s side, you opened the door.
He hadn’t moved.
Still elbows on knees.
Still face buried in his hands.
“Come on, big guy. Let’s get you inside.” You motioned for him to get out.
“No.”
“John, come on.”
“No.”
“There’s cake inside.”
“Okay, I’m coming.” With a heavy sigh and one final second of keeping his eyes closed, John slowly slid out of the back seat of your SUV. He was steady on his feet, but the expression on his face showed just how physically uncomfortable he felt.
“Alright, come on.” You took him by the arm and slowly led him inside, settling him onto a stool at the kitchen island. You waved Jj toward the light switch, silently telling him to turn the lights on.
“Are my hands supposed to feel like this?” John stared down at them as if they belonged to someone else. He looked confused, concerned, and slightly offended by whatever sensation he was experiencing.
“Feel like what?” you asked, grabbing milk and two glasses.
You kept glancing between John and your children.
Jj was setting out plates and forks to help while Lily hovered near the back door, trying her hardest to remain uninvolved. You pointed toward an empty stool for her to take a seat. Slowly, very slowly, she moved over and sat down two seats away from her father.
“Like this.” John gestured vaguely at his hands, apparently hoping his eyes would communicate the feeling for him.
“Uh… tingly?” You let Jj finish setting out napkins while you carried over the cake.
Without realizing it, you kept touching Jj’s shoulder until he finally took your hand and placed it back on the counter. He whispered for you to stop touching him every two seconds and you nodded.
“Pins and needles. Doesn’t that happen before someone’s heart stops?” The question came out more frantic than you’d expected.
“Depends. Is it only on your left side?” You set the cake down giving John your full attention.
“It’s on both.” John looked deadly serious.
You waved for his hand and he immediately offered it. Leaning over the counter, you pressed two fingers to his wrist and pretended to take his pulse.
John watched you intently, waiting for your diagnosis.
“I think you’re fine.” You nodded despite not actually counting anything.
“What if it’s my heart and something else?” John doubled down.
You decided to give him exactly the level of concern he deserved.
“We’ll hold an extravagant funeral.”You hummed as you cut him a slice before serving yourself one.
Remaining on the opposite side of the island, you happily ate your raspberry lemon cake with mascarpone frosting.
Jj leaned against the fridge with his plate balanced near his chin while Lily took a bite and immediately started eyeing your recipe book, desperate to figure out how you’d made it.
“I always thought I’d die on a Sunday.” John spoke around his fork, eyes fixed on the cake between you. The sugar was helping distract him if only it was for a moment.
“You seem like the type to die on a Sunday.” You agreed without looking up, strategically planning your next bite.
“Right?”
“What on earth are you two talking about?” Jj asked.
“You’d die on a Wednesday and your service would be on Friday.” John said it with so little hesitation that it sounded like a fact.
“Uh huh. Uh huh.”
You pointed your fork at him.
“Roses would fill the funeral hall.”You giggled and stretched your arms wide before spinning in a circle.
It made John snicker.
“I want people to be utterly knackered at my funeral.” He wore that goofy grin you loved.
You normally only saw it when you were alone together, usually after luring him into a pillow fight or telling a story that had him in stitches.
“What is happening?” Lily asked, hanging off the side of her stool and trying to put as much distance between herself and John as possible.
“Days of the week have personalities. Your father and I have been convinced of this for years. It has to translate to when you die.” You said it as though it were common knowledge.
“Personalities?” Jj repeated.
“Your father’s a Tuesday and I’m a Saturday. Put us together and we’re the perfect Thursday night.” You laced your fingers together to demonstrate.
“What?”
“You’re specifically a Saturday night.” John clarified. “And I’m a Tuesday morning.”
Both children looked stunned that their father was participating in this nonsense so seriously.
“A rainy, dreary Tuesday.” John motioned for another slice of cake.
You eagerly nodded.
“You’re a chilly Saturday.” John added it almost shyly.
“You think?”
“Yeah. Forces everyone to be inside together.” A faint pink dusted his cheeks as he said it with complete sincerity.
“John.” Your hand rose to your chest. He looked at you with nothing but adoration.
“That’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.” You meant every word.
It sounded less like a compliment and more like a love confession. Unfortunately for your children, they happened to be sitting there.
“I know, darling.” John smiled and reached across the island to take your hand.
“That?” Jj gaped. “That’s one of the nicest things Dad’s ever said?”
“You two have gone mad.” Lily whispered.
“Lily, you’re a Sunday.” John shook his head adamantly.
“Oh, she absolutely is!” You practically cheered.
“Evelyn?” you asked.
“Friday.” You and John answered together.
“Jj?” John looked at you and silently counted down from five.
“Monday.” You answered in unison again.
“Boom!” You pointed triumphantly at your deeply confused children.
“What would Ghost be?” Lily asked. She clearly didn’t understand any of this, but curiosity had finally won.
“A leap year.” You answered without hesitation.
“Not Halloween?” Jj chuckled.
“Oh, if we’re doing holidays, he’s definitely not Halloween. He’s Día de los Muertos.” You sounded incredibly confident.
John nodded along.
“Your mum’s New Year’s Eve.” John gave you a cheeky wink making you beam at him.
“And you’re a bank holiday.” You laughed loudly.
“No, I’m not.” John looked genuinely offended.
“We both know you’re New Year’s Day.” You relented slightly.
“How am I New Year’s Day?”
“Everyone likes the idea, but very few stick to their resolution.” You said it matter-of-factly.
“You’re right.” The fond smile on his face was infectious.
“That feels a little cynical, Mum.” Lily interrupted.
She seemed deeply uncomfortable with whatever weird flirting was happening.
“What? Your dad sticks to his!” You pointed defensively.
“Unless I’m waking up hungover that year.” You and John pointed at each other simultaneously.
“Exactly!”
“Okay, you two keep eating cake and classifying people into holidays.” Jj waved as he left the room. He’d reached the end of his patience for whatever this conversation was and the strange flirting hiding underneath it.
“See ya, first day of school!” you called after him. John barked out a laugh.
“He is!”
“What am I?” Lily asked with a smile.
“Grounded.” John practically sang the word, making you double over in laughter. By the time you managed to catch your breath, there were tears in your eyes.
“Awesome,” Lily said flatly before following after Jj.
“Lily.” You peeked your head into the hallway and watched your daughter slowly turn around.
This was it.
This was when you’d actually punish her.
“I meant it when I said to research those robots. Send me what you find.” Lily stared at you for a moment before shaking her head and disappearing down the hallway.
Walking back into the kitchen, you found John flipping through the recipe book you’d left on the counter. You put the cake away and tidied up while he turned page after page, completely absorbed.
Flicking off the kitchen light, you smiled at your husband.
He paid you absolutely no attention.
“Time for bed, handsome.” you said sweetly.
“Goodnight, darling.” John didn’t even look up, seemingly captivated by whatever recipe he’d landed on.
“You’re coming with me.” You laughed.
“Right.” John snapped the book shut and allowed himself to be led upstairs.
⸻
“Good morning,” Lily said meekly as she wandered into the kitchen.
“Morning, my little drug dealer.” You smiled and gave her a wink.
Standing at the stove, you plated potatoes and eggs while Lily glanced toward the table.
Her father sat at the head of it with an empty plate in front of him and a small dish of biscuits meant for sharing.
She immediately tensed.
“Thanks for sending those articles. I’m thinking about getting one of those robots for the museum now.”Carrying the plates over, you continued the conversation you’d apparently been having before she’d arrived.
“Morning.” John lowered his newspaper and cut his eyes toward you.
“Drop it. I’ve heard enough about that bloody robot.” He aggressively flicked the paper straight before shooting an annoyed look toward his fifteen-year-old.
Lily’s eyes bounced between the two of you. Honestly, it didn’t surprise her. You had a tendency to become completely obsessed with random things once they caught your interest.
“I thought you didn’t have work today.” Lily looked at John, waiting for the punishment to finally arrive.
The fact neither of you had properly addressed what she’d done last night was becoming increasingly unbearable.
“Gotta be on base and fill out some forms for accidental ingestion of illicit substances.” John took a sip of tea.
“You reported it? Why not just pretend it didn’t happen?” Lily slid into her seat and immediately started eating once you placed her breakfast in front of her.
You sat across from her with your laptop. Without a word, John leaned over, stole your piece of toast, and began eating it. You were too distracted by whatever was on your screen to notice.
“Had to. I don’t know when they’re going to test my piss.” John’s tone wasn’t pleasant, but he still hadn’t actually reprimanded her.
That somehow made things worse.
“I’m so sorry,” Lily mumbled into her tea.
“Uh huh.” John peered at her from over the edge of his newspaper.
“Why don’t you get started on your punishment once you’re done eating?” You finally looked away from your laptop and smiled at your daughter.
“And that is?”
“Baking.” Your smile became just a little too sweet.
“Baking?” Lily immediately looked suspicious.
“Yep. There’s a charity event and we’re donating six hundred cupcakes.” You turned your laptop around.
Lily leaned forward and found herself staring at the event page. It was one of the large fundraisers you participated in nearly every year to raise money for wounded and fallen soldiers.
Then her eyes drifted upward.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Every other open tab involved robot waiters.
That’s when the punishment truly hit her.
“Six hundred!?”
“Get to work. You can use boxed cake mix. I prefer not to. Veterans deserve the best, so we’re going to do our best.” You smiled.
“We’ve got all weekend.” You tacked on, finally relaxing your toast was missing. You looked around for a second and then at John.
“And it’s for charity…” Lily groaned, dropping her face into her hands. “I can’t even complain about charity.”
“That’s the point,” you chimed gleefully before taking your toast back from John.
“Make it six hundred and fifty,” John added without looking up from the paper. “I can bring some to the lads on base.”
Having to share a space with Price means that he leaves his shit all around the house. He’s retired, of course he doesn’t have much of a regard for cleaning up after himself.
After a long day of organizing your home, you decide a nice warm shower is deserved.
Upon opening the shower curtain you realized that you missed a spot.
Pairings | Alpha Ghost x Omega Reader, Alpha Price x Omega Reader, Alpha Soap x Omega Reader, Alpha Gaz x Omega Reader, 141 x Reader.
Summary | Six months ago you overheard them planning to make you theirs. So you ran. You had no idea they were going to chase you.
Tags | Slow burn, omegaverse, non-traditional omega reader, Reader has a spine and uses it, suppressed heats, wolf going dormant, found and dragged back, John being terrifyingly patient, Simon being terrifyingly honest, Kyle being soft about it, Soap being a menace, angst, found family if you squint, the hunt is very much still on, she is NOT going to make this easy for them, upcoming heat arc, no instalove just instinct fighting instinct, 141 being possessive jerks, injections, blood, period mentioned, sick omega, gore, bond removal, eventual smut.
(The best of this post and its reblogs, but with links that work)
Here is a website where you can scroll down to all the different levels of the ocean
Here is a website where you can see the future of the universe
Here is a website where you can press a ‘make everything okay’ button, over and over, until things really are okay
Here is a website that you can read if you feel like a burden
Here is a website where you can look at strobe illusions (TW strobe/flashing)
Here is a website where you can cut stuff up (TW blood/sh)
Here and here are websites where you can play with sand
Here is a website where you can draw with macaroni and other fun foods
Here is a website where you can paint someone’s nails
Here is a website where you can grow a garden with emojis
Here is a website with hundreds of videos of people hugging you (rightfully dubbed ‘the nicest place on the internet’ because it really is, y’all, it made me cry)
Here is a website that will take you to other useless websites
Here is a website where you can make a tiny cat play bongo drums (and other instruments!)
Here is a website to help give you gentle reminders <3
Here is a website where you can grow a tiny farm
Here is a website where you can take a bunch of scientific personality tests
synopsis: You move to the countryside looking for peace, space, and a life that finally feels like your own. Instead, you find routine, watchful silence, and a neighbor who's always there before you ask.
Wc: 15.8k
CW: fem!reader, artist!reader, butcher!simon, lowkey stalker!simon if you rily squint, kinda mean!simon ( he calls you stupid but in a sexy way), slight slow burn, mention of blood, praise, rough sex, fem! masturbation, mention of breeding, unprotected sex, choking, throat-fucking, spit play, spanking, cunnilingus, analingus, brief mention phlegm, brief aftercare.
a/n: this is a reupload bc the og got labeled and i refuse to be silenced so if you read this already no you didn’t🫵🏼. Jk ily<3
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
── .✦ The devil's in the details
A life that felt like your own.
It's all you've wanted for as long as you can remember.
Growing up meant learning the rules of the real world far too early—waking up every morning just to drag yourself to a grueling job, putting up with nagging customers and insufferable bosses who never seemed to respect boundaries.
Work. Pay the bills. Tend to responsibilities.
It disturbed your soul in a way you couldn't explain to anyone else—this idea that life was just endurance, not living.
Yet you always looked ahead. You never confined yourself to the standard everyone else seemed content with—and that refusal was why you were never taken as seriously as you wanted to be.
You learned early that dreaming meant working harder than everyone else.
I wanna make things with my hands!!
You used to squeal as a child whenever someone asked what you wanted to be when you grew up. The laughter that followed always left you quietly confused.
What a cutie.
Wait till she grows up.
As if you weren't standing right there. As if it really was unattainable.
As you got older, that desire only split open and spilled into everything else—into baking, painting, shaping.
Anything that lets your hands create something beautiful. Something meaningful.
Over time, you realized it wasn't just about making things. It was about the space to make them—to exist without being watched, corrected, rushed. To live somewhere quiet enough that your thoughts could finally settle.
It wasn't that you were a complete introvert. You loved people—you loved the ones who mattered. But there was always that persistent pull, that quiet urge to disappear for a while. To exist in a world that belonged only to you. You would spend days on end just imagining.
And lately, that wasn't enough anymore.
You didn't just want escape. You wanted peace. Quiet.
Which was why you took the first opportunity to leave everything behind—a small farming town in rural England, offering work in exchange for relocation. Painting homes. Restoring old businesses. Fixing what had been forgotten.
Everyone had something to say about it. Your family. Your friends. Even your professors warned you against it.
But you didn't hesitate.
You've technically been here for a week already. Long enough to learn the unfamiliar quiet by heart, to wait while the cottage was cleared and signed off and made official. This is the first time you're really standing in front of it.
Ideas crowd your mind faster than you can catch the—paint, repairs, small changes that would make it yours. Your chest tightens, heart swelling, a quiet certainty settling in.
The place is neglected. Weathered. Clearly left behind.
And yet, all you can see is possibility.
For the first time in a long while, it feels like everything is falling into place.
"Excuse me?"
You're pulled from your thoughts by the soft voice beside you. You blink, realizing the man has been standing there the entire time.
He smiles, polite but tentative. "I just wanted to make sure everything was to your liking. It's an older cottage, so...lt isn't exactly our best."
"No," you say quickly, unable to stop yourself from smiling. "It's perfect."
Something about your response seems to catch him off guard. He clears his throat.
"Right. Then there are just a few things we should go over before we-"
A sound cuts him off.
An animalistic, sharp, distant squeal loud enough to make you flinch, the noise carrying unnaturally through the trees. You turn instinctively, scanning the hillside.
Up the slope, partially hidden by the trees, stands a barn. One you hadn't noticed before. The doors open with a loud thud.
For a split second, you don't register what you're seeing—only that something too big has stepped into the light.
Then your stomach drops.
The man fills the doorway, massive shoulders nearly scraping the frame, his silhouette swallowing what little light spills out behind him. He's enormous-not just tall, but wide, built thick and heavy like he was carved for brute force rather than grace.
He's covered in blood everywhere. Dark, soaked into his clothes, smeared across his arms, clinging in thick, ugly patches that glisten wetly in the sunlight. There's a faint metallic smell that drifts through the air, making you scrunch your nose.
To top it off, he had a skull—patterned balaclava covering the lower half of his face.
The printed grin feels out of place against the quiet countryside, against the green fields and open sky. You can't see his mouth. Can't read his expression. Just the size of him, the way he carries himself like nothing around here surprises him anymore.
Your shoulders tense on instinct.
It was straight out of a horror movie.
"Um," you let out a small laugh, more nerves than humor honestly. "Is that... normal?"
"Oh—yeah." The man beside you clears his throat.
"Yeah, that'll be Simon. Local butcher." He gives a small, awkward laugh. "Looks worse than it is."
Suddenly, you remember everything they warned you about.
A woman alone in the woods.
Right.
You watched cautiously as the man walked toward the cottage right next to the barn, slightly more hidden in the woods than yours, slightly smaller as well.
His steps are steady, boots pressing into the dirt with an easy familiarity, like he's walked this path a thousand times.
Halfway there, he slows and glances over.
Just a look - brief, assessing—the kind of look anyone might give when they notice someone new standing where no one usually does. You tell yourself that immediately.
Still, your chest tightens in an unsettling way.
Even from this distance, his attention feels heavier than it should. He doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Just takes you in for a moment longer than you're comfortable with.
"Don't mind him. He's a private bloke—won't be any bother."
You nod slowly as you turn, stepping back toward the cottage, the normal sounds of the countryside slowly filtering back in—though the image of him, bloodstained and broad-shouldered against the barn, stays longer than you'd like.
His view of you was completely different.
All he saw was a small figure standing out in the open.
Too small for this place.
You were dressed simply, soft neutral colors that didn't draw any immediate attention—yet somehow, you managed to draw it anyway. A long skirt brushing your ankles. A fitted tube top clinging in all the right places, bare skin catching the last of the daylight. Gold glinting faintly at your throat and wrists.
He has been watching you since the moment you arrived.
Could see you almost too clearly.
The thought settled heavy in his chest. The cottage next to his. Empty for years.
And now occupied.
His hand tightened around the handle of the front door as he went inside, the knowledge of you settling somewhere in the back of his mind.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
You wake up before the sun does.
The room is still dark, the cold from the night before still lingers stubbornly around the corners. The smell of wood and damp earth seeps into your space as you lie still beneath the covers, listening to the sound of your breathing and distant chirping of birds.
The nerves you thought you left behind start to stir low in your stomach. You barely slept, drifting in and out of shallow rest. It's funny how the waiting -the planning and the packing was easier than actually waking up inside this new life. A whole week spent imagining, filling the gaps with maybes and what-ifs, had felt gentler than this moment.
But now, lying in your own bed, on the edge of your first real day here, the anxiety creeps back into you like it never really left.
You force yourself up, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to shield against the morning cold. The wooden floor bites at your bare feet as you cross the room.
You move through your room on autopilot. Pushing aside clutter and digging through your box filled with your things to wash up. You pull on a simple black crop top and black leggings—easy and practical, something you don't mind making a mess out of. You fix your hair the way you always do before big jobs, muscle memory taking over as you gather your tools, hand steady despite the tight, resistant pull in your chest.
Your first job is a simple mural for a little flower shop in town.
You'd already been introduced earlier in the week.
Names, faces, smiles. Florence, the owner, had shown you the wall, fingers dusted with soil, excitement bright in her eyes. They'd given you free rein over the design, only asking that you keep to a preferred color palette.
"Okay," you mutter to yourself, crouching by your supplies. "One, two, three-"
You line the cans up on the floor. Reds. Yellows. Whites. Count them twice. Then again.
"Four."
You tap each lid as you go, checking them off in your head like that'll keep your nerves in place. Everything's been ready since last night. Packed. Repacked. Adjusted.
You're stalling. You know you are.
Keys cold in your palm, you stand by the door longer than necessary. Your hand rests on the handle. You inhale once before stepping out.
A loud, wet huff greets you immediately.
You freeze.
Right behind you—way too close—is a dog. If you could actually call it that.
He doesn't look very friendly. Honestly, you can't even process whether or not he is friendly by the way he stands there.
He's massive—thick-chested, broad, and you're pretty sure you saw veins popping out of his shoulders, only reinforcing how strong this dog could be. His paws dig heavy into the dirt at the bottom of your porch. Drool clings to the sides of its mouth, slipping free as it stares at you.
And for a fleeting second, the image of yesterday resurfaced. Barn doors, and a blood covered man standing in the middle of the field.
Your heart jumps straight into your throat.
You lift your hand instinctively, bending just slightly at the knees before you can stop yourself.
"Oh-okay," you breathe. "This is... fine."
"Hi," you try, softer. "Hey, puppy."
The dog doesn't move, just tilts his head to the side.
You glance around, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is. No neighbors. No cars. Just you and the beast blocking your path.
The distant sound of a truck came before you could react, stopping abruptly in front of you.
"Oi," the voice is rough and hoarsed.
"Mate. What'd I tell you?" He reaches over and pushes the door open from the inside.
The dog perking up instantly before running toward him obediently, tail wagging like nothing just happened.
It's only then you realized who it is. Who's standing in front of your door.
The butcher straight out of a slasher movie.
"You botherin' this bunny?" he asks the dog while scratching the back of his ears, happily wiggling his short tail.
Bunny?
"No bunny, just me," you laugh awkwardly before you step down off the porch, forcing yourself to stand straight even though your grip tightens on your bags.
He huffs, something close to a chuckle. "Right."
"Sorry about him," he adds.
"He likes to wander."
"You sure about that?" you ask, looking at the dog.
"Because he looked like he wasn't planning on leaving."
His lips twitches, eyes glinting with amusement.
"Saw you movin' your things yesterday," he says. "The place's been empty for a long time."
"Yeah," you reply quickly. "Feels a little weird, but I'll make it a home."
"Takes time," he shrugs, watching you for a second longer than necessary.
"You heading into town?" he asks, pointing at your bags in hand.
You blink. "Yeah. I was just—"
"Hop in," he says, nodding toward the passenger seat.
"I'll take you."
You hesitate, words catching. "You don't have to—"
"Already going," he replies simply.
You pause for a moment, eyes lingering down the road, wondering whether or not you should climb into this stranger's truck. The bark of the dog breaks your thoughts, deciding to climb in anyway. The smell hits you all at once—raw meat, metallic and heavy, softened slightly by the clean interior and a faint pine-scented freshener.
Large freezers are secured in the back.
The dog squeezes itself between the two of you, panting proudly. Still massive. Just... not focused on you anymore.
cute, you think.
"Simon,"' he introduces himself.
“Y/n."
The car ride is silent, tires crunching over gravel as the hills roll out around you. Fields stretch wide and open, cows grazing lazily, sheep dotting the landscape like pale stones. Trees sway gently in the breeze.
You watch it all pass, mesmerized. Though your thoughts are running wild, thoughts going back to the sellers words.
Private bloke
Not private enough clearly.
Your gaze shifts from outside to his truck, trying to catch a glimpse at the man.
Simon drives easily, his hand on the wheel completely scarred, you wondered if he got it from his line of work or something else, the other holds a cigarette out the window. He looks different like this—clean, relaxed, almost ordinary. He looks handsome. In a rough, rugged way.
"Need somethin'?" he asks, eyes still on the road.
"Sorry," you say quickly, eyes snapping away "Just— thinking."
"Didnt scare you too much yesterday, did i?" he asks, looking at you briefly. "You seem slightly jumpy,"
Your neck snaps almost instantly toward his hard face.
"No of course not!" You reply hurriedly,
He hums in understanding.
The truck slows outside the shop, gravel crunching under the tires.
"This good?" he asks.
You nod, already reaching for the door. "Yeah. Thank you."
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then gives a short nod.
"I'll be back," he states.
You hesitate, but smile anyway. Shutting the door with a loud thud.
You can feel his eyes on you until the bell above the shop door rings and the world shifts back into place.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The day goes by quicker than you expect.
One moment you're unpacking your things, the next you're moving on instinct alone. You work mindlessly— sketching, painting, letting your hands take over where your thoughts would only get in the way. People drift past on the sidewalk, slowing as they pass, curious eyes gazing at your art. A few linger. Most keep walking. You trade small smiles, nods of acknowledgement.
"Lovely," some say as they walk past.
It brings you back to before, when this was only just a distant dream.
At some point, you stop paying attention to the time.
By the time the sun begins to sink, warm light stretching long across the street, you finally step back.
The mural sits before you—unfinished, but already alive.
You begin packing up your supplies. Brushes rinsed.
Papers stacked. Movements slow, trying everything to not break the spell of the day just yet.
"Alright, Miss Florence," you call out as you step inside, setting your things down on the shop's counter.
"I'll be back around the same time tomorrow."
"Of course, love," she says easily, looking up from where she's standing. "The mural's coming along quite nicely. I'm impressed."
You smile at that, a quiet swell of pride warming your chest.
As you turn to say your goodbyes, her hand comes to rest gently on your shoulder.
"Is everything alright, love?" she asks, concern written plainly across her face.
You pause, staring at her, head tilting slightly in confusion. "Of course," you say. "Why?"
She doesn't answer right away-just nods toward the door, past the front window.
You follow her gaze.
A small sound of surprise slips from you at the sight of the red pickup truck parked outside. The big dog hangs halfway out the open window, tongue lolling as he pants happily. And leaning back against the hood is the man himself—somehow larger than he'd been in your memory. Smoke curls lazily around him, a cigarette hanging from his lips.
"He's been waiting out there a while," she says, careful.
"Oh, we live on the same road. He's just doing me a favor." You smile reassuringly.
That doesn't ease her expression the way you expect it to.
"Why?" you ask, lowering your voice without thinking.
"What about him?"
"Oh—nothing," she says. "He's just a private man, is all.
We were a bit surprised seeing you come out of his truck... and now."
"That's all?" you press, eyes flickering towards the truck.
She pauses long enough that you lift your brows.
"Not much to him, really," she says finally.
"He's been up there longer than most people remember. Bought that land years back. Kept it when no one else wanted it."
"He's the butcher, though, right?" you ask, still trying to understand the wariness.
"He is. But it's odd," she admits. "He doesn't hire out.
Doesn't expand. Doesn't sell beyond what he needs to." She presses her lips together.
"Most folks around here like things that grow, y'know? But he stays exactly the same."
You wait for more. It doesn't come - and the lack of it frustrates you more than anything she's said.
Someone near the counter clears their throat. Another voice adds, quieter, "Never missed a delivery, though."
Florence nods in agreement. "Meat's always clean. Always fresh."
You let out a small, incredulous laugh. "So... he's just serious about his work?"
She clicks her tongue.
"He's particular," she says. "About his space. His time."
"And people?"
She doesn't answer right away.
"He doesn't come into town unless there's a reason," she says instead.
"And he doesn't wait around for nothing."
You glance back toward the window, toward where the truck had been.
"Oh," you say softly.
Florence squeezes your arm once before letting go.
"Just... take care, love."
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
On the laptop by the counter, your mom watches you with that same careful look she's had since you told her where you were moving.
"So," she says, folding her hands together. "How was your first real day?"
You laugh a little. "Good. Actually... really good."
"The shop was busy enough to keep me distracted. People came in and out all day. A lot of staring at first, but not in a bad way." You popped a grape into your mouth.
"More curious than anything."
She hums, unconvinced but listening.
"They let me set up like we talked about," you continue. "People stopped to talk. Asked where I moved from. What I do. It felt nice." You glance toward the window. "Normal."
"Were you nervous?" she asks, giving you that look you know so well.
"I was," you admit. "But once I started working, it faded. I kind of forgot about everything else."
Her eyes soften at that, just a little.
"You didn't sleep much last night, though," she says. Not a question.
You pause, then shrug.
"Not really. New place. New sounds."
You smile like it's nothing. "I'm sure l'll get used to it."
She presses her lips together. "That's what worries me. You out there by yourself, in the woods."
"Mom—"
"I know," she sighs. "You're an adult. I just don't love the idea."
"I get that," you say gently. "But it's fine. Really. It's hidden, yeah—but not in a scary way."
There's a beat of silence before you add, almost offhand, "Although... people in town do talk."
Her gaze sharpens immediately.
"About?"
"About my neighbor," you say, a small laugh slipping out. "Apparently he's been up there forever. Everyone has an opinion, but no one says much."
"That doesn't make you uneasy?"
You pause, just for a second. "Not really. I mean, I met him yesterday. He was... normal. A little intense, maybe.
She doesn't look convinced.
"He even gave me a ride into town this morning," you add quickly, like it's no big deal. " ...and back
"A ride?" she repeats.
You stop to look up at the screen, finally aware of how that must sound.
"Mom, it was fine," you say. "We live on the same road. It was convenient, truly”
She exhales slowly. "I just don't like you being so isolated. Especially with people you don't know."
"I know," you say softly. "But today was good. I promise."
She studies your face through the screen, searching for something you're not even sure you could name.
"Just be careful," she says. "That's all I'm asking."
You nod.
"I will."
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
You're not sure when it became a routine.
At first, it was just convenience. You'd step outside and Simon would already be there, his red truck waiting at the end of the driveway.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Waking up. Getting ready. Eating breakfast standing by the counter because you never quite sit down anymore. Stepping outside into the cool air and the familiar sight of Simon and his dog waiting patiently for you.
Somewhere along the way, you started bringing him breakfast.
You didn't plan it. It just... happened. A plastic cup balanced carefully in your hand, still too hot to hold properly. And a sandwich wrapped in foil. You remember the first time you handed it to him-how he paused, just for a second, fingers hovering before taking it. His eyes flicked down to the cup, then back up to you.
"Didn't have to," he muttered, voice rough with sleep.
You shrugged it off, like it was nothing.
You did it again the next morning.
And the one after that.
Soon, it felt strange not to. Like something was missing when you stepped outside empty-handed.
Simon never commented on it again. He just took what you gave him every morning. Always made sure the dog stayed put while you climbed in. Always waited until you were settled before pulling away from the driveway.
"Hi baby," you'd coo, rubbing the happy dog's ear as you settle into the familiar leather of his car. Shadow-you'd come to learn the scary dog's name.
You don't remember when that became part of your normal either.
By the sixth day you stopped questioning it.
Simon always said he had business in town. Always said it like it was obvious. Like it explained everything.
And maybe it did—except some mornings, when you glanced toward the back of the truck, the bed was completely empty.
No freezers. No crates. Nothing.
You noticed it once.
Twice.
Then you stopped looking.
It was true what everyone said about him—he was private. Didn't speak unless necessary. Most of your rides passed in silence, broken only by the sound of tires on rocks and dirt and your small comments about whatever you saw outside.
He was intense in ways that was hard to ignore.
On the way he watched the road, eyes steady, barely blinking. The way his jaw tightened when he smoked, like he was holding something back even when he was alone with you.
But there was softness there too-and that was the part that caught you off guard.
It slipped in when he spoke to Shadow, voice dropping low, careful, like the dog was something fragile instead of built like a tank. The way his scarred hand reached down without him even looking, fingers rubbing the dog's belly in slow, absent strokes, like muscle memory.
Even the way he asked about the radio. Not choosing for you. Just a quiet, "What d'you want to listen to?"
You didn't know when you'd started noticing these things. Only that once you did, you couldn't stop. The intensity didn't scare you—it made the softness feel deliberate.
It was.... pleasant.
Comforting even.
Two weeks had passed before someone finally said something.
"Sure looks like Simons has a sweet spot for the new girl in town," a voice from behind the counter says, making you instantly perk up.
"Hm?" You look up, paintbrush still in hand.
They nod toward the window.
Outside, the red truck waits.
"Hes my neighbor," you shrug.
the comment lingers, even after the conversation ends.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
"You should speak more to everyone," you murmur later that night, leaning your head against the window, tired and worn out from the day.
"You eaten yet?" He asks without glancing over, completely ignoring your comment.
"You really do need to learn how to have a conversation Simon," you roll your eyes, shifting your position to where your knees are facing his side, careful not to bother the sleeping pup in the middle.
"Don't know what you mean," he hums.
You smile to yourself, eyes on the road ahead. After a bit, you add, the interaction from later that day crossing your mind, "Someone mentioned you've been acting... different lately."
He glances over for half a second. "Different?"
"Mmhm." You nod.
He doesn't say anything after that, just nods once and keeps driving.
"Have you eaten?"
You click your tongue.
"No."
The car slowly comes to a stop in front of you home, and so does the engine.
This wasn't part of the routine.
You look at him confused, head tilted to the side.
"Worked on a fresh cut today." He says, reaching forward to take the keys out. "Wanted you to have it,"
You blink, caught off guard. Before you can decide what to say, the truck door opens and he's already stepping out, calling Shadow after him with a short sound.
You watch him circle the hood, a flicker of something tightening in your chest when he reaches for your door.
It opens before you can protest. You hesitate before swinging your legs out anyway, letting him guide you without quite remembering when you agreed to it.
He doesn't crowd you. Just walks ahead, like he expects you to follow.
And you do.
When you stop at the door, keys cool in your palm, he stays a step behind you. Close enough that you're aware of his presence, the quiet weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades as you unlock the door.
You glance back once. He meets your eyes, unreadable.
Inside, you barely get the chance to say anything before he turns to the dog.
"Stay," he says—low and firm by the door.
"Simon—he doesn't have to" you say, too soft to be much of a protest.
Shadow listens anyway.
Your house oozes warmth. Simon thinks.
Not just heat—the kind of warmth that settles in your chest comfortably. It's nothing like his place. His is all cold surfaces and silence, everything where it's supposed to be, like no one's meant to linger too long.
Yours doesn't try to hide you.
There's stuff everywhere. Half-finished things. A stack of sketchbooks by the couch, paint-stained rags shoved into a corner, a couple of framed pieces leaning against the wall because you haven't decided where they go yet. It looks like someone keeps starting things and coming back to them.
It smells like you.
Not perfume. Not candles. Just you - soap, clean fabric, something faintly warm. Simon notices it as soon as he steps inside. It's different from his place.
His house never really smells like anything at all. It's just... neutral.
The kitchen's small. He isn't.
He fills the space without trying, shoulders close to the cabinets as he reaches for your drawers to find what you need. Most of them are empty. Just spices. The basics. He sets the steak down, still wrapped in paper.
You begin fixing things that don't need fixing to distract yourself. Sliding a notebook out of the way. Moving a mug. Your chest stays tight. It's the first time he's been inside your house, and the thought sits heavier than it should.
This is definitely not how you pictured your night ending.
The butcher up the road, in your kitchen. Talking about a fresh cut like it's nothing. Like this isn't strange. Like he hasn't just stepped into your space and started moving through it with quiet ease. The shift from how the night should've gone to how it's unfolding now hits you all at once, sharp enough to leave you reeling.
You reach for the remote, turning the TV on just to break it. The sound. The stillness. Anything. You crack a window open too, breeze slipping in as you step back, giving yourself something else to focus on.
"Do you need help?" you ask finally, mostly to fill the space.
"Mmm," he hums, "Where do you keep your pans?"
"Oh." You move on instinct, opening drawers, pulling things out. A pan. A cutting board. Knives. Setting them down beside him without thinking twice.
He works quietly. Salt first. Pepper. The sound of it hitting the meat sharp in the small kitchen. He heats the pan, waits for it, tests it with a flick of water that hisses and disappears.
You lean back against the counter, watching.
The steak hits the pan and the sound fills the room - loud, immediate. He doesn't rush it. Just let's it sit, pressing it down once with the tongs, then leaves it alone. The smell starts slow, then builds. Rich. Savory.
It crawls through the air until your stomach reacts before you can stop it.
You laugh under your breath, hand pressing briefly to your middle.
"That smells amazing," you beam.
He flips the steak once. Cuts into it to check. Juice beads along the surface, catching on his fingers as he pulls a small piece free.
He lifts his hand without comment, holding it out toward you.
You swear you short-circuit for a second before leaning in, taking the bite he's offering, your lips lightly grazing his finger.
He stares at you—openly this time. Long enough that it makes you shift, a shiver running through you before you look away with a quiet, breathy laugh.
"Wow," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you chew, letting the taste settle properly this time.
You swallow, then glance back at him, still leaning against the counter. "That's... fucking incredible, Simon."
It slips out softer than you mean it.
For a second, you forget about everything else-the tightness from earlier, the fact that he's here, in your kitchen. There's only the warmth on your tongue and the way the moment hangs between you.
"How long have you been in this business?" you ask after a pause, watching his face like you're checking for a reaction. Questions aren't usually part of your routine. Neither is this.
"Long time," he answers simply as he fixes the plates.
"Old man ran the business. Guess I kind of inherited it."
You hum, thinking it over. "Must keep you busy.
Between the shop and... everything else."
"Enough," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "Mostly keeps me close to home."
That's when he adds, almost as an afterthought,
"Don't like going into town much."
You snort softly. "Could've fooled me."
You meant it as a joke-only half truth.
He exhales through his nose, something like a huff, and shakes his head once before turning back to the plate.
The conversation ends there, easy and unspoken.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The better part of your day had been spent exploring and wandering the area. Something you haven't gotten to properly do since you got here.
Bare feet planted right on the grass as you wandered into the field behind your backyard, the earth cool and uneven beneath you. You kept breathing in deep without really thinking about it—grass, dirt, something clean in the air. Birds flew low overhead, noisy and playful.
The trees out here were huge. Like, old old. Thick trunks, branches stretching everywhere. You caught yourself staring up at them, wondering how long they'd been standing there, what they'd seen before any of this existed.
You kept walking, pencil moving absentmindedly as you added loose doodles to the sketchbook tucked tightly under your arm. Shapes. Lines. Little half-ideas you'd probably forget later.
You explored every area you could think of, picking rocks and flowers as you went.
Every area except one.
You didn't mean to head that way at first. It just... happened. Your steps slowed as the land subtly shifted, the trees thinning just enough for a familiar structure to come into view.
The closer you got, the clearer it became.
Simon's barn sat just beyond the tree line-close enough that if you turned around, you could still see your cottage. The roof peeked through the branches, almost reassuring. Close enough that you told yourself it didn't really count as trespassing.
The barn itself was a faded, rusty red, the paint chipped and sun-worn, like it hadn't been touched in years. It clearly needed a new coat. You filed that thought away automatically, like you did with everything else.
You slowed your steps, circling wider instead of heading straight toward it.
For some reason, your mind kept dragging you back to the first day you'd seen him there. Bloody. Intimidating.
Almost unreal. The unease returned now, settling low in your stomach as uou get closer.
You'd been sneaking glances at the place ever since, careful not to get too close. Careful to remember that conversation.
"So will I ever get to see your workplace?" you'd asked once, half-teasing.
All he'd given you was that small, almost-missed smile.
"S'not meant for a bunny like you to see."
Today, though?
Today, you wanted that angle.
Simon be damned.
You huffed softly to yourself, shaking your head as you settled into the grass and opened your sketchbook. He really did have a way with words.
You started with the barn first-loose lines, quick strokes-then added his cottage beside it. It stood only a few feet away, smaller than yours, but somehow cozier. It looked like him. Minimal. No decorations. No unnecessary clutter. Just a single chair on the lawn, a small table beside it, an ashtray resting on top.
You shaded, erased and worked until the world narrowed down to paper and graphite.
You looked like a lost bunny.
The thought crossed Simon's mind as he watched you move along the upper slope behind the barn. Delicate sundress, sketchbook tucked under your arm, hair pulled back out of your face. Careful steps, like you weren't sure you were meant to be there.
He paused what he was doing and just stared.
You'd been out since early. He remembered you mentioning you had a few days free from work, maybe more, before someone else found something for you to fix or soften or make pretty. You didn't seem like the type who sat still for long. Always moving. Always making.
Simon hadn't meant to care. He usually didn't.
Years of work had trained that out of him. Grind. Routine. Blood when there had to be blood. He liked his life simple, contained, predictable. The land. The barn. The quiet. When he heard the house down the hill was being rented, it pissed him off. Change always did. New noise. New eyes.
Then you showed up.
He didn't know when exactly he started noticing the warmth—your laughter carrying up the hill, music bleeding out of your windows, sound settling into places that had been empty for too long. It didn't belong here. Neither did you.
And yet.
You stopped near the side of the barn, turning slowly, taking it in. He watched you look around like you were measuring the space, committing it to memory. You could still see your cottage from there - close enough that you were probably telling yourself it didn't count as trespassing.
He wiped his hands, stripped the gloves off, and stepped outside.
By the time he rounded the corner, you were already sitting, sketchbook open on your lap. Pencil moving.
Focused enough that you didn't notice him right away.
You were so in deep you didn't even notice the shadow towering over you at first.
He stopped a few feet in front of you-close enough to notice the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers smudged charcoal without you realizing it.
"Can I help you."
You startled—not badly, but enough that he knew you'd forgotten the rest of the world existed.
You looked up at him, your eyes flicking briefly over the apron, the stains, the evidence of the day's work.
Your pulse jumped—he could see it—but you held his gaze anyway.
"Just….. scoping the area," you say easily, like you hadn't been caught at all, even though your heart was pounding. "Gaining inspiration."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Told you," he said. "This place ain't meant for a bunny like you."
He meant it.
Your cheeks warmed. You didn't deny it.
"I didn't walk in, though, did I."
Silence settled between you —thick, but not uncomfortable. Your pencil resumed its quiet movement against the page. He stayed where he was. Didn't tell you to pack up. Didn't step back either. You took it as a good sign.
He watched you for another moment, then shifted-just slightly. Half a turn. Enough to give you a better angle.
He didn't comment on it, but you noticed anyway.
He stayed like that—half-turned, broad shoulders cutting against the quiet of the field.
The contrast caught you off guard.
He didn't belong in a place this calm, you thought. Not with the way he was built-all sharp lines and restrained violence, hands stained from work that wasn't meant to be pretty. And yet the grass bent easily around his boots. Wildflowers pushed up near the barn wall, soft and careless, brushing against wood that had seen such degeneracy.
Sunlight filtered unevenly through the trees, catching the edge of his jaw, the scar across his face, the quiet tension in the way he held himself like he was always braced for impact.
Your pencil hovered uselessly above the page.
This—this—was the angle you hadn't known you were looking for. The way he looked out of place and perfectly rooted all at once. Feral, yes—but framed by something gentle. Something alive.
The thought settled before you could talk yourself out of it.
"Let me draw you," you said suddenly, not even pausing to think.
"Now?"
"Like this?" he asked, glancing down at his clothes.
Your cheeks warmed, suddenly aware of how dirty he must feel.
"Right-sorry, that was a weird ask," you laughed it off.
"I'll just draw your house." You shrugged, getting up from the grown and walking past him.
"Fine,” he said. "I'll do it."
You stopped short and turned back to him.
"You sure? I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I'm not the fastest-,"
He started walking before you could say anything else, already heading toward the cottage like the decision had been made the moment you asked.
You look around for half a second furrowing your brows before following.
The ground changed under your feet as you left the grass, dirt packed firmer near the house. Up close, his place felt even smaller than it had from afar. The door stood open just enough for the smell of him to drift out—wood, smoke, something iron-sharp beneath it.
He stopped at the steps and sat, elbows resting loosely on his knees, forearms bare. The position looked natural on him.
You looked at him properly then.
The daylight caught his face in a way that made you pause.
You noticed things you hadn't before.
The tattoo peeking from his neck and rolled sleeves. The way his jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, every few moments.
He looked. feral. You weren't sure that was the right word. Beastly, maybe. Grounded. Dangerous in a way that made your thoughts take a turn you didn't want to examine too closely.
You tightened your grip on the pencil, your eyes drifting despite yourself.
Brutal. Masculine.
Your heartbeat picked up as unholy thoughts flashed through your mind.
"You alright, bunny?" he asked.
You froze-caught, like a deer in headlights. Heat rushed to your face.
"Yeah," you laughed softly, shaking your head as you forced your gaze back to his face.
"Here" you say, already leaning closer before he could answer. You reached into your bag for one of the flowers you picked earlier. Small and delicate.
As you lifted your hand toward him, he tensed and leaned back slightly.
You were about to apologize when he spoke.
"Careful. Don't want you getting all dirty."
You blinked-then laughed again.
"Can I?" you asked again.
This time, he stayed still.
You tucked the small white flower behind his ear, fingers brushing skin warmed by the sun. He watched you closely, eyes tracking every movement.
The contrast—him and the delicate bloom resting there—felt almost cinematic.
"You have soft hands, bunny." he says, dead serious.
"Thanks." You breathed out, not realizing you were holding it in.
"Why do you call me that?" You ask after a few minutes.
He shrugged, like it had never needed explaining.
"Because you look like one."
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head—but you stayed. Kept drawing. Like the answer was enough.
You went back to his face. Really focused. Honey-brown eyes. Thick brows. Plump, chapped lips. The scar cutting across him, running from one eye, down his nose, into his cheek like a map of where he'd been.
You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip on the pencil as you leaned closer, angling the page to catch the light.
Your knee brushed the step without you noticing.
"You got a boyfriend?"
Your hand stilled mid-line.
"Why the sudden question?"
"Well," he said evenly, "you asked one. Now it's my turn."
You laughed at that.
"No," you said. "I don't."
He hummed in acknowledgement.
Silence settled again, filled only by the pleasant sound of trees moving with the wind. You wanted to keep talking. Wanted to know him. But you weren't sure where the line was.
"You," you started. "How long have you been up here?"
"Mmm. Couple years."
You click your tongue.
"Couple years? I didn't know vague answers were allowed."
He shrugged.
"You can allow whatever you want."
You smile at that, soft and a little crooked, and let your pencil move again.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The sounds around you settle into something easy— the wind threading through the trees, the faint creak of the barn in the distance, the quiet scratch of charcoal against paper. Simon stays still on the steps, only shifting when his knee starts to ache, careful not to disturb your line of sight.
He glances down at the page after a minute, curiosity getting the better of him.
"So," he says, casual, like it just occurred to him. "You always draw scenery?"
You hum thoughtfully, eyes never leaving the sketch.
"Sometimes. Helps me understand how things fit together."
"People included?"
"Especially people," you admit.
He watches the way your mouth curves around the words, the focus in your eyes. There's something intimate about being studied like this—not in the way people usually look at him, measuring or wary.
"You any good?" he asks.
You laugh quietly. "Guess that depends who you ask."
"Hm." A beat. "You don't look like you're guessing."
You glance up at him then, catching the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. Not quite a smile. Something warmer than indifference.
You go back to drawing.
Time slips by without either of you noticing.
The light shifts gradually, the sun lowering behind the trees, turning the field gold and then amber. Shadows stretch across the ground, softening the sharp edges of everything around you. The flower behind his ear wilts a little, petals curling inward, but you leave it there.
Simon moves once when his leg goes numb, rolling his shoulders, flexing his hands. Letting out a low groan of discomfort. You adjust without thinking, tracking the movement, adapting your lines.
"You don't have to stay still," you say after a moment of watching him.
"I know," he replies. Then, quieter, "I don't mind."
You chuckle to yourself, heat creeping up your neck as you look back down at the page.
"You're a good model," you say, a little too quickly.
The breeze cools as evening creeps in, brushing over your bare arms and drawing a light shiver from you.
You shift your weight, knees stiff, and finally lean back, lowering the sketchbook into your lap.
"I think that's enough," you say softly.
Simon straightens a little. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You hesitate before standing, brushing grass from your dress. There's a strange reluctance in the air now, like neither of you wants to be the one to end it.
You step closer, tearing the page free and holding it up beside his face. The distance shrinks without you meaning it to.
You tilt your head, eyes flicking between him and the sketch, comparing angles and the way the light catches him in real time versus graphite.
"Here."
He grabs it without question. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything.
That usual uneasy feeling in your stomach creeps up slowly, the one that shows up every time you finish a piece. Like you did something a little too personal and now it's just... out there.
Then, quietly, "You see a lot."
"O-oh," you say, eyes wide in surprise. "Only what's there." You lift a hand, brushing the comment off like it's nothing.
He nods once.
"Thank you," he says.
The words hang steady.
"Of course!" You smile softly.
The sun has dipped low now, the sky washed in muted pinks and purples. You step back, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
"I should probably head back," you say. "Before it gets dark."
"Yeah." He stands as well. Drawing still in hand.
"You can keep that, if you want," You call out.
"I owe you a better one, though." you laugh lightly-but the sound fades as soon as it leaves you, suddenly aware of how that might've come out.
Before you can overthink it, you give a quick wave and head down the slope, not waiting for his reaction.
His eyes linger a bit longer till you fully disappear from his view, gaze dropping to the piece of paper then back at you, breathing out slow.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
It's been a month now since you've settled into your new life. A month of building and creating and slowly disappearing into your little cottage, filling it with your things until it felt like a place you'd lived in for years instead of weeks.
A month, too, of growing closer to the local butcher.
The one who had a reputation for keeping to himself. For not interacting with anyone. Somehow, that rule never applied to you.
You were almost inseparable now. Him showing up unannounced to fix small things—a loose lightbulb, a squeaky door-like he'd been waiting for an excuse.
Any time you needed something from town or had a job lined up, he'd already be outside your door, keys in hand.
Sometimes he'd bring uncooked steak even when you'd try to refuse. Fresh cuts wrapped in paper, held out with a casual shrug. He'd say it didn't fit in his fridge. Leftover. No big deal.
A stupid white lie. One that worked every single time.
He'd gotten softer, too. Softer than you suspected anyone else had ever seen him. Letting you borrow his thick coats—or leaving them behind and claiming he'd forgotten them. When you tried to give them back, he'd just shake his head, lips pressed into that tight little smile, like the conversation was already over.
"It's cold, bunny. Shouldn't be wearing that outside," he says immediately, voice stern and low, eyes cutting straight through you.
You swallow, feigning innocence as you shrug one shoulder.
"I thought it was just gonna be a light storm,"
you reply plainly—ignoring the warning as you lean back on your hands, legs crossed, chest subtly pushed forward while you look up at him.
He scoffs and drops down beside you with an exaggerated huff, his damp shoulder bumping into yours. He's close—close enough that you can feel his heat, the steady pull of his breath. It makes your head spin.
His forearms rest on his knees as he settles in, but his eyes never leave you. Those same hungry eyes that have been plaguing your thoughts every night.
"It's gonna get really cold," he repeats, quieter now, looking straight at you.
You swallow thickly before standing, deliberately slow, giving him a full view.
"I can handle a little cold," you tease.
You barely make it inside before you're running, laughter spilling out as you hear his heavy footsteps thudding after you.
Now you're stuck inside, alone, heavy rain hammering against the roof and rattling the windows. Moisture beads along the glass near the heater, the room dim and warm. You sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your body and hair, picking at a bowl of cut fruit balanced on your thigh.
It's one of those nights.
The kind where loneliness creeps in quietly, twisting into something darker. Where your mind betrays you with memories of every interaction you've had with him.
You'd wanted to relax. Wash the day off, eat fruit and watch tv.
But moments like this don't let you.
They turn that restlessness into something else entirely.
It makes your cunt ache.
Your thoughts drift back to the time when he showed up unannounced, claiming your grass was too high. Brought his own tools, mowed the lawn like it was nothing. Sweat clung to his skin as the sun hit him, shirt damp and sticking in all the wrong places.
You'd worn an incredibly short sundress. The kind that shows off every inch of your curves.
You remember the way he wiped sweat from his forehead with the thin fabric, lifting it just enough to give you a glimpse of his hard bulging stomach. The sight had made something low in your belly twitch.
The way his hand rested at the small of your back when you brought him cold lemonade. How close he stood. The smell of him-clean and earthy. The way his Adam's apple bobbed with every swallow.
Fuck.
Your left hand drifts down without thinking—first over your chest, then higher, barely grazing your nipple. A quiet sound slips from your lips.
Your body feels overly sensitive. Needy.
You picture his hands on you—large, rough—teasing your skin, gripping your waist, your ass. Your free hand slides between your thighs and you gasp when your fingers brush against your slick heat.
You barely touch yourself at first. Just graze your clit. Then down your folds. A soft hiss escapes you.
You're already a mess. You have been since you stepped out of the shower.
His image won't leave your mind. Everything he'd do to you. Everything you'd let him do. You saw him differently today, and it did something to you. It was something you feared from the moment you started becoming close. But you pushed that thought down.
Your fingers begin to move in slow circles, the other hand latching onto your hardening nipple as your thoughts spiral. His hands. His weight. Him bending you over, tugging your hair.
Your thighs squeeze together.
You wonder what he'd smell like fresh from a shower. What he'd look like with water clinging to his skin, a towel slung low on his hips. The thought makes your toes curl.
Your breathing picks up as pleasure builds, slick heat spreading with every movement of your fingers.
A moan slips free.
"Simon," you breathe, barely above a whisper, like saying it out loud makes it too real.
Your hand moves from your nipple to your breast, groping desperately, trying to recreate the way his scarred hand would feel. Would he pinch you? Roll it between his fingers? Replace his hand with his mouth?
Your breaths turn uneven. Your hand between your thighs moves faster.
The image of today is burned into your mind-him rough and bloodied from work, yet speaking to you so softly. It's overwhelming. He consumes your thoughts until you nearly forget why you're even here.
"F-fuck," you moan, eyes falling open as you look down at yourself—naked, wet, undone. Your hips lift, chasing the sensation.
"Si-"
Boom.
The crack of thunder is immediate, violent, followed by sudden darkness that steals the air from your lungs.
You jolt upright with a gasp, heart slamming against your ribs as if it's trying to escape. For a second you just sit there, frozen, the rain pounding against the roof like it's trying to cave it in.
"Oh-fuck," you whisper, the word shaky.
Your body catches up a second later. Awareness hits all at once and sends a fresh wave of panic through you. You scramble, grabbing the towel from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around yourself clumsily, hands trembling as you try to ground yourself. The room feels too quiet without the hum of electricity, the shadows stretching and shifting with every flash of lightning outside.
"Y/N!"
The sound of his voice cuts through the rain.
You fumble for your phone, fingers slick as you swipe the flashlight on, the harsh beam making you squint.
You don't stop to think—just move. Sweats and a tshirt. You tug them on hastily, heart still racing as you rush down the hallway, the floor cold under your bare feet.
The power's out.
When you pull the door open, rain mist clings to the air immediately. Simon stands on your porch, shoulders damp, flashlight in hand, Shadow pressed close to his leg. His face shifts the moment he sees you-concern sharpening, eyes flicking over you like he's checking for injuries.
"Hey," he says, firm but low. "You okay?"
“I—yeah” you nod too quickly, suddenly very aware of how warm your face feels, how close he is. "The power just…went out."
"Yeah." His gaze lifts briefly to the dark windows behind you before settling back on you. "You're coming with me."
"What?" You blink. "Simon, it's really not-"
"Not up for discussion," he cuts in, already stepping past you like he owns the place. He moves with practiced ease, flashlight sweeping through the room as he heads for your bedroom. "Storm's getting worse.
This place isn't insulated well enough for it."
You trail after him, flustered, hugging yourself as you watch him grab a few essentials—your charger, a hoodie, shoes—moving through your space with unsettling familiarity.
"I'll be fine," you insist, even though your voice lacks conviction. "It's just for the night, plus my things are here. I need to make sure everything's in order."
"Y/n," he replies, glancing back at you. His tone softens, just slightly. "Humor me."
You don't argue after that.
The rain blurs everything on the drive over. The road glistens under the headlights, water streaking across the windshield in uneven patterns as the wipers struggle to keep up. The cab of the truck is warm, quiet except for the storm and the low hum of the engine.
Every now and then, lightning flashes bright enough to turn the inside of the truck white, and you catch him glancing over at you like he's checking you're still there.
When you finally pull up to his place, your nerves spike all over again.
You swallow as you step out, rain speckling your skin, heart pounding harder with each step toward his door. This would be your first time inside. After everything. After all this time.
He unlocks it and nudges the door open, motioning you in first.
The warmth hits you immediately.
The house smells like him—burnt wood, something clean and sharp, iron underneath it all. It's quiet, small, almost stark. The living space is simple: couch, TV, dining table pushed close to the kitchen. No decorations. No clutter.
And then you see it. Your drawing. The same one you drew of him months ago.
It sits on the side table framed neatly. It surprised you. Your steps slow without you meaning to, something tightening in your chest as you stare at it. It's not really a big deal but, seeing your drawing there—framed, dusted, given a place—feels strangely intimate. Like walking into someone's thoughts and realizing you've been there longer than you thought.
"Oh my god," you laugh softly, reaching for it. "I can't believe you kept this."
"Hm?" He glances over, distracted at first. Then he sees what you're holding. "Oh. Yeah." He shrugs, like it's obvious. "You make beautiful art."
The words hit harder than they should.
Your face warms instantly as you duck your head, pretending to inspect the frame. "This was so long ago. I thought you'd thrown it away."
"I would never," he says, without hesitation.
Something short-circuits in your brain at that. You clear your throat, setting the drawing back where it belongs before you can overthink it.
"That's... sweet," you say, lighter than you feel.
You move toward the couch, perching on the edge at first before letting yourself sink back. It's smaller than yours, but comfortable.
Simon disappears into the kitchen for a moment, and you hear the faint clink of a kettle being set down. You sit on the couch, hugging the mug when he hands it to you, grateful for something warm to hold onto.
"Wait," you frown slightly, glancing toward the dark kitchen. "How'd you even make tea if the power's out?"
He pauses for a second before answering. "Backup electric stove,"
"Keep it around for storms." He adds
You blink. "Of course you do."
He almost smiles.
The silence that follows is comfortable, not awkward. Just the storm outside and the low crackle of the fire starting to catch as he moves to the hearth. You watch him from the couch as he kneels, stacking logs with practiced ease, striking the match. The flames take quickly, casting a soft orange glow across the room.
"There," he says, standing again. "That'll help."
He grabs his coat from the back of a chair as he passes, hesitating only a second before draping it over your shoulders. The weight of it makes you exhale.
"You don't have to—"
"I know," he says quietly. "Drink your tea."
You do, pulling the coat tighter around yourself. It smells like him. When he sits down beside you, it's close but not pressing. His knee brushes yours. Just once. Neither of you move away.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah," you nod. "Just... settling."
"Mm." He leans back slightly, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. Not touching you. Not yet. But there, like an open invitation you don't acknowledge out loud.
You shift a little closer anyway, more instinct than decision. The fire pops softly. The storm fades into background noise. For a moment, it almost feels like you've done this before—like this is normal.
"You're quiet," he says after a while.
"Oh my god," you scoff softly. "Are you calling me annoying?"
He looks at you, eyebrows furrowed, and then his shoulders shake with that quiet laugh you've come to love.
"No," he says. "Just noticing."
You smile into your mug, cheeks warm.
"Y'know, i never really liked tea till i met you," you mention out of nowhere.
And he looks at you with an almost blank expression, it would've made you nervous if it was for the twitch to the side of his lips.
"Tea's good for you,"
The fire crackles. The coat stays around your shoulders. This is definitely not how you imagined your night going, but you couldn't really complain.
The quiet stretches again, but it's different now. He's closer than before-not just beside you, but aware of you in a way that makes your skin prickle. When you shift, he shifts too. When you breathe, he seems to notice.
"You're shaking," he says softly.
"I'm not," you lie automatically.
He doesn't call you on it. He just reaches out, tentative at first, resting a hand on your arm. It's warm, and it has you spiraling. Just a minute ago you were talking normally to each other, but the air shifted.
"Come here," he murmurs.
It's not an order. Not this time. Just an invitation.
You hesitate for half a second before leaning into him, your temple brushing his shoulder. His arms come around you slowly, careful, like he's giving you time to change your mind. When you don't, he tightens his hold just a little.
This is new for the both of you.
Your heart starts to race, loud in your ears, the warmth of him seeping into places you weren't prepared for.
His hand moves absently, rubbing small circles into your back. Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking. This isn't just friendly anymore.
You pull back slightly, laughing under your breath as if that might diffuse the moment. "Okay," you say, voice a little breathless. "I— I need a second."
He releases you immediately, hands dropping, but his eyes stay on you.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly, already stepping away.
You turn toward the kitchen, more to put space between you than because you actually need anything.
The counter is cool under your palms when you brace yourself against it, breathing in slowly, trying to stop your heart from beating out of your chest.
You're raking your brain trying to put yourself back together, breathing in the cool air when you hear his footsteps behind you.
"You don't have to run," he says gently.
You glance over your shoulder—and that's when you realize how close he is again. Not pressing. Not touching. Just close enough that the room suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.
You straighten without thinking, taking a step back.
The space behind you disappears faster than you expect, the counter cold against your lower back. You didn't mean to corner yourself, but Simon always had a way of filing a room without ever touching you.
He's only a hair away from you. You could feel his warm breath with a hint of black tea.
Your hand comes up on instinct—flat against his chest.
He stops immediately.
"Simon," you say, quieter than you meant to.
His eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. He waits.
"If we do this," you say, swallowing, "I don't want to pretend it's nothing."
A beat passes.
Then he nods once. Slow and certain. It's crazy how quickly your nerves and fears ease.
"It's not," he says.
His hands settle on your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him. The contact knocks the air from your lungs, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.
His mouth finds yours slowly this time-testing, deliberate. Like he's giving you a chance to pull away.
You don't.
The kiss deepens, unhurried but heavy, his lips moving against yours with a pressure that makes your knees soften. He kisses you again. And again. Each one lingering longer than the last.
His hands stay at your waist, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you he's there, holding you in place.
You breathe him in-cigarettes, beer, heat-and it makes your head spin. Your fingers curl around his neck, tugging him closer when he pulls back, chasing his mouth without thinking.
"Taste so fucking good," He exhales against your lips, a low sound, before kissing you again—rougher now.
Hungrier.
As the kiss deepens and your thoughts start to slip, you barely register his hand moving-gliding over your chest, your stomach—until it slides into your shorts with ease. You're already wet.
"Fuck, bunny—you're fucking soaked," he grunts, hands gripping you, making you gasp in surprise. He doesn't pull away, just uses the moment to kiss you again, shoving his warm tongue into your mouth.
He sucks and licks, messy and unrestrained, saliva slipping down your chin as he keeps you close, like he can't get enough.
You feel your knees buckle as he begins rubbing your clothes core with the palm of his hands, his lips trailing down your neck.
"Ah-" you squeal in surprise, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it.
"Hump on me, bunny," he murmurs, low and steady, stilling his hand just enough to make the words land harder.
"W-what?" You blink, pulled back into yourself by his voice, trying to make sense of it as you look up at him.
His expression doesn't change.
"Want you to grind this wet cunt on me bunny," he pressed his hand harder into you.
"Oh my….. god," you breathe, the words barely there as you roll your hips down, tentative at first, trying to find your rhythm. You gasp when the pressure shifts, when his hand flexes and your body lights up in response.
Your thighs start to tremble, weak and unsteady, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself as your movement grows more desperate.
"Thaaat's it," he encourages, his voice rough, threaded with something that sends a fresh wave of heat down your spine. "Just like that. Feel good for me."
Your hips move on their own now, chasing the sensation without thought. One hand grips the back of his neck, fingers digging in as you struggle to stay upright. You're acutely aware of yourself-too warm, too sensitive, skin slick with sweat, the contrast of cool air and burning need making everything sharper, more overwhelming. The pleasure is dizzying, addictive, pulling you further out of yourself with every movement.
You can't imagine what you must look like right now.
You're sure you wouldn't recognize yourself—messy, unfocused, clinging to him as your body reacts faster than your mind can follow. Every shift makes your breath hitch, every second stretching thinner than the last.
The pressure suddenly increases, firmer now, more insistent. A broken moan spills from you before you can stop it, your hand flying to your mouth to stop the embarrassing sounds coming from you.
"No," he mutters, catching your wrist and pulling it away, pinning it above your head with one strong grip.
His other hand doesn't slow. If anything, it moves with more purpose, stealing the strength right out of your legs. Your head tips back against the wall as you let him take over completely, your body yielding without protest.
Your vision blurs. Everything goes white at the edges, your mouth falling open on a silent gasp as you cling to him, holding on like he's the only solid thing left. The sensation rolls through you in waves, too big to process all at once, leaving you breathless and shaking.
He keeps you close, holding you steady as it passes, murmuring praise against your skin—soft words, grounding words—until your breathing slowly evens out again. Your chest feels tight, full in a way you don't quite understand yet.
"I-" you try to speak, but the thought slips away before you can finish it.
Without warning, his arms hook behind your knees and lift you effortlessly. You gasp, startled, hands flying to his shoulders as you cling to him, eyes wide, your body leaning into his instinctively despite the shock.
"What are you doing?" you ask, breathless.
"M'gonna take care of you properly, bunny."
His room is simple. A bed. A chair. A small desk. No TV.
No pictures. Exactly what you expected.
He lays you down carefully before gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. Moonlight spills through the open window, tracing every scar and mark along his skin, the faint trail of hair leading up his chest. It makes you press your legs together, biting your lip.
"Like what you see?" he teases.
"Shut up," you mutter-cut off when his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is hard, wet, unrelenting. He doesn't hesitate, tugging the flimsy top over your head and tossing it aside, leaving you bare beneath him.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and you catch the strain in his pants, dark and obvious. Your mouth goes dry at the sight.
His hands slide up your stomach, stopping at the hem of your panties. He doesn't pull them down. Just hooks his fingers there, eyes roaming over you like he's taking inventory. It almost makes you self-conscious.
The hunger in his gaze burns through you, settles low in your belly, makes you feel exposed in a way that's almost empowering.
Your hands fall uselessly to your sides as you whine softly, body arching. Back arching as you expose yourself more to him. You want his weight back on you—his warmth. You need it.
"Look at you, bunny," he murmurs, hands coming back to grip your stomach before leaning up to cup your breasts. "So fuckin perfect."
Your head tips back at the sensation, a soft, surprised sound slipping from your throat. Heat coils tight in your lower belly, dampness clinging to the fabric between your legs. The cool night air brushing over your skin only makes it sharper.
His eyes rake over you, eyes shining as he takes you in.
Your chest rises and falls unevenly, skin flushed, lips swollen from biting and kissing. He leans down, mouth trailing from your neck to your chest before closing around your nipple.
You moan, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue circles, sucking hard. His other hand grips your opposite breast, kneading, rough enough to make your breath stutter. Dark marks bloom in his wake.
"Si-" you swallow hard, hands clutching his shoulders as his mouth drags lower, down your stomach, lingering before pressing against your soaked panties.
He inhales deeply.
You're so sensitive it makes you shake, his touch warm and overwhelming, like he knows exactly how to pull every reaction from you.
His lips brush your thighs, soft at first, teasing. His tongue slips out, tasting you through the fabric, biting and nibbling while his hands draw slow circles along your legs. Your thighs tremble, the sensation sharp enough to sting your eyes.
"Smell so fucking good," he mutters.
"Please," you whisper, lifting your head to look at him.
"Need you."
Your body burns with want, embarrassment mixing with it until you don't know which is worse.
"Be patient," he groans, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
"I'm gonna take my time with this sweet cunt."
You whine, defeated, frustration curling tight in your chest.
True to his word, he doesn't rush. He kisses, licks, bites—taking his time, savoring every sound you make. You can hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way his grip tightens.
Your hands fly everywhere, unsure where to land as his mouth traces every freckle, every curve, every soft stretch of skin.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, thick and rough, pausing there. The thought of how easily he could tear them away makes your breath hitch.
"Don't zone out on me," he murmurs, tapping your hip before hooking his fingers properly into the fabric. He looks at you, waiting.
"Please."
He kisses your stomach once before tugging them down, tapping your ass so you lift for him. He slides them off with practiced ease, tucks them into his back pocket without a word.
You instinctively try to close your legs, face burning— but he grips your thighs, forcing them apart. His stare is slow, intense as he takes you in, swollen and slick, clit peeking out, folds glistening in the moonlight.
"Prettiest fuckin' pussy l've ever seen," he groans, hands rubbing up and down your thighs, gaze burning into you until you tremble under it.
"Stop messing around," you reply, tummy filled with butterflies as he continues to watch you with mindful eyes. You lift your hips up, wanting any sort of friction from the man.
He smirks, leaning down without breaking eye contact.
His tongue slips out, presses flat against you—covering you fully, dragging over your hole and your clit before he seals his mouth around you.
The contact steals the breath right out of your lungs.
You throw your head back instantly, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth—warm, wet-slick with his saliva and your own juices. It's too much all at once, your body reacting before you can even think.
He takes his time with it. Licking. Sucking. Lapping at every sensitive spot, tongue tracing your folds with intention. A low moan leaves his throat, vibrating straight through you, sending a sharp jolt up your spine.
He grunts into you, fully focused now, like nothing else exists. His tongue doesn't stop, doesn't rush—just works you steadily while his cock strains hard and aching beneath him. Every sound you make matters.
Every moan, every broken whine, every shaky plea. You feel it in the way he presses closer, the way his breath stutters.
You were a weakness he learned to accept the moment he met you.
He pulls back just long enough to make you shiver before pressing a finger against you. Your mouth snaps shut as you watch, breath caught. His fingers are thick. Calloused. The stretch alone makes you slicker.
One finger pushes in. Slow. Then a second, following behind it, filling you deeper.
"Oh my god, Simon—"
They're big. So big it takes a second for him to settle, fingers stopping fully buried inside you before his mouth drops back to your clit, sucking it in again like he's been waiting for it.
Your thighs start to shake. Your end is nearing embarrassingly quick. But you didn't care, only focusing on the immense pleasure he was giving you.
"C'mon, give it to me," he groaned against your cunt, fingers rubbing inside you faster, harder. Your thighs shook, and the room filled with the sound of your squelching. "Gimme your cum."
It hits you in waves—fast, blinding, overwhelming. You cry out, tears slipping free as your body tightens around his fingers, pleasure tearing through you in a way that leaves you sobbing. You've never felt anything like this. Never been this far gone.
The world narrows to sensation. Sound. Heat.
He laps it up like an animal, only adding to the sensitivity of your core. He doesn't let you come down.
"Si-" you whine, hands pushing at his head just enough to make him look at you.
"Hmm?" he hums, lips brushing a soft kiss where he just had you before standing up off the bed.
Your ears are still ringing from the mind-numbing orgasm, head fuzzy, body slow to catch up. Your eyes are wide as you stare at him, at the way his cock twitches between his thick thighs like it's got a mind of its own. You didn't even notice when he had fully undressed himself.
It's huge.
So thick it barely holds itself upright.
Your brain scrambles, a thousand thoughts crashing at once. There's no way. That can't possibly-
Would this even fit inside you?
But your body doesn't care what your mind thinks.
Your heart kicks up again, anticipation curling low in your stomach, your still—sensitive, drooling mess aching for more even after everything it's just been through. The sting is still there. The fullness lingers. And somehow, you want it again anyway.
The tip of his shaft catches the light, a thick vein running along it, pulsing. His balls hang heavy and full beneath it. Trimmed hair. Thick, solid thighs flexing when he shifts his weight.
You're pretty sure you're drooling when you're ripped out of your thoughts when he speaks.
"You think you can take it, bunny?"
Your body burns, but you nod nonetheless. The arousal you felt was almost too much to bare.
"Let me see that pretty cunt," he lifts your knees up, exposing both of your holes.
Your arms hook beneath your knees, making it easier for him to position himself, lining his cock right at your greedy hole. Your heart pounds in anticipation, lip caught between your teeth hard enough you're sure you might draw blood.
He drags the head along your clit first, smearing you with his precum—then taps it there. Hard.
"Hurry-" you whine, brows furrowed in frustration.
"Just the tip, baby," he breathes, more to himself than you. "Just the tip."
For a split second, you think you understand what he means. Then he pushes in.
"Fuck-" you cry out, sharp and startled, your body locking up on instinct as your walls convulse around him, struggling to take his size. The sensation borders on too much immediately—too full, too sudden. It pulls a low grunt from his chest as he freezes, every muscle in his body going taut.
No. He can't do that. Can't hurt you.
"Shhh," he soothes quickly, voice dropping, steadying.
His hand moves where you need it most, rubbing slow, gentle circles, grounding you while your body panics around him.
Your head feels fuzzy. Like everything is happening underwater.
"Si-ah-too-" you babble, words falling apart as your eyes roll back, fingers digging into his shoulders. You can feel him inching deeper, barely moving, and every fraction of an inch feels like your body is being asked to do something impossible.
Too big. Too thick. There's no way this should fit.
He's not even halfway there, and you already feel stretched past anything you've known. Your mind flickers in and out—whines and broken cries are the only sounds you can make as he keeps going slowly, carefully.
Your hands slide down to his, gripping tight like you're anchoring yourself.
"Hey," he whispers. "Breathe for me."
You try. A shaky inhale. Then another. Tears slip down your temples as you force your body to listen.
He looks nothing like you feel.
He's calm. Focused. Completely present. Sweat beads along his forehead, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths, eyes locked on where you're taking him in.
Then warmth—unexpected.
You jolt lightly as he spits, the heat of it hitting your clit before spreading where you're connected, slicking things enough to take the edge off.
"Too big," you cry, lifting your head to look.
You almost wish you hadn't.
It looks unreal. Wrong. Your body stretched wide around him, doing something you don't understand how it's doing. You swear you can feel him everywher—high, deep, overwhelming.
He hasn't looked away once.
"Almost in, baby," he tells you.
Then he stops. All the way in.
You lose your breath completely. You've never felt this full—like there's no space left inside you at all. His body presses close, skin slick with sweat and your heat, and you can't tell where you end and he begins anymore.
Everything inside you feels pulled tight, stretched to its limit. He's so deep you swear you feel him kiss your cervix.
Your eyes squeeze shut as you cling to his shoulder, focusing on the slow movement of his hands as they slide up your sides, steady, reassuring. You breathe again slowly . Letting your body adjust inch by inch.
Letting the shock fade.
"Tell me when to move," he says quietly.
You don't answer right away. Just a quick nod after a while of feeling his body pressed to yours.
When he finally does move-just barely-the discomfort softens into something else entirely.
Something deep and rolling and unfamiliar. Pleasure replaces the sting in waves, so intense it makes your toes curl.
He moves at a languid pace, dragging himself out of you just a bit before pushing back in. Slowly. Making you feel everything.
You're growing desperate. All the pent—up tension you've been carrying for months finally spilling over, burning hot and restless.
You want him. So bad.
"You can be rougher-ah,"
"Rougher?" he chuckles, lifting a hand to wipe the tears from your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, so gentle it makes you purr. "You don't want me to be rougher, baby."
His hips snap forward sharply, pulling a surprised gasp from your throat.
"I do!" you say breathless.
You see it then-the veins standing out along his arms, the way his jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth. He's losing it. Barely holding on anymore.
And you don't want him to.
"Please," you whisper, voice low, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan.
His hands fly to your hips, pinning them hard against the bed.
"You don't know what you're asking for."
The smile on your face disappears just as quickly as it came when he snaps his hips forward again—harder this time. The movement is rough and powerful, stealing the air from your lungs.
"You ever had your neck squeezed before, bunny?" His large hand comes up loose at first, fingers barely resting against your throat, and your breath already hitches. Then he squeezes harder, thumb pressing into the side of your neck.
Your vision blurs around the edges, pleasure shooting straight through you. You don't hear a word he says after that, though the soft smile that creeps on your face doesn't go unnoticed.
Something flips inside him.
He's not the caring giant anymore-the one coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you, softly rubbing your side and clit to ease the stretch of his cock. No. This version of him is different. Rougher. Bolder. It makes your toes curl in the best possible way.
All you hear is ringing and the sound of his hips hitting your ass.
Your mouth hangs open in a perfect O, no sound coming out except the faintest whimper dragged from you with every thrust. Your eyes cross as you let him do whatever he wants with your body.
You're a drooling mess. Nothing but babbles and broken cries spill from your lips as your eyes roll back, nails clawing at the messy, wet sheets that smell like nothing but you and him.
"Stupid thrust fucking thrust bunny thrust."
The sound sends a warm, overwhelming rush through your stomach, like the drop of a roller coaster. His hips don't falter, and neither does his grip.
With every movement, he rolls his hips in slow circles, making sure you feel every inch, every vein dragging against your sensitive, gummy walls. His hand loosens at your throat only to slide down and grab your tits hard.
"Simiiimon-ah—ah-ah," you cry, voice breaking with each powerful snap of his hips. Short, deep thrusts. His pubic bone slamming into your swollen clit every time.
"So fuckin' tight," he growls. "You feel so fuckin' good一fuck.”
He lets go of your neck, hands moving down your body as his hips slow, grinding into you instead. "I'm gonna rip you in half," he mutters to himself, the rumble in his chest deep and dark.
You don't hear him.
You're too busy gripping the sheets for dear life as the sinful sounds of skin slapping, cunt squelching, and your broken moans fill the room.
The sounds you make only fuel the heavy throbbing of his cock. "Feel good, baby?" he breathes, chest heaving as he looks down at your fucked-out expression, a small smile pulling at his lips.
"Yesyesyes," you babble, drool slipping from your mouth, eyes fluttering as you struggle to keep them open.
"Please-" Your cheeks are wet with tears, hair a mess, body buzzing with heat and pleasure. "Please go faster."
You lift your hips, digging your heels into the mattress, grinding back into him with everything you have left.
He lets out a deep grunt-surprised, pleased.
"Yeah, baby," he teases, thumb sliding down to rub your clit. "You want me to go faster?"
"Please, need it," you sob pathetically. The only thing you care about is pleasure—coming apart on him and letting him ruin you again.
"Work for it, then," he pants, chest rising and falling as he watches your blissed—out face. Beautiful. Fucking wrecked.
Your hips jerk erratically now, calves trembling, sweat slicking your skin as he lets you use him to get yourself off.
"You're-ah-being—mean," you sniff, your legs giving out slowly.
The familiar pressure coils tight in your stomach. Your clit is red and angry with every twist of his thumb, his free hand coming up to squeeze and play with your tit.
Before you can stop it, another orgasm washes through your whole body.
"Fuck," he he throws his head back when you clamp around him, tight and desperate, refusing to let go.
It takes everything in him not to come right then and there, buried deep inside your hot, gummy walls.
You're left gasping, clutching the sheets to your chest like you need something solid as you come apart on his cock.
As you come down, he slowly pulls out of you.
"Ah—" you yelp, the sudden emptiness uncomfortable, almost cold without him.
"Bend over."
His eyes are completely dark as he steps back, cock twitching and leaking. Before you can even lift your head, he's gripping your thighs, dragging you forward and flipping you onto your stomach, then onto your knees. The sheets beneath you are soaked.
"C'mon, bunny," he says, slapping your ass impatiently. "Bend over."
"M'gonna breed this fuckin' cunt," he mutters.
His hands grip your waist, putting you exactly where he wants you—on your knees, tits pressed into the bed, ass up just like he's imagined too many times before.
And you. You're just a cock-drunk, drooling mess. You can't even form words. Just cries and whines spilling out of you.
Music to his ears.
Fuel to his aching cock.
He positions himself behind you, a heavy hand coming down on your ass. The sharp sound echoes through the room, followed by your broken cry.
"Sii-"
His thrusts are messy—messier than before.
Desperate. His grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips as he pounds into you harder, deeper. You chant his name like it's the only word you know.
Your body starts to betray you first. Your legs tremble, knees threatening to give out as the rhythm stutters, breaks, turns reckless. You can't keep up anymore—can't tell where one movement ends and the next begins. Every nerve feels lit, stretched thin, buzzing too loud inside your skin. Your breath comes apart in your chest, sharp little gasps you can't control, like your body already knows what's coming before your mind does.
You're right there—so close it hurts. The need swells until it feels unbearable, like pressure behind your ribs, behind your eyes. Your grip tightens, fingers clawing uselessly at his pillow.
"Fuuuuck, baby!" he nearly yells, hips snapping animalistically, your whole body jolting with every thrust.
"Fuckfuckfuck-" you scream, loud and unfiltered, grateful there aren't neighbors close enough to hear.
The pressure builds again-and just before you can release, he pulls out.
You sob at the emptiness, looking back at him. "No! — please.
He smirks, gripping his cock, a white ring of your slick at the base before he leans down, spreading your ass. Both holes are on display. You can't stop him even if you wanted to.
He spits directly on your asshole before burying his tongue there, licking and slurping like a man starved.
From your clit to your ass, messy and obscene. His hand pumps his cock as he eats you, smacking and pinching your ass, tongue pushing deep enough to make you cry into the pillow.
"Please—want your cock, Simon," you beg, pushing back into his mouth without thinking.
“Yeah, baby,” he mocks, voice pitched higher. “You want this fat cock in your tummy?”
His fist tangles in your hair, jerking your head back until your neck strains, eyes lifting to meet him looming over you.
"Yes, please," your voice is horsed, neck straining with veins popping out. Chin wet and you're panting like a dog.
It made Simons cock impossibly harder.
He sinks into you again-no pause, no waiting. He bottoms out and immediately starts fucking you without restraint, the bed squeaking so loud you're sure it'll break. He slaps your ass, pulls your hair harder, forcing your back into an uncomfortable arch.
"This is what you wanted huh baby," he pants, hips never faltering, yet they get sloppy. His end is nearing.
He knows it by the way his balls tighten. Still dripping a sticky mess of both of you.
Then everything disappears.
Your vision blurs as you cum all over his cock again—no warning, no buildup.
You don't even know how many orgasms you've had.
This last one knocks you out completely.
You collapse onto the bed when he finally lets go, lying there motionless, drool slipping from your mouth as he uses your body for his pleasure.
"Fuck, bunny," he laughs. "Came so fast."
He doesn't give you time to recover.
He hauls you back up onto your hands and knees, positioning himself at the edge of the bed-your face level with his throbbing cock. Every twitch sends a bead of precum sliding down the angry red tip, already mixed with your cum.
"Make me cum, bunny."
"Wha-?" you mumble, still coming down from your high, vision spotting as you look up at him.
"C'mon, bunny," he groans. "You can't just leave me high and dry."
His hand comes down to grip his thick cock, the other cupping his balls. Your mouth waters instantly.
And then his earlier words echo in your head.
M'gonna breed you.
You whine softly and reach up, nudging his hands away so you can replace them with yours. You shuffle forward on your knees, settling in as you lean closer, both hands moving slowly up and down his shaft.
You tilt your head, staring up at him as you muster the best face you can manage, cheek brushing against the warm weight of him. You love the sounds he's making—ragged moans as he loses control.
"Want it inside," you beg.
Simon's eye twitches.
His breathing turns rough, uneven, gaze hardening as they lock onto you. For a split second, you almost wonder if you've crossed a line.
His grip snaps tight in your hair, the burn sharp enough to steal your breath. You barely have time to yelp before he's shoving his cock into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat hard.
It's sudden. Too sudden.
You choke, gagging around him as he thrusts shallow and rough, spit bubbling at your lips and dripping down onto him.
Your head rocks back and forth as you grip his thighs to steady yourself, fingers digging in.
His grip doesn't falter, using it as leverage to drive you deeper. It's brutal. Too much. The sounds you're making would make you blush under any other circumstance.
Your throat burns, gag reflex overwhelmed as you choke around him, fluids spilling from your mouth every time he pushes deeper. Your cunt gushes as he uses your throat for his own pleasure.
"Yeeeeah gimmie that—gurg, gurg—baby."
He grips the base—what you can't fully take-along with his balls, forcing it down. Your eyes widen as you physically feel the stretch of your throat around him.
You tap at his thighs hard and fast, panic spiking just before he finally releases you.
You pull back immediately, coughing, gagging as phlegm spills from your mouth. Your face is a complete mess when he grips your hair again, jerking himself fast and hard. His expression twists with pleasure and desperation, lips caught between his teeth.
Your hand slips down between your legs, rubbing at yourself as he works his cock over your face.
"M'close," he breathes, chest red and heaving, focus razor-sharp.
"Fuuuck, bunny."
Before you can say anything, you feel it—sticky ropes splashing across your face, catching in your hair, your lashes, your brows, your lips. Everywhere. It lasts longer than you expect, enough to leave you stunned.
He grips the tip, giving a final stroke before tapping your cheek and pulling away.
You look up at him as he backs off, dragging your fingers through the mess on your face and bringing them to your mouth, licking them clean.
"Don't do this to me, bunny," he groans.
You giggle softly, the sound weak and breathless, before collapsing back onto the bed. The exhaustion finally catching up on you. Every muscle feels loose, heavy, like your body forgot how to work all at once.
The mattress dips as he moves closer again, slower now.
"Easy," he murmurs, hand settling at your side to keep you from rolling awkwardly. He grabs something off the nightstand—a cloth, a shirt, whatever's closest—and gently wipes at your face, patient, thorough.
Your eyes flutter half-closed as he works, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing finally evening out. The tension from before disappearing and turning into something soft, and peaceful.
"There you go," he says softly, brushing your hair back from your forehead. His thumb lingers there for a second longer than necessary.
You hum in response, too spent to form real words.
He shifts again, sliding into the bed beside you and tugging the covers up around you, making sure you're warm. When he settles beside you, he pulls you in without asking, arm firm and grounding around your shoulders.
You melt into him easily.
For a while, neither of you says anything. You just lie there, your head on his chest, his breathing steady beneath your ear. His hand traces slow, absent lines along your arm.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
You nod against him, eyes closed. "M'good,"
His arm tightens just a little.
"Good."
You smile to yourself, fingers drifting over the scars and dips along his chest. "Thought you said you were gonna breed me," you joke softly.
He lets out a low laugh, warm and deep, the sound vibrating through you.
"That was heat talk, bunny," he says easily. His hand slides to your waist, fingers trailing along your stretch marks.
You tilt your head, listening.
"When i do cum in your pretty pussy," he pauses, other hand reaching to drag a finger along your cheek. "It's gonna be for a reason.
You vaguely remember a time from when you were younger, full of lifeless bare walls and the choking smell of disinfectant. The incessant murmurs behind the glass, the dread of getting scruffed whenever you did something not up to standard.
The memories are fuzzy, where you're left grasping for the wisps of the crumbling recollections of your childhood; a gaping chasm in your existence so wide it feels like you've only existed for three years, not however many you truly are.
For three years, as far as you can recall, you've lived on the streets. Stuck in your feline form, not because you can't shift — though the process would probably kill you in your current state — but because maintaining your human form would demand more food than you have access to. Shifting takes precious calories you don't have the luxury to waste; it's already hard enough to sustain your kitten appearance.
You're exploring past your usual peripheries today, hoping to find some scraps or endear an ignorant human into giving you a meal to get you through the day. Most of them can't differentiate between hybrids and regular animals, so if you loiter close enough, they'll leave precious sustenance on the ground. It's not a foolproof method, however. Some humans aren't generous, especially when you have a penchant for biting and scratching anyone who gets within a foot of you. It's not as if you can help it either.
Every hand reaching could be your end. Every step too close is a threat.
What choice do you have? It's survival and you want to live.
By late afternoon, your stomach feels hollow enough to fold in on itself. You've only managed to get a bowl of milk and you don't want to scrounge through the dumpsters again. That's alley cat territory, and they aren't particularly fond of shifters, almost as if they can smell the wrongness on your fur, can tell you're not one of them.
So when you spot a cling-wrapped sandwich on the pavement, instincts take over and you're springing into action. Food food food is all you think: the soft dough of the bread, how it'll crumble in your mouth. The acidity of the tomatoes. You can't remember the last time you had fruit. And the thing you've been longing for most: chicken. Fatty, juicy chicken that might keep you going for another couple of days.
Everything else blurs. Your fangs sink down—
Salt. Sweat. Definitely not the sandwich you were eyeing.
You snap out of your daydream and jolt back, looking up to see an enormous, masked man crouched in front of you. His scarred hand hovers over the sandwich, two small indents marking his index finger.
Shit.
_________________________________________________
Simon wasn't expecting his day to go like this. After a grueling day at base clearing the paperwork he'd ignored for weeks — a part of his job worse than training rookies — he was starving, and the base cafeteria wasn't going to cut it.
So why is it that he's staring down at the little shit that bit him? He should ignore it, leave the sandwich for the feral beast, and go home to make dinner and crack open a bottle of bourbon. He has better things to do, but something about your behavior makes him stop.
You're frozen, pupils blown wide as you continue to stare at him, as if locked in a standstill he didn't start. He gives you a once over: matted black fur, no collar, and a defensive posture tell him you're likely feral.
It clicks.
Ah.
You're a shifter.
He works with shifters. Knows them. And this isn't a cat.
You're not acting like a regular one: no hissing, no meowing, and no running. Just still, like you're trying not to exist, hoping his attention shifts to anything other than you.
It's rare to see shifters outside of the militia, but he's cracked down on enough research laboratories to know that domestic shifters were a thing. They sell well on the black market.
Something uncomfortable wells in his chest. What if you got snatched?
Usually civilians can't tell the difference, but there are always exceptions with nefarious intentions to boot, and coupled with the fact you're tiny, you wouldn't survive. Simon can't, on good conscience leave you to your own devices. He remembers being that small, remembers what that felt like. No one deserves that.
If you were an adult, he'd walk away without a second thought. But you're not. Bloody hell.
The longer he continues to look at you, the tenser you get, shifting on your paws. He has to grab you, even if it gets him bit and scratched; he's due for his shots anyways. And his resolve must show — because without another second, you bolt.
Simon sighs, picking up his sandwich from the ground. He can see your small form taking a sharp turn down an alley.
141 + friends (+ enemies lmao) reactions to stepping on a pet?
John wants to kill himself. He steps on Peanut's little paw? Noose, it's the only option. But before he can do that, he's quick to find where she ran off to and lure her back out, holding her to his chest and offering her a soft scratch behind the ear. "I'm sorry, petal. I'm just a clumsy arse, aren't I?"
Ghost releases the loudest, most self-loathing Mancunian "FUCK." you've ever heard. He knows that it won't truly hurt the cat, he knows the little fucker will get over it and he's done a lot worse to actual people. But that stinky rat bastard is his stinky rat bastard who relies on him to survive, and that makes him feel bad. The cat is offered a lot of Dreamies as a forgiveness bribe.
Gaz immediately thinks, "this is it, I'm going to hell" because he just stepped on his mum's cat's paw and she insists that the cat is his sister, so he'll never hear the end of it if he doesn't apologise sufficiently to her. He does, his mother eventually concedes that the cat forgives him, and they move on, but he never quite gets over the fact that his siblings are as follows: an older sister, a younger brother and an eleven-year-old cat.
Soap spends ten minutes trying to lure his cat out from under a table because his boy is skittish and standing on the wee laddie doesnae fuckin help, does it? "C'mere son, a didnae mean it. Yer awright, ye kin be mad at me oot here just stop hidin." He spends the rest of the day cradling the cat like a toddler.
Nikolain would never step on Peanut's tail because he looks for her in literally every room of the flat when he enters it. That's his babygirl, his other babygirl stepped on Peanut's paw and now he's hiding the rope.
Laswell accidentally steps on Boris' paw, and he isn't happy. He hisses at her. "What did you expect? You will stand under my feet whenever you get the chance... Alright, fine. I'm sorry. don't get huffy with me, your mommy will never forgive me. Sarah's still holding the grudge from when I stepped on Dot's tail."
And because you said enemies, I shall include Makarov.
He steps on his cat's tail and regards it with a blank look when it mrrps at him sadly, only to murmur a quiet "Я извиняюсь." in the cat's direction.
Someone sees it and he plants a bullet between their eyes, as soon as he's far away enough that the noise won't hurt his cat's ears.
This is what I was thinking about WHILE TAKING MY FINAL TODAY. The brain rot is actually rotting.
So I keep having this idea about being the tf141’s technical analyst (think Garcia from criminal minds kinda beat)
And part of your job is reviewing websites and links visited by any government equipment. Including the tablets/ work phones/ laptops the boys use on base / in the field , just to make sure nothing is a security threat. Keep things secure and tight.
You’re mature enough not to blink twice at the porn websites, and how the visits to them spike while they’re in the field . They’re hotblooded men, it makes sense.
You do blink.. at least once.. seeing how their searches seem to mirror their teammates. Soap’s masked men searches, Gaz’s bearded daddy type thing, Ghost’s affliction for Scottish gym rats, and Price’s varied tastes.
*ok so this squad was a little messy*
But ok, the websites are secure enough. You make a mental note to look into some additional antivirus software for them but move on. Except… now it’s hard not to read into Price’s lingering shoulder pats on his team. It’s harder not to notice how Gaz brings Coffee and Tea to his teammates with a soft smile. Ghost’s intense watchful eyes softening ever so slightly when someone made a joke said something kind. And wait… did Johnny just smack someone’s ass??? And hey, you could swear Gaz and Johnny *weren’t* wearing those shirts before they mysteriously disappeared for half an hour.
Whatever, it’s a hard job. They deserve a little stress relief. you’re happy for them. Maybe a little jealous because that’s a big ole sandwich (LOTS of meat) anyone would want to be in. Maybe you blush when Johnny and Kyle sit on either side of you in the mess hall… maybe you get a little sidetracked when going over hacked intel with Ghost and Price, how they both lean over your shoulder as they look at your screen…
Focus. FOCUS.
So, imagine your surprise when one day as your clearing some of the links that Soap’s tablet had visited that weekend. And his searches sound familiar- your build, your hair color, your features….
Soon you find something similar going through Price’s, and then Gaz’s… (the only reason you don’t see it on Ghost’s is because he watches over Soap’s shoulder). All of them searching for porn where the actress looks like you…
You should feel violated. Uncomfortable. Disrespected… but you don’t. If anything, you feel a little hot under the collar. Maybe a little embarrassed.
Maybe it was time to remind the boys that you can in fact see their internet searches. If you can manage to look them in the eyes.
Summary: Task Force 141 operates successfully without an omega, at least that’s what Price has been saying since its formation. Two alphas and two betas balance the pack just fine, and they have the numbers to prove it.
It works for a while, until the Omega Initiative is born and the 141 find themselves having to adjust to the sudden addition of an omega to their pack. Fresh out of an institute, you’re hardly fit for their secretive, dangerous world, or so Price thinks.
As each member of the team gets closer to you, things begin to come to light, not only about you but about the decision to force you into their lives.
Maybe, just maybe, Price was wrong and the 141 does need an omega after all.
Pairings: Poly 141 x reader, Price x Gaz, Ghost x Soap
Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, NSFW content, explicit smut, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), knotting, biting, claiming, mating cycles, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, age differences, military inaccuracies, canon typical violence, blood, weapons, language, no use of Y/N, brief torture, hurt/comfort, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.
Chapters containing smut are marked with a *
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12 / 1,147 words / for @141wh0re. happy birthday <3
nsfw, free use, rough sex, group sex ⬇
...
"Shut your bloody mouth before you broadcast our hiding place to every tango in a mile radius," Ghost snaps. He's got you bent over a crate, your nails digging into the old wood for purchase as his hips grind against yours.
"Then don't be so fucking rough," you snap, though it sounds breathy and thin even to your ears. You shift, feeling his hands squeeze your hips in irritation.
Ghost doesn't falter, but his eyes glitter at your backtalk. He claps his gloved hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds you're making. His other hand grips your thigh, forcing you onto one leg as he pushes your knee onto the top of the crate. He pulls out and slams back into you, getting back to railing you hard and fast.
“We need you on your sniper, Ghost,” Soap hisses from his spot at the far window. He’s peering down the scope of his own rifle. This building is only two stories high and small enough that any one of you could cross the room in three strides. The body heat alone is getting to you. Not to mention the way Ghost is fucking you like it'll save this mission, his pants pushed down to mid-thigh just as yours are.
"Get back to work, then, Ghost," Price tells him from the nearest window, eye leaving the scope of his rifle for a moment to take you in. "I don't need you two distracting my team."
Ghost grinds into you, a frustrated snarl muffled under his mask. You feel the muscles in his hands flex as he bites back his anger. "Fuck," he mutters. "Alright. Let's finish this."
On the other side of the cramped room, Gaz and Soap kneel at the largest window. They keep their focus, sniping marks with ruthless precision. As they do, Ghost's hips snap into you faster and harder. His teammates are focused on their task; he's focused solely on his.
"You're so tight," he growls. His hand slips away from your mouth, falling to your neck. "I've been wanting you since we--"
"Stop talking," you snap, hyperaware of the implicit warning in Price’s voice and the way Soap and Gaz are shifting in position, getting restless. You’re not sure if they’ve had enough, if they’re jealous, if they’d sooner throw you out the window than entertain another moment of this. "Get it done."
Ghost doesn't bother to argue. He pins you down with a hand between your shoulder blades as he fucks you, unceremonious and primal.
You bite your lip and try to stay quiet as Price's judgmental gaze falls over you again. Ghost flattens you even more against the crate and slams into you so hard and fast it creaks and squeaks against the floor. You cry out, writhing. His hips stutter, and then he's coming, slamming into you until you can't think. Your clit catches the rough edge of the crate. The sudden, sharp jolt is too much. An unexpected orgasm crashes over you, and you groan pathetically, clenching around Ghost.
Ghost curses. He slows down, still panting, and slowly pulls out of you. He runs a gloved hand down your back in a quick—but still noticeable—gesture of appreciation.
"Nice," Price mutters in approval. "Good work."
"She’s a good teammate, ain’t she," Ghost says. "Always wet."
You shiver, their words shooting straight to your core. You're sure you should be insulted, not flattered. But your body doesn’t seem to understand that.
Gaz nudges Soap and they glance over their shoulders at you.
“How long was that one?” Gaz asks Soap.
“I’m busy at the moment. You think I bloody timed it?” Soap snaps.
Gaz looks amused. “Did you not?”
Soap swears under his breath, eye returning to his sniper scope. “Eleven minutes.”
Gaz scoffs. "Could do better."
“Alright, that’s enough,” Price says, his voice cutting through the chatter. “Ghost, take up position.”
He disappears from behind you. You pull yourself together and get to work.
...
This mission went tits up right out of the gate. If not for your teammates’ ludicrous skill and focus under pressure, you’d be dead. No doubt. But they’ve been in far worse binds than simply being pinned down inside a rickety, moldy shack by endless enemy gunfire.
Soon enough, the chaos is over, and no more shots ring out.
“Clear,” Soap says.
“Proper job,” Price says. “Regroup.”
You’re patching up a graze on Gaz’s forearm when Price returns three minutes later, frowning.
“Bad news. No exfil for another forty-five minutes.”
“How bloody long does it take to—” Ghost cuts himself off with a rough sigh. “We should keep moving. Find somewhere safer to wait it out.”
“After we regroup here, yeah?” Gaz says.
Ghost scoffs. “Why? You in the middle of something?”
“Oh, we’re about to be,” Soap retorts.
You’re hardly paying attention, fastening two butterfly bandages to Gaz’s laceration when Soap’s arm loops around your waist and drags you backward into his lap. He makes sure to drag your core over his thigh, knowing you’re still sensitive enough to feel it even through your pants. You grit your teeth, biting back a groan. He tugs the top half of your combat uniform apart and shoves his hand inside, groping your chest roughly. You gasp, grinding down on his lap unwittingly.
“That’s a good fuckin’ girl.” Soap’s breath is hot in your ear. “Real reliable.”
“We don’t have time for fun and games, Johnny,” Ghost says, sounding irritated.
“Easy for you to say. You had yours,” Gaz says. He slides closer to Soap, his eyes fixed on you.
Ghost throws a questioning look at Price. Price leans back on the crate you’d been bent over a few minutes ago. He shrugs, rolling around a fresh cigarette between his lips. “Not a bad place to sit tight. We’ve got a good view in all directions if more tangos approach. Relatively protected and exfil has a clear landing zone through those trees. We stay.”
“You heard him,” Gaz says.
“Arsewits, both of you,” Ghost mutters.
You’re staring at the cigarette in Price’s mouth, eyes half-lidded, when Gaz’s fingers take your chin and tilt your face toward him. “You don’t mind, love, do you?”
A frustrated growl rolls through Soap’s chest, but he pauses mid-squeeze to hear your answer too.
You stare at Gaz, then Ghost, then Price again. “Forty-five minutes?”
“We’ll make it work,” Soap says.
“I know.” You shift in his lap again. Your core is aching, your mind already clouded over with want. “Fine. If… if that’s what you need.”
Soap chuckles into your ear. “Away wi’ that. No pretendin’ you do this because it’s your job. You like it.”
“Fuck off,” you snap.
“Gettin’ to that.” Soap shifts you so he can get his pants and yours out of the way. He notices Gaz’s hand run down your neck enticingly, hears you sigh, and pushes Gaz’s hand away. “Wait your turn.”
Gaz scoffs. “You’ll hardly last long enough to wait on.”
“You can share,” Price tells them. Then he gives you a pointed look. “Saves time. You can rest on the bird, sweetheart.”
No thoughts just Makarov knitting. He finds it calming, something repetitive for his hands, something he knows so well he barely has to think about what he's doing. And Nolan is nervous to approach him and tell him about 141 disrupting their plans because Makarov has stabbed someone before with a knitting needle and he will do so again if prompted.
Ghost insists adamantly, passionately, and with the conviction of a man who’s sustained multiple traumatic brain injuries that he fell in love with you at first sight.
Because Ghost had eyes on you for approximately ten seconds before you broke his nose and he fell in love.
It happens outside a cafe on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, the kind of day where nothing interesting is supposed to occur, where the universe is contractually obligated to be boring. You’ve got your headphones in, keys jangling in one hand, iced coffee in the other, walking home in that autopilot mode where your body knows the route but your brain is thinking about literally anything else.
That’s when your wallet slips from your pocket. Honestly, you don’t even notice, because you’re deep into a true crime’s podcast and fully dissociated from reality.
Ghost spots it, picks it up, and jogs after you.
He says something. You don’t hear it. He says it again, louder. Still nothing.
So he taps your shoulder.
Big. Mistake.
You spin around like a woman possessed, adrenaline spiking, fight or flight activating, and throw the most righteous, unholy, devastatingly perfect punch of your entire life. It’s the kind of punch that would make your self defense instructor weep with pride. The kind of punch that deserves a plaque. A statue. A national holiday.
The sound is wet. The crunch is immediate. The impact is biblical.
Ghost drops like a felled oak tree and a bag of bricks. He goes down hard wallet still clutched in one hand, skull mask knocked crooked, eyes blinking slowly up at the sky like he’s trying to remember what dimension he’s in.
You stand there frozen. Horrified. Keys still dangling. Headphones half out. Coffee somehow still intact.
The rest of Task Force 141 who have been standing several feet away, look like they just watched God Himself get smacked into next week.
For a moment, there’s only silence.
Then Soap breaks.
He howls. He’s doubled over, hands on his knees, tears streaming down his face, making noises that aren’t even human anymore. He’s gone. Transcended. Ascended to a plane of pure, chaotic joy.
“SHE DECKED HIM!” he wheezes, gasping for air. “She- she knocked the GHOST out! FULL CONTACT! FULL KO! I’M- I CAN’T- “
Gaz follows immediately, wheezing, clutching his ribs. “Mate- mate- she dropped him like a sack of potatoes! One punch! ONE!”
Price just sighs. Long. Deep. The sigh of a man who’s too old for this, too tired for this, but also, somewhere deep down, a little bit impressed.
“Bloody beautiful form,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Textbook right hook. Could’ve been in the ring.”
You’re panicking. You’re hovering over Ghost, babbling apologies, hands fluttering uselessly. “Oh my god- oh my god- I’m so sorry! I didn’t know- I thought you were- are you okay? Do you know what year it is? How many fingers am I holding up? Should I call someone? Do you need a hospital? A lawyer?! Please don’t sue me.”
Ghost doesn’t answer. He just groans. Long. Low. Like a haunted house sound effect.
Then, through the blood and the daze and the clearly scrambled neural pathways, he mutters “…angels.”
“What?” you squeak.
“I see angels,” he slurs, eyes glassy and vaguely pointing in your direction. “Pretty ones.”
Soap loses it again. He’s on the ground now. Literally collapsed. Gaz has to step over him.
By the time the ambulance arrives (called by Price) Ghost is propped up against the curb like a discarded mannequin. His nose is absolutely destroyed. His mask is half off. There’s blood on his jacket. His eyes are glassy and unfocused.
But he’s smiling.
And he’s staring at you like you personally hung the moon, invented oxygen, and solved world peace in one punch.
“You hit like a tank,” he says faintly, dreamily, voice slow and thick with what is definitely a concussion. “Bloody beautiful. Strong. Could probably crush a man’s skull. Lovely hands. Great form. You single?”
“You are concussed,” you reply, voice shrill, face burning. “You need a hospital.”
“Maybe,” he agrees, nodding slowly, then wincing because nodding hurts. “But I’m also in love.”
Soap is dead. Flatlined. Gaz is leaning against a lamppost for support, tears streaming. Price is- oh god- Price is taking a video.
“Incident documentation,” he says flatly when you stare at him in betrayal like he isn’t planning on immediately sending it to Laswell.
“DELETE THAT!”
“Can’t. Evidence.”
When the paramedics finally load Ghost onto the gurney- still loopy, still bleeding, still smiling like a man who’s discovered enlightenment- he reaches out and grabs Soap by the shirt with surprising strength for someone who’s been recently KO’d.
“Johnny,” he slurs, deadly serious. “Johnny. Listen t’me.”
“Aye, LT?”
“Get her number.”
“…Ghost, you need medical-”
“Swear it.” His grip tightens. His eyes are wild. Desperate. “Swear it on your life, Johnny. On your mum. On your beloved hair gel. Get. Her. Number.”
Soap, choking back laughter, wipes his eyes and salutes. “Aye, big man. I’ll get it. Scout’s honor. Right after I get the CCTV footage and frame it for the barracks.”
“You’re a good man, Johnny.”
“I’m really not.”
Ghost gives you a dazed, lopsided thumbs up from the gurney as they wheel him away, and you’re left standing on the sidewalk- wallet finally back in hand, face the color of a tomato, dignity in shambles- wondering how in the hell you managed to accidentally concuss a six-foot-four man into romance.
Soap sidles up next to you, grinning like the devil himself.
“So,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Can I get that number? For medical purposes. And also because he’ll actually haunt me if I don’t.”
You stare at him.
He waggles his eyebrows.
“…Fine.”
Somewhere in the ambulance, Ghost smiles.
Synopsis: At just eight years old, you struggle with a heart condition that makes you too fragile for shocks or exertion. To protect you, Simon keeps his military life as far away as possible, and his home, a safe refuge. But everything changes when an intruder, unaware of Simon's true identity, decides to rob them. What should have been a simple burglary turns into a desperate race against time when fear triggers a heart attack. Now, Simon is not only fighting the thief — he's fighting to save your life.
Warnings: Profanity, firearms, panic, mentions of death, the reader is 8 years old, has Long QT Syndrome and is a girl.
Word count: 4.5k
Observation: English is not my first language, and I have very little exposure to British English specifically. I had a really hard time writing Simon and Price's dialogue, but I hope I at least got close to something more realistic.
Simon put you to sleep, just like he had for the past two nights, and now he lay with his head resting against the pillow, the insomnia visiting him once again. He was exhausted from the day, chasing after you and handling your tantrums – but still, sleep wouldn’t come. No one would believe it if they were told that he, a shadowy wall of muscle and silence, spent his afternoons playing dolls and tea parties with an eight-year-old girl.
Your father always watched you sleep for a while, his calloused fingers gently brushing your chubby cheek and smoothing your hair. He admired your serenity, as if the world were perfect and no problems existed. Simon wished you could stay that way forever, carefree and small. The thought of you growing up and facing the world unsettled him, but it was inevitable.
You were a wellspring of joy, something that warmed his heart. Always looking for him, and always worried about how he felt, if he was okay, when he should be the one asking you that. Something inside Simon shifted every time you asked if he was hurting when went too quiet.
He used to think that a child’s mind was too oblivious to understand how adults worked, but you always noticed every time his eyes tightened just a fraction differently, wondering: Why is Daddy sad? And not every time was he exactly sad, but sometimes, his gaze grew distant, thoughts reaching faraway places. Now, he was much more careful not to let it happen around you, not wanting his daughter to think something was wrong with her father.
Everything about you made him immensely happy, a feeling buried deep in his chest that he had to protect you at all costs. But Simon couldn’t protect you from his greatest fear. Your heart worked differently, he had told you that himself, and it had brought him to the edge of panic more times than he could count. When it wasn’t clear what was wrong, he felt useless, powerless, as if he would never be enough.
Once, you couldn’t breathe at daycare, and he was thousands of miles away. Your babysitter called him in tears, it was one of the worst moments of his life. He thought you were going to die, and the very idea haunted him like some loathsome creature. He had faced death many times, in many forms, but with you, it was utterly devastating. You couldn’t disappear. It would destroy him.
When he was near, he handled you like porcelain, always cautious, as if something invisible could suddenly trigger another episode, making you cry from a pain he couldn't take away.
That’s why he refused to take anything that might help him sleep, twisting at the thought of you needing him and him being too dazed to respond. He forced himself to stay awake, alert, every little noise in the house making him tense. A creaking window, the sound of distant footsteps, a whisper in the hallway – he always checked – even knowing it was probably just his mind creating monsters. But he couldn’t help it. The fear of something happening while he was lost in the darkness of his own mind was unbearable.
In the middle of the night, he would get up several times just to check if you were still breathing. The room was silent, except for the rhythmic, comforting sound of your breath. Occasionally, there was a small hesitation, a brief pause that sent his heart into his throat, before the steady rise and fall of your chest resumed. He knew it was paranoia, but he couldn’t stop. To him, you were more important than the very oxygen in his lungs. Every beat of your heart mattered more than his own life.
But he wasn’t unshakable, no matter how much he wished to be for you. Eventually, exhaustion would take hold, his bloodshot eyes pulling him into the dark. When it did, he would wake at the first sign of morning – his sleep never lasting long. But tonight, something was different. He woke up much earlier.
A crash from the hallway, the sound of a lamp shattering against the floor, yanked him into full awareness. Like an instinct buried deep within him had been triggered, Simon’s hearing sharpened instantly. His body tensed, slipping into a readiness only someone like him could know. With a single swift motion, he was out of bed, his bare feet touching the floor with such precision that they barely made a sound.
Then, a sharp, terrified scream shattered the silence, echoing through the house.
It was your voice.
“Daddy!”
Cold fear rushed through his veins. His heart pounded violently, but he didn’t hesitate. Instinct seized him like a crushing weight, and he moved with the speed of a predator. The sound of his own ragged breath and the pounding of his heartbeat were all he heard as he bolted toward your room, his only thought to reach you before anything else could.
He burst through your door, flipping the switch to flood the room with light.
Someone was there.
A boy, probably a teenager. He wore a balaclava and clutched a pistol, the serial number scratched off. Simon noticed it instantly. He always noticed details – nothing escaped him – and guilt tore through his chest.
He should have prevented this. He should have seen the signs before the intruder ever set foot in his house.
“Stay there!” The boy shouted, his voice trembling. His hands shook so much they could barely hold the gun. He seemed on the verge of collapsing, as if he might wet himself at any moment. Maybe he was just a young man making a stupid mistake, a rash decision. That's what Simon's rational side told himself. But his emotional side could only feel anger – a muffled, uncontrollable fury burning inside – because of how that gun had been pointed at you just seconds ago.
Simon's figure must have terrified the invader even more. The boy hadn't expected to find someone like him. Tall. Intimidating. His face covered in scars, his eyes cold and empty. Instinct screamed inside the younger: this is no ordinary man. Even when Simon raised his hands, in a gesture of surrender, he didn't seem to feel safe.
“Calm down.” Simon's deep, imposing voice filled the room. The boy trembled even more. The lieutenant opened his hands, trying to show he wouldn't do anything.
He heard your crying. He could feel your heart racing, almost as fast as his own. And that was not a good sign. Your chest was rising and falling irregularly. He knew you needed help. Now.
“Put the gun down, kid.”
“I'm not putting anything down, Motherfucker!” He shouted, his voice shrill, desperate. You jumped in bed. Simon diverted his eyes for a second, just to see how you clung to the blanket, your fingers gripping so tightly they were turning white. Your father knew the swearing, the yelling, and that gun were terrifying you.
“Look at me! Don't look at her!” The boy yelled again, hysterical. Fear was written all over his face. He thought Simon might attack him at any moment.
“You can take whatever you want, just put the gun down.” Simon's voice came out brutal again, cutting. He needed to appear in control, even though he wasn't. He moved his hands slowly, cautiously, trying to convince the stranger he wasn’t a threat.
Meanwhile, your mind was on high alert, painted red as you saw the barrel of the gun pointed at your father. For a dark moment, you thought that guy was going to hurt him.
“I didn't know she was here, I swear.” The kid whispered. His breathing was erratic. “I don't want to take anything, I just want to leave. I'm very sorry...”
Simon saw the tremor in the boy's shoulders, saw the tears forming behind the fabric of the balaclava. He was crying, probably from the shock of finding a child while doing something so horrific.
“Fine. Then go.” Simon agreed, his mind spinning, his heart hammering in his chest. He just wanted to get to you. Your breathing was becoming difficult. You were so scared you could barely speak.
The thief swallowed hard. His gaze wavered for a second.
“As soon as I get closer, you'll grab me.” He said as if it were a fact, sizing up Simon’s physique – a man who knows how to fight. A cop, maybe? Military? The boy knew he wouldn't stand a chance against him.
“I won’t.” Simon kept his voice firm, but he felt the fear seeping in. His eyes quickly shifted to you, seeing your feet moving under the blanket, you were in agony.
Then he saw it.
Your small chest rising and falling erratically. You brought your hand to your heart, your face contorting. Pain.
Panic exploded inside Simon.
If it weren’t for you, Simon would have already lunged at the invader and ended it. But he couldn’t risk it. A stray bullet. One wrong move.
“What’s your name?” His voice came out softer, controlled.
“J-James...” He stammered.
The oldest in the room nodded, memorizing the name. “James. I’m Simon.”
The boy just nodded.
“You look young. I reckon you made a mistake comin’ ‘ere, and now you’re regrettin’ it.” Simon measured each word with precision. “I don’t care if you walk out that door and vanish, just as long as you’re outta my daughter’s sight.”
He was lying. He was lying with every word. But he needed James to believe it. He needed him to leave. He was definitely going after him later.
James averted his gaze and, for the first time, really looked at you.
Your body was trembling. Tears streamed down your face. Your lips were trembling so much you couldn’t speak.
“W-What’s wrong with her?” The young man asked hesitantly. His voice was different now, but Simon didn’t want to talk. He needed to get to you.
“You're frightenin' her.” He said through clenched teeth, and something seemed to change in the boy. His gaze softened.
But the gun was still raised.
And Simon was running out of time.
He saw you try to call his name once more, but the sound died in your throat.
He knew what it was.
The cold soldier’s face crumbled, giving way to that of a desperate father, and he looked into James's eyes before finally exploding:
“If you don’t let me help her, she’s gonna die!”
The boy blinked at hearing the threat, confused, and Simon took a step forward.
“She’s ill.” He gushed the words harshly, laden with an emotion he couldn’t control. “If you don’t let me go to her, she’ll die. Do you understand, bloody hell?!”
For a second, after the beastly shout he gave, only silence filled the room.
James froze.
And Simon waited.
The boy gave up and nodded, his fingers still trembling as he lowered the gun. Simon didn’t waste any time. In an instant, he crossed the room to you, his steps heavy and determined. You were pale. Small. Your hands still clutching your chest. The fear in your huge eyes was enough to break something inside him.
Simon crouched beside you and held your face between his hands, forcing a softer tone than he had used with the intruder. James, panicked, couldn’t do anything but put his hands over his head, sliding down the wall while apologizing repeatedly. He pulled the balaclava off his face, revealing his features. He was just a teenager, between 16 and 18 years old.
The boy had no idea what he was doing there, nor how he had reached the point of thinking that breaking into a family’s home for some cash was a good idea. The moment he realized what he had done, a chill ran down his spine as he understood that, for an instant, he had pointed a gun at a child.
A child.
“Hey, I’m here. I’m here, sweetheart. Look at me.”
You blinked a few times, as if trying to focus, searching for safety in your father’s face. But your body trembled. Then came the first unsteady breath. Then another. Small, desperate gasps. Your chest rose and fell too fast, and Simon felt his blood turn cold.
No. Not now.
A sob escaped you, and you clung to his shirt as if your life depended on it. Maybe it did.
He held you tightly, as if he could shield you from everything, as if just pulling you closer could stop life from slipping through his fingers. Heart pounding, he descended the stairs in long strides, muscles tense with the urgency only a father understands. Nothing else mattered now – not the stranger still in the house, not the shards of glass on the floor, not even his own fear. Only you. Only getting to the hospital in time.
“D-Daddy…” Your voice came out as a weak whisper, so soft he only heard it because your face was pressed against his shoulder.
Simon’s stomach twisted. You were scared. More than that, you were terrified. Your small fingers clung to his shirt so tightly they could have torn it, as if you were drowning.
“You’re gonna be okay, my love.” The words came out fast, hoarse, more for himself than for you. He yanked the car door open and carefully placed you in the back seat, making sure you were positioned safely. His eyes quickly scanned your pale face before he rushed to drive.
Simon didn’t look back. He didn’t think about the stranger, the house, anything else. He just turned the engine on and slammed his foot on the gas, the headlights cutting through the darkness as he sped down the nearly empty streets. His mind was torn between the road and the sound of your unsteady breathing in the back seat.
“Stay with me, sweetheart.” he murmured, glancing at the rearview mirror. You were curled up, your wide eyes locked on him, trying to stay focused as your small hands gripped the seatbelt.
Simon’s chest tightened. He wanted to say something to soothe you, but all that came to mind was the corrosive fear that maybe – just maybe – he was already too late.
✧✧✧
A few hours later, the sun was shining brightly as morning advanced. Simon shifted in the uncomfortable hospital chair, elbows resting on his knees, his hand holding yours. The warmth of your skin against his was the only thing that a little peace, his thumb tracing slow circles in an unconscious gesture of comfort. He had been silent since arriving, but not in his usual way. This silence was heavy, suffocating, filling the room like an unspoken weight.
He didn’t dare take his eyes off you, afraid that even the slightest lapse in attention could make things go wrong again. The constant beeping of the heart monitor was offering him fragile relief, a reminder that you were here, alive. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was just a temporary illusion – that at any moment, the rhythm would spike again, and you’d be in danger.
Two hours ago, you had woken up, still drowsy, sedated by the doctors to prevent stress. Your eyes opened sluggishly, scanning the room until found him. You were scared – for him. The image of the boy pointing a gun was still vivid in your mind, and the fear overflowed. When the panic set in, your heart rate spiked again, and the medical team had to intervene, sedating you once more.
Simon could do nothing. He just sat there, motionless, fingers pressing against the bridge of his nose in frustration.
The sound of the door opening pulled him from his thoughts. Simon turned his head and saw Price standing there. His captain, one of the few people he trusted, and someone who knew you well enough to understand what had happened.
Simon had never minded being alone. Solitude was an old companion, a shadow he had learned to carry without complaint. But this time, for some reason, he had picked up the phone and called John. Something inside him had pushed him to press that button, an insistent, uneasy force hammering inside him.
He wanted to believe it was just for your sake, because you and Price were close, because he had a duty to inform him - because his captain would be furious if Simon didn't tell him about it. But deep down, he knew the truth.
He needed someone else to be there.
Your “Uncle John” never failed to send you gifts when he could, and sometimes even made the hour-long drive from his city just to say “hi” to you. Price cherished you as if you were his own daughter.
“Oi, Lieutenant.” The older man’s voice was steady, comforting.
Simon took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, falling back into the tactical demeanor he always used in the base. But even when he wore his mask, John could read him like an open book.
“Captain.” That was all he managed to say.
Price knew him well enough to understand that Simon needed support. He was used to dealing with Ghost. But this – this was just Simon.
“How’s our Thumbelina?” Price asked softly, as if afraid to wake you. He walked over to Simon, placing a hand on his shoulder in a brief, almost hesitant gesture.
“She'll wake up soon enough.” Simon replied, his eyes fixed on you but not really seeing you. His gaze was distant, unfocused.
“You said she went into shock, didn't you?” Price murmured, trying to follow a line of conversation.
“The doc thinks so.” Simon sighed and leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly. “They’re going to refer her to a shrink. Don’t want those memories messin’ with her head.”
Price nodded, remaining standing.
“I made a few calls,” he announced, watching his friend's reaction. “I got some info on the brat.”
Simon looked up, attentive.
“He didn’t even try to leg it. Found him in her room, and I called in a contact from the coppers.” He scratched his mustache at the memory of the encounter.
At first, Price got confused. But within seconds, he was already gripping the teenager by the collar, fury burning in his eyes. He only started to rein himself in when James, terrified, began apologizing, without even knowing who the man pinning him against the wall was. His empathy took over. The boy had hurt you, yes, but he didn’t know the severity of your condition. He was wrong, but he wasn’t a demon.
“His mum showed up at the station right after. It was a proper scene. The two of them were at each other’s throats, shouting. The woman was in tears, all disappointed, and the boy looked right sorry for himself.”
Simon clenched his jaw. “I couldn't give a toss about that nonsense.” The irritation was evident, even though he hadn’t intended to be rude.
“He thought the house was empty, Simon. Got it mixed up with the neighbour’s.” Price added carefully. “It was a daft dare from friends who knew he needed the money, so he nicked his father’s gun. He’s off to court. With what he’s done, he might end up in a juvenile centre.”
Simon remained quiet for a moment, running his tongue over his teeth. Then, he exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Yeah. Great.” he muttered, irritation dripping from every syllable.
Price watched his reaction, hesitating before continuing.
“I know you're pissed off, mate, but...” He paused, studying Simon's tense face. “Maybe it’s worth figuring out what the hell was goin’ through that boy’s head.”
Simon heard every word but didn’t reply. He absorbed his captain’s advice and kept his gaze on him. The memory of how you screamed, the tears, all the agony... It made Simon clench his free hand into fist.
You thought he was going to get shot. You were desperate.
Price noticed the movement. He saw how Simon’s fingers were practically digging into his own skin with the force of his grip. He decided not to press the issue. Instead, he walked to your bed, observing your face for a moment. A faint smile flickered on his lips before he reached out and ruffled your hair in a gentle pat.
Then, John pulled something from his pocket and held up a stuffed hippopotamus, showing it to Simon.
Simon frowned, clearly displeased with the choice.
“Come on, you know she fancies it.” Price said, trying to lighten the heavy mood. “Hippos are tough, you know?”
But Price’s joke was cut short when he noticed you were waking up. Your eyes opened slowly, blinking several times as you oriented yourself. Simon shifted in his chair, and a quick glance was enough for John to understand that maybe it was best for you not to see your father right away – not while his image was still tied to the terror of the night.
“Hi, Uncle John…” Your small voice came out in a hoarse whisper, heavy with sleep.
“Oi, little doll.” he murmured back, his expression filled with a warmth he only used with you.
He didn’t need to say anything else to make you smile. As soon as he lifted the stuffed hippo, shaking it like it was going to devour you, you let out a giggle.
The sound relieved Price, and especially Simon. He watched as your tiny fingers grabbed the toy, hugging the plush creature to your chest.
“Thank you…” you murmured, pouting a little as you placed your index finger between your upper lip and nose, mimicking his mustache.
Price copied the gesture, but the face he made was much funnier than yours.
“Where’s Daddy?” you asked just like the first time you woke up, your brows furrowing in worry.
The beeping on the monitor sped up slightly. Simon noticed immediately and ran his thumb over your hand again – a reminder that you weren’t alone. You turned your head and found him there, still sitting in the same chair, his dark eyes betraying the sleepless night he had spent.
“I'm here, love.” His voice was firm, both a reassurance and a promise.
You gripped his forearm tighter than you had held your new stuffed hippo. Simon felt the tension in your small fingers and let you cling to him without saying a word. You seemed calmer now, less frightened.
Price grabbed a cup of water and handed it to Simon, who helped you drink. You took a few small sips, the way children do, but it was enough.
Then, your eyes locked onto your father’s, serious, as if you had something important to resolve. He braced himself for anything. Maybe a question about what had happened, maybe a request to go home. But not this:
"You said a bad word."
Simon blinked slowly. “What?”
“He said ‘bloody hell’.” you whispered to Price, as if revealing a forbidden secret.
Price raised his eyebrows, holding back a smile. “Oh, really, eh?”
Simon sighed, running a hand over his face. “Prob'ly did.”
Price let out a low chuckle, satisfied to get some reaction out of him.
Suddenly, you started paying attention to your surroundings. A hospital room wasn’t strange to you, since you had been here a few times before, but that didn’t mean you liked it. The doctors always said they needed to keep you under observation until the crisis passed, and the worst situations happened quickly, in the middle of chaos, before anyone could stabilize you.
There was a time they had to use a defibrillator, and just the thought of it sent a shiver down Simon’s spine. To his relief, this time all you needed was to simply shut down, a milder way to calm your emotions.
“I want to go home…” you pleaded, your voice thick with emotion.
“We will, in a few hours.” Simon replied firmly. If he gave you an inch, he knew you’d push until the end.
“Is Uncle John staying with us?” you asked, grabbing the hippo by the ear and waving the plush toy in front of Price, who pretended to try catching it but failed miserably.
“No, Princess. I'm sorry.” he answered regretfully. “I wish I could stay longer, but I only came to see you. I’ve gotta head back home soon.” He pinched your nose between his fingers, making you giggle.
“Okay…” you murmured, disappointed, but already starting to feel a little stronger.
You shifted on the bed, getting on your knees to hug Price, who held you firmly, running his hand over your back before pressing a kiss to the side of your head. As soon as you let go, you turned to your father and practically buried yourself in his lap, seeking shelter. You settled on his legs, leaning your torso against his broad chest.
Simon was used to this, but this time, you seemed even more in need of security. Your small fingers poked at the dog tag hanging around his neck, as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
Simon knew you were still scared. He knew that, in the coming days, you wouldn’t leave his side. And he didn’t mind.
Because deep down, he wanted to stay close to you too.
He held on to this moment, feeling you fidget with the metal piece on his neck. Simon knew things wouldn’t be easy for now, but he chose not to get lost in thoughts of the future. He held you even tighter, his arms wrapping around you like a blanket while you found comfort in the calm. Simon felt deeply grateful that you hadn’t asked questions about the boy, and in silence, he turned to Price, who responded with a simple nod, as if he had understood the unspoken message.
Price took a few steps closer and crouched down, looking at you with affection. “Goodbye, Thumbelina,” he said, extending his fist for a farewell bump.
“Goodbye, Mr. Mustache.” you replied softly, but with a smile that made Price chuckle as he ruffled your hair. He stood up, turning to Simon with a look that carried the same unwavering trust as always.
“Take care, lad. I’ll see you soon.” he said, not waiting for a response, already knowing the lieutenant’s temperament well.
Simon watched Price leave, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His hardened expression softened the moment there was no longer a need to hide behind it. He still made an effort to appear confident for you, but as he closed his eyes and held you tighter, he finally allowed himself to relax. The silent gesture of protection he offered was an unspoken promise.
He knew that as long as he was with you, nothing else mattered. He would always be by your side. And even with the weight of the world on his shoulders, Simon allowed himself to believe, just for a moment, that maybe the future would be a little lighter. No matter what came next. Together, he and you would face it all.
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