You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
â pairing: Task Force 141 Ă fem!141!Reader
â cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years đ And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captainâall waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your directionâdifferent-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on thatâwhatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closerâtwo strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, Johnâ" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low⊠apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbsâlike they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too longâand process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckinâ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeplyâmusk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but⊠uh, wellâabout fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns menâ"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortableâGhost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like thatâa bioweaponâon soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Waitâwhat? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amusedâthe latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tinglingâfrom your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms andâto your horrorâthey linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your teamâGhost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassuranceâare by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"KateâKate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It'sâit's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's stillâ" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "âbad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of himâit's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help⊠neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "ânot the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotchâby accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagineâand leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of foodâwhether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his placeâyou twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system andâ"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, pleaseâ"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help ifâ"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she⊠climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"ShitâBabygirl, no, d-don'tâ" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shouldersâand hates himself for how reluctant he is at itâand he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle⊠Let meâ" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "ItâIt fuckinâ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, yeâre fuckinâ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, takeâ" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and⊠help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sirâ"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers doâthey trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlockedâjust in case you faint and he needs helpâand lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by stepâthe restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle⊠Kyle, I needâ"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwearâplain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexyâand it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Triggerâ
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finallyâfinallyâlets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yesâyesâyesâ" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuckâfuckâfuckâfuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills againâclear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your cornersâanything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'dâ
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its placeâsomething tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesnât want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurtingârepeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yoursâthe young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"KyleâKyle, I need more, I need you toâpleaseâFuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Pleaseâ"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you onceâyour hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your bodyâand then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing thisâyou're not choosing himâand that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I needâ" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it openâ
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenchedâhis compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking onâ" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needsâ" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nodâthe kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ahâve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverentâone hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shouldersâand he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, heâd be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavishâhe doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuckâtha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm awayâoverstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same timeâhe follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lipsâJohnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnnyâhe nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneathâthe toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slickâand he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"Godâfuckâlass, ye taste so fuckin' goodâ"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. Heâs a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Pleaseâplease, Johnny, I needâI can'tâ"
"I know, hen, I knowâ" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "âjus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would meanâhe doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isnât. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"SimonâŠ"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first nameânone of them doâand hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't wantâ"
"Wasn't bloody askinâ."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistakeâthe critical, tactical, unforgivable mistakeâis that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lustânot the way you looked at Gaz and Soapâbut with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your headâjust his palm, just enough to support your neckâand lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too longâhis thumb brushing once against the nape of your neckâbefore he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don'tâDon't go."
"'M not goinâ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightlyâa fraction more weight, a fraction more warmthâand his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors saidâwhat Price saidâand he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keepsâ" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying sheâs in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turnâGaz, then Soapâand holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouthâprobably to say something spectacularly unhelpfulâand Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognitionâCaptainâbefore it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it stillâ"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and itâs rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstandâGaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthoughtâand tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expressionârecognition, maybe awareness, youâand finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, yâtell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hatesâChrist, he hatesâhow fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his nameânot his rank, not Captain, but Johnâand the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "JohnâJohnâoh godâ"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulderânot kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own wayâGaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of commandâthis his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentleâcan't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harderâbut he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take itâfuck, yer soâfuckâ"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his faceâthe quiet oh, shitâwould be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and itâs anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shitâshit, I'm sorry, Iâfuckâ"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinalâthe toxin, working its way out of your pores at lastâand you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whiskyâthree fingers this timeâand drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing needâall of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking upâvehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
or: Trucker!Price does you a solid, you return the favor
cw: 2.5k wrds, 18+ mdni, plot and smut, dad bod Price! mentions of sĂšx work, hooker!reader, mentions of violence, power imbalance (?), age gap (40s John, mid 20s!reader), heavy praise kĂŻnk,
inspo song: be like a woman by Chris rainbow
How could such a pretty girl like you, all dolled up for the middle of no where, end up staggering into the close to empty diner with a bloody nose and a few other bruises on your face.
Your tight crop top had a few droplets of blood on it, you were holding your head back the best you could, curls on your hair just a little bit messy, the waiter came from the back. His eyes widened at the state of you.
âCan I get some napkins please?â
How kind of you, John thought. To ask in this shitty place when most people would just take and go. You stuffed the napkins up your nostril, unknowingly passing the older bearded man sitting in the booth right next to you. You leaned back on the red cushion of the seat, letting out a shaky inhale and exhale. And Johnâs so attentive, listening so closely to how you soothe yourself right under the 60s pop hits that play from the radio. He waits to see if you end up moving again, but you donât. The man catches wind of your hushed snores and your stilled feet.
Price shifts in his seat, just so see enough of your sleeping face, long lashes closed, your chest rising and falling as you held your tattered purse to your chest. Clearly you were exhausted from, whatever the hell you just experienced. But John doesnât intend on leaving you alone like this. Not in the dead of night in this empty diner where anything could happen. So he stays, two hours, three hours, finishes his meal and waits. The few stragglers not bothering to come near the large brute of a man sitting just on the other side of you.
Your body is aching when you wake back up, eyes adjusting to the poor fluorescence. Using the table to stand, you stumble out the door, heavy foot steps soon to follow. Youâre bent over cleaning your nose of the body mess with a half empty water bottle and the napkins you stashed with John sets eyes on you again. Just at the end of the restaurantâs parking lot, as if this will revive you in some way. The nights still young.
âYou alright?â John asks that makes you slightly jump. You take a deep breath out, wiping the blood from your nose with a damp napkin, you give him a nod, âYeah, thanks.â
A few moments pass but John doesnât leave, keeps his eyes on you, his surroundings, hearing the cars fly by on the highway.
You fix your posture, using the glass of the diner as a mirror. Fixing your hair, pulling your cropped shirt down so your cleavage shoes.
âDo you need something?â You look over at him, eyeing the middle aged man up and down, before you shift in your heels, eyebrow cocking, âor do you want something?â
John doesnât know how to answer. no, no thatâs not what he wanted. It was to make sure you were alright, that no one would give you hell. Atleast for the rest of the night. But the man couldnt deny you were attractive. Even with you mascara smudged, slightly irritated look on your face.
The man clears his throat, âJust checkin tâsee you werenât lying.â
âAbout?â
âYou want the truth or should be beat around the bush all night?â
Heâs got you there, with a huff, you turn on your heal, ââVe had a shit night, as you can see.â
âA little scuffle?â
âLittle considering how quickly it ended. Not the reason.â
âAnd that being?â
It might as well been an interrogation, you could be police for all you knew and what do you look like running from police at a time like this in the middle of fuck ass no where. But tonight, just for tonight, less than 30 minutes youâll let this beared stranger be your therapist.
You cross your arms over your chest, letting out a dry laugh, âAbout money. Itâs always about money around these parts though right?â
âIâm really not a hard girl to pay, really. I can be sweet if someone wants me sweet, or mean if they want me mean. But that son of a bitchâ why do you gotta be such an asshat and a stingy fuck for a pinky sized dick?! Makes no fuckin sense! And then fight me about it? Fight fuckin lady about paying?!â
You didnât realize how loud you were getting, your voice booming with anger, resentment youâd been holding on for so long. Working constantly for a living, to get the fuck out this shitty town in no manâs land. But youâre stuck. In a sink hole, how many other girls have disappeared from your line of sight out here and never to be seen again, how many street walkers end up on drugs out here.
This wasnât even you plan, to be living like this, day to day. You were supposed to be in Hollywoodâ lights the cameras, writing some tv show. Or some fucking intern for a shitty payâ not- not like this.
You sniffle, hold yourself tighter, âI- Iâm talking too fuckin much, I gotta get home. Call it a night.â
John hates it, the thought of it, of you going. Of you goin back to that life. Even if heâs only known you for less than a couple hours, heâs got tattoos and beard hairs older than you. But itâs something about you, thatâs him dead set on you. The way youâre talking to him, your walls, rightfully, miles and miles high.
If he knew what was best for him, heâd be casual. Leave you alone. Knows better than to get too deep.
âDonât you wanna get outta here?â
You look back at him, confused, but shake your head, âI wouldnât even know how if I tried. Where would I even go?â
And thereâs a silence from the man, still but strong look on his face, one that has you wanting more answers to unrealistic questions. âWith you?â
âItâs an option better than being stuck here.â He starts, watching you scuff and walk towards the motel. Heals clicking against the pavement, with John hot on your tail, the flickering sign buzzing as you get closer, crickets singing.
âDonât follow me.â
âGive me a ânoâ and I will.â
You let out a frustrated noise, squeezing your eyes shut, âSir, I really will do better without the hopeful shit you and everyone else who comes through here thinks Iâm willin to fuckin buy!â
âIâm not sellin you shit for fucks sake, âm givin you a chance.â Price griped, jaw tightening, âYou come for a day, even a fuckin hour and you if you like it, weâll go. Give yourself a chance to think about what you wanna do. You hate it, Iâll get you on the first flight back to this shit hole, you hear me?â
You look around, the near silence of this cool summer. Music coming from someoneâs room, cars passing by, blue ocean eyes glued to you. In a dry desert, he was a drop of rain.
You rock on your heels, biting your lip, you stare at your feet, âWhere are you goin?â
âNorth.â
Heâs a liar.
This man youâve just met is a god damn liar.
And youâre aiming to get yourself killed.
âDo you wanna get outta here, or not?â
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
Trucker!Johns semi truck is nice.
Much nicer than you expected it to be.
Tattered and worn books stacked in crates, his clothes stored in drawers of the small bed, bed neatly made, rustic, plaids and brown bedding, cross dangling from the sun visor. John takes your duffle bags and puts them in the overhead.
âYou can sit upfront or go to sleep, âs your pick.â
You meekly take a seat in the passages side, watching as John ignites the truck to life, lettting a hand wipe down his beard with a incoherent grumble, checking his mirrors.
Youâre already down the road by the time youâre able to say anything, the sign of the motel getting smaller and smaller as you drive away. Your heart threatening to leap out of your chest. Everything youâve known for the last couple of years suddenly now gone. And your alone.
In a truck.
With a Mr. John Price who you just do not know other than he drives this truck and that heâs getting you out of the country for a change of scenery.
âHow am I gonna pay you back?â
It catches the older man off guard for a moment, it never crossed his mind. All he knew was that he wanted you. Call it naive for his age. John leans back in his seat, one hand on the wheel, takes a glance over at you, âDidnât ask you to luv, think of this as my good deeds to the world. Helpin an angel out.â
An Angel? You want to roll your eyes but you donât, biting the inside of your lip, âbut I donât have enough money to give anything to you, unless you want my stashâ I- how can I be useful to you Price?â
âSit there and be pretty.â
âBut-â
ââYouâre a stubborn little thing, arenât you that doll?â He interjects, ends of his lips curving upward. Handsome face going in and out of the glow of the highways few lights.
John puts out his hand for you to take. You hesitate but slip yout hand in his. Letting his thumb go over your knuckles, he sighs, âNot expecting much âf you. But you do what you want, âs your trip too. All I ask if you keep the place clean, just as you see it. And donât ask whatâs in the back.â
Should be simple of enough. No- it is simple enough. Youâre good at not asking questions that can lead to bad answers.
Youâre free living, easy living.
For the first time in years.
Itâs early in the morning when John wakes you up to go to bed with him. Youâd shooâed him away the first couple of times he tried to get you to go to bed alone. Made sure his warm calloused hand was rested on your thigh, yours atop of his like it was instinct.
Itâs what you really liked about Price so far, how warm he ran with small touches. How he made you feel like you didnât always have to be on edge.
The old man tried to be good, really he did.
Instructed you to sleep on the inside and John would basically sleep on the edge of the cramped bed. But you slipped you hand onto the plush roundness of his torso, fingers tiptoeing up his chest to cup his face, you straddled his hips, beard hair prickling your hand. âCan I- lemme repay you, Price.â His voice so hushed, sultry, your manicured thumb going over his bottom lip, âplease.â
Trucker!John is bigger than any man youâve ever been with. To the point it shows on your face, lips full lips slightly parted, itâs fat and girthy, large and slapping against your stomach when you pull it out. Crown of his length leaking down every vein.
âNot too late to back our love.â He lets out low rumble of laughter.
You gulp down, shaking your head, âCan handle it, just- hah- just need a second.â
Right? All you needed to do was stretch yourself out for it!
And that would be the perfect thing to say after the old man lazily finger fucked you, lips brushing against each other every time the both of your fingers, all messy in your juices, fucked into your heat. Had your lower half shaking just from three of his thick digits paired with a slow kiss, wrapping your tongue around yours, swapping saliva till you came and hard.
But even with some fingering, it only made you dizzy just from the way his tip was stretching you out. The sweet burn that had you choking up as you eased yourself down on him, your jaw slack, and head thrown back. Covering your mouth to try to hide the scream you so desperately want to let out.
âEaasssy luv, youâve got it. Can take it for me.â John croons, large hands firm on your hips. Guiding them up just enough so you slowly rock more and more of him inside.
Your pussy so throbs, mewling at his words, your mind already hazy, âI- can- shit- I can take it. Aaangh! god its so good. Feels so gooood Price.â
His blushing cockhead is probing your insides, only reaching higher and higher as your thighs smack against his with every thrust. Your hands lay flat on his hairy chest, bouncing yourself up till just the tip is in, and down, hiccuping on a moan, âFuck- wanna move f-faster. Wanna make you feel good.â
John lets out a low grunt, loving just how warm and soaking you are even through the thin condom thatâs just barely fitting him. Threatening to break with every sleazy drop of your hips onto him. âNo baby, gotta let you feel every bit of my cock, get your cunt nice ând used to me. Doin so good fuckin me slow.â
John must be a miracle worker, getting you all worked up, hushed moans as his hands travel down to your supple ass, spreading them apart and squeezing the globes of your ass while you gyrate your hips on him. So hipnotic, sensual, desperate to meet every sledgehammer of his member up into you. His Pubic hairs damp with your slick with every squealch of your greedy and tight pussy brushing against your g-spot. The little bed is creaking, unsure if the truck itself is moving along with it.
Priceâs hand wraps around the back of your neck, bringing you down closer to him, your nipples hard and brushing against him through your shirt, âBloody good at this arenât you hun, atta girl.â
You whimper as rolls your hips, lashes flirting shut, âWanna hear you Price, nngh- please, need it.â
ââF course you do baby, wanna hear juuust how gorgeous you look all fucked out on me. How you tremble and pull me away when you feel too good. Hck- How good you make me feel, How your cunt chokes me out every time i press, right here,â he thrusts up with a heavy thwack, pushing against your sweet spot that makes you keen out in pleasure. âDesperate fuckin thing, wanna hear how I could stay deep inside you all day. Wrapped up this all fuckin day-â
âYes!â You gasp, head falling against his shoulder, clawing at his broad shoulder. Your fingers going through his greying brunette locks, lips weaving together is a wet and steamy French kiss, his beard tickling your face. Hushed groans and moans filling up the space. Meeting each other half way with each grind of your hips till youâre feeling every shockwave rush through you to the tips of your finger tips.
âGood work lovie.â He coos, slipping his cock out after filling the condom with his cum, itâs heavy and creamy. Price kisses your forehead, both of you exhausted from the long day, his hands patting you back to soothe you in his beefy arms, âWeâll make perfect partners from now on wonât we sweetheart?â
a/n: so much shit plot for shit smut that took too long to write. Sorry all.
one last fuck, to be more exact, between you and vacation!price before the world and callings from home forced you back into the unforgiving grips reality⊠work and grocery shopping and paying bills. all the things john swears he would very much pay someone else to do for you while heâs paused mid-thrust. belly rising and falling against your back as he huffs out the gruff promises. flexing himself inside you at the same time he grabs for handfuls of your sides. palms hungry.
a thick sound grunts out of you when john collapses on top of you, his cock slicks the remaning veined legnth inside you. you curse, eyes trying not to roll when the man readjusts, somehow sinking himself deeper, head nudging against a place that warms you well past the capabilities of the setting sun.
âoh, my g-god.â you gasp. and then gasp again, reaching but failing to grab onto something as his beard drags along the skin of your shoulder.
âi mean it, dove. give yâanything ya like. get ya set up real nice. a house. dog. whatever you want⊠jusâ come home with me.â johnâs vows come out low, just at the shell of your ear. in between each sentence, a long, dragged-out drive of his hips. always concluded with a smacking of his sack, heavy with need, and a squeezing of johnâs embrace around your shivering, sweaty figure. heâs holding you like youâre already his. as if youâve already agreed to leaving all you know by replacing it with him. john fucks you the same way, raw and sticky skin and to pattern of silent claims. âand just think⊠we can do this every night, ân then some. keep yânice ân full. drunk on me, yeah?â
with blurred vision, you mumble and nod. drunk on him. drunk on the way heâs fucking you from behind, smushing you under him. drunk on the very recent memory of how you sucked him until he painted your mouth, then the feeling of his fingers swiping against your swollen lips to rub in the thick seed. drunk on the pants at your ear and the cream you can feel forming a ring at the base of johnâs cock. drunk on the possibility of feeling like this again and again.
tears in your eyes, you clench at the building of hot pressure that has you barely able to breathe. johnâs really taking you now. less rambly and more focused, hips striking your ass, pumping inside you with deep desperation. heâs got you pinned and closer enough to wail at how his weight wonât let you do anything but take it.
âah⊠f-fuck. go-gonna come again⊠iâjohnâŠâ your croaks tug a smirk at the man's lips.
âs'alright. go âhead ân come if itâs a yes, dove.â
with a croak, you gush and cry around john, whoâs already wondering what color to paint the bedroom.
summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyoneâs surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds
cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)
John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.
He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour.Â
On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.
John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.
Somewhere in the middle of it â around âdisgraceâ â John heard himself.
He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.
It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.
"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.
Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straightâ
"Y'need'a get laid, boss."
John's hands immediately froze.
That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule â insubordinate, out of line â and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.
His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.
"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."
Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.
The work winds them all too tight â adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.
And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.
Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.
And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.
His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.
"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."
Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.
"I jus' thinkâ"
"OUT."
The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.
Then he squared the stacks again.
ââ
Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.
"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"
"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."
"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.
"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.
Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesnât always catch when thereâs fuckery afoot.
Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.
"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout thatâŠ" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.
"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used tâsee thaâ one bird⊠wot was her nameâŠ?"
"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing someâ"
"ây'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't haveâŠ"
Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.
His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand â which all turn up empty.
The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.
"That's my phone."
"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.
Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you startâ"
"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.
"Doesn't matter when, sir. We justâ"
"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',â he mumbles.Â
"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"
"Christ," Johnny snickers.
John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.
"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.
"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.
John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.
"Think I'll stand."
"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.
Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.
"What's Hinge?"
"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.
A dating appâŠ.
Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years â the 'ghosting', the games â and always thought: thank god that's not me.
Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.
There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.
"This is you, then?"
"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.
"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer someâ"
"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."
Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"
"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."
John feels like heâs been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen.Â
"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"
"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.
"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.
"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."
Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."
John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.
"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."
It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.
Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace.Â
So⊠he pulls out a chair.
Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.
"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on themâs going to make him cross.Â
Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at Johnâs arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.
The basics go quick â name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.
"Drinks? Socially. Smokes�" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."
"I smoke cigars," John protests.
"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"
"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.
"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.
"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."
Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"
That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.
"Consultant," Simon offers.
"Civil servant," Kyle tries.
"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.
Three sets of eyes come up off the phone â Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.
"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.
Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.
"What've you lot got on yours, then?"
The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.
"Ah, wellâ" Johnny starts.
"I actuallyâ" Kyle says, at the same time.
"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.
"âsee, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bioâ"
"âdon't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara areâ well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, soâ"
"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.
When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simonâ
"What's Feeld?" John asks.
"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. âAbsolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."
"It's not for you," Simon adds.
"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."
"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.
The rest goes quicker.
"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."
"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.
Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.
His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (heâs been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).
He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out.Â
There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.
After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.
"I'll do these myself."
This time, Kyle hands the phone over.
The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night.Â
Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match theyâve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop heâs been meaning to stop by.
John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.
When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.
"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."
The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.
"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, orâŠ"
"No."
The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.
So is the one after. X.
A woman in her work scrubs. X.
A woman holding a child. X.
A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.
It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance â arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.
"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"
"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.
"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"
"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.
"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."
"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."
Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clearâ
His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.
Huh.Â
There you are.
Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.
John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.
You're very pretty.
For the first time, John taps the profile open.
30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out.Â
There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.
Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.
And at the bottom:
The best way to ask me out is by: using words.
I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.
John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.
Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.
John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:
IT'S A MATCH!
"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.
"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.
"Careful," John warns mildly.
Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.
John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.
Better in person.
Yeah. He'd bet you are.
"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."
"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.
"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."
John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.
"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you⊠make her wait?"
Silence.
"I mean, when you put it like thatâŠ"
"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.
He's already typing, screen tipped away.
"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."
"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."
He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.
ââ
Four miles away, a phone lights upâŠ
ââ
Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. Youâre finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.
Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it â it's mindless.
The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.
Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore.Â
A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.
A man whose photos are all group shots. X.
A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.
Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.
The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.
He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.
John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.
Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.
You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.
His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.
Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.
The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.
Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.
You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.
It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.
But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull â too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife â it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.
You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.
On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.
Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!
HINGE: You and John matched!
HINGE: 1 New Message
You open it.
Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?
You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.
i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.
friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?
You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.
Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.
you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.
They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.
What movie are you watching?
You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.
You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.
you're not allowed to judge me.
Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.
You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.
it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.
The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.
Twelve times? Must be decent.
it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol
Dead?
it's a twist. it's festive!
You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.
You smile.
so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?
Not a thing.
hours in freezing water for zero fish?!
The fish aren't the point.
do tell, what's the point?
The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.
It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months.Â
You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.
that actually sounds really peaceful.
i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.
That the trail from your photo?
it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.
Doesn't show.
Good photo of you.
Beautiful, actually.
You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow.Â
Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.
oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol
No it didn't.
â and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.
well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.
Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending.Â
how long have you been on hinge?
It's my first night, actually.
first night???
Profile's about two hours old.
yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?
Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.
ââ
John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway â close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.
He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.
What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face â it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.
"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.
"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."
He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.
"Need another, Cap?"
"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.
A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."
"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."
Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"
John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.
"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."
"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.
"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."
They go â bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as heâs still negotiating.
Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet â for the first time in a long while â has to wait.
He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.
did the football finish? who won?
He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue.Â
Couldn't tell you.
omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!
I got distracted.
by what? đ
I think you know by what.
Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it â and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.
anyway!
Anyway.
He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.
The cat in your photo. Yours?
yes! thatâs twix. she's a menace.
Good name.
she prefers men that ignore her.
Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.
It goes on just like that: easy.
You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.
He talks about the Brecon Beacons â the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself.Â
How's the average Friday held up?
certainly improved
Mine too.
He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesnât feel so desolate.
ââ
The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.
He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.
He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether âI got distracted.â read as charming or desperate.
He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.
He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic.Â
By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.
He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.
He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet⊠here he is.Â
It's a stupid fuckin' rule.
The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.
The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.
By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.
That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession â he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.
spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.
thought of you on the tube home
He reads the second message again.
Thought of you.Â
Heâd been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.
are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.
And there's the sarcasm.Â
Outside the window, the sun is â he checks â still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.
Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.
Thought about you as well.
He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.
I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.
lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.
don't really see myself getting married anyway.
the dresses were stunning though!
Heâs picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale â the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction.Â
Nothing wrong with that.
Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?
successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.
what about you, how was your saturday?
Heâs had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.
Quiet. Nothing worth typing.
hm. sounds like you should ring me thenâŠ
He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.
For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.
Could do.
Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.
Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now heâs using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.
Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.
Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.
for logistics.
He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the airâs still warm from the day.
He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.
ââ
Youâve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.
Unknown Number. Local.
âJohn?â
âEveninâ.â
Fuck.Â
His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.
You set the bottle down before you drop it.
âSo you actually do ring,â you manage.
âSaid so on the profile, I think.â
âI half thought it was a bit.â
âI donât really do bits.â
âNo,â you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: âYouâre a very serious man.â
The laugh that comes down the line is quiet â more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like youâve caught him somewhere he doesnât usually go.
âThat meant to be me?â
âItâs uncanny, I know.â
The line goes quiet a moment â the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it â and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. Heâs outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.
âAm I interruptinâ the wine?â
âThe wine and I are happy to share the time.â
âGood.â There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. âI have a beer out here. Seemed only fair weâre both suffering the same.â
âAre we having our drink right now? Is this it?â
âNo,â he says immediately, unamused even â which is very amusing for you. âThis one doesnât count.â
The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.
âNo?â you tease.
âI had imagined Iâd see your face.â
âBeen imagining, have you?â
You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns
âNothinâ mucky if thatâs what youâre gettinâ at.â
âMm, no, 'course not. Youâve been a proper gentleman. Havenât even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.â
âI could workshop somethinâ for you if youâd like.â
âNo thanks,â you giggle into your glass. âIt was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasnât a riddles-three about your dick.â
You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.
âIs that what itâs come to?â
âUnfortunately.â
Thereâs a short silence youâd swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.
âRight,â he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. âMy question...â
Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.
âMm?â you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesnât have a leg to lie on.
âThereâs a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. Iâd like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?â
Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.
âUgh, I want to say yes,â you sulk. âBut Iâve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.â
âFair. Wouldnât want that on my conscience.â
âI could do a weeknight? After work?â
Thereâs a pause on his end.
âIâd rather not promise you a weeknight,â he admits. âI rarely get away on time, and Iâm not startinâ this by standin' you up.â
You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual âahh, well, weâll figure something outâ. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.
âAlso fair. Andâ and thoughtful.â
âFriday, then?â he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.
âFridayâs perfect,â you agree. âItâs a date!â
âIt is,â he agrees, smiling.
The conversation should end there but it doesn't.
You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when heâs considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.
Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice youâve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize youâve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like youâre seventeen.
Eventually, you yawn.
âRight,â he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. âThatâs my cue.â
âAw, no! Iâm fine, really.â
âItâs late, love. And youâve got your family tomorrow.â
âTrue. And youâve got⊠whatever it is old men do on Sundays.â
âLie-in, according to my profile.â
âHa!â you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. âThatâs the lie, I bet. I donât think youâve ever had a lie-in in your life.â
A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. âGoodnight,â he says, declining to confirm.
âNight, John.â
You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.
ââ
Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.
good morning. how was the lie-in?
Wouldnât know. Been up since five.
the lie confirmed!
He doesnât dignify it. You donât expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.
Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as âsuspiciously cheerfulâ.
The day swallows you â the drive, the roast, your mumâs questions, your brotherâs kids. Itâs near ten when youâre finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing heâd sent that morning.
survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.
Regards received. Sleep well.
ââ
Monday morning, Johnâs at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasnât stopped looking at it.Â
good morning :) big meeting today. does this say âpromote meâ or âshe triedâ?
[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]
You, in your hallway mirror â chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like youâd just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.
His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.
Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.
His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.
Simonâs eyes go to Johnâs hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.
âMorninâ, Cap. Good weekend?â Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.
âFine.â
âAye? Do anythin'?â He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. âAnyone?â
âYouâve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.â
It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.
Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. âHowâs it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?â
John could make them work for it. Heâd planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual itâs a wonder none of them have pulled something.
"Have a date Friday. Drinks."
Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.
"That's great. Same woman or�"
"The same."
âGood, good, good,â Johnny says, and means it â John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.
âWe'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,â Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.
"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words.Â
He turns the phone back over.
Promote you, he types.
You look lovely.
Your reply comes before heâs picked his pen back up.
well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x
He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.
ââ
The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute â nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.
Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which youâre beginning to understand is just how heâs built. Itâs a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm youâre still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.
âââ
You leave work at five on the dot, and youâre in front of your open wardrobe by six.
The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.
The silky baby blue halterâs been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadnât already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels.Â
You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.
âItâs just a pub,â you tell her.Â
She doesnât seem convinced.Â
âââ
The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent â quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.
You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties.Â
The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait.Â
Youâve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadnât asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.
It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. Youâd forgotten the feeling.Â
You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.
You donât have to wait much longer for him.Â
He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. Heâs tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.
He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like heâs pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever youâd planned to open with has shriveled away.
âHey,â he says.
âHi,â you smile.
He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like thereâs tobacco somewhere on his collar.
âYouâre early,â he adds, almost pleased.
âSo are you.â
âIâm always early.â His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. âYou havenât ordered?â
You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. âI wantedâ I was waiting for you.â
The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours â big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft â and you hold on a beat too long. He doesnât mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.
âWhatâll you have?â
âUhm, whatever youâre having,â you decide.
He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth â and thereâs a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, heâs lost the name of the beer heâs drunk here a dozen times.
âTwo of the, uhâ the local,â he manages.
You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.
He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.
The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.
âFunny, isnât it,â you offer, sheepish. âWeâve talked every day for a week, and the second weâre actually in front of each otherâŠâ You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.
âYouâre nervous?â he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.
âA bit, yeah. Arenât you?â
âNot at all.â
You squint at him. âI donât know if I buy that.â
âHm.â He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.
Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer â cold, hop-bitter, helping â and let him have his lie. Itâs a generous lie anyway. Itâs a lie shaped like a man trying, and youâve been handed far worse shapes.
âSo,â you start. âI havenât asked why youâre even on Hinge. You donât seem the type.â
âIâm not,â he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.
You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.
âThatâs it? Thatâs your answer?â
âWell, it wasnât my idea. The lads put me on it.â
âThe lads â your guys from work?â
âYeah.â
âThey what, talked you into it?â
âNo.â He turns his glass a degree. âThey nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.â
âAnd what made them do that?â
He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story â you can almost watch him weigh one â but then he doesnât.
âTheir assessment,â he laughs to himself, âwas that Iâd been⊠cranky. Needed gettinâ out of the house.â
âCranky?â you repeat, delighted.
âTheir exact words were a bit different.â
âHm.â You look at him â at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. âYou donât seem cranky to me.â
âYeah, well. Guess they were right, then.â
Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. âWell,â you manage. âThey do good work, your committee.â
He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.
âOkay, next one, then. Military.â You tip your glass toward him. âWhat do you actually do?â
He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. âWhat dâyou want to know?â
âI donât know. Whatâs your day look like?â
âDepends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.â A beat. âSometimes we go away.â
âAway?â
âAway.â
âFor how long?â
âAs long as it takes.â
âDoingâŠ?â
âWhatever they need me to,â he says easily. âSânot me being mysterious. Iâd tell you if I could.â
âThat must be so strange, though. Having this wholeâ like, most of your life you canât talk about.â
âYou get used to it.â Then, because youâre still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: âThereâs loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.â
âWhatâs a month in the desert do to your skin?â
âNothing good, love,â he answers, shifting to face you better. âThe beardâs load-bearing.â
You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.
âDo you like it? Like, the whole life of it?â
He goes quiet on that one. Longer than heâs gone quiet on anything else youâve asked. You can see him thinking on it.Â
âItâs what Iâm best at,â he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: âItâs all Iâve known, really. Been doinâ it since sixteen.â
You turn that over. Thereâs a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing youâve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.
The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes â his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. Youâre midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.
The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. Youâre looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together.Â
âGo on,â he encourages. âShe said what?â
It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.
The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.
âGo grab that,â he says, turning back to the bar. âIâll get another round. Want the same?â
âActuallyââ and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a manâs face going tight when you complicate an order, ââcould I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the roundââ
His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. âYou can have whatever youâd like,â he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.
âNoâI know. I justââ
âWhatever youâd like,â he repeats, gentler. âAndââ he grimaces, like what heâs about to say pains him deeply. âDonât ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.â
âS-sorry,â you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.
âNone of that either,â his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matterâs settled. âVodka cranberry. Go, sit.â
âActuallyâ Iâm gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.â
And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot â embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.
The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.
Itâs going well.
Itâs going suspiciously well.
And every time itâs gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.
Heâs in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting â pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim â set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.
You look at the seat opposite.
Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.
You donât look at him, but you can tell Johnâs a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.
âComfortable?â he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.
âI am,â you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.
The booth is easier than the bar, somehow â closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted â and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe itâs the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that youâd need both hands to count nowâ
âHow long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.â
He takes a deep breath before answering. âHonest answer?â
âPreferably,â you giggle softly, and he smiles â most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.
âLonger than what sounds good out loud,â he admits through the pull of it.Â
âSay it out loud anyway.â
âI was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.â
âTen.â
âMm.â
âA whole decade.â
âYou can stop countinâ the years to me at any time, love.â
âSorry, sorry.â Youâre grinning. He is too. âItâs just, quite the gap in romance.â
âIt went quick,â he says, and itâs a joke, and itâs also not. âWhat about you?â
âEnded about a year ago, we were together four.â
âMm.â
âIt was fine. Amicableâ mostly,â you shrug.Â
âMostly,â he repeats â not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.
âMostly,â you confirm, and leave it there.
The ice ticks in your glass. And the next questionâs been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while youâre brave.
âCan I ask something and you not be offended?â
âStartinâ well,â he says, nodding on for you to continue.Â
You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face.Â
âWhatâs changed? Between thirty-two and now that youâre trying dating?â You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. âBecause if the honest answer is nothing, and this is justâ a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, thatâs fine. Genuinely. Iâd just rather know now.â
âFair,â he says. âAsked myself the same thing this week.â
âYeah? And what was the answer?â
âIâm tired of the quiet,â he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. âUsed to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels⊠empty.â
Something in your chest slides sideways.
âSo, no. Not a hookup,â he continues with a breath. âBut I canât promise youâd be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than Iâm home.â His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.
âGuess I wouldnât know unless I gave it a go.â
You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it â and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didnât notice until it let go.
âNo,â he agrees, low. âYou wouldnât.â
Youâre suddenly aware of the distance between you â or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka youâve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.
His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick â half a second, there and back â but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.
Neither of you leans back.
And the pub carries on behind you â glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming â all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.
You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your senseâ
âYou know,â you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, âyou can kiss me. If youâd like.â
âOh, yeah?â
âMhm,â you grin.
âWell,â he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, âI was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.â His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. âBut if youâd rather have it here in the booth, I wonât argue.â
âI suppose I could be patient.â
âMm,â he says, and doesnât move.
Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.
His jaw shifts.Â
âIâll go pay the tab,â he decides.
And youâre both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.
You two make it out the door.
The nightâs gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.
Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.
He moves you.
One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.
Whatever mindful version heâd planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth â this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.
He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know youâll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but itâs not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, heâd let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing â and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe â forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath â and when you open your eyes his are dark.
âVery gentlemanly,â you croon.
âI walked you out first, yeah?â he says, unrepentant.
You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.
âWalk me home?â you ask.
âI drove. Iâll give you a lift.â
You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. âWell, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub Iâm at, and has your name and photo, soââ
âGood,â he replies, no hesitation. âSmart girl. Keep it that way.â He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. âIâm taking you straight home. You have my word.â
He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth.Â
ââ
The car smells like-new â clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.
The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee â close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else â and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth.Â
The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees â and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door heâÂ
You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.
He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.
The dashboard glow makes everything blue.Â
You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?
"So," you say.
"SoâŠâ
You look at him â streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, heâs in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.
"Did you have a good time tonight?"
His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.
"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says.Â
"Would youâ" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "âwant to see me again? Like this?"
"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overlyâ"
"Keen?"
"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.
And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.
"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."
âRight.â He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.
"I want to ask you up."
"Mm."
"And I'm having a whole debate about it."
"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."
"Justâ,â you sigh, ââshut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's justâ I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'llâ" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "âthink less of me. First date and all."
He's quiet for a second, lips pursing.Â
âCan I look at you now?â he tries.
âYeah.â
"You want to know where I'm actually at?"
"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."
âAlright.â He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. âI want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.â
The badly goes straight between your thighs.
âOkay,â you manage. âNoted.â
âI havenât lied to you once tonight. And Iâm takinâ you to dinner whether I come up or not.â
âAnd, likeâ you wouldnât thinkââ
âThink less of you?â He frowns, like the mathâs not mathing. âFor doinâ the same thing Iâd be doing? Together?â
âWhen you put it like thatâŠâ
âFor what itâs worth, Iâm sat here havinâ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didnât want you thinkinâ thatâs all I came for. So if youâd rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, Iâll do that and consider it a perfect evening.â
And maybe itâs the ease of him, the total absence of pressure youâre always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you.Â
âWould you like to come up?â
ââ
The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.
John is a gentleman.
John has been a gentleman all night.
John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock â the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow â and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.
Your flat smells like you â the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week â and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.
"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."
"Sensible."
And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole carâs worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:
"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer fromâ"
"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side.Â
"Water? I'm gonna have water."
"Then I'll have water," he says like heâs surrendering.Â
He watches you go â and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what heâs looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why heâs standing here, and now youâre in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where heâs stood, was already clean.Â
So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes â you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony â and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesnât move on it.
 Your pace. Your move.
You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.
âYouâre nervous,â he says.
âNot at all.â
âMm.â He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. âDonât know if I buy that.â
He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.
He likes that.Â
He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too â he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.
Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart â which is going quicker than heâd care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.
When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and theyâre twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you.Â
You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.
In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth â the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.
Good.
You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere heâll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.
âOkay,â you say, a little wonder in it. âWow, yeah, thatâsâŠ.â
âMm?â
âNothing. Justâ I knew military, just didnât realize⊠this much military.â
âLodging a complaint?â he askes, amused.
âDefinitely not.â
The rest goes gradually â his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow â and then youâre bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.
âSay something,â you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. âYouâre oggling.â
âI am.â His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. âGive me a minute. Been picturinâ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.â
You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then itâs just skin â so much warm skin, soft everywhere heâs hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.
He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.
Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.
âCan I?â
âYouâ yes,â you breathe, trembling feebly. âYes, obviously, you donât have to aââ
His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.
Youâre sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums â feels you feel it â and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.
âOh my godâ okayâ okayââ
âMm.â
âDonât be smugââ and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.
âCould do this all night, sweetheart,â he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets â and he keeps the pace exactly the same until youâre pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.
âJohnâ Johnâ comeâ I want you. Now,â you whine, âPlease.â
He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearmâ
"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."
"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"
He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."
"You and your wordâ" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.
He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way â he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off â your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms â and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.
"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"
"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You'reâ godâ"
"Christ, youâre snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. âRelax for me, baby. Breathe.â
"I am breathâoh. Ohâshhitâ"
Johnâs seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet â a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.
Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.
He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you.Â
"I wonât," he murmurs against your jaw. âI wonât move.â
"âokay maybe move a littleâ"
He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts.Â
âItâs hard toâ mmmâthink like this,â you half-moan against his cheek.Â
âDonât think, then.â
Itâs all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. Heâd forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away â and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.
He draws back and drives home again, and whatever youâd been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.
You donât think.
He feels the difference in you immediately â your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than heâs giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. Youâre not asking for anything. Youâre taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pullingâ
âHarder?â he asks against your ear.Â
"Yes, please."
He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you widerââSo polite.ââand gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.
He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion youâve bkth created.
"That'sâ Johnâ Youâre gonna make me come," you sob.Â
"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me likeâ Christ. Go onâfuck."
He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves â it takes you under, and you pull him with you. Â
He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your earâ
How goodâ
How gorgeousâ
Youâre mine now, you know that? Hm?â
Itâs watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin â and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.
When he lifts his head, youâre already looking at him.
Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach â and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.
He comes down on his side, careful of the mess heâs made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going.Â
He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.
"John?" Small, against his throat.
"Mm?"
"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."
He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.
You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink â wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.
He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach â thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when heâs concentrating â and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And itâs aimed at him, so.
"You're staring," he says, not looking up.Â
"You're tidying me."
"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."
"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."
He huffs into your hair.
Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them â whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs â and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.
There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway â sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.
She stares at John.
John stares back.
"We have an audience," he says.
You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."
Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.
"That went well," you say, overly pleased.Â
âYeah?â
âMhm.â
"Well, consider me chuffed."
Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak.Â
"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."
And there it is â the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring â except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside.Â
He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.
"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.
âNo?â you ask.Â
"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."
You lift your head off his chest and look at him â hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick â and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it.Â
âAlright," you agree.Â
âYeah?â
âYes. Dinner sounds nice.â
"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.
At the door he stops.Â
"C'mere."
You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts.Â
"Gânight," he says, low, still holding your face.
"Goodnight."
"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."
ââ
The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.
Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares.Â
âI donât need the lecture, Iâm grown,â you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, âI can have sex. I deserve it, even.â You drop into your bed with a sigh. âYouâd understand if you still had ovaries.â
I'm working on a really big piece right now and everyone keeps saying "oh if I had your talent!" But my answer to them is you can, just get used to making bad art. Like work that you don't like because eventually if you keep at it, it will turn into "good" art.
Summary: There are very few who have not heard tale of Prince Kal-El. Krypton's Warrior Prince is revered by his people and reviled by his enemies, who grow stronger every day, threatening Krypton's dominance. An alliance between your kingdoms might just be the key to peace â on the condition that he marry you, the King's daughter, to seal the treaty.
Part I Part II Part 3
Tags: arranged marriage, medieval fantasy au, royal au, princess!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, anxiety, heavy themes of misogyny, references to disordered eating, repression, it will get better y'all I promise
Notes: This idea came to me as a divine vision and I couldn't let go of it. This will be a three-parter! Hope you enjoy!!!!!
If you had been told just how cold Krypton would be, you would have at least asked for sleeves to be added to your dress.
As you enter the grand hall, looking out at a sea of people adorned with fine fur pelts and dyed leather, you feel like the modiste might have played some sort of sick joke on you. Your arms are woefully bare, and this hall, with its vaulted ceiling and tall, stained-glass windows, is woefully airy. Your dress, gorgeous as it is, is in the style du jour of your own kingdom, built to provide breathability even under the excessive layers of fabric that give your skirt its shape. But outside this hall, several feet of snow blanket the ground, and even behind thick walls of stone, the air freezes your skin till your every hair follicle stands on end; youâll just have to hope your groom doesnât mind his bride looking like a plucked goose.Â
Itâs a delicate balance you strike, as you step down the aisle thatâs formed through the middle of the room, a crowd of strangers on each side of you. Your muscles are locked up tight, willing yourself not to visibly shiver, or trip, or look too stiff as you place one foot in front of the other. Looking weak is not an option, your motherâs voice reminds you, not in front of these people.Â
Kryptonians. Your people, soon enough.Â
Itâs difficult to ignore their stares piercing through you, just as the cold does, observing every practiced, fluid movement you make. Youâd hoped, in vain, that your groom might prefer a private ceremony, given the royal family had even permitted a few of your own relatives to attend â a highly unusual allowance. But the Kryptonians were communal by nature, and the tight-knit royal court would never pass up the opportunity to see their Prince wed.
At the end of the aisle, he stands tall, awaiting you. Watching you.
Kal-El, you remember, the name sounding foreign even in your mind.
The ceremonial robes heâs adorned with are a vibrant red, caped over the familiar blue and yellow military uniform of the Kryptonians, a stark reminder of why this ceremony is even taking place, and why it had to happen so quickly.
Youâve anticipated this day your whole life. Youâre the last of your sisters to be married off. Your eldest sister left your home when you were just nine years of age, wed to the ruler of a kingdom across the sea in exchange for precious material resources, and no amount of wailing and pleading on your part would make her stay. The education you received as you grew only confirmed what you learned that day: that daughters of Kings had a duty to their country, to the good of their people, and your father had a duty to do whatever it takes to ensure the welfare of his kingdom.Â
Or, more simply put: one day you would be wed, and you would not have very much choice in the matter.Â
At least the purpose of your arrangement is more clear-cut, more urgent. An evident solution to an imminent problem, for both your realms. Kryptonâs position as the supreme power on the continent grows more precarious with every day that the Thanagar Rebellion continues, and all the military might in the world canât bring the Thanagarians to the negotiation table, if the past five years were anything to go by. Itâs ironic, then, that Kryptonâs beloved Warrior Prince was the one to realise your kingdomâs strategic value in ending the conflict, despite â or perhaps, especially because of â your peopleâs peaceful nature. Your father, the great Concilliator, has ended wars before, and clearly Prince Kal-El thinks he can do it again.Â
For a price, of course. Your kingdom would forever be under Kryptonâs protection, as the home of Prince Kal-Elâs bride, and your people would never have to fear for their safety again.Â
Even from across the grand hall, your groom is formidable. He towers above his people, broad-shouldered, chin held high like thereâs already a crown on his head to balance. The sheer size of him is nothing like you could have imagined. When his eyes finally meet yours, azure and austere, you can only hope no one notices the gasp that leaves you.
You reach him too soon. Your measured, smooth steps forward have carried you down the aisle, and before you know it, heâs turned to face you fully, his eyes unreadable and distant, palm outstretched in offering. His hand in yours is the first warmth youâve felt since you arrived.Â
The priest, whose face is covered by a brilliant, glowing mask, steps forward from the altar, garnishing a stretch of red fabric, which he ties around your joined hands. He speaks, addressing you and your audience in a tongue incomprehensible to you, and to keep your eyes from glazing over as you listen, you sneak a glance at your poker-faced groom.Â
Of all the stories you heard about the Warrior Prince of Krypton, none of them mentioned how blindingly handsome he is. The brutal strength youâve heard tale of is undeniable, his arms thick with corded muscle that not even the fine fabric his uniform can disguise, his hand twice the size of yours; he could crush you, right here under the altar if he likes, just as heâs done to enemies on the battlefield. They say his presence alone can turn the tide of a battle lost. They donât mention the dimples that appear on his cheeks as he gives the priest a polite smile, or that his voice is deep and stern, but not harsh. Steadying. The whole room holds their breath just to hear him speak.Â
He catches your stare, turning his head to look at you. But then so does the priest, and everyone else in the room. Expectant. Your turn.Â
Despite the hours you spent practicing the simple phrase â âI will stand firm in my vow to youâ â you stumble, stuttering over the foreign feeling of their language on your tongue, your accent abysmal. You have to force yourself not to wince at your obvious mispronunciation, and ignore your governessâs voice in your head (âDisgraceful! Disrespectful!â). The Kryptonians, to their credit, do not laugh at your faltering, and if the Prince finds your mishap amusing, he doesnât show it. He nods respectfully, his expression open as he repeats the phrase in a humiliatingly perfect accent.
The priest nods solemnly, accepting your vow exchange, then leads you both to a pillar in the middle of the altar. A carved steel chalice sits on top of it, filled with a clear liquid, and the Prince moves gently as he guides the hands youâve tied together to pick it up. Itâs a delicate maneuver, requiring your fingers to tangle together, the warmth from his palm radiating to yours, grounding you.Â
Heâs careful as he brings the chalice to your lips, tilting it slowly to clue you in, so youâre prepared to open your mouth and accept his offering. The liquid is pleasantly fruity, and he doesnât force it down your throat like you mightâve expected him to, just a couple sips and then the chalice lowers.Â
He thankfully doesnât leave you guessing as to what the next step is, drawing the chalice up to his own lips, leisurely and subtle, so as to not give away his guidance (and your cluelessness). Your hand does not tremble as you tilt the chalice towards him, saving you the embarrassment of spilling it on his face.Â
Your eyes canât help but linger on the purse of his lips. The bob of his throat as he swallows. Your cheeks flush with heat as you realise just how beautiful you find him, and youâre glad to look away from him when the chalice is lowered back onto the pillar. The priest rambles on for a bit longer, looking between the two of you, before he seems to address the crowd, his voice rising to boom throughout the hall in declaration. The Prince uses your tied hands to tug you along, gently, to face him again.Â
He takes a long moment to stare at you, his eyes no longer blank, but searching. Trying to communicate something you canât understand. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and then heâs leaning in closer to you, pressing his lips to yours.
Itâs not an unpleasant feeling. His lips are pillowy and soft, and only press to yours for a mercifully brief moment before pulling away, a mere brush of skin, before the hall bursts into cheers. The noblemen are too busy tossing flower petals into the air to notice the way you nearly jump out of your skin at the sudden cacophony, a rainbow of confetti falling around you. You mimic the wide smile the Prince wears at the celebration, covering up your shock quickly.Â
He guides you, slowly, mindful of the difference in your height and of your hands still being tied together, down the steps to the altar and towards a door to the left, instead of back down the aisle like you expected.
You catch sight of your family then, a few rows back in the crowd. Your parents stand next to two of your brothers, the youngest of which has a watery smile on his young face, trying to hold back his tears. You will see him later this evening, at the reception dinner, and then never again. You send him a reassuring smile over your shoulder before the door shuts behind you.
Youâre alone with the Prince now, tucked away in a small, circular room thatâs no less ornate than the hall youâve exited, the skylight ceiling bathing you both in fading sunlight. Tables line the walls, displaying a variety of canapes and hors dâoeuvres, sweets and cheeseboards and flutes of every beverage you could possibly conceive of. In the center of the room is a simple settee, decorated with plush pillows, large enough to fit two people. Your stomach drops at the sight of it.
This is the consummation room.Â
âYouâll break your fast before dinner, privately. Youâll have your fill of amuse-gueules,â You recall your motherâs explanation. âAnd then, heâll have his fill of you.âÂ
You canât even bear to look at the Prince, your heartbeat quickening in your chest as you anticipate his bruising touch on you at any moment. The hand that isnât bound to his clenches into a fist at your side, instinctually, dying to fight your way out, and it takes every inch of your willpower to loosen it. Your jaw goes tense, in the hopes that when he inevitably bends you over the furniture and forces himself into you, you can hold back your cries, for the sake of guests on the other side of the door.Â
For your people, you remind yourself. For their peace.Â
âDo you speak the common tongue?âÂ
Your head whips towards him, eyes wide. You didnât expect much talking.
âForgive me, I have not had the time I wouldâve liked to learn your native ton-â He continues on.
âI do. I speak- I understand you just fine. Your highness.â His title is tacked on at the end, your brain working too slowly to remember your etiquette. âMy apologies, for my⊠less than impressive Kryptonian.â
That makes him breathe out a laugh. Not polite, like before, during the ceremony, but genuine. Heâs somehow even more handsome when he smiles like this, warm and sincere.Â
âIâm told itâs a difficult tongue to master.â He reassures you, moving to untie the cloth that keeps your hand tied to his. âAre you thirsty? Itâs best to save room for the feast, but a beverage might tide you over till then.â
His concern for your wellbeing only alarms you further. Why is he drawing this out? Did he want to avoid you fainting during the act? Or perhaps prevent you from dropping a canape in shock, ruining the fine carpet?
You stand there, blinking at him in perplexity, even after he drops your hand and it flops back to your side, in a manner that could only be described as the opposite of graceful. But heâs not even looking at you, instead heâs striding across the room, grabbing a glass of fruit juice and planting himself down on the settee.Â
When he notices that youâre still frozen in place â notices your fear â he softens, putting his hands out, palms facing up in surrender. âPlease, sit. Weâll only have a few minutes to rest.âÂ
You move slowly, cautiously, plucking a glass of the same juice from the table and making your way to the center of the room to join him, never taking your eyes off his hands.Â
You sit in disquieting silence, sipping sweet beverages and avoiding eye contact. He is your husband now, and you know you must obey him, but your body resists obedience with every ounce of strength it has.Â
Which is not very much.Â
Youâd never been allowed very many culinary indulgences, but ever since the engagement was announced you were under very strict orders from your mother to âwatch your figure!â while your brothers piled three different kinds of red meat and grain onto their plates, under the excuse of being "growing boysâ, not men grown already. After long days of studying Kryptonian culture and dance classes and piano lessons â your brothersâ longsword training lessons in full view from the library window â youâd taken to falling into slumber during your evening baths, then being shaken awake by your ladies in waiting, alarm clear on their faces, telling you without words that you had taken far too long to wake up.
And yet, you still resisted submission to this man on the couch with you. Your face burned with shame. After so many years of contending with your fate, you thought this day might come a little easier to you, that eventually the satisfaction of being a perfect lady would set in with maturity and age and you would look forward to marrying the future King of the most powerful kingdom on the continent. But here, now, sitting and taking a breath right in the middle of the fanfare, the eye of the storm, you feel like your chest might be collapsing in on itself.Â
âWe can stay here as long as youâd like.â The Prince says gently from beside you. When you turn to him, heâs gazing at you knowingly, but not pitying.
âWe cannot keep them waiting.â You reply, practiced.Â
âThey will wait for me.â He doesnât sound haughty, just assured. Safe.
You nod, because words escape you then. Youâll take this little mercy, just before what will surely be the longest night of your life.Â
Prince Kal-El never comes closer to you than the length of the couch.Â
The food being delicious does little to assuage your nerves, lit afire by the cacophony of the dining hall as your wedding guests indulge in the reception feast.Â
This portion of the celebration is the polar opposite of the ceremony, the torches along the wall and the mass of bodies dancing, eating, and bantering being more than enough to warm the freezing palace walls, though your hair still somehow remains standing on end.Â
You stare out, a polite, practiced smile plastered onto your face in the hopes no one will notice the blank look in your eyes, as you try to reconcile the stories told about Kryptonians with the people in front of you. From your table at the crest of the dining hall, elevated on a stone platform, you have a full view of the banquet as it unfolds. The warlords and barbarians you read about bear little resemblance to the crowd in front of you, where everyone greets each other like old friends, singing songs that they all know the words to and knocking back hot ale and wine like itâs water. The same Lords that held their breath to hear their Prince speak his vows approach him like uncles now, clapping him heavily on the shoulder in congratulations, and he greets them with the same enthusiasm. His joy, you can tell, isnât a farce; he loves these people like theyâre his own family.
They are, it occurs to you. Theyâve either seen him grow from a babe in his motherâs arms to the titan he is now, or grown right alongside him, and all of them â both the men and the women â have likely fought a battle or two with him. Itâs a bond thatâs incomprehensible to you, but itâs evident to anyone with functioning eyes.Â
Despite the platters of food as wide as your husbandâs shoulders and as high as your eye-level, you can only bring yourself to indulge in the bread rolls, warm and baked with herbs in the dough and perfectly buttered, and a bit of the poultry. After the first hour of you picking and plucking at the food on your plate, the Prince leaned close so you could hear him over the roar of the crowd and asked if the food was to your liking, and you nodded eagerly, flashing a smile so as to not worry him. He shot you a concerned look at first, but then one of his fatherâs generals approached your table and he was thankfully whisked away into conversation and congratulations, before you were forced to explain that your mother was watching you from her place just a few feet away.Â
You excuse yourself easily to freshen up in the washroom, trailed by your new ladyâs maid. You are a woman grown, a married woman, who still must be accompanied to the washroom, not even trusted to wash her own behind.Â
Your mother waits for you in the hall when youâre finished, clearly intent on catching you in a moment alone, bringing you into a tight embrace, and despite the pit in your stomach that forms every time you see her, the scent of her arms around you will always be soothing to you. Sickeningly familiar.Â
âDid it hurt terribly, my dearest?â She says, in your own language, so even the ladyâs maid standing a few feet away canât eavesdrop on your conversation.
âDid what hurt?â You say, confused. She pulls away, her hands coming to clutch your shoulders, looking at you in questioning.
âThe consummation, dearest.â
âI-I didnât- he didnât-â Youâre trying to get it across, but even youâre confused by the whole situation. The consummation was not exactly presented to you as optional, and yet, the Prince didnât lay a hand on you, not until you stood and nodded to him silently, so he knew you were ready. And still, he did not take you, simply presented his arm for you to take and led you to the dining hall to make your grand re-entrance.Â
Your mother is in disbelief, peppering you with questions about why and how and what exactly he said or did in your time alone together, but even you donât have answers for her. His motives are a mystery to you.Â
âWell, it is no matter. You must consummate tonight. Your marriage must be seen as legitimate, or the alliance between our kingdoms is null and void. Do you understand, my dear?â You nod, trying not to show the fear that clutches you at the thought, of consummation and of endangering your people. âYou must not leave your marriage chambers unbedded.â
âYes, mother. I understand. I wonât-â
âGood!â She switches back to the common tongue, then. âLetâs not keep your husband waiting much longer, dear.âÂ
Youâre guided back to your seat next to the Prince, just like you are guided everywhere.Â
You can see your future in crystal clarity before you, being chaperoned from room to room, your skin plucked and your body penetrated till you die, hopefully before youâll ever have to chaperone your own daughter.Â
Your placating smile returns to your face for the next few hours, while the party rages on with no sign of stopping. It must be past midnight, but the Kryptonians seem to have boundless energy for a proper celebration, including your husband. His cheeks must be sore from hours of grinning, his stomach full as heâs cleared plate after plate, and yet heâs still jovial, conversing with his family and friends, knocking tankards together in salute with little regard to the ale that spills onto the floor and down sleeves as a result.
Eventually, he stands, taking your hand in his and moving to leave the table, causing groans to ring out around him. You descend the platform together and you trail after him as he slowly makes his way to the door, a long process, as heâs stopped every few feet by well-wishers, either bidding him a good night or cajoling him into staying a few more hours. He smiles widely at every one of them, hugs them tightly, but shakes his head at the invitations to stay, before thanking them for their attendance and moving on. It goes on like that till you reach the towering wooden doors that lead out of the hall, exiting with polite waves towards his people, and despite craning your neck in an attempt to see over the crowd, you cannot seem to find your family before the doors slam shut.Â
Your ears ring even in the silence of the corridor, struggling to adjust as your husband leads you away from the dining hall, your steps echoing in tandem with his. Your heart pounds too hard and loud in your ears, and you have to force your breathing to regulate instead of hyperventilating; the corridors are far too echoey for your panic to go undetected, and the leisurely pace youâre taking leaves no excuse for your racing heart.Â
You walk for what feels like an hour. These halls are long and winding, and the further you walk, arm in arm with your husband, the more terrified you are of ever having to find your way through this castle by yourself. Itâll take years, youâre sure, to learn the layout of your new home. You begin to wonder if your husbandâs quarters â where youâre sure heâs leading you â is on the other side of the castle when you round a corner and find the entrance doors to the dining hall again, music and chatter still audible through thick wood.Â
You look up at him, eyebrows pinched in confusion. âYour highness, are we returning? Are we not-?â
âWe will make it to our chambers eventually.â He explains, a lighthearted smile on his face. âWe are simply⊠taking the scenic route.â
It hits you, then, that despite his humorous tone, he truly does want to delay the consummation, just as you do. That he is, in a way, a victim of circumstance as you are, marrying a stranger for the good of his people. That he might understand your reluctance better than most.
âOh,â is all you can muster up for a response. âAlright.â
âUnless you wish to retire?â
âNo!â You say too quickly. Improperly. Disrespectful!, your governessâs voice rings in your head again, as your cheeks heat and you refocus your gaze ahead. âI only mean, I wish to follow your lead, my husband.â
He doesnât respond, but he keeps his gaze on you, quiet and deep in thought. You walk in silence for a bit, past the dining hall entrance and around another corner, before he speaks again.Â
âI want you to feel comfortable here.â He says, in that same comforting tone he used earlier, like heâs coaxing a feral animal out of its cage.Â
âI will, your highness. You need not worry.â Your tone is measured, steady, confident, a voice you can recede into instinctually, before anyone senses your distress.
âYes, but- I understand this isnât- you did not choose this.â He stumbles over his words, sounding unsure for the first time since youâve met him. You pointedly look away from him, eyes fixated on the walls, as if the intricate carvings on the bleached stone are the most interesting thing in the world, so he canât see the way your eyes well up with tears at the acknowledgment that you are not here by your own volition. âShould you think of anything that will make you more comfortable, or give you some solace, or- anything. Anything you want, I will give it to you.âÂ
You switch your distracted stare from the walls to your skirt, your free hand coming to pick at the beading, clinking softly. You donât know what to say. You donât know what he can give you that will make any of this better. No matter what, you cannot go back home.Â
âThank you.â It comes out as a whisper. Any louder, and heâd hear the tears that threaten to close your throat.Â
He falls silent afterwards, thankfully.Â
Your steps echo down more unfamiliar corridors, twisting and turning till you reach a courtyard on what must be the west side of the palace, judging by the sunâs setting rays beaming through the ornate glass ceiling, providing cover from the frequent snowfalls youâre told plague this kingdom. Youâre a floor above it, and the Prince guides you to the railing to gaze down into this oasis in the middle of the palace, a spread of green amongst stone, flowering bushes and grass and a few trees, impossibly blooming. You donât even notice the Prince slipping his arm from yours, allowing you to lean further over in amazement.Â
âHow?â You ask, looking back at him.
âOur groundskeepers work very hard.â He replies simply, like itâs not a marvel to have a thriving garden in the middle of winter. You canât help the breathless laugh that escapes you.
âThis is- itâs incredible.âÂ
Your home was all rolling fields of grass and meadows of flowers, a rare patch of forest here and there. Youâd come to accept youâd just have to get accustomed to Kryptonâs snow-capped mountain peaks on the horizon, its climate far cooler than youâve ever endured. As your eyes rove over the familiar sight of greenery, they land on a familiar sight, a bushel of red berries that youâd often eat in the mornings to break your fast. Your favourite, in fact.Â
âI wasnât aware that fragaria is native to Krypton, too.â You say it happily, knowing that at least youâll have something familiar to eat tomorrow morning.
âIt isnât.â He responds. When you look back at him in confusion, heâs smiling fondly. At you. âWhen our engagement was announced, I asked for some flora native to your own kingdom to be planted.âÂ
You hate the way your eyes fill with tears again. Youâve done more crying today than you ever intended. But this time, theyâre tears of gratitude. Of relief.Â
âThank you,â You say again. âTruly.â
âIf you wish for anything else-â
âI will tell you.â Your voice is truly sure this time. Genuine. Then, âAre the berries ripe yet?â
âI will have to inquire with Klinn-Il, he often tends to the fruit bushes.â You step away from the railing, slipping your arm around his again, resting your hand on his forearm as you continue on down the corridor. âIf they are, theyâll be picked fresh for you on the morrow.â
âThat would please me very much, your highness.â A genuine smile finally graces your face.
You walk at the same leisurely pace as before, but more comfortably. Pressed closer together, exchanging conversation rather than silently begging him not to say anything to you. He asks you questions, about your home, your family, and you tell him easily, seeing him nod intently, as if the life of the last-born daughter of a King was the most important matter in the world. You ask him your own questions in return. You learn that Krypton does get warmer, in the months opposite to your own kingdomâs summer, that he is close with his parents and has tea with his cousin, Kara, every chance he gets, though sheâs quite the adventurer and is rarely home. You learn he is fond of cats, and of music.Â
When you finally reach what must be the entrance to his chambers, you know each other just the slightest bit more. Not quite a stranger anymore, but your breath still stutters, the reality of whatâs in store for the rest of the night slamming back into you like a kick to the chest.Â
His room is not what you expected. The stained glass windows scatter mosaics of colours all around you, brilliant and shining in the sunset, illuminating the sitting area and warming the room. Thereâs a scattering of armchairs and settees, all in the colours of the House of El, surrounding the fireplace thatâs already been lit for you. On the furthest wall from the entrance are double doors that lead to a private balcony, and to your left, a canopy bed. Every decoration is plush and extravagant, inviting. You try not to think about your own room back home, or how none of the colours are ones youâd pick out for yourself. This is the Princeâs room, and so you belong here, with the rest of his possessions.Â
âIs it to your liking?â He asks.
âYes.â You lie easily, but again, your body doesnât cooperate. As he moves further into the room, you stay put in the entryway, as if remaining far from the bed will protect you from whatâs to come. You both know the customs of his people. Even if he was kind enough to want to spare you, he could not risk the voiding of your marriage, not with the safety of your kingdoms on the line.
âAre you warm enough? I can add more firewood-â
âNo, Iâm quite warm, your highness.âÂ
He looks back at you. Recognising your fear, again. You stand feet apart, both unsure, trepidatious.Â
He stares down at the floor as he speaks to you, like heâs ashamed. âI will have to undress for bed.â
âAs will I.â Your voice is distant.
âI will turn around while you undress.âÂ
âYour highness,â You shake your head. âItâs no use.âÂ
But he turns anyway. You hear the buttons of his coat pop open, slowly, like he wants to give you extra time. You sigh, knowing as well as he does that thereâs no sense in prolonging the inevitable, but you comply with his wishes. You loosen the back of your gown clumsily, having to untie the laces by reaching back and fumbling around till the ties come undone, enough to slide the heavy fabric down and off, stepping out of your behemoth of a skirt. And then youâre left in your stays and chemise, grateful, at least, for the warmth of the room as you shed your few layers.Â
When you dare to look across the room at your husband, you gasp quietly at the sight of his bare back. Heâs somehow even broader, stronger with his clothing off, the expanse of his muscular shoulders, the dimples at the base of his back, right above-Â
You avert your eyes again, trying to focus on removing your stays, but the laces start higher up on your back than the dress, hard to reach and even harder to untie, and thereâs no ladyâs maid here to help you. He must hear your frustrated whine as you twist and bend your arms to try and get ahold of the ties, because he asks if you need help, without even turning towards you, still keeping his promise not to look.Â
You lock up at the question. Your cheeks are already heated from your frustration, but you can feel blood rushing to your face again at the prospect of him so close when youâre in such a state of undress, but you remember thereâs no use. He will see much more of you, very soon.Â
âPlease.â You finally acquiesce, and only then does he turn, crossing the room as soon as you ask.Â
You keep your eyes low, not wanting to scandalise yourself further with more glimpses of his body, and gasp at the feeling of his hands brushing against your back.
âIs this alright?â He asks, stilling.
âYes. Itâs fine, your highness.â You say, automatically, again. Powerless to deny him anything.Â
He makes quick work of the knots, pulling the laces on your back loose till he can slip it over your head easily, then retreating from you. You frown, again, at his delays. Almost hoping heâd get it over with already.
When he reappears before you, he is clothed in a light tunic, loose and worn from frequent use, and similarly loose britches. He barely glances at you as he climbs into bed, burying himself under the thick duvet, as if truly readying himself for slumber.Â
You stay put, in just your chemise, still lingering in the entryway like you could bolt out of the room. His gaze fixates on the ceiling.
âYou may come to bed, if you wish.â He says. âOr sleep on the futon, or wherever else you desire. I will not interfere with your sleep.â
You step forward. Hesitant. Slow. Disbelieving. It takes you forever to approach the bed, and an embarrassing amount of effort to climb onto it, as it was clearly built with his size in mind. Itâs expansive, much bigger than your own, and covered in more blankets and plush, goose-feathered pillows than you can count, the sheets like silk against your skin. Thereâs ample space between you and him, laying on opposite sides of the mattress.
âYour highness,â You start, once youâve situated yourself comfortably on top of the bed. âSurely, you know that- that you must-â
âSleep, my wife.â He says, exhaustion creeping into his voice, his eyes already shut. âBoth of us must sleep. Itâs been a long day, for us both.âÂ
You do not sleep.Â
You sit there for a long while, unable to fall asleep as he does, studying him, watching his face go slack and his breathing deepen as he falls into his slumber. With him so still like this, unconscious to the world, you finally have the liberty of truly, openly staring at your new husband.Â
He has been kind, against your every expectation. He has been considerate, and has never once shown you anger, even as you repeatedly displayed your fear in front of him, your fear of him. Your resistance hasnât seemed to phase him. You remember again, staring at him like this, that he is incredibly handsome. The curls that had no doubt been slicked back this morning are falling onto his forehead, bringing a smile to your face, despite yourself.Â
When you finally climb under the covers, settling into the mattress, with your eyes still on him, like at any moment heâll transform into the husband youâd imagined youâd have, twice your age and unforgivingly brutal. But he remains the same, a peaceful expression on his face, quiet snores escaping him.Â
You decide, then, to trust him for the night. And as you close your eyes, you allow yourself to wonder, for the first time, if you may have married a good man.Â
babyshark does something chemistry wise in my brain that makes it go brr. Like i didn't even think about it until i started seeing your posts, and ohmygosh is it YUMMY. like there's something about putting baby lamb emma nolan with like hunk of muscle brendon park "shark" that keeps me daydreaming. Like do you think they would do PDA in public, or in like a professional setting?
i don't think people would clock it right away. esp since his idea of pda is standing menacingly behind her while she chitchats to people he can't remember the names of. like, it's kinda subtle. at first.
(just her pinky scratching over his knuckles in passing. pushing her spine into the spread of his chest he's leaning down to look over her shoulder. his fingers curling over her hip, low enough that no one can see)
and then it isn't.
because while they keep it (moderately) professional around people they don't know or in high stakes moments, he also prolly puts his hand on her throat when they're done with people they're comfortable around (or people he doesn't think matters lmao). a lil time to go that only they understand and suddenly bubbly, chatty Emma is all misty-eyed and quiet, blinking her big brown eyes up at a man who is surely on a most wanted list somewhere, looking at him like he hung the moon and stars. he loves to bend down if he catches her in the hallway, and just take a big ol' chomp outta her neck (and if Dana hears it's fineeeeee you guys he's just being silly! when the man is very obviously holding himself back from leaving a permanent mark, she's gonna up herself to a pack a day).
and when they can't touch each other, or find an excuse to do so, he'll rub his thumb against his jaw when she's looking (because whenever he clenches his teeth, there's this muscle there that just ticksâa spot she discovered she loves to nip, to sink her teeth into, when he's rutting above her), or touch his arm (where her pretty little ribbon sits, tied into a bow). and she'll press her hand to her throat. cup her cheeks in her hands because it makes his nostrils flare like a bull and he fucks her sooo hard afterwards that she has a limp the next day.
but they're also super gross about each other and no one in their right mind is gonna be like hey stop snatching up Emma pls so he mostly just crowds her against a wall when no one is around if he gets the itch to touch her. or she finds an excuse to sneak down to the orthopedic ward and slide into his lap so she kiss all over his face while he sits there. to the outside looking in, he's wearing the same expression as when he walked into the room in the er, but just beneath the desk, his hands are GRIPPING her. like veins bulging. knuckles stark white. or he'll grab her face, squeezing to make her lips pop out like a fish and kiss her until she's gasping and slapping his shoulder for mercy before they go into work.
(they're very physical but a lot of their affection is him just manhandling her around and Emma's brain turning to mush when he picks her and says we're leaving. right fuckin' now.)
something something newly divorced professor price insisting on you coming to his 'office hours' at his home so he can bend you over the big leather couch (that his now ex-wife is actively trying to take) and slide his still-ringed finger in and out of your pussy as he shushes your protests of 'we shouldn't be doing this'
"won't be any trouble if you don't make any, sweetheart. nobody's got to know. now relax, need t'open up your tight little cunt a bit more so it doesn't pinch my cock right off."
you skipped his 'office hours' one time because you found out from his t.a. that his ex wife was coming over that same night to pick up her stuff, and simply wanted to avoid any sort of scene. that earned you a 'see me after class' written on your essay in stern red ink, instructions you reluctantly followed as you hung back while your classmates filed out the doors.
he doesn't say a word to you, just glares and jerks his head in a wordless beckon, an order to follow that you comply with dutifully, even though your heart is in your throat. the echo of your steps changes in tone as you leave the classroom, go down the hallway past his office, and out into the car park where he herds you into his car.
you can't help but feel every inch the stupid, silly girl you had always feared you secretly were as you ride back to his home in silence. all you can do is try your best not to stare at him, the way the greys are scattered in his beard, the tense line of his shoulders, the glint of the gold ring he still refuses to take off. instead your eyes drift to the scenery rushing by your window, catching glimpses of pedestrians, birds, and bicyclists as they go about their days, none the wiser of the exquisite hell you've found yourself in.
when he pulls into his driveway, you follow silently behind like a nervous shadow. he's upset with you, that's all you know- and your brain is running away with theories about what exactly he plans to do about it. your rushing thoughts come skidding to a halt once you're inside and you see how sparse the place has gotten since the last time you were here. the couch is gone, for one, along the coffee table and about half the photos on the walls. the side table that used to be next to his chair is also missing, replaced by a stack of hardcover books that goes perfectly to the height of the arm rest.
"you were supposed to be here yesterday." professor price breaks the silence, his words cold and flat. he closes the front door behind you, and the sound of it makes your stomach flip.
"sorry, i got busy with other classes." you lie, and the look he shoots you lets you know you've been made right away.
"it's a long term, sweetheart. you'll need to work hard if you want to keep your grade up- and that means attending office hours." he strides past you, dropping his bag of notebooks and assignments by the sole chair left in the living room. god, she really cleaned him out, huh?
from the kitchen you can hear him pour himself a drink. he won't offer you one, you're sure of it. he never does, and you've never asked for one- everything you do here feels like an imposition somehow, even when he's filling you with cum.
price leans against the door frame, drink in hand, loosening his tie as he looks you over with a critical eye.
"strip." he orders so suddenly that you jump a little. there used to be a long side table up against this wall that you'd always put your folded up clothes on, but it's gone now, leaving only an indent in the carpet where it used to be. as you slowly, meekly undress, the chill of the air against your newly exposed skin sends a shudder down your spine. you gently place your clothes on the ground, right where the table used to be.
price doesn't bother watching you undress, instead opting to saunter into the next room, returning with an ornate, overstuffed pillow the he drops unceremoniously onto the floor between his feet as he pulls off his jacket and settles into his chair, placing his drink on his improvised table.
there's something about being completely naked in a home that isn't yours, standing next to a man who's fully clothed and paying you no mind as he unbuttons and rolls up his shirt sleeves before digging into his bag and pulling out a stack of papers. he only deigns to throw you a quick glance before sliding his readers low onto his nose, uncapping his red pen with his teeth.
"kneel." price jerks his chin towards the pillow, the stern straight line of his mouth ticking up in the corner as he observes your instant obedience in his periphery. he doesn't even look at you as he begins to read the student essays in his hands, eyes sliding across the pages and only pausing as he scribbles his criticisms in the margins.
"take it out."
he doesn't even deign to look at you as he continues, flipping a page and sniffing loudly as he concentrates on the words in front of him. with a hard swallow, you scoot forward on the ornate, navy blue pillow under your knees, leaning in closer to undo the professor's belt and fish his fat, limp cock from his trousers. it hardens a little bit under your attention and touch, but before you can get to work price reaches out and grips your chin, thumb hooking behind your bottom row of teeth.
"you're just gonna keep it warm f'now. no sucking, no muckin' about. just sit there and hold it until i'm done." he shakes your jaw a little. "hear me?"
you nod insomuch as you can with his tight grip on your chin- but you can tell he feels it when he smirks down at you, letting you go as he reclines further back into his seat, free hand reaching for his whiskey.
"go on, then."
~
it's hard to say how much time has passed with his soft cock in your mouth, forcing you to breathe through your nose as you hold your jaws apart so as not to catch him on your teeth. an ache has set in- not just in your jaw, but also your knees- and you can't do anything about without risking everything. all you have here as you kneel in silence is time to think; about your current situation, the situations you've found yourself in before, the ones you'll likely find yourself in again.
after all, price's recommendation is key to getting your dream job post-graduation. loathe as you are to admit it, that's why you're here. none of the other professors in the department will look you in the eye or speak to you, and all of them have turned you down for a recommendation- something your most paranoid thoughts suspect might be price's doing.
he still hasn't written it yet, though. he brings it up on occasion, usually when you're on your knees or stuffed with his cum, so he clearly hasn't forgotten. he's just holding it over you for as long as he can, using it like a carrot on a stick- and the most degrading part is that not only do you know that, but you're fairly certain that he knows that you know.
that was your first mistake- trusting him with your hopes and dreams. you've told him about all of your professional aspirations, and now he holds them over you, making you do tricks to 'earn' your goals. a quicky in his office for a scholarship letter, a blowjob for access to a rare reference material- you're halfway convinced he's going to require anal for the conference you mentioned wanting to attend (but can't afford).
the chime of his cell phone brings your thoughts to an abrupt halt, and you debate pulling off of him as he sets his papers down and leans to pull his phone from his bag. surely he'll want to take a call in private, r-
oop. nope. his hand is on the back of your head, holding you in place, a silent reminder that your job isn't over until he says it is. you watch him through your lashes as he sneers at his screen before tapping it with his thumb.
"bit busy." he says in lieu of a greeting, tone gruff. you can't hear the other person very clearly, but it's a woman's voice- and she sounds just as unhappy to talk to price as he is to talk to her. for the first time in what feels like ages, price looks down at you, blue eyes impassive as he watches you watch him, lips stretched around his rapidly hardening cock.
"told you just yesterday that i don't know where the bloody thing is. if i find it, i'll let you know." he snaps into his phone as his cock twitches to life on your tongue. his broad palm slides to the back of your neck- not pushing, just holding. reminding: stay. be quiet. be good. don't do anything unless asked.
"what would be the point of stealing it, cora? why? to prolong keepin' you around? joy that you fuckin' are?" he spits, sarcasm dripping off every syllable. the voice on the other end of the line says something that prompts price to roll his eyes and huff indignantly.
price doesn't even say goodbye before he hangs up and practically throws his phone in his bag. he reaches for his whiskey and drains the glass with two loud gulps and a disgruntled sounding sigh before turning his attention back to you.
"suck."
your jaw is screaming at you, aching in a way that you suspect it will take some time to recover from, but you still don't hesitate to get to work sucking down professor price's cock and taking him as deep as you can. his hands cage the sides of your head- not forcing, just holding- ready to help you adjust your speed and tempo to his liking... but at this point, you know how he likes it. you've been in this house and on your knees for him enough times to know what he likes- that's how much this job means to you. you'll do anything- including suck off an old man while he argues with his ex for it.
the phone rings from the depths of price's bag- presumably the ex to tell him off for hanging up on her- and it spurs him to hold your head still, hips jerking off his seat to properly rut into your throat. all you can do is hold onto his thighs and take it as you try to time your breathing. tears and drool stream down your face, the wet ghlk ghlk ghlk of having your face fucked echoing off of sparse walls.
"thassit, good girl, take my fuckin' cock- yeah, yeah, fuck, attagirl sweetheart. go on, grind that pretty pussy on your pillow. want you to cum with my cock in your throat. go on-" he moves his foot, shoving it under the pillow between your thighs, raising it up just enough for you to grind down on.
as if on instinct your hips start to move, sliding the plush fabric of the pillow against your cunt, seeking friction. the situation has gone from understimulating to overstimulating like the flip of a switch- the heat building in your core, the ache in your jaw and knees, the burn in your lungs and thighs, the sounds of gagging and groans echoing off the walls in harmony with your racing heartbeat in your ears and the cell phone ringing in his bag- it's almost too much. you feel feral, wild, a creature of pure instinct, humping and sucking at his cock- chasing pleasure like it's all you're made for. every lesson you've taken, every lecture you've heard, every book you've read- out the window completely. your head is empty save for two orders-
please him. cum for him.
you can feel the way your body jiggles and shakes as you hump the pillow, chasing your pleasure while trying to keep your head still enough for price to fuck. you've got the timing down now-the cant of your hips, the pacing of your breath, swallowing down around price as his cock dips in and out of your throat, threatening to make you gag. all the while, price is panting out what a good girl you are, how he likes an obediant girl, how good your big fat ass looks at this angle, how clever your mouth is, but none of it affects you like when he reaches down to squeeze one of your jiggling tits and growls out something you'll never forget:
"swallow it all and i'll get you into that fucking conference."
it's like a thousand fireworks went off in your skull, whiting out your vision and making you scream around his cock. rough hands hold your head firmly in position as your mouth fills with cum, and somewhere in the back of your cum-addled brain you remember to swallow, to suckle at his softening cock until every last drop is in your stomach.
you list to the side, cheek resting on his thigh, both of you panting to catch your breath as his dick slides out of your mouth, connected to your bottom lip by a crystalline strand of saliva.
"not done with you yet. you'll stay the night and i'll take you back in the morning." it's not a debate. it never is. you know from experience that he'll order chinese, fuck you in the shower before bed, and fall asleep with his hand up your sleep shirt, holding one of your tits.
he pats you on the shoulder, wordless encouragement to sit up so he can tuck his cock back into his trousers and order food delivery. sore as your jaw is, eating sounds like a real task- you just hope you're less achy by the time dinner arrives.
price grabs his phone and saunters to the kitchen as you slowly get dressed again, knees popping loudly as you stand. even from where you're standing, the wet stripe on the pillow is obvious, glistening in the light, making your face heat as your shoulders slowly climb up towards your ears. so fucking embarrassing.
you're just pulling your panties back on when you hear price talking through the kitchen door.
"it's john. found the bloody pillow you lost, i'll drop it by your lawyer's tomorrow. don't bother callin' back, i'm still busy."
unironically i think we need to bring back computer labs because APPARENTLY some people WERENT taught basic computer literacy and internet safety in school
things about computers/the internet i think kids should be formally taught in schools because theyre important to know and the amount of soon to be grown adults i know who know NOTHING about any of these is quite frankly almost all of them (and resources to learn if you dont know these things, because its never to late to get better with computers)
how to troubleshoot by yourself when you have a technical problem
what common file types are
some very basics on how to use ""developer tools"" on your computer (because i cant think of a better way to refer to them) like task manager and command prompt (and their mac equivalents, terminal and activity monitor ofc)
how to read and understand a privacy policy and what your personal data is, as well as what it being collected actually means and steps you can take to keep it private
how to understand terms of service
(hey. if you have trouble with reading legalese and worry about being able to understand these policies anyways, here's a site that gives basic summaries of privacy policies and ToS)
what a cookie actually is
internet privacy and your digital footprint!! seriously i dont know why we stopped teaching people that they shouldnt be putting their entire real identity online in a world where your online actions can ruin you irl
basic safety measures like antivirus software (and why you should use it or if the built in one on windows or mac is enough for you) and backing up your computer (also a mac guide)
common keyboard shortcuts (and on mac)
as an additional note: things i think everyone should know on computers and the internet but schools may bit hesitant to teach about for whatever moral/legal standards schools pretend to operate on
vpns and adblockers! (btw for most of these where you can pay for things im purposefully not recommending any specific software but seriously just use ublock origin for an adblocker)
how to not get a virus while pirating something
what a temporary email is and when to use one
red flags that you shouldn't trust a website (and how to quickly check the security of a site)
what javascript on a website does and how to disable it to get around paywalls
ok one last addition! if you want to take it one level higher, i think learning the very basics of at least one programming language is good for people. it makes computers less scary and it makes you feel very cool, and a lot of people get discouraged about it because it seems overly complicated and hard to learn outside a formal classroom setting, so heres some resources for learning the very basics of python (because i consider it the easiest language to learn and knowing one language will make it easier to learn others)
an online compiler so you dont need to download anything or worry about running code directly on your computer if that makes you nervous
a basic video guide to introduce you to python and walk you through beginner steps
a guide to some syntax and commands you should know (this was literally my lifeline in my first CS class)
some performance tasks to give you things to code to practice and assess yourself
itâs the fifth night in two weeks that simon has come home late, nothing more than a simple text letting you know and a string of unanswered phone calls left by you following. normally, he tells you to come meet him at the pub and have a couple drinks with him and the lads before you both stumble home tipsy together
fifth night he comes home to you curled up on the sofa, bridgerton on the tv and a blanket draped over you. in the microwave, thereâs a wrapped up plate of dinner with a little note saying âfor you if youâre hungry <3â. the first few nights, it was left on the table with no note. clearly, by now youâre expecting him to not show up on time
he switches the tv off and carries you off to bed, careful not to wake you when he presses a kiss to your head with a sigh. he knows itâs not gonna be long before you start asking questions and heâs not sure heâs got the answers for you
the next day, heâs already at work when you wake up. and you frown when you find the lunch you packed him still in the fridge. you decide to drop it off to him on the site, not wanting him to go hungry during a long shift but when you get there, the only person youâre greeted with is the site supervisor. who tells you that he gave all the boys a day off, since the weather was due to be pretty bad today and they wouldnât be able to do what they needed to do. he also tells you that they said they were setting off for the pub instead
thereâs an itching feeling in your chest, telling you something is wrong because normally simon would pass on information like that to you. so, you decide to surprise him there. itâs a short drive to the local pub, simonâs lunch sat in the passenger seat next to you, slowly ruining out of the fridge
itâs busy when you get there, it takes you a while to spot simon. but you find him, in the smoking area round the back, the only area not packed out with people. he doesnât see you, but you see him. and herâŠ
you recognise her from a few pictures you found on his phone when you first started seeing each other. the ex who broke his heart before he met you. he told you how he gave her everything, and he came home to find all her stuff packed up and a new relationship soft launched on her social media a couple weeks later. it took him a long time before he felt like dating again, his mates had made a couple off-handed comments about how it destroyed him when it happened
but right now he looks perfectly content, sat with her on the bench, not talking much but sheâs got his jacket round her shoulders to protect her from the subtle chill in the air. to you it feels ice cold. theyâre passing a cigarette between themselves, her eyes batting at him every time he lifts his pint to drink it
you bite down the tears threatening to spill and make your way over to the table. they donât spot you until you drop the metal lunchbox in front of simon, his eyes widening at the sight of you,
âyou left that at home.â
you turn on your heel, ignoring him calling after you as the tears spill down your cheeks the second your back is to him. you hear his boots stomping after you, but he loses you the second you disappear into the crowded pub. you know the house is going to be extra cold and lonely tonight, but youâve gotten used to it recentlyâŠ
The road blurred into long stretches of dark highway and dim gas station lights, the kind that flicker in empty parking lots at two in the morning. His truck hummed beneath him, engine steady, tires whispering against wet asphalt.
Rain had started somewhere along the way.
Light at first.
Now it tapped against the windshield in a quiet, restless rhythm.
Johnny barely noticed.
His mind was somewhere else entirely.
Every mile that passed only made the realization hit harder.
Every memory sharpened.
You laughing at something stupid he said.
You shaking your head when he got cocky.
The way you looked at him when he was telling a story.
You patiently explaining what some girl meant when she sent a confusing text.
âYou should ask her out, Johnny.â
The memory of your words twisted something deep in his chest.
Because now he understood something that made his stomach feel sick.
Youâd been helping him chase other women.
And he had been too blind to see what was right in front of him the whole time.
Johnny tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
âIdiot,â he muttered to himself.
Three hours.
Three hours of thinking about every conversation the two of you had ever had.
Three hours of wondering how heâd missed something so obvious.
Three hours of wondering if it was already too late.
The thought made his chest tighten.
We he arrived, your apartment building was quiet.
The kind of quiet that only exists deep into the night.
Most windows were dark.
The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead as Johnny climbed the stairs two at a time, boots thudding against the concrete steps.
His pulse hammered in his ears.
He hadnât planned what he was going to say.
He just knew he had to say something.
Now.
Tonight.
Before he lost the nerve.
Before he lost you.
Johnny stopped outside your door.
For a moment, he just stood there.
Rainwater clung to his jacket and darkened his hair, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths.
The knock came like something urgent trying to break through the night.
Not polite. Not patient.
You woke with a sharp inhale, disoriented, staring into the dim blur of your bedroom ceiling while your brain tried to understand what had pulled you from sleep. The room was dark except for the faint blue glow of your alarm clock.
2:13 AM.
The knock came again.
Harder.
You pushed yourself upright slowly, heart beginning to thump in your chest. Nobody knocked on your door at two in the morning unless something was wrong.
You grabbed the oversized shirt hanging off the back of your desk chair and pulled it over your head as you walked toward the door, bare feet quiet against the floor. The apartment was still, the only sound the faint patter of rain against the windows.
Another knock.
âAlright,â you called groggily, voice rough with sleep. âHold on.â
When you opened the door, the words died in your throat.
Johnny stood in the hallway like a man who had driven straight through a storm without stopping.
Rain darkened his hair, plastering some of it to his forehead. His jacket was damp, the shoulders speckled with droplets. His chest rose and fell heavily, like heâd been running even though you knew he hadnât.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
âJohnny?â you said finally, confusion pushing through the fog of sleep. âWhat are you doing here?â
He looked at you like he hadnât been entirely sure youâd open the door.
Like he needed to see you standing there to believe it.
âI left the date.â he said.
You blinked.
âThe one tonight?â
âAye.â
The hallway light buzzed faintly above him.
You glanced past him into the empty corridor, then back to his face.
âOkay,â you said slowly. âWhy?â
Johnny ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back from his forehead. The movement looked restless, like his body had too much energy and nowhere to put it.
âCan I come in?â he asked.
The question surprised you more than anything else. Johnny rarely asked permission for things like that. Normally he wouldâve already stepped inside, talking the whole time.
Something about the carefulness in his voice made your chest tighten.
You stepped aside.
âYeah. Of course.â
He walked in slowly, pulling the door closed behind him. The quiet of the apartment seemed to settle around both of you immediately. The small lamp near your couch cast a soft amber glow over the room, catching on the water still clinging to the shoulders of his jacket.
Johnny stood there for a second, looking around like he needed a moment to gather himself.
Then he said quietly, âI think Iâve been living my whole life backwards.â
You frowned. Sleep making everything a little more⊠confusing.
âWhat does that mean?â
Johnny looked at you.
Not the casual glance he usually gave, the quick easy one youâd known for years.
This was heavier.
Intense.
âI was halfway through dinner tonight,â he said slowly, âand I realized I didnât want to be there.â
âBad date?â you asked gently.
âNo.â
The answer came immediately.
âThatâs the problem.â
You tilted your head slightly.
He exhaled, long and steady.
âSheâs nice. Smart. Funny. Beautiful. Everything Iâm supposed to want.â
âOkayâŠâ
Johnnyâs eyes dropped briefly to the floor.
âAnd I kept wishing she was you.â
Your heart stumbled.
âJohnnyâŠâ
âI tried to ignore it,â he continued quietly. âThought maybe I was just distracted. But then she laughed at something I said.â
Your brows knit together.
âThat sounds normal.â
He shook his head faintly.
âIt wasnât your laugh. Didnât⊠sound like yours.. didnât.. make my chest all warm andâŠâ
The words landed softly but they still knocked the breath from your lungs.
Johnny leaned back against the wall, dragging both hands over his face.
ââŠAnd suddenly I started remembering thingsâŠâ he murmured.
You stood there watching him, the heaviness in his voice making your chest feel tight.
âLike what?â you asked.
He lowered his hands.
âYou remember the first time we met?â
The question startled a small breath of laughter out of you.
âYou tackled me.â
âI did not tackle you.â
âYou absolutely did.â
âYou were stealing my football.â
âI picked it up.â
âYou ran.â
âYou chased me!â
Johnnyâs mouth twitched slightly, but the humor faded quickly.
âYou had dirt all over your knees,â he said, gaze drifting somewhere past you like he was watching the memory unfold. âAnd you punched me in the arm when I grabbed the ball back.â
âYou deserved it.â
âI was ten.â
âSo was I.â
He nodded faintly.
âI remember thinking you were the angriest girl Iâd ever met.â
You crossed your arms.
âI was not angry.â
âYou threatened to throw my shoe in the creek.â
âThatâs because you called me bossy.â
âYou were bossy.â
You gave him a look.
Johnnyâs expression softened, the faintest hint of a smile appearing.
âBut you walked me home anywayâŠâ he said.
Your arms loosened slightly.
âYou were lost.â
âI was not lost.â
âYou were two streets away from where you lived.â
Johnny shrugged.
âTechnicalities.â
Silence settled between you for a moment.
The rain tapped softly against the window.
Johnnyâs voice lowered again.
âYou remember sophomore year?â
Your stomach tightened.
âJohnnyâŠâ
âThe dance.â
You looked down.
âYeah.â
âYou sat on the bleachers the whole night.â
âI was tired.â
âYouâre a terrible liar.â
You didnât answer.
Johnny pushed himself off the wall, stepping closer.
âI asked three girls to dance that night.â he said.
Your throat felt tight.
âI remember.â
âAnd I didnât ask you.â
âNo.â
âI didnât even think about it.â
The honesty in his voice was brutal.
Your chest ached.
âYou donât have to do this..â you murmured.
âYes, I do.â
His voice was firm now.
âBecause tonight I realized something that makes me feel like the biggest idiot alive.â
You looked up slowly.
Johnnyâs eyes found yours.
âIâve spent the last ten years telling the girl I love about every other woman I thought I might like.â
The words knocked the air right out of your lungs.
âYou donâtââ
âI do.â
Your voice shook.
âJohnny, you canât justââ
âI drove three hours because I couldnât sit there another second pretending I hadnât figured it out.â
Your heart pounded.
Johnnyâs voice softened.
âDo you know what I remembered on the drive here?â
You shook your head faintly.
âThe night my dad died.â
Your breath caught.
âYou were sixteen,â he continued quietly. âYou climbed out your bedroom window and walked three blocks to sit on the curb outside my house.â
You swallowed hard.
âYou didnât say anything,â he said. âYou just sat there next to me.â
Your voice came out small.
âYou looked like you were going to fall apart.â
âI was.â
Johnnyâs eyes didnât leave yours.
âYou stayed until the sun came up.â
You felt tears prick behind your eyes.
âYou always stayed.â
The weight in those words nearly crushed you.
âAnd what did I do?â he went on softly. âI grew up, joined the military, and started asking you how to text other women.â
Your eyes burned.
âYou didnât know.â
âI should have.â
You shook your head, voice breaking slightly.
âHow?â
Johnny stepped closer.
âYou look at me like I hung the bloody moonâ he said.
You let out a shaky laugh.
âThatâs not true.â
âIt is.â
His voice dropped lower.
âAnd Iâve been too blind to notice.â
You wiped quickly at your cheek.
âYou were happy,â you whispered.
Johnny stared at you.
âYou thought helping me chase other women would make me happy?â
âI thought if I told you how I felt, Iâd lose you.â
His face softened instantly.
âYou could never lose me.â
âI couldâve.â
Johnny stepped even closer.
Now there was barely any space left between you.
âTell me something honestly,â he said quietly.
Your chest rose and fell unevenly.
âOkay.â
âDid you love me back then?â
The question felt fragile in the air.
You hesitated.
Then nodded.
âYes.â
Johnny closed his eyes briefly, something like pain crossing his face.
âHow long?â
Your voice barely carried.
âSince we were teenagers.â
He exhaled slowly.
âChrist.â
Silence wrapped around you again.
Then Johnny looked at you with something softer now.
âIf Iâd realized sooner,â he asked quietly, âwould you have said yes?â
Your heart twisted painfully.
âYes.â
The answer came without hesitation.
Johnnyâs gaze lingered on your face for a long moment.
Then he reached up slowly, brushing his thumb beneath your eye where another tear had slipped free.
His touch was gentle.
Reverent.
âCan I kiss you?â he asked softly.
The question made your chest ache in a completely different way.
You nodded.
Johnny leaned down slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind.
You didnât.
When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was soft and careful at first, something long imagined finally becoming real.
Your hand slid up into his damp hair without thinking.
Johnny made a quiet sound against your mouth, his hand settling at your waist as the kiss deepened slightly.
Warm.
Certain.
Years of unspoken feelings collapsing into a single moment.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
Both of you breathing a little harder.
Johnny let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.
âAll this time..â he murmured.
Your fingers curled gently into the front of his shirt.
âTook you long enough, MacTavish.â You teased lightly.
I was sucked in from part one, but oh my, the tension and resolution are perfect! I could feel myself there watching Johnny confess all the feelings! "You look at me like I hung the moon" đą what an amazing line!
co-parenting with your ex-husband needed a little more adjustments.
tags: intoxicated!reader, ex-husband!clark, comedy, marital angst, they have a child together, lotta drunk yapping, co-parenting, kissing (1.9k wc)
â
P.1
you never really had days to yourself.
granted, motherhood was a path you chose â and god knew just how much of a relief it was that your now-ex, clark, had been extremely involved throughout.
even then, you poured most of your free time into child-care, inbetween work, something you refused to sacrifice. (and probably what had been the undoing of your marriage.)
it was rare for you to have said yes to the invitation, much less on a friday night, which was typically reserved for unwinding from work.
but this time was different. the promotion meant less now that you didn't have anyone to celebrate it with, and that brought forth a whole lot of unwanted feelings.
among your less thought through decisions, you decide to to drink away your sorrow with cheap shots of soju in a cozy place downtown.
you were able to drop your baby off with clark, with no convincing required. he'd happily taken her off your hands, though you'd noticed that he'd grown far more reserved, ever since his move back to smallville.
you'd grown not to question his sudden antagonistic approach to his hero-work, that sparked a little after you both agreed that your marriage was no longer working.
either way, it was not for you to worry now. not when you could finally let your hair back and relax.
what kind of monster it'd turn you to, though, was a whole other issue altogether.
clark had begun to lean into the slowness of being home, with a baby in his care now. he thinks, there's probably no greater reward than being a father.
but he'd have to admit, he missed being a husband. your husband. he thinks about how you looked earlier this evening, with your baby girl strapped to your chest.
makeup all done, with that pretty, mauve-y flush to your cheeks. work was mostly corporate, and this time you splayed a glittery sheer gloss over your lips â ones he'd very much like to kiss.
clark swallowed all those compliments down, and bid you a good night with a simple exchange. he thinks of you when he puts the baby down in the crib, cheeks rested on the hand-carved wood.
there was no chance for clark's genes to have come through in his little pride and joy's teeny features. in every way that mattered, clark wishes you were next to him now, admiring the child you brought to life.
he wished you were still his to call. but now you lived apart, and he couldn't bear to think of the papers that sat on his study to signify the end of your union together.
"guess mum's all out havin' fun huh?"
the galaxy toys above the bassinet twinkles softly, as he nudges his knuckles to the apples of the baby's cheeks, "look jus' like herâŠi'll be damned."
clark shifts, expression suddenly all serious as he whispers, "tell her not to replace me, could you? yeah?"
the corner of his lips rise when those little fingers sleepily curl around his knuckles, "mm. you're gonna grow up t'be daddy's girl. yeah you are."
bzzt!
he lifts his head at the noise he picks up from a distance. focusing his eyes to isolate the surroundings before zoning in on his device in the living room.
a call this late in the night? it could've only been you.
lavender curtains were nearly blown off the metal bar at the speed of clark's arrival, barely steadying himself by the couches, the call is picked up in less than a minute of its ring.
"hey. everything okay?" his hearts racing far too quickly, worried and conflicted, when a burst of giggles is heard on the other end.
"ooooohhhhh ya picked up! thas' aâŠ.whewwwww."
he frowns instantly at the audible slur to your voice, "of course i would've. are you okay?"
"f'course! very, super fantasticall-ally aaaaalright."
"you don't sound alright. where are you?"
"mmmmm i thinks about twenty steps north-east down korea-town. bubers like forty bucks so i thought WOW walkin's free so i'm walkin' to me apartment." you snort to yourself amused, "buber. haha. i means uber. spuper expensive."
clark takes your name in a stern tone, "listen to me. stay where you are. don't move."
"huh??"
there's nothing but the sound of intense wind, if that even was a sound after his reminder. "the heck! he hungup on me!" you twirl around, staggering right into the arms of a confused bouncer, from the club right next door. "sir, lookit. he hung up on me! what a doochbag. amirite? like sure i'm the ex an' he moved to a freakin' stable out back in buttcrack NOWHERE feeding cows carrots or whatever but still he could at least ââŠoh heeeeeeeeyyyy!"
"i'm so sorry about this," an extremely breathless clark's quickly prying you off the arms of the stranger, where the shorter man reluctantly hands you over.
"hold up. ma'am, do you know thisâŠperson?"
while clark was greatful at the man's sternness and hesitance on doing so, he's suddenly very aware of the fact that all he has on was a milk-stained shirt and fuzzy cartoon animal printed sweats.
"uh, oh gosh, she's my wife, i swear â" you're quick to hook your arms around clark's bicep, then guffaw, "yeeeeeps i'm his husband n' he's me wife."
he stares at the bouncer, tight-lipped when he deadpans, "âŠi'll take it from here. thank you."
clark doesn't immediately chide you, simply prying you off him to hold you in place, seemingly taking a quick scan of you before exhaling in relief. "need you to put your arms around me, okay? here."
"why??? where we goin'?"
you take his hand with a dazed, dopey expression, letting him scoop you up against his chest, "home. take this."
the circular device is plopped to your abdomen, and even though you register it a little late, you gush loudly at the baby monitor's screen lit up â with your child sleeping sound in her bassinet.
"awwwww she's sleepin'!"
clark hums at your immediate joy, attempting to dodge the excited jabs of the baby monitor to his cheek. "geez, ah â âŠmhm, she's sleeping. nice an' tight. we gotta get to her, yeah? hold on to me, flying's quicker."
"mmmmkay superman. up, up'nawayyy!"
"âŠ"
the headache that followed you was unforgiving, with it being the very first sensation you felt from the second you'd stirred awake. "nnâurghâŠ"
it felt as though a weight pressed on top of you, restricting your every breath.
there was no way your one year old baby would've suddenly learned how to scale her crib, right?
"wh â..huh?"
what greeted you, was a larger than life domed ceiling, wooden beams supporting the structure, which was decidedly not the sight your penthouse would've provided.
recognition settles, followed by the decisive tug at your waist when you squirm to free yourself from whatever was on you. the voice that then coats your entire body was distinct, with a tired, gravelly tilt to it.
"mmh â get back t'sleepâŠplease."
your face falls flush back onto the pillows, but this time, it's directly atop a firmer, larger heft of muscle. you lift your cheeks, noting how his arms remained tightly curled at the back of your waist, securing you on top of him.
oh geez, he was warm.
you must've called him earlier, you figured. with no hurry to get yourself off of him. you then rest your face on his shoulders, studying his every feature as you come out of sleep.
from this up close, his jaw was visibly stubbled with brown, a stark contrast to being clean shaven â brows tensed even in his sleep. gently, you run the tips of your fingers down his cheekbones, just as the early morning sunlight kisses his features.
clark begins to visibly relax at your touches, a low guttural hum signifying his slow rousing. "not listenin' even when you're sober." he mumbles, all groggy, blinking awake to see your curious face rested all squished up on his chest.
"how are you feeling?" his words drag, with the long, tired yawn he takes. you purr when his idle touch at the back of your hips turns to slow rubs, "like hell. is â"
"she's asleep," he continues, "âŠas her mum should be." clark's head tilts, as he props his head up, arm folded beneath.
"s'not like you to be drinking like that."
he doesn't have the heart to scold you, or tell you that you both needed some healthy distance. because even now, he was so in love with you. it's in the way he looks at you intently now, voice laden with concern, and with the way he's gently tucked a lock of your hair behind your ears.
you consider telling him it was a lapse. technically, none of your joys and celebration, especially with your job, was shareable to him.
but then you meet his gaze, earnest, and patient.
"it's not a big deal," you try, hiding the feverish joy in your words. "was given theâŠpromotion at work. they're allowing me to work remotely."
your ex doesn't react the same way. it takes a moment for it to load in his mind, and you feel it first. the equally excited squeeze at your hips. "that is amazing."
like in idiot, your cheeks warm.
none of the words he says afterward, not his gushing of it being deserved and he was proud could erase the bloom in your chest. it overwhelms every emotion and discomfort, every one of your senses focusses on clark's affirmations.
it felt better than trying to drink it all away, this felt better.
you've clocked that he's stopped talking, the same as you, from the second your gaze drops to his mouth.
a peek of pink coats a slick sheen over his bottom lips, the flash of his canines taking a drag over the flesh. he's thinking the exact same thing you are, that much is evident.
you make the first move to nudge yourself upward, with him tugging you all the way to be able to press a chaste kiss onto his lips.
before you think to pull away, his hand threads the back of your head, tilting his to lock his lips with yours. you hum deeply and softly into him, with your hands fisted around the fabric by his hem.
clark turns you over swiftly, hiking you beneath his bigger body. you naturally, and instinctively begin to rub by his ribcage, to his forearms and biceps. muscles tensing everywhere you touch, leaving goose flesh in its wake.
he's practically giddy with the way you're exploring him, like nothing ever changed.
"move here."
you think you might've heard him wrong â through the hasty, breathy he takes inbetween. clark leans down to drag the gently curve of his nose by yours, kissing every square inch of your face.
"move to smallville." he repeats, pressing a peck to the corner of your lips, then beneath your jaw.
"wait â huh?"
you find it in you to nudge his shoulders back, blinking at him confusedly, with your cheeks flushed. "butâŠwe're â"
"i know what we are." he interrupts, tongue pressed at the inside of his cheeks, as though that was answer enough to your concerns.
"comet likes it here. you get to have more time to yourself, space, an' stuffâŠ" clark trails off, "think about it?"
a deep exhale drags out of you, and much to clark's pleasure, your hands rested at the base of his neck.
"i'll think about it."
the softness drags its way down to his chest. rested right above his racing heart. "but don't you think it'sâŠgonna be hard?"
Summary: There are very few who have not heard tale of Prince Kal-El. Krypton's Warrior Prince is revered by his people and reviled by his enemies, who grow stronger every day, threatening Krypton's dominance. An alliance between your kingdoms might just be the key to peace â on the condition that he marry you, the King's daughter, to seal the treaty.
Part I Part II Part 3
Tags: arranged marriage, medieval fantasy au, royal au, princess!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, anxiety, heavy themes of misogyny, references to disordered eating, repression, it will get better y'all I promise
Notes: This idea came to me as a divine vision and I couldn't let go of it. This will be a three-parter! Hope you enjoy!!!!!
If you had been told just how cold Krypton would be, you would have at least asked for sleeves to be added to your dress.
As you enter the grand hall, looking out at a sea of people adorned with fine fur pelts and dyed leather, you feel like the modiste might have played some sort of sick joke on you. Your arms are woefully bare, and this hall, with its vaulted ceiling and tall, stained-glass windows, is woefully airy. Your dress, gorgeous as it is, is in the style du jour of your own kingdom, built to provide breathability even under the excessive layers of fabric that give your skirt its shape. But outside this hall, several feet of snow blanket the ground, and even behind thick walls of stone, the air freezes your skin till your every hair follicle stands on end; youâll just have to hope your groom doesnât mind his bride looking like a plucked goose.Â
Itâs a delicate balance you strike, as you step down the aisle thatâs formed through the middle of the room, a crowd of strangers on each side of you. Your muscles are locked up tight, willing yourself not to visibly shiver, or trip, or look too stiff as you place one foot in front of the other. Looking weak is not an option, your motherâs voice reminds you, not in front of these people.Â
Kryptonians. Your people, soon enough.Â
Itâs difficult to ignore their stares piercing through you, just as the cold does, observing every practiced, fluid movement you make. Youâd hoped, in vain, that your groom might prefer a private ceremony, given the royal family had even permitted a few of your own relatives to attend â a highly unusual allowance. But the Kryptonians were communal by nature, and the tight-knit royal court would never pass up the opportunity to see their Prince wed.
At the end of the aisle, he stands tall, awaiting you. Watching you.
Kal-El, you remember, the name sounding foreign even in your mind.
The ceremonial robes heâs adorned with are a vibrant red, caped over the familiar blue and yellow military uniform of the Kryptonians, a stark reminder of why this ceremony is even taking place, and why it had to happen so quickly.
Youâve anticipated this day your whole life. Youâre the last of your sisters to be married off. Your eldest sister left your home when you were just nine years of age, wed to the ruler of a kingdom across the sea in exchange for precious material resources, and no amount of wailing and pleading on your part would make her stay. The education you received as you grew only confirmed what you learned that day: that daughters of Kings had a duty to their country, to the good of their people, and your father had a duty to do whatever it takes to ensure the welfare of his kingdom.Â
Or, more simply put: one day you would be wed, and you would not have very much choice in the matter.Â
At least the purpose of your arrangement is more clear-cut, more urgent. An evident solution to an imminent problem, for both your realms. Kryptonâs position as the supreme power on the continent grows more precarious with every day that the Thanagar Rebellion continues, and all the military might in the world canât bring the Thanagarians to the negotiation table, if the past five years were anything to go by. Itâs ironic, then, that Kryptonâs beloved Warrior Prince was the one to realise your kingdomâs strategic value in ending the conflict, despite â or perhaps, especially because of â your peopleâs peaceful nature. Your father, the great Concilliator, has ended wars before, and clearly Prince Kal-El thinks he can do it again.Â
For a price, of course. Your kingdom would forever be under Kryptonâs protection, as the home of Prince Kal-Elâs bride, and your people would never have to fear for their safety again.Â
Even from across the grand hall, your groom is formidable. He towers above his people, broad-shouldered, chin held high like thereâs already a crown on his head to balance. The sheer size of him is nothing like you could have imagined. When his eyes finally meet yours, azure and austere, you can only hope no one notices the gasp that leaves you.
You reach him too soon. Your measured, smooth steps forward have carried you down the aisle, and before you know it, heâs turned to face you fully, his eyes unreadable and distant, palm outstretched in offering. His hand in yours is the first warmth youâve felt since you arrived.Â
The priest, whose face is covered by a brilliant, glowing mask, steps forward from the altar, garnishing a stretch of red fabric, which he ties around your joined hands. He speaks, addressing you and your audience in a tongue incomprehensible to you, and to keep your eyes from glazing over as you listen, you sneak a glance at your poker-faced groom.Â
Of all the stories you heard about the Warrior Prince of Krypton, none of them mentioned how blindingly handsome he is. The brutal strength youâve heard tale of is undeniable, his arms thick with corded muscle that not even the fine fabric his uniform can disguise, his hand twice the size of yours; he could crush you, right here under the altar if he likes, just as heâs done to enemies on the battlefield. They say his presence alone can turn the tide of a battle lost. They donât mention the dimples that appear on his cheeks as he gives the priest a polite smile, or that his voice is deep and stern, but not harsh. Steadying. The whole room holds their breath just to hear him speak.Â
He catches your stare, turning his head to look at you. But then so does the priest, and everyone else in the room. Expectant. Your turn.Â
Despite the hours you spent practicing the simple phrase â âI will stand firm in my vow to youâ â you stumble, stuttering over the foreign feeling of their language on your tongue, your accent abysmal. You have to force yourself not to wince at your obvious mispronunciation, and ignore your governessâs voice in your head (âDisgraceful! Disrespectful!â). The Kryptonians, to their credit, do not laugh at your faltering, and if the Prince finds your mishap amusing, he doesnât show it. He nods respectfully, his expression open as he repeats the phrase in a humiliatingly perfect accent.
The priest nods solemnly, accepting your vow exchange, then leads you both to a pillar in the middle of the altar. A carved steel chalice sits on top of it, filled with a clear liquid, and the Prince moves gently as he guides the hands youâve tied together to pick it up. Itâs a delicate maneuver, requiring your fingers to tangle together, the warmth from his palm radiating to yours, grounding you.Â
Heâs careful as he brings the chalice to your lips, tilting it slowly to clue you in, so youâre prepared to open your mouth and accept his offering. The liquid is pleasantly fruity, and he doesnât force it down your throat like you mightâve expected him to, just a couple sips and then the chalice lowers.Â
He thankfully doesnât leave you guessing as to what the next step is, drawing the chalice up to his own lips, leisurely and subtle, so as to not give away his guidance (and your cluelessness). Your hand does not tremble as you tilt the chalice towards him, saving you the embarrassment of spilling it on his face.Â
Your eyes canât help but linger on the purse of his lips. The bob of his throat as he swallows. Your cheeks flush with heat as you realise just how beautiful you find him, and youâre glad to look away from him when the chalice is lowered back onto the pillar. The priest rambles on for a bit longer, looking between the two of you, before he seems to address the crowd, his voice rising to boom throughout the hall in declaration. The Prince uses your tied hands to tug you along, gently, to face him again.Â
He takes a long moment to stare at you, his eyes no longer blank, but searching. Trying to communicate something you canât understand. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and then heâs leaning in closer to you, pressing his lips to yours.
Itâs not an unpleasant feeling. His lips are pillowy and soft, and only press to yours for a mercifully brief moment before pulling away, a mere brush of skin, before the hall bursts into cheers. The noblemen are too busy tossing flower petals into the air to notice the way you nearly jump out of your skin at the sudden cacophony, a rainbow of confetti falling around you. You mimic the wide smile the Prince wears at the celebration, covering up your shock quickly.Â
He guides you, slowly, mindful of the difference in your height and of your hands still being tied together, down the steps to the altar and towards a door to the left, instead of back down the aisle like you expected.
You catch sight of your family then, a few rows back in the crowd. Your parents stand next to two of your brothers, the youngest of which has a watery smile on his young face, trying to hold back his tears. You will see him later this evening, at the reception dinner, and then never again. You send him a reassuring smile over your shoulder before the door shuts behind you.
Youâre alone with the Prince now, tucked away in a small, circular room thatâs no less ornate than the hall youâve exited, the skylight ceiling bathing you both in fading sunlight. Tables line the walls, displaying a variety of canapes and hors dâoeuvres, sweets and cheeseboards and flutes of every beverage you could possibly conceive of. In the center of the room is a simple settee, decorated with plush pillows, large enough to fit two people. Your stomach drops at the sight of it.
This is the consummation room.Â
âYouâll break your fast before dinner, privately. Youâll have your fill of amuse-gueules,â You recall your motherâs explanation. âAnd then, heâll have his fill of you.âÂ
You canât even bear to look at the Prince, your heartbeat quickening in your chest as you anticipate his bruising touch on you at any moment. The hand that isnât bound to his clenches into a fist at your side, instinctually, dying to fight your way out, and it takes every inch of your willpower to loosen it. Your jaw goes tense, in the hopes that when he inevitably bends you over the furniture and forces himself into you, you can hold back your cries, for the sake of guests on the other side of the door.Â
For your people, you remind yourself. For their peace.Â
âDo you speak the common tongue?âÂ
Your head whips towards him, eyes wide. You didnât expect much talking.
âForgive me, I have not had the time I wouldâve liked to learn your native ton-â He continues on.
âI do. I speak- I understand you just fine. Your highness.â His title is tacked on at the end, your brain working too slowly to remember your etiquette. âMy apologies, for my⊠less than impressive Kryptonian.â
That makes him breathe out a laugh. Not polite, like before, during the ceremony, but genuine. Heâs somehow even more handsome when he smiles like this, warm and sincere.Â
âIâm told itâs a difficult tongue to master.â He reassures you, moving to untie the cloth that keeps your hand tied to his. âAre you thirsty? Itâs best to save room for the feast, but a beverage might tide you over till then.â
His concern for your wellbeing only alarms you further. Why is he drawing this out? Did he want to avoid you fainting during the act? Or perhaps prevent you from dropping a canape in shock, ruining the fine carpet?
You stand there, blinking at him in perplexity, even after he drops your hand and it flops back to your side, in a manner that could only be described as the opposite of graceful. But heâs not even looking at you, instead heâs striding across the room, grabbing a glass of fruit juice and planting himself down on the settee.Â
When he notices that youâre still frozen in place â notices your fear â he softens, putting his hands out, palms facing up in surrender. âPlease, sit. Weâll only have a few minutes to rest.âÂ
You move slowly, cautiously, plucking a glass of the same juice from the table and making your way to the center of the room to join him, never taking your eyes off his hands.Â
You sit in disquieting silence, sipping sweet beverages and avoiding eye contact. He is your husband now, and you know you must obey him, but your body resists obedience with every ounce of strength it has.Â
Which is not very much.Â
Youâd never been allowed very many culinary indulgences, but ever since the engagement was announced you were under very strict orders from your mother to âwatch your figure!â while your brothers piled three different kinds of red meat and grain onto their plates, under the excuse of being "growing boysâ, not men grown already. After long days of studying Kryptonian culture and dance classes and piano lessons â your brothersâ longsword training lessons in full view from the library window â youâd taken to falling into slumber during your evening baths, then being shaken awake by your ladies in waiting, alarm clear on their faces, telling you without words that you had taken far too long to wake up.
And yet, you still resisted submission to this man on the couch with you. Your face burned with shame. After so many years of contending with your fate, you thought this day might come a little easier to you, that eventually the satisfaction of being a perfect lady would set in with maturity and age and you would look forward to marrying the future King of the most powerful kingdom on the continent. But here, now, sitting and taking a breath right in the middle of the fanfare, the eye of the storm, you feel like your chest might be collapsing in on itself.Â
âWe can stay here as long as youâd like.â The Prince says gently from beside you. When you turn to him, heâs gazing at you knowingly, but not pitying.
âWe cannot keep them waiting.â You reply, practiced.Â
âThey will wait for me.â He doesnât sound haughty, just assured. Safe.
You nod, because words escape you then. Youâll take this little mercy, just before what will surely be the longest night of your life.Â
Prince Kal-El never comes closer to you than the length of the couch.Â
The food being delicious does little to assuage your nerves, lit afire by the cacophony of the dining hall as your wedding guests indulge in the reception feast.Â
This portion of the celebration is the polar opposite of the ceremony, the torches along the wall and the mass of bodies dancing, eating, and bantering being more than enough to warm the freezing palace walls, though your hair still somehow remains standing on end.Â
You stare out, a polite, practiced smile plastered onto your face in the hopes no one will notice the blank look in your eyes, as you try to reconcile the stories told about Kryptonians with the people in front of you. From your table at the crest of the dining hall, elevated on a stone platform, you have a full view of the banquet as it unfolds. The warlords and barbarians you read about bear little resemblance to the crowd in front of you, where everyone greets each other like old friends, singing songs that they all know the words to and knocking back hot ale and wine like itâs water. The same Lords that held their breath to hear their Prince speak his vows approach him like uncles now, clapping him heavily on the shoulder in congratulations, and he greets them with the same enthusiasm. His joy, you can tell, isnât a farce; he loves these people like theyâre his own family.
They are, it occurs to you. Theyâve either seen him grow from a babe in his motherâs arms to the titan he is now, or grown right alongside him, and all of them â both the men and the women â have likely fought a battle or two with him. Itâs a bond thatâs incomprehensible to you, but itâs evident to anyone with functioning eyes.Â
Despite the platters of food as wide as your husbandâs shoulders and as high as your eye-level, you can only bring yourself to indulge in the bread rolls, warm and baked with herbs in the dough and perfectly buttered, and a bit of the poultry. After the first hour of you picking and plucking at the food on your plate, the Prince leaned close so you could hear him over the roar of the crowd and asked if the food was to your liking, and you nodded eagerly, flashing a smile so as to not worry him. He shot you a concerned look at first, but then one of his fatherâs generals approached your table and he was thankfully whisked away into conversation and congratulations, before you were forced to explain that your mother was watching you from her place just a few feet away.Â
You excuse yourself easily to freshen up in the washroom, trailed by your new ladyâs maid. You are a woman grown, a married woman, who still must be accompanied to the washroom, not even trusted to wash her own behind.Â
Your mother waits for you in the hall when youâre finished, clearly intent on catching you in a moment alone, bringing you into a tight embrace, and despite the pit in your stomach that forms every time you see her, the scent of her arms around you will always be soothing to you. Sickeningly familiar.Â
âDid it hurt terribly, my dearest?â She says, in your own language, so even the ladyâs maid standing a few feet away canât eavesdrop on your conversation.
âDid what hurt?â You say, confused. She pulls away, her hands coming to clutch your shoulders, looking at you in questioning.
âThe consummation, dearest.â
âI-I didnât- he didnât-â Youâre trying to get it across, but even youâre confused by the whole situation. The consummation was not exactly presented to you as optional, and yet, the Prince didnât lay a hand on you, not until you stood and nodded to him silently, so he knew you were ready. And still, he did not take you, simply presented his arm for you to take and led you to the dining hall to make your grand re-entrance.Â
Your mother is in disbelief, peppering you with questions about why and how and what exactly he said or did in your time alone together, but even you donât have answers for her. His motives are a mystery to you.Â
âWell, it is no matter. You must consummate tonight. Your marriage must be seen as legitimate, or the alliance between our kingdoms is null and void. Do you understand, my dear?â You nod, trying not to show the fear that clutches you at the thought, of consummation and of endangering your people. âYou must not leave your marriage chambers unbedded.â
âYes, mother. I understand. I wonât-â
âGood!â She switches back to the common tongue, then. âLetâs not keep your husband waiting much longer, dear.âÂ
Youâre guided back to your seat next to the Prince, just like you are guided everywhere.Â
You can see your future in crystal clarity before you, being chaperoned from room to room, your skin plucked and your body penetrated till you die, hopefully before youâll ever have to chaperone your own daughter.Â
Your placating smile returns to your face for the next few hours, while the party rages on with no sign of stopping. It must be past midnight, but the Kryptonians seem to have boundless energy for a proper celebration, including your husband. His cheeks must be sore from hours of grinning, his stomach full as heâs cleared plate after plate, and yet heâs still jovial, conversing with his family and friends, knocking tankards together in salute with little regard to the ale that spills onto the floor and down sleeves as a result.
Eventually, he stands, taking your hand in his and moving to leave the table, causing groans to ring out around him. You descend the platform together and you trail after him as he slowly makes his way to the door, a long process, as heâs stopped every few feet by well-wishers, either bidding him a good night or cajoling him into staying a few more hours. He smiles widely at every one of them, hugs them tightly, but shakes his head at the invitations to stay, before thanking them for their attendance and moving on. It goes on like that till you reach the towering wooden doors that lead out of the hall, exiting with polite waves towards his people, and despite craning your neck in an attempt to see over the crowd, you cannot seem to find your family before the doors slam shut.Â
Your ears ring even in the silence of the corridor, struggling to adjust as your husband leads you away from the dining hall, your steps echoing in tandem with his. Your heart pounds too hard and loud in your ears, and you have to force your breathing to regulate instead of hyperventilating; the corridors are far too echoey for your panic to go undetected, and the leisurely pace youâre taking leaves no excuse for your racing heart.Â
You walk for what feels like an hour. These halls are long and winding, and the further you walk, arm in arm with your husband, the more terrified you are of ever having to find your way through this castle by yourself. Itâll take years, youâre sure, to learn the layout of your new home. You begin to wonder if your husbandâs quarters â where youâre sure heâs leading you â is on the other side of the castle when you round a corner and find the entrance doors to the dining hall again, music and chatter still audible through thick wood.Â
You look up at him, eyebrows pinched in confusion. âYour highness, are we returning? Are we not-?â
âWe will make it to our chambers eventually.â He explains, a lighthearted smile on his face. âWe are simply⊠taking the scenic route.â
It hits you, then, that despite his humorous tone, he truly does want to delay the consummation, just as you do. That he is, in a way, a victim of circumstance as you are, marrying a stranger for the good of his people. That he might understand your reluctance better than most.
âOh,â is all you can muster up for a response. âAlright.â
âUnless you wish to retire?â
âNo!â You say too quickly. Improperly. Disrespectful!, your governessâs voice rings in your head again, as your cheeks heat and you refocus your gaze ahead. âI only mean, I wish to follow your lead, my husband.â
He doesnât respond, but he keeps his gaze on you, quiet and deep in thought. You walk in silence for a bit, past the dining hall entrance and around another corner, before he speaks again.Â
âI want you to feel comfortable here.â He says, in that same comforting tone he used earlier, like heâs coaxing a feral animal out of its cage.Â
âI will, your highness. You need not worry.â Your tone is measured, steady, confident, a voice you can recede into instinctually, before anyone senses your distress.
âYes, but- I understand this isnât- you did not choose this.â He stumbles over his words, sounding unsure for the first time since youâve met him. You pointedly look away from him, eyes fixated on the walls, as if the intricate carvings on the bleached stone are the most interesting thing in the world, so he canât see the way your eyes well up with tears at the acknowledgment that you are not here by your own volition. âShould you think of anything that will make you more comfortable, or give you some solace, or- anything. Anything you want, I will give it to you.âÂ
You switch your distracted stare from the walls to your skirt, your free hand coming to pick at the beading, clinking softly. You donât know what to say. You donât know what he can give you that will make any of this better. No matter what, you cannot go back home.Â
âThank you.â It comes out as a whisper. Any louder, and heâd hear the tears that threaten to close your throat.Â
He falls silent afterwards, thankfully.Â
Your steps echo down more unfamiliar corridors, twisting and turning till you reach a courtyard on what must be the west side of the palace, judging by the sunâs setting rays beaming through the ornate glass ceiling, providing cover from the frequent snowfalls youâre told plague this kingdom. Youâre a floor above it, and the Prince guides you to the railing to gaze down into this oasis in the middle of the palace, a spread of green amongst stone, flowering bushes and grass and a few trees, impossibly blooming. You donât even notice the Prince slipping his arm from yours, allowing you to lean further over in amazement.Â
âHow?â You ask, looking back at him.
âOur groundskeepers work very hard.â He replies simply, like itâs not a marvel to have a thriving garden in the middle of winter. You canât help the breathless laugh that escapes you.
âThis is- itâs incredible.âÂ
Your home was all rolling fields of grass and meadows of flowers, a rare patch of forest here and there. Youâd come to accept youâd just have to get accustomed to Kryptonâs snow-capped mountain peaks on the horizon, its climate far cooler than youâve ever endured. As your eyes rove over the familiar sight of greenery, they land on a familiar sight, a bushel of red berries that youâd often eat in the mornings to break your fast. Your favourite, in fact.Â
âI wasnât aware that fragaria is native to Krypton, too.â You say it happily, knowing that at least youâll have something familiar to eat tomorrow morning.
âIt isnât.â He responds. When you look back at him in confusion, heâs smiling fondly. At you. âWhen our engagement was announced, I asked for some flora native to your own kingdom to be planted.âÂ
You hate the way your eyes fill with tears again. Youâve done more crying today than you ever intended. But this time, theyâre tears of gratitude. Of relief.Â
âThank you,â You say again. âTruly.â
âIf you wish for anything else-â
âI will tell you.â Your voice is truly sure this time. Genuine. Then, âAre the berries ripe yet?â
âI will have to inquire with Klinn-Il, he often tends to the fruit bushes.â You step away from the railing, slipping your arm around his again, resting your hand on his forearm as you continue on down the corridor. âIf they are, theyâll be picked fresh for you on the morrow.â
âThat would please me very much, your highness.â A genuine smile finally graces your face.
You walk at the same leisurely pace as before, but more comfortably. Pressed closer together, exchanging conversation rather than silently begging him not to say anything to you. He asks you questions, about your home, your family, and you tell him easily, seeing him nod intently, as if the life of the last-born daughter of a King was the most important matter in the world. You ask him your own questions in return. You learn that Krypton does get warmer, in the months opposite to your own kingdomâs summer, that he is close with his parents and has tea with his cousin, Kara, every chance he gets, though sheâs quite the adventurer and is rarely home. You learn he is fond of cats, and of music.Â
When you finally reach what must be the entrance to his chambers, you know each other just the slightest bit more. Not quite a stranger anymore, but your breath still stutters, the reality of whatâs in store for the rest of the night slamming back into you like a kick to the chest.Â
His room is not what you expected. The stained glass windows scatter mosaics of colours all around you, brilliant and shining in the sunset, illuminating the sitting area and warming the room. Thereâs a scattering of armchairs and settees, all in the colours of the House of El, surrounding the fireplace thatâs already been lit for you. On the furthest wall from the entrance are double doors that lead to a private balcony, and to your left, a canopy bed. Every decoration is plush and extravagant, inviting. You try not to think about your own room back home, or how none of the colours are ones youâd pick out for yourself. This is the Princeâs room, and so you belong here, with the rest of his possessions.Â
âIs it to your liking?â He asks.
âYes.â You lie easily, but again, your body doesnât cooperate. As he moves further into the room, you stay put in the entryway, as if remaining far from the bed will protect you from whatâs to come. You both know the customs of his people. Even if he was kind enough to want to spare you, he could not risk the voiding of your marriage, not with the safety of your kingdoms on the line.
âAre you warm enough? I can add more firewood-â
âNo, Iâm quite warm, your highness.âÂ
He looks back at you. Recognising your fear, again. You stand feet apart, both unsure, trepidatious.Â
He stares down at the floor as he speaks to you, like heâs ashamed. âI will have to undress for bed.â
âAs will I.â Your voice is distant.
âI will turn around while you undress.âÂ
âYour highness,â You shake your head. âItâs no use.âÂ
But he turns anyway. You hear the buttons of his coat pop open, slowly, like he wants to give you extra time. You sigh, knowing as well as he does that thereâs no sense in prolonging the inevitable, but you comply with his wishes. You loosen the back of your gown clumsily, having to untie the laces by reaching back and fumbling around till the ties come undone, enough to slide the heavy fabric down and off, stepping out of your behemoth of a skirt. And then youâre left in your stays and chemise, grateful, at least, for the warmth of the room as you shed your few layers.Â
When you dare to look across the room at your husband, you gasp quietly at the sight of his bare back. Heâs somehow even broader, stronger with his clothing off, the expanse of his muscular shoulders, the dimples at the base of his back, right above-Â
You avert your eyes again, trying to focus on removing your stays, but the laces start higher up on your back than the dress, hard to reach and even harder to untie, and thereâs no ladyâs maid here to help you. He must hear your frustrated whine as you twist and bend your arms to try and get ahold of the ties, because he asks if you need help, without even turning towards you, still keeping his promise not to look.Â
You lock up at the question. Your cheeks are already heated from your frustration, but you can feel blood rushing to your face again at the prospect of him so close when youâre in such a state of undress, but you remember thereâs no use. He will see much more of you, very soon.Â
âPlease.â You finally acquiesce, and only then does he turn, crossing the room as soon as you ask.Â
You keep your eyes low, not wanting to scandalise yourself further with more glimpses of his body, and gasp at the feeling of his hands brushing against your back.
âIs this alright?â He asks, stilling.
âYes. Itâs fine, your highness.â You say, automatically, again. Powerless to deny him anything.Â
He makes quick work of the knots, pulling the laces on your back loose till he can slip it over your head easily, then retreating from you. You frown, again, at his delays. Almost hoping heâd get it over with already.
When he reappears before you, he is clothed in a light tunic, loose and worn from frequent use, and similarly loose britches. He barely glances at you as he climbs into bed, burying himself under the thick duvet, as if truly readying himself for slumber.Â
You stay put, in just your chemise, still lingering in the entryway like you could bolt out of the room. His gaze fixates on the ceiling.
âYou may come to bed, if you wish.â He says. âOr sleep on the futon, or wherever else you desire. I will not interfere with your sleep.â
You step forward. Hesitant. Slow. Disbelieving. It takes you forever to approach the bed, and an embarrassing amount of effort to climb onto it, as it was clearly built with his size in mind. Itâs expansive, much bigger than your own, and covered in more blankets and plush, goose-feathered pillows than you can count, the sheets like silk against your skin. Thereâs ample space between you and him, laying on opposite sides of the mattress.
âYour highness,â You start, once youâve situated yourself comfortably on top of the bed. âSurely, you know that- that you must-â
âSleep, my wife.â He says, exhaustion creeping into his voice, his eyes already shut. âBoth of us must sleep. Itâs been a long day, for us both.âÂ
You do not sleep.Â
You sit there for a long while, unable to fall asleep as he does, studying him, watching his face go slack and his breathing deepen as he falls into his slumber. With him so still like this, unconscious to the world, you finally have the liberty of truly, openly staring at your new husband.Â
He has been kind, against your every expectation. He has been considerate, and has never once shown you anger, even as you repeatedly displayed your fear in front of him, your fear of him. Your resistance hasnât seemed to phase him. You remember again, staring at him like this, that he is incredibly handsome. The curls that had no doubt been slicked back this morning are falling onto his forehead, bringing a smile to your face, despite yourself.Â
When you finally climb under the covers, settling into the mattress, with your eyes still on him, like at any moment heâll transform into the husband youâd imagined youâd have, twice your age and unforgivingly brutal. But he remains the same, a peaceful expression on his face, quiet snores escaping him.Â
You decide, then, to trust him for the night. And as you close your eyes, you allow yourself to wonder, for the first time, if you may have married a good man.Â
Oh he is such a wonderful man <3 I love the way youâve described the language barriers, and the colors of his uniform, it all feels very naturally Superman while also being perfect for this au
Amnesia fic and itâs you waking up in the hospital to a sleeping Simon Riley in the chair at your bedside. Which is confusing, because who is he?
Amnesia fic but itâs Simon Riley finally closing his eyes after 48 hours of standing vigilantly in your hospital room, waiting for you to wake up. Waiting, because he canât risk you opening your eyes and turning to a nurse or doctor with a panicked face, trying to tell them that he did this to you.
You wake up with a pounding ache running from your eye sockets, all the way through your temples right to the back of your head. It feels like someoneâs actively trying to pull your eyeballs out of your face, and you have to scrunch your eyes, hands clenching as you writhe in pain.
Then as you seethe, you feel the horrible burn in your lungs, like acid had burned holes across the expanse of the organs. âEasyâ easy, careful-â A nurse rushes over, latching an oxygen mask over your face and finally you breathe properly again, chest starting to slow down.
âWhat..â Your voice comes out hoarser than it should, eyes blinking rapidly now as you look around the room in sheer confusion. âWhere..?â
âYou fainted from the toxic fumes in your lab. In fact, itâs all being investigated right now, so don't worry.â The nurse's hand settles on your hands, holding you down a little too firmlyâ almost wearily.
âInvestigated..?â You blink slower now, settling flat against the bed as your brows furrow in confusion.
âThe chemicals in your lab were strong enough to damage your organs, thankfully not harshly enough that they wouldn't recover though.â The nurse explains, not caring much about your wince as they push the iv you had accidentally loosened back into place. âWe have reason to believe you also may have self destructive behaviour with the chemicals, so youâll be banned from your lab for a whole month.â
The last sentence is what has been ringing in your head practically all day now.
Banned from the lab.
For self destructive behaviour?
Sure, you often pushed yourself hard but the safety guidelines were embedded into your bones since you held your first welding gun. Truthfully you can't believe how they couldâve even come to that conclusionâ you were always on time for your checkups too! Something had to be wrong, this had to be a mistake.
Itâs only later than afternoon that you finally get discharged, although very reluctantly from your constant coughing. Thankfully you were supplied with an inhaler to manage it, and you tuck it into the pocket of your clothes as you change out of the hospital gown. Just as you secure your belt, you notice how loose it sits in its usual notch, your loss of mass confusing you.
Before you can question it, a knock sounds at the door, startling you. âItâs the Captain.â
Immediately you still. If your sudden ban had agitated you so much, there was no way he wouldnât be just as furious. It was like all of the memories of the past months had crashed down, and it didn't help that the thoughts had lingered in your dreams all night. But.. you knew you werent self destructive. He knew that too. If anyone was to help you contest this banâ he could!
You move forward to open the door, teeth gritting as your entire body straightens up, preparing to argue your case. âCaptainââ
âHow are you doing?â
His question immediately catches you off guard, making you hesitate before stepping back and letting him into the room. âWell..â You begin, but hesitate. If thereâs one thing youâve learnt through all of this, its that only the mission matters and not any personal problems. And itâs better you don't anger him with fluffy details. âYou probably heard I'm banned from the lab, but i think thereâs been a mistake, iâve never one intened to harmâ-â
âThatâs enough, I already agreed to their decision. Itâll do you some good.â
You blink, surprised but he just steps forward, hand settling on your shoulder. âYou really need to take a breakâ we never intended for you to harm yourself like that.â
ââââââ-
âHey, youâre alive!â Soap exclaims as you line up and grab your tray. You barely get a second before his hand slaps your back, sending you into a fit of coughs..
âWhaâ the â heâll?â You wheeze each syllable out. The chemicals had left you still suffering from a shortness of breath, making you gasp desperately as you rummage in your pocket for the inhaler they prescribed. His face falls as you pump air into your lungs with far too much force. Though the pressure in your chest finally settles, leaving you with a deep frown..
âI didnât mean taeââ He begins, reaching out but you just shrug him off, too annoyed by his careless actions. âAhâm sorry. Just glad to have ye back again, Price said he found you.. errr.. passed out or somethinâ
So first he had the audacity to hit you and then he admits he didn't even care enough to know what happened?
You blink away the anger bubbling in your chest, not wanting to have yet another fit in this very busy hall.
What the hell is up with you anyway? Just snap out of these rebellious thoughts alreadyâ he didn't mean to harm you.
âYeah, well, I'm okay now.â You mutter back, afraid to say more else you really do bark at him. Damnit you were so tired.
âWell, thatâs good eh? So im thinking for my next weapon-â
âIâm not allowed in the labs for a month, don't even bother.â You knew you were being harsh, assuming that his only concern was his next weapon and not your wellbeing. Surely youâre villainising him againâ stop that.
âReally?â He seems surprised and it only serves to anger you more.
âYes, really.â
He falls quiet as you serve the rest of your food, seemingly at a loss for words now. Itâs only when you finally grab your water bottle does he get it for you, placing it on your tray.
âBut you can still draw up plans, right?â
Youâve never wanted to punch a colleague more in your life but of course, you can't. So you grit your teeth, and force a smile. âI suppose, if I'm not too ill to move that is.â And with that, you leave him standing, walking off and out the mess. However, despite your heart screaming that it was a win in your books, you couldn't help the heavy weight on your chest. Why did you have to be so rude to him? He just wanted your expertiseâ if anything it should be considered a compliment.
The food doesn't even interest you anymore, and you barely have most of it before throwing it out.
ââ
The next day doesn't fare any better for you. Youâre overwhelmed with coughing fits even in the shower and it didnât help that your entire body ached. Something about damage to the nerves in your hands and feet, apparently. You couldn't listen to the nurses much over the whirring oxygen machines.
âYou alive..?â The short knock at your door has you agitated, the pounding headache thatâs been eating at you all morning only throbbing harder.
âBarely..â You mumble beneath your breath, slowly padding over to the door before weakly opening it to meet Gaz.
âYou know you shouldn't hole yourself up here doing work all dayâ itâs good to take breaks.â
âActually I haven't done anything today..â You hate that you have to fight off the urge to mention the harsh symptoms youâve dealt with for the entire morning. After all, only focus on the mission, thatâs it.
âOhâ? Are you on medical leave? I know youâre banned from the labs but..â
Youâre half tempted to close the door right in his face at this point but something tells you that would be a very bad idea. Itâs just so ironic, that he only knows the facts connected to your job but not the medical symptoms they causedâ
You have to shake your head to snap yourself out of it, giving him an awkward shrug instead. âNo, technically I'm not on leave.â
âOh.. so why aren't you working?â
You honestly wish you could make him feel the pain throbbing through your body at this very moment, but you can't because thatâd probably make you guilty of assault. You force another smile, swallowing firmly. âThe chemicals I work with have left me with bad shortness of breath and nerve damage. Maybe tomorrow I can write up your plans, Kyle.â
You watch as his face slowly drops, but it doesn't make you feel any more satisfied.
âOh- I didn't know.. Did you not follow the safety protocols?â
That was your last straw, and honestly you felt way too close to your legs giving out right now so you just do what you do best, shrugging. âProbably.â Agreeing with his words are easier than contesting them, and soon enough you get to slump back into bed again and pass out.
ââ-
Two weeks have passed since then, mainly because youâve been avoiding them like the plague this entire time. But itâs also good for you too, finally able to settle your mind from the months of stress youâve been put through. You sleep more hours, finally do the things youâve been putting off, and youâre starting to find love in your work again. Besides, having a break from them has given you time to sort out your feelings and the mismanaged anger you always seemed to have towards them. They were soldiers with a job! You couldn't expect them to chase after you.
You stop by the mess hall at a later time today, and since you already ate with them that morning you don't really mind doing the same now.
âHi.â You grin as you take a seat at the end, Gaz shuffling up for you. âHowâd your training session with the lower ranks go?â Of course, you grin, only focusing on his day because youâve learnt now not to talk about yours.
âWent quite well, actually. Got a good bunch for once.â He replies, scooping a final spoonful into his mouth whilst you grab your first.
You hadn't been eating in the mess that much recently, mostly from being too weak in your first few days off. Now you couldn't help but salivate at the food sitting there, no matter how crappy it could be sometimes.
That means you end up eating a little too quicklyâ the dessert actually looks good today, and this was one of the few serotonin boosters in your life.
âArent you going to slow down?â Ghost comments, sitting opposite, and his eyes narrowed on your plate. Immediately you pause, giving him a sheepish smile as you swallow down the last bite you shoved in.
âSorry, âm pretty hungry today.â You chuckle, because youâve all had your moments, especially how they usually scoff their food down after a hard mission.
âFrom what, eh? Yer not even working right now.â
You turn to see Soap snort at his own words, after practically licking his own plate clean. He pats Gaz who snickers too, leaning back in his chair and locking his eyes onto you as well. âHeâs right, you know. Like- weâre actively doing physical work all day, and then paperwork on top of that.â
âI guess- iâm still a bit ill andââ
âDont you just sit in your room for most of the day?â Ghost adds, tilting his head in your direction, especially when your fork reaches for the dessert next.
Itâs so embarrassing, your stomach feels queasy as you feel the burn of all of your eyes on you. Theyâre staringâ judgingâ your choices. They don't even think you deserve to eat, and hell, theyâre right, aren't they? You haven't been doing any work so theyâre not actually wrong. They keep on looking at you expectantly though, like you have an answer for why youâre hungry despite the fact you don't deserve it.
The worst part was that Price wasn't even here to defend you right now. He would, right? Surely. You were told he was the one that brought you to the infirmary in the first place, so he definitely would say something.
âOh.. I guess so.â You say awkwardly, eyes darting downwards as Soap laughs before reaching over to snag your dessert plate.
âHere, iâll do ye a favour? Ye don't want it, do ya?â All you can do is shake your head slowly, watching as he scoffs it down without a second thought, continuing a conversation with Ghost like they hadn't just humiliated you.
You slip into his office, the nerves in your fingers tingling but not as queasy as the ones in your stomach. Itâs been two days since, and not only has their behaviour worsened but your increasing annoyance has only come back full force again. The guilt is only hitting you full force, especially as you draw closer to snapping. All you want is to be good.
âHm? What brings you here?â He looks up from where heâs sat at his desk, a box of cigars peeking out one of his drawers as you get closer.
âYour soldiers, thatâs what.â You huff, trying to make it seem more like a joke than anything. Itâll lessen the blow but not the churning feeling in your gut.
âThose muppets? If theyâre trying to convince you to go back into the labs, youâre still banned.â
âI know, i know.â You slump into the small chair to the side, limbs crumpling almost immediately. This was almost the same as the first time you made a successful weapon.
It was so long ago now, but you remember them finding you immediately after the mission was over, Soap practically squeezing your half awake body so tight as he rambled over how well it worked. From then on, you were asked a million things all the time, even from other Lieutenants and as much as you loved to see your work thrive, it was exhausting. So you had found yourself escaping into the Captainâs office, just like you were now. Except that time he let you talk about whatever, and he also conversed back with you, until you even came over to help him with organising the more menial paperwork and the clock starting flashing midnight.
âWhat did they do?â His voice snaps you out of the memory, and you sit up a little more, one hand rubbing your neck.
âFeels like none of them even acknowledge iâm sick.â It came out way more bluntly than you intended, but even as you glance up, his eyes dont meet yours.
âCant expect them to know everything about you.â
You let out a laugh at his words, assuming heâs being sarcastic; he had to be.
âI mean itâs hardly more than the bare minimum. They remember whenever i say iâm working on something they want but not that i passed out two weeks ago?â
âEveryone passes outâ theyâve had more broken bones than you can count.â His nonchalance on the matter has you furrowing your brows until you sit up properly so you can watch him.
âI passed out because of prolonged exposure to chemicals, pretty sure thatâs not as simple as a broken bone.â
âWell what would ya like then, huh? You want em to deliver your food and rub your back?â He huffs and leans back in his chair for a moment, fingers pinching his brow as you just look at him in confusion. You were supposed to come to your Captain for help, but he looked like you just told him that you had plans to revolutionise.
âIâm just saying.. they keep demanding things of me that I can't give. Iâve been able to make the prototypes on a good day, but even then sometimes i lose my breath just from small things and ââ
âAre you here just to complain?â
Taken aback, you just stare at him blankly, before slowly standing. âWhat..?â
âLook, kid. This is the military, yeah?â He says it so condescendingly it makes your brows start to narrow, especially by how his eyes pierce into yours. âWeâve all worked through injuries and tough times before. Torture sometimes too. Your incident caused a lot of trouble, you know? Weâre lucky I convinced them you were self destructive.â
âYou.. told them that?â It suddenly clicks in your head, why the nurses watched you like you would snap, why the psych eval had taken much longer and was far more intrusive than ever. You had no idea why you had been attending therapy sessions regularly either. âIâm notâ you know that. Why would you blame it on that?â
âI cant afford a bloody inspection right now, kid. We have lives to deal with, missions to plan. It wasnt even hard to argu you breached the safety requirements.â
âYouâre the one who made me push past the safety guidelinesâ you and the others demanded that of me!â
âI lied for everyone's sake. Your job would be hardly affected by that kind of claim unlike the others.â
âNoâ this was never about me, was it? Itâs always you- Soap, Gazâ always you all!.â
He lets out a long sigh, eyes closing for a long second before he stands, right before you with his arms crossed. âLike i saidâ this is the military, not your university. Weâre here to get the job done, and if you cant handle a bit of roughing up, then maybe this isnt for you.â
âAre you.. asking me to quit?â After everything youâve done, all the weapons that helped them through every mission. Every prototype, every plan.
âYouâre either in or you're outâ I want no more of this nonsense and complaining.â He huffs, turning around to place the files in another cabinet. Itâs obvious he clearly expects you to stay in; it was more of a rhetorical question. He knows youâll never actually leave.
âFine.. then Iâm out.â
âGood nowâ- what?â He turns, watching your hand tremble as you grip onto your access card. âStop your games, youâve got work to do too you know.â
âI quit, Captain Price.â You say, knowing itâs the right decision. Youâre terrified of just quitting everything right here and right now. But youâre also angry, and frustrated, and most of all, betrayed. By yourself for not realising sooner, by the taskforce for treating you like a tool and by him for expecting you to follow his every whim.
The card clatters as you drop it on his table, leaving you with your id so you can still sign the official resignation and then leave through the general access doors.
You step back before he can say more, letting the door swing behind you as the tears well in your eyelids.
âââââââ
i wanted more angst hehe
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