I'm not sure how many people will see this but I'm looking for a long(ish) fic (COD preferably, smutty, maybe a little slow burn, need something to take my mind of the current state of the world or my car will end up over the side of a bridge <3
Edit: I'm always looking for recs so feel free to shoot some my way (Thank you!<3)
P.S. when I write (rarely) I usually tag it as rambles
just had to block someone so quick reminder that zionists are not welcome on this blog. genocide supporters, apartheid supporters, bigots in any sense, are never, ever welcome on this blog. i will block you when i see that shit. get OUT
loving never did me no good (so why am i lying now?) | simon x reader | +18
He calls, and you can't help but answer.
tldr: you and Simon have been separated for months by now, yet he refuses to take you off his emergency contact list. [ao3]
tags: explicit sexual content, fem!reader, depictions of physical injuries, emotional manipulation, forced caretaking, (dubious) consensual impregnation, not exactly breeding definitely babytrapping, simon calls himself "old man" meaning husband not in a fauxcest way
[Mar 12, 2.14 PM] (linked Google Calendar reminder)
[Mar 12, 2.14 PM] Please come sign
[Mar 12, 2.16 PM] Simon I'm so serious
[Mar 12, 4.43 PM] Stop having your shit sent here
[Mar 12, 4.44 PM] I've had to reschedule with the lawyer twice. Stop fucking bailing!!! And stop! Fucking! Having! Your shit sent here!!!
[Mar 13, 7.20 AM] I told the lawyer to send it to your email. Check it.
[Mar 13, 7.21 AM] Password $TWAT!5 i think
[Mar 15, 8.06 AM] simon for fucks sake i know you use your email check it
Divorce leaves you with an embarrassing amount of free time. Like many women on the other side of a relationship, you find yourself in desperate need of a hobby.
Call it perhaps naĂŻve optimism, but decades of movie-induced psychosis had you somewhat convinced that after ending a marriage your life would fall into that frazzled chase towards the proverbial moving on. Your Bridget Jones-esque era, so to speak.
You're certain you've done all the steps. Bought a tape dispenser to pack your shared life into tidy cardboard boxes, called the notary, fixed the doorbell tag, endured the pity comments, drank the gifted celebration wine bottles (expensive), had the obligatory celebratory one-night stand (bad), and decided the backsplash had to go as it's only there because Simon liked it (he didn't. He positively did not care.)
You hate the backsplash tiles.
They'd been clearance stock from a hardware store, and when you'd seen the price, you had squealed so hard your husband had pretended to plug his good ear. His lips had thinned into that long-suffering line as your fingers curled around his elbow, tugging him towards the pallet. 'S ceramic crap, Simon had objected, tapping a nail against the PEI sticker. You'd rolled your eyes and had wanted to ask him exactly what he would know about tiling, but his hands had been already pulling the wallet out of his back pocket.
It took him two attempts and several YouTube tutorials he kept rewinding every ten seconds, but he got them up in the end. You sucked him off as repayment with your knees to the kitchen floor, tracing lazy circles across the white of his knuckles where they gripped the countertop.
They get stripped off in a manic yet satisfying fit of hysteria, and now instead of ignoring them, you ignore a sticky note over bare plaster reminding you to call the remodel company.
Hot pilates seems as good as any distraction, and your therapist's office sits between the studio and your house. It's convenient: you can waste an hour on some very pricey lies and then go shed the guilt along calories and sweat. You squirm on the love seat and nod along her words when it seems appropriate.
"I think it would help if it were a more... A cleaner cut," you stammer. Your tongue is dry but you've achieved what you think is the perfect interested-but-nonchalant posture and you don't want to risk it for the glass of water. "I still get all his stuff, you know. His medical records and his phone bills, it's... Confusing."
Your friends occupy every Thursday and Saturday night since last October. They sit criss-cross applesauce on the wood of your living room for movie night, swing by the day after potluck for their washed casserole bowl. You get passed from one hand to the other in the most absurd game of "who has it", a watchful eye forever on you and your spine of jello.
Around them, it's easy to forget you've lost the flock. You fall into step without thinking, borrowing their direction for a few hours. Let yourself be carried on the same current, trusting they know where they're going.
Instagram fills your head with christenings and birthdays while you stack the dishes in the sink. The washer-dryer gets stuck on heavy duty. You take a shot in the dark.
[Mar 23, 11.06 P.M] [Attached image] ?
It makes you feel a little less pathetic that he answers immediately.
[Mar 23, 11.06 P.M] control lock on have to turn it off
[Mar 23, 11.15 P.M] nite pet
It should feel nice, that two can play the same game. You don't respond anyway.
The next morning, you check the mail before heading out for work. Wedged between letters and advertising flyers, you find another health record. This time there's a full STI panel in the summary.
[Mar 24, 7.03 AM] youre not funny
The call comes at 3 A.M.
Your car is on and out of the driveway before you've even fully realised what Price's voice is saying, streaming out of the speaker. They got the short end of the stick on the outskirts of northern Paris, and then had to get EVAC'd out of there because Simon almost bled out in a helo.
The team at Queen Elizabeth's Centre for Defence Medicine extracts two bullets from your ex-husband's side, nestled between his spleen and his pancreatic artery. A couple millimetres in a different direction, and you'd be getting a death notification instead of a call from the ICU.
You sit on the plastic benches just outside the OR block and stare at the linoleum until a woman timidly scooches over. She's waiting for her daughter, a ruptured appendix she tells you, and she cuts the biggest orange you've ever seen in slices to coax into your hands.
"Who are you waiting for?" She asks, and your eyes decide they no longer have the strength to contain the neurotic tears you've been holding in.
She pats your back awkwardly, a little maternal, and makes soft cooing sounds as you sob into your palms, pressing your nose and your mouth into your fingers.
You picture him lying there, on a steel anatomical table, the surgeon suctioning his blood into numbered plastic bags. You wonder if they've given him something for his head. His neck hurts, if he uses a pillow that's too thick. You hope they've found him a flat one.
For a moment, you imagine that he does die, and that you're relieved. You rub against the front of your throat when that makes your stomach turn until you feel sick.
The tears slip into your mouth, iodine and sweet juice.
"There, dear," the woman tuts, smoothing over your hair. "I'm sure everything will find its place."
You're not sure how to feel about it, that you couldn't answer her question.
The zipper of your bag leaves a red imprint like a scar across your cheek. You attempt to rub it away as the nurse leads you through the frigid corridor of the unit, shoes squeaking and cleaning agents stinging the lining of your nostrils. She makes you wear funny green covers for your shoes and hook a mask over your ears, showing you how to work the gel disinfectant into your hands.
Your bag slips off your shoulder as you peek through the gap, pushing the heavy door of the room open.
A wet laugh surges from you, completely involuntary, because Simon truly looks ridiculous. Sprawled out on a mattress somehow too small for him, cast leg propped on a metal sling, oxygen cannulas skewed over his top lip, away from where they're supposed to rest against his nose. They must've had trouble dressing him, because his gown is sagging down his arm, loosely tied behind his neck.
Half of it must be his own making given that he's leaning over the edge of the bed to smash his clunky fingers onto the screen of a beeping machine. He turns his head to look at you and you take a step back to rest against the doorpost. Your hands itch with the need to touch him, to check...
His chest heaves into a great sigh when he flops back against the pillows. "Sweetheart," he burrs, nodding his chin towards the equipment. "Giv'us a hand, yeah?"
You think about hitting him, but you're sure they'd throw you out.
He watches as you drag your feet towards the bed, letting your bag drop to the floor so you can inspect the monitor. His chin dips again with encouragement when your hand hovers on the side buttons, and the half-moons under his eyes have your heart give a pained squeeze.
"Simon," you start, hating how your voice turns wet. "Oh my God. Are you okay?"
Your ex-husband cocks his head to the side, like he's taking your measurements, and the line of his mouth softens. "None o'that," he tells you, patting the seat of the chair next to his head, "c'mon, you're breakin' my heart."
He lets you sniffle a little, stretching to the nightstand to offer you a tissue box as you start rubbing your eyes. You take one out of politeness, but there's really no need: they are so puffy and dry you'd be surprised if they'd manage to produce something. Still, you jam one end into your inner corner and hope at least to clear some crust from sleep.
"How long you been 'ere."
"Since four, maybe. What happened?"
Simon scans the room and you're sure he's fishing for a clock, but he winces when his eyelids flutter in the harsh lights and he covers one with a knuckle. "Ah, nothin'."
Some part of you must still have enough hope because you wait for him to offer up more. It never comes, predictably, and you wind your arms around yourself and drop your gaze as old resentment floods your mouth.
It makes him sigh again, a heavy noise that bleeds into a groan somewhere in the middle. "Not keepin' secrets, you wouldn't understand half o'it. Who called ya?"
"Price," you admit reluctantly, twisting the point of your shoe against the ground. You find the action immediately childish, so you stop by shifting in your chair and knocking your knees together. "I told you to take me off it."
The hand he had to his eye falls down over his barrel chest as it wavers up and down with his shallow breaths. There are scrapes there you didn't notice before, at the start of his wrists and up his forearms where the tactical jacket must've rolled up. He's more gauze than skin there, between the plasters and the IV dressings.
"Been busy."
"I've called the office. Says you didn't authorise it."
"Right," you scoff, primming your lips. Perhaps you don't make the best decisions in a panic. His team would've taken care of him, so there's no need for you to be here. What a clean cut you'll get if your hands keep trembling around the handle.
Your bag is halfway from the floor when his hand dangles off the bed, right in front of your face. His index hooks into the strings of the mask, nail scraping lightly against your temple, and then he's pulling it down until it rests on your chin. Your eyebrows knit together as you look up at him and his thumb smoothes over one of them, hair catching on the callouses.
He's staring at you with that complete impassivity that can only mean he's thinking very hard.
"You look nice."
Sometimes, it's easy to forget that out of the two of you he's the better butcher.
Taking him home isn't a planned thing, nor a welcomed one. He spends eleven days in the hospital and you manage to limit yourself to one other visit only, just to really assure your brain that he's out of death's grip so you can leave this whole thing behind and go back to dismantle what's left of your marriage.
It's sprung up on you. You ask him what's the prognosis and he clucks his tongue and rubs his nape until he feels like he's made you work enough for it.
They won't let him go back to his flat. The stitches on his side are still precarious and his broken leg hobbles him even with crutches, so for once in his life, it seems Simon isn't trusted to take care of himself. The medical team is still too concerned about the risk of infection and hemorrhage to leave him be without observation.
"I thought you said your spleen was fine." Your eyes squint while you help him arrange his lunch tray precariously on his knees. The dedicated support attached to the bed doesn't fit over the width of his thighs.
He sucks his teeth before using them to tear open the oil packet. "It is. Just nicked it."
The rest of his unit has been sent on action already, gone a day or two after his injury. It's protocol, but you stare at the way he tightens when he shifts wrong and think that he looks a bit like a toy someone has gotten tired of playing with.
He eats around his words, hunched over the food like a big animal of prey. He's not one to complain, but you catch the way his crooked nose twists when he gives the spare bed in the room a sideways glance. He tells you that some kid blew his fingers off like it's to spite him personally.
"Thought I'd get some R&R, at least," he grumbles, licking meat glaze off the knife. "Have to share wit' a wanker who can't keep the spoon still."
You know you shouldn't say it, but it comes out anyway.
"Do you, uhm..." Your brain tells you to backtrack, twisting your voice until it's all strangled. "Do you want to come stay at the house? I work, so it's not like we'd see eachother much and I can... Yeah, I can help you out."
It wins you a taste of the laser focus he's capable of. "Oh, pet," he croons, making your toes curl inside your shoes. "S'not a good idea, innit?"
You shrug your shoulders, prickly with vulnerability you've grown unused to. It feels a bit like rejection, and can't figure out why it hurts. The plastic covers of the meal gather into your palms, and you cringe when condensation dampens your skin.
Simon reaches for you when you try to move to the bin. His thumb and forefinger close around your wrist, feeling for your heartbeat.
"Don't want to take advantage," he adds, and you know him too well to ignore what swims in his eyes. You pretend not to see it.
"You'd do it for me."
He licks his lips, and the hesitant press around your wrist turns full, hand circling it completely. "Yeah," he agrees, "of course I would."
The fact that the divorce was your idea goes without saying.
It's unclear exactly which cog had stopped turning, but one day you'd woken up to the uncanny feeling that no time had passed since the day before. Simon had been somewhere in the other hemisphere, and you'd stumbled through the twenty-four-hour cycle of your life with an inexplicable anxiety.
You'd felt like one of those birds that smash again and again on a window they can't see, desperate for something beyond the glass.
Then Simon had come home, and time had resumed moving. It had scared you terribly.
You try to keep it from heading there, now. In the morning you leave for work and attempt to think of anything else other than where Simon will be once you return. At times you find him wandering the back garden, checking the tree roots' stability with the end of one crutch. Others he's at the kitchen table, typing clumsily on a laptop with Tesco-bought plastic glasses precariously perched on the tip of his nose. Most of the time he doesn't even bother putting them on correctly, with one arm going over the ear and not behind.
Taking care of something gives a direction to your life that's been missing. You like that he has to listen to you, now.
He doesn't object when you nag him about taking his meds and makes such deep, growling noises of appreciation for your cooking they go right down to your stomach.
His thank-yous come in service, always, so he fixes the wardrobe door that's been giving you trouble and checks all the lightbulbs of the house. You're reminded of how many things he sees that you don't: your car oil too low, loose window latch in the bathroom. The fact that your neighbour's garage has been broken into twice since Christmas.
He spends a Saturday afternoon replacing locks and tinkering with the security system. You're only informed when a new set of keys is delivered into your hand.
"You can't change stuff in my house without telling me," you try to admonish him, pretending to not be distracted by the rolled-up sleeves of his sweated t-shirt. "You know normal people just call someone for this, yeah?"
"Aye," he says around the cigarette dangling from his lower lip, "get ya a three-weeks wait and a half-arsed job. You need this done now."
This is what you've been missing: to not have to explain yourself. The few (try two) dates that you've been on since you and Simon split have failed for the same reason. You can't expect someone to know you when there's no history, but it's a hard adjustment coming from a long-term relationship.
There's no need to faff around with Simon. You don't have to explain why it's a grand thing, when you're late at the end of the work day and enter the house and tell him that your sister is pregnant. Due in September, after a third cycle of IUI.
He turns the toy you've picked up from the store on the way home in his hands. "You think 'bout it?" He asks, waits for the moment it takes for it to click in your head.
"What, about kids?"
Sometimes, you want to say, but it seems unfair to say it to him. Parenthood was always off the table, to your agreement as well. How does one raise a child when their father is across the globe half a year. The idea was shelved and replaced with something else, and for a while it had worked.
"Don't know," you're hesitant to respond, torturing the inside of your cheek. "Depends on who comes along, I guess."
He hums, stare never leaving your face. "Sounds about right."
Simon knows just when he has to push with you, and where. You're aware he lets you ramble so you're distracted when he tugs your feet into his lap, press his thumb into your socked arches. Because he knows you, you let him.
Your former uni roommate glowers at you over clementine martinis when you go out drinking. Your ex-husband has been stashed in your house for two whole weeks and you've yet to tell a single soul. It would've gone on longer, but after you'd called a rain check on your Thursday-Saturday meetups twice in a row, your friends were nearly committed to an intervention. You managed to de-escalate it down to drinks, hoping the alcohol would help, but perhaps a tĂȘte-Ă -tĂȘte hadn't been your brightest idea.
"It's just until the end of the month," you reiterate, sounding too much like you're justifying yourself.
There's no particular amount of affection that your inner circle holds for Simon, and you're quite sure it has decreased significantly since your separation. No need to fake appearances once a friend's insufferable partner is out of their life.
"I don't know, babe," she grimaces, stirring her drink with a straw. "It's kind of fresh, you don't even have the papers signed. I don't think it's the healthiest thing."
"It's practical. And, c'mon, what was I supposed to do? Leave him there? It's temporary and it's... It's fine, it's nothing."
"All I'm saying is, you don't make the smartest decisions around him," she points out. Not like you can get mad at her if she's right.
You swirl the words on your tongue while you drive back.
The lights are all off and you wander into the kitchen, pulling open the medicine cabinet to rummage around for a paracetamol. The weather is not quite hot enough for summer yet, but you feel stifled under your dress, fanning your face with your free hand to dampen the alcohol-fed licks of heat travelling up your spine.
A shadow shifts in the corner of your sight and you scramble, whirling around and pressing against the counter so fast you almost land on top of it.
Simon turns his head away to curl his lips in that nasty manner that means he's amused, standing a few feet away as if not entirely sure you won't bolt. Your palm slides away from your heart, and you award him a blank look.
"Fuckhead," you chastise him, low because the anger has already bled out of you. Quiet is not something he decides on anymore.
He gives you a canine smile and saunters closer, holding his arm out for you to see. "Patch's comin' off," he explains, picking the corner of the dressing with his nails to show you how loose it is, nodding his head towards the cabinet.
The help isn't offered nor does it need to be, because he angles towards you and waits until you reach behind your back for the disinfectant and the box of plasters. You murmur that you're sorry when the glue pulls at the straw hairs on his forearm, and he hums softly like he's conversing with an animal he thinks a bit dumb.
"I like the dress," he tells you after a while, and when you look up briefly, he's sizing the length of your body approvingly. Your hips shift in response, correcting your slouch as you clean the skin around the wound. "When 'ave you worn this?"
"I haven't," you swallow, hissing when your fingers fumble opening up the new dressing. "Got it after you."
The massive curve of his shoulders hunch, closing in, and you don't think he liked that so much, that there's an after you. You stick the plaster in place and prepare to bite the bullet.
"You smell good," he interrupts eagerly, and it almost makes you give in.
"Simon, can you sign the papers?"
His eyes are so weird. They shift like earth, at times, one moment the light, rich brown of soil, warmed by the sunlight. Now they deepen, the ground opening in layers, pulling you further by a magnetic core, bubbling in their tar pits.
"What papers, love?" He asks it along a deep breath, lips pulling at one corner, like you're revising some old shared joke and he's helping you set up the punchline.
"The divorce papers. I have them in the office, we can..."
Your mouth opens, and you curl your lips to wet them, squeeze some moisture out of your dry mouth. Your hand lets go of his arm, but he moves his behind you to rest on the counter so he can bend you in a more comfortable position for himself, shifting you until you face him directly. You have to tuck your shoulders inwards or you brush against the cupboard.
"You know wha' I think," he mumbles, swiping his nose over the crown of your head. "I think tha' yer a little drunk, pet, and you're not talkin' straight."
In a broader sense, you already knew this was going to happen, so it's not exactly shock that twists in your gut when his fingers hike the skirt of your dress up your thighs. They pinch the softness there as they go, mean enough that you squeak, and he chuckles with his mouth fitted to your ear.
You fear for his stitches when he hoists you up on the countertop, trying to swat his hands away, but he's clever and he hooks the gusset of your underwear in the crease of your pelvis. You've been wet since you noticed he was in the kitchen, and the groan that rumbles up his throat when he discovers it punches you in the solar plexus.
"Fuckin' knew it, I knew she missed me."
It seems like memory doesn't fail him, because his thumb traces the folds at the top before he caresses the length of your labia, finding the pool of slick at your opening and smearing it back up.
You can't help but clutch at his shoulders, digging into the muscle. The heel on your left foot bangs against the wood behind it and threatens to slip away, but when you try to spread your toes to keep it on, Simon gives your clit a good jiggle that has you doing the opposite.
"Speakin' a load of nonsense with a cunt leakin' for me," he huffs annoyedly, muffled against the spot on your neck he's lavishing. He doesn't warn you, just presses hard against your clit and plunges two thick fingers into you, bullying the rim apart until it stretches over the thick of his knuckles.
"Simon-!"
The gasp is out of you before you can reel it back, and he uses the opportunity of your open lips and cram his tongue into your mouth, with such an insistence you'd think there isn't enough space. You try to duck your head away a little, keep this from turning tender, but he palpates the hinges of your jaw and strokes quick little jabs against your front wall that make your lips slack.
You cum dizzyingly fast, moaning when you suck instinctively on his tongue the way you know he wants you to.
Simon grins like the cat who got the cream when he decides to let you breathe again, rubbing your cheek in a rough back-and-forth with his thumb. No more sounds seem willing to leave your body, so you're silent as he tugs your panties back in place, smoothing the dress over your legs.
Unsure of what else to say, you palm his side with a delicate touch. "Are you hurt?"
"No, darlin'," he's quick to respond, lowering his head so he can plant an insistent kiss over your mouth. "Feel fuckin' fantastic."
The following week, you celebrate your birthday. It falls on a Saturday, so you'll go out to that nice rooftop bar you've been meaning to try with your friends and you'll pretend it's all a surprise. But on Friday, Simon orders your favourite Indian and almost gets offended when you try to pay him back. It makes you so awkward that you let him stamp a peck to the side of your head before settling on the couch to watch a film.
When 9 PM comes, he taps your biceps with his fingers. "Pill," he clicks his tongue, and you're somehow shocked that he remembered.
The truth gets wedged in your throat on its way out. Admitting to it seems like dangling intimacy in front of his eyes that you're not ready to depart from.
"Yeah, sure," you hum, feigning severe interest in the movie. "In a minute."
"No, not in a minute. Now."
You think about getting up and swallowing an ibuprofen, just to get him off your trail. But why should he have that control over you?
"I'm, uh, not on it anymore." Hand reaching for a curry chip, you sniff and stuff it between your lips, deciding to focus on the spice burning the roof of your mouth instead of the intense look he gives your cheekbone. "Didn't really seem useful. Thought I'd take a break."
The rest of the evening is spent convincing yourself that you don't care about his opinion rather than worrying whether he thinks it's a bad thing.
You make your wish over chicken korma and pray he hasn't yet figured out how to read your mind.
By the time the last week of the month rolls in, you've half-forgotten Simon is supposed to leave eventually. If it's slipping from your mind, then he's buried the thought so deep it may as well not exist. Every time he leaves for a health check-up, you wring your hands and wait for him to come back and tell you that the time is up, that he doesn't need you anymore. What is supposed to bring you solace now fills you with dread.
Spring is drawing to an end and you feel a part of your life goes with it.
Over dinner he tells you that his medical downgrade will be lifted when May comes, and you're grateful that he pretends to ignore your fork clattering against the plate. You twirl it around your fingers, tapping the tabletop with the flat end of it.
Steam curls from the pasta between you. Simon decided to cook for once, and you'd come home just in time to bear the results. "Clean across 1500 meters", you'd said, enjoying having to evade his grabby hands, "and defeated by a timer."
Now he eats like he's still in a mess hall, elbow planted wide across the table, barely looking at his plate. He's always had that about him. This is mine, his posture says sometimes, come and take it.
"That's good," is what comes when you manage to metabolize it as the prongs skewer a limp maccheroni, and he watches your mouth open for it.
You're not sure if it's irritation or embarrassment that twinges at your nape when he snorts, tilting his head away so you're only allowed one side of his face, watching the way the line of his mouth bleeds into the scarred divot on his cheek. It turns his whole face into one long, pitying grin.
You've seen the place he's supposed to return to. A stuffy cubicle crammed into the side of a duplex, so narrow you weren't sure it was fit for rent. He hadn't seemed interested in decorating, because it had been lacking any furniture aside from the basics, all dull popcorn ceilings and vinyl plank floors. You'd found a pack of condoms in the hardboard sidetable digging for the things he'd sent you to retrieve; shame somersaults in your guts at the memory of throwing them away.
Another noodle makes it into your mouth, and you swallow it along with the image of him noticing just as he's about to fuck another woman. "Will you go back?"
"Back where?" Simon says, stealing the last piece of bread for himself.
You go to answer honestly, but you lose your bravado. "Field. Your team left," you reply stupidly, as if he possibly couldn't know, "a few days after your surgery."
"Aye, probably. Kind o' need-to-know stuff."
The chair creaks under your shifting weight as you adjust, curling a foot towards your chest so it rests flat on the seat.
"Have you packed anything yet?"
"Plenty o'time."
He says it like time is something he can afford to waste, like leaving is an inconvenience to be dealt with only when necessary. He clears the plates without asking, carrying the stack to the sink while you rinse the cutlery. Silence grows thick, cut only by scraping metal and rushing water.
When you wander to check the back door, he looks up from where he's polishing a knife. "What're you doin'."
"Making sure it's shut," you reply with your hand still on the handle. The door gives a good rattle as you try the latch, putting some of your weight into it. The door gives a good rattle as you try the latch, putting some of your weight into it. The lock clicks, firm in its place even when tested under a second, harder shake. His mouth twitches and it earns him a mean glance in response.
"Checked it half an hour ago."
"So?"
"So you're starting to sound like me."
You laugh, but the sound catches somewhere in your chest when you try to make it real. He shifts away from the sink, setting the knife on the rack, sighing when you don't offer anything else.
"Someone had a go at Ms. Cooke's place. Police came sniffin' round."
"What?" You gape, abandoning the door to move back towards the kitchen island. Your stomach goes tight and unpleasantly hollow, and you can't stop your hand from pressing over it, as if that alone could help it settle. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Was tellin' ya now." His shoulder sways in disinterest, like he's swatting away a fly, watching you with that unnerving patience he gets when he's already decided on something. "S'fine. We've got the alarm."
When the tidying up is done, you go upstairs and stew in your anxiety. The night seems to have an in on your thoughts, because every little noise acquires intent. Your shoulders jump as you undress when the boiler settles with a knock in the walls, and later your eyes wander from your paperback towards the dark glass of the window, wind worrying at the fence panels.
A car door slamming is what sends you out of bed, resigned that you can't bear it anymore. You stick your fingers in your mouth, gnawing at the nails, and take laps around the first floor to inspect the dark corners of your home, the phone flashlight gripped in your palm as a weapon.
By the time you descend the stairs, you're embarrassed by yourself. You find Simon exactly where you've left him, sunk in the edge of the sofa with a Stella hanging lazily off his hand. Blue-white flashes from an old football match ripple across his face. He doesn't turn, but greets you before your feet have even landed from the flight.
"Oi."
There's no rush for an answer on his part, yet he still sighs heavily when it doesn't come. His eyes studies you, moving over your face with a quiet attentiveness you've never learnt to evade. "Still thinkin' bout Cooke?"
Your expression must answer for you, because he rubs a thumb over the condensation on the bottle before he's speaking again.
"If they're worth half o' their salt, they'll have scoped the place already." His chin dips towards the window without looking away from you. "Not stupid 'nuff to try while I'm in the house."
You know, of course you do. You've spent months alone in this very same building, and haven't spent a night turning in your bed about it. For some reason, it doesn't stop your stomach from churning tonight.
"Need me to come up?"
You're not strong enough to pretend that his weight on the mattress is not a relief. The sheets have been kicked to the end of the bed, room too stuffy for them to be useful, and you anchor a hand to the edge of the bed to keep yourself from rolling in his direction, gravity wanting to move you towards the alcove of his body.
Somehow, Simon feels bigger than you remembered. His breath rumbles when he stretches lavishly with one arm over his head, knee popping as he hangs his foot over the bed's end. The sound reverberates through the fabric, pulsing where your skin meets the topper. It turns physical when a hand touches between your scapulae.
Makes you jolt, eyes darting over your shoulder, finding the humped line of his nose bridge. His arm is still over his head, and he stares up at the ceiling while using the opposite to drag his knuckles up and down your spine. You don't have time to ask what he's doing before he answers.
"Stiff as a board," he chuffs. The fat joint of his middle finger digs into a sore spot dead centre on your back, and you tilt backwards in protest. " 'am makin' you nervous."
"Always," you reply, and he chuckles like he thinks it's a joke.
"And here I was hopin' it was the break-ins."
You give a sharp jiggle of your shoulders to knock his hand away, still too touched by the fact that he's sharing your bed to reassure you to bed truly mad. You keep tight to your pillow so there's no chance that he sees you smiling when he snorts, and fall asleep with his fingers tracing patterns over your back.
His tug wakes you. Your eyes flutter open mid-motion, rolling with the pull until your face plants against his chest. His breath wafts in your mouth before Simon tucks you under his chin, seemingly more content to take long huffs of your hair than facing you directly.
You're probably the only one conscious out of the two, which is why you don't move away. You take the precious opportunity, wallowing in the instinctive comfort it offers.
It's his smell you realise you've missed. Saliva drips liquid-hot on the back of your tongue as you press your nose to his throat. Dried sweat sticks to the crook of the arm beneath your head and in the hollow between his shoulder and neck, catching the back of your nostrils with acridness. It makes you press your thighs together, too embarrassed to consider rubbing them like you want to.
The pleasant floatiness of half-sleep is ripped away from you when his hand fists the fat of your calf to drag your leg over his hip.
"Wot 's it, baby," Simon slurs against the top of your head, and you gulp down your doe instinct with his voice under your ear.
You have to work the words through the tightness of your vocal cords and pull back a little from him so you can speak. "Sorry," you start, "just woke up. Think I rolled over."
The hand on your calf travels up, palming the length of your leg. When it reaches your ass, he sinks his fingers there like the pyjama trousers between you are a problem.
"Yeah." He ignores you when that makes you whimper, slapping his palm over your cheek a couple of times. It's not a smack, more of a pat, like he's testing the solidness of you. He grabs it again, this time a little bruising. "Need some touchin', do ya."
The familiarity of it confuses you. Your brain is not sure, as his palm moves to your front and up your shirt, if he should be allowed to do this. He's your husband and he's in your bed, but he's not. He's your ex and he's plucking your nipple between two fingers until he can catch your panting in his mouth, but you can't help it when it makes you rub your pussy on the muscle of his thigh.
"Please." You convince yourself you're begging him to stop, head spinning, but Simon must hear something else in your voice because the pad of his thumb flattens against the peak of your breast, and he flexes his leg to give you something harder to grind against.
"Bloody hell. Alrigh'," he groans, a punched moan, and the forearm behind your head curls so he can weave his fingers into your hair. Prickles bloom at your nape when he pulls, forcing your chin back so he can kiss you. His spit slips into your mouth, syrupy. Waxy sugar over candied apples, stuck behind your teeth out of your tongue's reach.
Whenever you get shy and try to inch backwards, he forces you again on his leg, pressing you so hard to himself that the rubbing verges between pleasure and burning. You know you're obscenely wet because he drags two fingers over the crotch of your pants repeatedly, trying to feel the moisture that seeps into the fabric.
"Goin' to be nice to me, uhm?" He croons, pressing his forehead to yours. He's gotten you desperate enough that your hips continue working even when his palm leaves them in favour of guiding you to the tent of his joggers. The hot, thick shape of his forces whines out of you, tip of your noses bumping. "So sweet for your old man, yeah."
The fabric moves and he's in your hand, weighty enough that it makes your cunt clench at the memory.
He has a cock that makes you want to touch it. He makes you want to touch him. You've known this since the first time you've slept together: there's a deliciousness in circling your fingers around the shaft, feeling the soft give of the veins gorging, swelling with his arousal. It has you hot in the stomach, eager when you find the tip angry and leaking already, slipping between your fingers until they're slick. You stroke him from the upside of his length, trapping yourself between him and his belly so you can feel the coarse hair on his pelvis tickle the back of your hand.
You imagine he made less noise when they shot him. He tries to muffle it by smashing your mouths together, cupping your cheeks to keep you still when you struggle to breathe.
"Fuck, tha's it," he hisses, bouncing his thigh when it makes you sigh pathetic little oh's. "Good girl, stroking my cock so good. Makes you wet as rain, uh? Ahhhh, fuck-"
Your head spins again, and this time it's because he's easing you on your back. It takes the pressure away from your achy pussy, and you claw at the dark where he's supposed to be only to come up empty-handed.
"Simon-" you call, until the bedside lamp switches on. He's already taking his shirt over his head. His back casts broad shadows across the wall, shifting with his wingspan, muscles flexing at the bottom of his sternum where they disappear into the soft fold of fat over his lower stomach. The ink on his bicep jumps when he fists his length, so tight you're sure it must hurt.
You realise the light is less for you when his free hand yanks your shirt until it rests at your collarbone, baring your breasts. He sucks on his teeth and settles on his hunches between your spread thighs.
"Lemme see," he beckons with a nod, barrel chest heaving. You feel pinned by his gaze, like there's no place else for you to be, and the head of his cock bobs up and down when he resumes stroking it. "Play with yer tits."
You oblige, strumming your nipples until they perk and rosy, coaxing gentle ripples of pleasure that move your hips in jerky circles. Every attempt to close your legs is stopped by his free hand.
"Baby," you sob when you're at your wit's end. You must hit whatever nail he was laying right on the head, because the stoic line of his brow softens and he shuffles forward towards you.
"You poor thing." Simon lets go of himself, tip slapping against his belly right under the surgery scar, in favour of pulling down your bottoms and panties all in one. His thumbs hook under your knees, and you gape up open-mouthed as he guides them towards your chest. "Been a'bad husband, haven't I?"
Your sight blurs, and he notices and cooes. Precum beads and drips to land on your inner thigh. His fingers seem a bit apologetic as they nudge you apart, pushing inside your cunt to make you sigh.
You want to cum, and you tell him with your walls spasming around his knuckles, shivering from the warmth of the tears leaking from your eyes and the warmth of the wetness leaking from your pussy. He wipes the former away and gives you a third finger to stretch on.
"Gonna be good to you from now on," he promises as he rolls you on your front, detangling the clothes from your feet. Your arms attempt to push you back around but a rough palm on your spine holds you down against the mattress.
"I'm-"
The head of his cock slips over your entrance, too slick to gain enough friction, your skin pulsing when he uses his fingers to wipe some of your wetness away. Looking back, you choke on your spit as you watch him lick them clean.
Simon cages you in, a fence of muscles over you, settling his elbows around your head when he punches his length into you. It's a bit stilted at first because he's not at the right angle, and it burns, paper-cut sharp. He soothes you with a kiss on your nape and gives you the rest of it.
You feel yourself open up for him, a caving space that wants for his shape. Your cunt gulps around his shaft, suctioning, pulling him further while you struggle to catch up, pressing your mouth to your forearm. "Ah, Simon, please-"
"S'okay," he says through gritted teeth, like he's telling you more than he's reassuring you. A hand fists your hair to have more of the back of your neck so he can bite you there when his hips start pumping. "I've got ya."
The train of your thoughts gets woozy after that, brain too winded in keeping conscious. The buzz at the base of your skull grows with each sound smack of his thighs against yours, skin prickling. You'll be red there tomorrow, and at the end of your spine where his abdomen chafes. His cock pistons deep behind your mons, sending direct waves to your redden clit as it rubs on the bed.
"My wife," Simon growls when his maw leaves your neck, pushing your head down when it tries to lift up. Your field of vision is entirely occupied by his bicep, jaw slack. He presses his nose into your cheek when you thump your forehead against his arm. "My fuckin' wife... Comin' on my fuckin' cock. Mine, my-"
"Fuck, please. Right there, ah, make me come," you keen, fucking yourself back, lifting your ass to meet his thrusts. You think you could cry when he balances on one arm to sneak the other under you, stroking his fingers on your clit. "Yes, Simon, yeah-!"
It's a full body spasm, a rolling tide, growing and growing until your throat is tightening around your pants and you're near silent, mouth open in teary sobs. The ring of your pussy draws so strict that he inhales like it stings before he's rocking hard against you, making your teeth clack together.
Once you're sated, his pace changes from rolling plunges to short stabs that makes you search for his fisted hand, so hard they make it for your lungs to expand. It loosens just a second, only to snake around yours, constricting like a noose.
You feel his cock throb, pulse against your rim, and you swipe your thumb over his knuckles. "Pull out," you try, voice smothered by his weight, "pull out. Baby-"
The sound is harsh when he shushes you, lips pressed right over your temple. His arms lock like a manacle, elbows digging in the mattress, mouth parted over your ear when he huffs like a bull.
"Givin' it to you," he warns, and something scampers in your guts. Your shoulders try to shift, but you're rendered near immobile under him. "Ya need it, yeah? Somethin' to fuss over. Yours and mine, pet. Uhm?"
Objecting is a useless attempt, because the only things that come out when you open your mouth are feeble moans and wheezing breaths. He must take your silence as a yes, and his cock pulls back all the way, right down to the head, before it's slamming inside in a few desperate thrusts.
They're a repetitive drumming, laden, heavy shoves that have the entire power of the muscles of his back and thighs. Your second orgasm comes like a tumble, catching you underfoot as he spills against your cervix, making you shiver with the viscous warmth of it.
He stays there for a while, nudging the back of your head with his nose while you both catch your breath. You pant against the mattress and wince when your pussy doesn't want to let him go, seizing up when his spent sloshes out of you as he slips out.
Simon gathers you up in his arms, pulling you astride his hips, letting you rest your cheek against his tacky pectoral. He tilts your chin up with two knuckles and kisses you until you gasp for air, just to make himself laugh.
"I love you, sweetheart," he smiles when you frown at him, sealing the words with another press of his lips.
You feel like the price is already paid. Whether by you or him, it seems unimportant.
Pregnancy doesn't agree with you, but you're so content you can hardly pay it any mind.
The feeling is self-inflicted, though, because people smile at you in the grocery store, eyeing the gentle curve of your belly, and your friends twist their fingers in your hair every night out, checking the quality of the locks. God, so the pregnancy glow is real! Why didn't I look like this? You know Simon agrees because he seems physically incapable of sharing your twenty inches radius without cupping some part of your body.
The first two months you could barely roll out of bed, and when you would, you'd have to sway towards the bathroom before nausea had you bent in half. Now on the cusp of your second trimester, the stubborn thing growing under your ribs seems happier to grant you the occasional uninterrupted walk.
You take your breakfast by skirting the trowels, tile cutters and floats strewn across your kitchen floor, pinching your nose when the sharp smell of grout catches in the back of your throat.
"Out," your husband commands, swatting your ass with a loud smack. You'd think that having done this once already would be helping him somehow, but he seems to be struggling more than the first time. There's no rush: you know he'll get it how he wants it in the end. "Shouldn't be breathin' this in. Go somewhere else."
You retreat with your tea and the morning post, humming along to the weather forecast intro while you sort through envelopes. Bills. A wedding invitation. A card from your godparents congratulating you on the pregnancy. Can the baby hear you yet? Does it recognise the sound of your voice and Simon's?
When you're in bed at night, it seems that it canâ it lands such kicks when its father presses his mouth to your abdomen to make silly noises for the pleasure of making you laugh.
A yolk-yellow paper clip slips from the stack and lands on the table. It takes a second to recognise it: the medical records from the night Simon was shot.
You push it aside to continue parsing through the remaining letters, but curiosity has you going back. The excerpt from the surgical record is nothing new. Two entry wounds to the abdomen (LUQ), no major arterial damage, minor damage to the splenic capsule. Patient underwent emergency exploratory laparotomy. Then there are the files from his hospital stay, the billing from the RXs and the reports of his blood work. The last page is his discharge notes.
Discharge destination: patient's residential address. Advice and caretaking: no heavy lifting 3mos, no contact exercise 3mos, see therapy section for pharmacy. No home care required.
The date stares back at you until Simon curses from the kitchen. You smooth the corner flat and slide it back beneath the paper clip.
"Simon?"
"Pet, c'mere. Come tell me how ya like it," he calls. You leave the documents in the foyer. You have so little time for things like this, nowadays.
etc etc etc guy best friend agrees to be your sperm donor and now he's furiously masturbating in your bathroom, knowing that this cup of cum is soon going to be inside you
All I can think about now is reader who's 141's secretary, the one they've all been eyeing. Only the panic when you tell them all you're about to go to a fertility clinic to pick out a donor in the morning. They've all got enough alcohol in them...
You get up to go to the bathroom and end up with 3 different propositions.
Gaz texted his 'You know, if you want to save some money, I'll volunteer my services.
Johnny found you in line waiting for the bathroom and decides to tell you 'I hear Scot's contribute to genetics of not breaking bones, might be nice to have a little fun while makin' a wee 'un.'
Ghost, on the way back from grabbing the next round, drops a blunt. "Wouldn't have to pay for me to finish if you can take me and I'd lick it clean too." And then he's off like he just told you that your shoe had come untied.
You excuse yourself, a little overwhelmed only for your Captain to herd you away to his vehicle. And once your trapped in that inclosed space, he's purring out like a raspy tomcat how nice he could make it for you.
john price who buys a plot of land and moves west, only to arrive after weeks on the trail and find a ramshackle little cabin already squatting on it. the whole place looks abandoned. reeks of neglect. he draws his gun and ventures in for a look anyway, see if he canât at least salvage the place to build his ownâand scares its lone resident, a woman armed only with a knife.
though it takes some time, skittish as you are, he talks you down. learns who you are and what youâre doing on his property. apparently, youâve been fending for yourself for months after your new husband took your horse into town for supplies and simply never came back. no letter or body, nor word from anybody who mightâve seen himâjust a house thatâs falling apart and a garden you depend on to keep you alive.
price shows you the deed and bill of sale to convince you he isnât some drifter or swindler trying to trick or rob you, and watches the fight go out of you when you realize what the papers actually mean, that the land was never your husbandâs to begin with. that this stranger has every right to put you out.
you were frightened before, but now youâre looking at winter coming on with no horse, hardly any money, nowhere to go, and truly no one left in the world. and price, whoâs spent his life living hard and thought that heâd spend the back half of his life alone, finds he canât stomach the sight of you standing there trying not to beg him mercy.
he looks at the growing calluses on your palms, the dirt under your fingernails, and the dried mud caked along the hem of your skirts, and he is struck. all those violent, bloody years he survived when better men did not? this must be what heâs been kept alive for. to come all this way to this slice of heaven and find you here.
so he strikes a bargain instead: you can stay through the next month while you decide what you want to do. in the meantime youâll help him make the place livable and heâll teach you what he knows.
youâre not stupid. you know exactly how lopsided a deal it is, how little you have to offer compared to what heâs putting on the tableâbesides the obvious. he gives you the night to think it over, you toss and turn beneath for hours trying to invent a better alternative, but there simply isnât one.
in the morning, bleary-eyed and embarrassed, you tell him you accept. john just grins and drains his coffee. to him, the matter was never in much doubt. he puts the two of you to work immediately.
the first few weeks are hard. john tackles the roof and walls first, making you his little helper, calling down for whatever tool he needs next or sending you to fetch whatever materials you can manage. you go to bed and wake up sore, palms blistering in a pair of his old gloves. all the while, john, strong as an ox, seems capable of working from dawn until dusk.
in the afternoons, when the heat makes repair work miserable, he puts you both on his horse and rides double to the nearby lake to teach you to fish. you squirm the first time he makes you gut a trout, nearly retching when the knife opens its belly. john only laughs when you try to shove the whole bloody business back toward him. his big hands close over yours instead, guiding the blade while his chest glues to your back, his voice rumbling in your ear as he chides you for trying to worm your way out of it. canât live on good intentions, love. go on. get your fingers in there.
he teaches you to shoot next and thatâs when you get your first inkling of whatever life he led before he found you. heâs an excellent shot, on foot and horseback. heâs also a good teacher. hands-on. correcting your stance, one wide palm at your waist and the other on your elbow, enduring every flinch of yours until you can fire without shaking. he shows you how to set basic snares and read the ground for tracks. in return, you teach him what grows best in the garden and what youâve found foraging.
and during those early weeks, you live on edge, waiting for him to ask for more than just a second helping at dinner. because you know enough of the world to know what sort of bargain a woman in your position might ordinarily be expected to make, whether the exact terms are spoken aloud or not.
you hold your breath whenever he squeezes past you in the kitchen and go stiff when his hands squeeze your sides while shooting, steadying you against the recoil. more than once youâve lain awake listening to the floorboards creak beneath his weight while he stays up late, waiting for him to appear at your bedside. when you bathe in the lake, he stands watch on the bank with his back turned, and though you wait to catch him looking over his shoulder. but, to your honest shock, he never does.
heâs refreshingly gentlemanly. you canât tell whether heâs honoring the existence of your husband, suspended somewhere in that awful limbo between living and dead, or whether john is simply a patient man biding his time. waiting for the right moment.
whatever the reason, each day that passes without him demanding that certain kind of tender as payment relaxes you just a bit more. your vigilance eases and you stop keeping track of where he is in and outside of the cabin. for the first time in a long time, you feel at peace.
as a consequence, the whole situation grows domestic. his razor appears beside your washbasin. his coat hangs beside yours by the door. you start setting two places at breakfast and supper. at night, when thereâs oil or wax to spare, you read aloud to each other.
so it comes as a surprise when, near the end of the month, john tells you to put on your best. youâre going into town.
today, apparently, youâre going to finally buy a horse of your own.
you start protesting immediatelyâyou havenât the money for a horse, your husband carried the bulk of it, you certainly donât have enough a good oneâbut john waves all that away. you need one, he insists. canât have you stranded. and while youâre in town, you can make some inquiries after your husband.
that shuts you up. almost makes you petulant. worse is the stab of shame when you realize youâve barely thought of the man in weeks. for months, his absence had occupied every waking hour. you would daydream and imagine hoofbeats or footsteps and fly to the window, searching. then john arrived, and at some point, your husband became an afterthought.
in town, john waits patiently while you ask after your husband at the general store, the barber, the blacksmith. he accompanies you into the saloon, standing a few paces behind while you question the bartender and whatever regulars might have been there around the time your husband disappeared. john doesnât say a word. he watches their faces, thick arms folded across his chest, eyes jumping from face to face beneath the brim of his hat while you explain when your husband left, the horse, and what he looked like.
nobody knows a thing.
in the end, you wilt dutifully. resigned to the fact that he either ran off or that his bones are bleaching in a ditch somewhere on the road. the thought ought to devastate you more than it does, and that brings another little stab of guilt.
john simply plants a hand between your shoulder blades and steers you toward the livery.
there, at least, he manages to cheer you up. he helps you choose a pretty chestnut gelding with a blaze on his forehead and a friendly disposition. john pays for him while youâre busy cooing at the creature, along with a saddle and tack, and when you claim that youâll pay him back, he merely smiles and says, âm sure you will, love.
back home, neither of you mention that your agreement is nearly up. and when the month comes and goes, and neither of you mentions that either.
the timeline simply stretches, one day passing into the next. any sense of urgency gets lost. thereâs still work to be done on the cabin, after all. youâre getting better with the rifle but john reckons youâve plenty left to learn. youâve only just got your own horse and ought to become a better rider before setting off anywhere alone. then the sun starts setting earlier and the leaves start to change, and really, leaving now would be foolish what with winter so close. you better to stay until spring.
john lays all this out over dinner one night. says it so plainly.
you agree, a mite too eager, and hide your smile behind another bite.
that night, while you sleep curled beneath your blankets, john eases your door open enough to look in on you. he stands there for a long while, listening to your breathing, before slipping a hand into his pocket. his thumb finds the worn band of that wedding ring he picked off a dead man on the road west and toys with it.
he wonders if he ought to pray. john never put much stock in faith or fate before. but what could he call this? finding that failure of a man, then finding the home heâd abandoned and the wife heâd left behind? what else is john supposed to understand it as, if not a series of signs pointing him precisely where he was meant to go? of all the land he might have bought, all the roads he might have takenâwhat are the chances?
the next day, he takes that dead manâs ring down to the lake and tosses it in. he will buy another the next time the two of you ride into town.
and that night, after weeks of patience, of sneaking off to see to his own wants in private, kicking dirt over his wasted spend, he will finally make his move. he will employ that same slow tenderness heâs shown you from the beginning. he has no reason to believe you wonât welcome it. you wonât shy away. youâve been alone so long, starved for company, and heâs taught you to reach for him when you need something, hasnât he?
no, you wonât fight him one bit. youâll understand better, too, when heâs got you on your back, cock buried deep, drool hanging off your lipâyouâll know that youâre both right where you belong. where youâre meant to be.
and with luck, by the time spring returns, thereâll be more reason for you to stay. maybe his baby in your belly and a new ring on your finger. that bargain of a single month so far behind you both that neither of you will remember there was ever supposed to be an ending to it.
I'm amazed how you fit such an expanded storyline into so few words, each one consise and deliberate. I love how the story unfolded so naturally too, nothing was rushed or out of place.
Okaaaaay but Royal!Price whoâs married to Reader for like two years and the entire time the court is breathing down your neck because you havenât produced an heir yet.
And ofc somehow this becomes entirely your fault bc nobody questions Price or considers that the problem might not be you because heâs the king, heâs healthy, heâs strong, heâs already proven himself in every other way that matters to these people, so obviously it must be his wife whoâs defective.
And you spend two years being poked and prodded by royal physicians and forced to drink disgusting tonic things and tracking your cycles and praying at shrines and enduring every older noblewoman at court giving you unsolicited advice while rumors about the âbarren Queenâ spread through the palace.
And Price doesnât exactly stop them. Maybe in the beginning he tells you not to listen, tells you thereâs still time, but as the months pass he starts treating your inability to conceive like a personal failure.
And ofc thereâs this one woman at court who makes your life like absolute hell over it. Daughter of some powerful duke or neighboring kingdom or whatever, beautiful and fertile looking and exactly the sort of woman everyone whispers Price should have married in the first place.
She makes little comment about children whenever youâre nearby, brings babies into conversation just to watch you go quiet, maybe even starts getting increasingly bold because Price is starting to favor her. And you know theyâre sleeping together long before he admits it. You just donât have any power to do anything about it.
Then Price divorces you.
And heâs not quietly about it either and thatâs the part that really destroys you because he couldâve found a dozen political reasons to dissolve the marriage, couldâve protected whatever dignity you had left and let you save face but instead he specifically cites your failure to provide an heir as the reason for the divorce. Has it entered into the official decree that the marriage produced no issue and that youâre presumed barren, basically stamping it into history that you failed in the single duty expected of a queen.
And to add insult to injury he marries the woman who spent the last two years tormenting you, who becomes Queen, and suddenly all those rumors about how sheâd always been better suited for him become accepted fact.
Meanwhile youâre just⊠there. The discarded Queen. Technically still noble, technically still wealthy enough, but socially ruined because who is going to marry the woman the King publicly declared barren?
Except Simon, Priceâs knight whoâs his own kind of social outcast cause heâs scarred, disfigured, and everyone assumes will never marry anyway because nobody has ever exactly been lining up to become Lady Riley to a monster, you know.
So when Simon asks for your hand, you say yes. Maybe Price even allows it because he thinks thereâs something almost amusing about it. His unwanted wife and his disfigured knight. Two things the court has decided are damaged being tucked neatly away together.
Except Simon doesnât treat you like youâre damaged. And then the absolute fucking scandal when, before the end of the year, you start appearing in court with a very obviously rounding stomach.
At first everyone tries to pretend they donât notice because surely not. Surely the former Queen who spent two years unable to conceive isnât pregnant within months of marrying Ser Simon Riley.
Except you are and it isnât even ambiguous after a while. Youâre glowing with health, Simon is hovering around you like some enormous armored guard dog, the physicians confirm the pregnancy is progressing perfectly, and suddenly all those old whispers start changing direction because Priceâs new Queen still isnât pregnant even after and entire year.
Meanwhile you give birth to this enormous fat healthy Riley baby and suddenly the court has to reckon with the fact that maybe their discarded barren Queen was never barren at all.
Which means maybe the King publicly humiliated and divorced his wife, destroyed her reputation, married his mistress, and announced to the entire kingdom that she was incapable of giving him an heir-
when the problem had been him the entire fucking time.
Sometimes violence is the answer to your problems- or in this case, Simon Rileyâs problems
Itâs not as if there had been a particular moment where Simon Riley had sat down and decided that he was done with having sex.
Rather, it was the accumulation of torture over the years that had left damage- nerves misfiring or simply not firing at all beneath scar tissue that had healed wrong.
Then there were the other injuries layered over it across the years: the fractures, surgeries, concussions, medications, chronic pain and the permanent state of low grade readiness his body seemed incapable of leaving even when he was technically safe.
Simon had spent enough time in hospitals to know the human body was less a machine than people liked pretending it was. Things went wrong. Sometimes they healed. Sometimes they didnât. Sometimes nobody could tell you why.
His cock, apparently, had decided not to.
Heâd noticed it gradually.
Morning erections disappearing first, though he couldnât have said precisely when- not when his mornings were spent around other people and never actually got the time to wank one out before morning drills or in between dodging gunfire.
Then on the rare occasion he did actually feel enough inclination to do something about himself, it became an exercise in diminishing returns: attraction still existed somewhere in his head, sensation technically existed below the waist, but whatever bridge had once connected the two appeared to have been bombed out.
Simon discovered it through the deeply scientific process of occasionally attempting to masturbate and getting absolutely fuck all for his trouble
He could touch himself and get nowhere. Could want, abstractly, and have his body answer with complete indifference. The first few times Simon tested it, he approached the problem the way he approached most of his failures: with detached irritation, as though persistence alone might force the damaged thing back into service.
Eventually heâd stared down at himself, accepted that nothing was happening, pulled his trousers back up and thought, Right. Thatâs that, then.
He never mentioned it to anyone, not to a doctor and certainly not to Price, because- contrary to popular belief- there were limits to what Simon Riley was willing to survive and the idea of being waterboarded ranked higher on the list of things heâd want to go through again before having John Price know whether his lieutenantâs cock remained operational or not.
He didnât make an appointment specifically for it either. Doctors had poked, prodded, scanned, stitched and reconstructed enough of him already, and there was something uniquely intolerable about volunteering this particular failure for examination when he had no real intention of actually doing anything with the equipment even if they did manage to fix it.
Casual sex had never really held enough appeal to justify navigating the humiliation of his body refusing to cooperate halfway through. A relationship sounded worse. Relationships required trust, trust required vulnerability, and Simon had never understood the fascination people had with handing another human being that kind of weakness so openly.
So celibacy became another practical adjustment. Fine. Good, even. One less thing to worry about, one less chemical urge trying to convince him another person was necessary.
Simonâs body already demanded sleep, food, medication, physical therapy and the occasional begrudging acknowledgment that he was not, despite considerable evidence to the contrary, composed entirely of out of spite.
He didnât particularly mind losing one more demand and eventually he stopped checking whether anything had changed. He stopped noticing attractive strangers beyond the detached recognition that, yes, objectively, they were attractive. He stopped wondering whether there might be some circumstance under which his body would respond differently.
It had been years and whatever part of him had once wanted sex had either been damaged beyond use or buried beneath too much other shit to reach daylight, and Simon had made his peace with that.
Then you arrived and immediately became the most irritating person he had met in recent memory.
Not because you were cruel. Simon could deal with cruel; cruelty was straightforward. You simply possessed a spectacular disregard for the strange force field that usually formed around Ghost.
New recruits tended to give him space. Experienced operators might not fear him, but they understood him well enough not to poke unnecessarily at whatever lived behind the skull mask.
Even Soap, who had elevated testing Simonâs patience into a recreational activity, possessed enough survival instinct to recognize certain lines.
You, however, seemed unaware there were lines at all.
The first time Simon deliberately crowded your space during a disagreement, expecting the usual subtle retreat people made when six-foot-something of masked lieutenant invaded their breathing room, you merely tipped your head back farther and continued arguing. When he leaned down, you leaned forward. When he blocked the doorway afterward because youâd been getting on his nerves for the better part of twenty minutes, you stared at him and asked, âAre you finished?â
âFinished what?â heâd replied, because sometimes Simon could be every bit as juvenile as Soap accused him of being, even if heâs deny it until the day he died.
âThis.â You waved vaguely at all of him. âWhatever weird intimidation ritual youâve got going on. Move.â
He hadnât and you responded with putting both hands against the center of his chest and shoving him instead. He barely shifted if course, which only seemed to annoy you further.
Your mouth tightened, your boots planted and you shoved again with genuine intent this time while Simon stared down at you in profound disbelief.
Somewhere behind him Soap made the distinctive strangled sound of a man swallowing laughter, and when Simon turned his head just enough all he saw was the sergeant suddenly studying a patch of wall with extraordinary concentration because he valued his continued existence.
By the time Simon looked back, you were already shouldering past the narrow gap youâd created, muttering something about oversized fucking roadblocks.
Deeply irritating. That was Simonâs assessment, and it remained his assessment over the following weeks while you developed an increasingly casual habit of putting your hands on him whenever he was being difficult.
Not affectionately. Never anything he could easily categorize as flirtation.
Rather, you slapped his hand away when he reached for things you were using, nudged his boots aside when he stretched his legs into your path, drove your shoulder into his arm rather than walk around him when he occupied too much corridor.
One afternoon he reached over your head for the exact mug youâd been reaching toward despite three identical ones sitting beside it, and you promptly elbowed him in the ribs.
âUse another one.â
âWanted this one.â
âYouâre a prick.â
âBeen told.â
You turned with your mug held against your chest and gave him a look of profound disgust. âDo you wake up every morning and consciously decide to be unbearable, or does it come naturally?â
âNatural talent.â
Something low in his stomach tightened when your eyes narrowed. Simon noticed it only enough to dismiss it. His body produced strange aches, sparks and misfires constantly; one more meant nothing.
The real problem emerged three weeks later over a mission report, largely because Simon had made the decision to edit your wording after youâd already submitted it.
You found him sitting at his desk with the amended copy beside him and launched immediately into an accusation of bureaucratic sabotage.
Simon informed you that heâd corrected inaccuracies. You informed him there had been no inaccuracies. He reminded you that on line of your official report had read, Lieutenant Riley ignored the proposed entry point because apparently God himself whispered a better idea directly into his ear.
âThat is an accurate account of events,â you argued.
âNot putting that in an official report.â
âYouâre only mad because it makes you sound like an asshole.â
âI am an asshole.â
âThen why are we editing for accuracy?â
You were already moving around the desk while you said it, coming toward him with the particular determined stride Simon had learned meant you were about to invade his personal space as punishment for some perceived crime.
He remained seated though, mostly because standing would have made the whole thing absurd; he was already large enough without looming over you while you complained about paperwork.
You stopped directly between his knees instead, close enough that the fabric over one of your thighs brushed the outside of his. Simon registered it without meaning to and dismissed it.
Then your finger came up and pressed hard into the center of his chest.
âYou listen to me, Riley. If you touch my report again without asking, you can take that red pen and shove it so far up your- â
Simon stopped listening.
His body had gone abruptly, impossibly still around one singular point of awareness. There was pressure beneath his pants. Heat. A heavy rush of blood into an organ Simon had, for all practical purposes, considered medically retired.
For several bewildered seconds his brain refused to identify the sensation because it had been absent too long to belong naturally among the catalog of things Simon expected his body to do.
Then his cock gave a distinct pulse against the front of his trousers and every word leaving your mouth vanished beneath one stunned thought.
He was hard.
Not sort of hard, not an ambiguous twitch he could blame on sitting wrong or fabric pressure or some random neurological event.
Simon Riley, who had gone years without getting an erection under considerably more deliberate circumstances, was sitting in his office with a fully functioning cock because you were jabbing him in the chest and telling him to go fuck himself.
You were still speaking, though Simon had no idea what you were saying anymore- although judging by your expression it remained insulting.
He stared at you with such unusual stillness that eventually you stopped on your own, finger still planted against his sternum. âWhat?â
Simon said nothing.
âWhat?â you repeated. âHave you gone deaf?â
His gaze dropped to your hand as though it might explain what had just happened. You mistook the look for irritation and removed your finger and Simon waited for the erection to disappear with it. It didnât.
If anything, the lingering anger in your expression produced another deeply inconvenient pulse.
âNo,â he finally said.
âThen say something.â
There were probably several sensible options but Simon chose, âFinished?â
Your whole expression sharpened. âOh, fuck you.â
You snatched the report from beside him and stormed away, leaving Simon alone in his office with the door swinging behind you and his body apparently celebrating a resurrection.
He sat there for another several seconds before slowly looking down at himself.
The erection remained as undeniable as it was inexplicable. After years of absolutely nothing, his nervous system had apparently located a bypass around the damage because you had yelled at him over paperwork.
Simon stared until disbelief curdled into suspicion, then muttered, âThaâs fuckiâ inconvenient.â
By the following morning, he had explained it away. Bodies were strange. Blood pressure changed. Anger raised adrenaline. Perhaps poking his chest had compressed something in precisely the right way. Perhaps a damaged nerve had fired randomly for the first time in years.
After much deliberation, Simon decided one isolated event proved nothing, and there was absolutely no reason to investigate further.
So it was a completely coincidence, of course, that Simon happened to be standing directly in front of the cutlery drawer the next day, when you needed it.
Youâd made tea, reached for the drawer and found approximately two hundred and forty pounds of lieutenant in the way. âMove.â
âComfy.â
Your hand paused on the mug. âYouâre blocking the spoons.â
âPlenty elsewhere.â
âNo, there arenât. Theyâre in the drawer behind your ass.â
âSounds inconvenient.â
You stared at him. Simon leaned against the counter with studied indifference, though somewhere beneath that indifference his attention had become embarrassingly focused.
Nothing happened. No stirring. No heat. Simon experienced an emotion dangerously close to disappointment and immediately resented himself for it.
Then you stepped forward, caught a fistful of his shirt at the chest and yanked. âFor fuckâs sake, Riley, move.â
His cock went hard so quickly Simon nearly inhaled his own tongue.
There was no ambiguity this time. Your knuckles dragged against his sternum through the fabric, your body crowded directly into his as you tried to haul a man significantly larger than yourself out of the way, and apparently this combination constituted the precise password required to unlock Simon Rileyâs long dormant reproductive system.
You succeeded in shifting him half a step, reached around him for the drawer and retrieved your spoon without noticing that Simon had gone rigid for an entirely different reason.
âWhatâs wrong with you?â you asked when you turned back.
âNothinâ.â
âYou look weird.â
âAlways look like this.â
âNo, youâre acting weird.â
Simon left without making the tea heâd ostensibly entered the kitchen to prepare.
Still, twice could still be coincidence. Simon clung to that argument for roughly forty eight hours before curiosity overwhelmed dignity and the entire situation deteriorated into an experiment he refused to acknowledge he was conducting.
He began noticing variables with the clinical attention he would normally reserve for surveillance. Ordinary proximity produced nothing reliable. Sitting beside you during briefings didnât do it. Your shoulder bumping his in a crowded transport didnât do it. You once passed him a weapon and your fingers brushed his glove, and his nervous system remained entirely uninterested.
There was something reassuring about that at first. Perhaps the episodes really were random.
Then he ignored you while you were trying to ask him a question.
âRiley.â
Simon continued inspecting the rifle in his hands.
âRiley.â
Nothing.
âSimon.â
There it was: that warning woven through his name, irritation sharpening the edges. Simon looked up and caught the full force of your glare just as warmth tightened low behind his belt.
âWot?â he asked.
âIâve been talking to you.â
âHave you?â
Your eyes narrowed further. His cock stirred harder.
Simon turned back toward the weapons bench before you could notice the slight adjustment in his stance.
Three times constituted a pattern.
After that, his behavior became indefensible.
He discovered that if he deliberately moved one of your things, you would hunt him down to complain. If he blocked your route, you would put your hands on him rather than politely ask twice. If he took the pen nearest your fingers instead of any of the other four available, you would slap the back of his hand. If he walked away while you were talking, you would occasionally grab the back of his vest and yank him to a halt, which produced such an immediate response the first time that Simon had needed to invent an urgent reason to leave the room before you noticed.
He tested other possibilities privately because, despite what his increasingly deranged behavior suggested, Simon was still attempting to establish whether you were actually the variable.
A woman flirted openly with him during leave; nothing. He watched pornography one evening and experienced such profound indifference that halfway through he became distracted wondering whether heâd cleaned the knife heâd used on a security guard earlier. He tried touching himself without any outside stimulus and got little more than the same sluggish response heâd become accustomed to years before.
The following afternoon you stormed into the common room because heâd eaten something with your name written very clearly across the container and jabbed him in the chest, snarling. âI swear to God, Riley, Iâm going to kill you.â
His body responded like somebody had thrown a switch, cock harder than diamonds.
Simon stared at you as heat settled heavily between his legs. You stared back, waiting for remorse that was not forthcoming.
âDid you hear me?â
âYeah.â
âAnd?â
A profoundly defective impulse surfaced. Simon leaned slightly closer. âGonna have to try harder than that.â
Your mouth fell open before outrage filled the space. âYou absolute fucking bastard.â
You attempted to leap at him, spitting profanities and attempting- Simon assumed- to claw his eyes out but Gaz intercepted and kept you off of him. Still, you managed to shove his shoulder and his cock throbbed in response.
Simon stepped back immediately, which only made you look suspicious. âStay away from my food,â you snapped, throwing Gazâs hands off of you, before walking out.
Gaz lowered his hands and looked toward Simon.
Simon turned his head very slowly.
Gazâs eyebrows rose.
âWot?â
âDidnât say anything.â
âYour face did.â
Gaz gave him a deeply searching look- perceptive bastard- before finally settling on. âNot a conversation Iâm looking to have, mate.â
Simon went upstairs, shut his bedroom door and sat on the edge of his mattress with both hands dragged over his mask.
It should have been good news. That was the part he could not reconcile. For years heâd assumed the damage was permanent, another small theft committed by men and circumstances that had already taken enough from him.
He had accepted it because Simon understood loss better than he understood recovery; there was peace in declaring something gone and never hoping for it again after all.
Now, against every expectation, his body was proving that some pathway still existed. Something beneath the scar tissue and damaged nerves still knew what to do. Under any reasonable circumstance, that should have felt like getting a piece of himself back.
Instead, Simon was being forced to confront the humiliating possibility that his cock was not broken so much as catastrophically selective.
Apparently lingerie did nothing for it. Flirting did nothing. Attractive strangers did nothing. Pornography had nearly put him to sleep.
But you glaring at him like you were three seconds away from committing an indictable offense? Excellent. You hauling him around by his clothes? Evidently irresistible. You shoving him because he was deliberately standing somewhere inconvenient? His nervous system seemed to consider it practically erotic.
It got worse because Simon genuinely enjoyed irritating you even without the increasingly inconvenient physical reward attached to it. There was something satisfying about the immediacy of your reactions.
Most people behaved differently around Ghost. They measured their words. Watched his hands. Gave the mask more space than it physically occupied. Even people who knew him eventually retained some instinctive awareness that he could become frightening very quickly if circumstances demanded it.
But you treated him like an enormous nuisance.
Simon could stand silently behind hardened soldiers and watch their shoulders stiffen; but all you would do is look over, discover him hovering there, and tell him his breathing was annoying you. People feared monsters but you only responded with irritation at the one who stole your mug.
Simon did not examine why that distinction mattered to him. Instead, he moved your mug again.
The situation finally collapsed when he blocked you in a corridor for no reason beyond the fact that he knew exactly what would happen.
You stopped in front of him with immediate suspicion. âMove.â
Simon remained where he was, arms folded.
âRiley.â
âHm?â
âYouâre doing it again.â
âDoing what?â
âThis.â You gestured at the width of him occupying nearly the entire passage. âStanding exactly where I need to go.â
âSmall corridor.â
âExactly and youâre somehow taking up all of it.â
âSkill.â
You stepped left. Simon stepped left. You stopped and stared at him. He could see realization beginning, he dawning certainty that his obstruction was deliberate. You moved right. Simon mirrored you again.
âAre you twelve?â
âCould ask you the same.â
âOh, my God.â You tried left one more time. He blocked you, and now your patience broke visibly. Your shoulders squared, your jaw tightened and when you spoke again your voice dropped into that particular warning register his body had inexplicably decided it adored. âMove, Riley.â
Heat tightened beneath his belt.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He should have stepped aside then. He had his answer. He had, in fact, accumulated an absurd quantity of answers over the previous week and required absolutely no further data.
Instead, despite being a grown ass adult, Simon leaned one shoulder against the wall and heard himself say, âMake me.â
You went very still.
There was a small part of Simonâs brain, the portion apparently not currently occupied by destroying his own dignity, that recognized he had pushed this into ridiculous territory.
Then you planted both hands against his chest and shoved hard enough to drive his shoulder into the wall.
The response was immediate and vicious. His cock surged against the front of his pants, balls tightening instinctively, breath catching just enough that you noticed. Your hands remained spread over his chest while your expression changed from irritation to confusion.
Simon looked down at them.
You followed his gaze, but this time your attention continued lower.
Silence settled between you.
Simon felt the exact moment you understood.
Your eyes lifted slowly back to his.
âNo.â
He said nothing.
Your mouth began to twitch. âNo fucking way. Is that why youâve been fucking with me?â
âNo.â
The denial came far too quickly.
Your expression transformed. âOh my God.â
Simon pushed away from the wall. âDonât.â
âYou have been deliberately pissing me off.â
âHave not.â
âYou moved my boots yesterday.â
âSafety hazard.â
âThey were under my bed.â
âCouldâve tripped.â
âIn my sleep?â
âDangerous business.â
You stared at him for a long second before laughter broke through. Not polite laughter either. You actually bent slightly with it, one hand still braced against his vest while Simon considered every decision he had made since entering military service and wondered which one had placed him on the path toward this precise humiliation and whether he could go find his enemies and beg for the west release of death.
âYou ate my food,â you accused between breaths.
âWas hungry.â
âYou stole my pen out of my hand when there were three sitting next to it.â
âLiked yours.â
âYou stood in front of the spoon drawer for five fucking minutes.â
Simonâs silence convicted him more effectively than anything he might have said.
âYouâve been fucking with me because it gets you off.â
âWouldnât call it that.â
âWhat would you call it?â
He had nothing.
Your laughter returned, softer now but infinitely more dangerous because amusement was giving way to curiosity. Simon recognized the shift immediately. You looked down again, not long enough to be crude, merely long enough to confirm the evidence remained present, then back up at him. Something in your expression sharpened with wicked understanding.
âYouâre a fucking freak, Riley.â
âWatch your mouth.â
âThat do it too?â
âNo.â
âLiar.â
Simon caught your wrists when you pressed both hands to his chest again, intending only to remove them. The movement changed your expression instantly. Amusement flashed into irritation at being restrained, your weight shifting toward him instead of away.
âLet go.â
His erection throbbed so hard Simon nearly swore.
Your eyes narrowed.
Simon shut his own for half a second because apparently there were indignities even he required time to process. When he opened them, you were staring at him with a new kind of fascination.
âOh,â you said quietly.
Simon released your wrists.
You didnât move back.
Neither did he.
The corridor had somehow become smaller around you both, the joking edge thinning into awareness. You watched him for a second, then reached forward with deliberate slowness and hooked one finger beneath the edge of his pants. Simon knew exactly what you were doing now. More importantly, so did you.
âDonât,â he warned.
âDonât what?â
âYou know what.â
âI donât think I do.â
âBullshit.â
You tugged him half an inch closer.
His jaw tightened as his cock reacted instantly.
That awful, delighted grin spread across your face before cupping your palm around the hard, obvious shape of his cock through the fabric and closing your fingers.
Simonâs entire body betrayed him at once.
His head tipped back against the wall with a dull, undignified thunk. His eyes rolled upward so hard he briefly saw the inside of his own skull. A sound escaped him that could generously be described as a groan and less generously as a whine.
He stayed like that for a second- head thrown back, eyes somewhere in the rafters, cock throbbing shamelessly in the warm curve of your hand- while his brain attempted to process the sheer fucking audacity of the situation.
You gave a small, experimental squeeze.
Simonâs hips jerked forward of their own accord- traitors- and he locked every muscle he still had control over, forcing himself still, which only made the next pulse against your palm more obvious.
âChrist,â he muttered at the ceiling, voice strangled.
You didnât let go. If anything, you adjusted your grip with the calm curiosity of someone who had just discovered a particularly interesting malfunction and intended to poke it until it made more interesting noises. Your thumb stroked once along the ridge of him, and Simonâs breath left him in a short, punched out sound that was deeply unhelpful to whatever remaining dignity he was trying to cling to.
You tilted your head, still cupping him, and watched the way his throat worked under the mask.
âSo,â you said, far too conversationally for someone currently holding a lieutenantâs previously non-functional cock in her hand, âthis is the bit where you explain yourself, orâŠ?â
Simon dragged his eyes back down to you with visible effort. The mask hid most of his expression, but the set of his shoulders suggested a man who had just realised he had spent the better part of two weeks engineering his own public humiliation and was now living with the consequences.
âNot explaininâ a fuckinâ thing,â he managed, voice rough. âWhile youâre still holdinâ my cock in your hand. Youâre becoming a problem.â
âIâm becoming a problem? Youâve spent the last week acting like a primary school boy pulling someoneâs hair because apparently your dick needs interpersonal conflict to function.â
âThaâs not whatâs happening.â
âYou got hard because I shoved you into a wall.â
âCoincidence.â
âI can test that.â
âYou fuckinâ will not.â
Your grin widened and your palm pressed down and Ghost nearly saw God long enough to ask why after nearly thirty years of suffering, this was apparently the punchline.
Before he could ask, God apparently decided to throw the poor suffering bastard a bone because Soapâs voice sounded from around the corner. âGhost, ye seen- â
Simon stepped away from you with enough speed that you nearly stumbled forward.
Soap rounded the corner, stopped and took in the scene. You were suspiciously amused. Simon was standing at an equally suspicious angle with his hands planted on his hips and approximately three feet more distance between you than two people naturally needed. Johnnyâs gaze moved from you to Ghost, back to you and then very deliberately refused to travel any lower.
âAye,â Soap said slowly.
Nobody answered.
He nodded to himself. âActually, never mind.â
Soap turned around.
âMacTavish.â
His pace increased.
âJohnny.â
âDidnae see anything, LT.â
âYou didnât.â
âExactly.â
He disappeared around the corner before Simon could decide whether murder was worth the paperwork.
You made it perhaps two seconds before laughter burst out of you again, and Simon dragged one hand down the front of his mask while your amusement echoed through the corridor.
This, apparently, was his life now. He had survived torture, burial, gunfire, explosions and enough bodily damage to permanently alter the way his nervous system functioned, only to discover that whatever remained of his sexual response had crawled out of its grave specifically for the most confrontational person he knew.
The pattern had become painfully specific: you close enough to crowd him, your voice edged with irritation, your hands on his chest because Simon had deliberately made himself impossible to tolerate.
His body had surveyed years of opportunity with complete indifference, ignored every conventional invitation offered to it, then watched you square up against a man nearly twice your mass and apparently made an executive decision.
That one. You need to fuck that one.
The thought arrived so clearly Simon actually glanced upward again as though God might be willizng to throw him another bone.
Apparently heâd used up all this good will because the Almighty wasnât.
There was only you, still laughing as you pushed past him and deliberately knocked your shoulder into his chest on the way.
âMove, Riley.â
His cock twitched again.
Simon closed his eyes and stood perfectly still in the corridor while the universe continued to punish him for crimes he could not presently recall committing and groaned out. âFuckâs sake.â
Sugar Daddy!Price who takes his role with reluctance.
Does he want a transactional relationship based on his money? No. But does he have time to date someone and realistically keep them on the hook in a real relationship? Also no.
He thinks of himself as a logical, compartmentalized man. He can make hard decisions. He can do whatâs best for everyone, not just himself.
So why is his relationship with you so fucking difficult for him?
Maybe itâs because you follow his stringent, quite frankly pain-in-the-ass contract to a T. Youâre infuriatingly professional in a relationship thatâs so intimateâŠ
John can feel a clock ticking. He feels this constant twitter pated second hand growing closer to piercing his heart as it throbs. These relationships arenât for keeps. Catch like you? Certain to find a fine young man⊠one that wonât be alright with you draping yourself over an old man like a mink coat. One that can provide for you and give you real love. The kind Price has shut himself off from by thinking âlogicallyâ, pragmatically, in his approach to relationships. Seems like every man with a gun knows how to shoot himself in the foot.
Asking you for something real⊠that could send you running. Birds who look for this kind of relationship arenât looking to get tied down, and have a healthy suspicion of men with resources. Thereâs no more destructive thing in the world, after all. He can attest to that first hand.
Replacing a foil seal isnât so difficult. Simon could do it in his sleep, but Price is a little out of practice and short on time. Had to order the sugar pills specialâ make sure the size and shape were right. The job isnât perfect, but perfectly acceptable-looking to someone whoâs never had an attempt made on their life. Or their freedom.
The part that follows is as natural as breathing. Fucking you stupid, balls smacking wetly against you from your tempting fucking cunt leaking all over him. Buries himself deep as he groans, your hips in a bruising grip while the heat of his load pulses against your cervix.
Got himself tested recently and everything. He may not be a spring chicken, but his count and motility is still high. The drinking and smoking have done their damage to him certainly, but in virility he remains blessedly pristine. At least, when he has the right motivation placed in front of him.
The image of you, a bump beneath your dress, lounging in his bed during a lazy morning. No intention of getting up, redressing, of getting back to some other life that has nothing to do with him. A generously sized rock on your finger. Thatâs motivation enough for him.
Imagine Alpha!Ghost who has never once been moved by an omegaâs scent. Not a single twitch of interest in all the years heâs been forced to stand in crowded rooms and breathe their scent in.
Heâs smelled every combination- cloying florals and bright citruses and dark, earthy things.
And⊠he feels nothing. No itch under his skin. No pull in his chest. No instinct to knot an omega and fill them full of his pups
He handles his ruts alone, teeth sunk into his own forearm, fist working, mask never lifted even when heâs locked in his quarters with the lights off.
Until he smells you.
Tangerine, bright, sharp, almost sweet enough to make his mouth water. Black tea, dark and tannic. Stereotypical. Nothing worth noting. Until he smells the iron, metallic and thick. Catches a whiff of it and inhales until heâs dizzy with it.
His cock swells so fast it punches the air out of his lungs, thickens against the front of his fatigues until the fabric strains, the head already leaking like a faucet, knot at the base swelling fat. His rut scratches at the back of his head, claws raking, vicious, sudden, feral need that makes his vision tunnel and his hands shake.
It takes everything in him to not drop to his knees right then and there, nose between your thick thighs, lick you clean while you squirmed and bled for him. Iron and tangerine all over his tongue, his mask.
He wants to scent you so thoroughly no one else can smell anything but him. Wants to fuck you through it, knot you deep while youâre still bleeding, keep you plugged full until the cramping stops and the only thing you can feel is the stretch of his cock.
He has to brace a hand on the wall. Has to breathe through his mouth even though it doesnât help, because the scent is everywhere now, in his nose, in his throat, in the low, involuntary rumble that starts in his chest. The thought of your soft belly and plush hips makes his knot throb again, another thick bead of precome soaking into the cotton.
He wonders if youâd let him. If a nervous little thing like you would let him put you on your back and spread you open, let him bury his face in that iron sweet mess until your thighs shake around his ears, or if youâd fuss and try to close your legs before his big hands pinned you wide and his tongue found the source of it.
Wonders if youâd cry when he finally fucks you, when the knot catches and locks and he keeps you there, breeding you through the blood like some feral thing thatâs finally found the only scent worth crawling on his knees for.
Ghost whose hands are trembling as he turns the corner and sees you there. Ghost who gets hard- painfully, humiliatingly hard- from the smell of you on your period.
cw:afab!reader, references to depression/medication, soft!simon. 2k words
âcan we book in sex on friday evening?â your voice cuts through the silence of your shared lounge - almost hesitant.
not hesitant like you're expecting to be rejected, hesitant in the way someone is when they feel out of practice. when somewhere along the way they lost all their powers of seduction.
simon looks up over the page of the book he's reading - eyebrows furrowed before they relax, like he's trying to make sure you're not asking out of some misplaced sense of obligation.
âfriday works.â he confirms, âbe back late so you'll⊠have some time to yourself first. to do your⊠preparations.â
preparations.
the polite way to say you'll either watch or listen to or read some porn in the bath before he gets home to try and kick start your body and brain into getting onto the same page about wanting to fuck.
you snort softly at the phrasing before nodding, "okay. just let me know when you're on your way home."
quiet settles over the two of you again, peaceful, yours.
then simon clears his throat.
"the new meds seem to be helpin'." he says quietly. "yer smilin' more. s'nice."
you nod, once. "they are." you confirm quietly. there's a beat of silence and then, "⊠sorry they've broken my fanny."
simon just shakes his head, brown eyes meeting yours. "not broken. an' don't be sorry. rather have you 'appy than horny. only one of those is important to me. an' it's not the availability of yer cunt."
your ears get hot at the bluntness, but your chest tightens with relief at his words. but still. there's a twinge of guilt in your stomach, like you're somehow not keeping up your end of the bargain you made when you decided to be each other's.
"i know. you always say that. butâŠ"
"no buts." he cuts you off firmly, no room for argument. "no ifs. no fuckin' anythin'. i love you. i love yer smile and yer laugh. an' yeah, i love fuckin' you. but i'd rather you were smilin' at my bad fuckin' jokes again than drippin' all over the house."
Si â€ïž: 10 mins off
Si â€ïž: don't rush. take your time
Si â€ïž: gonna shower in the en suite. you'll take one whiff of me and absolutely change your mind
Si â€ïž: (which would be fine. no pressure. didn't think before i sent that.)
the messages overlay the porn playing on your phone screen one by one.
you don't pause the video right away - let yourself stay in the little bubble of horny you're trying to build. the bathwater is going lukewarm around you, but your skin feels warmer now from the small spark of anticipation that's beginning to grow in your stomach.
you can't help but feel a small twinge of grief that six months ago this same activity would have had you throwing yourself at simon - that six months ago you didn't even need to prepare to have sex with your husband. that it felt like the most natural thing in the world, not something you had to manufacture.
but then you remember his words "yer smilin' more. s'nice." and the grief fades, replaced with a pang of fondness so strong it almost hurts.
you let your eyes focus on the video again, letting the sounds of soft moans and the wet noise of skin on skin filter through your headphones; try and remember that the joy you see on the amateur couple's can be yours too.
you pause the video, typing back a quick message.
just getting out. haven't changed my mind. x
you dry off quickly, clean your teeth, slip into one of simon's old t-shirts; the black colour long faded to grey, band logo once printed on it lost to the passage of time. there's a hole in the hem and it's stretched out around the collar.
but it makes you feel safe, and that's what you need right now. not lace bodysuits and stockings. by the time you've padded into the bedroom you can hear the shower running - see that today's clothes didn't even make it to the washing basket in the bedroom, instead left in the one downstairs.
you wrinkle your nose - you know that means you're probably going to need to get the stain remover out later. but you appreciate that simon hasn't brought the smell of whatever it is up into your room. you light a few candles as you hear the shower switch off, pull the curtains and turn off the big light; leaving the room in a soft glow of the candles and bedside lamp.
little things you've learned make you feel more relaxed.
you're just settling on the edge of the bed as the en suite door opens - knees tucked up under your chin, heart beating a little faster than normal. simon appears, towel slung low on his hips, water still dripping down from his blonde hair and onto the scarred plain of his chest. his eyes find yours immediately, soft in the way they only ever are when he's looking at you.
"hi." you say softly, lips pricking up at the corners as you look at him.
fuck. it really does help the situation that he looks like that.
he crosses the room in two strides, one hand reaching to cup the back of your head as he leans down to kiss you - soft, slow; the kind of kiss that's a hello and isn't an expectation. his hand strokes up your bare thigh slowly; fingers pausing at the hem of your - his - t-shirt, stopping short of pushing it any higher. "hey dove," he replies softly. "missed this smile."
your smile. that's what he missed about this situation. that specific, soft, wanting smile that you only ever give him when you're about to get him in bed.
and it's that that has you pulling him down on top of you.
your t-shirt gets pulled off with careful hands; his towel lost somewhere to the floor. he ends up hovering over you, pressing kisses down your jaw, your throat, takes his time. his thumbs stroke an almost soothing pattern across your ribs as his lips trail lower - but when he reaches your stomach he pauses.
"tell me somethin'." he murmurs, "what were you watchin' in the bath?"
your face heats immediately, throat drying out as you stare down at him with an expression of absolute horror.
he just hooks your legs over his shoulders, presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, looks up at you expectantly.
"just⊠soft stuff." you manage to murmur back. "couple in their bed. they⊠they looked like they were enjoying it. not⊠faking it."
he presses a kiss higher up your thigh, then another, before his breath is ghosting over your core. his tongue traces a slow line from slit to clit; gentle, soft, curling through soft heat like he's not in any kind of rush.
your hips twitch.
simon hums against you, an almost approving noise; like he's proud you actually answered. "yeah? what were they doin'?" he flicks his tongue against you again - more targeted this time. you gasp slightly as he settles in, one arm slung across your hips, fingers tracing over skin. every motion he makes is purposeful - circling your clit, dropping down down to dip inside you, tracing every inch of you with his tongue in lazy strokes.
your fingers thread through his still damp hair, nails scratching over his scalp in the way you know he likes. "they were taking it slow." you breathe. "she was on her back like this. he kept⊠talking to her. telling her how good she felt."
"slow." simon repeats, "like this?" his lips wrap around your clit, sucking gently before soothing it with broader strokes. your fingers tighten in his hair enough that he groans - all enjoyment and no pain. "you liked hearin' how much he wanted 'er?"
"yes-" the word breaks into a low moan as he slides two fingers inside of you, curling them perfectly against the spot he knows so well; mouth still focussed on your clit. "fuck, siâŠ"
he doesn't speed up. just keeps a steady, slow rhythm - eyes flicking up to watch your face. he pulls away enough to murmur gently, "i want you dove - all the fuckin' time. everything you do is so fuckin' sexy i feel like i'm goin' insane." a soft kiss to your clit, "'m sorry if i stopped tellin' you." another kiss, "jus'⊠don't want you to ever feel like you 'ave to jus' cause i'd live inside you if i could."
your eyes burn, hands dropping to brush your thumbs over his cheekbones. "i know si. i promise."
he nods once, satisfied that you're not lying to make him feel better by the wet shine in your eyes. he drags the flat of his tongue over your clit again. "was she makin' the same little sounds you make? the ones that make me fuckin' melt?"
you nod, hips rolling under his mouth; the combination of his mouth and hands and the gentle questioning pulling you under. the porn in the bath feels distant now - a distant second to the real thing: simon riley between your legs, focused solely on you, coaxing your body to the edge with nothing but patience.
when you come its with a soft, shuddering cry - the same noise he loves so much - pleasure rolling through you in warm waves as simon works you through it. he waits until your fingers are limp in his hair before pulling back entirely, then kisses his way beck up your body until he's braced over you again, propped on one elbow so he doesn't squish you under his bulk.
"still good?" he murmurs. his cock is hot and hard against your thigh; twitching against you as he presses a kiss against your neck - but he doesn't push forward, doesn't press. just rests his forehead against yours.
âyeah,â you whisper, reaching between you to stroke him gently. âi want you, si. want this.â
he kisses you again, tasting like you, and lines himself up. he presses in -slow, perfect - eyes locked on yours the whole time. your fingers trace the scars on his jaw, eyes widening as he bottoms out; filling you in a way that's so achingly familiar now. he pulls back, pushes in again; soft, shallow rolls of his hips.
you brush your nose against his. "you don't have to be so careful with me, si."
"i want to." he replies simply. "been thinkin' about this since you brought it up. about makin' you feel good."
you, not him.
you thighs slide to wrap around his waist on the next thrust, taking hip deeper just by the nature of the position and he groans - a wrecked noise that carves itself into your memory.
"this alrigh'?" he murmurs against your neck, hips snapping just a little harder; thumb sliding into the space between your bodies to rub gentle patterns against your clit.
you nod, jaw going slack as you feel heat flood your stomach again. "yeah. s'perfect." you manage to murmur back.
he presses a kiss against the corner of your mouth, keeping up that same steady rhythm. "i love you. i love you when you're happy, an' i love you when you're sad. i love you when you're horny and climbin' me like a tree an' when all you want t' do is watch greys anatomy on repeat an' eat little moons. nothin', fuckin nothin', matters to me as much as you do."
you bury your face in his neck, cheeks hot, eyes burning, "i love you too."
your second orgasm is like sinking into warm water; nerves lighting up hot one by one, teeth sinking into the curve of his his shoulder with a whimper of his name. he follows immediately after, the pulse of your cunt around him dragging him over the edge, face buried in your hair as he breathes you in.
he doesn't pull out right away - just holds you, fingers stroking over sweat damp skin, pressing lazy kisses to your temple.
"still smilin' down there?" he murmurs softly.
you huff out a soft laugh, body and brain soft with satisfaction. "yeah, si. still smilin'."
"good." he kisses the top of your head. "that's all i need, dove."
something something journalist reader going undercover in john price's cult with another journalist who is playing the role of your dutiful husband.
cw: manipulation, character death, breeding kink if you squint, unedited, abrupt ending
john price's cult isn't a religious one at first glance, your editor told you straight off the bat. there's no second coming, no promise of a perfect afterlife, nothing like that. it's a cult of ideology, with price positioned as someone who's got it all figured out, who can lead the lost and confused through the world with his guidance- but there's whispers of a messianic figure with dreams that he treats like prophecy, a secret militia, illegal weapons, and underground bunkers. all from anonymous sources that you're assured are legit.
"we can't get anyone to talk on the record-" your editor says, taking a drag of his vape by his open office window, carefully exhaling blue raspberry clouds into the clean, fresh air. "-so you and cody have to go in. just spend a few months there, see what's up, gather any evidence you can, and report back here to write up the story."
"cody?" you echo, skeptical. cody's a good writer and a nice enough guy, but you don't think he's cut out for this kind of undercover journalism. from what you've heard, price runs a tight ship, and cody's the kind of guy who has his vices. you give it a week, tops, before he gets busted smoking or drinking or something equally stupid and preventable.
"i know, i know, but no one else will go- and besides, you need backup. it's best if you play at being a married couple- it'll make you less conspicuous- don't argue, yes it will. a single woman joining a group like this is bound to get you far more attention than if you come attached at the hip of a man." he points out, waving his vape in the air to punctuate his statement.
you sigh heavily, arms crossed. shit. you need this story, need to scratch the itch in your brain that's wondering what the fuck john price and his little cult are up to way out there in the middle of nowhere... so if you have to pretend to be the doting wife of cody of all people, so be it.
"when do we leave?"
your editor grins.
~
not even two days later you're at the compound, going through 'orientation', which seems to comprise of watching established members of the group meticulously paw through everything you brought and having to justify keeping it.
you have a much easier time than cody does- you'd been prepared for this. the only things you brought were clothes, toiletries, a journal, some pens, and a burner cell phone. the phone was the only thing close to a stumbling block- you'd had to point out that there were no saved numbers, pictures, or anything else personal in it in order to sell the idea that it was just for emergencies. you winced as you watched a woman dressed in grey rub nail polish over the camera lens, ruining it completely.
(at least she didn't think to get the selfie camera, thank god. whatever pictures you're able to take will be awkward as hell to shoot, but it's better than no pictures at all.)
cody didn't fare nearly as well. his personal phone is confiscated, as well as three bottles of liquor and countless kratom pills. they let the poor bastard keep his nicotine patches, but with the stern warning that if he hasn't weaned himself off of them within twelve weeks that the rest will be confiscated.
"jokes on them," he whispers to you later, "we'll be long gone by then."
after your bags are re-packed and handed back to you, the tour begins. luggage in tow, you're shown around the compound, which is just several trailers and makeshift buildings scattered throughout the woods.
your guides, kyle and alex, are nice enough, answering your questions and introducing you to the folks you come across. they explain how they have a deal with a nearby village- an agreement that the compound will purchase any and all fruit and veg not sold by the end of the day on the thursday market. sometimes they'll trade labor or the handicrafts that people make out here for bigger items, like the time the two of them helped build a shed in exchange for a backup generator.
you take mental notes as you walk around the colony, trying to remember faces, buildings, facts about the group that kyle recites for you with all the forced charm of a real estate agent. you're still in the 'honeymoon' phase of this thing, where they know they need to butter up new members to keep them from bolting. you play along dutifully.
cody, however, does not.
"i dunno, man. my wife might be into this, but i'm not sure. seems like a big commitment without a lot of return, you know? like we're out here giving you free labor in exchange for what, exactly?" your elbow finds his ribs.
"cody!" you hiss. "we talked about this!"
"is there a problem here?" a gruff voice asks from right behind you, startling you with a gasp as you spin on the balls of your feet. standing there is none other than john fucking price himself, the self-imposed leader of this whole operation. shit, it's game over, cody's fucked this mission before it's even started, time to think of something. fast.
"mister price, i'm so sorry about my husband- i've heard such wonderful things about what you can do for people, and i really think that seeing it in action will help him embrace everything you have to teach here." never in your life has the bullshit flown so easily, and to be honest, you're instantly a little proud of how sincere you were able to make that sound.
judging by the way his expression softens, it looks like price buys it completely. a scowl melts away into something softer than indifference, but not quite committing to a full smile.
"it is out of respect for your lovely wife and her wishes to better herself that i am not asking you to leave this compound immediately. i will not, however, tolerate further disrespect of these good people or our mission together. is that understood?" price's voice rumbles with warning, like a rattlesnake right before a strike.
"thank you." you say softly, before reaching over and squeezing cody's hand as hard as you possibly fucking can.
"yes, and thank you." cody says with the sullen attitude of a teenager in detention. price just looks him up and down before nodding once, curtly, and marching away with a gaggle of very large men in tow.
price looks back at you once, blue eyes locking on yours before he slips into a residential building- one you presume is his, based on the fact that it's bigger than everyone else's.
"wanker." cody mutters under his breath, catching an elbow from both you and kyle at the same time.
~
early in the morning, before the sun has deigned to make an appearance over the hillside, you wake up to loud banging against the hollow door of your little 'couples home'.
"open up! right this bloody instant!" a man's voice calls out from the other side. you're on your feet faster than cody, pulling on a robe and yanking aside the chair you'd wedged under the doorknob last night when you'd found there weren't any locks. hard as his knocking is and cheap as the door seems, it's a wonder he hasn't simply burst through what you'd swear is just weatherproofed balsa wood.
when you swing open the door you're dumbfounded to see john price again, the big man in charge, standing on your stoop- and he looks furious.
"good morning." you say, nervously clutching at your robe, holding it closed in nervous hands. you don't even know why you're shaking, you haven't done anything wrong, but something about those wild blue eyes glaring right at you from under furrowed brows is very nearly activating your flight response.
"what's this?" he says in lieu of a greeting, stepping into your home without invitation and pointing to the chair by the door.
"oh, well, there wasn't a lock-"
"bloody right there isn't." john crosses his arms and tilts his head, tucking his chin to his chest. "i know you're new here, but listen well: we have rules here at the colony, and one of them is that you will allow access to yourself at all times. to deny any of the colony this right is to spit in the face of community itself. you do not have the right to make the others feel unsafe in this way."
you blink, dumbfounded, trying to parse out this word salad for any real meaning.
"unsafe? all i did was lock the door-"
"and who told you to do that?" john asks, eyes darting over your shoulder at cody, who's only just now shuffling in behind you. "was it you?"
"i- now, look," cody stammers, clearly taken off-guard. "locking the door at night is a perfectly reasonable thing to do-"
"stop." john practically spits, nostrils flared as he pauses to find his words. "it's one thing to come here with your poisonous ideas about our community, but to infect your wife with it? when she so clearly wants to be here, to see the kind of life we have to offer? shame on you, taking advantage of such a dutiful woman."
"i- what?"
"this is your last warning. you don't have the right to treat people like this." john barks before turning on his heel and storming out, taking the chair with him. the door slams shut, leaving you and cody alone and reeling, staring at each other with open mouthed shock.
"what the fuck?" cody whispers, and you can only shrug. what the fuck, indeed.
~
a few more weeks go by without incident. cody has finally learned to shut the fuck up, and you've managed to make friends with a few of the more senior members like kate and farah. price, however, has been conspicuously absent as of late. you've been told that he's normally the one giving the daily talks, but something came up and kyle's simply been gracious enough to fill in for the time being.
you try to imagine kyle's words of empathy, community, and honesty coming out of john- but it's difficult. it doesn't pair with the man who, in the first two times you ever saw him, only spoke directly to you in order to scold you. people talk about him being charismatic, unpretentious, grounded- but that's not the impression you've gotten. it's hard to make anything of him based on those two interactions, but you can hardly imagine him being someone you'd want to go to with your troubles.
during the days you spend your time alternating between listening to lectures and working in the kitchen. you can't pretend you haven't noticed how gendered the division of labor is here, with women taking on domestic duties and mostly men going out to hunt, fish, or travel to town to earn money with labor.
it's hard to swallow your pride and not say anything- but you're here to get a story out, and if you call attention to yourself, go against the grain, you're likely to get kicked out before you have the chance to get anything good. so far all you have is 'they're weird about traditional family values but at least they don't make us sing'.
cody tends to disappear for hours at a time, claiming he's doing some snooping for the story's sake, but based on the way one of the younger women in the cantina suddenly can't seem to look you in the eye anymore, you're guessing he's doing a lot more than that.
whatever. you're both settling into a new routine now, one that seems to be working out. you're making connections with the women in the kitchen, and hopefully can keep cultivating those relationships until someone confides something in you about the inner workings of this group. so far all you've managed to pick up is that a few of the other senior members used to be in the military with john, and that john apparently has dreams that can tell the future. it's a red flag, for sure, but not enough to make you run. if anything, it makes you wish he were around again, just so you could maybe talk to him, find out some things for yourself.
but until then, you just content yourself with early morning motivationals, midday crafting lessons, then sweating over a hot stove right before a generous meal that's accompanied by another talk. in a way, it reminds you of summer camp. the rigid schedule, the emphasis on comradery, eating around a campfire on warm evenings, and the frustrated sighs of your instructors as you attempt and fail at the fiber arts they're trying to teach you.
in another life- one where you'd heard far less about what the leadership is up to, one where you didn't mind automatically being assigned to 'women's work', one where you had fewer connections to other people or worse self esteem- you could see yourself loving this place. the air is clear, you eat well, and you genuinely enjoy the company of some of the people you've met.
but having heard the anonymous sources, not just the information they gave but the way their voices shook when speaking against john price, you can't get too comfortable. lives are at stake, ones you plan on saving if you can by exposing truth to sunlight.
you just have to work a little harder to get what you need so you can save mary, who has a gap in her teeth and the prettiest smile you've ever seen. and jane, who snorts when she laughs and can't tell when people are kidding. and kate, one of maybe a handful of women you'd call handsome. and marta, and simone, and princess, and giselle, and so mi, and jordi, and-
so you keep at it. keep rising before the sun to make breakfasts, keep stone faced while people recite price's words about community like it's scripture, make journal entries using a series of innocuous seeming code words and phrases, pretend you don't smell pussy on cody's breath, gossip with the girls in the kitchen, and wait for price to return.
~
two weeks later, john comes back. he starts giving his speeches in the mornings and evenings, and lingers around the colony during the day, overseeing lessons, cleaning, cooking, all of it. nobody says anything about his absence, or even his return, so neither do you. after all, the name of the game is blending in, not attracting attention, slowly building up enough trust that these women will share their gossip with you- and tonight, it pays off.
"-heard he had another dream, that he went off to the woods to parse out it's meaning." simone whispers to giselle in the walk-in freezer, clearly unaware you're behind her. giselle's eyes go big, and simone jerks around, staring at you.
"i heard nothing, marta just needs more chicken." you say casually as possible, immediately going for the chicken breast you were sent for, doing your damndest to pretend like you don't care. you do, even if it's just mystical bullshit. it speaks to the hidden culture in the camp, a part of the narrative you will need to incorporate in your story. mentally, it's already a quarter of the way written. there's more to be learned here, and right here and now, you have the opportunity to prove you're chill enough to gossip around.
so turning on your heel, you force yourself to immediately leave the freezer, acting as nonplussed as possible while the nosy bitch in your head (the one you credit with making you such a good reporter) screams at you to turn around.
during dinner you can feel simone and giselle staring at you as you eat and listen to so mi gush about this new books she's been reading. every now and again you can see them whisper to each other out of the corner of your eye as you nod along to so mi explaining her book series to you, bemoaning the fact that all the blurbs on the cover indicated it would be much spicier than it actually is.
for the past three dinners, cody keeps disappearing with that girl whose name you refuse to learn. fucking idiot. dinners are an all hands sort of situation, his absence next to your side is glaring, and you can see price is also glaring your direction- although seeing as you've had no interactions with him since his return, you imagine it's not at you so much as the fake-husband-shaped empty space by your side.
after dinner you walk back to your abode alone, well-worn dirt path lit by torches in the rapidly dimming evening sun. you can hear the patter of hurried footsteps behind you, heralding an arrival you already expected.
"uh-" you hear simone before you feel her tap on your shoulder, and it makes something behind your ribcage twist with worry as she flinches back.
"hey, you okay?" you ask, brows furrowed. in the distance you can barely make out giselle waiting around the corner of one of the simple homes, clearly playing lookout.
"yeah, sorry, i just. like." she swallows hard. "i'm not supposed to talk about that stuff around new people. freaks some people out, scares them off. i really like you, i don't want you to leave."
she sounds so sincere, so earnest, that you can't help but feel touched.
"i'm not scared." you assure her. "and i'm not gonna tell anyone, not even cody. i don't want to get you in trouble, because i really like you, too. both you and giselle have been so welcoming, you've really made this transition smoother for me. thank you, and i'm sorry i never told you that before."
the open flames of the torches reflects in simone's watery eyes, her smile wobbly and wide, and when you open your arms she steps right into them, hugging you back.
"pardon me."
simone practically throws you off of her as she vaults back at the sound of john price's voice, sending you stumbling back a few steps. price gives her a tight little smile, one that stretches out his moustache into a straight line over his lip but doesn't crease the corners of his eyes.
"didn't mean to break up this lovely little meeting, but i need a word." he says directly to you before throwing a glance simone's way. "alone."
"oh- uh- of- of course. goodnight." simone scurries away without waiting for your own goodbye, giselle hot on her heels.
"did i do something wrong?" you ask, voice small. it's hard to say, but if your instincts about him are right, price might be the kind of man where deference will go a long way- and judging by the way he coos, smiles softly, and gently holds your shoulder, you'd say your instincts are right on the money. again.
"no, no. you're a lovely addition to our little colony, pet. a sweet girl and a hard worker... no, no, you're just fine." he pauses for a moment, expression shifting to something unreadable as he stares at your face. "however, i must ask that you pass along a message for me to your husband. skipping meals with the group- well. it's simply not done. bad enough he leaves you unattended at all hours."
he tucks his chin to his chest and leans back a bit, giving you a serious look.
"you'll tell him?"
you nod, dropping your gaze to your shoes, trying to disguise your annoyance at cody as humiliation. price's hand slides up the slope of your shoulder until he's cupping your face, tilting your gaze back towards him.
"i want you to know that even if things don't work out for cody here, you are always welcome. you don't have to leave with him, pet." john slowly leans in, and klaxons blare in the back of your head.
danger! danger! danger!
"i- uh- i should wait for my husband. at home. where he's expecting me." you demure as you step back to avoid a kiss, putting space between you. his hand hovers in the air where it had cupped your cheek, before slowly being lowered with a sigh.
"of course. don't forget about my message, pet."
"i won't, i promise. goodnight, mister price."
"just john, sweetheart." he calls after you as you turn to leave.
"goodnight, john!" you call back, powerwalking back to your domicile, leaning your weight against the door in lieu of using your confiscated chair.
shit. all this time and energy, potentially squandered because cody's bad at pretending to be married. there was no point to him being here at all if this is how he's going to behave- he was supposed to be your cover, and instead all he does is attract the wrong kind of attention. part of you wants to believe that maybe he's making progress, that he's found something and is investigating a lead, but likely the only thing he's found is willing pussy back at the cantine.
two things keep you from outright kicking cody off the piece and sending him packing- for one, you don't know how this group would respond to a 'divorce', but you don't imagine it would be favoriable considering all the tradwife bullshit you've been fed.
for another- john very nearly kissed you tonight. even if the group is cool about divorce, you get the feeling that suddenly becoming single is not in your best interest, that things could go very, very sideways if you aren't careful.
fingers crossed you can work fast enough to get what you're looking for before cody, that incredible fuckup, blows shit up for both of you.
~
after passing along john's message (and your own thoughts on the matter) cody finally takes the hint and glues himself to your side, making a menace of himself in crochet class and the kitchen, but at least he's behaving himself, you suppose.
john, conversely, has seemingly disappeared again, but this time, the girls in the kitchen seem more open to talking about it. apparently word has gotten round that you're chill, and you content yourself just to listen as they chirp their theories to each other like clucking hens.
i heard he had another dream.
i heard he's off meditating in the woods.
i heard he just went to the city to get more supplies for winterproofing.
cody, for once, also shuts the fuck up, kneading bread dough at your side, occasionally throwing you an impressed look. you may not ever want to work with him again after this, but you can't deny it feels good to have this proof that you're good at your job, that you can get people to trust you (and by extension, him) enough to talk freely.
after a long day of classes and chores on the compound, the two of you come back to your couples quarters to find price himself sitting on your couch, lighting a cigar.
"sit down, both of you." he says, tossing two throw pillows to the carpet, a silent invitation to sit at his feet.Â
"now, as shepherd to this flock, it is my solemn duty to look out for my people. the two of you may be newer, but i still consider you both exactly that- my people." embers crackle on his inhale. "which is why this meeting pains me so."
he pulls a folder from behind his back, throwing it between you and cody. warily, you reach for it, flipping it open to find pictures of cody with the girl from the commissary, printed out on cheap copy paper. there's a handful of them, clearly taken over a series of days on one of the many security cameras on the compound. he's got her bent over a stack of milk crates, clearly having a much better time than she is, judging by the look on her face.
cody's poker face is fucking terrible, embarrassment clearly visible as he throws you a guilty look. he had one job- pretend to be a pious married man. just watch and listen. go home later and write the story. and he fucked all of that up just for some brainwashed pussy.
pathetic.
"i had a dream the night before the two of you came here. i was in a field, walking by a river, and i saw a beautiful horse. she was pregnant mare, outfitted with a golden saddle with my initials embedded into the leather. she was clearly mine- meant just for me. but there was a venomous snake sitting in the saddle, threatening to strike her and infect her with it's venom. i didn't know what it meant back then, but i understand it now."Â
whatever this metaphor is, it's lost on you. price is known for his dreams, the ones he claims give him instructions from god- 'just as he did with joseph', price always says.
"i have allowed this... union..." price spits the word like it tastes foul in his mouth. "... to exist solely because the missus here seemed happy. i thought to myself "who am i to break up a happy, pious marriage?". so i let it continue. but now i can see she's not even surprised. upset, certainly, but that's understandable. but not surprised."
"now, john, our marriage is not your bus-" price cuts off cody with a two, sharp, snapped syllables that pierce through the air like a whipcrack.
"quiet."Â
price gets to his feet, looming over the two of you, and you can't help but flinch at the suddenness of it.
"easy, love. not you. never you." price reassures, hand outstretched like you're a skittish animal. he affixes his glare at cody. "but you-"
with a solid boot to the chest, price kicks cody over. you'd swear you can hear ribs cracking on the impact, and a shriek slips from between your lips.
"god gave you a perfect woman, who you bound yourself to in holy matrimony, and you disgrace your union with a nineteen year old?" price kicks cody again, the laces of his boots slamming hard into his side with a sickening thud.
"john! no! please! don't do this- you dont have to do this!" you scramble across the floor and hold onto his kicking leg, using your weight and grip to prevent further blows. you press your forehead against the outside seam of his jeans, clinging tight whispering a desperate pleasepleaseplease against the denim.
"lookit that. still a loyal wife, even after such a betrayal. you don't deserve a woman of this- this caliber." john spits down on cody, who merely flinches amd whimpers, curled up on the floor with his hands still protecting his face. judging by how hard john kicked him, cody's probably dealing with broken ribs.
you can feel the heat of john's palm against your head as he pets over your hair like a dog.Â
"i cannot abide by your presence any longer, cody. you are an infection, an infestation, a rot that must be removed." price pontificates, reaching into his jacket pocket.
a pistol glints in the meager overhead light.
"john, please- i forgive him, i do, please, you don't have to do this-" you beg as cody stares wordlessly, eyes wide, clearly in shock.
"i do, pet. it's my job, in fact. part of being a good shepherd is knowing when to cull the herd- and he needed to go a while ago, pet. it's time. "
the silencer mutes the two shots, but you shriek anyways. cody's body jerks wildly as his skull explodes from the back, coating the wall in blood, brains, and bone. your pulse pounding away in your ears is the only sound for a while, and you find yourself still wrapped around price's leg, too shocked to even let go.
after what feels like eternity, john finally breaks the silence.
"sit down on the sofa, love. let's talk about the future." it takes a beat before you slowly get to your feet, knees wobbling as you make your way to the couch. you watch silently as price opens the door without a word, ushering in a few senior members who quickly remove cody's body, wrapping him up in a sheet and carting him away before closing the door behind them. now all that's left of him is the mess on the floor and the hole in the wall.Â
"where are they taking him?" you ask voice small and frail. john smiles at you from over his shoulder as he fills your kettle with some of the potable water in your cabinet, your boxes of tea already set on the counter, clearly preparing to make a cuppa on your little burner.
"it's always best to bury the dead quickly, before they pump his body with unnecessary chemicals and preservatives." john explains simply, as if the barrel of the gun in his holster isn't still warm.
you're so fucked. beyond fucked, really. you've been incommunicado for months now, and nobody is expecting to hear from you for another few months yet. nobody will know cody is dead for a long time- and shit, the same could happen to you. easily. imminently, perhaps. after all, you've seen too much. know too much. the only thing that you think is keeping you alive is john's attraction-
-or is that what killed cody in the first place?
"how did your dream end?" you ask. you don't really care, but the silence as you wait for water to boil is oppressive, stifling, threatening to choke you.
"hm?" he cocks an eyebrow your direction before slowly sauntering over.
"your dream- the one about the beautiful horse and the snake. how did it end?"
john drops himself onto the couch next to you, arm snaking over the backrest as he scoots a bit closer, boxing you in against the edge of the couch.
"i lured the snake away from my horse with a rat, and crushed it under my boot. the horse gave birth to the sun, which lit my path as i rode the horse on a star bridge out into the edges of the galaxy." price says with such a nonplussed, matter-of-factness that the bizarre statement almost doesn't click. as soon as the dots connect, you feel sick.
"i'm the horse." it's not a question, just a statement you need confirmed. john hums in affirmation as you feel him trace his fingers gently against the back of your neck. "but i- i'm not pregnant-"
"no?" he asks, free hand sliding across your belly without warning. you bite back a reproach, withhold your instinctual slap, hoping he mistakes the way you freeze and go quiet as submission and not you muzzling your own anger.
"no."
"how can you be sure? you have one of those- those implants some of these modern women have?" he practically spits the word, disdain clear on his face.
"i- no, it's just- well, cody and i- he lost interest in me some time ago." you lie, dropping your gaze to where he's still petting at your soft belly, hoping the way you stumble over your words will be interpreted as a byproduct of humiliation and not rusty improv skills.
"oh, sweetheart." price closes the already tiny gap between you, his hip pressed firmly against yours as he leans into your space even more. "don't worry, it's all right. i'll fix it. we'll make you a mum yet. just need some time."
his lips find yours with the help of his hand anchored on the back of your neck, holding you in place and his beard scratching the thin, tender skin of your lips when he tries to deepen the kiss.
"john- my husband-" you press against his chest and he relents with an exhausted sounding sigh, but still keeps his grip on your nape.
"i believe the phrase is 'til death do us part', love- and death has parted you. so you're not doing anything wrong- just fulfilling your destiny. our destiny."
you gape at him, eyes wide and mouth open in shock- and you can tell he clocks when your eyes dart over to the gore splattered on the wall when he chuckles a little too warmly as he presses his forehead to yours, forcing you to look deep in his eyes.
"now, you just forget that git. no more wastin' tears on him- i don't ever want to hear his name again. from now on, i'm the only husband you know. heard?"
the hand on your stomach slides down, deftly unbuttoning your jeans.
"w- i'm- we're not married-"
"oh, yes we are. we are if i say we are, because what i say goes." john refutes, biting at his lip as he yanks at your jeans- a clear signal for you to lift your hips so he can undress you.
"john-"
a solid hand clamps over your mouth as he bullies you sideways against the armrest, practically climbing on top of you.
"now you listen to me- i saved you from that snake, and you will give me the sun in return." he practically snarls in your face, hand sliding off your mouth for only milliseconds before he's pressing another clumsy kiss against your lips.
calloused fingers tear at your clothes as he mumbles to himself, and through watery eyes you stare up at the ceiling, listening to john talk to himself as you mourn not only the death of cody, but also your freedom.
Summary: Simon overhears you say his dick is small.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Consensual freeuse. Traffic light safe word system. Your boyfriend fucks you rough (but lovingly) while youâre on the phone.
Word count: 3.1k
You were being a good friend.
It really was as simple as thatâa woman youâd known for over a decade now was going through the worst breakup of her life, and she needed your support. Youâd offered that support without hesitation, thinking nothing of the fact that you were in the healthiest of relationships yourself. You sure as hell never wouldâve imagined a conversation like that could lead to this.
âHis dick was huge, too,â your friend groaned across the line. You heard a shuffling of pillows and a soft thump, and you pictured her punting one off the bed.
You were lying on your stomach in your own bed several hundred miles away, holding your phone to your ear and trying to bite back a slow-growing grin.
âCouldnât have been that big,â you hummed.
Again, your best friend groaned as if she were in pain.
âNo, Iâm telling you, the guy was fucking massive, hon. Just hung like aâŠa goddamn horse. Iâm gonna be sick.â
âYou can find another monster cock someday.â
âI donât want to, though! It was so good.â
âYou know, a big dick isnât everything.â
Now you were trailing a finger over the embroidered edge of a pillowcase, trying your hardest not to think of the man whoâd just slipped out of your sheets thirty minutes prior. Right before your friend had called with her devastating news, before you had been obliged to join the I-Hate-All-Men tirade of the century, youâd been getting put through the mattress by your boyfriendâa man who didnât lie, or cheat on you, or steal, or shatter your heart into a million pieces.
A man whose dick was considerably bigger than most.
Simon was probably already three beers deep with his buddies at the pub down the road, the same lopsided, happy-go-lucky smile on his face he always wore when you and him had just had a quickie before he left home
Suddenly, the tail-end of a sentence snapped you out of your reverie, your friendâs tone loud and a little shrill:
ââeasy for you to say!â
You blinked. âEasy fâwait, what?â
âSimon Riley. Love of your life.â You could imagine the woman snapping fingers in front of your face if she had been with you then, as if to say, Ring a bell? âDonât even try to act like he isnât a crazy good lay. And huge.â
Your cheeks heated at the accusation. Hell, youâd probably mentioned to friends in passing that your boyfriend was an altogether generous lover, a caring man in every respect, along with a couple other vague intimations about his prowess that would leave a whole lot more to the imagination than not, but this? You hadnât even touched on anything about his size.
Normally, you wouldnât engage in that kind of talkâat least not to that level of detail, revealing intimate facts.
But your best friend was hurting, and it seemed like she needed something to feel better in the moment.
So, shortly, it slipped out before you could think better:
âSimonâs not even big.â
Your mouth clamped shut as soon as you said it.
Liar, every fiber of your being hissed at once.
(Shut the fuck up, Iâm helping a friend out)
âNo way. Youâre full of shit,â she giggled.
(Well, yes)
âNope.â
âReally?â
âReally.â
You swallowed hard. Already hating yourself as the silence across the line stretched on and you knew your friend expected you to elaborate, and then you did.
âHonestly, itâs pretty, umâŠsmall. AndâAnd thatâs OK! Like, nobodyâs perfect. The sex with him is still so great, and if anything, itâs nice not having such a big dick to worry about, yâknow? So donât feel like dating a smaller guy is so bad. You can still have amazing sex.â
You tried to end it on a positive noteâthe message you meant to get across, which was that the girl could be happy with a guy of any size and she didnât need to stay hung up on her stupid exâbut it fell flat, even to your own ears. Clearly, youâd dropped a bombshell.
âBut he is justâŠsuch a big dude. Youâd thinkââ
âNo, I know, Simonâs tall,â you interrupted hastily. Wincing. âBut like I was saying, you can still do a lot with an average-sized dick. OrâOr even a tiny one.â
âItâs tiny?!â
Fucking shit.
âNo, no, no, not tiny! I mean, not thatâŠtiny. Heâs fine.â
Your pulse was pounding so loud in your ears you could hardly hear yourself think. Or breathe. Or lie. Or try to piece together the most incoherent string of words that came out a little something like, âSeriously, uhâŠSimonâs the sweetest guy Iâve ever dated, and umâŠdick size doesnât even really matter. The big ones hurt. I mean, the guyâs not huge, but not tiny, andââ
âWell shit, lovie, how fuckinâ little are we talkinâ here?â
At the rumble of a voice by your other, phone-free ear, you nearly jumped and catapulted your device across the room. You wouldâve yelped, too, had it not been for a big, broad palm clamping over your mouth. As a familiar weight and breadth and scent settled over your beingâa body coming to lay on top of you from behindâyour friend continued to chatter on the line, clueless.
âOK, OK, I get it. Love a guy of any size. And Simonâs not perfectâeven though that fuckerâs about as delectable as you can get in every other wayâŠâ
While the womanâs voice faded off into a far-distant hum rattling off Simonâs best qualities and lamenting the odds sheâd ever find a man quite so wonderful, you were confronted with several of these same features at once: his wide, muscular chest blanketing the back of you entirely; his stubble tickling the cusp of your cheek as he leaned in close; his strength pinning you to the bed and only loosening the grip around your mouth a little; and of course, there was that voice again, lowerâ
âToo bad about my microdick, huh?â Simon chuckled.
ââand I bet he knows how to use it!â your friend went on, not hearing a word of what was going on with you.
âHey, uhâhey, Iâve gotta go. I think Iââ you started.
As soon as you did, though, you felt the pressure on your spine soar to new heights. You let out a low whine.
Simon was crushing you now.
Your friend cut in, âYeah? You OK?â
Before you could attempt a reply, the hand that had once been covering your lips lowered to just underneath your chin; Simon squeezed your throat.
Playfully, he made clear by nipping at your earlobe.
âNo need to stop on my account,â he murmured.
So, rushed and more than a little flustered now, you made up some excuse on the phone about mistakenly hearing the doorbell, and you let your friend forge on. You dropped the phone onto the bed by your pillow.
Then you turned your head, the rest of your body immobilized by the heft of your boyfriendâs weight on your back, and you finally, finally got to meet his gaze.
Behind you, Simon was smirking.
His whole demeanor betrayed amusement.
It wasnât every day the man got to hear his dick was the size of something much smaller than it actually was, you reckoned. Still, he deserved an explanation.
âS-SiâŠâ You tried to grit out a whisper, deflated by his weight and forced to hide your words from your friend.
Never mind the fact that your boyfriend looked, smelled, and felt just as irresistible as he had when he left home less than an hour ago. A simple, all-black ensemble fit him like a second skin and accentuated every mouthwatering ridge of his body, most visible to you in the glimpse of his bicep you caught under your chin. He was warm. Solid. Drenched in that dizzyingly potent sandalwood aftershave that you liked so much.
Youâd never tapped the âmuteâ on your phone so fast.
âShit, Si, Iâm so, so sorry, I didnât meanâ I only said itâ sheâs going through a breakup right now, and I just tââ
Simon hit âunmute,â followed by âspeakerphone.â
He leaned back.
ââŠbut what reeeally fucked me up was how he acted after. Like, couldnât even look me in the eye, the dickâŠâ
Your friend prattled onâback to sinking neck-deep in a story of how shitty the dating scene was and how she shouldâve given up ages agoâwhile you flitted your gaze to your phone. You stared in awe, wondering why the fuck Simon had decided to tap those buttons in a moment like this, and questions started to bubble up.
At the same time, you heard the clink of a belt buckle.
Simon knelt behind you. He straddled your ass, and when you tried to sit up, he pressed a palm to the center of your back. He moved about it all swiftly.
Finally, the quietest, quickest hiss, âSi, what the fuââ
âSpit.â
That part, he said too loud. But the man didnât seem to care much at all as he reached with his other hand and stuck his upturned palm under your face, waiting for it.
âWhat did you say?â your friend cut in presently.
Your face stung with embarrassmentâat just the prospect of being found out by someone who had no concept of what was going onâthat you forced it out:
âN-Nothing. Keep going.â
You spit in Simonâs hand like heâd told you.
Your phone couldnât have been resting more than two or three inches from your face on the bed, and the space in general was small. There wasnât a lot to be done by way of masking your activity, other than to simply hang up the fucking phone, but it didnât sound like discretion and decorum and being considerate were at the top of Simonâs list of priorities right now.
Still, you felt a press of his lips against the back of your neck before he mumbled, âRemember our safewords?â
You did.
âYellowâ to slow down, âredâ to stop.
It wasnât often you had to use the words with Simon, but from time to time, in particularly heated and impassioned moments, you appreciated the safety net.
And freeuse was something relatively new to you bothâjust accepting him in and letting him have his way with you at random points during your day, casually.
It didnât make it any less tricky, or jarring, when the man next pushed inside you, bottoming out in one go.
Your sleep shorts tugged to the side, lying facedown underneath this massive, hulking man, you had only to grit your teeth and feel yourself stretched to full capacity with the shove of Simonâs bare cock in you.
âOh, fuck,â you let out, hoarse.
âNo, right? It was so gross, honestly.â
Amidst the airing of your friendâs mile-long list of grievances against her ex, your boyfriend settled his full, thick, demonstrably larger than average dick in your body until it felt like he was scraping your lungs.
You clawed the sheets and squirmed under him.
âThat feel tiny to you, sweetheart?â Simonâs mouth was right next to your ear now, whispering filth while your walls stretched and squeezed to accommodate him. Warmth leaked out from where you connected.
You shook your head weakly, barely able to breathe.
It somehow made it even wilder and more maddening to have your senses deprivedâSimon behind you, restricting your movements, with you obliged not to make a sound at the pleasure he was inflicting on you.
Your hips pinned to those pretty, floral-patterned sheets and your pussy made to gape in a perfectly wide âoâ around Simonâs whole cock, you felt helpless.
Stretched.
Protected, still.
Simon hadnât even withdrawn to get a full stroke in, and he was already caressing your cheek with the backs of his knuckles, giving you more time to adjust to him. His tip kissed your cervix, and a heat sank in.
âSweet doveâs still sore from earlier, yeah?â he murmured. âDidnât think I gave her that muchâŠâ
But he did, of course.
ââcouldnât even make me cumââ your friend went on
Simon always gave you enough.
Just as your walls preemptively clenched around that slick, hard length and the man started to stir, rolling his hips against your ass in the shallowest of movements, your lips parted on a half-moan. Your chest constricted
ââit must be so much better with Simon, isnât it?â
Suddenly, your boyfriend took a fistful of your hair.
In a murmur again, close to your ear:
âGo on, then. Donât be impolite.â
âS-So, so good,â you rushed out. Those thrusts finally picked up, and Simon fucked you quietly into the bed. You sucked in another strangled breath, and trying your hardest not to moan, âHeâs fuckingâŠincredible.â
âI bet,â your friend laughed.
More shit-talking of men ensued.
Simon returned to his original, dominant position blanketing your body completely with his own, forearms planted on either side of your head on the bed and your phone resting inches away from you both. His cock pounded a furious pace inside you, precum and spit and your shared fluids easing the repeated slide. You gripped the sheets tighter, and Simon did the same with his ironclad hold in your hair.
Then his cock slid in higher, a little to the left, and the tip of him hit that special, tender, mind-numbing spot.
You felt the grin against the side of your face before you heard him chuckle, quiet as anything but elated.
Simon was the only guy whoâd hit your G-spot before.
He hit it again. And again. And again, shaking the whole bed frame with the force of his thrusts. He kissed your neck and let your head loll back on him. While your friend chattered on, he did what he did best
âThatâs a good girl,â he praised. âGonna come fâme?â
You nodded, head bobbing against his softly.
If there were any moment for retribution, now would be it. If Simon were even the slightest bit the spiteful, insecure type, he probably wouldâve taken the opportunity to make you beg for himâtell him how huge his cock was and how lucky you were to get it; how terrible it was to lie about a thing like size. It was.
But Simon didnât, opting instead to give you pleasure. And he got plenty from you, too, you could tell by the breaths that were growing more and more ragged against your neck and the frantic stutter of his hips.
He was so big it was as if you could feel him in your throat. With every thrust that pushed you closer and closer to the edge, and with every twitch of every inch stuffed inside you, you feared you might not be able to conceal the sounds from your friend for much longer.
Your jaw unhinged on another wide-open, noiseless moan that probably made it look like you were in pain, and at the same time, your friend carried on over the phone, laughing about this loserâs goofy fucking face.
âYellow?â Simon panted into your ear.
In other words, did you want him to slow down?
You shook your head no. Let him pelt your insides with the force of those hard, merciless thrusts and carve a path clean through your body in a way that only he ever could. He molded you to him perfectly. Tenderly.
Crescents digging into your scalp from how tightly he held you to him, you felt Simon twitch and keep beating your G-spot while you writhed under him, âYou wanted a big dick, yeah? Donât run from it now.â
It was in those wordsâpaired with the obvious stretch and the depths your boyfriend was able to reach with his cock, how lovingly he fucked you while controlling your pleasureâthat you broke. You couldnât hold it in.
At the last possible second, Simon offered you his free hand to cover your mouth, knowing how loud you were liable to get, and you let out a muffled shriek into his palm. You grit your teeth and whimpered and kind of despised how high-pitched and needy you sounded, but you knew Simon loved it, almost as much as he adored the slippery wet noises your body and his made when he was emptying the contents of his balls into your cunt and fucking you senseless through all of it.
You finished as close as you were when youâd started, Simonâs chest glued onto your back. You both were breathing heavily, senses reeling from your highs. Simonâs cum stayed plugged in you with his thick cock holding it there, and the heat burrowed to your core.
You blinked, and you smiled contentedly at the warmth
Simon planted kisses wherever he could find bare skin for them to go, along your jaw and on your cheek and over your ear, like he always did after you two had sex.
âWasnât too far, was it?â he whispered. âKnow Iâmââ
ââbig,â you giggled, barely louder than a breath after his hand had slid from your lips and cupped your face.
Then you went on, as the haze in your mind was starting to clear the slightest bit, and you remembered why you were here in the first place, âIâm sorry. I shouldnât have said anything about your size, Si. Iâmââ
ââgoing to bed!â your friend announced suddenly.
Your attention and Simonâs snapped back to the phone
With all that had been going on over the last couple minutes, youâd almost forgotten the woman was still on the line at all. Sheâd been talking before that, right?
âIâ OK. Yeah, no, thatâs fine,â you said, stupidly. Then, regaining a bit more of your composure, âIâm so sorry about everything thatâs been going on withâŠhim. You deserve so much better, and you will find better, OK?â
That sounded coherent enough.
You would call again tomorrow. Really listen and be there to offer more helpful advice than youâd done tonightâthis was more about letting her vent, anyway.
So, reaching for the phone and expecting to hear your best friend chirp a quick, simple good-bye at any second, you lifted your hips back against Simon. You angled his still-hard dick inside you and pushed him deeper through the sticky warm mess heâd just coated your walls with, and you bit back a smile when he grunted. You met his eyes over your shoulder, and you felt his grip on your chin flex. His gaze sharpened.
But, before he could smirk and murmur in your ear something like, âRound three can be arranged if you really want it,â your friend cut in again over the line.
Her voice rang louder, and a little lighter, too, this time.
âGoooooodniiiiiiiiiight, hon, I love you so, so much!â
âI love you, too. Night!â you answered reflexively.
Then, your friend added, as swift as anything:
âAnd goodnight to you, too, Simon! Glad to hear that microdickâs being put to good use, happy for you two!â
Before you could say a word, she laughed and hung up.
Your eyes rolled back as Nikolai scratched behind your ear. The spot making your body tingle wonderfully. Leg kicking out as you leaned closer to his touch.
"Yes you will... so good, Milaya."
The moment he turned to open the door you sat up straight. Nervously fixing your hair and collar to be presentable. God forbid you embarrass your papa.
There were more men than you were expecting. Four of them filing into Nikolai's lush living room. One by one catching sight of you and freezing. Staring in shock. You recognised them. But your thoughts were so slow. A warm swamp that just wasn't worth slogging through to come to a conclusion.
"Is that..." John mumbled. Eyes wide with surprise.
"The rookie that disappeared six months ago..." Ghost replied. Just as zeroed in on your nude form.
"The rookie that could not follow orders and nearly got us killed." Nikolai finished. Petting your hair and smirking when you leaned into his hand. "Useless soldier. Much better pet, yes?"
He didn't get a response.
"She enjoys it. Don't you, pup?" His grin widening when you nodded eagerly. His voice the only clear thing in your mind. "Would you like to show Papa's friends your tricks?"
At the little 'arf' you let out, Johnny muttered under his breath. Entire face bright red. Already chubbing embarrassingly fast in his pants.
"Steamin' bloody jesus..."
Nikolai moved to sit on the couch. Hands on his knees as he watched you. Fidgeting in your seat while you waited for an instruction.
"Roll over."
In an instant you twisted on the ground. Tongue lolling out of your mouth as you rolled just like he said. So desperate to be good for him.
"Shake."
You immediately jumped up. Sitting on your haunches and rocking slightly so your tits bounced. Kyle let out a half cough, half curse. Quickly looking away in respect. As if you had any dignity left at this point.
The soft flesh of your chest jiggled with each bounce. Continuing until Nik nodded with approval before finally settling back against your heels. Something akin to embarrassment clawing at the back of your throat. So close to registering. But any sense of humiliation had been trained out of you months ago.
"Present for Papa."
Not a moment of hesitation. You were suddenly on all fours. Ass pointed in the air so your bare cunt was exposed. All the men in the room now able to see how obscenely slick you were. Pussy soaked with arousal.
"Good girl." Nik hummed. The praise going straight to your clit. "You want a treat?"
Even though you didn't move from your spot, they could tell how badly you wanted. Entire body nearly vibrating with need.
"Come get a treat, Milaya."
In less than a second you were between his legs. Nose pressed against the hidden bulge of his cock. Huffing deeply with a pathetic whine. Rubbing your face against him like a proper mutt. Eager to smell like your owner. Your papa.
"Fuckin' hell, Nik." John said. Breaking the tense silence. "Can you do Johnny next?"
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
Okay I was reading your spoiled foxy post and saw how Simon thinks she should work for her orgasmâŠdo you think he would get his way eventually? Like maybe on his birthday or if he was alone with her? Idk maybe I just want to see slightly mean!simonđ
foxy
simon has tried before. everybody else was home but it was just the two of you getting freaky. up in johns bed while everybody else works, he'll grant you that luxury.
but it always ended the same away.
kyle and johnny hearing your desperate whines and whimpers go unanswered and abandoning their chores to run to your aid.
and that leads to them eating you out while you choke around simon's cock or pulling you off of him because he's making you ride him and you're clearly struggling and fucking you themselves.
he tries so hard to make you work for it, but johnny and kyle make it so hard.
so, he waits for a day they're both out. John's taken the both of them to a livestock auction and left you alone with simon or something.
for the first time since you arrive at the farm, you have to work for your orgasm.
he holds your legs open, but he doesn't fuck you, doesn't touch you. you're trying to writhe and grind against something, but there's no friction.
"simon, please!" you cry, grabbing his hand.
he growls, sharp teeth on display. "always get what you want, don't you foxy?" his thumb brushes over your neck, a threat there. "got john and kyle wrapped around your finger. got johnny doing whatever you want."
he presses himself against you and you could cry with relief.
but it's short lived.
"should put you on the floor and make you suck me off," he grumbles. "should make you hump my fucking boot for your orgasm, not let you up until the boys get back."
a squeal leaves your lips when he picks you up and puts you on the floor. against his boot, wrapping your arms around his thick thigh as he works at his belt. "fuckin' spoilt, ain't ya?" he grumbles, freeing himself from his underwear. "gettin' whatever you want all the time."
by the time the boys get home, you're crying, grinding against simon's boot with his cock in your mouth. you're not even sucking him off, just holding him in your mouth as you writhe, working for an orgasm he's not gonna let you have.
no thoughts just simon riley and your new back tattoo.
his first thought is fuck - because it's big and intricate and must have fucking hurt.
his next thought is also, still, fuck - because all he can picture now is digging his fingers into the meat of your hips and fucking you from behind with this addition to his already perfect view.
that night he's uncharacteristically gentle; carefully helping you peel the wrapping off, rinsing blood and plasma and excess ink from your back in the shower. and for the next two weeks? he's there, helping spread cocoa butter over every inch of your new tattoo with careful touches; learning the shape of it with his fingertips.
and when it's healed? yeah, he's getting a cumshot video to cherish forever. something to take with him when he's away next to remind him of you. the perfect video of thick white ropes of his cum running down your tattooed back; gathering in the dimples either side of the base of your spine.
You tried it exactly once, fake moaning for simon, head tossed back and all breathy. A real convincing act in your opinion.
"....what the fock was tha'?" Ghost freezes above you mid-thrust. Forearm braced above your head, breath hot against the curve of your neck.
Ghost is the space between a pulled trigger and the target it hits, the breathe of every soldier on a battle field. You should know nothing gets past him. You whine, low and needy and intentional, squeeze around his cock and push at his chest "c'mon si...why did you stop?"
Ghost narrows his eyes, fully sits up until he's resting on his heels, arms crossed and thighs keeping your legs spread open. "Stop that. Fuckinâ stop it."
You twist in the sheets like a trapped animal, try to entice him to keep moving. Using all those tricks because you know he likes it from the way his cock twitchesâ
"I. Said. Stop." Two large hands pin you down, and when you finally meet ghost's eyes he looks furious "thought I wouldn't notice that fake shit? Fuckin' mocking me?"
Your stomach twists when he thrusts in, slow and deep, studying your every expression. "You think i can't make you scream? Can't please you?"
"You do! Siâ you do please meâ" you try to plead, clenching tight at the next thrust. "It's not because of that! You feel good, I promiseâ"
"Then what? Huh?" Another, deeper thrust that has your mind nearly shutting off from pleasure. His whole body rolls into it, more consciously putting on a performance for you now.
"It's...I...I don't make noise, si. I'm not loud." You whisper, face pinched. "I didn't want you to think I'm not enjoying it..."
For a moment, ghost just stares at you.
He lowers himself down, muscles moving under skin like a predator stalking prey. Full of potential to ruin you. His arms cage you in until all you can focus on is ghost.
"I want to hear you. Got it? Don't care what it sounds like so long as 's you." He grumbles, really settles his weight back into you.
Tentatively, you nod.
"Good. See? Wasn't so hard, now was it?" He pulls nearly all the way out, tucks back into your neck, and fucks you like he's trying to prove a point.
Quiet gasps, small whimpers and nothing more falls from your lips. Your orgasm is silent only in voice when you rake your hands along his back hard enough to break skin. When you have to bite into his shoulder after the second.
Later, ghost will wear the wounds like a badge of honor. He does need fake moans when he's got all the proof of your pleasure burned into his skin.
