Never in his entire life of being a captain, would he expect to overhear his team speak the way they were now.
He was heading towards his office when he heard your voice in Simon’s office.
“Whatever needs to be done. My throats feels so tight and needs it,” you had said, voice slightly muffled from the outside.
John should’ve opened the door and question what the fuck was going on in there— but he honestly didn’t want to even know. So you know what he did? Stand there like some cuck.
“Might be sore after, tha’ alrigh’ with you?” Simon asks.
John was stunned.
“Is it sour?” you asked.
A gruff scoff escaped from Simon, “let it go down your throat ‘n y’ won’t taste a thing,” he murmured.
John barely heard that part.
He’s had enough— his team was not about to fraternize right here, nor ever.
John’s hand grabbed the door knob and opened it so quick, he got a gist of wind hitting his face. “What the bloody hell is goin’ on in he—“
Simon looked over at the front door to find the captain staring back at him with wide, worry eyes.
There Simon was, holding up a small cup and a bottle of Mucinex while you stood in front of him, appearing as if you were close to passing out. You had been sick for three days now, John suddenly remembers.
I was pretty sick last week and STILL getting over all the congestion but it got me thinking about....
Awkward!Ghost who comes back from a long deployment looking forward to being a hermit with you at home. Only to walk in and find you sniffling and sneezing on the couch, tissues scattered with your favorite cuddle blanket pressed over your nose to help you breathe.
Awkward!Ghost who just stands there looking down at you as you smile at him, "It's just a little cold, I think this is the worst of it, don't worry Simon." It was not the worst of it. For two more days you ran a low grade fever and your sinuses decided to torture you with excessive mucus and as a bonus - clogged ears giving you bouts of vertigo.
Awkward!Ghost who never considered himself the caretaker type and genuinely doesn't know what to do. So he'll just follow as you shuffle from bed to the bathroom, or to the kitchen to make a warm tea to drink. He'll watch as you collapse on the couch clutching a box of tissues and your blanket. When you fall asleep he'll keep watching you, making sure your chest keeps with the steady rise and fall of breathing.
Awkward!Ghost who carries you to bed because he can't sleep well without your body present. So when you wake up confused in the dim light, he shifts to let you know. "Simon I don't want you getting sick too!" You plead all hoarse and stuffy nose. It makes his lips tick up in a small grin, "Don' worry bout me lovie. 'Mnot goin' anywhere soon."
Awkward!Ghost who is gone when you wake from a dead sleep finally feeling like a human again. As you emerge from the shower he's standing there with a paper bag of sandwiches from your favorite deli. No fanfare, no 'feeling better?', just his giant frame blocking the door, eyes scanning you over.
Awkward!Ghost who might not be a caretaker or great nurse, but he's a steady presence, always watching and observing. A sentinel standing nearby, protecting what he loves most.
when off-duty, johnny mactavish had his fair share of one-night stands. specifically at this local pub near his flat (which is exactly where he found you).
you were sitting at the bar wearing some skimpy dress that barely covered your ass, your rounded breasts practically spilling out of the neckline. johnny knew right then he had to fuck you.
which is how you ended up against the pub’s bathroom wall with your dress hiked up to your waist and your legs around johnny’s waist as he thrust up into you. you’d never been one to be loud in public, but it sure was hard to keep quiet when you could feel every ridge and vein in his thick cock as it pounded in and out of your weeping cunt.
"oh ffuck, johnny— oh christ, right there— oh-"
your eyes flutter shut, his cock ramming against your g-spot. he grinned, thrusting into the spot over and over as your moans and pleas echoed off the tile walls.
"oh? y’like that bonnie? didn’t know ya were so sensitive."
after that encounter, you both went on with your lives. or at least you did, johnny had his fair share of wet dreams about you in the pub bathroom stall for quite a while.
but after almost 6 entire years, you’d both never thought you’d see eachother again. that’s why johnny was so utterly dumbfounded when lieutenant simon riley introduced his fiancé to the 141, and soap saw the same curvy woman he’d fucked silly years ago. safe to say it’s difficult to socialize with your soon-to-be-husband’s friends when his best mate has had every inch of his cock stuffed inside of you.
a/n: i want to make a longer cod smut post but i have no ideas, im begging you PLEASE request. also they all have a threesome after probably yay happy ending
simon is a dinosaur when it comes to technology, which makes having a high-maintenance, drop-dead gorgeous bimbo for a girlfriend a daily test of his patience. he belongs in the dirt, handling mechanical parts and heavy artillery, not squinting at a glowing smartphone screen with his reading glasses on. but you? you live on your phone, constantly sending him updates, and he is absolutely obsessed with every single one of them.
right now, he’s sitting on his cot in the middle of a dusty base, staring at his phone like it’s an unexploded mortar. he had been trying to open a basic encrypted file from command, but his massive, scarred thumb hit the wrong notification bar entirely. instead of military data, a message from you pops up.
attached is a picture.
simon’s breath hitches, his jaw locking instantly behind his mask. it’s a mirror selfie you took in your bathroom back home. you’re wearing a tiny, lacy matching set, your long manicured nails gripping the pink phone case, your hair perfectly done, and your lips glossed to perfection. you look incredibly soft, completely plush, and your body is curved beautifully in the frame. you left a little text caption at the bottom: missing my big soldier boy, come stretch me out soon pretty please? xx
his heart hammers violently against his ribs. his thick fingers hover over the screen, suddenly terrified of deleting it by accident. he tries to zoom in to see the details of your pretty face, but his heavy, calloused skin taps the screen too hard, causing the photo to completely disappear and the phone to lock.
“fucking hell,” he growls into the empty room, a dark, dangerous edge to his deep voice.
he panics for a solid ten seconds, aggressively tapping the glass with a heavy thumb until the lock screen finally prompts his passcode. his knuckles are white, his breathing ragged as he maneuvers back to the messaging app. when your gorgeous picture fills the screen again, a low, guttural groan rips from his throat. the sheer contrast between his rugged, violent surroundings and your bright, hyper feminine, pampered energy makes his blood run completely hot.
he can’t even figure out how to type a proper response without hitting three letters at once. his large fingers clumsily tap out: miserable without you. don't delete this.
the ache in his trousers is heavy and immediate, throbbing fiercely against his tactical pants. he stares at the photo for another long minute, tracing the line of your soft waist with his thumb against the glass, wishing more than anything that his hands were on your bare skin instead.
adjusting his weight on the cot, he slides a hand down to grip himself through his trousers, his white-knuckled grip tight as he imagines returning home to his sweet, spoiled girl. <3
Summary: When getting a late night snack, Simon finds you and breaks down.
It’s exactly 2:36am
For some reason these past few days, you’ve been struggling to fall asleep. To much on your mind. Im your 23 years of living, you never did figure out how to turn your brain off.
You’re currently standing in the kitchen going through the pantry. All of a sudden you hear staggered breathing and quick footsteps. You reach for your gun on the counter, and hold it up aiming towards the hallway as the steps get closer. When the footsteps stop, you discover it’s Ghost. With no mask. His eyes are glassy and his hands are shaking. You quickly place your gun down.
“Simon..?”
He stands there, staring at you. He seems like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“Simon. Hey, talk to me.”
“Y-You’re here.” Tears begin to fall.
“Yeah, im here. What happened?”
He goes to speak, but nothing comes out. He falls onto his knees. You rush over and hold him, he sobs into your neck. He holds you tightly.
“I-I thought i lost you. You were s-shot. Your blood was everywhere.”
“It was a nightmare. You’re okay, Im okay. Nothing happened, love.” You brush pieces of his tear soaked hair from his face, and place kisses on his cheek.
He meets your eyes. He sees your concern and quickly sits up. He wipes his eyes and stands.
“Fuck.” He turns away, “You must think im such a pussy”
“Not at all.. i think you’re brave for telling me wjat happened.” You stand and take his hands in yours.
“Would you like to come back to my room? Might help you sleep, knowing im by you.”
“Yes please.” He keeps his head down like a sad puppy.
“Come on baby.”
a/n: Unfortunately this was just a little drabble so i probably won’t make a part 2. Have a great day💕
content.ᐟ 18+, unprotected p in v, praise, sweet sex, pet names (baby, honey)
him ramming his hips against yours as the tip of his dick kisses your g-spot over and over again, the lewd squelching of your mixed arousal filling the room, and your only task is to sit there and look pretty for him, be his pretty girl.
"golly, baby" he shakes his head, admiring the view; you laying beneath him with that fucked-out expression after god knows how many orgasms, glazed over eyes, hair splayed out across the sheets, and your jaw slack in pleasure.
he just can't stop. his kryptonian genes come with high stamina and a strong libido. so the least he can do is always make sure to take the best care of you, not letting you lift a finger in bed.
"i know, honey," he coos, "just- just one more, okay? p-please baby?" you nod dumbly at his sweet talking, too focused on another impending orgasm growing in your belly alarmingly quick.
"so pretty f'me," he speaks in that impossibly gentle and breathy tone, reserved only for you. he makes you feel like the only person in the world like this, brushing strands of hair away from your face to bend down and press soft, reverent kisses to your flushed skin while fucking into you.
"clark" you whine, your voice soft and raspy from just how vocal you've been. "s'too much" the feeling of his cock hitting that spongy spot inside of you with perfect precision on every thrust is overstimulating, but you can't help but arch into him, it's almost instinctive. of course, clark doesn't know he's hitting that spot inside of you that makes you see stars.
"oh, baby..." his heart softens at you, but he can't help the knowing smile that plays at his face, because he knows he's not actually hurting you. "just a little longer, yeah? you don't have to do anything, let me take care a'you" he coos, leaning his head down to lick and suck at your nipple, making your breath hitch. his precious girl, turning to putty under his touch and words. how did he get so lucky with you?
his cock twitches violently inside of you, the soft whimpers and whines of his name falling from your pretty lips, along with the feeling of your pussy fluttering around him is almost enough to push him over the edge. he would have spilt inside you a long time ago if he didn't have so much self control, fucking superman has its perks!
your legs shake when you feel his hand snake down between the two of you, and the pad of his thumb rub tight circles around your puffy clit. "shit!" you squeal, the tight band in your gut snapping almost instantly. your nails dig into his back hard enough to draw blood, cumming around his cock with a cry.
"oh- gosh honey," he groans at the feeling of your cunt nearly sucking him in, a feeling he'll never get used to. "yeah- t-there ya go..." he kisses you through your orgasm, swallowing your insistent moans and whimpers.
even superman can't hold off for long, his balls tighten up impossibly when he feels you scraping his back hard enough to leave bright red marks.
"inside! i-inside-" you pant, looking deep into his wide eyes. "wha- are- you're sure?" his voice is filled with restraint, but he's cut off by his own orgasm, his hips burying himself to the hilt as he pulses and fills you with his warm, sticky release in globs. he lets his head fall down to your bare chest as he whimpers and whines, holding onto you to ground himself.
while he's laying heavy on you, you can't ignore his still very hard dick sitting inside of you. you know he's going to gaze up at you with those big puppy dog eyes and ask you for one more. the way he takes care of you makes up for it all
Painfully shy reader getting absolutely obliterated drunk at the pub, losing all sense of timidity, and telling Gaz and Soap "I bet the reason Ghost actually hides his face is 'cause he knows everybody'd wanna sit on it".
Ghost overhearing, leaning over your shoulder, and letting you know "I'm just keeping your seat clean until you're ready to sit on it, love".
Obviously Simon fucks the embarrassment out of you the next day, but only after making sure you get your reserved seat nice and wet.
Simon obviously has a sleeve full of tattoos that he absolutely loves but I still think he won't stop there and get another tattoo right below his belly button where his blond happy trail is just to tease his missus.
The tattoo says,"It's not gonna suck itself, doll" in cursive that he got done just for his little missus as a suprise when he was away on one of his missions. He's absolutely proud of that tattoo because his doll loves it and if she loves it, he loves it.
Everytime his wife is on her knees for him, she's kissing the tattoo like a ritual, leaving her pretty lipstick stain before taking his thick mushroom tip in her pretty mouth and sucking on it before she takes his entire cock down her throat. She's gagging on it because even after years she can't adjust to his thick size and she's digging her nails right on the tattoo to leave little red crescent shape just for her own amusement.
Simon is definitely one of those men who’s never moisturized a day in his life. Like…his skin has been surviving off of whatever clearance body wash the local Tesco has had for decades now, and lord knows this man has never heard of shea butter in his life. Hell, getting him to take a daily vitamin gummy nearly drove him over the edge at the beginning of your relationship.
Until he moves in with you.
And finally…FINALLY this man’s skin can know peace.
“Ow—love, c’mon, what’re you—“
“Sit,” you all but shove him onto the bed face first, climbing over him before he’d be tempted to actually use all of that hard earned muscle to push you off. When you settle over his hips, the intrigue makes him pause for a split second…Until he sees the jar of cocoa butter clasped threateningly in your hands.
“No—No, don’t put that shit on me—“
“Shut up,” you command, quite literally slapping him on his shirtless back when you bring the first bit of cocoa butter to his skin.
It’s funny, watching his pale white skin go all red and twitchy as you massage it into his back, making sure to dig your thumbs into the stiff muscles at his neck (no matter how much he pretends to hate it).
“Swear to god, m’never lettin’ you near me again,” he dramatically huffs when you smooth over his biceps. You just giggle.
For a good five minutes, he manages to keep his back clenched with anger, whinging every time you reach for another bit of the lotion. But by ten, he’s given up trying to make his displeasure known verbally. No, now he’s just giving you the silent treatment.
Drama queen, you snort to yourself, amazed at how you managed to pick out the most melodramatic man at the cocktail bar that night. (You really should’ve known, though. The man wears a skull mask to work for god’s sake).
You take it on the chin though. Simon can pout all he likes, but it’s what’s best for his skin. So even if it means he’ll give you the cold shoulder the rest of the night, so be it.
That is…until you go to ask him to turn over, and you finally hear it: loud, chainsaw snoring, conveniently muffled in the fluffy expanse of your shared pillows. For a few seconds, you look on in shock at the way his eyes flutter with easy dreams, and how his muscles slump wholeheartedly into the mattress. Carefully, you dig a hand into the pillow to uncover his face a bit more, and when the horrendous snoring is finally fully revealed, you have to slap a hand over your mouth to stifle a bout of hideous laughter.
God, who would’ve thought?
Simon Riley—a scourge of the SAS—zonked out in his girlfriend’s satin bedsheets, blonde hair perky around his ears from your ministrations, and body absolutely slathered in sweet smelling cocoa butter.
The man looks as if he’s melted. Literally.
You’re tempted to take a photo, but instead, you reach for the jar once more, intent on moisturizing his legs before his conscious mind has any say in it.
All in all, you manage to cover him nearly head to toe. That, and he sleeps a whole damn five hours without waking up from a night terror.
All’s well that ends well!
….that is, until it’s a month later, and now you have a diva that demands you hand-massage cocoa butter into every inch of his skin on weekends. Needless to say, there are muscles of your hands that have never been so goddamn sore.
Ghost is hardly a jealous man, he doesn't really care about things enough to be jealous.
Well, except for you.
You, and the bloke who's practically been attached at your arm for the past two weeks. You two talk like old friends, like you've known eachother for years. Ghost knows from eavesdropping that "me and him were always close, you know? Kind of impossible not to miss eachother after I had to move."
The thought of it makes ghost seethe. It's a startling feeling considering he's never felt so territorial over someone before. All ghost wants is a moment alone with you, just to talk, and everywhere he turns your boyfriend is there.
Well. He assumes boyfriend, with the lack of a ring. But it's impossible to know when ghost avoids him and by proxy you. The worst part? Ghost didn't realize he liked you until that dickhead came around.
"Oh, ghost! I've been meaning to catch you!" You smile when ghost finally breaks during lunch, boyfriend sat across from you at the table.
You gesture to him, missing the way ghosts hand pulls his balaclava just above his nose, "this is my—"
Ghost kisses you, both hands holding yout jae steady.
The whole mess hall goes dead silent, not that he'd care. He leans in further, having to bow down at the awkward position, licking into your mouth with a wet tongue. You can't help but melt into it a bit, ignoring the gasp from next to you.
When you finally pull away, ghost is blushing beneath the mask, your own face heated.
"This," you say, all smug and pleased as you point to the man ghost has genuinely considered killing, "...is my brother. He's visiting for the month.
....oh.
....ghost grabs your arm and drags you away. He can deal with an angry brother later, right now he's aching to kiss you more and he knows you are too.
author's note: This has been in my drafts for one and a half years man. Never say never 💀 And thank you so much for 10k, lovelies! 🤍 xx
The ad is three lines long.
You agonise over it for a week—drafting and redrafting on the back of a grocery receipt at the kitchen table while your husband is on deployment, crossing out words and rewriting them until the paper is soft and furred at the edges from erasing.
Three lines. That's all the local paper allows for the personals section, which is a relic from another era that you didn't even know still existed until you were flipping through the classifieds looking for a vintage bookshelf and your eyes snagged on the column header.
SEEKING CONNECTION
You'd laughed at first. Then you'd read a few. Then you'd read them all, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with your tea going cold in your hands, and something small and sharp turning over in your chest.
The ad you eventually submit reads:
Married woman, mid 30s, seeks interesting conversation and perhaps more with a like-minded gentleman. Discretion essential. If you enjoy good food, dry wit, and don't mind a woman who can out-drink you — I'd love to hear from you. Reply to Box 64.
You pay for four weeks in advance and feel sick the entire drive home.
Because here's the thing about being married to Captain John Price.
You love him desperately and completely, in a way that has settled into your bones over the better part of a decade and become indistinguishable from the architecture of who you are.
Adore the way he smells—stale cigar smoke and sandalwood and old gun oil, a combination that should be repulsive and instead makes you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there. Love his hands, broad and scarred and capable of violence you'll never fully understand, and how gentle they are when they cup your jaw or fix the clasp of your necklace.
And you melt for the rumble of his voice on the phone at two in the morning when he calls from whatever godforsaken corner of the world he's operating in, tired and tight-lipped but always, always asking about you first.
You love him, and he loves you, and it hasn't been enough for a long time.
Not because the love ran out, because he did.
John Price gives everything to his work. Every deployment bleeds into the next. The gaps between homecomings stretch longer—three weeks become five, five become eight, eight becomes ‘I don't know yet, love, I'll let you know when I know’.
And when he does come home, he's there but not there; hollow-eyed and distracted, reaching for his phone at dinner, falling asleep on the sofa before nine, making love to you the first night with a desperate urgency that fades by the third morning into perfunctory kisses on the forehead and an apologetic mumble about an early briefing.
Someday, you stopped asking when he'd be home six months ago; stopped leaving the porch light on four months ago, and you stopped wearing the nice knickers three months ago because what was the point again.
Two months ago, you realised you'd gone an entire week without hearing his voice and hadn't noticed until Thursday.
That's when the panic set in. Not the sharp, clean kind, but the slow, creeping kind. The one that makes you lie awake at three a.m. staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is it, if this is what the rest of your life looks like. A nice house in Hereford with a well-maintained garden and a husband who exists primarily as a name on a bank account and a voice on the other end of an increasingly rare phone call.
You don't want to leave him. The thought alone makes you nauseous.
You just want someone to see you again.
John finds the newspaper three days after he gets home from a six-week deployment in eastern Syria.
He's not snooping; he's looking for the TV remote, which has migrated into the crack between the sofa cushions again, and his hand closes around the folded section of newsprint wedged beside it. He pulls it out, intending to toss it on the coffee table, and his eyes catch the circle of biro ink around one of the small ads in the personals column.
John reads it, and then again.
Then he sits down very slowly, the remote forgotten, and stares at the far wall for a long time, connecting puzzle pieces like his life depends on it, which it very well does apparently.
Married woman, mid 30s. His wife is in her thirties.
Dry wit. His wife is the driest, sharpest-tongued woman he's ever met. It's one of the first things he fell in love with—the way she could dismantle a man's ego with a single raised eyebrow and a well-timed "Bless your heart, love".
Can out-drink you. He's watched his wife put away Whisky Sours at the SAS Christmas do with a composure that made seasoned operators look like lightweights.
Discretion essential.
John sets the newspaper down on his knee. His jaw works and his eyes don't leave the wall.
And he doesn't confront you.
Not over dinner nor in bed that night when you roll towards him and press a kiss to his shoulder—a habit you've kept even through the worst of the distance, even when you're angry with him, even when he doesn't deserve it.
Instead, he waits, and he replies to Box 64.
The letter that arrives for you a week later is postmarked locally. Plain envelope, no return address. Inside, a single sheet of paper, handwritten in a bold, slanted script you don't recognise.
I enjoy good food, better whisky, and I've never met a woman who can out-drink me, but I'd enjoy watching you try. Friday, 8pm, O’Malley’s on St. George's Lane. I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh. — J
Your hands are shaking when you finish reading it, and you have to sit down at the kitchen table and press your palms flat against the wood to steady yourself.
You could throw it away. No. You should throw it away. This was a mistake—a stupid, reckless, selfish mistake born out of loneliness and too much wine and that ugly, gnawing ache in your chest that flares up every time John leaves.
But John has left again. Three days at home, then a call from Kate Laswell, then a bag packed and a kiss on your forehead and a quick ‘Be back soon, love’ and the sound of the front door closing and the silence that rushes in to fill the space he used to occupy.
You read the letter once more.
I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh.
Something warm and reckless curls in your stomach, and you hate yourself for it, and you fold the letter into the pocket of your cardigan and carry it around for three days before you decide you’re going.
Friday night. O’Malley’s.
You arrive twenty minutes early because you're a control freak in crisis, and you take the farthest booth in the corner because your back needs to be against a wall and your eyes need to be on the door—a habit you picked up from your husband without realising it.
You order a gin and tonic to give your hands something to do, and you check your reflection in the blank screen of your phone for the third time. You look good, like you tried again—not the kind of effort you make for John when he comes home, all desperate and over-polished, but a quieter kind; wearing your favourite dress with subtle makeup and your hair done the way you like it, not the way you think someone else wants to see it.
You look like your old self, and that's terrifying, because the whole point of tonight was supposed to be about being someone else.
When your wedding ring catches the light as you reach for your drink, and you stare at it for a long moment, the slim gold band John slid onto your finger nine years ago with steady hands and unsteady eyes, and you don't take it off.
You should, but you can’t, and you did say you’re married.
Eight o'clock comes and goes. Five past, then ten. You're about to convince yourself you've been stood up, which would be both a relief and a humiliation, when the pub door opens and a man walks in, and every nerve ending in your body fires at once.
Because the man standing in the doorway, scanning the room with those sharp, assessing eyes, is your husband.
John is wearing civvies. Dark jeans, a black henley pushed up to his elbows, boots that have seen better days.
He looks like he came straight from the base, which he probably did. His hair is freshly cut but his beard is full, and there is a tiredness around his eyes that you can read from across the room, the same bone-deep fatigue he carries home from every deployment and tries to hide and fails.
He spots you and your stomach plummets.
Meanwhile, his expression doesn't change; not a flicker. He holds your gaze across the crowded pub, and then he walks towards you with the kind of unhurried, deliberate stride that you've seen him use in exactly two contexts.
When he's approaching a superior officer, and when he's about to do something that no one in the room is going to enjoy.
Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth. Your hand tightens around your glass until your knuckles ache, and every instinct in your body is screaming at you to run to the bathroom, to the car park, to another country, but your legs won't cooperate, because Captain John Price is walking towards you and you have never in your life been able to move when he's looking at you like that.
He reaches the booth, stops, and looks down at you. And a beat of terrible, electric silence follows.
Then he smiles, though not the tight, exhausted smile he gives you at the front door when he's been gone for weeks, but something warmer, something almost boyish, and then he slides into the seat across from you, settling in with an ease that makes your blood run cold.
"You must be Box 64," he says casually, calm, like he's meeting a stranger for the first time, which is insane, because he is your husband and he is sitting across from you at a pub where you came to meet another man and he knows. He fucking knows.
"John—"
"John," he repeats, tasting the name like he's hearing it for the first time. Then he extends his hand across the table. "That's right. Pleasure to meet you."
You stare at his outstretched hand, then at his face, and back at his hand.
"John, I can explain—"
"Nothing to explain." He keeps his hand where it is, steady and patient. His eyes don't leave yours. "I'm J. You're Box 64. We're here to have a drink and see if we get on. That was the arrangement, wasn't it? What your ad said?"
Your mouth opens and something inside you dies a little, along with the words in your throat; anything but one.
"John."
"You gonna leave me hanging, love? Already?" He nods at his hand, one eyebrow raised, and there is something in his expression—beneath the calm and the performance—that you can't quite read.
It's not anger, not even hurt. Something closer to resolve, like he's made a decision about tonight and he intends to see it through, and nothing you say is going to alter the trajectory.
You take his hand, shake it weakly.
His fingers close around yours, warm and rough, and he gives one firm shake before releasing you. Then he flags down the barmaid, orders a whisky neat, and turns back to you with that same easy, unreadable smile.
"So. Tell me about yourself."
You stare at him owlishly.
"I—I don't—" You can feel heat crawling up your neck, your throat tightening with the precursor to tears. "John, please, can we just—"
"Tell me," he says again, and his voice is gentle, but his eyes are steel. "What do you do? Where are you from? What made you put that ad in the paper?"
The last question lands like another slap, even though his tone doesn't change. You swallow hard, your fingers wrap around your glass for something to anchor to.
He waits for you to answer; patient as a sniper in a ghillie suit.
"I'm—" You exhale shakily. "I'm from here. I live in Hereford. I'm—" Your voice threatens to crack, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it steadies. "I'm a teacher."
"A teacher." John nods, like this is new information and not something he's known for the better part of a decade. "What age?"
"Year four."
"Year four. That's—what, eight? Nine?" He takes a sip of his whisky. The barmaid left it quietly and shot you a look like she sensed the tension. "Brave woman. I've faced insurgents with less fight in them than a nine-year-old with a grudge."
The laugh that escapes you is wet and startled and completely involuntary, and John's eyes soften for a fraction of a second before the mask slides back into place.
"What about you?" you ask carefully, because two can play this game, and if he's going to make you sit through this surreal performance, you might as well commit. Your voice is still unsteady, but there's a spark of something underneath the fear—defiance, maybe, or the stubbornness that made you put the ad in the paper in the first place. "What do you do?"
"Military," he answers briskly, which is what he always says at parties and barbecues when civilians ask, offering nothing further.
"What branch?"
"The kind that doesn't let me talk about it." He leans back in his seat, one arm resting along the back of the booth leisurely and looks at you with an expression that's half amusement, half something hungrier. "I travel a lot. Gone more than I'm home unfortunately."
"That must be hard," you reply, and you mean it in a raw way that has nothing to do with the roleplay and everything to do with the long years of lonely nights and unanswered phone calls sitting between you.
John hears it and you watch it land. A brief tightening around his eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw before he takes another slow drink.
"It is," he says quietly. "Harder on the people who wait, I'd imagine."
Your breath catches. You look down at the table, at your ring, at the condensation pooling around the base of your glass.
"Yeah," you whisper. "It is."
The silence that follows is different from the others. Not tense or loaded. Just heavy, in the way that true things are heavy, settling between you like something solid.
Then John clears his throat. "Another round?"
You nod, not trusting your voice, and he waves the barmaid over again.
The second drink loosens something.
Maybe it's the gin, perhaps the sheer absurdity of the situation, but somewhere between your second and third drink, the fear recedes enough for you to actually talk.
And John—your husband, who has spent the better part of a year giving you monosyllabic answers over dinner and falling asleep during films—is talking back.
He's always been charming. It's how he got you in the first place, at a mate's wedding eleven years ago, when he cornered you at the bar and spent forty-five minutes making you laugh so hard you snorted champagne up your nose. Though you'd forgotten what it looks like when he aims it at you with intent.
John asks about your students and listens to the answers. He asks about the book you're currently reading and offers an opinion on it that tells you he's been paying more attention to your nightstand than you thought. He tells you stories from deployment that are carefully scrubbed of classified details but still make you laugh; the kind of stories he used to tell you when you were dating. Absurd, self-deprecating, designed to make you think he's funnier than he is.
He is funny. You'd forgotten that, too.
"You've got a nice laugh," he says at one point, swirling his whisky, and the way he says it, like an observation, like he's hearing it for the first time, makes your stomach flip.
"Don't flatter me, J." The letter feels strange in your mouth, this thin fiction stretched over the truth of him. "I'll think you're after something."
"Maybe I am." He holds your gaze and doesn't smile. "That a problem, love?"
Your mouth goes dry.
Three drinks in, you're leaning across the table towards each other, and his hand is resting on the tabletop close enough to yours that your little fingers are almost touching, and you're telling him about the time one of your Year Fours brought a live frog to class in his lunchbox and it escaped during maths, and John is laughing—really laughing, with his head tipped back and his eyes creased—and for a vertiginous moment, you manage to forget.
You forget that this is a performance; that your husband is sitting across from you pretending to be a stranger because you put an ad in the newspaper looking for someone else. Everything except the sound of his laugh and the warmth in his eyes and the way he's looking at you like you're the most interesting person in the room, which is how he used to look at you all the time, before the deployments ate him alive and left you with the husk.
Then his eyes drop to your left hand, and the warmth doesn't leave his expression, but something sharper slides in alongside it, like the glint of a blade edge, and then he reaches across the table and takes your hand, turning it over in his.
His thumb presses against the band of your wedding ring, holding it there.
"You know," he says, and his voice is still easy, still conversational, but there's a new undercurrent to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, "if you were really going to go through with this little adventure of yours—"
He taps the ring once with his thumb, clicks his tongue.
"—you probably should've taken this off first."
The blood drains from your face. The pleasant haze of gin and good conversation evaporates in an instant, replaced by a cold, lurching clarity.
"John—"
"Bit of a deterrent, love. Even when you mentioned it in the ad." He's still holding your hand, still running his thumb over the ring, and his expression is unreadable—not angry, not hurt, just steady, the way he looks when he's holding a position and waiting for something to break. "Any bloke worth his salt would've clocked that you're not really in it five minutes in."
Your eyes are stinging. "I wasn't going to—I would never have—"
"I know." He replies simply and releases your hand. "I know you wouldn't."
The lump in your throat is enormous and razor-edged, and you have to look away at anything that isn't his face, because if you keep looking at him, you're going to cry in the middle of this pub and he will never, ever let you live it down.
"I'm sorry," you manage, barely a whisper. "John, I'm so sorry, I didn't—I was just—"
"Don't."
You look back at him. He's leaning forward now, strong forearms on the table, and the mask is gone. All of it, the J performance, the first-date charm, the controlled amusement. And underneath is just your husband. Looking at you with an expression that is not anger, that has never been anger, that is something far worse.
Guilt.
"I should've been home more," he murmurs; too honest for a pub on a Friday night. "I should've—" He stops, his jaw clenches before he tries again. "I should've given you a proper life. A family. A husband who's actually fucking present. And I didn't, and you—"
He gestures vaguely at the booth, the pub, the entire premise of the evening.
"—you shouldn't have had to do this to get my attention."
The first tear slips down your face before you can catch it. You swipe at it furiously with the back of your hand before the barmaid, who has become somewhat intrigued by whatever is happening at your table, can clock it.
"I wasn't trying to get your attention," you lie, and you both know it's a lie, and his mouth twitches; not quite a smile, something more tender and much more broken.
"Yeah, you were." He reaches across the table again and takes your hand, properly this time, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing. "And it worked."
You let out a breath that's half laugh, half sob, and squeeze back.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The pub buzzes around you. Glasses clinking, conversations flowing, some '80s song you can't name playing from the speakers. And you sit in the middle of it, holding hands across a sticky table, and the nine years of silence and distance and loving each other badly feel, for the first time, like something that could be survived.
"I need the loo," you announce eventually, because your mascara is probably wrecked and you need thirty seconds of privacy to pull yourself together before you dissolve entirely.
John releases your hand with a nod. "Take your time, love."
You slide out of the booth on legs that feel slightly unsteady with gin and adrenaline, and make your way to the back of the pub, past the bar and down the short corridor to the ladies'.
It's a single-stall bathroom. Small, clean enough, a lock on the door that you click shut behind you before bracing your hands on the edge of the sink and staring at your reflection in the mirror above it.
Your eyes are bright and glassy. Your mascara is, as predicted, smudged. You look wrecked and flushed and alive in a way you haven't in months, and you hate that it took this—a dating ad and a Friday night charade—to put that look on your face.
You run the tap and press your cool, damp fingers against your closed eyelids. Breathe. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish your drinks, go home with your husband, and figure out the rest in the morning like adults who have been married for nearly a decade and know how to have a difficult conversation.
You're drying your hands when the lock clicks.
You freeze. Your eyes snap to the door in the mirror's reflection as it opens, and John slips inside and closes it behind him with a soft, definitive click of the lock.
The bathroom shrinks to nothing.
He fills the space. Not just physically, though he does that too, broad shoulders and solid frame taking up far too much of the small room, but atmospherically. The air changes when he's this close, gets heavier and becomes charged, like the pressure drop before a storm front.
"John, what are you—"
He moves. One step, then two, and then his big hand is flat against your lower back and he's pressing you forward, gently but firmly, until your hips meet the edge of the sink and your palms catch the porcelain on either side.
His body moulds against your back. Chest to spine, hips to arse. One hand sliding from your lower back to your waist, gripping and anchoring, while his other forearm braces against the wall beside the mirror.
You can see him in the reflection; towering behind you, head dipped, mouth hovering at the shell of your ear, and your breath stutters at the look on his face.
"Gonna make you remember why you married me, darling," he mutters into your ear, and his breath is hot and damp on the side of your neck, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling your arse back against the hard line of his cock already straining behind his zipper.
"John—"
"Shh." His lips graze the spot beneath your ear. No kiss but a warning. "You wanted to be seen, love. I see you."
His hand slides from your waist to the hem of your dress and drags it up slowly, bunching the fabric around your hips until you're exposed from the waist down. The cool air of the bathroom hits your bare thighs and makes you gasp.
"John, we can't—We're in a pub—!"
"Should've thought about that before you went looking for a date, shouldn't you?" His voice is rough and threaded with something dark and tender at the same time, and his fingers hook into the waistband of your knickers, tugging them down your thighs in one smooth motion. They pool around your ankles, and he doesn't bother removing them fully—just leaves them there, tangled between your heels.
"Anyone could—"
"Door's locked." His hand trails up the inside of your thigh, calloused fingers dragging against the soft skin, and you bite your lip to keep the sound that wants to escape inside. "And you're going to be quiet for me, aren't you, hm?"
You hear his belt buckle. The clink of metal, the drag of leather through belt loops, then the rasp of his zip, and your hands grip the sink so hard your arms tremble, because the sound alone is enough to make your pussy clench around nothing in anticipation.
"Nearly a decade of marriage," he murmurs against the back of your neck, and his free hand slides between your thighs from behind, two thick fingers dragging through your supple folds, finding you already embarrassingly wet. He lets out a low, dark sound of approval that vibrates against your skin. "And I let you forget."
His fingers circle your clit once and your hips buck back against him involuntarily.
"That's on me," he continues, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that makes your toes curl in your pumps. "My fault. My fucking failure. Not yours."
He presses one thick finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with a slow, curling thrust that makes your breath hitch and your walls clench around him. He groans quietly and his forehead drops against the back of your head.
"'M finally gonna put our baby in you," he declares, and the words are rough and raw and utterly certain, a promise sealed against your skin. "Should've done it years ago. Should've given you that. Should've given you everything."
He withdraws his fingers and you whimper at the loss with a needy, desperate sound that you'd be mortified by in any other context, and then you feel the blunt, plump head of his cock pressing against your entrance and every other thought in your head goes static.
"John—" you mewl. John pushes in slowly.
He stretches you open around him with a fullness that borders on too much, and the sound that tears from your throat is muffled only because you clamp your hand over your own mouth.
More than a decade and his fat cock is still enough to make you go stupid.
"Fuck," John breathes, his hips flush against your arse, buried to the root, and his grip on your waist is bruising. He doesn't move yet just holds there, letting you feel every inch of him, letting your body adjust around the thick, throbbing weight of his cock.
Then he starts to move, and it's not the perfunctory, tired sex you've been having for the past year. The kind where he finishes quickly and rolls over and you stare at the ceiling and pretend you came.
This is John Price. The real one, the one you fell in love with. The one who backed you against the wall of your old flat on your third date and made you see God by eating you out through your knickers before he'd even taken anything else off.
He fucks you deep and deliberate, one hand gripping your hip while the other wraps around the front of your throat lightly; his fingers curled against your pulse point, feeling the frantic beat of your heart against his palm.
"Look at yourself," he orders, and your eyes—which had screwed shut at some point—fly open to meet his in the mirror. Pupils blown.
The sight of it is obscene. Your dress bunched around your waist, his thick forearm braced beside the mirror, tendons flexing, his body curved over yours, and the slow, powerful roll of his hips driving into you from behind with a rhythm that's making the mirror rattle against the wall.
"That's my wife," he grunts, and his reflection's eyes are fierce and fixed on yours. "Mine. Not some fucking stranger's from a newspaper ad."
You can't speak, only feel his cock dragging against your walls, his hand on your throat, his chest solid and warm and present against your back for the first time in what feels like forever.
He picks up the pace; harder and deeper thrusts, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small bathroom while his ragged breath puffs against your ear. And then his rough hand leaves your throat to reach between your legs, flicking your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that make you bite down on your own fist to keep from screaming.
"Quiet," he reminds you, and the bastard sounds smug. "You want the whole pub to know what I'm doing to you in here? Huh? Want them to know ‘m fucking my wife?"
You shake your head frantically; cunt fluttering and squeezing his shaft, because dirty talk from John Price is its own kind of sweet torture.
"Then cum for me quietly, love. Right now."
A few more hard, precise thrusts with his cock dragging inside your quivering cunt, massaging that spot that keeps swelling inside you, and you shatter.
The orgasm rips through you so violently that your knees give out, and the only things keeping you upright are the sink under your hands and John's arm locked around your waist. You clamp your teeth into the heel of your palm and muffle the cry that wants to tear out of you, your walls clenching and fluttering around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses.
"Christ—fuck—" John's hips stutter, his rhythm breaks, and he buries himself deep—so deep—and holds, his cock kicking and pulsing inside you as he cums with a low, guttural groan pressed into the curve of your neck.
He spills himself empty inside you, balls throbbing with each little jerk of his hips. Hot and thick, deliberate this time. No condom, no pulling out this time, and the significance of that isn't lost on either of you. His hips roll lazily through the aftershocks, working every precious drop into your messy cunt, and his hand slides from your waist to your lower belly, pressing flat.
"There," he murmurs, and his voice is wrecked and satisfied, unbearably tender. "That's where it belongs."
You're shaking. Your entire body is trembling, your legs are useless, and there are tears streaming silently down your face that have nothing to do with pain.
He stays inside you for a long moment; breathing, his lips pressed against the nape of your neck, beard scraping your skin, his hand warm on your lower stomach. Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, and you feel his cum start to leak from you immediately, warm and slick against your inner thighs.
He reaches down, picks your knickers up from around your ankles, and slides them back up your legs with an almost clinical efficiency. When they're settled back into place, he pats your arse once, light and proprietary, and tugs your dress back down.
"There we go," he says, like he's just helped you with your coat. "Good as new."
You let out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob, your forehead dropping against the mirror.
"How about a 'thank you,' love," he adds while he tugs his softening cock back into his jeans, and when you lift your head and catch his eyes in the reflection, the smug satisfaction on his face is so thoroughly, infuriatingly Price that you want to slap him and kiss him simultaneously, "for stuffing your pretty cunt full of my cum, hm?"
"John."
"Mm." He presses a kiss to your temple, achingly gentle after everything he just did to you, and reaches past you to turn on the tap. He wets his hand and wipes beneath your eyes with his thumb, cleaning up the mascara.
"Ready to leave, love?" he asks, straightening up and buckling his belt with the same unhurried ease he does everything. "Or would you like another drink before your husband takes you home?"
Your legs are still shaking, his cum is slowly but surely soaking into your knickers, and your heart is so full it might crack your ribs.
"N-No," you manage, small and hoarse. "I'd like to go home now, John."
He looks at you, really looks. And there is nothing left of the J performance, not the Captain Price mask, just John, your husband. The man who drove to a pub on a Friday night not to punish you but to remind you both of what you'd almost let slip away.
"That's my girl," he replies softly.
He unlocks the bathroom door, checks the corridor, and guides you out with his hand on the small of your back. You walk through the pub on shaking legs, past the booth where your half-finished drinks are still sitting, past the barmaid who gives you both a knowing look that you pretend not to see.
The night air hits you like cold water when you step outside, and you suck in a breath that fills your lungs properly for the first time in hours.
John pulls his car keys from his pocket, presses the fob, and opens the passenger door for you without a word. You climb in. He closes the door, rounds the bonnet, and slides into the driver's seat.
Neither of you speaks on the drive home. His hand rests on your thigh, squeezing gently every other minute, and your hand rests on top of his, your fingers tracing the ridges of his calloused knuckles and the band of his own wedding ring, which he has never, not once in nine years, taken off.
When he pulls into the driveway, the porch light is off. You haven't left it on in months.
John kills the engine. Sits for a moment, looking at the dark house.
Then he turns to you, and his voice is quieter now, stripped of the previous smugness, the heat, the performance. Just the raw thing underneath.
"I will do better."
No grand speech or a promise wrapped in flowers and apologies and all the things you've heard before and stopped believing. It's four words, plain and blunt and offered without decoration, and they land heavier than anything else he's said tonight.
You reach across the centre console and take his face in both hands, and you kiss him slowly, like you have time, because you're going to make time.
"I know," you whisper against his mouth.
And when you get inside, John turns the porch light on.
Kyle Garrick isn't your boyfriend. He's your teammate, your colleague and your friend. But you aren't dating him. He isn't yours.
So there's really no reason for you to feel so fucking jealous right now.
The new recruit is pretty, the kind of girl guys dream of. She's a blonde with blue eyes, tits that are barely contained in her uniform. And she's flirting with Kyle so hard that it hurts. Flicking her hair, fluttering her eyelashes, laughing at his jokes, touching his arm... she clearly wants him. You get it. Kyle is, well, Kyle - handsome, charming and funny. He's perfect.
You stand across the training yard, next to Price and Ghost. They're talking, but you can't hear a word they say. All you can focus on is Kyle and that woman, anger flowing through your veins. If you clench your jaw any harder, it might break.
You could kill her. Okay, maybe that's a little extreme. You could certainly smack her, though. Really hard. She's embarrassing herself, and you. You're ashamed of how you feel for a man who isn't even yours. A man you didn't even realise you wanted to be yours until this moment.
Before you can think twice, your feet are moving, walking you towards the pair of them. What's your plan? You aren't sure. Hopefully you won't hit her. You can't afford another disciplinary action against you…
"Oh, hi love," Kyle says as you reach the two of them, his eyes lighting up like they always do when you're around. "What're you—" you cut off his words with a grunt, cupping his face in your hands and pulling his lips to yours. It's a kiss that's hard and claiming, meant to let this bitch know that he's yours. Even though he technically isn't.
Your tongue plunges in his mouth as his breath catches in his throat. His hands hover in the air for a moment before settling on your waist, gripping you tight enough to almost lift you off the floor. After a minute, you pull away, leaving Kyle panting with darkened eyes, his dick already hard in his pants as you turn your attention to the blonde.
"Hi!" you chirp with mock kindness, your eyes glaring daggers at her. "I'm not sure we've been introduced..."
Thinking of you and Johnny stuck in the middle of the summer with no AC, heat thick and syrupy, pressing down until the air feels like it’s been stewing in its own sweat all day.
Fan in the corner just pushes it around in lazy circles, useless. Your shirt clings to the soft swell of your belly, to the undersides of your breasts, dark patches blooming wherever fabric meets skin. Shorts have ridden up, cotton stuck to the backs of your thighs every time you shift. You’re liquid with it, slow ooze of heat between your legs, behind your knees, at the nape of your neck where sweat gathers and drips.
Johnny’s worse. Or better, depending how you look at it. Stripped down to thin grey briefs that do nothing to hide the heavy curve of his cock resting thick along his thigh, the fabric gone dark and clinging where sweat’s soaked through. He’s sprawled on the couch, doesn’t give a single fuck who sees, one leg hooked over the arm, head tipped back, throat working as he drains the last of a bottle of water. When he catches you staring he grins, crooked, boyish, dimples carving deep, teeth flashing sharp.
“Ach, look at ye,” he says. “Starin’ like ye want a taste even while yer meltin’. C’mon, doe. Got an idea.”
He disappears into the kitchen. You hear the freezer door yank open, the sharp crack of ice trays breaking free. When he comes back his big hands are full of cubes already weeping meltwater, dripping between his fingers onto the floorboards in little wet spots. “Floor’s cooler than that couch. On yer back for me.”
You go because the promise of cold is too much, and he guides you down with a palm between your shoulder blades, settling you on the rug over the tiles, floor kissing your overheated skin. He kneels between your spread thighs, one knee braced solid, and holds up a single cube between thumb and forefinger.
“Gonna cool ye down proper,” he murmurs, and the first touch lands at the hollow of your throat.
The shock punches the air from your lungs. Cold, so fucking cold against skin that’s been baking for hours. Drags it slow, deliberate, down the line of your throat, over your collarbones, the cube melting fast, rivulets chasing after it, soaking into the neckline of your shirt until the fabric goes translucent and clings. Your nipples tighten, stiff peaks dragging against the wet cotton, and he sees, grin widening, edges going sharp.
Tugs the shirt down with his free hand, baring your breast, circles the tight bud with the ice until you arch clean off the floor with a whine. Does the other the same, alternating until both nipples are aching, flushed dark, water running in cool trails down your ribs to pool under the small of your back. Makes your thighs twitch wider around his knee, makes the heat between your legs throb harder, slicker.
“Pretty thing,” he says, voice gone low and rough. “All pebbled up and drippin’ already. That for the cold or for me, hen?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just hooks his fingers in your shorts and underwear, drags them down and off. The air feels hotter against your exposed cunt, swollen and slick, and then the ice is there, right against your slit, dragged slow from entrance to clit and back again.
Rips a moan out of you, hips bucking up into the cold, and he holds you down with one broad palm on your belly while he works the shrinking cube in tight circles over your clit until it’s throbbing, until you’re dripping more than just meltwater down the cleft of your arse.
When the cube’s gone he replaces it with his mouth, tongue broad and flat, licking up everything the ice left behind, sucking your clit between his lips with a groan that vibrates straight through you.
Stubble scrapes the soft skin of your inner thighs. His hands keep you spread, thumbs digging into the give of your flesh, and you come like that, thighs clamping around his head while his name fractures on your tongue.
He pulls back with his mouth shiny, that sharp toothed grin still in place, and wipes his chin on the back of his wrist. “Yer turn, doe. Fair’s fair.”
He stretches out beside you on the rug, briefs tented now, the head of his cock straining dark against the fabric, a wet spot blooming where precome’s soaked through.
You push up on shaky arms, grab a fresh cube, and start at his throat, watch his head tip back, Adam’s apple bob as the cold hits. Drag it down over the flat planes of his chest, over the tight peaks of his nipples, feeling them pebble under the ice. He hisses, hips twitching, that thick cock jumping in his briefs.
Lower, following the dark trail of hair down his stomach. You tug the briefs down and his cock springs free, flushed, heavy, the head glistening.
Run the ice right over it, base to tip, and he curses sharp and filthy, hips lifting clean off the floor as the cold hits sensitive flesh. The cube melts fast against his heat, water running down over his balls, and you chase it with your tongue, lapping up the melt, then taking the head into your mouth, sucking slow and wet while another cube rolls over the tight skin of his sac.
He groans, one big hand fisting in your hair. “Fuck- yer mouth, hen. Gonnae make me spill if ye keep that up.”
You hum around him, the vibration making his thighs tense hard, and work the last of the ice lower, rolling it behind his balls until he’s cursing again, hips rolling up into your mouth in short, helpless thrusts.
When you pull off he flips you, settles his weight between your thighs, cock drags hot and heavy through against your cunt, the head catching at your entrance, and he pushes in slow, stretching you open inch by inch until he’s buried, hips flush to yours. The burn is sweet, perfect, and you clutch at his shoulders, nails biting into sweat slick skin as he starts to move- deep, rolling thrusts that grind the base of his cock against your clit with every stroke.
The heat’s still there, thick between your bodies, but he reaches for another cube, holds it right where he’s fucking you, lets it melt against your clit. Cold water mixes with the wet sounds of skin on skin, his cock sliding in and out of your dripping cunt, and your eyes roll back.
“That’s it,” he pants, words slurring with want, dimples flashing even now. “Take it, doe. Take all o’ me. Fuckin’ perfect- made for this, for me.”
You come again around him, walls fluttering and clenching tight, and he follows with a low groan, hips stuttering as he spills deep, hot pulses filling you while the last of the ice melts between you, water cooling the feverish skin.
He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays buried, softening slow, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in while sweat and meltwater cool between your bodies. His thumb strokes lazy circles on your hip.
“Still hot, hen?” he asks, voice lazy, teasing, crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Or did we beat it?”
You laugh, breathless, fingers tracing the sweat at the nape of his neck. “Think we might need another round.”
His grin widens, teeth sharp, already reaching for the tray again, ice cracking in his palm. “Aye. Cannae have my girl overheatin’ on me.”
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