Here's a quick drabble from the old drafts I never could quite stick the landing on. Nothing bad about it beside a cheap signoff nd the 141's penchant for polyamory, but MDNI anyway.
he's… different.
honestly you're not sure what possessed you to give him a shot but you're surprised to find just how glad you are you did.
it's not that he gave off any warning signals or anything. well, at least none that a sane person would agree with. (you're fairly sure too nice isn't a valid criticism.) it was more that you'd sworn you were done with dating apps. had only opened it that night in order to delete your profile entirely.
and then you were met with the cheesiest, most earnest smile you'd ever seen in your life, clear blue eyes and a full, kept beard that made you want to rub your face against him like a cat. it was a candid photo, his gaze focused somewhere to the left of frame, and a sudden desire to be there, to be the one he was beaming at like that had you flipping through more photos before you could really think any better of it.
big mistake.
more photos means more visual, means seeing him in a well-fitting t-shirt and the biceps it clings to. he's a bit more stern in all the subsequent pictures. more stiff when he knows the camera is on him. but he wears it well and honestly you can't blame him, it's not like your own collection of head shots portray a photogenic natural. his profile is… efficient. brief, but serviceable. you get a sense of something institutional about him and nearly swipe left, but one last parting peek at his pretty eyes reminds you of his non-regulatory beard and you change your mind at the last minute.
which is how you wind up pressed against him at an overpacked table little more than a week later, his solid thigh radiating heat through the thin material of your skirt. you'd balked when he'd suggested hibachi as a first date - something about the atmosphere didn't seem conducive to regular First Date Talk. but you couldn't deny it's nice sitting beside him. less oppositional, maybe. gives you a way to hide your nervousness, more like. he's somehow more attractive in person. bigger, for one, tall and broad - doesn't hurt - but more than that is the assuredness, the confidence you had mistaken for brevity in his communication.
john price was not a man of few words because he didn't know what to say, he was a man of few words because he didn't need many; just like he didn't need a reason to pick you up, he simply did; just like he didn't need to make a big show of opening doors for you, he just wanted to.
you're hearing wedding bells by the time he pushes your chair in for you, a giddiness bubbling in your stomach when you dare to think he might be too. his eagerness is infectious and sweet and just plain honest in a way you hadn't been prepared for - months of terrible 'whoever cares more, loses' types of dates and situations leaving you on the back foot when - go figure - faced with someone who actually understood the point of dating apps. it's fun. refreshing. so much so that you barely notice the people filing into place around you until he does, his steady gaze catching and holding on a handsome young couple seated directly across from you. for a moment you worry he's some sort of bigot, worry at the threads of the conversation to see if there was something you might have missed. but then he catches the sharp blue gaze of the one with the mohawk and arches his brow - borderline threat, and the man only smirks, lethal.
they know each other. the other man too, likely, considering how innocently he avoids your partner's gaze. john startles when you ask to confirm your theory, grunts something about co-workers before becoming too engrossed in the waitress's shuffling as she moves about the table taking drink orders. it takes the poor man a bit to settle back into himself now that he knows he's being watched, but you try your best to help him forget and he manages to loosen back up by the time the chef's cart comes rattling closer.
of course, that's when things start to get a bit more social around the table, all your anxieties about the setting now playing out in the strangest way, the focus of the conversation dominated entirely by the couple across the way from you. they like being the center of attention, that's for sure, commentating loud enough to carry. you're not sure it's necessary, but the chef seems like he's seen worse so they carry on uninterrupted, that implacable bravado of cockiness and confidence unique to young men like them, too attractive for their own good and too smart to let it go to waste. it sets your teeth on edge, makes you understand why john had frowned at the sight of them. you're determined not to let them ruin your night, but it gets a bit hard to ignore when their commentating begins to stretch itself across the gulf of the chef's pit to you, a bawdy 'things are really heating up, huh?' interrupting when john leans close to whisper something in your ear, the scratch of his beard against your helix not quite enough to cover it. of course, when you shoot them a disgruntled look they're innocently observing the sudden rush of flame across the grill when the chef sets the oil alight.
(or perhaps innocent is a strong word, given the animal excitement in mohawk's eyes.)
"soaps's a bit of a pyro," john says by way of explanation when he catches you staring a beat too long.
"should we get that cart away from him, then?" you ask, nodding toward the bottles of cooking oil and grain alcohol which sit much to close to soap (soap?) for your taste.
john just smirks. "don't worry, darling. he's a professional."
you struggle to picture that man as a professional anything, but john said he was a co-worker, so you keep that bit to yourself. "what's the other one's name?" you ask instead, and grin when john gives you yet another terrible nickname. "gaz? no wonder the pyro likes him then, huh?"
you think you say it quietly enough but to your horror, the pyro in question winks at you. "nae, that'll be on account of his good looks," he imparts before swooping in for a kiss which leaves his handsome partner all soft.
once the conversational gate opens between the lot of you, there's no closing it. gaz asks john what he's drinking and then orders one for himself. soap asks how the two of you met and then lights john up when you answer truthfully, the tips of the older man's ears growing pinker by the minute. when the chef starts tossing bits of veggies into peoples' mouths, john gets his revenge by volunteering (a perfectly willing) soap - says that big mouth of his will be perfect for it. when you make the mistake of chuckling, they decide you must be fair game, leveling john with a leery sort of good-for-you grin when you open your mouth wide to let the chef shoot sake down your throat. it isn't the stunt that makes you choke, rather the mortified expression on john's face and the way he leans as if to shield you from their lecherous eyes, taking a stream of sake straight to the chest in the process.
it's kind of hard to hate them, after that. it's not that you don't want to - you feel bad for john and the obvious awkwardness he must be feeling - but they're very… magnetic, despite initially raising your hackles. and john seems fully capable of dispatching people he really doesn't want around so it can't be that he's genuinely upset with their presence. not when he's been given almost as good as he's been getting. perhaps that's why you don't protest when they sneak in next to you at the bar after dinner, continue to insert themselves into your date. why you don't protest when they trap you between them in the backseat on the car ride back to john's.
CW: reader has a boyfriend. Alcohol consumption, but not by reader. Minor misogyny. Implied abduction or rape. Abrupt ending. MDNI
You've missed peak season by about a week.
The view from summit was a mottled brown, the maples only just starting to dress themselves for fall while the silver birches turn gold. You don't mind, find joy instead in one of the few remaining warm days before winter steals them away. Already, the days have grown short, and as you make your way back down, you tell Ian you're glad you made an early trip of it. Though it's only noon, the trail cuts down the north face of the mountain, and the steep incline of summit casts long shadows across the twisted roots that slow your progress, making your descent nearly as difficult as the hike up. You're tired, Ian too if his sudden silence is anything to go by, though you're excited for that base camp high, the satisfaction of a tiring trip and the shakiness in your leg as you drive home.
Lily seems nearly as excited, bounding ahead as far as she dares before returning with a stick or some other found treasure in tow. You've got her on a retractable lead to give her some freedom, but the exaggerated darkness has lulled you into a false sense of security, not really expecting to see anyone just starting up the trail when the mountain's nearly plunged the trail into darkness. And yet here's one now, a man stopped some feet below as Lily barrels toward him.
"Shit," you mumble. "Lily!"
Lily stops on a dime and turns back to you, tongue lolling. You snap your fingers and motion for her to come close, letting the lead retract as she obeys until you've stepped off the trail with her in tow, where she sits patiently at your feet until the man can pass.
He smiles at your small group graciously, bushy cheeks crinkling kind blue eyes. As he comes closer, you note his whole kit: a hat to keep the sun and bugs out of his eyes, a thick button, outdoorsy slacks, well-worn boots that look heavy, though not as much as the pack he wears on his back. If you found it odd he'd made such a late start of it before, it made sense now. He was probably camping or something - making his way through the connecting trails. You try not to let your embarrassment show, out of breath and tired after a quick up-and-back.
He slows a bit as he comes closer, eyes first on Lily where she lays at your feet despite her obvious excitement, and then on Ian.
"She's a good girl," the man comments, the thick English accent taking you both by surprise.
"Yeah, she is," your partner replies fondly. "Sorry we didn't see you earlier."
The man waves it off. "No worries. Was sort of hoping she'd come say hi, honestly," he winks, and the two of them laugh as the stranger carries on past.
You linger a moment longer, watching the man's broad back as he continues his ascent, miffed a bit that he spoke over you. And then Lily sneezes excitedly as Ian sets off and you follow him easily enough.
After, in the car, your partner suggests lunch at a local brewery. It's a touristy spot, a trap for the out of towners coming to experience fall foliage. The two of you fall into it willingly, sunning your weary limbs on the patio. Lily sits patiently in the car with the windows cracked and a bowl of water on the back seat. You watch her from your position by the outdoor fireplace, keeping an eye on her as she keeps an eye on the passing patrons. Many people stop to coo at her, but she remains stoic with her head resting calmly on the window sill.
Ian gets a flight, and then another, and then grabs a pint of his favorite when the game comes on the projector. The food's gone cold and at some point Lily's grown bored of the view and settled down outside of where you can keep an eye on her. When Ian surprises you by motioning for one last round, you ask the waitress for a bottle of water and excuse yourself to check on Lily and give her a walk.
The patio has grown crowded in the hours since you've arrived. Thick, local accents blend seamlessly with the tourists, friendly chatter mixing unlikely neighbors. You note a lot of outdoor gear, sweaty brows and dirty nails, the boisterous laughs of people who've earned a good meal. At the bar you spot a dusty hat, folded brim placed next to a tall, dark beer. Squat fingers linger on the rim, hairy knuckles and a tan line that suggest a ring he hasn't worn in some time. Your eyes flick up to his face, find him smiling warmly at his neighbor, the man's girl friend all but forgotten on his right.
Yeah, that's him. He's made good time, you note mildly, though you're not so surprised. Without his pack on, he seems even broader somehow, as if your brain had skewed scale to make his ridiculous pack seem more reasonable. You wonder now what he was even carrying if not equipment - bricks?
Lily greets you lazily when you open the door, stretching languidly as you attach her leash. You take her for a tour around the parking lot and complain lowly to her about Ian. You wouldn't have minded staying out like this, but some heads up would have been nice, you reason, and Lily just blinks at you sagely, completely understanding. She hops up into the car eagerly, watching as you refill her bowl with the water bottle you'd ordered. You wait to see if she laps at it eagerly, but it seems she hadn't been going too thirsty in here because she just settles back down on the seat and huffs at you.
"Alright, sorry girl, just a little bit longer okay? You're being so good, you know?"
Closing the door, your eyes take a minute to adjust from the dome light. You turn back toward the bar, but something about the shape of the neighboring truck gives you pause, hackles raising as you hear Lily behind to growl from the car.
A hand wraps over your mouth first, solid and sweaty. You thrash as Lily starts to bark, but the weight that crashes into sends you reeling hard enough to get your car rocking on its hinges. Lily yaps again, startled, and a bushy cheeks brushes against your own.
"Shut her up or I will," a voice growls in your ear, and you snap your fingers toward where the window still sits slightly ajar.
Lily quiets down, though you can still hear her grumbling about it.
"Sweet girl," the man comments, and this time you note his accent, just as smooth as it is jarring. "You gonna say hi this time?"
Thoughts come slow and thin - spun cotton, clinging cobwebs he swats aside with ease, honeyed words spilling from his tongue to yours, pooling in your empty hollows until you're full - so full -
John always waits until you're like this, caught between his words and his weight, pinned beneath him as he pistons into you, his own pleasure so tightly bound between clenched teeth that, really, you can't be certain that it's intentional, that he's just as helpless for it as you. But you remember that ravenous ache in him, so empty he practically sings with it, the low him of the universe eating itself. It's consumed him, ever since his return from the field, eyes black with hunger as he watched your children play, as he took the measure of their room and splayed his hands across your waist to do the same.
It consumes him, he consumes you - and you keep feeding that fire, a game of odds he'll always win, insatiable as he is. Birds and the bees; circle of life. Ouroboros, etc.
"Kara and Emily can share," he grunts, voice deep enough you can barely hear him over the stuttered breaths he fucks out of you. Building, his arguments drawing to a close the closer you get.
"Emily won't like that," you laugh, breathless. Emily, his daughter from his first marriage, is far too old to be sharing with your toddler. In truth, the house is already overspilling, the twins he'd given you in your first year of marriage already double bunking to make room for Kara. If he wanted more kids he'd have to agree to move you from his family's old house, but he refuses every time you bring it up, and you sit safe in that compromise, or lack thereof.
John won't leave. Takes too much pleasure in comparing himself to the memories of his own father he still harbors, in measuring his flourishing family against patched sheetrock, excising pieces of the house's history with the same care he was never shown. No, he wouldn't leave no matter how badly you wanted a fresh start, so you wouldn't give him what he wanted either.
"There's no room, John," you reason, latching onto the reminder even as you feel yourself clamping tight around him. No room, you can't -.
John just laughs, broad palms splaying over the backs of your thighs as he folds them to your chest, the angle forcing him impossibly deeper. "Guess we'll just have to make some then, won't we?"
He never moves you out, the same stubborn tilt to his jaw he gets when that emptiness within him rears its ugly head. But he's better than his own father at least, makes a point to be so, and compromise comes as easy as addition, a new wing off the east side of the house boasting four new 'guest' rooms which cast an apprehensive pallor on your newfound morning sickness.
You should have known better than to hedge your bets against John Price.
