TiCosas

Tiare, 24. Observing the world...

[zivistardust]

Baby daddy! Pope

There was an utter lack of baby daddy pope content on here. So I stepped up. Tw- Baby trapping. Mention/illusion of abortion. General warning for Smurf.

Baby daddy pope who kinda, sure, technically might have baby trapped you. But you were playing with fire too. You were randomly not taking your birth control, and he just kept ‘forgetting’ to put on a condom in the ‘heat of the moment’

Andrew was just so handsome, and so sweet, and so good with his niece. You knew he’d make a great daddy.

He almost, almost gave himself up to you out of guilt when you told him. Because you looked so scared, and he never ever wanted you to be scared of him. You were one of the only people who wasn’t afraid of him- which is why he needed you to stay so bad.

He almost gave it up out of guilt, but after you told him, after you asked if he was mad and he said no, baby. This is just a shock. It’s- obviously this is up to you what you want to do, it’s totally your choice, but I’d be really happy to have a baby with you. You beamed with excitement, jumping into his arms telling him how happy you were, kissing his face.

And if you were so happy why would he apologize? Why would he give it up if you were blissfully unaware? Why would he ruin this happy little accident for you?

He isn’t gonna push you to move in right away. He’ll get there. But for now he wants to keep you off the Cody’s radar for as long as he can. The longer he can hide you and his baby from them, the safer he is- the safer you are.

He doesn’t move you in just yet but he does start hanging around your place a lot more. Sleeping there most nights. Showing up for lunch, letting himself in. Just wants to have an eye on you. Have peace of mind. You don’t seem to mind.

Andrew was always a generous, giving boyfriend. Always leaving cash for you just because, always picking up checks and covering your bills when you left them out but now it’s worse. The random stacks of cash are thicker. He’s already set up a trust, just like Lena’s. Tells you that you should start putting together a list of the kinda stuff you’re gonna need for the baby, so he can start shopping.

He’s very present. He won’t be a loser like Baz. He goes to every doctors appointment, and writes stuff down. Asks questions. Thinks they’re stupid questions but he doesn’t know. He starts reading the books. Reading the chat rooms. He’s trying to hard and he’s doing so well. You just can’t help but tell him he’s already such a good daddy.

Breaks when he sees an ultrasound. Hears that tiny little heartbeat. Keeps the ultrasound photo in his wallet and looks at it a million times. He just can’t wrap his head around it. His baby.

He can’t keep his hands off you. Not when your like this- not when he’s made you like this. Of corse he’s afraid to do anything to make you feel uncomfortable, or god forbid hurt you or the baby. But he’s feral for you. He’s never needed you quite like this. At first, those first few weeks when it was unnoticeable, it was just the fact of it. Knowing his baby was in there turned him on like crazy. But once you started to show? He was a mess. Endless touching, endless loving, and endless sex to satisfy your hormones and his own instincts. And it only got worse as time went on. You started doing that little waddle, that hand-on-belly instinct set in, and he just got worse. The bigger you are, the more on his knees he is. It’s natural, it’s primal. He can’t help it.

He has developed a weird aversion to you giving him head though. Something about that feels so wrong. He watches you loose your lunch every morning over his toilet (he holds you hair back and kisses your shoulder sweetly), making you gag on him feels just… wrong. The idea of you, heavy with his baby, on your knees? He doesn’t like that. You shouldn’t do anything for his pleasure like this. He should do everything for yours.

He noticed how you were always talking to the baby now. About anything, about nothing. Running quiet dialogue. You got embarrassed the first time you realized he was watching until he asked “should I be doing that too?”. You shrugged. “I don’t know why I’m doing it. It just feels right I guess. You can, it can’t hurt, right?”.

The first time he decided to do it, the baby kicked and he swears that was why. He lost his mind. And when you laughed and said “yeah, thats your daddy.” Part of him died. It hit him like a bus. He’s a dad now.

And now he finds himself, on the couch with you every night, watching your stupid chick shoes with his head on your lap as he complains about them to the baby. You laugh and yell at him and smack his head and he loves it.

He is also pretty obsessed with touching your belly. When you’re sitting together, when you sleep beside him at night. Just in awe that someone would do this for him, and someone as perfect as you.

His not sleeping shit only has gotten worse, though. He just can’t fight the urge to stare at you while you sleep.

He is NESTING. His usual level of cleaning dialed up to the roof. Fast to baby proof.

Part of him was afraid of his OCD not being able to handle a baby. You reassured him. That he’s a great uncle already, he’ll be fine, he can handle it, you’re sure of it. You have faith in him even if he doesn’t.

He’s gotten so much more protective of that was even possible. No carrying things. He doesn’t want you to drive anywhere, let him take you. Doesn’t want you going anywhere alone, where he can’t protect you. He’ll drop everything to help you. You’re blessedly very tolerant of it. You know it’s just him showing how much he loves you.

You hide it from Smurf for a while. He doesn’t even dare to tell his brothers. It was harder not to tell Lena, didn’t want her to feel replaced. He did eventually break and tell her, telling her how important it was to keep it a secret. And to her credit, she did. He hides it for a while. But then someone outside the family sees the two of you. Out for lunch after a doctors appointment, smiley and happy, glowing and proud. And they mention it to Smurf. Offers her congratulations, tells Smurf how she had no idea Pope was having a baby. Smurf smiles and lies well. That she’s so excited. Manages to squeeze out some details about how far along you looked, what you looked like. Smurf is enraged. Of corse she is.

Then she calls Pope. Tells him to come over later for dinner, and bring that new girlfriend with him. That’s where he is all the time, right?

Pope tells you, face pale. Hopes maybe you’re safe. You decide you’ll play sick. Try to push it off.

“I thought you were gonna bring your new girlfriend tonight, baby.” Smurf says in mock surprise. “She uh. Wasn’t feeling well”. Pope rolls his shoulders as he feels his brothers and J staring at him. No one knew about a girlfriend. Since when did Pope have a girlfriend?

Smurf doesn’t look up before she says “ah, morning sickness lasting all day, huh. Been there.”

Pope stops in shock, everyone at the table staring at him.

“What’s she talking about? You got a girl pregnant?” Craig asks.

Baz feels his angry comments about how Pope would never be a father at the back of his throat. A wave of nervousness.

“How the fuck do you know?” Pope hissed at Smurf. “Things get around. Things get back to me. If you were trying to hide her, you shoulda been more careful. Heard she’s pretty far along too. Cute as a button, big as a house.”

“You stay the fuck away from her.”

“You think I’d hurt my grandbaby? Of corse not. Can I not meet her?”

“We’re not talking about this anymore. You think I’m out of my mind on a good day, just see how I act if any of you bother her.”

Dinner gets pretty quiet after that.

He does eventually bring you around. He has no choice. He packs some heat. He doesn’t leave you side.

Part of him melts at how much Lena likes you.

Smurf plays nice, way too nice. You both know it’s fake. But you let it happen. Keep the peace. Keep it calm.

His brothers have a genuine feeling of confusion and almost fear at the idea of Pope with a baby.

5 months in Andrew starts to talk about cohabitating. You’re pretty far along, you’re gonna need more help. Can barely tie your shoes baby. And what if something happens? Besides, you were gonna have to decide where you bring the baby home to eventually, why not save the trouble?

And a month after buying you a nice house to share, with room to grow, there’s a ring.

“Look, you don’t have to say yes, of corse you don’t but, for the baby’s sake-“ he knows he’s pushing on a hormonal nerve- “I don’t want them to feel like an accident. I don’t want them to wonder. I want them to have two parents who the know love eachother very much, who are married. I never had that.”

As if you needed to be manipulated into it. You’d been praying he’d ask since the first positive test.

“For the baby’s sake” you agree.

Hook, line and sinker. You’re his.

[zivistardust]

Some more bc I had thoughts at work today

Pope would be terrified if it was a boy. Look at hi niece and nephew. J is a disaster like the rest of them, and Lena is a perfect angel. What if his son is as fucked as the rest of them? What if he’s the bad seed, what if his son is predestined to be a fuck up because he’s half him? But once he held his little boy in his arms, saw your soft eyes and his auburn curls on such an innocent perfect little life, all that fear melted. His boy would be better. He’d be different. He’d be good, because he had you as a mom, not Smurf.

A baby girl? He’d be elated. He knows how to raise a girl, he’s done it twice. Girls are a salvation. They let you be gentle, they let you be kind, they let you be wise. She’s a mini you, perfect in every way. With little whispers of him, only the good parts he never noticed before. In a way, he thinks this is his second chance. He failed Julia, he won’t fail her. There’s a chance he might want to name her after his sister, maybe a middle name. Maybe Juliette. But he’d be scared to tell you. He’s happy he can give Lena something like a sister. Someone to experience life with the way he did his little brothers.

Treats your labor like a job in the cutest way. There’s a plan. A meticulous plan. Nothing will go wrong. He does recon. It’s cute, it’s funny.

Once the day comes though he’s a bit more frazzled. Gets quiet and Pope-y. The second someone tells him to do something he’s on it fast. But he’s kinda frozen in not knowing what to do.

Keeps asking doctors if somethings hurting you more than it should. If you’re okay. If something is safe. Kinda intense and intimidating.

Being told to provide support kinda throws him because he’s never been one with words. But physical he can do. He can hold you. He can let you squeeze the fuck out of his hand. He’ll… try with words. But he knows he say all the wrong shit.

He notices you being kinda careful with how you hold his hand and he starts laughing, becuase “that’s so cute, baby, love you, but you literally can not hurt me. I’m sorry it’s just not possible.”. Gets him cursed out. He knows he deserved that.

He’s alert, he’s locked in, he’s focused on everything.

He’s already in love with your little one, sure, but right now you come first. Your health, your safety. You have to make it out of this okay.

Holds that baby so, so careful. Like they’re the most precious thing in the universe. Becuase to him they are. They’re just perfect.

He definitely cries. One thing about Pope is that he’s not afraid to cry (it’s so hot).

The first time he says “hey there. I’m your daddy” something in him just shatters.

He doesn’t care how tired and sweaty you are, right now, holding your baby, you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He looks like a deer in headlights while skin to skin is being explained to him. Sounds kinda hippy dippy. Just stares at you and waits for you to tell him what to do, he’ll do whatever you say. You nod, so he guesses he’s doing this.

He’s dumbfounded when they just pass right out on his chest like that.

“Hey, they get that from me” you laughed and his heart grows three sizes like the grinch.

Absolutely refers to the little tracker on the as “baby lojack” to your dismay.

He only lets Craig and Darren and Adrian visit. He feels bad about Lena but he doesn’t fucking want Baz there. And J is too fucked up, same to Smurf. Leaves you with Darren and Adrian while he makes Craig help him set up the car seat. It gets violent and loud in the parking lot. He has a very bad time with it. Craig is very amused. Top 5 Pope crash outs.

[zivistardust]

More baby daddy Pope! Postpartum edition I guess

I don’t remember if I said it already but he’s happy to take all the late night diapers and feedings and cries. He never slept much anyway.

Sometimes you’ll wake up to a cold bed and wander to the nursery to just find Pope staring. Which is. So so expected. “You okay?” You’d ask rubbing his back. “Yeah. Just. Watching.” “Mhm. I see that. You wanna come back to bed? They’re not goin anywhere.” “Yeah. Yeah. Okay.”

He’s very worried about your postpartum well being. He read a lot. Maybe too much. So now he’s always worried. Knows about shit you’ve never even heard of.

“You’re not eating enough.” “Huh?” “You’re not eating enough. Making… milk. It uses alot of calories. And you’re healing. Major medical event. You lost blood and stuff. You need to eat. Like. A lot. Is there a reason you’re not? Are you sick?” “I’m trying to loose the baby weight.”. A dumbfounded look. “Why?” “Andrew.” You’d blank stared him and looked down at your body. “What? You look great. What’s the issue? You need to eat, or else. You know. Your body’s gonna get fucked up. And the milk will probably suck too.”. That last part, unintentionally guilts you into listening.

He’s actually so useful. So good. Tries so hard to be the anti Baz. He cooks. He cleans (like he wasn’t always doing that). He makes sure you bathe and take care of yourself. He keeps family members who are gonna piss you off the fuck away. As mean as he’d like to be.

Shows up to every doctors appointment. He doesn’t like the idea of you driving alone with the baby. Not yet atleast. But he also just wants to be there. For his baby. For his fiance. He wants to know what’s going on. Wants to know if the two of you are healthy. Wants to be present, wants to be able to ask questions.

Can not handle seeing his little one cry at shots. It physically hurts him. Which is so cute and sweet. “Oh, Andrew it’s okay” you’d have to soothe him. “Just- just gimme em back. It’s okay. You’re okay baby, daddy’s got you.”

He looks so distraught sitting there with his tiny little baby in his big strong arms with a frown. He knows it has to happen, doesn’t make him hate it less. It’s so cute.

He just doesn’t understand how something so beautiful can be half him. So precious and innocent and delicate.

Sometimes he wonders if the baby recognizes his voice from when they were in the womb. He googled it. He was curious.

He just has the worst heart eyes when he watches you do mom things. He’s mystified by how your hip just. Does that. Holds them up. Just like that. His doesn’t do that. How do you do that? It’s witchcraft. Feeding them lazily on the couch is just a feat of nature, of the human body. You just know what to do. Maternal instinct or something. It amazes him.

He has a deep obsession with your mom bod. Stretch marks. Medical scars. Loose skin. New extra squish. Boobs. He’s obsessed with it. Touching it, lovingly holding it, kissing it. He is just in awe of your body. You’ve never been more beautiful. No one ever has.

You know with all his weird research he knows what this week means. He’s been very good in this time. So you expect him to… react. But no. No change. Nothing. Just another Tuesday. You know he knows you’re cleared for sex. But nothing happens.

He’s waiting for you. He’s so afraid of hurting you. Terrified of it. Of causing the slightest discomfort to the mother of his baby, to his love. He doesn’t want you to say yes because you feel like you have to so he doesnt even ask. When you’re ready he’s sure you’ll make him aware of how needy you are.

[amaranthinespirit]

older boyfriend!simon riley with inexperienced!reader cw: age gap and use of 'daddy'

your relationship with simon might seem a little odd to those around who only manage to catch a glance your direction. i mean, it's not entirely unwarranted, you're such a sweet, docile thing in comparison to your boyfriend who's gruff and brooding most of the time.

he's just as convinced as the rest of them how he managed to be with such a lovely thing as yourself, thanking his lucky stars every night. though he's sure you're one of them, a bright, gleaming star that fell from the night sky into his thick arms, beefy muscles keeping you bound to him.

sure, the age gap made a person wince whenever they heard it, but it didn't matter to you and simon. you loved each other, and that was that.

he takes care of you, teaching you and your naive mind how to be in a relationship, treating you well with gifts and flowers every week. he also teaches you how to take care of him, training your throat to take his thick cock deep. calloused hand wrapped in your hair, veins popping as he groans out, slowly forcing you further as he watches the bulge protrude your throat.

his breaths are labored, chest heaving as he voices gruffly, "mmm, y'learn s'quick, darlin', such a good girl for daddy, hm?" a chuckle rumbles in his chest, hips bucking involuntarily rips a strained cry from your throat, "sorry, baby, yer doin' s'good."

he makes sure to take care of you afterwards, pressing your body into the plush bedding, his hips rolling slowly into your soaking, wanting pussy, your spongy walls stretching around his heavy cock, legs wrapped around his bulky hips. his balls press into the plush of your rear as he takes it slow and loving, pressing kisses to your temple as he mumbles praise and affirmation.

"yeah, tha's it, good girl, takin' daddy s'well, lettin'im take care of ya," his voice is breathless in your ear, his pace never changing as promised, "daddy's got you, c'mon, lovie." his lips trail down to your jaw, kissing along the bone before he nuzzles his face into the junction of your neck and shoulder. his breath warm and fanning across your sweaty, damp skin as he fills you full of his thick, creamy release.

[biteofcherry]

The Masshole

chef!Andy Barber x reader

summary: Downpour forces you to set foot in a restaurant you've been avoiding and it warms you up really well.

warnings: none; hot chef Andy Barber; mentions of delicious food; some intense eye contact; one filthy innuendo;

Author's Note: So there's a new cooking show on Netflix and it inspired me to re-read my musings on CEvans babes as various cuisine chefs. Which led to this short piece ☺️

Andy Barber Masterlist

Main Masterlist

It's a late autumn afternoon, with rain attempting to dull the beautiful hues of yellow and red that are so vibrant in the leaves. But the color still persists.

You'd love to enjoy it, as you tend to do on your walks back home from work most days, but without an umbrella, the rain is dampening your wonder in rapid execution.

You're soaked, cold, exhausted. The merest thought of having to prepare dinner for yourself prickles tears beneath your eyelids.

Hunger has been gnawing at your stomach for the past few hours, so you can't just munch on a box of cookies. You refuse to.

As you often refuse to set foot in overhyped fancy restaurants, choosing to support small holes in the wall and tossing up familiar recipes in your own kitchen.

But The Masshole is right there.

An annoyingly popular beacon of warmth and potentially delicious harbour on your route back home.

It's your rumbling belly's fault, really, that you screw your strong will and step inside. The instant you feel that gentle caress of dry comfort your body slackens in relief.

Warm lights fill the mostly brick interior, but the addition of white accents, velvet chairs, and antique cupboards with shiny bottles of Irish whiskey makes it feel more homey than another loft-style modernity (which sprouted in the cities like mushrooms after rain).

At least half of the tables are occupied, despite the awful weather. You wonder if the food here is so worth it that people voluntarily left the cozy comfort of their apartments, or is it that chase to post on social media their visit to one of the hottest restaurants.

A young man with mischievously twinkling eyes and a genuine smile leads you to a table. He introduces himself as Colin.

You notice the waiters aren't wearing stiff white shirt with black apron combo, nor an all black ensemble. Instead, it's a plaid shirt - in pale cream with blue and greenish accents - paired with a denim apron.

"I'll tell Andy we need extra warmth for you to ward off any nasty colds." Colin hands you the menu and leaves for a moment.

Andy Barber.

The chef that's been named a confident, if brassy Bostahn seed intent on shoving New England's flavours up people's asses in a way that leaves them in awe and craving more.

Yeah, you may have read that article a few times. Admiring the journalist's sassy pen, as well the surprising contradiction that chef Barber appeared out to be.

There were two pictures of him in that article. One presenting a polished, suit wearing look that might as well belong to a fancy lawyer. The other captured him in the kitchen - a wild environment that he seemed to tame with brutality and ease.

Chef's coat, rolled up sleeves displaying an array of dark tattoos, sharp focus in bright blue eyes.

The very few instagram photos of him on the restaurant's official account also conveyed that "bad boy doing hot things in the kitchen" vibe.

Barber seemed to be a fantastic chef and a bit of an asshole.

A very attractive asshole.

When the waiter reappears, you order a chowder (called Middle Finger Chowder, promising a spicy burst to send a 'fuck you' to anyone claiming chowder is always bland).

Then you look up in surprise when he presents you with a pressed square of chef's white coat.

"From the chef. You can change in the restroom, and we'll get your sweater to dry up next to the stoves." Colin says, then ads with a grin: "It may soak up some smells, but I guess it's better to get back home in a toasty warm sweater that smells of butter and garlic, than in a cold, wet one."

It's definitely better. A hundred times better.

You'd never imagine a kind gesture like that in a restaurant that could be picky about who they let in.

You leave the restroom comfortably wrapped in clean cotton, holding your soaked sweater and undershirt in your hands.

As instructed, you waver near the entrance to the kitchen. You don't wait long before Colin walks out to take the clothes from you. When he does, the door to the kitchen opens wide, giving you a glimpse into the heart of it all.

It just happens that your eyes fall right upon the magnetic star in the middle of it.

Chef Barber is at one of the counters. Stoic and focused as the other cooking bees busy around him. His head bent low as he skillfully works on something. Fast, efficient, confident.

Then his gaze lifts up, landing on you.

You wouldn't call it warmth, that gleam in his eyes when he takes in your curves wrapped in the chef's whites. But there's a certain appreciation that elicits a heated swoop in your belly.

He holds your gaze, bringing a bite of food to his lips for tasting. It leaves a glistening smudge on his bottom lip, which he clears with a flick of his tongue.

Fuck. You clench your thighs.

The door swings closed, breaking the flambéed moment.

You purposely avoid looking at the Colin's face as you hand him your wet clothes. Then you hurry back to your table.

The short moment of embarrassment is long forgotten, melted under the most delicious, filling soup. It's not only your hunger appreciating a hot meal. This chowder is fucking exquisite!

Barber cheekily called it Middle Finger Chowder, but with how it heats you up and tempts you to lick the bowl clean with a purr, or other indecent sounds, you'd call it a Good Fingering Chowder.

You giggle to yourself at the thought.

When your empty bowl is picked, another plate is placed in front of you.

One you didn't order.

And you didn't expect it to be set down by a hand attached to a tattooed arm, which definitely doesn't belong to a waiter who serviced you before.

"Wild blueberries with juniper and pink pepper pie, and whiskey glazed ice cream."

Your eyes follow the swirls of tattoos, up over biceps not exactly hidden by the fabric of white coat, to the neatly trimmed beard adorning a chiselled jaw; and to those plush, pink lips, and blue eyes.

"Ah, thank you, but I didn't-" you start.

"Your clothes need a bit more time to dry." Andy explains.

You don't want to read too much into it, but there's definitely something more to his kindness. That tinge of spicy promise, like he adds to his food.

Not to mention that chefs don't just leave the kitchen to bring a dessert to a random guest.

They don't linger close, either; looking down at you with intent of a man who would watch you eat that pie like it's a free erotic show.

"Oh. Okay." You lick your lips, unable to resist giving in. "A pie then?"

"Wild blueberries." Andy nods. The corner of his mouth twitches in a smirk as he adds: "A Boston creampie next time."

With how often that dessert is used as an innuendo it never made any other effect but to roll your eyes. However, with Andy's intensity paired with a non-lewd nonchalance, you can't help be affected by it for the first time.

"With how delicious everything here is, I'm sure it'll surprise me in the best way, too." You say with just a touch of huskiness, unable to void your voice of it.

Andy bends down, leaning close enough to have his lips close to your cheek, but not scandalously inappropriate for a man you didn't even know really.

"I'll give it to you real good, I promise."

Your fingers clench on the hem of the white coat. You're still squeezing it when Andy straightens and walks back to the kitchen. Of course your eyes follow him until he disappears completely; he moves through the space he owns like a knife slices through butter.

And you're ready to spread and melt for him the same.

It takes you a second to shake yourself from the daze. As you pick a small cake fork and dig into your pie, you try to decide if your long time reluctance to visit The Masshole wasn't a mistake.

You could've been enjoying the menu for months.

And maybe the chef, too.

Then again, maybe if you came here any other day, not soaked to the bone and in need of warming up, Andy wouldn't even notice your presence.

As berries and pepper burst on your tongue and the whiskey laced creaminess soothed it, you close your eyes with a hum of pleasure.

You don't sense the hungry gaze stealing another glimpse of you in his white coat, enjoying his food, softening for him just like he wants you to.

[biteofcherry]

I need to know: what is the first filthy thing chef!Andy does to you? Like the thing he’s been thinking of non-stop since he first saw you? 🫠

While chef Andy's instant desire for you ignited when he saw you wearing his chef's coat (your curves hugged in something he wore and will wear later after you've spent hours in it), that spark grew into real hunger when he watched you eat the food he prepared.

So it's the obsession with your mouth that's the base of most of his dirty ideas what to do to you.

And it's not a straight blowjob fantasy even.

He wants to own your mouth.

Taste it. Gently at first, to savor your sweet taste and the soft texture of your mouth. Then deeper, tongue swiping in for the layers of exquisite combination of your warmth, taste and moans. He'd add a bite to it, tugging on your bottom lip with his teeth until he reaches that higher note in your tone and feels you shiver in his arms.

Explore it. Tracing the pad of his finger over the contour of your lips. Slipping a single digit in, teasing your tongue and feeling it move along his skin. Add another finger in. Start a slow rhythm in and out, fucking your mouth sensually as you stare up at him with eyes blown wide and shy.

Use it. Pushing his fingers deeper in, until your tongue protests and your throat constricts. He'd drink in the sight of your saliva coating your lips and dripping down your chin. He wants your lips as messy with anything he does to you, whether he feeds you a juicy steak, or creamy dessert, or his cock.

Pliant and soft, puffy and glistening, bitten, stretched wide, stained from his cooking, or spilling his cum - your mouth belongs to Andy.

His to feed. His to devour. His to fuck.

*he will own your other holes, too, but he is insanely obsessed with your mouth first and foremost

[alyssinwunderland-blog-blog]

So hot he’s got me drooling over here. Never thought I’d be so turned on talking about a mouth. 🤤🫠

[biteofcherry]

A little oral obsession 🤭

[amaranthinespirit]

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY ☆ MASTERLIST (nsfw content: potential dark themes!)

click on the links, and it will take you to all the posts with that respective tag!

—general simon riley

—roommate simon riley —neighbor simon riley

—boyfriend simon riley —older boyfriend simon riley —husband simon riley

—best friend's brother/brother's best friend simon riley

—biker simon riley —gym bro simon riley

—stalker simon riley —serial killer simon riley —kidnapper simon riley —butcher simon riley

—loser simon riley

—tattoo artist simon riley —piercer simon riley —mechanic simon riley —priest simon riley —blue collar/cowboy simon riley —professor simon riley —wrestler simon riley

—simon riley headcanons —simon riley image imagines

[llliissyyy]

F1Driver!Simon never talking in interviews except for short answers like "yes" and "no".

F1Driver!Simon never talking about anything private with anyone so no one on grid knows about you.

F1Driver!Simon who won his first race he ever drove in formula 1 and has been known as the devil on track ever since.

F1Driver!Simon also has the name of ungrateful winner because he never celebrates not even drinking champaign.

F1Driver!Simon being one of the favourites for the media because he seems so mysterious and the crowd loves him for it.

F1Driver!Simon winning his first championship in his second year but he only wants to see you.

F1Driver!Simon trying to get to you, pushing through the crowds to get to you. Cameras and micros pushing into Simon while reporters try to talk to him.

F1Driver!Simon gets to you and picks you up to kiss you in front of everyone. Flashes explode around you while Simon leans his forehead against yours.

F1Driver!Simon falling to his knees and asking you to marry him.

[tojisteddy]

I think about mean!Simon not wanting you to leave his place after staying at his place for too so long.

He’s very good at playing house with you, from cooking dinner and you washing dishes, hours spent in his arms and laughing at his corny jokes, trying your best to kick him out the bathroom while you go to the bathroom or do your hair. Your little conversations to yourself as he passes the room you might be in, finding you blasting music and going through photos. Whisky brown eyes glued to your thighs in his shirt that you’re wearing. The man likes the fact that he can come home to you, let you talk his head off or vice versa. Slugger, his dog, is more than happy to have two parents rather than one.

So when it’s time for you to go home— why is that even a thought that crossed you mind?

Simons mid bite of his sandwich when his ears catch the ‘thud’ of one of your duffle bags full of clothes is dropinh to the door.

His eyebrows are knitted together when he sees you coming down the stairs with another duffle, “Tho’ y’were jokin about leavin kitty.”

You bite back a smile, cheeks growing warm, “I can’t stay here forever Si, I gotta wash my clothes!”

“‘Ve got a washer ‘nd dryer.”

“I can’t wear the same clothes for ever! My closet is calling me.”

“Shops callin us then, yeah? Can get ya new clothes.”

You giggle through a groan, “Simon!” 

The rugged man is already pulling you by the waist and into his chest, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. He can’t say it, won’t say the words ‘don’t go’ or ‘I’ll miss you’ formally. But it bleeds through everything so blatantly, you can’t help but let out a chuckle. Rubbing his broad and scared back. Your fingers glide through his blonde locks of hair, scratching his scalp. “Why’re you bein cute, huh? so big ‘n bein cute.“

It’s got his heart pounding so loud, he lets out an incoherent grumble, as to quiet his own heart. Such a baffling yet peculiar feeling that the man has only groan more and more fond of with each passing day with you. Before you can even realize it, you’re being thrown over Simons shoulder that makes you yelp out. Slapping at his back to put you down, which he does, on the couch, not hesitating to lay atop of you and inhale your scent.

“You’re bein a fucking brat Simon, come on!” You giggle, it’s exactly how you ended up staying another week. Simon lifting you off your feet and taking back to bed because, ‘it’s too late to drive at night’ when it was only 6pm, and then in the morning, ‘it’s rainin too much’ when it was only drizzling.

Today’s no different, now, sandwiched between his chest and and the couch, head resting on his bicep. Letting him wrap his strong arms around you, so easily leaning into the soft touch of his calloused fingers at the back of your nape, your eyes closing.

“Is this how you usually treat the other girls around you?” You tease ever so lightly, not even expecting an answer.

He gruffly answers, distinct, “Why would I want anyone else ‘ere but you?”

And oh, how that alone shouldnt make your stomach flip like that, shouldn’t make you hide your face in his chest to hide a silly smile, wanting to run into an open field laughing.

“This is your answer then,” he hums, soft pink lips pressing to your temple, “you’ll stay.”

“That doesn’t sound like a question.” You say, another kiss falling to the apple of your cheek, your nose, your other cheek.

“ ‘S not.”

You hold onto him tighter, letting out a soft giggle between his kisses, “Agh, then I don’t know, got shit to do—“

“—Don’t be a bloody pain kitten, just stay.”

You feign contemplation for a moment, making the brute of a man fucking pout. Nuzzling his face into between the crook of your neck.

“…One more night couldn’t hurt, I guess.”

One more night, my ass. Simon thinks.

How about ‘move in.’

a/n: I could stare at your back allll dayyyyyyy, I could stare at your baAAack all DAAAAAAAYYYYYY

[warmfrequency]

hinge

captain john price x fem!reader

summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s 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. 

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 — around ‘disgrace’ — 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 straight—

"Y'need'a get laid, boss."

John's hands immediately froze.

That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — 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 — 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' think—"

"OUT."

The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.

Then he squared the stacks again.

——

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 doesn’t always catch when there’s 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 that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.

"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"

"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 some—"

"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"

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 — 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 start—"

"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.

"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"

"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',” he mumbles. 

"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 app….

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 — the 'ghosting', the games — 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 some—"

"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 he’s 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. 

"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. 

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 them’s going to make him cross. 

Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.

The basics go quick — 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 — 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, well—" Johnny starts.

"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.

"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.

"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"

"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"

"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 Simon—

"What's Feeld?" John asks.

"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely 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 (he’s 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. 

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. 

Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s 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, or…"

"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 — 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 clear—

His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.

Huh. 

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. 

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 that…"

"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.

——

Four miles away, a phone lights up…

——

Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re 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 — 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. 

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 — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — 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. 

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. 

Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.

oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol

No it didn't.

— 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. 

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.

——

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 — 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 — 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 — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s 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 — for the first time in a long while — 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. 

Couldn't tell you.

omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!

I got distracted.

by what? 😇

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 — 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! that’s 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 — 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. 

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 doesn’t feel so desolate.

——

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 ‘I got distracted.’ 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. 

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. 

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 — 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. 

He’d 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. 

Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — 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!

He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction. 

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?

He’s 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 then…

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 he’s 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 air’s 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.

——

You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.

Unknown Number. Local.

“John?”

“Evenin’.”

Fuck. 

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.

“So you actually do ring,” you manage.

“Said so on the profile, I think.”

“I half thought it was a bit.”

“I don’t really do bits.”

“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”

The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.

“That meant to be me?”

“It’s uncanny, I know.”

The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.

“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”

“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”

“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”

“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”

“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”

The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.

“No?” you tease.

“I had imagined I’d see your face.”

“Been imagining, have you?”

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

“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”

“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”

“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”

You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.

“Is that what it’s come to?”

“Unfortunately.”

There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.

“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”

Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.

“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.

“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”

Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.

“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”

“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“I could do a weeknight? After work?”

There’s a pause on his end.

“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”

You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.

“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”

“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.

“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”

“It is,” 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 he’s 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 you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.

Eventually, you yawn.

“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”

“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”

“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”

“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”

“Lie-in, according to my profile.”

“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”

A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.

“Night, John.”

You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.

——

Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.

good morning. how was the lie-in?

Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.

the lie confirmed!

He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t 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 ‘suspiciously cheerful’.

The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.

survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.

Regards received. Sleep well.

——

Monday morning, John’s 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 hasn’t stopped looking at it. 

good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?

[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]

You, in your hallway mirror — 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 you’d 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.

Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.

“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.

“Fine.”

“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”

It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.

Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”

John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s 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."

“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.

“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” 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. 

He turns the phone back over.

Promote you, he types.

You look lovely.

Your reply comes before he’s 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.

——

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 — 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 you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.

———

You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re 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 halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t 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. 

You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.

“It’s just a pub,” you tell her. 

She doesn’t seem convinced. 

———

The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — 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. 

The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait. 

You’ve 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, hadn’t 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. You’d forgotten the feeling. 

You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.

You don’t have to wait much longer for him. 

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. He’s 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 he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you smile.

He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.

“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.

“So are you.”

“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”

You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”

The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.

“What’ll you have?”

“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.

He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s 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, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.

“Two of the, uh— the local,” 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.

“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.

“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.

“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”

“Hm.” 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 — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.

“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.

You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.

“That’s it? That’s your answer?”

“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”

“The lads — your guys from work?”

“Yeah.”

“They what, talked you into it?”

“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”

“And what made them do that?”

He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.

“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”

“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.

“Their exact words were a bit different.”

“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”

“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”

Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”

He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.

“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”

He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”

“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”

“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”

“Away?”

“Away.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Doing…?”

“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”

“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”

“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s 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.”

“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”

“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”

You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.

“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”

He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it. 

“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”

You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.

The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re 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. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together. 

“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”

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.

“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”

“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”

His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.

“No—I know. I just—”

“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”

“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.

“None of that either,” 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 matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”

“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”

And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — 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.

It’s going well.

It’s going suspiciously well.

And every time it’s 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.

He’s 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 — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — 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 don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s 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.

“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.

“I am,” 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 — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — 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 it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—

“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”

He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”

“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.

“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it. 

“Say it out loud anyway.”

“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”

“Ten.”

“Mm.”

“A whole decade.”

“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”

“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”

“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”

“Mm.”

“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug. 

“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.

“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.

The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.

“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”

“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue. 

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. 

“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”

“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”

“Yeah? And what was the answer?”

“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”

Something in your chest slides sideways.

“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.

“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”

You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.

“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”

You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve 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 — half a second, there and back — 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 — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — 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 sense—

“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you grin.

“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”

“I suppose I could be patient.”

“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.

Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.

His jaw shifts. 

“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.

And you’re 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 night’s 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 he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — 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 you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.

He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.

“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.

“I walked you out first, yeah?” 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.

“Walk me home?” you ask.

“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”

You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”

“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”

He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth. 

——

The car smells like-new — 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 — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth. 

The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — 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 he— 

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. 

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.

"So…”

You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s 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. 

"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want 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 overly—"

"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."

“Right.” 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."

"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— 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'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."

He's quiet for a second, lips pursing. 

“Can I look at you now?” he tries.

“Yeah.”

"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."

“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”

The badly goes straight between your thighs.

“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”

“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”

“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”

“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”

“When you put it like that…”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”

And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you. 

“Would you like to come up?”

——

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 — 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 — 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 — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — 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 car’s 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 from—"

"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side. 

"Water? I'm gonna have water."

"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering. 

He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean. 

So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t 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.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“Not at all.”

“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”

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. 

He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — 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 — which is going quicker than he’d 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 they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you. 

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 — 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 he’ll 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.

“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”

“Mm?”

“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”

“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.

“Definitely not.”

The rest goes gradually — 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 — and then you’re 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.

“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”

“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”

You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s 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.

“Can I?”

“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”

His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.

You’re 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 — feels you feel it — 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.

“Oh my god— okay— okay—”

“Mm.”

“Don’t be smug—” 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.

“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” 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 — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.

“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”

He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—

"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 word—" 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 — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — 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're— god—"

"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”

"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"

John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — 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. 

"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"

"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”

"—okay maybe move a little—"

He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts. 

“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek. 

“Don’t think, then.”

It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d 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 — 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 you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.

You don’t think.

He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s 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. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—

“Harder?” he asks against your ear. 

"Yes, please."

He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and 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 you’ve bkth created.

"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob. 

"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."

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 —  it takes you under, and you pull him with you.  

He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—

How good—

How gorgeous—

You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—

It’s 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 — 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, you’re already looking at him.

Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — 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 he’s 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. 

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 — 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 — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — 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 it’s aimed at him, so.

"You're staring," he says, not looking up. 

"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 — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — 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 — 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. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

"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. 

"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 — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside. 

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.

“No?” you ask. 

"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 — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it. 

“Alright," you agree. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”

"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. 

"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. 

"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.

"Goodnight."

"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."

——

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. 

“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” 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, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”

[deandoesthingstome]

I'm not sure how I found Through the Plaster, but if it led me to your blog so that I would be around when this masterpiece dropped, then I'm thankful for the happenstance.

I adore your John.

This story is so rich. I am kicking myself for trying to do this without the post up on a other tab somewhere 'cause your readmore means I can't drift back and forth between your extremely clever paragraphs to capture the lines that made me laugh out loud so I can quote them in my reblog.

I want to comment on every bit of dialogue from the team. Brilliant and hilarious, the lot of them.

I want to remember the exact turns of phrases used while Price was realizing his phone was sat in the hands of his subordinates in front of him and during the discussion of the dating lives of the 141.

I want press rewind and play over and over and over again on every text exchange or phone conversation until it becomes as natural to recite as the lines from Last Christmas.

And that sex. Oh my god! Not one single, solitary note. 10 out of 10. That knowing question whispered in my ear, maybe growled. Either way, if it got him where I needed him, so be it.

I can't wait to take him to my sister's wedding. That wanker her fiance lined me up with in the wedding party is going to shit his pants when he sees what he's up against at the reception. That short term was the shortest I've ever seen

[ghouljams]

soap x f!reader | a gift for @brethart and @ohtomatoes for their donation to the Anishinabek Nation 7th Generation Charity | if you would like to donate and get a gift you can check this info post to figure out how

prompt: reader is sitting next to 141 at a hockey game and they are shown on the kiss cam, and whoever she is sitting next to kisses her.

cw: for reader being a little tipsy, otherwise it's wholesome first kiss fluff.

It's your favorite story: a hockey game, too many drinks, a rowdy crowd chanting and cheering, and a chance encounter.

Johnny hadn't been there when you arrived, when you'd sat in your ticketed seat and snuggled close to your friend, sipping overpriced beer and discussing which player was your favorite. You barely felt it when he took his seat, but you could hear him cheering.

He was the kind of fan you've always loved sitting next to, the one that knows exactly the right time to start a chant and never seems to manspread too far into your space. You were too busy discussing which player looked the best pressed up against the glass to feel him looking at you, and you didn't even spare him a glance when you got up to refill your drink during half.

Honestly if you and your bestie hadn't stolen to the bar to have a shot before heading back to your seats with your beer, you may not have even stopped joking with her long enough to coo at him to let you through. Even then it's not that you get a good look at him, as much as you notice how tall he is. Tall and broad shouldered, with biceps you could sink your teeth into.

Too bad you notice how handsome he is almost as quickly as you notice he's wearing the opposing team's sweater. It very nearly ruins him, but you like the lopsided smile he throws you as he stands to let you pass —you like the way it softens the blue of his eyes— too much to let something like that stop you.

"You're rooting for the wrong team," you grin, alcohol bubbling in your blood just on the right side of tipsy. Just enough liquid courage to tease the cute guy in the seat next to you as you sit down.

His smile widens and you feel a reflection of the motion on your own face. No ego on this one, no hurt feelings from a little flirting, just a fond look and an indulgent smile. It makes your heart patter in your chest.

"Maybe you should come over tae my side, already sittin' next tae me, could share the sweater." He pats his lap and you roll your eyes.

You turn back to your friend, leaning close to giggle against her as she begs you not to spill the drinks.

"He's trying to be cute," you whisper loud enough for him to hear.

"I am cute!"

You grin, feel your cheeks crease with the force of it. He is cute. You like cute, and your friend is giving you a look that says 'don't you dare,' which means you absolutely should dare.

"We're having a private conversation," you turn to tell him, just as your face lights up the center ice screen a bright red heart tracing its way around you and him. The crowd around you erupts and you start to turn to see what the commotion is.

Johnny sees it before you do, his eyes and hands faster than yours; you just barely register 'wait that's me' before he's grabbing you and then the world narrows in to a single perfect point.

Big warm hands slide over your cheeks, cupping your jaw to turn you back towards him, pressing ever so lightly to tip you. His nose bumps yours even with the directing —perfectly imperfect as every first kiss should be— and you giggle, feeling the pull of his smile as his lips press against yours. Softly, just enough that you could pull away if you wanted to; you really don't want to.

You throw your arms around him and make him kiss you properly, pushing in to feel the chap of his lips and the slight exhale as he leans into you. Relief relaxes his shoulders and you melt into each other.

Then his lips part and, oh. Something sparks, lighting up warm in your chest, and tingling down the tips of your fingers. The slide of his lips fits so deliciously well against your own, unhurried and indulgent. Pressing and parting again and again, following wherever you want to lead. Another soft smile when your teeth catch his lip. Distantly you hear the crowd cheer a second time, but he doesn't pull back. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you.

Warm and giddy: your fingers twisting in his jersey; his big hands sliding to cup your neck; the peak of his tongue, there and gone when you open a little too wide, disturbing the perfect dance you'd fallen into. The crowd cheers a third time, and you pull away to stare at the screen.

Are you still on the kiss cam? Don't they have anyone else to cut to?

"Are you two finally coming up for air?" Your friend asks.

Oh no, you're not still on the cam, they cut back to you. You're the "someone better" that they have to cut to.

"Oh my god," you groan.

"Ah think Ahm in love with you," Johnny says, you glance back at his kiss reddened lips and dreamy eyes. He looks good like this, and you swoop in for another kiss, which he eagerly reaches for.

Until your best friend yanks you back by the neck of your sweater and you make a rather undignified choked sound that kills the kiss cam.

"Vibe killer," you hiss at her. She makes a face and you stick your tongue out at her.

"You don't even know the guy's name." She reasons. It's a good reason, but easily remedied. You look at kiss cam guy.

"Ahm Johnny," he supplies.

"That's Johnny," you pass it along just to watch your friend roll her eyes. She's not mad, but you know well enough that one of you has to be responsible or neither of you will get home.

"Ok, well, don't blame me if you end up on Youtube," She tells you, settling back in to watch the game.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll remember you when I'm famous." You tell her. She snorts and steals your beer to top up her own.

You don't care, more worried about snagging Johnny's phone to punch in your number with a little kiss next to your name than ending up online.

Which you do. "Kiss cam make out" goes semi-viral, with thousands of people watching your movie moment. You only know because Johnny shamelessly sends you the video alongside the dinner reservation details for your first date.

(Years later your best-friend-turned-maid-of-honor plays it during your and Johnny's wedding, but that's a different story.)

[justkending]

One Night Flame. Chapter 36.

Series Summary: Y/N Carter is a 3rd-grade teacher who’s fresh out of a 5-year relationship. To help cheer her up, her friends convince her to go out to a bar on a school night, something she never does nowadays, and things take an unpredictable turn. The stranger she meets and later has a one-night stand with may be harder to get rid of than she thought. And maybe more connected to her life than she thought, too…

Pairing: Y/N Carter x Dean Winchester

Word Count: 3700+

Chapter 36:

Spring Break was next week, and Dean had taken it upon himself to schedule my doctor's appointments with a long-time family friend of theirs. Apparently, he was both theirs and Jessie's delivery doctor, making the Winchesters very fond of him. I'm honestly surprised he hasn't retired yet, but Dean swears up and down that he's still in his prime even at his older age.

As I'm getting my bag together for work, Dean comes in the kitchen behind me, hanging up the phone, which I gather was Sam on the other end.

"Ok, your appointment is set for next Tuesday at 9:30 with Dr. Roberts. I already told the firehouse I'd be coming in a little late, but we may need an angel above to keep me from spilling my guts to them on the why," he rambles, coming in and leaning his hip against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, and biceps bulging in his favorite, and well-loved, black Led Zeppelin t-shirt. I find myself pausing my packing and just staring at them. "You know what? I should take the whole day off. Should just stay home and not even chance getting too excited and telling Benny, Cas, Bobby, or god forbid, Helen that we're expecting. And you know me. The chances are high. The chances are very, very high," he blows out a breath from his lips and turns to look at me, seeing me practically salivating at his arms. "Babe..."

"Hm?" I say, swallowing and blinking out of my daze.

"You're staring. And I'm pretty sure I see a little bit of drool." His grin tells me he's not mad at the action. "Turned on?" He wiggles his eyebrows.

I clear my throat and shake my head, my gaze still going back to his arms anyway. "You can't have those out when I'm in a rush to get to work and coked up on pregnancy hormones."

"My arms? I'm not allowed to have my arms out now?"

"Stop looking fine, and maybe I can get to work without sex-hair for once. And we all know you love sending me on my way in that state..." I huff, annoyed that I can't act on my urges. "Jesus, I had to lie to one of the Barbies," (the 4th grade teacher cliche), "the other day about some new volumizing spray I've been using lately has helped me achieve the 90's blow-out look she was jealous of."

"Well, you should have run with it and told her you're getting fucked properly by your sexy, god-like-in-bed, firefighter baby daddy. It's the only guaranteed way to get that look." He winks before laughing at my eyeroll and then pushes off the counter, coming and bearhugging me into his chest.

"Yeah, that ego's got your head a little too big. I'm losing the turned-on itches," I muffle into his chest that I'm being suffocated against.

"Sorry, sweetheart. No sexy firefighter hookups for now," he sighs, completely acting like he didn't hear me, and rocking me slightly in my spot. "You have twenty-two 3rd graders to wrangle two days before spring break. You're going to need that energy going somewhere else."

"I'm sorry..." I scoff with a playful attitude, pulling back enough to look up at him. "Are you actually denying me my needs? Needs that you seemed pretty damn excited to meet about 25 minutes ago when you had me pinned and primed before I could blink my first blink of the day?"

A slight growl in the back of his throat shows me it was a recent, pleasant image for him to reminisce about. "Yes, it quite literally physically ales me to do so," he drags out, acting wounded, by grabbing his chest before squeezing me back into the hug. "But you're late, and Jessie needs a ride to school, Ms. Carter, one day to be Mrs.Winchester. Come on. You're running behind." He squeezes my shoulders as he twirls me around and points me towards the hall that leads to the front door. "Off you go to teach the future generations."

"I don't like you being responsible right now."

"You will when you learn all my plans for the day later. But for now," he gives me a pat on the butt just as we enter the living room, and he continues to direct me towards the door. "I'll send you a dick pic to compensate."

"Maybe not," I scrunch my face cause normally, yeah sure, but not when I'm managing a group of eight-year-olds.

"Yeah, you're right—poor timing. Either way, I'll take care of you tonight, and I'll worry about the other things today for my day off. Now, go." The door's open, and I'm crossing the threshold with the help of Dean's stupid, mouth-watering biceps.

"Oh, for dinner tonight, can you lay out the chicken-"

"I got dinner covered. Scram," he shoos me away and is about to step out to walk me to my car when I relent.

"Alright, alright. I'm going. I'm going," I step down the porch steps one at a time. "I'll be home around four. I'll see you then."

"Four it is. Oh!" he shouts and runs down the porch at a quickened pace. "Almost forgot." Before I have a second to process, he's bending down at the waist and kissing my belly that's not even close to showing yet. "Bye, peanut. Daddy will see you later." He kisses it one more time before standing up and pecking me on the lips. "Drive safe. Love you."

"Should I be expecting that every time I leave the house now?" I chuckle, opening my car door.

"I'd say so. Never know what could happen," he shruggs, and although it's a nonchalant action, I know he's got his own anxieties running through his mind.

"Love you, D. I'll be home later," I smile softly in assurance, and open my car door.

"Hey, Y/N/N!" he shouts as he runs up the porch, quickly turning to face me. "Take it easy, ok?" The pull of his lips in genuine love and concern all but melts me.

"For you? Always."

_____________________

The day before break, Dean had surprised me by decorating the nursery with some of his childhood furniture. And though we had agreed not to do anything until our twelve-week check-up, I couldn't be mad at the man who made such a sweet gesture.

The crib and rocking chair he'd hauled in and set up were both from his and Sam's old nursery. The crib may not be up to code for this day and age of parenting, but we'd make the modifications to make it work, considering how much it felt like it fit.

The rocking chair was just as special, having been rebuilt by both Sam and him for Jessie's nursery after some damage from a house fire when they were teenagers. On the arm, widdled into the rest, were an S.W. and a D.W. for their initials. It was beautifully loved and clearly crafted with intention, and I was happy to have inherited it for our child.

Spring break quickly approached and seemed to already be flying by three days in.

"How long until we know the gender?" Dean asks as he messes with the utensils lying on the doctor's tray by the ultrasound tech.

"Stop touching that," I chide, adjusting on the slanted bed they had me on. "And 18-20 weeks for the more accurate reading. You know that. You were the one who read that to me the other day."

"Oh yeah," he sighs, restraining himself as he pulls his hands back and puts them behind his back to try and keep from fidgeting. "Sorry, I'm nervous."

"I know, D," I grin softly, not wanting to laugh at him, but also finding his nerves adorable. "Come sit over here. He should be in any minute."

He takes my direction and sits in the chair next to me, finding my hand on the table, squeezing it as I watch his knee bounce slightly.

"Babe. Why are you nervous? It's just an ultrasound check-in. Nothing crazy."

He lets out a little grunt sound and sighs. "I don't know. I honestly don't."

I squeeze his hand and brush my thumb over his knuckles. "Deep breaths. We're in good hands, and everything is going to be fine. Promise."

His mouth opens to, what I'm sure is, share more of his anxieties about the situation, but the knock at the door draws both our attentions away.

"Hello, can I come in?" Dr. Roberts is heard on the other side.

I give him the all clear, and he opens the door fully, stepping in and smiling at us. Dean is on his feet in seconds, extending his hand before the two hug.

"Dean, a pleasure to see you, son," Dr. Roberts smiles and returns the hug.

"Dr. Roberts. Can't begin to tell you how happy I am to know you're still in business," Dean clings for a second before finally releasing him.

"Well, the wife says I have to keep at it until we've paid off that beach house she made me buy her," he winks before approaching me. "Ms. Carter. It's a privilege to meet you finally. Dean wasn't able to end the phone call without telling me all about you."

I take his hand, he extends and shakes it as he places his other hand on top and pats it gently.

"And he's told me so much about you as well. We're truly lucky to have you for this journey."

The appointment seems to go on without any hitches, aside from Dean making a few nervous, awkward remarks that neither Dr. Roberts nor me phased. The baby seems healthy and growing as expected.

When we get home, Poppy is more than thrilled that we're both home on a weekday, and we bring the takeout we grabbed to the back porch and eat out there while Dean throws the ball for her.

"What about Rocky?" Dean asks, using the throwing stick we bought after realizing how much a basset slobbers.

"Rocky? As in Balboa?" I repeat with a chuckle as I watch Poppy run out of speed already after the fourth ball thrown.

"Yeah, it's badass, and it's unique. I think it'd be fitting for a girl or a boy."

"It sounds like a name for a raccoon I'd find digging through the dumpster at 3 am."

"Hey, now. Respect the legend," Dean points a finger at me.

"I'm trying to respect our unborn child's livelihood in the future, and not get him bullied by being named like we're world-renowned mountain climbers."

"Interesting perspective," he hums, turning and watching Poppy putter out and lie flat on her belly with a huff before lazily watching the rolly pollys instead of the ball. "And she's out." He perks up and turns back to me. "What about Nicks?"

"Nicks? Like the New York Nicks?" A brow raises.

"No, like Stevie Nicks. Fleetwood Mac."

"I'm not going to convince you to name our child of anything other than a rock star or famous figure from the 70s, am I?"

There was a moment of silence as we just stared at one another and blinked.

"Probably not."

"Figures."

___________

As we get ready for bed, Dean comes in from the bathroom, still giving name ideas.

"Ok, how about this..." His hands come up as if bracketing the name in the air. "Arrowsm-"

"I'm gonna stop you right there before you finish that thought. I love your creativity, babe, but there is a way to incorporate it into our name game without it having copyright issues."

He sighs and relents for the night as he pats the end of the bed to encourage Poppy to come up, and then crawls into his side of the bed.

"Sue me for wanting to give the kid some character before he can talk," he mumbles, but I can hear the lightheartedness in his tone.

"Dean, he's a product of you and me. He'll be fine."

"True-" he starts, but then turns to me and narrows his eyes. "You keep saying he. Do you think it's a he?"

I chuckle as I lean over, turning off my lamp, and scoot more under the covers. "No, I have no clue. I guess 'he' just comes naturally."

"Which means it's probably a boy," he argues, turning off his light next, our room ghosted into dark for a split second before I hear the click of the remote and the TV turns on as he puts on our show for the night. "Isn't that an old wives' tale?"

"What? Referring to a kid by he or she because you don't know yet? I ask, scooting closer to his body heat.

"Yeah. Womanly intuition or something." His arm comes up to welcome me into his side.

"Not sure on that one, but if it helps you sleep."

"I'm gonna choose to believe it."

"Well, if we're going by that logic..." I chuckle sarcastically.

"Do you not agree?" He looks down at me, moving some hair out of my face.

I ponder the idea and really try to feel for an inkling of what I think the gender is. "Honestly, something's telling me it's a girl. That is if we're going by gut feelings." He doesn't seem disappointed or really changed in his feelings about the debate at all. "Don't you want a boy?"

"I want a healthy kid, sweetheart. Sure, a boy would be great in teaching the tricks of the trade and all, and sports, and all the other stereotypical things I could come up with, but I can teach those things to a girl too. I mean, look at Jessie. She's about to be a soccer state champ in her high school career. I'm calling it now."

I smile because the idea of Dean as a girl dad is something I've already got a glimpse of with Jesse and I'd be more than happy to give him and me that reality. But also, a boy for him to bond with in all the ways Jesse wasn't interested in is sweet too.

"Well then. I guess we have to wait and see. Until then, it's just 'kid'." I say hand on my belly.

"Kid is correct," he chuckles and covers my hand with his own as we settle in for the night.

Supernatural Tags:

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[justkending]

This chapter was copied and pasted incorrectly, so it was a little wonky. Just went in and fixed it! For those who read it and were confused, apologies, my Grammarly didn't want to work with me apparently...

[soobshi]

⋆.˚ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 i think of you - brendon park

shark week - day one ⋆˚.༄

pairing - brendon park x f!reader wc - 4.2k summary - brendon park asks you out for dinner after getting your number under the guise of "ordering you lunch" after the two of you completed a long surgery together. seven months later, you find yourself in a relationship with the older man, and he has no hesitation inviting you on a trip to visit his family in new jersey. | read anon's request here! cw - potential ooc brendon, but he was also in the show for like a minute, so is it really?! mostly fluff, though b talks a little bit about angsty childhood things. reader and brendon talk about wanting children in the future. brendon is thirty-six, reader is imagined to be in her early twenties. i mention the details of an ortho surgery, any inaccuracies should be blamed on google, lmao. brendon talks about his family's christianity a bit. i imagine him to be italian, so i've filled in the gaps and assumed that his family is at least somewhat aligned with those beliefs. his mamma references praying; his nonna was an italian immigrant and wore a saint cosmas and saint damian medallion. a/n -this is my first time taking an ask, so i hope i was able to do your idea some justice, anon! yes, i'm posting this the second the clock hits 12:00 am on the 26th, i got excited. shark divider from @sisterlucifergraphics

You glanced at the daily assignment board, scratching the back of your neck. Penciled in is your name in the scrubbing section, right alongside a crossed-out Emily Winston. You’d scrubbed in for six surgeries this week, and it was only Thursday. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Emily groaned, seeing her name crossed out and replaced on the circulating nurses list. “I fucking hate this.”

She’d been working at PTMC for six years before you, and when you’d started your orthopedic nursing position back in December, she’d been the first to welcome you. It was clear, by the end of that first month, that Emily hated circulating.

“At least you get some quiet. I have to listen to Park’s EDM for the sixth time this week. I swear I can hear the synth when I sleep,” you murmur, though you have to admit, when you see the surgeon rounding the corner, your heart picks up speed.

He crosses over just as Emily stops at the water fountain to fill her cup. “Hey, I just wanted to give you a note about the case you’re going to scrub in on,” Brendon Park murmurs, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Oh! Yeah!” You nod with a smile. “I was surprised to see my name,” you gesture to the board with your thumb. “I haven’t circulated all week, and last week I scrubbed into five surgeries total.”

Dr. Park shrugged. “Rotation must be a bit off. I usually just pick whoever has good stats. You’re doing well.” 

You hum a thanks as he continues. “The patient is 58 and is coming in with severe spinal stenosis. We need to do a decompression from L3 down to S1. His thecal sac is being choked, and L4 is slipping completely off of L5. Plan is to do a wide laminectomy first; we’ll have a lot of bleeding from his epidural veins, so you’re going to need to keep the bipolar cautery and a supply of Gelfoam ready at all times. Once I have the nerves free, I’m going to move onto the disc spaces. Interbody cages on all three levels, all trial sizers, and then real PEEK cages. I’ll prep the endplates with osteotomes and disc shavers, and we’re going to need lots of bone graft mixed with the biologic. The screws will be placed at L3, L4, L5, and S1 to get the anchors in, and I’ll lock the rods down once the cages are packed.” You mentally note all of this as he gestures with his hands. 

You can’t help but hang on every word. Heat flushes to your cheeks as he finishes, “It’s going to be tedious. I want you to make sure to eat something before you meet me in twenty.”

“Yeah. I’ll definitely make sure to eat something,” you nod with a smile, glancing around Brendon’s arm to see Emily raising her eyebrows and flipping you off. You roll your eyes at her antics. 

“Good. I need you in there to make this go by faster.”

You frown, tugging off your gown and gloves and tossing them into the biohazard bin. Your eyes feel heavy, and for a long moment, you ponder if it’s normal for your vision to be slightly blurry after an eight-hour spinal surgery.

“Fuck,” Brendon groans, drawing the word out as he finishes washing his hands. He straightens, arms behind his head as his back releases a soft popping noise.

“It sounds like the ortho surgeon needs his own ortho surgeon,” you mutter under your breath with a smile, noting how he shakes out his arms and his hands, clearly releasing the tension from his body that he’d been carrying the entire operation.

He chuckles, and you can see a few of the members of the anesthesia team gawk, eyes wide at the sound. Mean, cold, closed-off, eerily observant. You’d heard the surgeon standing beside you be described as all of the above many times. While you may have believed it the first month of working on the orthopedic floor at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, it was hard to agree with them now. “I thought my back was going to give out in hour six. The only reason I stayed straight was because I didn’t want to make myself look like a fool in front of you.”

You click your tongue, dispensing sanitizer onto your hands. “You didn’t look like a fool. I think the procedure went beautifully…although I guess I’m not the surgeon who gets to decide that.”

“You’re right. You were on top of things and saved us a lot of time. It was a nice case, and you should be proud of yourself,” Brendon responded, tentatively reaching a hand out to pat your shoulder. “You don’t need to be a surgeon to see that.”

“Oh…uh, thank you, Dr. Park. I really appreciate it,” you murmur, twiddling your thumbs. 

It’s quiet outside of the operating room for a minute before Brendon clears his throat. “Hey, I need to go write the operative notes and follow up with the family, but I’m going to give you my number. I want you to send me what you want me to order for lunch.”

“I packed food,” you mumble, reaching for your phone anyway as he pulls it from your hand, fingers typing in a contact quickly.

“I don’t care.” His words are clear, and you do your best to ignore how his confidence makes you squirm. “I’m buying lunch for you. You did great, and I like spending time with you.” 

You swear he pauses for a moment before adding, “In the OR.”

Just as you stretch your legs out on the couch, your phone vibrates. You stare at the ceiling, counting to thirty. You’d gotten called to scrub into another surgery with Park after he’d bought you — and the team, though you had been trying to ignore that bit – lunch, and had been stuck in the operating room two hours past the official end of your shift. You were exhausted, and all you wanted to do was sit on the couch, numb your brain with television and a warm chocolate chip cookie, and fall asleep for a long time. You’d stupidly picked up a half-shift for Friday to cover for your coworker while she celebrated her son’s birthday, and thirteen hours before you were scheduled to head back to the hospital, you were already regretting it. 

The last thing you wanted to do was read a notification from the hospital notifying you that they were short-staffed again. 

You knew you’d end up filling in, weak to the idea of leaving patients to fall through the cracks. Even thinking of it made your eyes water.

You turned your phone on, reading the notification and hastily responding.

“It’s a six-day trip. My siblings and their kids will be there; we’ll probably be at the beach a lot,” Brendon says, his arms folded behind his head as he stretches out on your couch.

“Are you sure it’s not overstepping if I come? I wasn’t really invited, and I don’t want to just show up,” you murmur in response, leaning into his side. You’d been sitting at the dinner table finishing up a meal after a long shift when Brendon sprung the idea of you coming along with him to visit his parents' home in New Jersey.

He assured you that you were welcome and that his family – particularly his mother – would be excited to meet you for the first time. For some reason, you couldn’t shake the familiar feeling of anxiety in your belly. You’d been dating Brendon for seven months now, and although you’d both deliberately kept it a secret at work, knowing you didn’t want to get branded as the “new nurse who is sleeping with the surgeon,” your lives outside the hospital had become intertwined. Still, visiting his family felt like taking a huge step.

Not that you didn’t want to continue moving forward with the man.

“I promise you that you’re not overstepping. My mom’s been begging me to bring you home since I told her about you.” He pulled you into his side with a reassuring smile, his arm settling around your waist comfortably. Brendon clearly liked showing his affection through touch, and you’d grown used to the contact, the warmth of his body a welcome sensation. “My sisters and brother will be there, and with all the kids running around, an extra pair of eyes will be a lifesaver when we get to the water.”

You laugh, feeling the lingering exhaustion of the surgery you’d been in for five hours fade away. “Is that all I am to you? An extra pair of eyes to watch children with?”

He pinches your side teasingly, “An extra pair of eyes and a good lay.”

“Can we drive there?” You ask, looking up at him as he presses kisses to your temple. “I’ll go only if you agree to drive.”

“Fine with me. I’ll drive; you sit in the passenger seat and look pretty,” he replied without hesitation.

Two weeks later, you peered out the windshield and watched as the familiar sight of Pittsburgh transitioned into New Jersey, the mountains flattening with each passing mile. The drive had been surprisingly relaxing, after Brendon had coaxed you into taking a Dramamine for your motion sickness, and you’d spent the large majority of it listening to the soft music of his non-operating-room playlist, grateful for the lack of EDM. His hand sat on your thigh, lightly squeezing it, and by the time he pulled into the gravel driveway of a large sky-blue house, you could hear the waves crashing against the shore.

Brendon barely had time to turn the engine of his sleek black car off before the front door sprang open and an older brunette darted out of the beach house. 

“My baby boy!” She exclaimed, wiping her hands on an apron as she hurried down the front steps and pulled him into a tight hug. You smiled at the sight, slowly stepping out of the car. 

Brendon had told you, shortly after you’d begun dating, that he was his mother’s favorite. You had been hesitant to believe him, knowing that his three older siblings likely claimed the very same thing, but as you took in his mom squeezing him in a warm embrace, you believed his words. Though you supposed it would be hard not to love Brendon loudly like this.

His mom pulled away with a bright and beaming smile, and your cheeks flushed as she apologized for not coming to you first and pulled you into a tight hug.

“It is so wonderful to finally meet you, sweetheart!” She said, drawing back to hold you at arm's length as she took you in. “My boy has talked about you so much, but his words can’t even describe you. You’re a doll!”

You chuckled, smiling at the woman. “Thank you so much, Anita. I can see where Brendon gets his looks from.”

“Oh, please call me Ma,” His mom tutted, taking your face in her hands. You’d known his family was Italian; different cultures came with different customs, and Brendon himself seemed to have no qualms about touching you, but this affection was new, and you found yourself squirming a little. 

“Please, Mamma,” Brendon groaned softly, tapping her shoulder. “At least give her some space to stretch.”

“You’re right! I’m sorry!” She patted your cheek before stepping back. “I’m trying to be less touchy, but I’m just glad my baby finally brought a good girl home. His siblings have all settled down, and I’ve been praying he’d finally get a nice one to start a family of his own with. God willing, I’d like to at least see my grandkids be born!” 

You catch your boyfriend’s eye and giggle when he gives you an apologetic grimace. His cheeks are flushed, but the way his eyes twinkle when his mom speaks to him is plain as day. You knew he loved his family, but seeing it made your heart warm.

“Come on, I’ve got dinner going, and I need you guys to help me decide which dessert to make.”

You stepped inside and were immediately hit with the rush of energy in the home. It felt alive; luggage dropped in the hallway as introductions flew by in a blur of handshakes and hugs. 

Angela, Rebecca, Chris. You’d pressed Brendon for all of the information about his siblings that he could give you on the road trip over, and were instantly grateful to have a back pocket full of icebreakers as his family easily shifted into fast conversation. Voices overlapped, but it wasn’t long before your attention moved to the large back porch where his nieces and nephews sat on a picnic table covered in craft supplies.

You looked up at Brendon, his arm around your back, and murmured, “It’s calm out there.”

Nodding, he smiled, “You can go sit if you need some quiet.” 

That was all the permission you needed to walk over and sit on the low wooden bench with Brendon’s seven nieces and nephews. “Is it okay if I join you guys?” You ask gently, waiting for their approval before you touch any of the materials. The four eldest share a glance, and you recall their names from earlier conversation: Nico, Archie, Evelyn, and Harlow. 

You wait patiently for a moment before the littlest at the table, Nora, says, “Are you Uncle Brendon’s girlfriend?”

“I am,” you respond, pointing to Brendon inside the house. He’s smiling, watching you and the children from the sliding glass door, and you swallow at the attention, feeling flustered like you always seem to when Brendon stares with such focus. “We met at work.”

The kids smile and press for more information, and you fall into an easy flow of conversation with them, picking up one of the disc looms and yarn. “These are the best bracelets! I have so much fun making them.” You say, already finding yourself immersed in the project.

“My dad said that Uncle Brendon, Aunt Angela, and Aunt Rebecca used to make them when they were kids,” Jude, the second-oldest son of Brendon’s only brother, says.

“Did you make them when you were little?” Harlow asks, handing you her loom so you can untangle the lengths of colorful yarn.

You hum, “I didn’t make them when I was your age. I think they were common with people older than me, but I got introduced to them in college and thought they were cool.” 

“You made crafts in college?” Archie gasps as he pulls his bracelet off and puts his arm out for you to tie it around. “Uncle Brendon said that he drank in college.”

You can’t help but laugh at the child’s words, imagining Brendon closer to your age, pre-medical school, when he still had time to go out with his frat brothers. It seems the opposite of the image of the calm man you sleep next to each night.

Brendon leans against the doorframe, a cup of wine in hand, watching the scene in front of him unfold. His chest warms at the sight of you with his siblings’ kids, falling into such easy conversation. You’d been shy in those first few months at the hospital, although Brendon had come to learn that you had a mean sense of humor, despite being one of the kindest-hearted people he’d ever known. 

“She’s wonderful, Brendon,” his mother whispered from her spot next to him. 

He didn’t answer right away, distracted by the way you laughed at something Nico said, his youngest niece crawling into your lap a second later. He swallowed, the stress that had followed him from the hospital all the way to New Jersey melting away at the sight of you sliding into place so easily with the people he loved most.

“Yeah,” he said softly after a long moment. “She really is, isn’t she?”

You giggle when Brendon tugs you against his side in the bed, so close you’re practically lying on top of him. He kisses the top of your head, one hand resting at your back, fingers grazing over your butt as you take the other and twiddle absentmindedly with his fingertips. “I’m so glad I came,” you murmur quietly, “Your mom is so funny, and the kids are perfect.”

“You’re perfect,” Brendon responds, pulling the blanket over the two of you as you settle into bed.  

“I’m serious, Bren,” You speak, looking up at him. “I assumed I’d like your family because you love them and I love you, but I didn’t think I’d feel so comfortable already. I thought I’d be scared.”

 He chuckles when he hears you drag out the last word, “You were scared. You squeezed my hand under the table the entire time we were eating.”

“True.”

“I’m proud of you, though. My family’s a lot, and you handled it well,” he praises, and you feel heat pass through your body. “You handled them well.”

He trails his fingers up and down your back, goosebumps rising on your flesh as he presses featherlight kisses to the top of your head. You’d never expected this behemoth of a man, called The Shark by nearly everyone in a Level 1 Trauma Center, to be so gentle. It still made your heart ache how carefully he treated you.

“Seeing my siblings and their kids…seeing my mom and dad and how much they still love each other,” you feel Brendon shrug as he pauses. “It really makes me appreciate what I had growing up. How much love was in this house, even if it was loud and messy and overwhelming.”

“I love how much you guys love each other,” you reply softly. “No embarrassment, no hiding, no nonchalance. You love, and you love loudly.”

“Quiet is good sometimes. Efficient. Effective,” he murmurs, his breathing soft and steady. “I don’t think we need to be quiet and efficient with people and feelings like that. There’s no reason to hide or to posture.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you wait for him to speak, knowing that sometimes Brendon needs silence to make sense of his words. “My Nonna – my dad’s mom – died when I was seven. She was only sixty-two.” He swallows, and you squeeze his right hand, doing your best to comfort him.

“She loved weddings and family events more than anything in the world. She met my Nonno when she came here from Italy at sixteen, and they got married four years later. They were too poor for a wedding, so once she got older and had kids of her own, she thought it was a gift whenever one of us Parks got to have a wedding or a celebration. She prayed and prayed and prayed for her kids to find love, and my Mamma still tells me how much she cried and cheered at her and my Dad’s wedding.”

You smile, “She sounds like a wonderful woman.”

“She was. I don’t remember her much, but God, I know she was.” Brendon shakes his head, running his thumb along your knuckles. “When she passed, and my family went through her things, we found this binder. The cover said she bought it in 1950 in Matera, Italy. She would have purchased it three months before she immigrated to the US, and it was full of things. Pictures of us grandkids, postcards from her Mamma and Papa, little souvenirs my Nonno sent her when he was in the military. Everything. And at the back of the binder, there was a letter for each of her eleven grandkids and a little envelope, too. Mine was the last one she wrote because I was the baby. My Nonno looked through them all because he didn’t want us to have to read them until he knew what she said, and I remember him telling me, ‘Nonna ti voleva più bene di ogni viaggio che ha fatto verso casa e di ogni parola che conosceva in italiano e in inglese.’” You looked up at Brendon as he translated the Italian, still not used to hearing him speak it. “Nonna loved you more than any trip she ever took home and more than any word she knew in Italian and English.” 

“Bren,” you sniffle, feeling your eyes fill at the sentiment.

He smiles, wiping the tear that slips down your cheek. “She and my Nonno didn’t have a lot of money, but they gave everything they had to my dad and his siblings. They wanted us to live well.”

You press a soft kiss to his lips before he continues, the beach house around you quiet except for the sound of his voice. “She had this little medallion of Saint Cosmas and Saint Damian that she used to wear all the time. Patrons of surgery. I got to wear it at my white coat ceremony.” You smile at the image that comes to mind of him being given his white coat, the first step in the journey that led to the two of you meeting.

“When they looked at the letters, they found out that Nonna had been saving her change and dividing it up evenly between us grandkids. She wrote letters to us that she wanted to read at our weddings and said she hoped that her and Nonno's humble beginnings would lay a foundation of love for us to build success on. I still have that money she saved for my wedding.” He chuckles at the last sentence, scratching the back of his neck, but you don’t miss the pain in his eyes as he speaks about the grandmother he clearly loved so deeply.

“Today, seeing you with my family…” Brendon pauses, and you kiss the back of his hand, giving him time. “You have the same heart she did. So sensitive, so deeply feeling. I didn’t think I’d ever find that in someone. I didn’t know if I’d ever find a person that would make my Nonna proud.”

Your bottom lip wobbles when you breathe his name, and there is nothing you can do to stop the silent tears from slipping down your cheek.

“You were perfect with my family. With my Ma, with my nieces and nephews, with my Nonno, everyone.” His voice was quiet, but the softness did nothing to hide his assurance. 

“When I saw you with the kids…” his voice trailed off before he continued, “For a moment, I could imagine exactly how my grandpa felt when he saw my Nonna for the first time. When she was young and finding her way in a new country. When she walked up to his church and asked in shaky English if they had a job for her. When he made a promise to himself, when he was seventeen years old, that he was going to marry the woman standing in front of him and make a family of his own. When he did exactly that four years later.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” you mumble, voice cracking.

“It’s the truth,” Brendon breathes your name. “I know we haven’t been together for that long, I know you’re younger than me, I know we still pretend like we’re just friends at work…I know all of that. But, I just…I wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know that when I think of the future, I think of being married to you. I think of our kids who we will love more than every word we know in English, and Italian, and all of the other random languages you’ve studied for three weeks.”

You let out a choked-out laugh as Brendon wipes the tears from your face. “I love you, Bren. So much. I want all of those things with you too.”

And that night, in the comfort of Brendon’s childhood bedroom in a town in New Jersey you’ve never once visited, but suddenly feel so at home in, you fall asleep knowing the man that is holding you will continue to be the arms you fall into every night until the end of time. taglist ⋆˚.༄ @melissa66orion @realwhoreforfictionalmen @keepingitundercover @peachiestevie @high-fivingamillionangelz @ineedaaronhotchner @rd14 @divaplanet @annabellq @xoxoloverb @somethingclevertbd @loki-trickst3r @cheekym8s @citrina-apricot @sugakookieswithacupoftae16 @annabethboleyn @emma8895eb @midnight-cherry5 @oliviah-25 @sullyselena @daddyrafeslittleslut @romancelibrarian

[soobshi]

brendon park, who deliberately has you keep your own apartment, not because he doesn't want to live with you, but because he likes the tease of you needing to go home and him begging you to stay "one more night."

brendon park, who has kept you in his bed for just "one more night" twenty days out of the last month, and has absolutely no apologies. he loves sleeping next to you, loves waking up in the middle of the night with your head on his chest, loves fucking you in the shower before bed and on the sheets right after. his sweet girl, all wanting and warm for him. brendon park, who pays your rent without thought when you huff "i'm paying for a place i barely stay at," because he's been waiting to use the money in his bank account on you anyhow. it's so easy to set up an automatic payment without you knowing. he doesn't tell you until a month later, when you get a notice that your rent has already been paid when you try to make the deposit. you do your best to act annoyed, telling him you're an adult and can afford your own things, but you can't hide the way it makes heat coil low in your belly. brendon park, who loves that you still technically have your own place, because it makes those nights you spend together all the more sweet, even if they're happening more often than not. brendon park, who eventually relents when you remind him that you would get to kiss him hello after every shift if he would just stop paying rent on an apartment you hardly ever use and would help you move in with him instead.

[ceilidho]

a beginner's guide to starting a family

Lately, you’ve been thinking about having a baby. Or: the fertility clinic au Part 3 masterlist

You feel like mangled prey the next morning. Nipples sucked raw, crotch a tacky mess of cum and sweat, flakes of it dried between your thighs, throat hoarse from screaming his name. Every inch of you aches when you try to move, the energy sucked out of you like marrow from a bone. 

You feel like something torn from every angle, limbs just barely attached to your body. You vaguely recall him waking you up in the middle of the night by rolling you onto your stomach, a big arm hitching your hips up and positioning you just right before thrusting into you without any warning, no time to process waking up, the room around you still pitch black. 

When sleep comes though, it comes hard, knocking you out until around mid-morning the next day.

Even then, when the sunlight splinters through your eyelids and rouses you back to life, it takes a considerable effort to even twitch your little finger, threaded through by a deep exhaustion. The bags under your eyes must be a wonder. 

Your throat feels like sandpaper when you stick out your tongue to wet your lips, grimacing at the taste of your own morning breath. When you try to lift yourself up, your arm buckles, sending you toppling back down. Second time’s the charm though. There’s a deep ache in your hips and joints that you only feel when you roll out of bed. It’ll likely linger into the rest of the day. 

“Where are you off to?” a heavy voice grumbles from the other side of the bed. 

“A shower. Then coffee,” you croak, tucking your feet into a pair of slippers before waddling over to the door where you keep a housecoat hanging.

“Put the kettle on f’r me, darling,” John grunts, before turning over and burying his head back into the pillows.  

The coffee maker boils and bubbles while you take a quick shower. It’s not what you need, but it’ll do until you’re alone, when you can take an hour long shower and luxuriate under the hot water with no thought to anyone waiting somewhere else in your house. 

You sigh and shut the water off.

The breakfast table feels like a scene from a dream. 

On the plate in front of you sits a satsuma orange, quartered, and toast with a thick layer of butter nearly spilling over the crust. Another plate sits on the placemat next to yours, piled high with toast, beans, sausage, and two fried eggs, a stark contrast from your plate. 

At the sink, the man you let spend the better part of the night rutting between your thighs washes a pan. You stare at the meaty, undulating slabs of his back muscles until you’re nearly hypnotized, only snapping out of it when he shuts the water off, laying the pan down to dry in the dish rack. 

“That’s all you’re having?” John asks, gesturing at your plate with his fork.

“For now,” you respond. “I might have something later if I’m still hungry.”

“Of course you’ll be hungry, you’ve hardly got anything on your plate. Here—have one of my eggs.”

He holds his plate over yours and uses his fork to push one of his fried eggs onto your plate. It flops unceremoniously onto your toast. 

You decide against snapping at him because it’s too early and you’re far too tired. You slice open the yolk with the side of your fork instead, staring at the yellow spill over the sides of your toast.

There is a moment over breakfast where you begin to wonder whether John will leave at all. He eats his breakfast and drinks his tea with no real sense of urgency, no indication that he believes that he’s overstayed his welcome. You don’t want to come out and say it, but you can feel yourself getting antsy, your leg jittering under the table. 

Then finally: “Well, this has been lovely, darling, but I’ve got to get going.”

Euphoria swells in your chest at the announcement, but you force it down, schooling your expression into something understanding. “You sure you don’t want more tea?”

The wry look he gives you lets you know that he can see right through your feigned dismay. “No, darling, I think that was enough for now.”

Shrewd man. Far too shrewd for the likes of you.

You send him off with a kiss on the lips and a look so heated that it nearly singes. And then he’s gone, the door locked behind him and his footsteps growing fainter and fainter until they disappear altogether. 

And then, and only then, can you finally exhale. 

It’s one of the first weekends in a while where you feel no compulsion to go out or do practically anything. All you want to do is laze about. You make a batch of iced tea and plop yourself in front of the TV, feet tucked under your thighs and phone open in your hand, both screens on at the same time. 

It feels so good to do laundry after making a mess of everything. You strip the sheets and throw them into the washing machine the second John’s out the door, your clothes from the night before not far behind. Later, you cobble together lunch from whatever you have in the fridge, and when supper comes around, you order takeaway, barely cracking open the front door wide enough to snatch the bag off the stoop before retreating back inside. 

He’s still there though. Every time you get a twinge in your hips or an ache in your belly. Every time you glance towards your bedroom on your way to the kitchen and you see the sheets, all clean and neat now, though you can easily recall what they looked like just a few days ago—a tangled, filthy mess of cum, spit, and sweat. 

Unlike your sheets, the stink of John’s presence isn’t easily washed away. 

By the time Monday rolls around, you feel normal again. Like you’ve caught your breath after a long sprint. No bout of Sunday scaries this time, not after the weekend you had, but still you come into work with your head on a bit of a swivel, feeling a bit like an emperor in invisible clothes. Waiting, against all odds and rational sense, for someone to read the signs of your weekend on you. 

No one does, of course. No one says a word because no one notices a thing. You might have expected that if you weren’t so on edge, but paranoia has a way of twisting the mind. By the time lunch comes around though, and no one has said more than a pleasant word to you, you start to let go of the anxiety. Better late than never. 

The latter point doesn’t apply to your period. 

Tuesday is better. You pass a flower shop on your way to work and stop to smell the roses for a change, the heavy weight on your shoulders barely a feather in the light of a new day. It’s that time of summer where every colour is at its most saturated, the pinks and greens and golds and oranges so intense and vivid that their colours seem to almost pour out of them. 

And then it’s Wednesday.

Wednesday is a croissant, the buttery flakes scattered all over the wax paper that you use as a plate, and an iced coffee. It’s a series of boring meetings at work that barely move the needle. It’s a long, circuitous drive home that ends at least once in a dead end because of all the construction going on downtown. It is, in every sense of the word, a profoundly boring day.

The first thing you do when you get home is collapse on the couch for a solid half hour, shoes just barely kicked off at the door. Supper can wait until later. Your stomach grumbles when you think about it, but you just don’t have the energy to cook, all of it eaten up by the stress of the drive home.

This is how the rest of your life is going to look. With a baby, for sure, but still, just you. Just you to come home from work and cook and clean and do it all. And even though it’s what you’ve been working towards, you’re a little morose thinking about it.

There’s a knock on your door. You lift yourself up to sit, frowning at the door. The bell follows soon after. 

You know it’s John before you even check. Call it a sixth sense or intuition, but when the bell rings, your breath catches and your stomach clenches, and you know it’s him on the other side. 

He comes bearing gifts at least. A stack of takeaway containers in a brown paper bag. Even just the smell has you salivating. You can almost imagine that you let him in, that you took a step back and waved him inside, interest and appetite piqued by the smell of greasy food. 

You didn’t though, a sneaky little voice reminds you. You let the door open just enough to poke your head out and he was there on the other side, taking up every inch of space, as if someone had suddenly built a wall right outside your door. And he was gentlemanly about it, smiled down at you and asked you how you were, but his foot was against the door and then wedged between it and the frame, working it open gently with his leg and shoulder, pushing his way inside. Polite all the while, of course, announcing the meal that he’d come with and dropping a sweet kiss on the top of your head, but he did, in fact, push you aside on his way in. 

Your problem is that you can always find a silver lining. Anyone with any common sense would tell you to kick him out tout suite—shove him towards the door, bye bye, so long, thanks for all your help, I’ll let you know if I need you to come back—but you can’t help thinking that, you know, while you have him here, you might as well—

John catches you glancing towards your bedroom door and smiles, amused. “We can get to that later.”

And he does. 

Three times in one week. That’s how many times he comes over. He never leaves without at least folding you over the side of the couch and pumping a load into you, only satisfied when he dips thick fingers into a creamy centre and pulls them out wet, your trembling legs letting him know that the job is done. 

You don’t complain because what is there to complain about? You have a man at your beck and call—though you haven’t yet had to call him—willing to help you make a baby and not asking for anything in return. 

His involvement in your life extends beyond just the bedroom though. You suffer through mid-morning headaches for a week before realizing from the label on the jar that someone must have swapped your instant coffee for the decaf version. John doesn’t deny it when you bring it up. 

Prenatal vitamins are the next thing shoved down your throat, albeit not literally. Fresh, organic fruits and vegetables as well. And grateful as you are for him saving you the trip, you can’t help but wonder if he realizes that you don’t need his help. Eventually, you’re going to have to be self-sufficient. You can’t get used to John bringing you dinner or picking up your meds or getting your groceries because eventually it’s going to end. 

He doesn’t always stay the night. Sometimes he leaves right after the act or in the wee hours of the morning while you’re half-tucked under the sheets, limbs akimbo. His goodbyes are always a long, drawn out affair, even if it means pulling you from a dead sleep. Always a soft, slow kiss sipped from your lips and a little bit of tongue. One last once-over to make sure you’re okay. Sometimes he even fetches a glass of water to set on your bedside table for the next morning. 

A pity you can’t look forward to this for the rest of your life. 

A week and a half later, your period arrives right on schedule.

It isn’t a surprise—you warned John as much over dinner—but it does dampen your mood somewhat when you realize this means that you won’t be seeing John 

The next time John calls, you tell him as much. 

“We should probably reschedule—I’m on my period this week.”

You can hear the raised eyebrow in his voice. “Are you going away as well?”

You frown. “No, I’m not going anywhere. Why?”

“Then why would we reschedule?”

“Oh. Okay.”

Implacable. Unflappable. If you knew more about him, you would’ve expected that from him, but you learn it too late. Instead, you find out about this particular character trait in the shower of all places, your cheek pressed against the wet tile and your hips canted back, John’s cock plunging between your legs, blood dyeing the water around your feet pink and swirling down the drain. 

If you’d known that about him, you might never have let things get to this point. But the dice have already been cast; they’re out of your hands now. All you can do is grip the reins in both hands and hold on for dear life. 

It’s difficult to imagine what your life will be like after this. You’ve spent so long waiting instead of living. Waiting takes up so much space, so much time. It fills the walls of your mind with its presence, a constant, irksome insistence, making the world you’ve been running towards seem leagues away. 

And then there are moments when it seems close enough to touch. 

A month passes like a buzzing fly. Here one second and gone the next. You have an alarm on your phone that goes off while you’re scrolling in bed, waiting for John to come over, and you blink when you see a reminder for the first day of your period. You hadn’t even felt it creeping up on you. 

You pull your shorts and underwear off right there on your bed, checking the gusset for blood and feeling your heartbeat speed up when you find nothing there. You’re late. 

You call and catch him a couple blocks from your place, sounding half-crazy over the phone, but you’re coherent enough for him to double back and grab a box of pregnancy tests. One of the three-pack ones, splurging a little. 

The second you let him in, John herds you into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, flipping the lock at the same time. Your stomach drops out from under you when you hear it click. 

“Here. In this,” he says, handing you a small, plastic cup. 

“Wait, can’t I just pee on the stick?” you ask, reaching for the box that he yanks away from your grasping fingers.

John shakes his head. “This is a better method. Less chance of you missing or not wetting it enough. We’ll put the stick in when you’re done.”

“John—”

“We can stand here all night talking about it, if you’d rather?” The slight furrow of his brows signals that his patience is wearing thin. 

You’ve clearly been giving him too much leeway if he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with putting you through the indignity of peeing in front of him. 

You do it though. Hunched over on the toilet with your pants around your ankles and the cup between your legs, John leaning against the counter and watching you the whole time.You stare down between your spread thighs and into the bowl instead of meeting his eyes, half to ignore him and half to make sure that you don’t miss. 

When you’re done, you hand him the cup. Let him handle it while you wipe yourself off and pull your underwear back up. 

The wait is excruciating. Three minutes of pins and needles, front teeth chipping away at the nail of your thumb. You wish that John would distract you somehow, but his eyes remain fixed on the pregnancy test, unwavering. 

You nearly jump out of your skin when the alarm on his phone buzzes, practically leaping over him to grab the pregnancy test. 

Your heart sinks when only one line stretches across the display. You turn the test this way and that, trying to make out even the faintest indication of a second line, but it’s clear what that one line means.  

Taking it from your hands, John sets the test down on the counter and wraps his arms around you, cupping his hand around the back of your head as he pulls you into his chest.

“It’s alright, love,” he says in a low, soothing voice. “We’ll keep trying.”

His comfort is an unexpected balm. A firm pressure over a wound aching to open back up. 

It’s the first time he sleeps in your bed without making a move on you. You almost have half a mind to bring it up, but you bite your tongue just in time. Why spoil the mood when his arm makes as comfortable a pillow as any one of yours? You like the way his breath tickles the tip of your nose. The way he doesn’t snore but breathes so heavily that he might as well. 

You’re glad that it’s him. This would’ve been harder on your own, with no one around to make the heavy moments lighter. 

Sure, you would have had your friends to lean on. But you would’ve had them on weekends and at mocktail hours, not in the quiet of your bathroom, staring at a negative pregnancy test in only your underwear. 

You’re glad you have John.

Not everyone shares your opinion.

A lawyer friend (not a friend by virtue of being a lawyer, but simply happenstance) goes ashen when you finally break and tell someone about your arrangement with John.

“Did you hit your head or something? Are you out of your mind?”

You wince, sheepish, aware that you deserve the dressing down. “I know.”

“No, you clearly don’t know or you would have come to me about this before having unprotected sex with a stranger in order to get knocked up. Did he even get tested before sleeping with you?”

“Obviously. I’m not that stupid.”

“You actually are that stupid. Did you have him sign anything forfeiting parental rights?”

Your lips form in a perfect circle and she groans, scrubbing a hand down her face. 

A day later, she has something for you to give John to sign. It’s long and technical, but you understand the gist of what a voluntary forfeiture of parental rights entails. 

It should’ve crossed your mind to seek out legal advice before all of this, but you hadn’t been thinking that far ahead. You’d sort of hoped it would be quick, that he’d spend one singular night with you, and two to four weeks later, you’d be pregnant. You hadn’t expected it to take this long; you certainly hadn’t foreseen John's active and prolonged involvement in the process. 

Clearly, you haven’t been thinking straight these past few weeks.

The next time John comes over, you hand it to him, expecting to have his signature by the end of the night. Not anticipating any resistance, and why would you? Your arrangement with him is predicated on this being a temporary affair. 

His face gives nothing away as he works through the document. He might as well be reading a circular. 

“Very official,” he remarks. You almost feel bad about springing this on him after everything that he’s done for you. He’s been nothing but helpful and dependable since this started. 

You feel so bad that you actually apologize. “Sorry. One of my friends is just really paranoid. It’s just a formality.”

John doesn’t respond, flipping over to the next page, eyes still scanning the text.

“You don’t have to sign it right now,” you insist, guilt clawing at your stomach. 

“Nonsense,” he says, dismissing your worry. “I know this is important to you. You have to take care of yourself and our baby. That’s what matters most.”

Your stomach flips. Our baby. It doesn’t alleviate the guilt you feel about ambushing him with a legal document when there are groceries on the counter still waiting to be unpacked, another one of his thankless gifts. It just notches the arrow, the bow pulled back to a taut full draw. 

“Do you have a pen, love? I didn’t think to bring one with me.” The arrowhead punches right between your ribs. 

“No, just take it home. I don’t need it today. Please,” you stress when he tries to argue, trying to take the papers from him. “John, I’m serious.”

He sighs, reluctantly handing you the contract back. “Alright, love, whatever you say.”

There’s a certain relief in getting that off your chest, even if it means putting it on the back burner for a while. It’s not like you have to deal with this now anyway. You aren’t even pregnant yet. 

That must occur to John as well because he wastes no time divesting you of your clothes, his passion tonight a slow burn, a little ember cooking you from the inside. 

Even he seems to be suffering from it tonight. He touches the head of his cock to your lips and sighs like it’s a shame he can’t come in there. He doesn’t mind wetting it though. Makes it a smoother glide when he gets you down on all fours, the floorboards chafing your elbows and knees with every thrust. 

The next morning, you happen to glance down at the coffee table on your way to the kitchen and notice the contract missing. John must have taken it on his way out. 

You never do see that little document again after that, and you never think to bring it up.

[clementine-67]

X-Ray to his heart

Social Media AU

Brendon Park x Radiologist OFC

Dr. Maggie Lane is the newest attending radiologist and tries to make Dr. Brendon “the shark” Park’s life easier with sending scans, until he disrespects the techs in her department…

Authors Note - hi everyone!! this is my first pitt socmed au so please be nice i haven’t made one of these in years.

All texts are from Maggie’s POV and this will have some time skips! i hope you love it <333

2 years later....

1 year later...

4 years later...

dividers by @ghits-and-shiggles

i hope you guys enjoyed this one!! I know it goes a little fast but i love tying things up in a neat little bow, and i can't resist a happy ending

love, clementine <3

[m0rbidapocalypse]

Homeless!Reader and Simon who first met at the gym. It's not until the third month of you two knowing each other that he finds out, after a dinner date he'd finally managed to make happen after contemplating how to meet outside of the gym, considering yours and his work schedules.

He finds out on accident. You'd told him you needed to use the bathroom and that he could leave without you since you'd come with your car, so your ride home was sorted. He happened to have sat in his car for a while anyway because he'd gotten a call from Price about a few documents relating to an upcoming mission, only to catch sight of you walking to your car in an outfit entirely different to the one you'd worn to the date.

The call ended. He lingered. Your car didn't move.

You'd technically parted ways for the night, so he decided to leave it alone and go home.

He confronts you a few days later at the gym, and he immediately feels guilty for asking, seeing how ashamed you seem.

Your eyes become as wide as saucers when he then offers you to live with him instead.

"I can't do that, Simon. It wouldn't be fair on you, and we haven't known each other–"

"None of that matters, love. Probably would've asked you in a few months' time, anyway."

[m0rbidapocalypse]

John 'Soap' Mactavish x Reader - Slipping through my fingers

(Divider created by me)

CW: suggestive content, implication of suicidal ideation, death

Squinted eyes, set shoulders, a weight in your hands, and the click of a firearm are all natural to you. Your thoughts leave you as you exhale, as you zero in on your targets and let bullets fly to rip through their flesh.

You do your job, because your job is all you are.

There's nothing else waiting for you on the other side.

Johnny watches you like he watches himself in the mirror. The light in your eyes is gone. He fights so desperate to keep his alight, and it remains, despite how often it flickers.

Your gaze either doesn't move from another's or goes nowhere at all, he notices. His gaze moves too much, looking for anything that can give him enough attention, so he feels like he has reason to hold off offering himself as the sacrificial lamb.

Johnny sees himself in you despite the differences. He can sense the hollow you both share a piece of, and it feels like he's found home again.

He isn't entirely similar to the company he keeps. But he knows there's nothing bad about the exception to that–you.

You're the quiet he needs when everything moves too fast for him to decide where to go. His shoulder is yours for the taking when you see no reason to keep your head held up.

His fingers are for your hair when he needs a feeling to take all priority over thought. Your hoodies are for you both, so you can carry a comfort that only sentiment can give you.

You are for him, and he is for you. Two pieces of the same puzzle, destined to fit together.

He holds your hand and presses it down into your mattress, sighing deeply into your hair as sinks himself into you slowly. He presses a quick kiss to the corner of your jaw as he draws himself out, and you whisper his name into his lips as he fills you again.

Your emptiness is temporarily forgotten as he finds your rhythm. You writhe and you claw at his back, tears brimming in your eyes as you come closer to your climax. Johnny can't help himself, but as you both come down, he wipes your eyes and kisses your eyelids gently.

"Think I'll end up crying with you one of these days, love. You look beautiful with those tears."

A blush and a shy smile is all you can give him when he speaks to you like that. He always chuckles at your reaction, and you do the same because of his. Nights like these end with him still bare and hot behind you, arms wrapped around you as you both fall into dreamless sleeps.

He hugs you tighter than usual one night, but you bask in his warmth rather than letting it concern you. He wakes you up dressed entirely in uniform and you scramble to sit up, ready to tell him off for not mentioning anything earlier, when he silences you by pushing his lips against yours.

"I'd meant to tell you last night," he says, as he pulls apart, "it slipped my mind completely. I'll come back for you love, I promise."

Ghost breaks the news to you the week after the taskforce's return.

He takes you to his office, where he pulls out a small velvet wrapped box from his drawer.

"He meant it for you, no matter what happened. Said it counted either way."

The soft fuzz beneath your fingers brings no comfort. The box snaps open, revealing a silver ring embedded with small diamonds arranged in a line, colder than the day he left it.

You were hoping fate would be twisted in your favour, bringing upon your misfortune before Johnny's. And initially, had Johnny left before you, you'd planned on following him soon after.

Yet you stand at his headstone a year later, his ring worn on your finger. Every inch of you holds memory of John Mactavish, and if you'd gone along with what you originally intended, you'd have gotten rid of him forever.

You live so Johnny remains within you. Only the death of you both means the death of all that you once were.

[mochapuppy]

Helloooo how about pope who has suddenly been ditching his brothers and leaving jobs immediately after. They don’t know what’s gotten into him so they go to his apartment to check on him. Only they stumble upon you and pope going at it and it all makes sense

Pope just ditching his brothers just to be around his girl is so real actually anon and i bet sometimes he doesn't even go on the jobs, especially any weak-ass easy-peasy job that Pope thinks they definitely don't need 5 people for. Why the fuck would his brothers bother him when he's told them he's busy?

Sure he didn't specify he was busy with *you* but you'd think they'd get the memo eventually, especially after the one time he let them off the heist van and immediately put the thing in reverse. "I got a thing. You'll figure it out." is all he's saying before zooming off to your place.

He'll leave right after jobs and won't stay at family events longer than an hour tops, full of nervous energy to see you. Pope's a sweet puppy in love, all of his attention focused on you.

Besides, basking in your presence, or especially basking in you is a much better way to spend his time.

Baz or poor Deran being tasked down with tracking Pope down and seeing what the hell he's doing bc Smurf is worried he's talking to the feds, following him to his apartment by the sea-side, posting up by a window to peek in...

Only to be met by the back of Pope's head laid against the back of his couch and some pretty young thing, you flushed and eager and ass naked, bunny hopping in his lap like your life depended on it, your tits bouncing in Andy's face, one of his big hands roughly squeezing your breast and the other posted on your tip.

The unfortunate soul sitting there hearing your high pitched mewls and whines coupled with the distinctive plapplapplap of Pope's thighs fucking up into yours and his rough grunts and groans. "Andy- Ohh right there Andy! go -fuck- go harder!" and "Yeah? Y'like that? This's my pretty pussy-"

Pope's younger siblings really didn't need to know that he whimpers while making out or how he sounds when cumming, especially how his voice pitches up and he gets all teary while he babbles to you that he's gonna cum.

Maybe if they actually minded their business for once they wouldn't have to be traumatized by the sight of Pope's naked ass getting up from the couch and carrying you to the bathroom, cum dribbling down your thighs, to clean you up. Better luck next time? 🤷‍♀️