author's note: This has been in my drafts for one and a half years man. Never say never 💀 And thank you so much for 10k, lovelies! 🤍 xx
The ad is three lines long.
You agonise over it for a week—drafting and redrafting on the back of a grocery receipt at the kitchen table while your husband is on deployment, crossing out words and rewriting them until the paper is soft and furred at the edges from erasing.
Three lines. That's all the local paper allows for the personals section, which is a relic from another era that you didn't even know still existed until you were flipping through the classifieds looking for a vintage bookshelf and your eyes snagged on the column header.
SEEKING CONNECTION
You'd laughed at first. Then you'd read a few. Then you'd read them all, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with your tea going cold in your hands, and something small and sharp turning over in your chest.
The ad you eventually submit reads:
Married woman, mid 30s, seeks interesting conversation and perhaps more with a like-minded gentleman. Discretion essential. If you enjoy good food, dry wit, and don't mind a woman who can out-drink you — I'd love to hear from you. Reply to Box 64.
You pay for four weeks in advance and feel sick the entire drive home.
Because here's the thing about being married to Captain John Price.
You love him desperately and completely, in a way that has settled into your bones over the better part of a decade and become indistinguishable from the architecture of who you are.
Adore the way he smells—stale cigar smoke and sandalwood and old gun oil, a combination that should be repulsive and instead makes you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there. Love his hands, broad and scarred and capable of violence you'll never fully understand, and how gentle they are when they cup your jaw or fix the clasp of your necklace.
And you melt for the rumble of his voice on the phone at two in the morning when he calls from whatever godforsaken corner of the world he's operating in, tired and tight-lipped but always, always asking about you first.
You love him, and he loves you, and it hasn't been enough for a long time.
Not because the love ran out, because he did.
John Price gives everything to his work. Every deployment bleeds into the next. The gaps between homecomings stretch longer—three weeks become five, five become eight, eight becomes ‘I don't know yet, love, I'll let you know when I know’.
And when he does come home, he's there but not there; hollow-eyed and distracted, reaching for his phone at dinner, falling asleep on the sofa before nine, making love to you the first night with a desperate urgency that fades by the third morning into perfunctory kisses on the forehead and an apologetic mumble about an early briefing.
Someday, you stopped asking when he'd be home six months ago; stopped leaving the porch light on four months ago, and you stopped wearing the nice knickers three months ago because what was the point again.
Two months ago, you realised you'd gone an entire week without hearing his voice and hadn't noticed until Thursday.
That's when the panic set in. Not the sharp, clean kind, but the slow, creeping kind. The one that makes you lie awake at three a.m. staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is it, if this is what the rest of your life looks like. A nice house in Hereford with a well-maintained garden and a husband who exists primarily as a name on a bank account and a voice on the other end of an increasingly rare phone call.
You don't want to leave him. The thought alone makes you nauseous.
You just want someone to see you again.
John finds the newspaper three days after he gets home from a six-week deployment in eastern Syria.
He's not snooping; he's looking for the TV remote, which has migrated into the crack between the sofa cushions again, and his hand closes around the folded section of newsprint wedged beside it. He pulls it out, intending to toss it on the coffee table, and his eyes catch the circle of biro ink around one of the small ads in the personals column.
John reads it, and then again.
Then he sits down very slowly, the remote forgotten, and stares at the far wall for a long time, connecting puzzle pieces like his life depends on it, which it very well does apparently.
Married woman, mid 30s. His wife is in her thirties.
Dry wit. His wife is the driest, sharpest-tongued woman he's ever met. It's one of the first things he fell in love with—the way she could dismantle a man's ego with a single raised eyebrow and a well-timed "Bless your heart, love".
Can out-drink you. He's watched his wife put away Whisky Sours at the SAS Christmas do with a composure that made seasoned operators look like lightweights.
Discretion essential.
John sets the newspaper down on his knee. His jaw works and his eyes don't leave the wall.
And he doesn't confront you.
Not over dinner nor in bed that night when you roll towards him and press a kiss to his shoulder—a habit you've kept even through the worst of the distance, even when you're angry with him, even when he doesn't deserve it.
Instead, he waits, and he replies to Box 64.
The letter that arrives for you a week later is postmarked locally. Plain envelope, no return address. Inside, a single sheet of paper, handwritten in a bold, slanted script you don't recognise.
I enjoy good food, better whisky, and I've never met a woman who can out-drink me, but I'd enjoy watching you try. Friday, 8pm, O’Malley’s on St. George's Lane. I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh. — J
Your hands are shaking when you finish reading it, and you have to sit down at the kitchen table and press your palms flat against the wood to steady yourself.
You could throw it away. No. You should throw it away. This was a mistake—a stupid, reckless, selfish mistake born out of loneliness and too much wine and that ugly, gnawing ache in your chest that flares up every time John leaves.
But John has left again. Three days at home, then a call from Kate Laswell, then a bag packed and a kiss on your forehead and a quick ‘Be back soon, love’ and the sound of the front door closing and the silence that rushes in to fill the space he used to occupy.
You read the letter once more.
I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh.
Something warm and reckless curls in your stomach, and you hate yourself for it, and you fold the letter into the pocket of your cardigan and carry it around for three days before you decide you’re going.
Friday night. O’Malley’s.
You arrive twenty minutes early because you're a control freak in crisis, and you take the farthest booth in the corner because your back needs to be against a wall and your eyes need to be on the door—a habit you picked up from your husband without realising it.
You order a gin and tonic to give your hands something to do, and you check your reflection in the blank screen of your phone for the third time. You look good, like you tried again—not the kind of effort you make for John when he comes home, all desperate and over-polished, but a quieter kind; wearing your favourite dress with subtle makeup and your hair done the way you like it, not the way you think someone else wants to see it.
You look like your old self, and that's terrifying, because the whole point of tonight was supposed to be about being someone else.
When your wedding ring catches the light as you reach for your drink, and you stare at it for a long moment, the slim gold band John slid onto your finger nine years ago with steady hands and unsteady eyes, and you don't take it off.
You should, but you can’t, and you did say you’re married.
Eight o'clock comes and goes. Five past, then ten. You're about to convince yourself you've been stood up, which would be both a relief and a humiliation, when the pub door opens and a man walks in, and every nerve ending in your body fires at once.
Because the man standing in the doorway, scanning the room with those sharp, assessing eyes, is your husband.
John is wearing civvies. Dark jeans, a black henley pushed up to his elbows, boots that have seen better days.
He looks like he came straight from the base, which he probably did. His hair is freshly cut but his beard is full, and there is a tiredness around his eyes that you can read from across the room, the same bone-deep fatigue he carries home from every deployment and tries to hide and fails.
He spots you and your stomach plummets.
Meanwhile, his expression doesn't change; not a flicker. He holds your gaze across the crowded pub, and then he walks towards you with the kind of unhurried, deliberate stride that you've seen him use in exactly two contexts.
When he's approaching a superior officer, and when he's about to do something that no one in the room is going to enjoy.
Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth. Your hand tightens around your glass until your knuckles ache, and every instinct in your body is screaming at you to run to the bathroom, to the car park, to another country, but your legs won't cooperate, because Captain John Price is walking towards you and you have never in your life been able to move when he's looking at you like that.
He reaches the booth, stops, and looks down at you. And a beat of terrible, electric silence follows.
Then he smiles, though not the tight, exhausted smile he gives you at the front door when he's been gone for weeks, but something warmer, something almost boyish, and then he slides into the seat across from you, settling in with an ease that makes your blood run cold.
"You must be Box 64," he says casually, calm, like he's meeting a stranger for the first time, which is insane, because he is your husband and he is sitting across from you at a pub where you came to meet another man and he knows. He fucking knows.
"John—"
"John," he repeats, tasting the name like he's hearing it for the first time. Then he extends his hand across the table. "That's right. Pleasure to meet you."
You stare at his outstretched hand, then at his face, and back at his hand.
"John, I can explain—"
"Nothing to explain." He keeps his hand where it is, steady and patient. His eyes don't leave yours. "I'm J. You're Box 64. We're here to have a drink and see if we get on. That was the arrangement, wasn't it? What your ad said?"
Your mouth opens and something inside you dies a little, along with the words in your throat; anything but one.
"John."
"You gonna leave me hanging, love? Already?" He nods at his hand, one eyebrow raised, and there is something in his expression—beneath the calm and the performance—that you can't quite read.
It's not anger, not even hurt. Something closer to resolve, like he's made a decision about tonight and he intends to see it through, and nothing you say is going to alter the trajectory.
You take his hand, shake it weakly.
His fingers close around yours, warm and rough, and he gives one firm shake before releasing you. Then he flags down the barmaid, orders a whisky neat, and turns back to you with that same easy, unreadable smile.
"So. Tell me about yourself."
You stare at him owlishly.
"I—I don't—" You can feel heat crawling up your neck, your throat tightening with the precursor to tears. "John, please, can we just—"
"Tell me," he says again, and his voice is gentle, but his eyes are steel. "What do you do? Where are you from? What made you put that ad in the paper?"
The last question lands like another slap, even though his tone doesn't change. You swallow hard, your fingers wrap around your glass for something to anchor to.
He waits for you to answer; patient as a sniper in a ghillie suit.
"I'm—" You exhale shakily. "I'm from here. I live in Hereford. I'm—" Your voice threatens to crack, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it steadies. "I'm a teacher."
"A teacher." John nods, like this is new information and not something he's known for the better part of a decade. "What age?"
"Year four."
"Year four. That's—what, eight? Nine?" He takes a sip of his whisky. The barmaid left it quietly and shot you a look like she sensed the tension. "Brave woman. I've faced insurgents with less fight in them than a nine-year-old with a grudge."
The laugh that escapes you is wet and startled and completely involuntary, and John's eyes soften for a fraction of a second before the mask slides back into place.
"What about you?" you ask carefully, because two can play this game, and if he's going to make you sit through this surreal performance, you might as well commit. Your voice is still unsteady, but there's a spark of something underneath the fear—defiance, maybe, or the stubbornness that made you put the ad in the paper in the first place. "What do you do?"
"Military," he answers briskly, which is what he always says at parties and barbecues when civilians ask, offering nothing further.
"What branch?"
"The kind that doesn't let me talk about it." He leans back in his seat, one arm resting along the back of the booth leisurely and looks at you with an expression that's half amusement, half something hungrier. "I travel a lot. Gone more than I'm home unfortunately."
"That must be hard," you reply, and you mean it in a raw way that has nothing to do with the roleplay and everything to do with the long years of lonely nights and unanswered phone calls sitting between you.
John hears it and you watch it land. A brief tightening around his eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw before he takes another slow drink.
"It is," he says quietly. "Harder on the people who wait, I'd imagine."
Your breath catches. You look down at the table, at your ring, at the condensation pooling around the base of your glass.
"Yeah," you whisper. "It is."
The silence that follows is different from the others. Not tense or loaded. Just heavy, in the way that true things are heavy, settling between you like something solid.
Then John clears his throat. "Another round?"
You nod, not trusting your voice, and he waves the barmaid over again.
The second drink loosens something.
Maybe it's the gin, perhaps the sheer absurdity of the situation, but somewhere between your second and third drink, the fear recedes enough for you to actually talk.
And John—your husband, who has spent the better part of a year giving you monosyllabic answers over dinner and falling asleep during films—is talking back.
He's always been charming. It's how he got you in the first place, at a mate's wedding eleven years ago, when he cornered you at the bar and spent forty-five minutes making you laugh so hard you snorted champagne up your nose. Though you'd forgotten what it looks like when he aims it at you with intent.
John asks about your students and listens to the answers. He asks about the book you're currently reading and offers an opinion on it that tells you he's been paying more attention to your nightstand than you thought. He tells you stories from deployment that are carefully scrubbed of classified details but still make you laugh; the kind of stories he used to tell you when you were dating. Absurd, self-deprecating, designed to make you think he's funnier than he is.
He is funny. You'd forgotten that, too.
"You've got a nice laugh," he says at one point, swirling his whisky, and the way he says it, like an observation, like he's hearing it for the first time, makes your stomach flip.
"Don't flatter me, J." The letter feels strange in your mouth, this thin fiction stretched over the truth of him. "I'll think you're after something."
"Maybe I am." He holds your gaze and doesn't smile. "That a problem, love?"
Your mouth goes dry.
Three drinks in, you're leaning across the table towards each other, and his hand is resting on the tabletop close enough to yours that your little fingers are almost touching, and you're telling him about the time one of your Year Fours brought a live frog to class in his lunchbox and it escaped during maths, and John is laughing—really laughing, with his head tipped back and his eyes creased—and for a vertiginous moment, you manage to forget.
You forget that this is a performance; that your husband is sitting across from you pretending to be a stranger because you put an ad in the newspaper looking for someone else. Everything except the sound of his laugh and the warmth in his eyes and the way he's looking at you like you're the most interesting person in the room, which is how he used to look at you all the time, before the deployments ate him alive and left you with the husk.
Then his eyes drop to your left hand, and the warmth doesn't leave his expression, but something sharper slides in alongside it, like the glint of a blade edge, and then he reaches across the table and takes your hand, turning it over in his.
His thumb presses against the band of your wedding ring, holding it there.
"You know," he says, and his voice is still easy, still conversational, but there's a new undercurrent to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, "if you were really going to go through with this little adventure of yours—"
He taps the ring once with his thumb, clicks his tongue.
"—you probably should've taken this off first."
The blood drains from your face. The pleasant haze of gin and good conversation evaporates in an instant, replaced by a cold, lurching clarity.
"John—"
"Bit of a deterrent, love. Even when you mentioned it in the ad." He's still holding your hand, still running his thumb over the ring, and his expression is unreadable—not angry, not hurt, just steady, the way he looks when he's holding a position and waiting for something to break. "Any bloke worth his salt would've clocked that you're not really in it five minutes in."
Your eyes are stinging. "I wasn't going to—I would never have—"
"I know." He replies simply and releases your hand. "I know you wouldn't."
The lump in your throat is enormous and razor-edged, and you have to look away at anything that isn't his face, because if you keep looking at him, you're going to cry in the middle of this pub and he will never, ever let you live it down.
"I'm sorry," you manage, barely a whisper. "John, I'm so sorry, I didn't—I was just—"
"Don't."
You look back at him. He's leaning forward now, strong forearms on the table, and the mask is gone. All of it, the J performance, the first-date charm, the controlled amusement. And underneath is just your husband. Looking at you with an expression that is not anger, that has never been anger, that is something far worse.
Guilt.
"I should've been home more," he murmurs; too honest for a pub on a Friday night. "I should've—" He stops, his jaw clenches before he tries again. "I should've given you a proper life. A family. A husband who's actually fucking present. And I didn't, and you—"
He gestures vaguely at the booth, the pub, the entire premise of the evening.
"—you shouldn't have had to do this to get my attention."
The first tear slips down your face before you can catch it. You swipe at it furiously with the back of your hand before the barmaid, who has become somewhat intrigued by whatever is happening at your table, can clock it.
"I wasn't trying to get your attention," you lie, and you both know it's a lie, and his mouth twitches; not quite a smile, something more tender and much more broken.
"Yeah, you were." He reaches across the table again and takes your hand, properly this time, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing. "And it worked."
You let out a breath that's half laugh, half sob, and squeeze back.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The pub buzzes around you. Glasses clinking, conversations flowing, some '80s song you can't name playing from the speakers. And you sit in the middle of it, holding hands across a sticky table, and the nine years of silence and distance and loving each other badly feel, for the first time, like something that could be survived.
"I need the loo," you announce eventually, because your mascara is probably wrecked and you need thirty seconds of privacy to pull yourself together before you dissolve entirely.
John releases your hand with a nod. "Take your time, love."
You slide out of the booth on legs that feel slightly unsteady with gin and adrenaline, and make your way to the back of the pub, past the bar and down the short corridor to the ladies'.
It's a single-stall bathroom. Small, clean enough, a lock on the door that you click shut behind you before bracing your hands on the edge of the sink and staring at your reflection in the mirror above it.
Your eyes are bright and glassy. Your mascara is, as predicted, smudged. You look wrecked and flushed and alive in a way you haven't in months, and you hate that it took this—a dating ad and a Friday night charade—to put that look on your face.
You run the tap and press your cool, damp fingers against your closed eyelids. Breathe. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish your drinks, go home with your husband, and figure out the rest in the morning like adults who have been married for nearly a decade and know how to have a difficult conversation.
You're drying your hands when the lock clicks.
You freeze. Your eyes snap to the door in the mirror's reflection as it opens, and John slips inside and closes it behind him with a soft, definitive click of the lock.
The bathroom shrinks to nothing.
He fills the space. Not just physically, though he does that too, broad shoulders and solid frame taking up far too much of the small room, but atmospherically. The air changes when he's this close, gets heavier and becomes charged, like the pressure drop before a storm front.
"John, what are you—"
He moves. One step, then two, and then his big hand is flat against your lower back and he's pressing you forward, gently but firmly, until your hips meet the edge of the sink and your palms catch the porcelain on either side.
His body moulds against your back. Chest to spine, hips to arse. One hand sliding from your lower back to your waist, gripping and anchoring, while his other forearm braces against the wall beside the mirror.
You can see him in the reflection; towering behind you, head dipped, mouth hovering at the shell of your ear, and your breath stutters at the look on his face.
"Gonna make you remember why you married me, darling," he mutters into your ear, and his breath is hot and damp on the side of your neck, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling your arse back against the hard line of his cock already straining behind his zipper.
"John—"
"Shh." His lips graze the spot beneath your ear. No kiss but a warning. "You wanted to be seen, love. I see you."
His hand slides from your waist to the hem of your dress and drags it up slowly, bunching the fabric around your hips until you're exposed from the waist down. The cool air of the bathroom hits your bare thighs and makes you gasp.
"John, we can't—We're in a pub—!"
"Should've thought about that before you went looking for a date, shouldn't you?" His voice is rough and threaded with something dark and tender at the same time, and his fingers hook into the waistband of your knickers, tugging them down your thighs in one smooth motion. They pool around your ankles, and he doesn't bother removing them fully—just leaves them there, tangled between your heels.
"Anyone could—"
"Door's locked." His hand trails up the inside of your thigh, calloused fingers dragging against the soft skin, and you bite your lip to keep the sound that wants to escape inside. "And you're going to be quiet for me, aren't you, hm?"
You hear his belt buckle. The clink of metal, the drag of leather through belt loops, then the rasp of his zip, and your hands grip the sink so hard your arms tremble, because the sound alone is enough to make your pussy clench around nothing in anticipation.
"Nearly a decade of marriage," he murmurs against the back of your neck, and his free hand slides between your thighs from behind, two thick fingers dragging through your supple folds, finding you already embarrassingly wet. He lets out a low, dark sound of approval that vibrates against your skin. "And I let you forget."
His fingers circle your clit once and your hips buck back against him involuntarily.
"That's on me," he continues, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that makes your toes curl in your pumps. "My fault. My fucking failure. Not yours."
He presses one thick finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with a slow, curling thrust that makes your breath hitch and your walls clench around him. He groans quietly and his forehead drops against the back of your head.
"'M finally gonna put our baby in you," he declares, and the words are rough and raw and utterly certain, a promise sealed against your skin. "Should've done it years ago. Should've given you that. Should've given you everything."
He withdraws his fingers and you whimper at the loss with a needy, desperate sound that you'd be mortified by in any other context, and then you feel the blunt, plump head of his cock pressing against your entrance and every other thought in your head goes static.
"John—" you mewl. John pushes in slowly.
He stretches you open around him with a fullness that borders on too much, and the sound that tears from your throat is muffled only because you clamp your hand over your own mouth.
More than a decade and his fat cock is still enough to make you go stupid.
"Fuck," John breathes, his hips flush against your arse, buried to the root, and his grip on your waist is bruising. He doesn't move yet just holds there, letting you feel every inch of him, letting your body adjust around the thick, throbbing weight of his cock.
Then he starts to move, and it's not the perfunctory, tired sex you've been having for the past year. The kind where he finishes quickly and rolls over and you stare at the ceiling and pretend you came.
This is John Price. The real one, the one you fell in love with. The one who backed you against the wall of your old flat on your third date and made you see God by eating you out through your knickers before he'd even taken anything else off.
He fucks you deep and deliberate, one hand gripping your hip while the other wraps around the front of your throat lightly; his fingers curled against your pulse point, feeling the frantic beat of your heart against his palm.
"Look at yourself," he orders, and your eyes—which had screwed shut at some point—fly open to meet his in the mirror. Pupils blown.
The sight of it is obscene. Your dress bunched around your waist, his thick forearm braced beside the mirror, tendons flexing, his body curved over yours, and the slow, powerful roll of his hips driving into you from behind with a rhythm that's making the mirror rattle against the wall.
"That's my wife," he grunts, and his reflection's eyes are fierce and fixed on yours. "Mine. Not some fucking stranger's from a newspaper ad."
You can't speak, only feel his cock dragging against your walls, his hand on your throat, his chest solid and warm and present against your back for the first time in what feels like forever.
He picks up the pace; harder and deeper thrusts, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small bathroom while his ragged breath puffs against your ear. And then his rough hand leaves your throat to reach between your legs, flicking your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that make you bite down on your own fist to keep from screaming.
"Quiet," he reminds you, and the bastard sounds smug. "You want the whole pub to know what I'm doing to you in here? Huh? Want them to know ‘m fucking my wife?"
You shake your head frantically; cunt fluttering and squeezing his shaft, because dirty talk from John Price is its own kind of sweet torture.
"Then cum for me quietly, love. Right now."
A few more hard, precise thrusts with his cock dragging inside your quivering cunt, massaging that spot that keeps swelling inside you, and you shatter.
The orgasm rips through you so violently that your knees give out, and the only things keeping you upright are the sink under your hands and John's arm locked around your waist. You clamp your teeth into the heel of your palm and muffle the cry that wants to tear out of you, your walls clenching and fluttering around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses.
"Christ—fuck—" John's hips stutter, his rhythm breaks, and he buries himself deep—so deep—and holds, his cock kicking and pulsing inside you as he cums with a low, guttural groan pressed into the curve of your neck.
He spills himself empty inside you, balls throbbing with each little jerk of his hips. Hot and thick, deliberate this time. No condom, no pulling out this time, and the significance of that isn't lost on either of you. His hips roll lazily through the aftershocks, working every precious drop into your messy cunt, and his hand slides from your waist to your lower belly, pressing flat.
"There," he murmurs, and his voice is wrecked and satisfied, unbearably tender. "That's where it belongs."
You're shaking. Your entire body is trembling, your legs are useless, and there are tears streaming silently down your face that have nothing to do with pain.
He stays inside you for a long moment; breathing, his lips pressed against the nape of your neck, beard scraping your skin, his hand warm on your lower stomach. Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, and you feel his cum start to leak from you immediately, warm and slick against your inner thighs.
He reaches down, picks your knickers up from around your ankles, and slides them back up your legs with an almost clinical efficiency. When they're settled back into place, he pats your arse once, light and proprietary, and tugs your dress back down.
"There we go," he says, like he's just helped you with your coat. "Good as new."
You let out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob, your forehead dropping against the mirror.
"How about a 'thank you,' love," he adds while he tugs his softening cock back into his jeans, and when you lift your head and catch his eyes in the reflection, the smug satisfaction on his face is so thoroughly, infuriatingly Price that you want to slap him and kiss him simultaneously, "for stuffing your pretty cunt full of my cum, hm?"
"John."
"Mm." He presses a kiss to your temple, achingly gentle after everything he just did to you, and reaches past you to turn on the tap. He wets his hand and wipes beneath your eyes with his thumb, cleaning up the mascara.
"Ready to leave, love?" he asks, straightening up and buckling his belt with the same unhurried ease he does everything. "Or would you like another drink before your husband takes you home?"
Your legs are still shaking, his cum is slowly but surely soaking into your knickers, and your heart is so full it might crack your ribs.
"N-No," you manage, small and hoarse. "I'd like to go home now, John."
He looks at you, really looks. And there is nothing left of the J performance, not the Captain Price mask, just John, your husband. The man who drove to a pub on a Friday night not to punish you but to remind you both of what you'd almost let slip away.
"That's my girl," he replies softly.
He unlocks the bathroom door, checks the corridor, and guides you out with his hand on the small of your back. You walk through the pub on shaking legs, past the booth where your half-finished drinks are still sitting, past the barmaid who gives you both a knowing look that you pretend not to see.
The night air hits you like cold water when you step outside, and you suck in a breath that fills your lungs properly for the first time in hours.
John pulls his car keys from his pocket, presses the fob, and opens the passenger door for you without a word. You climb in. He closes the door, rounds the bonnet, and slides into the driver's seat.
Neither of you speaks on the drive home. His hand rests on your thigh, squeezing gently every other minute, and your hand rests on top of his, your fingers tracing the ridges of his calloused knuckles and the band of his own wedding ring, which he has never, not once in nine years, taken off.
When he pulls into the driveway, the porch light is off. You haven't left it on in months.
John kills the engine. Sits for a moment, looking at the dark house.
Then he turns to you, and his voice is quieter now, stripped of the previous smugness, the heat, the performance. Just the raw thing underneath.
"I will do better."
No grand speech or a promise wrapped in flowers and apologies and all the things you've heard before and stopped believing. It's four words, plain and blunt and offered without decoration, and they land heavier than anything else he's said tonight.
You reach across the centre console and take his face in both hands, and you kiss him slowly, like you have time, because you're going to make time.
"I know," you whisper against his mouth.
And when you get inside, John turns the porch light on.
Now that Dogma’s realized Eesha’s feelings for him, he’s been spending a sleepless night or two mulling over every single one of the interactions over the past 2 years with a new perspective 😄💜💕
Now that Dogma’s realized Eesha’s feelings for him, he’s been spending a sleepless night or two mulling over every single one of the interactions over the past 2 years with a new perspective 😄💜💕
Wrecker grew up in the Bronx with his three brothers, the son of New Zealand immigrants, a few streets over from his older cousins Echo and Fives. He was conscripted into the Army in 1942 at eighteen and was quickly pulled into the Office of Strategic Services by Captain Rex. Alongside his brothers, he became an integral part of the 99th OSS Operational Group — the Bad Batch. His specialty among them is explosives, finding new and creative uses for each bomb in the arsenal.
Not long after being drafted, he was caught in a bad accident. It left scarring across the left side of his body, cost him the sight in his left eye, and took most of the hearing in his left ear.
Of the four brothers, Wrecker is the loudest and the hardest to miss. He is quick to laugh, quick to act, and genuinely fond of just about everyone he meets. While in active duty, he wrote to his younger sister Omega as much as he could, sending letters stuffed with small trinkets found on missions and drawings he’d made for her.
After the war, he took a job at the Copacabana as a bouncer, a perfect position for his large stature, and one that continues to keep his family close.
High quality art images, references, and taglist under the cut! ~
From the bottom of his heart, John Price believed he’d marry you one day. Or at least ask you out soon.
He’d planned it all in his head, many times, but it was never the right time—thanks to his job and tight bloody schedule.
But he still saw you every day for the past three years—you being his sweet secretary and heart of the 141 HQ—and he kept telling himself that it's enough for now.
Until it isn’t.
And you come back after a three week summer vacation with a small bump showing under your pencil skirt. Faint at first, everyone else too blinded by the black fabric to catch it, but John does. Oh, he does.
Not only that, but he smells the change, sees the natural glow, even though something behind your eyes doesn’t quite match it. And then the pieces start falling into place one by one, because as far as John knows—you were very much single since you started working for him.
Too busy, independent, and done with people’s bullshit, much like himself.
The realization settles in his gut like molten lead.
“Morning, Captain,” you say, voice soft and steady, same as ever. That smile you give him—small, polite, warm—nearly undoes him on the spot.
“Morning, love,” he manages, the endearment slipping out rougher than intended. He clears his throat, leans back in his chair, eyes dragging over you again, because he cannot help it. “Good holiday?”
You nod, smoothing a hand over the skirt while he tracks the motion like an apexpredator. “Needed the break. Sun, sea air… felt nice to switch off for once.”
Switch off. With who? The question burns on his tongue, but he swallows it. Not yet.
He lets the day crawl by. Watches you from across the bullpen as you laugh with Gaz over coffee, watches the way Soap’s gaze lingers a second too long on the subtle swell of your belly before he catches himself. Meanwhile, Price’s fingers curl around his pen until the plastic creaks.
By 1800 hours the HQ has quieted, most of the team gone or buried in paperwork. You linger, as you always do—tidying his desk, refilling his tea even when he tells you not to bother. Habit. Loyalty. All his.
He waits until you are alone in his office, door half-closed behind you, before he moves.
“Close it,” he orders quietly yet firm.
You pause, brow furrowing just slightly, but you obey naturally. The click of the lock sounds louder than gunfire in the quiet room.
John rises from his chair slowly, rounding the desk until he stands close enough to feel the warmth coming off you. Close enough to smell the faint shift in your scent—something softer, sweeter, layered under the familiar notes of your perfume and the office coffee you both survive on.
His hand lifts, slow enough you can step away if you want to. You don’t. His large palm settles over the small curve of your stomach, thumb stroking once, reverent and possessive all at once, and your breath hitches audibly.
“Whose is it?” The words came out gravel-rough, barely leashed.
Your eyes widen. “John—”
“Whose, sweetheart?” He steps closer, crowding you gently until your back meets the edge of his desk. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face to his. “Because I know damn well y’weren’t seein’ anyone when you left. So tell me who put this here—” he presses his palm firmer against the bump, feeling the faint firmness of new life beneath fabric and skin, “so I can decide how many pieces I’m leavin’ him in.”
Your lips part on a shaky exhale, eyes misting now. “There’s… no one. It was—it was a mistake. One night a few months ago. I didn’t even get his last name.”
Something dark and vicious uncoils in his chest. Relief, sharp and immediate, followed by a wave of raw, animalistic want. No one else but him has a claim. No one else ever will.
Then, John leans in, forehead resting against yours, voice dropping to a growl. “Good. Because this—” his mammoth hand splays wider over your belly, “this is mine now. You’re mine now, darlin’. My responsibility.”
You shiver, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. “John, we can’t—”
“We already are.”
He kisses you then, not gentle. Three years of restraint snapping like a frayed rope. His mouth takes yours hard, claiming, tongue sliding in to taste the little gasp you feed him. You melt against him, soft and needy, like you’re finally able to relax after realizing you’re pregnant, and he groans into it, walking you back until you’re perched on the edge of his desk.
Papers scatter. An empty mug hits the floor and shatters, neither of you care.
He drags your skirt up your thighs, bunching it at your waist, hands greedy over the fuller curve of your hips, the soft give of your stomach. You are glowing, bloody radiant, and he wants to ruin you for anyone else who ever dares looking again.
“Been waitin’ too damn long to have you like this,” he rasps against your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse point. “On my desk, belly round with what’s mine—even if it didn’t start that way. Gonna fix that soon enough.”
You whimper, legs parting for him as he steps between them. His hand slides higher, finding the gusset of your knickers already soaked. He growls approval, circling your clit once through the fabric, twice, before pushing it aside and slide two thick fingers inside you with ease.
You immediately clench around his digits, sucking him in deeper.
“Christ, love—feel how you grip me? This cunt’s been waitin’ for me, hasn’t it?”
You nod frantically, head tipping back, and he curls his fingers just right, watching your face go slack with pleasure. His other hand stays on your bump like a possessive anchor, thumb stroking in time with the slow, squelching thrusts of his fingers.
“Gonna take care of you,” he promises. “Every day. Gonna feed you, keep you safe, fuck you full until this pretty belly’s swollen with my babe instead. No one else touches what’s mine. No one else even looks.”
He withdraws his slick fingers, brings them up to his mouth and licks them clean while you watch, pupils blown wide. Then he frees himself—thick, flushed, fat tip leaking at the thought of finally sinking into you.
He drags the head of his cock through your drenched folds, coating himself, teasing until you squirm, begging in broken little pleas.
“Please, John—need you—”
He pushes in with one slow, relentless thrust, groaning at the clutch of your body around him. Your back arches, hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders as he bottoms out.
“Mine,” he snarls, pulling back only to drive in harder. The desk creaks beneath you, solid oak protesting the rhythm he set—so deep, relentless, and claiming, it makes your toes curl in your pumps. “This cunt, this body, this baby—’s all mine to protect, mine to keep.”
You cry out his name, legs wrapping around his waist, and he bends over you, one arm braced beside your head, the other cradling the curve of your stomach like something sacred as he pounds into you.
“Gonna put my ring on your finger,” he pants against your lips. “Gonna put another baby in you the second this one’s out. You’ll never be alone again, sweetheart. Never.”
You come with a sob, clenching around him so perfectly he follows right after—spilling his come deep, hips stuttering as he fills you, marking you his at last.
John stays buried, forehead pressing to yours, both of you breathing hard in the quiet aftermath. His hand strokes slow circles over your belly, gentle now, nothing but reverent.
“Marry me,” he murmurs, and it’s not a question. “Soon as I can make it happen.”
You laugh, watery and soft, fingers threading through his short brown hair. “You’re insane, Captain.”
“About you? Aye.” He kisses you again, slow and filthy. “And I’m never lettin’ you go.”
Outside, the base is silent. Inside his office, John Price finally claimed what he’d waited three years for—his secretary, his woman, his future—spread out on his desk and carrying new life under his palm.
And God help any bastard who ever tries to take you from him.
The team has been trying to help Simon get better at flirting.
It started off with Johnny noticing how Simon’s gaze often lingered on you, the newest truck loader.
Then he blabbered it off to the entire team. So yeah— Simon may have banged his head against the wall in his quarters and slept that night thinking about choking Johnny.
But here he was, after a long day of being convinced to talk to you.
You had just finished unloading the last truck of the day and what better time to talk to you than now?
“You gotta be confident and bold with your words, L.T.” Kyle’s words.
“No, you have t’ be funny. Make ‘em laugh.” Johnny’s words.
“If all things fail, just ask ‘em for coffee.” John’s words.
Simon took in a deep breath and smiled (the best he could. He doesn’t smile often). You didn’t even catch it either; he was wearing his damn balaclava. “You just started working, yeah?” he asks, stuffing his hands into his vest. Confident, check.
You took off your gloves and patted your sweaty forehead with your arm, “mhm! About two-ish months ago,” you tell the older man, giving him a polite smile.
A quiet hum fell from Simon’s lips as he rocks on his heels a bit, “Once saw y’ trippin’ over a box,” Simon says bluntly. Funny, check.
You stared at him, blinking twice and half expecting him to finish his sentence.
He didn’t.
Instead, the two of you had a staring contest while Simon’s face burned behind the balaclava.
“You can trip on me,” Simon suddenly adds. Funny and bold… check?
Your brows knitted a bit, “what…?” you ask with an awkward laugh.
Fuck.
This wasn’t going how he imagined it to go. He imagined him coolly leaning against a wall or something while complimenting you.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Do you have coffee?” Simon changes the topic, his entire face blowing up with steam.
Off to the side, John stared at his teammate with a heavy sigh and rubbed his temple. “Bloody idiot asked for coffee,” he mumbles.
Kyle shrugs a bit, “T’ be fair, you did say to ask for coffee,” he says, defending his lieutenant.
“Implying to ask for a coffee date,” John replies bluntly. “Fuckin’ disaster of a man.”
cw: afab+f!reader, virginity loss (a/n virginity is a social construct). 4k words.
simon knows you haven't had sex before.
it wasn't a big secret. you'd told him early on in your relationship, when things got a little too heated on the couch and you'd panicked when his hand slid under your shirt and his fingertips grazed your bare stomach.
you'd sat there and twisted the hem of your shirt between your fingers, eyes firmly on the hardwood floor of simon's flat, quietly telling him that it wasn't because you didn't want to, you just hadn't found anyone that you trusted not to make it a… thing. a conquest. an oh look i fucked a virgin story that gets told to mates at the pub. that the older you got the harder it was to find someone who… understood. and the longer you left it? well. the more the anxiety about it built, until the idea of sex became an almost impossible landscape to traverse.
he'd watched the way you fidgeted. listened as you spoke but wouldn't meet his eye.
then shrugged.
"love, i like spendin' time with you. i like kissin' you like we're fuckin' teenagers. not gonna stop seein' you just cause you 'aven't got laid before." he'd paused, considered his words, "ball's in yer court now sweetheart. you want t' fuck? tell me. an' i'll do what i can to make it right for you."
and the ball… stayed in your court. for months. no pressure. no wandering hands where you didn't want them. just dates and kisses and the one time you were ovulating and overwhelmingly horny and asked him to go down on you on the sofa. and even then, with your thighs trembling around his head and your fingers tight in his hair and the taste of you on his tongue he hadn't pushed, just pulled you into his lap after you'd come down and held you like he realised just how overwhelming it was for you to be close to someone in that way.
he was… surprisingly sweet about it all for a man who looked like he might kill someone for breathing wrong in his company.
sweet enough that the idea of having sex with him stopped feeling like something insurmountable and started feeling more like excitement curling through your veins instead of terror.
so you told him. over dinner one evening. all casual.
he'd looked up from his pasta, nodded. "want me to… book a hotel? or a cabin? you wanted to go away for the weekend, anyway." a pause and then, "or is that too much pressure?"
you'd blinked. once. twice. like the idea of making an occasion of it hadn't even crossed your mind. you'd swallowed softly and then nodded. "yeah. that would be… nice actually." but then you'd pulled a face - eyebrows knitted together, lips pursed. "…what if i bleed on their sheets?" like the idea of inconveniencing hotel or air b&b staff was more concerning to you than the fact you might bleed at all.
then it was simon's turn to blink. "… i'll bring some blankets. if yer that worried love." he'd offered back - not mocking. just cataloguing all the things he can do to make this less stressful for you. there's a pause, "might not bleed. not everyone does."
you'd stared at him.
he'd shrugged.
"been doin' some… recon. about how to make it easier for you." he'd admitted quietly. "not… done this with someone who ain't before. don't want to… traumatise you or some shite. want you to enjoy it. not suffer though it."
your heart had flared warm in your chest.
you'd smiled softly down into your pasta.
"cabin would be nice."
the drive was quiet, just the low sound of what you teasingly called simon's dad rock coming from the car speakers. his right hand was on the wheel; left resting on your thigh whenever he didn't need to change gears, rubbing gentle circles with his thumb on the side of your knee.
"love, i want t' talk before we get there."
you spine stiffens automatically at the words, eyes flaring wide as your head snaps around to look at him.
the corners of his lips twitch.
"not like that love. you don't need t' act like i'm sendin' you to the headteachers office."
you can't help but laugh - a soft little huff of air as your shoulder relax.
"sorry, habit." you murmur back, slumping back into the seat. "so, if i'm not in trouble, what do you want to talk about, si?"
he rolls his eyes. "in trouble? when th' fuck 'ave you ever been in trouble with me love?" he grumbles back, but the crinkles in the corners of his eyes give away that he's nowhere near mad. there's a moment of silence - not heavy, but there - before he continues carefully, "i just want to talk about… expectations. or a lack of 'em really."
you open your mouth to interject. he squeezes your knee to stop you.
"jus' let me talk a minute love." he says softly, glancing across at you for just a split second. "i jus' want to be clear with you. we're goin' away for the weekend. that's all. i know we've said we'd… y'know. but if you don't want to? if you change yer mind? at any time? that's fine love. i just want t' 'ave a nice weekend with you. that's all."
you're quiet for a moment, warmth flaring in your chest. that feeling that's so close to love you can almost reach out and grab it. for a moment you don't know what to say, how to shape a sentence that conveys how much you appreciate that - or how sure you actually are about this weekend. and when you open your mouth? nothing eloquent comes out.
"i bought fancy knickers."
simon's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, but he doesn't take his eyes off the road. he clears his throat slightly, absolutely shoving the image of you in whatever you mean by fancy knickers somewhere deep in the back of his brain so he doesn't drive you both into a ditch.
you bite your lip, suppress a laugh that threatens to bubble out of your throat. "i just mean… i went out and bought special pants for the occasion. i've been uh, looking forward to it. but… thank you. for being so sweet about it."
he glances sidelong at you, eyebrows pinched into a frown "it's not sweet. it's basic consent, love." he says quietly, squeezing your knee again and for a moment you think he's got more serious talk to get out of his system before you get to your destination; but then his mouth twitches in the corners, "but i am lookin' forward to seein' these fancy knickers, in that case."
simon has outdone himself with his choice of weekend getaway destination.
a cabin nestled in the clearing of a forest. log burner. claw foot bathtub on the deck.
no neighbours for miles; unless you count the owls currently hooting from the trees.
it's perfect.
he presses a kiss to the side of your head, "go unpack. i'll put th' kettle on."
forty minutes later you're curled into simon's side on the back deck, mug clutched in both hands, both just staring at the night sky with quiet awe; the stars visible here in a way they aren't back home.
your new fancy knickers and matching bra have already been slipped on under your sweatpants and hoodie. simon looks down at you, at how soft and open your face looks; the way your jaw hangs slightly loose with amazement as you look up at the sky. his chest flares warm, unable to stop the way his entire expression softens.
"i've been under a lot of nice skies, all over the world." he says quietly. "but this one might be my favourite."
he doesn't need to say it's because you're there. you can tell from the way his arm tightens around your shoulders, the way he leans his weight into you slightly.
you melt inside. like butter left on the counter on a hot day. that same warm feeling from the car flaring in your chest as you tilt your face to his.
then you're kissing him. mug discarded on the deck. half crawled into his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist to steady you.
for the first time in the months you've been together you're not holding anything back. you're not trying to leash yourself to stop this going further than you're ready for. you're all in.
simon can feel the difference. the way you're letting the energy you usually keep simmering under your skin out into the air around you; the way you kiss him deeper, let your hands wander over his chest and biceps.
he's instantly, painfully hard in his sweatpants.
and acutely aware of the fact that you can tell. that the fabric of his sweats does nothing to hide the way he's hardened underneath you, that he's thick and heavy against your inner thigh where you're now practically straddling him. he tenses slightly underneath you; not able to control his reaction but hesitant to be the one to take the next step.
but then you groan into his mouth.
the sound goes straight to his core.
"christ, love. those really are fancy knickers."
he scoops you up in his arms without hesitation, carrying you through the cabin and kicking the bedroom door shut behind him.
you don't think you've ever seen an expression on simon's face quite like the one he wearing now, staring down at you sprawled out beneath him, clothes removed with enough care it made your heart ache.
reverent. that's the only word for it.
"yer really… jesus. yer fuckin' beautiful dove, you know that, right?"
your cheeks heat automatically at the compliment, "it's the underwear. it's doing a lot of the heavy lifting." you reply, mock serious - deflecting.
simon rolls his eyes. "shut up. daft bint. s'all you."
before you can retort he pulls his sweatshirt off over his head, and the only word you're left capable of is "fuck."
you reach out; trace your fingers over the scars that criss cross his torso like a roadmap of everything he's survived. the muscle of his chest and stomach is solid; but there's a soft layer of fat over his abdomen that he gets between deployments - the layer that makes him feel warm and soft and human; not just the soldier everyone else sees.
simon's breath hitches when your nails graze lower, but he catches your wrist, bringing your open palm to his lips to press a kiss against the centre of it.
"lay back for me, love." he murmurs, "i'm takin' care of you first."
you nod, heart slamming in your chest so hard you're sure he can hear it.
your bra comes off first; carefully unhooked and pulled away from your body, placed carefully on the side next to you.
your underwear comes next, the soft black lace you knew was perfect the moment you picked it out in the store. cool air hits your skin as he tugs them down your calves and you fight the instinct to close your legs.
simon looks down at you from below his lashes. "yeah. it's not the fancy knickers love. yer just fuckin' beautiful."
simon settles between your legs, lips pressing a trail down your stomach to where your thighs part; and for a moment he hovers above your bare cunt, nose flaring as the warm scent of you hits him.
he groans.
your ears go hot.
he looks up at you, "gonna go down on you now love, alright?"
you manage a short jerk of your head, pupils blown wide as you stare back down at him.
then his mouth is on you.
the last time he did this - that one night on the couch - is burned into simon’s memory. and he remembers, in beautiful high definition, what each little gasp and groan you made sounded like, and what he did to drag them out of you.
the first slow lick from your slit to your clit pulls a shaky sound from your throat, fingers tightening in the sheets next to you.
he doesn’t rush.
has no intention of skipping steps.
he’s treating this like the main event. like if he could just stay between your spread thighs for the rest of the weekend and the two of you didn’t go any further than that he’d be fine with it, happy about it even.
he explores every inch of you with his tongue; licking broad stripes across your entire cunt, before flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit - little patterns that make your thighs tremble.
“si…” you breathe, feeling yourself relax into the mattress with every touch.
simon pulls away to press a kiss against your inner thigh, “okay up there, sweetheart?”
you nod.
vigorously.
then reach to tangle your fingers in his short hair and tug his mouth back towards you with a desperation that surprises even yourself, like now he’s started you really, really don’t want him to stop.
his lips twitch in the corners, his shoulders relaxing a fraction, like you’ve just convinced him you really are okay.
he seals his lips around your clit and hums softly; the vibration shooting straight up your spine and sparking white behind your eyes. you hips jerk, hard; immediately one of his hands comes to rest on your lower belly, pressing down gently - reassuring rather than controlling - whilst he continues to work you with his mouth. he sucks softly, then harder, alternating rhythms until your fingers are twisted tightly in his hair and your breathing comes in short, ragged gasps.
it’s messy.
the wet sounds of his mouth fill the quiet of the room - slick, obscene noises that you think should mortify you but actually only turn you on more. he pulls back just to groan softly, eyes flicking up to yours. “yer fuckin’ perfect love. can i open you up proper?”
one finger circles your entrance, spreading slickness - but he waits until he sees your chin jerk in confirmation before pushing in achingly slow. it’s an unfamiliar stretch; his finger thicker than your own, but it’s not unwelcome, not unpleasant. he sinks that first finger to the knuckle before curling it upwards, searching for the soft, spongy part inside you that makes your back arch sharply off the mattress.
“there you are.” he murmurs, a soft kind of satisfaction threaded through his voice.
he doesn’t stop, just keeps working you in a steady rhythm while his mouth finds your clit again.
your eyes flutter shut. body slowly melting into something that feels like syrup and not flesh against the sheets as pleasure crawls through you.
after a few minutes he carefully adds a second finger - immediately slowing when he sees you wince at the slight burn low down in your pelvis, only continuing when he feels your body go soft again. “easy sweetheart.” he murmurs against your folds, the slight pain mixing with pleasure as as he works his fingers in and out, scissoring gently to open you up. your thighs tremble around his ears; you’re gripping his hair too tight, probably hurting him, but he doesn’t complain - if anything he groans against you at the sensation.
you’re right on the edge. stomach tensing, muscles tightening when he pulls back. his mouth and jaw are slick and shiny with you and his eyes are so, so soft when he gazes up at you.
“not yet.” he murmurs, moving so his body covers yours, wiping his face with the back of his hand, leaning down to kiss you. “want t’ see if i can get you there with me inside ya.”
he shifts, stands, tugs his sweatpants and boxers off in one motion.
you swallow. hard. watching his cock spring free - thick, heavy. flushed dark at the tip and already leaking.
you have no idea how the fuck he’s meant to fit inside you.
he sees your pinched expression, the nervous flicker in your eyes, and he leans down, crawling back over you, resting his forehead against yours. “we go as slow as you need. you say stop, we stop. you say you need a break, we take a break.” he promises, voice thick with want but edged with control.
he reaches across into the bedside drawer, grabs a bottle of lube he’d clearly tucked away there earlier.
he really did do his research.
your pupils blow wide as he squeezes a generous dollop onto his cock. he wraps a calloused hand around his length and strokes it slowly, spreading the slick shine from base to tip, lower lip sucked between your teeth as he starts to guide himself to your entrance.
the blunt head nudges against you, slipping a little because everything is so wet.
he pushes forwards.
the first inch stings. sharply. you hiss through your teeth, nails digging into his shoulders.
simon freezes immediately. “too much?” he asks, voice strained.
“just… a lot.” you manage, trying to breathe through the burn. “give me a minute.”
he stays perfectly still, barely inside you, dropping soft kisses on your face - your eyelids, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. he reaches between you, pad of his thumb finding your clit, rubbing slow, soothing circles until the edge of pain dulls into an aching fullness. you nod, shaky, but firm.
he sinks in another inch. the stretch is intense - you feel every ridge, every vein as he works himself in deeper; your walls slowly opening up and moulding around him.
then he slips. just a little.
simon is tall - broad and long limbed - and the angle he’s curved himself into is awkward. shoulders hunched, one arm braced at an odd angle so he doesn’t crush you.
his cock slips out completely on the next shallow rock of his hips.
“fuck.” he mutters - frustrated with himself. “sorry love. ‘ang on.”
he tucks a hand under your knee, lifting your leg higher and hooking it over his hip.
the new position makes it easier; opens you up more. so this time when he pushes back in, he slides a little deeper in one smooth glide.
you both groan.
the fullness is overwhelming, foreign, bordering on too much.
but it also feels right in a way that makes your chest ache.
simon’s breathing is ragged against your neck. sweat already coating his skin under your palms. “christ, you feel like fuckin’ heaven. you alright?”
you nod, nails digging into his skin. “move… please.”
he starts rocking into you - slow, shallow thrusts at first. the wet, obscene sound of him moving inside you fills the quiet cabin.
it’s messier than you expected. all of this is.
your bodies don’t slot together like puzzle pieces; there’s sweat, the awkward shift of limbs, your leg keeps slipping off his hip until he grabs it again.
every thrust drags against that perfect spot inside you, but there’s still a sharp little spark of pain when he finally bottoms out completely. you whimper. simon freezes again. “talk to me dove.”
“it hurts. a bit.” you admit, voice small. “but… don’t stop. please.”
he curses softly and adjusts again, reaching for a pillow and sliding it under the small of your back.
the new angle… changes things. the next thrust makes your toes curl for a reason that isn’t pain. pleasure starts overtaking discomfort -and on the next snap of his hips you rock up to meet him, chasing the sensation. his fingers press firmer against the sensitive little bundle of nerves just above where he's buried inside you.
you feel your cunt flutter around him.
he lets out a completely wrecked sound.
"that's it." simon hisses through his teeth. "yer doin' so fuckin' well love."
the praise goes straight to your head, to your core, setting alight nerves you didn't know could be affected by words.
both your movements grow less coordinated, more desperate. sweat gathers in the space between your bodies. his hips snap a little harder, still careful but less restrained; the slap of skin on skin louder now. his hand that's not still slowly stroking your clit between your bodies finds yours, lacing your fingers together beside your head.
the tenderness of the movement makes your eyes sting.
you come suddenly - a sharp, peak that makes you clamp down around him. it's an unfamiliar wave of pleasure, coming with him inside you like that, and you let out a long, low moan that he feels in his bones, that he feels burning its way into his brain as a new core memory.
simon groans, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it. the overstimulation makes you whine, but you can tell from the way he's tensing that he’s close too.
“gonna come inside you.” he bites out, voice wrecked. “that okay?”
you nod frantically, legs tightening around him. a few more deep, messy thrusts and he buries himself inside you with a broken groan, hips jerking as his own orgasm hits. thick pulses of heat flood you, his cock twitching, face dropped into the curve of your shoulder as he presses his mouth against where your pulse is hammering in your throat.
neither of you move. you just stay wrapped in a little bubble of oh fuck that just happened. simon's collapsed half on top of you, propped up on one elbow so he doesn't smother you completely with his body. his breath is warm on your neck, heart slamming in his chest against your arm.
“you okay love?”
simon's voice is gentler than you've ever heard it, cautious in a way that you know he only ever is with you.
“yeah.” you breathe back. “i’m good.” you shift slightly underneath him, wincing as you unhook your legs from his waist.
he notices. immediately shifts so you can untangle yourselves properly, sliding out of you with a soft, slick noise.
you wince again, glance down, see a faint smear on your thigh; cum, slick - both tinged faintly with pink - and stare down in fascination at the physical evidence of what you've both done lingering on your skin like a brand.
he follows your gaze, jaw tensing when he sees the faint pink mixed into your shared fluids. “you sure you're okay?”
you pull him down next to you, curl into his chest, tucking your face into the curve of his neck. “i'm good. i promise. i’m… i’m happy, si.” there's a brief pause and then you add, almost awkwardly, “...was that okay for you?”
simon leans down and kisses you slowly, before pulling back just far enough to rest his forehead on yours. “you were perfect.” he murmurs. “that was perfect.”
you laugh weakly. “that was not perfect. we were like… tangled giraffes at one point.”
he huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth. “yeah, well. still got there in th’ end. still perfect.” he drags his knuckles down your cheekbone, eyes soft in the low lamplight. “no regrets?”
you watch him pad naked across the room - huge, scarred, relaxed in a way you rarely ever see him - and feel a rush of affection so strong it almost hurts.
“none.” you whisper fiercely - and you mean it. you ache in the best and worst ways, but the warmth in your chest is brighter than any discomfort. “thank you. for not rushing me. for… that.”
simon kisses you again, slower this time, then carefully climbs off the bed. “stay there, dove. i’ll get a cloth and run th’ bath. i reckon that fuckin’ clawfoot thing outside looked big enough for both of us.”
you get that same pang when he wipes down your thighs with a warm, damp cloth and again when he deposits you in the bathtub on the deck, climbing in behind you without a second thought.
simon settles you both into the warm water, your back to his chest, his arms wrapped around you, the night breeze ghosting over both of your skin. one of his hands strokes lazily up and down your arm without thought.
“next time we’ll try you on top,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss behind your ear. “see if we can avoid the giraffe shite.”
you laugh, loud and free in the quiet night, and tilt your head back to kiss him again properly.
yeah, you're already looking forward to the next time.
neighbor!simon riley risking bodily harm to help you out (again, without you asking)
pt. 1 — pt. 2
things have been going, for the most part, smoothly. you still haven't managed a full conversation, but he's helped you with everything you've asked for, including planting pretty flowers at both his and yours house—you insisted on matching ones and he couldn't refuse.
but with the way it's been pouring down rain for the past few days, you haven't seen him. it's not like you would've dragged him out of the comfort of his house so he could come help you.
so you relaxed on your arm chair with a warm drink and your kindle, taking another lazy day to read with rain pattering in the back. until you heard a noise that was too loud to be rain. it sounded like heavy footfalls on top of your roof—impossible, it's pouring rain and slippery as hell.
another thud jolted you, and you threw your head back with a gasp. okay, who the hell is on your roof? they're disturbing the peace, and frustration mounts with every bump and thud.
grabbing the nearest jacket without bothering to put on shoes, you stormed out the front door—the sounds came from the front of the house the loudest. you couldn't see anything from the protection of the porch, forcing you under the spray of pounding rain.
and who do you see but simon.
you had a suspicion it was him, but seeing his dark silhouette on your roof made your heart flutter and something in your abdomen warm. the rain quickly soaked your hair and clothes, but it couldn't be worse than him. he looked like a wet dog.
"what are you doing?" you called out over the pummeling rain.
he scowled when he finally noticed you. "wot the fuck are you doin'?" his voice boomed louder than the occasional thunder.
"I asked you first!"
with a grunt, he climbed down the house with ease, manifesting at your side like your own rain cloud. his body shielded you from the spray of rain that fell at an angle.
"y'could get sick." he nudged you towards the ajar front door.
you roll your eyes, ignoring the flutter over your body. "you could get sick!" you parroted but allowed him to guide you back inside. without being asked, he stepped out of his soaked boots and shrugged his dripping coat off. underneath, his white shirt was completely see through, clinging to the divots of his abs and chest.
you fought the swallow in your throat and the warmth that bloomed over your face. jesus. you'd seen him without a shirt before—when he fixed your car—but this was different, sinful.
if he notices your stares, he doesn't say anything. just pushes past towards the closet, that he somehow knows where it is, to grab towels. you think he's helping himself before he's taking off the coat you're wearing, that's soaked, and replacing it with a warm towel.
why is he fussing over you? he's the one who's been outside in the rain for god knows how long.
"mind telling me what you were doing on my roof in the pouring rain?" no doubt, it was him finding another way to help you. as you wait for his explanation, you grab him by the belt and tug him further into your house.
"gutter's were clogged."
you wait for him to say more, but he doesn't. he lets you drag him along until you're in your tiny hallway bathroom. it fits you just fine, but with him looming over your shoulder, it feels crowded. you've noticed in the past just how massive he is, but now that he's beside you, your arm grazing and bumping his abdomen, the size difference really is astonishing. heat radiates from his skin, and it could be feverish.
"you could've waited until the rain had stopped." you scold. "what if you got sick?"
he just shrugs, and a groan of frustration rumbles in your chest. his eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement, and he swipes a stray drop of water from your hair off your neck.
"you're impossible, simon." you turn your back to him, setting the towels you grabbed on the countertop. "you should shower unless you really want to get sick. leave your clothes outside the door and i'll dry them for you."
without waiting for a response, you leave. the door clicks shut, and you're left in the hallway, listening to the rustle of wet clothes as he undresses. you shake the thought of him naked from your mind, heading down the hall to start a warm drink for him. while the water warms, you go back to collect his clothes and throw them in the dryer—after ringing out the excess water trapped in the fabric.
when the water's done heating, you prepare a drink you think he'd enjoy. too wrapped up in the preparation, you don't hear the water shut off down the hall, the door, or the soft falls of his footsteps—to be fair, he walks like a ghost. turning around, he's just there. against the doorframe, towel low on his hips to expose the veins that disappear past it. he tied one around his head, concealing his face while his other mask was getting dried. it almost made you laugh.
your throat goes dry again, and with shaky hands, you set the mug down and slide it towards him. "here. you should drink this." the words are hoarse when spoken. "your clothes are almost done, I can go check."
he shakes his head, disappearing from the kitchen. its annoying how well he knows your house. simon's only gone for a minute, maybe less before he appears—still shirtless. you think he's about to put on his shirt because he's holding it, but he thrusts it towards you.
"go change." he orders.
it remind you that you're still wet from the rain, which you hadn't even noticed because you were too focused on him. you still are, considering he'd been out there for longer. but you listen to him regardless, slipping into the same bathroom to change. it was really only your shirt and pants that got wet, so you stripped and put his shirt on. it's massive on you, the hem falling to your knees and the neckline slipping off one shoulder. it still reeked of him, and you couldn't help but hold the fabric over your nose and inhale deeply. it's a warm scent.
when you emerged back down the hall, there was another mug to join the one he sipped from. he put his coat back on, but it was unzipped to expose his bare chest underneath. hyper aware of your lack of clothes, you settled on the stool next to his. steam curled over your face, and you took a moment to let it. it warmed what the rain had frozen, but something else was burning your skin. simon's eyes were trained on the side of your face, just watching and observing like you were the most fascinating thing on earth.
you turned to meet his gaze, noticing the pink that tinged the skin under his eyes and across his nose.
"you're an anomaly, simon." you whispered before taking a sip of your drink. it's made exactly the way you like it. weird. simon doesn't reply. you didn't expect him to. you sat in silence, drinking your warm beverages.
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