Chilichopsticks

Every time the two of you get closer, his emotional investment grows. 

At this point, he can’t lose you. The very idea of it makes him sick to his stomach and he wants to tear Makarov apart for putting you in this situation. 

But at the same time, if it weren’t for Makarov, Price wouldn’t know how soft your skin is, or how sharp your tongue is. He’d have no idea what your cooking tastes like, much less your lips. 

He still doesn’t know what your lips taste like, but he hopes he has the opportunity to find out. 

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, stealing a nice long look at those plush pillowy lips of yours.

Every day, he finds himself wishing more and more that the two of you had met under different circumstances. 

Proper circumstances.

But that isn’t the case. So, he’s forced to make do with the situation at hand.

The longer he drives and the further North he drives, the thicker the snow is and the heavier it falls from the sky. 

You stare out the window, enchanted by Mother Nature and oblivious to the fact that the car is quickly running out of gas, and the nearest gas station is too far away to be of any help. 

Price has long since turned off the heat and all non-essentials that could drain gas, but eventually the vehicle stutters to a halt on the side of the highway in the middle of the thickest part of the blizzard so far.

You glance out your window when he kills the engine, a frown finding your face as the howling wind replaces the thrum of the vehicle.

“We’ll be walking from here.”

Your sharp gaze snaps to him as your brows reach for your hairline. 

“Through that?” You ask, incredulous, pointing to the raging storm outside. 

The snow is so thick, you can’t see a thing beyond the car. 

“Shouldn’t take long. An hour, tops.” He sounds unbothered and unfazed by this, almost like he’d planned for it. 

“Yeah, right.”

He shrugs and begins layering up. 

“Alternative is sitting in the car and waiting to freeze to death. Or, wait for Makarov to find you. The choice is yours.”

You frown at your options, looking at the storm again for a moment before looking back at him and taking the mittens from his outstretched hand. 

“Here. Put all this on. You’ll need it. Try to move quick, we want to lock as much heat in as we can.” 

You follow his instructions and begin pulling on layer after layer after layer, until you feel like the Michelin Man.

Finally, once you’re all bundled up, Price turns to the door and tugs on the handle. 

“You wait here.” 

No problemo!

You have absolutely zero issue obeying that order. Especially when he opens the door and is nearly sucked out of the car by the wind. 

He battles the gusts and eventually manages to climb out of the car and slam the door shut behind himself. 

A flurry of snowflakes whisks through the car before settling and melting quickly, leaving you in temporary stillness once again. 

The trunk opens and you listen as Price rummages around back there, looking for God-knows-what before he finally slams it shut and trudges along to your side of the car. 

He gives you a second, nods, and waits until you copy the gesture to tug open your car door. 

The wind howls in your ears, and he needs to throw his big body in the doorway to stop it from slamming back shut. 

“Stay close to me!” He shouts over the wind, voice muffled by his scarf. 

“Hold my pack if you start to fall behind. If we’re quick, it’ll keep us warmer.” He helps you to your feet and turns around, leading you away from the car and toward the thick wall of white ahead.

It doesn’t take more than ten steps for the car to disappear from your sight when you look back over your shoulder. 

And when you look forward again, you’ve almost lost sight of the Captain. 

Your heart lurches and you lunge forward clumsily, legs leaping forward like a silly little deer on a silly little day. 

You catch up quickly, and your minor delay is unnoticed. Thank God. 

The last thing you need right now is to be reprimanded again. 

You keep your eyes trained on Price’s back. 

Looking anywhere else is like looking oblivion straight in the eyes. 

The snow seems to fall from every which way, fat flakes cling to your lashes in heavy white clumps that weigh down your lids and reduce your vision to mere slits. 

The wind howls in your ears, loud and unforgiving, as it whips your exposed skin until it’s raw.

The tiny ice crystals that fall on your lashes slowly melt as new ones take their place, the old freezing teary trails down your cheeks. 

Captain Price marches on before you, big steps and long strides fueled by gruff determination. Each heavy rise and fall of his boots sends snow puffing up behind him, momentarily shielding him from your sight. 

You push forward, fingers slipping over the straps of his bag as you fight to find a good hold. 

And with each firm step he takes forward, you fall a half-step behind. 

You’re trying to keep up, you really are, but your entire body is cold and numb except for the campfire of pain lighting up your side.

Your legs feel heavy, each step slowing you down as you struggle to follow in his footsteps. 

You just want to rest. 

You’re getting so tired. 

Your fingers slip out of the loop on his bag and you stumble a step this way, and then another step that way, and then you’re not sure if you’re seeing him ahead of you in the snow or if it’s a shadow cast by your heavy lashes. 

“John,” you whisper.

He barely hears it over the roaring of the wind, but somehow your soft voice carries all the way to his ears and sends a shiver down his spine.  

It’s the first time you’ve ever said his name. 

He turns, heart racing when he doesn’t immediately see you, and then he spots you.

He makes his way toward you quickly, arms extending automatically as he nears, and you lean into them happily. 

“S’alright, Dove. We’re almost there. We’ll get you warmed up once we’re safe inside.”

You lean against his chest heavily, eyes falling closed as exhaustion overwhelms you. 

“John… m’tired.” 

Alarm bells ring in his ears louder than the wind. 

“Come here, stand in front of me,” he commands, half-maneuvering you to where he wants you to be.

He tugs off his scarf and wraps it around the exposed skin of your face, then helps you lift your feet until you’re standing on top of his boots, facing him. 

“Put your arms around me.”

You obey, wrapping your thick, padded arms around his neck while he wraps his own arms around your waist, holding you securely below your backpack. 

“Just hang in there. We’re almost there.” He sounds a bit more strained than before, but he moves with more determination, more strength than he had. 

He needs to be strong. He needs to conquer this storm, protect his Dove, warm her up and nurse her back to health. 

He’ll be damned if he lets you freeze to death, of all things. 

It isn’t much further now. He knows that. If he squints hard enough, he can almost see the outline in the distance. 

And not a moment too soon. 

He’s getting worried. 

Each breath you take sounds heavier than the last, and your grip around his neck is loosening with every step.

He’s not sure how much longer you’ve got. 

“Dove? Hey, talk to me.” 

You don’t answer. 

“Dove, last warning. Say something.”

Nothing. 

With his heart in his throat, he trudges on and slides his fingers over your side where he knows your wound is. 

Whispering a soft apology, he presses his fingers to the spot as hard as he can, forcing pressure onto the wound beneath all your layers. 

“Ouch!” You yelp, body arching away from the offending hand. 

He grabs you in a safer spot and pulls you tight against him once again. 

“I told you to say something.”

Your voice is quiet when you reply, but he can hear it. 

“I’m tired.”

“I know you’re tired, I really do. But you can’t sleep now. I’m taking you somewhere safe to rest, okay?”

You whine your disproval at his words. 

You don’t want to wait for somewhere safe. 

Where could be safer than in his arms, anyway?

It feels like only moments later he’s slipping you off of his boots, tugging his scarf down, and turning you around to face the shittiest, most run-down looking log cabin you’ve ever seen in your life. 

The mere sight of it makes you burst into tears. 

This is it? This is safety??

What kind of sick joke? 

“We’re going to die here,” you whisper, sniffling your snotcicles as Price sushes you gently.

“None of that. Now come on.” He wraps an arm around you again and helps you up toward the cabin. “We’re gonna get you nice and warmed up, you’ll see.” 

He leads you inside, one of his hands held prisoner in yours when he bends down to untie his boots. 

He gives yours the same treatment, then tugs you to follow him through the little log cabin. 

There are two doors. One that leads to what appears to be the rest of the cabin, and one for a supply closet.

Never one to do what you expect, Price tugs you into the supply closet and whips out a flashlight. 

“Hold this.” He shakes his hand free from yours and puts the flashlight in your grasp instead. “Prop your hand up on my shoulder and shine it in here.” He points to a fuse box and helps you position your hand properly. 

You hold as still as you can as he pulls open the fuse box, brows raising nearly to your hairline when he flips a few switches and the wall starts to rumble. 

Slowly, the panel disappears into the wall, and what looks like a safe door emerges instead. 

You watch on in shock as he unlocks the safe door, and then the metal is creaking and groaning.

He takes a step back, arm instinctively reaching back to wrap around you and keep you safe and close, protected by his big sturdy body. 

The wall shudders and shakes and then slowly starts rolling to the left, exposing a dark staircase leading to…. Hell, perhaps? 

The wall settles in its new position with a heavy thud, puffs of dust floating down as silence hangs heavy in the stillness. 

“Come on.”

He leads you down the stairs with a sort of familiarity that makes you wonder how many times he’s moved this wall. 

He stops you in front of another fuse box, and you hold the flashlight on his shoulder the same way you did before. 

“Does this wall move, too?” You wonder softly, watching as he flicks a few switches. 

Price chuckles and gives his head a shake, perking up a bit when a loud beep rings out before the power in the bunker slowly fizzles on. 

The entire structure rumbles to life, and then he’s taking the flashlight from you and flicking on a light switch instead. 

“Will take some time to really heat up, but there’s a wood stove somewhere down here that should do the trick for the time being.”

You follow him through the bunker to the wood stove, watching with your arms wrapped tightly around yourself as he gets the fire going. 

You feel a little woozy and more than a little tired. 

You’re ready for that nap he promised. 

“Here, come over here. You won’t warm up over there all by yourself.”

You slowly trudge over to Price, arms still wound tightly around yourself to try and keep your heat locked in. 

Price stares at you for a moment before huffing out a sigh. 

“I need you to undress a bit. Take off any clothes that are wet. And I need to take another look at your wound.”

You whine and shake your head at him, though your arms drop to your sides when he reaches for your jacket zipper.

“I’m tired,” you whisper pathetically, looking up at him with big beautiful glossy eyes. 

He almost melts then and there.

“I know, sweetheart. You can’t sleep yet, though, Dove.”

You glare up at him as he helps you take your clothes off. 

“You said when we got here, I could rest.” You know you’re whining, 

At this point, you’re too tired and too cold to care about anything besides warming up and sleeping. 

“I know, and I meant it. Just not yet. Gotta clean you up first.”

You grumble but obey, following him to the makeshift bed of fabric on the ground. 

“Can I get you nice and stretched out… on your side, just like that. Perfect.”

His words thaw the butterflies in your belly, and they flap their wings wildly.

As you relax on the ground, you become more and more aware of his touch on your skin. 

Beyond that, he’s kneeling close enough to your head that you can see the outline of something hard and heavy hiding beneath the base layers of clothing. 

Your breath catches in your throat, and the next time he touches you, you jolt away instinctively. 

“Did I hurt you?” He asks, yanking his hands back as if he’s been scalded. 

“N-no! Sorry… just a little jumpy.” 

He’s not sure if it’s the way you say it or the way you refuse to meet his eyes, but somehow he knows exactly why you’re ‘a little jumpy’ all of a sudden. 

So, he does what any good man in his position would do. 

He lets his touches linger. 

Every time his skin brushes yours, he lets it happen for an extra moment or two. Just enough to hear your breath hitch and see your stomach clench. 

It is with great sadness that Price finishes re-dressing your wound. He helps you into a t-shirt, which you let him slip on with surprising ease. 

Your pants, however, are a different story. You offer the man zero help in getting them over your feet or around your ankles. 

You just lie there, limp like a fish as he struggles to dress you. 

“C’mon, Dove. Aren’t you gonna help me? Don’t you wanna be nice and warm?”

Honestly, you want as much of your skin exposed as possible so that he can keep touching you in any and every capacity. 

You say nothing, only stare up at him with your lips slightly parted as he absent-mindedly rubs soothing little circles on your ankle. 

His eyes find yours and for a moment, time seems to stop. 

Everything around you fades like someone turning down the volume on a radio. 

His eyes, so deep and warm and brown, gaze at yours as the two of you share the same silent desire. 

Slowly, his hands find their way up your body from your ankles, being mindful of the tender spot on your side. 

Each touch leaves behind a trail of molten lava, and you’re surprised you haven’t burst into flames yet.

His eyes stay trained on your face, watching your reaction to his touch.

God, you’re beautiful. 

You look so pretty, so precious and sweet like this.

All he needs is a fork and knife and he’s ready to dig in. 

Instead, he cups your cheek gently, so gently. His eyes are locked on yours as he slowly drops his head down down down until there are only mere inches between the two of you. 

You can feel his warm breath against your lips. 

You want to taste him on your tongue. 

The softest, weakest little sound leaves your mouth, and that’s all it takes for Price to close the distance between the two of you. 

His mouth slots against yours gently at first, just a soft press of his lips to yours to introduce the feeling. 

When you don’t pull away after a moment, he leans in and deepens the kiss. His lips wrap around your lower lip, suckling for a brief moment before letting it go with a soft pop, only to capture your lips once again. 

You sigh into his mouth and he devours it, hungry for more of you, all of you. 

Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the strands as you lose yourself in him and his kisses and his mouth. 

This is what you’ve been missing out on?

You could die happily like this, having finally tasted him. 

Price, however, does not share the same mentality. 

No, now that he’s had a taste of you, all it has done is stoked his hunger. 

He’ll be damned if he lets you slip out of his fingers now that he’s finally got you. 

Somehow, without breaking the kiss, Price ends up behind you, one firm hand holds your head where he wants it while the other grips your hip. 

He’s careful not to squeeze you too tightly, or get too close to your wound lest he cause more damage. But when you tilt your head back and open your mouth for him, 99% of his thinking brain loses its blood supply. 

His tongue meets yours experimentally, at first. And then he’s all you can feel touch taste smell and it is wonderful. 

He tastes like tobacco and sweat and he feels like nothing but man behind you. 

As he tugs his head back, his teeth graze over your lower lip, sending a shiver down your spine. 

His hips roll against your backside as the two of you catch your breath, and John Price wishes in that moment that the two of you were literally anywhere else. 

Anywhere safer where he could let his guard down fully and take his time with you. 

Taste you and make you sing, make your toes curl and your back arch. 

He wants to see you, really see you, in all your naked glory. Hard nipples pebbled at attention, waiting for his warm mouth to soothe their ache. Hot pussy, dripping and weepy and crying for something only he can give you. He’d open you up with a few climaxes first, of course. 

Maybe he’d suck on your clit until you cry and beg for more, or maybe he’d finger-fuck your tight hole until you squirt all over his hand. 

All of this would be to prepare you for his cock, of course. 

Little thing like you needs proper prep before being split open on a cock like his. 

Those are the thoughts that plague his mind as he rutts into you from behind. 

“John, please.”

There you go, using his name again like you want to be pregnant. 

The groan that leaves his lips is something between a rumble and a growl, and it makes you wet between the legs. 

“I want to,” he whispers into your hair, squeezing his eyes shut as he keeps humping you.

If he keeps up like this, he might cum in his pants. 

“Please,” you beg again, arching into him. 

He shudders to a halt, hand slipping around to hold your throat. 

You gasp at the contact, lids closing and lips parting as another lightning bolt zaps between your thighs. 

“If you want me to fuck you that bad, honey, I will. Just not now.” 

The whine that falls from your lips is pathetic to put it lightly. 

“None of that, now,” he reprimands, squeezing his hand around your throat in warning. A warning that only makes you whine breathlessly. 

Why is he being so mean? 

“This is harder for me than it is for you, trust me on that. But, when the time is right… I’m going to make you mine.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

This sends a shiver down your spine and it settles you the tiniest bit. 

Not now, but soon. 

It will happen. 

You’ll get to have him. 

And he’ll get to have you too. He wants you too. 

That thought alone is nearly enough to send you to heaven. 

Price settles behind you and releases your throat to allow you enough space to relax with him. 

“Rest now, Dove.”

As your breathing starts to grow heavy, he can’t help but feel a little giddy. 

You made him promise to fuck you.

You, sassy, spitfire you, made HIM promise that he would pipe you properly. 

What is this world he lives in? 

He does NOT plan on disappointing you. 

As you sleep, he trails his fingers up and down the exposed skin of your arms, imagining all the dirty sick depraved things he plans on doing with you when the two of you are finally safe. 

“Mum, where’s your brownie recipe?” Lily asked, flipping through your handwritten recipe notebook.

You had made the little book over the years. It was a medium-sized orange leather-bound notebook covered in stickers of Bluey, FC Liverpool, flowers, and an old army logo. Your kids had decorated it through the years, which made it all the more sentimental.

The first page held an old Polaroid of you baking in yours and John’s old flat, back when you were only dating. That day was a fond memory because it was the day you decided you would become a good baker.

It had been for John, it was always for John if you were honest. He’d been laid up injured from a deployment and had asked you to bake sugar cookies. After that day, you never looked back, slowly becoming the great baker and cook you were today. It was a fond memory for John too, though he still complained that rainy Sunday was when the battle between him and his waistband began.

“I don’t keep the brownie or cookie recipe in there.” You spoke nonchalantly, walking by your fifteen-year-old and giving her a shrug.

“Where do you keep it?” Lily snapped the book shut and looked at you, rather annoyed.

You loved your children dearly, but each one of them became incredibly sassy in their teenage years, and you weren’t a fan of that.

“You’re not getting that recipe.” John interjected from his spot at the kitchen island.

John was sitting on the center bar stool, hunched over a bowl of rice, beans, and chicken while scrolling on his phone.

“Why!?” Lily gaped at him, offended. She turned to you since her father seemed too absorbed in whatever was on his phone to respond. You were at the stove, serving yourself a bowl of what John had cooked for dinner.

“Your dad’s being cheeky. I can give it to you, but you have to promise not to share it with anyone.” Taking your spoon, you pointed it at Lily to show you were serious.

Lily smiled brightly and nodded eagerly.

She was such a pretty young girl, although she didn’t believe it. Your dad said she dressed exactly like you had at that age, which Lily would always scoff at. The best way to describe Lily’s style was alternative. She liked loose-fitting jeans, thrifted sweaters, long sleeves stacked under T-shirts, dark colors, and Converse. Her brown hair was cut into a cute bob with wispy bangs and a single blonde streak framing the right side of her face.

To John’s utter dismay, she had four piercings in each ear, and you had taken her to get a cute little nose stud last month.

That had caused a huge fight between the two of you, but you told him that if Lily was anything like you, you’d eventually find blood in her sink and her trying to hide an infected piercing. So, you made the choice to have it done safely and let your daughter express herself.

It blew up after that. John had been irate with you and said Lily would end up with a tattoo at sixteen, just like you had.

As much as you and her older sister Evelyn were similar, Lily had gotten the bits of your personality Evelyn wasn’t capable of possessing. The hidden insecurities, the sensitivity, and the tendency to take things personally at times. Your shy little girl had grown up to be a shy, soft-spoken fifteen-year-old outside the house.

With you and John, though, she back-talked, rolled her eyes, and had recently started sneaking out.

“Darling, I don’t think Lily’s earned that kind of trust.” John finally looked up from his phone and gave you what Lily referred to as the look.

“Oh, come on,” Lily whined, already knowing where this was going.

“You gonna sneak out again?” you asked your daughter, your mouth around your spoon.

“Don’t have any plans you’ve said no to, so as of now, no.” Lily had that same playful grin John was known for.

You couldn’t acknowledge what she’d said, not with the amount of salt assaulting your taste buds.

“Lily.” John warned.

“It’s a brownie recipe. What could she possibly do with it besides make brownies with her friends?” You coughed through your words and chugged your water. You didn’t want to tell John how bad dinner was because it was sweet of him to cook.

“In this family? There’s bound to be plenty of trouble to be had over something like a brownie recipe.” John grumbled.

“Here. Don’t give it to anyone. I worked really hard on perfecting it.” Your voice was strained as you sent Lily the recipe from the notes app on your phone.

“Thanks, Mum.” She beamed.

“Now get yourself a bowl and eat dinner with us before you shut yourself back in your cave.” John’s joke earned an eye roll from both his girls.

“Oh, bleh, Dad, this is really bad.” Lily spat the food back into her bowl.

“It’s not that bad.” John’s voice cracked.

“Italian?” you asked.

“Let me grab my keys.”

“Brilliant!” Lily cheered.

——————

It was Friday night and neither you nor John felt like cooking. So you suggested hot pot, which had quickly become a recent favorite of yours. Lily had loved it the first time you took her and now asked every other week if you could go.

So here you were, gathered around a table with boiling broth and mountains of meat, noodles, dumplings, vegetables, and seafood.

“Dad, you’re such a good cook.” Lily snickered.

She held out her bowl while John dropped a bundle of noodles into it.

“Fuck off.” John snorted out a laugh.

He then served some into your bowl while you tossed another plate of meat into the bubbling broth.

This place was amazing for a man like John. All-you-can-eat was less a meal and more a challenge. You still found yourself watching in awe at just how much food he could put away.

“Darling, switch seats with me.” John nudged you with his elbow.

“Why?” you asked around your chopsticks.

“I think the spice is getting to you. Your eyes have gone bloodshot.” You simply smiled and ignored him while John leaned closer to make sure your eyes weren’t actually irritated.

You seemed fine, so he shrugged it off.

“Those brownies came out really good, Lil.” You smiled at your daughter.

Lily immediately began choking on her food. Her eyes went wide and she felt a weight settle on her chest. The suffocating weight of dread.

“What!?” she blurted.

You blinked at her reaction. Across the table, you and John shared a confused look.

“Were you saving them?” you asked.

“Yeah. Your mum cleaned out your bag before we left and had a few.” John shook his head. “Tasted bloody awful.”

“John,” you whispered, warning him not to be rude.

“What?” he asked defensively.

“You don’t even like chocolate, so your opinion isn’t helpful.”

“Yeah? You like them, then?” John’s eyebrows rose in challenge.

“Are you feeling fine?” Lily squeaked.

“What do you mean?” You frowned, struggling to grab a dumpling with your chopsticks. It kept slipping away, doing little circles and flips around your bowl.

John’s eyes narrowed.

He and Lily locked into an intense stare.

“Please don’t kill me—”

“Lily.”

John’s voice dropped a full octave.

“I can’t get this fucking dumpling.” You started giggling as it escaped you yet again.

John put down his chopsticks and buried his face in his hands.

“I get randomly drug tested. You’re aware of that, right?” He was so deadly calm it had the blood in Lily’s veins going ice cold.

“Drug tested? Why’s that coming up?” You stared at him.

John let out a long sigh, looking between your bloodshot eyes and the dumpling that had apparently become your mortal enemy.

Then it clicked.

“Oh shit. I’m high.”

“They were weed brownies. I’m so sorry.” Lily looked between the two of you, absolutely terrified.

“Good job.” You giggled, finally stabbing the dumpling and shoving it into your mouth.

“Oi, no condoning this!” John snapped.

“John, you said they were awful and then ate four.” You fell into hysterical laughter. This is what he got for his gluttony for baked goods.

“You’re not mad?” Lily asked, wide-eyed.

“No need for me to be mad. Your dad can handle that for both of us.” You pointed at John with your chopsticks.

“Or worried?” Lily added nervously.

“This is far from the first time I’ve been high in public. I can handle myself. Your dad, on the other hand, has never been high before, so Godspeed.” You patted John’s shoulder sympathetically.

“You’ve been high in public!?” Lily’s jaw dropped.

“Yes, but let’s not go there. I don’t think your father wants me sharing those stories right now.”

“Mum.”

“How do I know when it’s happening?” John asked, staring at you with growing concern while completely ignoring the rest of the conversation.

“You’ll know.” Your responce didn’t seem to calm John what so ever.

You turned to Lily.

“How much did you put in each brownie?”

You expected an actual measurement. Some idea of just how much you and John had consumed. Because there was a chance you’d just be a little high or you could end up stoned out of your mind.

“I don’t know. A lot.” She said just above a whisper, already cringing at your reaction before it even happened.

“That is not a measurement, Lily.”You blinked at her several times while that information settled in.

Honestly, that was more irritating than being drugged.

“Oh, you’re fucked, John.” Turning to your husband, you weren’t entirely sure you could find the humor in this one.

“Should I go throw up?” John looked genuinely panicked.

“Too late. Just enjoy it.” You shrugged and immediately went back to chasing another dumpling around your bowl.

“Lily, if you’re going to be doing stuff like this, you need to measure.” You spoke seriously.

“Um—”

“I mean it. It’s careless not to know how much you’re consuming or how much you’re giving other people. If you can measure sugar and flour, you can measure the weed going into the brownies.” Lily wasn’t sure why this was the part you were lecturing her on.

Instead of simply being angry, you seemed more concerned with safe drug use while her father was firmly on Team No Drugs.

“What are you, the food police?” Lily didn’t mean to sound sarcastic. She was genuinely confused how this had somehow become a quality-control issue.

“Don’t be cheeky. You drugged two people. It’s perfectly reasonable that we’d like to know how much we’ve taken.” You shot her an unimpressed look before turning to John for backup.

John was staring at his daughter with a murderous expression. Lily could practically feel the daggers coming from across the table.

“Why use your mother’s recipe!? If you’re making drugs, use boxed mix!” John hissed over the steaming pot.

You immediately burst out laughing.

You’d expected a lecture about drugs.

Not that.

“I wanted them to taste good!” Lily defended herself.

“Well, they were bloody terrible.”

“You ate four!”

“Disgracing your mum’s recipe. How dare you.”

John pointed the tongs at her accusingly before immediately going back to adding noodles to the pot.

“You’ve drugged your mother.” John tacked on looking fuming mad.

“Imagine how much worse they’d be with boxed mix.” you said casually while scrolling through the ordering tablet and adding more food.

“How are you so calm!?” Lily quietly shrieked.

“This isn’t my first rodeo.” You continued tapping the screen.

“Oh my God, and you’re okay with that!?” Lily turned to John, who still looked ready to explode.

“Yes. Because your mum is a grown woman who can make those choices. You’re grounded. So bloody grounded you’ll never see your friends again for as long as I’m alive.” John kept pointing the tongs at whoever he was talking to, occasionally flinging noodles across the table.

“Give it a year, Lil. One of us is bound to put him in an early grave with all the trouble we cause.”

“That’s not fucking funny!” John hissed.

His expression softened briefly when you showed him the tablet.

He nodded.

Apparently he approved of your food choices.

“I’m getting more noodles. What do you want, Lily?”

The smile you gave her felt like emotional whiplash.

“Uh—”

“Uh, nothing. You better eat. This place is forty-five quid a head.” John pointed his tongs at her before returning to cooking.

“Uh… more meat and tofu, please.”

“John? You sure there’s nothing else?”

“One hundred percent.”

“You sure?”

“I need a bloody break.”

John dropped his face into his hands.

“Double meat it is. I’ll get shrimp too.”

You immediately submitted the order. A second later, your attention was stolen by one of the little singing robots gliding past a nearby table.

You thought they were adorable.

“I’m so hungry.” John shook his head and went back to cooking vegetables.

“Dad, I’m so sorry.” Lily returned to her noodles while watching in awe at the amount of food you continued to order.

“You’re lucky we’re in public.” He hissed. And Lily was truly lucky. If this happened at home John would’ve been shouting until he went hoarse.

“I’m sorry.” She sounded like she was about to cry but John waved his hand for her to stop the water works.

“We’ll deal with it tomorrow.” John pulled out his phone and dialed. It took a few rings before who he called picked up.

“Jj, your sister drugged me and your mother. Take a cab, come join us for hot pot, and drive us home.” It sounded like an order because it was one. John didn’t give his son any other choice.

“Dad!” Lily shrieked.

Audible laughter came from the other end of the call. John couldn’t handle being laughed at so he hung up.

“Ooo! I get to order more food and see the robot again.” You sang happily to yourself.

“Mum—”

“Shush, it’s here! Isn’t he so cute?” You gushed over the little robot waiter delivering all your goodies.

John felt his face go slightly numb. He turned to you and gave a single nod.

That was it.

He officially knew he was high.

So John decided to white knuckled this. And just try and survive until Jj got there twenty minutes later.

Jj walked into the restaurant, eyes scanning the packed tables and booths. He was stopped at the register and informed there was a forty-five-minute wait, but after explaining he was meeting his family, the waitress politely pointed him toward their table.

Halfway there he had to stop as a four-foot-tall singing robot rolled down the aisle and parked itself beside a table.

Skirting around it, Jj finally caught sight of his family.

To his utter shock, what was usually a neat table with carefully stacked white bowls and plates was in complete disarray.

Jj watched his normally organized mother push stackable bowls around as if searching for something specific. Meanwhile, his father sat next to her, watching her closely while absentmindedly eating piece after piece of meat from a small bowl.

Lily spotted him first.

She looked pale, like she was about to be led to the guillotine.

Without a word, she slid over to make room. Dodging another singing robot waiter, Jj slipped into the booth and continued observing his parents.

“Thought it’d be Evelyn. Wasn’t expecting it to be you, Lil.” He nudged her with his elbow.

She immediately stomped on his foot.

“Eat, eat!” John ordered, motioning for Lily to fill Jj’s bowl.

“Thanks for picking us up. Hope you weren’t busy.” You smiled at your son before taking a large bite of noodles dripping with spicy red broth.

“I like the spicy broth, like Mum.”

Jj directed the comment at Lily, who quietly started cooking for him like an obedient employee taking orders.

No eye rolls.

No complaints.

No attitude whatsoever.

That alone told him she was in serious trouble. As he ate, Jj watched you and John whisper to each other and giggle like children.

John suddenly snorted and slapped the table, laughing hysterically at whatever you’d just said. A moment later he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at one of the singing robots gliding past while you remained completely fascinated by it.

“Oh my God, he’s so high,” Jj whispered.

“I know, but it hasn’t fully hit him yet. He hasn’t even acknowledged it.” Lily grabbed a shrimp and shoved it into her mouth when John shot her a look. Then he pointed the tongs toward the mountain of uncooked food waiting beside the pot.

“How much trouble are you in?” Jj asked.

“Grounded until Dad’s dead.”

“You’ll be alright. He’s ancient.”

“Lily, keep cooking.” John aggressively pointed at the pile of shrimp and meat before snapping the tongs together twice.

⸻

“You two okay back there?” Jj asked, checking the rearview mirror.

“How much do you think one of those robots cost?” you asked your husband.

Getting John out of the restaurant had taken far more effort than it should have.

At some point he’d become so uncomfortable that he’d refused to leave the table because people might look at him. Eventually you’d threatened to order every menu item individually just so the robot would keep returning to the table.

That had been enough to get him moving.

Now you and John sat on opposite sides of the back seat. You had your head tilted back, staring at the ceiling. John sat rigidly beside you, fidgeting with his jacket pocket. When you glanced over, your eyebrows lifted.

He was completely out of it.

His eyes kept darting between the windows and the road behind the car while he repeatedly tried to turn his pocket right-side-out.

“John, chill out.” You couldn’t stop giggling at how paranoid the weed had made him.

“I heard sirens.” John twisted in his seat to look behind the car.

You tapped his shoulder and motioned for him to face forward.

“Yeah, Dad. It’s just the weed. Nothing’s happening.” Jj adjusted the windshield wipers as the rain intensified.

“He’s right. I heard sirens too.”

“Oh my God.” Jj burst out laughing. “The sirens were in the song.” He shut the radio off and glanced back at his father, who was beginning to look slightly green.

“Eyes on the road!” John barked.

Jj had barely looked away from it.

“John—” John immediately looked at you with wild eyes. You startled him by saying his name.

“Do you think they lease the robots?” you asked seriously.

“Why’s my chest so tight!? Am I having a heart attack!? Is it finally my time!?” John was breathing heavily now. Hand pulling on his collar.

“Dad, chill out.” Lily turned around in her seat, attempting to comfort him.

“Sit properly and put your seat belt on!” John barked.

“Lily, just sit.” You waved her back before returning your attention to your husband.

You rubbed circles into his back. Leaning forward slightly, Lily watched with horror.

“Google the logistics of those robots and send it to me.” you whispered.

Then you immediately returned to soothing John.

“It’s okay, John. Everything’s fine.” You continued rubbing his back.

“I think I’m dying,” John wheezed.

“You’re not dying. You’re just insanely high.” You were trying very hard not to laugh. John was oddly adorable when he panicked and it’s not like you’d ever truly seen him like this.

“You’ve gone through war. Some weed is really going to take you down?” Jj laughed.

“Jj, leave your dad alone.” You sighed in relief as the car finally turned down your long winding road and the rain began to ease.

“I swear I’m dying.” John grabbed your shoulders, trying to make you understand the severity of his situation.

“I think you’re just panicking.” You looked slightly nervous saying it.

“I don’t panic.” He groaned in frustration.

“You’re right. You’re not panicking. You’re only dying.” You cooed sympathetically.

Both of your children sat quietly listening to their father spiral while their mother comforted him.

Honestly, it was kind of sweet.

A man who normally felt larger than life had been reduced to a panicked mess, and all it took to hold him together was your hand rubbing circles across his back.

“He had so much, Jj. He ate four brownies.” Lily lowered her voice.

“Is that a lot? How much did you put in them?”

“I didn’t measure.”

“You didn’t measure?” Jj stared at her. “How are people supposed to know how much to take?” It seemed like common sense.

He wasn’t expecting the murderous look Lily shot him.

“Shut up! You don’t think I’ve learned that after all this?” She threw her hands in the air.

“How high are you, Mum?”

“Yep!” You smiled brightly.

Your children stared at you in disbelief. That was the dumbest yet cutest way you could possibly respond to that question.

“Leave your mother alone. She’s the only thing keeping me sane.” John muttered into his hands.

When you stopped rubbing his back for even a second, he let out a small, deeply unhappy whine.

“John, they don’t need to know that.”

“Know what?” John looked genuinely confused.

You simply nodded and kissed his cheek.

“Mum, you’re not half bad right now.” Jj scoffed.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Jj immediately looked back as he pulled up the driveway and parked.

Shrugging him off, you climbed out of the car. The cool damp night air lit up your skin and forced a deep breath from your lungs. Walking around to John’s side, you opened the door.

He hadn’t moved.

Still elbows on knees.

Still face buried in his hands.

“Come on, big guy. Let’s get you inside.” You motioned for him to get out.

“No.”

“John, come on.”

“No.”

“There’s cake inside.”

“Okay, I’m coming.” With a heavy sigh and one final second of keeping his eyes closed, John slowly slid out of the back seat of your SUV. He was steady on his feet, but the expression on his face showed just how physically uncomfortable he felt.

“Alright, come on.” You took him by the arm and slowly led him inside, settling him onto a stool at the kitchen island. You waved Jj toward the light switch, silently telling him to turn the lights on.

“Are my hands supposed to feel like this?” John stared down at them as if they belonged to someone else. He looked confused, concerned, and slightly offended by whatever sensation he was experiencing.

“Feel like what?” you asked, grabbing milk and two glasses.

You kept glancing between John and your children.

Jj was setting out plates and forks to help while Lily hovered near the back door, trying her hardest to remain uninvolved. You pointed toward an empty stool for her to take a seat. Slowly, very slowly, she moved over and sat down two seats away from her father.

“Like this.” John gestured vaguely at his hands, apparently hoping his eyes would communicate the feeling for him.

“Uh… tingly?” You let Jj finish setting out napkins while you carried over the cake.

Without realizing it, you kept touching Jj’s shoulder until he finally took your hand and placed it back on the counter. He whispered for you to stop touching him every two seconds and you nodded.

“Pins and needles. Doesn’t that happen before someone’s heart stops?” The question came out more frantic than you’d expected.

“Depends. Is it only on your left side?” You set the cake down giving John your full attention.

“It’s on both.” John looked deadly serious.

You waved for his hand and he immediately offered it. Leaning over the counter, you pressed two fingers to his wrist and pretended to take his pulse.

John watched you intently, waiting for your diagnosis.

“I think you’re fine.” You nodded despite not actually counting anything.

“What if it’s my heart and something else?” John doubled down.

You decided to give him exactly the level of concern he deserved.

“We’ll hold an extravagant funeral.”You hummed as you cut him a slice before serving yourself one.

Remaining on the opposite side of the island, you happily ate your raspberry lemon cake with mascarpone frosting.

Jj leaned against the fridge with his plate balanced near his chin while Lily took a bite and immediately started eyeing your recipe book, desperate to figure out how you’d made it.

“I always thought I’d die on a Sunday.” John spoke around his fork, eyes fixed on the cake between you. The sugar was helping distract him if only it was for a moment.

“You seem like the type to die on a Sunday.” You agreed without looking up, strategically planning your next bite.

“Right?”

“What on earth are you two talking about?” Jj asked.

“You’d die on a Wednesday and your service would be on Friday.” John said it with so little hesitation that it sounded like a fact.

“Uh huh. Uh huh.”

You pointed your fork at him.

“Roses would fill the funeral hall.”You giggled and stretched your arms wide before spinning in a circle.

It made John snicker.

“I want people to be utterly knackered at my funeral.” He wore that goofy grin you loved.

You normally only saw it when you were alone together, usually after luring him into a pillow fight or telling a story that had him in stitches.

“What is happening?” Lily asked, hanging off the side of her stool and trying to put as much distance between herself and John as possible.

“Days of the week have personalities. Your father and I have been convinced of this for years. It has to translate to when you die.” You said it as though it were common knowledge.

“Personalities?” Jj repeated.

“Your father’s a Tuesday and I’m a Saturday. Put us together and we’re the perfect Thursday night.” You laced your fingers together to demonstrate.

“What?”

“You’re specifically a Saturday night.” John clarified. “And I’m a Tuesday morning.”

Both children looked stunned that their father was participating in this nonsense so seriously.

“A rainy, dreary Tuesday.” John motioned for another slice of cake.

You eagerly nodded.

“You’re a chilly Saturday.” John added it almost shyly.

“You think?”

“Yeah. Forces everyone to be inside together.” A faint pink dusted his cheeks as he said it with complete sincerity.

“John.” Your hand rose to your chest. He looked at you with nothing but adoration.

“That’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.” You meant every word.

It sounded less like a compliment and more like a love confession. Unfortunately for your children, they happened to be sitting there.

“I know, darling.” John smiled and reached across the island to take your hand.

“That?” Jj gaped. “That’s one of the nicest things Dad’s ever said?”

“You two have gone mad.” Lily whispered.

“Lily, you’re a Sunday.” John shook his head adamantly.

“Oh, she absolutely is!” You practically cheered.

“Evelyn?” you asked.

“Friday.” You and John answered together.

“Jj?” John looked at you and silently counted down from five.

“Monday.” You answered in unison again.

“Boom!” You pointed triumphantly at your deeply confused children.

“What would Ghost be?” Lily asked. She clearly didn’t understand any of this, but curiosity had finally won.

“A leap year.” You answered without hesitation.

“Not Halloween?” Jj chuckled.

“Oh, if we’re doing holidays, he’s definitely not Halloween. He’s Día de los Muertos.” You sounded incredibly confident.

John nodded along.

“Your mum’s New Year’s Eve.” John gave you a cheeky wink making you beam at him.

“And you’re a bank holiday.” You laughed loudly.

“No, I’m not.” John looked genuinely offended.

“We both know you’re New Year’s Day.” You relented slightly.

“How am I New Year’s Day?”

“Everyone likes the idea, but very few stick to their resolution.” You said it matter-of-factly.

“You’re right.” The fond smile on his face was infectious.

“That feels a little cynical, Mum.” Lily interrupted.

She seemed deeply uncomfortable with whatever weird flirting was happening.

“What? Your dad sticks to his!” You pointed defensively.

“Unless I’m waking up hungover that year.” You and John pointed at each other simultaneously.

“Exactly!”

“Okay, you two keep eating cake and classifying people into holidays.” Jj waved as he left the room. He’d reached the end of his patience for whatever this conversation was and the strange flirting hiding underneath it.

“See ya, first day of school!” you called after him. John barked out a laugh.

“He is!”

“What am I?” Lily asked with a smile.

“Grounded.” John practically sang the word, making you double over in laughter. By the time you managed to catch your breath, there were tears in your eyes.

“Awesome,” Lily said flatly before following after Jj.

“Lily.” You peeked your head into the hallway and watched your daughter slowly turn around.

This was it.

This was when you’d actually punish her.

“I meant it when I said to research those robots. Send me what you find.” Lily stared at you for a moment before shaking her head and disappearing down the hallway.

Walking back into the kitchen, you found John flipping through the recipe book you’d left on the counter. You put the cake away and tidied up while he turned page after page, completely absorbed.

Flicking off the kitchen light, you smiled at your husband.

He paid you absolutely no attention.

“Time for bed, handsome.” you said sweetly.

“Goodnight, darling.” John didn’t even look up, seemingly captivated by whatever recipe he’d landed on.

“You’re coming with me.” You laughed.

“Right.” John snapped the book shut and allowed himself to be led upstairs.

⸻

“Good morning,” Lily said meekly as she wandered into the kitchen.

“Morning, my little drug dealer.” You smiled and gave her a wink.

Standing at the stove, you plated potatoes and eggs while Lily glanced toward the table.

Her father sat at the head of it with an empty plate in front of him and a small dish of biscuits meant for sharing.

She immediately tensed.

“Thanks for sending those articles. I’m thinking about getting one of those robots for the museum now.”Carrying the plates over, you continued the conversation you’d apparently been having before she’d arrived.

“Morning.” John lowered his newspaper and cut his eyes toward you.

“Drop it. I’ve heard enough about that bloody robot.” He aggressively flicked the paper straight before shooting an annoyed look toward his fifteen-year-old.

Lily’s eyes bounced between the two of you. Honestly, it didn’t surprise her. You had a tendency to become completely obsessed with random things once they caught your interest.

“I thought you didn’t have work today.” Lily looked at John, waiting for the punishment to finally arrive.

The fact neither of you had properly addressed what she’d done last night was becoming increasingly unbearable.

“Gotta be on base and fill out some forms for accidental ingestion of illicit substances.” John took a sip of tea.

“You reported it? Why not just pretend it didn’t happen?” Lily slid into her seat and immediately started eating once you placed her breakfast in front of her.

You sat across from her with your laptop. Without a word, John leaned over, stole your piece of toast, and began eating it. You were too distracted by whatever was on your screen to notice.

“Had to. I don’t know when they’re going to test my piss.” John’s tone wasn’t pleasant, but he still hadn’t actually reprimanded her.

That somehow made things worse.

“I’m so sorry,” Lily mumbled into her tea.

“Uh huh.” John peered at her from over the edge of his newspaper.

“Why don’t you get started on your punishment once you’re done eating?” You finally looked away from your laptop and smiled at your daughter.

“And that is?”

“Baking.” Your smile became just a little too sweet.

“Baking?” Lily immediately looked suspicious.

“Yep. There’s a charity event and we’re donating six hundred cupcakes.” You turned your laptop around.

Lily leaned forward and found herself staring at the event page. It was one of the large fundraisers you participated in nearly every year to raise money for wounded and fallen soldiers.

Then her eyes drifted upward.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Every other open tab involved robot waiters.

That’s when the punishment truly hit her.

“Six hundred!?”

“Get to work. You can use boxed cake mix. I prefer not to. Veterans deserve the best, so we’re going to do our best.” You smiled.

“We’ve got all weekend.” You tacked on, finally relaxing your toast was missing. You looked around for a second and then at John.

“And it’s for charity…” Lily groaned, dropping her face into her hands. “I can’t even complain about charity.”

“That’s the point,” you chimed gleefully before taking your toast back from John.

“Make it six hundred and fifty,” John added without looking up from the paper. “I can bring some to the lads on base.”

~~~~~tag list~~~~~

“Put that knife down.”

You blink at him from the chopping board, already halfway through peeling one. “It’s just”

“Put. it. down.”

The look on his face is ridiculous. This massive, terrifying man who’s seen war and walked through it like it owed him money was now staring at a vegetable like it personally offended him.

“They make you cry,” he mutters, already stalking over.

You snort. “Everyone cries, Simon. It’s normal.”

“Not you.”

He takes the knife from your hand, ties on that stupid flowery apron your mum got him (which he pretends to hate but never actually takes off), and squares up to the onions like he’s about to interrogate them.

“Fucking useless things,” he grumbles, slicing into one with unnecessary aggression.

You lean against the counter, watching, amused. “You know you don’t –”

“Shh.”

“Simon!!”

“Shh, woman. Let me do me job.”

His eyes are already watering but he refuses to acknowledge it. Aww he looked adorable sniffling as his pretty brown eyes water. A pretty crier for sure.

“Your eyes–”

“Shut it.”

“You’re crying.”

“Am not.” Yeah he was openly sniffling now.

He pauses just long enough to shoot you a look. “These are tactical tears.”

You burst out laughing. Grinning you hug him from behind as he carries on chopping.

But in his head, he’s somewhere else.

A smaller kitchen. Earlier days. Both of you lived in a small rental place. He had just started training under 141 while you got a new job. But that small house was everything. He remembers the day he walked in and saw you hunched over the counter, shoulders shaking. Eyes red, tears spilling, knife abandoned.

He’d panicked. Proper panicked. Thought someone hurt you while he was gone for training.

“Who did that?”

“What?” you’d sniffed.

“Tell me who–”

“Simon, it’s just the onions. These ones are too strong!!”

He hadn’t believed you at first. Thought you were covering for something, someone. Thought he’d walked in too late.

He remembers how his chest had tightened. How his fingers shook as he pulled you into a crushing hug while you sniffled.

And he remembers thinking: never again.

Back in the present, he finishes chopping, shoves the board aside, and turns to you.

“All done.”

You smile, softer now. “Thank you.”

He just grunts, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just go to war with a vegetable for you.

Later, when dinner’s done and you’re tucked into him, he presses kisses all over your face –cheeks, nose, eyelids.

“Simon” you whine, squirming. “Stop. I'm sleepy love”

“Didn’t cry today,” he murmurs against your skin.

You huff. “Because you’re dramatic.”

He hums, unconvinced, still kissing you. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Means I did it right.”

You roll your eyes, but your hands slide up his arms anyway, holding him there.

And he stays.

Because yeah - he’ll eat anything you make, lick the plate clean, carry you off like it’s instinct -

...but onions?

Those are his job. Always have been.

And later on you both have a small wee baby girl who throws tantrums and hates onions soo very much. She starts crying the moment she even sees them in grocery bag. Oh god it was as if she inherited the hatred from her idiot dad.

You swear you just saw Simon holding her steady on his lap as he handpicks and removes every small onion piece from her food.

"Mum loves em for no reason. They are proper bad aren't they angel", he mumbles as she nods shoving spoonful into her little mouth. Her chubby face lighting up as she notices you standing.

You just glare and roll your eyes at the duo waging war against a vegetable.

🧅🧅🧅🧅🧅🧅🧅🧅🧅🧅🧅🧅🧅🧅🧅🧅🧅

This behavior carries over effortlessly to restaurants, where he simply orders for both of you.

It isn’t a lack of trust; rather, he has memorized your exact likes and dislikes by heart, logging them away like vital intel. Sometimes, you’ll instinctually reach for a menu out of habit, but a heavy, gloved hand will immediately pin yours to the table.

A quiet, raspy, “Got it covered, love. Relax,” is all it takes to freeze you in your tracks.

You don’t need to concern yourself with things so trivial as making choices.

Yielding to him satisfies that small, hyper-vigilant voice inside his head that stays permanently on the offense, even during a casual dinner date. You never really protest; he always gets it right, and it completely eliminates the exhausting pressure of your own indecisiveness.

But the leash tightens the moment you slip up.

You were out running a simple errand, so caught up in your tasks that you forgot to hit that unspoken mandatory text milestone. You got distracted, entirely unaware of the clock ticking away.

It was only when you were on the route home, behind the wheel, that you noticed the terrifying influx of missed calls and frantic texts lighting up your screen. You called him back immediately.

The tone of his voice through the speaker wasn't just angry; it was dangerously tight, vibrating with a dark, possessive panic. “You’ve been off the grid for three hours. We’ve talked about this.”

The second you cross the threshold of the house, Simon is on you. He doesn't just greet you; he corners you, his massive frame blocking out the light as he checks you over for injuries.

His large, rough hands map every inch of your body under the guise of ensuring you're unharmed. He grips your hips, slides his palms up your ribs, and cups your face, his dark eyes boring into yours.

It’s a tactile interrogation—a silent, heavy reminder that you belong entirely in his orbit, and that making him wait is a dangerous game.

His vigilance goes deeper than you even realize. Ghost secretly had his base engineers chip your phone to keep accurate, military-grade tabs on your location, whether he’s sitting in the living room or deployed halfway across the world.

Simon expects you to check in regularly, needing to see that little blinking dot that represents your life force.

As far as you’re aware, it’s just a standard ‘Life360’ setup; he intentionally withheld the extensive scope of the tracker, knowing the sheer gravity of his obsession might frighten you away. He simply isn’t a man who takes chances with his property. Ever.

Piece by piece, you have surrendered yourself to him, systematically erasing your own autonomy until turning to him for the smallest fraction of your life has become your only surviving instinct. How should you wear your hair? What should you wear? What should you eat? Should you dare step outside, or stay safely locked away where only he has the key? Simon doesn't just accept this submission—he demands it.

He silently, methodically breeds a toxic, inescapable dependency until neither of you can remember who you were before he owned you.

It creates a divide your friends can't bridge; they see Simon through a completely different lens than you do. To them, he’s nothing more than a cold, weaponized machine—a military robot stripped of human emotion. They don’t see the fracturing beneath that harsh armour. They don't know the weight of a past no one else could comprehend.

You often wonder if it was that very brokenness that drew you to him in the first place, twisting his sharpest, most suffocating quirks into a fierce, obsessive love language only you know how to read.

Simon doesn't care for your friends either.

If there is one thing the man excels at, it’s reading a room and identifying threats, so it’s second nature for him to be utterly standoffish to anyone who dares enter your orbit. He glares down at outsiders with an intense, brutish stare that practically screams, ‘Take one step closer, and I'll bury you.’ He systematically alienates them, narrowing your world until he is the only person left.

At the end of the day, his only goal is to ensure no one ever has the opportunity to hurt you—or take you from him.

This willing surrender of your control is exactly what his damaged soul needs. Every worst-case scenario playing out in his hyper-aware mind is instantly silenced the moment he is allowed to decide the outcome himself.

He wants to protect you, consume you, and govern you in every conceivable way. And under the heavy, protective weight of his shadow, you don’t mind one bit.

-

-

-

-

-

the apartment had never felt this wrong before.

not dirty. not disorganized.

 just …wrong.

sakusa kiyoomi stood in the middle of the kitchen with one hand braced against the counter, breathing slowly through his nose as the stifling silence slowly settled into the walls around him. 

the overhead light flickered faintly. i have to change the lightbulbs.

the rice cooker clicked in the background. is the rice done yet?

outside, rain tapped softly against the balcony railing. have i collected the clothes that were drying outside?

everything was exactly where it belonged.

the disinfectant wipes were stacked beside the sink. your favorite mug sat upside down on the drying rack. his black jacket hung neatly near the entrance. your work heels were still there too— yet slightly crooked, because you always kicked them off carelessly no matter how many times he nudged them straight.

but the apartment still felt wrong. perhaps because you weren’t in it?

and what was worse—

because he had done this.

kiyoomi slid down the wall, and sat on the floor. his head tiredly hit the wall and his long legs sprawled out in front of him. he squeezed his eyes shut.

the argument replayed again immediately.

memories your tired face and the way your shoulders had stiffened flashed through his mind.

“can you stop treating this place like a goddamn hotel?! this is our home, and i would really appreciate it if you had put in some effort to clean it. i am your partner, not some random housekeeping maid. you contaminate the only space i feel like i can be clean in.” he had sharply snapped, audibly annoyed.

his chest tightened. he… he hadn’t even meant to say it like that. it wasn’t supposed to play out that way.

the season had been exhausting. endless away games, interviews, practices, physical therapy sessions. he’d barely slept properly in weeks, and every time he came home lately something felt off-balance. laundry unfolded on the couch. takeout containers left too long on the counter. your blankets draped messily over the living room instead of folded away.

his home mattered to him. more than he knew how to explain.

a home wasn’t just a place comfort to sakusa kiyoomi. it was regulation. safety. the one place in the world where he could finally unclench every muscle in his body and know what to expect. the one place that was his. the one place where he could freely eat and sleep without being his germaphobic, fastidious self. 

and lately, it had stopped feeling like that. less like his home.

not because of you. god, never because of you.

it felt more just like a locker room where he spent overnight, with a bed and all the basic necessities. 

but because he’d been bottling up his stress and anxiety for weeks and didn’t know where to put all the exhaustion festering under his skin.

so tonight, when he came home after a horrific practice and saw dishes in the sink after he’d specifically cleaned the kitchen that morning, something in him snapped.

and you’d snapped right back.

“i live here too, omi,” your voice had gone flat in that dangerous way he hated. “you act like i’m contaminating your space.”

“that’s not what i said.” he denied.

“it’s literally what you said. i’m just repeating your own words.” you snapped.

“no, it isn’t.” he retorted. 

“can you please stop denying the truth, kiyoomi. its right under your nose, and you are being a blind bitch right now. ”

and he—

god.

he’d looked at you with all that frustration boiling over and said the one thing he should never have said.

“i mean i’m tired of coming home to a lazy partner like you. you don’t even properly clean the dishes, you don’t properly vacuum the place, you can’t even take out the fucking trash. actually, i won’t even deny it. you’re contaminating my apartment.” he hissed, words jabbing at your poor fragile heart like knives straight at your chest.

the second the words left his mouth, your face changed.

not angry.

that would’ve been easier. he wouldn’t even be sitting on the dirty, unsanitary floor right now.

you just looked hurt. deeply hurt.

like something inside you had quietly given up.

you stared at him for a long moment before letting out a small, mirthless laugh.

“your apartment. kiyoomi,” you’d whispered. “seriously?”

“.. w-wait, no, that’s not what i—” he stammered.

“no, it’s okay.”

you grabbed your bag too quickly, movements sharp and shaky.

“i get it.”

“n-no, i didn’t mean it like that.” he sheepishly replied, yet his panic was growing ever so slightly.

“you clearly did.” 

“i’m frustrated.” he still tried to find excuses, as though what he said was irreversible. 

“and i’m exhausted.” you sighed.

your eyes had gone glossy then, though you looked up and blinked the tears away before they could fall.

“i’ve been trying really hard lately.” you whisper.

the guilt had hit him instantly, heavy and nauseating.

because you had been trying.

you’d been working longer hours too. barely sleeping. still making time for him. still waiting up for him after late games. still trying to make dinner sometimes even when you were dead tired.

still loving him for what he was.

you sighed and shook your head.

“i don’t wanna do this right now.”

“no– please don’t go–” he said, stretching out both hands to try and catch you.

then you walked right out, closing the door softly behind you. you knew he hated when you slammed doors.

it had been three hours.

three hours and seventeen minutes.

not that he was counting, of course.

kiyoomi pressed the heels of his palms into his tired eyes.

you’d texted once.

please don’t contact me, i need space.

the apartment kept feeling bigger and emptier with every passing minute.

he wandered into the living room and sat on the couch only to stand again seconds later. his skin felt restless. he kept checking his phone compulsively even though clearly, there were no new notifications.

the rain outside got heavier.

usually you’d be curled into the corner of the couch by now under your oversized blanket, half asleep while some random reality show played in the background. he’d pretend to complain about the noise while secretly watching with interest.

the memory made his throat tighten unexpectedly.

he moved toward the hallway before stopping outside the bedroom.

the door was open.

inside, your side of the bed was messy from this morning. one of your his hoodies lay crumpled near the pillows.

normally he’d fix it immediately.

but tonight, he just stared at it. he stared at your space, so special and unique, contradicting with the rest of the plain, monotone apartment unit.

your special corner was filled with posters of your favorite artists, little plants, and many small items you have collected with kiyoomi in your trips. most prominently, it was filled with him. there were little photographs of you and him, or only him. there was this big poster of him in his match. (you had bought it to admire it when he went overseas)

the apartment was sterile, perfectly clean.

yet it didn’t a bit like home. not a single bit.

because that was the truth underneath all this mess, wasn’t it?

it had never been the dishes.

or the vacuuming.

or the trash.

home had started feeling unfamiliar because he barely existed in it anymore.

he was always gone. always exhausted. always carrying stress back through the front door like poison. and instead of admitting he felt disconnected and overwhelmed and terrified of losing the one place that grounded him—

he’d blamed you.

a shaky breath left him.

you had looked so small standing near the door earlier.

not physically. emotionally.

like he’d made you feel unwanted in the place that was supposed to belong to both of you.

the realization hit hard enough that he had to sit down on the edge of the bed.

his chest hurt.

kiyoomi lowered his head into his hands.

what if you stopped feeling safe here, with him?

the thought made panic curl coldly through his stomach. 

you’d never yelled during arguments. that was part of what made them awful. you got quieter instead. like you were pulling away piece by piece.

and tonight you had left.

and kiyoomi was alone.

the apartment suddenly felt suffocating.

he stood abruptly and grabbed his phone again, fingers hovering over your contact.

i’m sorry.

too small.

please come home.

too selfish.

he deleted both.

another hour passed, then another.

the rain slowed to a drizzle.

by midnight, kiyoomi was curled on the floor beside the couch with his back against it, staring blankly at the coffee table.

your favorite scrunchie still sat there from yesterday.

he picked it up absently, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

his chest tightened so sharply it startled him.

he missed you.

not in the dramatic way people described in movies. not with the loud fanfare and the exclamation "i miss you, my love!" in front of a watchful crowd.

it was quieter than that.

more terrifying.

he missed the sound of you walking around sock-footed. the warmth you left in the blankets. the way you absentmindedly touched his arm whenever you passed him in the kitchen. the little “welcome home” you cheered every night no matter how tired you were. your silly little colorful socks that made you… you.

you were knitted tightly into every part of this place. every particle, molecule, and atom had an element of you in it.

without you, the apartment wasn’t calming.

it was hollow.

kiyoomi swallowed hard.

then horrifyingly, his eyes burned.

he blinked once.

twice.

but the pressure in his chest only worsened.

no.

no, he wasn’t—

his breathing turned uneven.

he pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes instinctively, trying to rub out the burning sensation in his eyes.

the panic had been building for hours now, compacting tighter and tighter beneath his ribs until it finally started cracking open.

because what if you didn’t come back tonight?

what if this changed something permanently?

he knew most relationships survived arguments. most.

but logic didn’t matter much when the person who made a place feel like home was suddenly gone because of something he had said.

a tear slipped down before he could stop it.

kiyoomi inhaled sharply, frustrated immediately.

he wiped at it aggressively, jaw tense.

but another followed.

then another.

“fuck,” he whispered hoarsely.

his shoulders curled inward.

he hated crying. hated the helplessness of it. the lack of control.

this didn’t feel controllable anymore.

the apartment was too quiet.

your absence was too loud.

and underneath all his exhaustion and irritation and sharpness was the ugly truth that terrified him most:

he needed you here.

not for chores.

not for routine.

you were his routine.

you were the warmth in the apartment. the softness in all his rigid edges. the reason home actually felt lived in instead of sterile.

and he had made you feel like you didn’t belong.

the realization broke something open completely.

his breathing hitched hard.

he bowed his head, shoulders trembling once before he caught himself, fingers gripping the hair tie tightly in his palm.

he looked pathetic. he must’ve looked like such a child, a manchild.

sitting on the floor crying over an argument he caused.

but the image of your face earlier wouldn’t leave him alone.

“i’ve been trying really hard lately.”

god.

of course you had.

you always do.

and he’d repaid that by making you feel like a burden.

another bout of tears and whimpers escaped him.

then suddenly—

the sound of keys at the door.

kiyoomi froze.

his heart slammed painfully against his ribs.

the front door opened carefully.

you stepped inside quietly, clearly expecting darkness and silence.

instead, you found him sitting on the floor.

your eyes widened immediately.

“kiyoomi?”

he looked down at once, not wanting to be seen doing the childish, embarrassing act of crying.

humiliation flooded hot across his face. he scrubbed harshly at his eyes before trying to stand too quickly.

“i thought you were staying out longer.” he mumbled.

his voice sounded rough.

you stared at him for a second too long.

then your expression changed completely.

“omi…”

“i’m fine.”

a terrible lie.

his eyes were still red. he sniffed quietly, trying to regulate his uneven breathing

you closed the door slowly behind you. you know he hated it when you slammed doors.

the apartment stayed silent except for the rain outside.

then, softly:

“have you been crying?”

he hated how vulnerable the question made him feel.

kiyoomi looked down again, jaw tight. “not really.”

you knew him too well to push the obvious lie.

instead, you stepped closer carefully, like you were approaching something wounded.

and somehow that made it worse.

because you were still being gentle with him even after he’d hurt you.

“i’m sorry,” he said suddenly.

the words came out strained and immediate.

“i shouldn’t have said any of that.”

you stayed quiet.

“i didn’t mean—you don’t make this place stressful.” his voice cracked slightly. “you make it feel like home.”

that almost undid him again.

his throat tightened violently.

you looked startled by the rawness in his tone.

kiyoomi rubbed a hand over his face, frustrated with himself.

“i’ve just been exhausted and angry all the time lately and i keep taking it out on everything here because i don’t know how to fix…” he stopped, swallowing hard. “whatever’s wrong with me right now.”

“there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“there is.” he laughed wetly. 

“i came home tonight and acted like you were some inconvenience in our own home.”

your eyes softened immediately at the emphasis on our.

“kiyoomi…”

“i know why you left.” he finally looked at you then, eyes glassy again despite how hard he was trying to hold himself together. “and i deserved it.”

the guilt on your face appeared instantly. “don’t say that.”

“it’s true.”

you stared at each other in the dim apartment lighting.

then you sighed quietly and set your bag down near the door.

“i didn’t leave because i wanted to punish you.”

“i know.”

“i just…” your voice faltered slightly. “you made it sound like i was ruining the one place where you actually felt okay.”

the confession hit him like a knife.

because that was exactly what he’d accidentally implied.

his face crumpled before he could stop it.

“no,” he said immediately, voice shaking. “no, you’re the reason i feel okay there.”

your expression broke a little at that.

kiyoomi looked down again, ashamed.

“i think i forgot how to separate work from home,” he admitted quietly. “everything’s been bleeding together lately and i started treating the apartment like something i needed to control instead of…” he swallowed hard. “instead of the place where i’m supposed to rest with you.”

silence.

then softer:

“i really hurt you, didn’t i?”

you looked away for a moment before nodding once.

his eyes burned again immediately.

you noticed.

your face shifted from hurt to concern almost instantly.

“oh, omi…”

“i’m sorry,” he whispered again.

then his breathing broke.

not dramatically.

just one sharp inhale that turned uneven halfway through.

he pressed a hand over his eyes, mortified.

but exhaustion finally won.

“i didn’t mean it,” he said shakily. “i swear i didn’t.”

you crossed the room without hesitation then.

the second your hands touched his arms, something in him gave out completely.

kiyoomi folded toward you with a broken exhale, forehead pressing against your shoulder as his arms wrapped around your waist hard enough to ache.

you stumbled slightly from the force of it.

he was shaking.

actually shaking.

“i’m sorry,” he repeated against you, voice muffled and wrecked. “i’m sorry.”

your hands immediately slid into his curls.

“it’s okay.”

“no, it’s not.” he cried into your shoulder. his grip tightened on your figure. “i made you leave.”

the pain in his voice nearly shattered you.

you held him closer instinctively.

“i came back.”

that made him go still, just for a second.

then his face buried further into your shoulder.

you felt the dampness there seconds later.

not dramatic, loud sobbing.

just quiet, exhausted tears from someone who’d bottled up his feelings for too long.

your chest ached.

“kiyoomi…”

“i hated it,” he whispered hoarsely. “i hated you being gone.”

you closed your eyes.

he sounded so small saying it.

“i know.”

“the apartment didn’t feel right.”

you rubbed slow circles against his back.

and there it was.

the real heart of it.

home, for sakusa kiyoomi, had never actually been the spotless counters or folded blankets or routines lined up perfectly in place.

it was you standing in the kitchen stealing his food like a little gremlin.

you asleep on the couch waiting for him.

you humming softly while doing the dishes badly.

you existing in the space beside him so naturally that he forgot there had ever been a version of home without you in it.

he’d just been too overwhelmed to recognize it until you were gone.

“i’m here,” you whispered finally.

his shoulders trembled once more beneath your hands.

then slowly—

he started calming down.

still holding you impossibly close.

a/n>>

hello! wonderful ppl you hv took the time AND effort to read ts long ahh fic...

i would like to thank you for your view! ( i think the endings kinda ass tho again)

bye wonderful ppl!!

You step toward the table he’s turned into a desk, fidgeting when he doesn’t look up from a paper. 

Finally, after what feels like hours, he sets the sheet down and looks up at you. 

“He says he didn’t ask. That you went to him. That true?” 

He doesn’t need to elaborate. You know what he’s talking about. 

You feel like a kid confessing to wetting the bed as you nod sheepishly. 

He heaves out a breath that must weigh a thousand pounds and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

A hundred thousand thoughts and questions are running through his mind like silly little dachshunds chasing their tails. But the one that sticks out is:

“So you heard us?” Though it’s posed as a question, it’s a statement. 

A cold hard fact. 

You still hesitate for a moment before nodding again, and Price lets out another sigh. 

The night that was supposed to be magical and wonderful ended with a cold dose of reality for you. 

As if that weren’t bad enough, you actually volunteered for the bloody gig anyway. 

He pulls off his glasses and opens his mouth to speak, but you interrupt him before he can get a sound out. 

“Listen, you don’t need to explain anything to me, okay? I…” you stop for a moment, eyes looking anywhere but his face. “Just let me know what you need from me.” 

With that, you turn and walk away from him with the crumbs of your dignity falling through your fingers. 

Price can’t do anything besides watch as you retreat into the bathroom. 

The door shuts a little harder than you meant, and you quickly press your back to it and cover your mouth with your hand to stifle your sobs. 

You lost it. 

All of it. 

Everything. 

Your life.

Your friends.

Your maybe was kinda sorta blossoming almost-romance with John. 

Your teeth grind together and then your fist is hitting the wall and the sound is echoing through the small bathroom. 

You regret it as soon as you do it. Not so much because of the pain. No, nothing even comes close to the fire licking its way up your side. 

You moreso regret the noise, because now…

Knock knock knock

“Everything okay in there?”

You hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut, almost like if you try hard enough, you’ll disappear. 

You’re tempted to try clicking your heels. 

You don’t, though. 

And you’re still there in the bathroom when you open your eyes. 

Still stuck in the tiny bathroom when Price knocks on the door again. 

“Yeah.” You regret the word even more than you regret smacking the wall, because your voice cracks and breaks and shatters as soon as you use it. 

And then the door is open and John Price is standing there, staring at the scene in front of him. 

His sharp eyes are analyzing, taking note of every inch of the room until they zero in on the blood staining your hands.

“What happened?” 

You shake your head and swat at him, turning away to hide yourself as much as possible as he crowds your personal space. 

“Get out,” you croak, glaring at him with teary eyes. 

The sight shoves splinters into his heart and he finds himself reaching for you instinctively, frowning when you turn away further. 

“You’re hurt. Let me see your hand.”

Okay.

You stick your bloody hand out, middle finger raised, and the man lets out a tired sigh. 

He takes hold of your wrist and inspects your hand carefully, long fingers turning it this way and that. 

His thick brows pull together when he finds no visible wound.

“Where are you hurt?”

“None of your business.” It’s childish and you know that, but right now he is the last person you want to accept help from. 

“Actually, it is my business. Keeping you safe is my job right now.” A big bear paw finds your shoulder and spins you to face him, and then his eyes are firmly fixated on the nasty gash on your side. 

“Bloody hell.”

You turn your face away in shame, hiccuping over soft sobs as he turns your body to face him a little bit more. 

He crouches down and inspects the wound carefully, trying to be gentle. 

It’s clearly infected, and one glance at the blood-soaked rag on the counter tells him why. 

“You should’ve told me about this as soon as it happened,” he whispers, eyes as gentle as his hands as he looks up at you. 

He doesn’t want to scare you. 

He’s not mad at you for getting hurt, but he certainly isn’t pleased you hid it from him.

“I’m fine.”

He rises to his full height, looking at you with firm eyes. 

“Stay here, I’m going to get the med kit.”

He’s only gone for a few short breaths, and then he’s back and washing his hands under the cool water. 

“‘M going to clean and sterilize it. It’s already infected, we want to try and clean it and stop the infection before it can spread any further.”

You’re not sure why this makes you cry harder, but for some reason it does. 

“Hey, shhhhhh, look at me. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, you bring your eyes to his. 

He takes both of your hands in his and gives them a squeeze. 

“You’re gonna be okay. It’s gonna sting a bit, but you’ll be okay. I need you to be brave for me. Can you do that?”

You nod tearfully, and he gives your hands a firm squeeze in thanks. “I’ll try to be quick.”

And then he’s opening the med kit and rifling through the contents. 

“Lean back.” One hand is pushing on your shoulders until they bump the wall, and the other hand finds your hip, keeping your lower half in place and stretching the skin of your abdomen enough for him to work with. 

“Can you take a deep breath for me?”

You breathe with him, squeezing your eyes shut as you exhale. 

There’s a splash of cold on your skin for a moment before the area erupts in flames. 

You jerk away instinctively, but Price’s grip on you is so strong and so firm that you hardly move an inch.

“Almost done. I know it hurts.”

Tears well up in your eyes. 

‘Hurts’ is putting it lightly, to say the least. 

You whimper when something cool is suddenly soothing your burning skin. 

“This should help.”

It does. 

So much so that you manage to peel your eyes open and glance down at him through your wet lashes.

He’s focused on the task at hand, bushy brows furrowed as he tries his best to be as gentle as possible. 

The last thing he wants to do is hurt you any more.

A small, foolish little part of you wishes you weren’t in so much pain so you could really bask in the feeling of his hands on your bare skin. 

The thought is silenced by Price wrapping you up and turning to wash his hands. 

“I’ll change that in twelve hours, and we’ll need to monitor it closely to make sure the infection doesn’t spread.” The way he speaks is so final and factual that you don’t even nod. You just watch him dry his hands and shut the water off. 

He turns back to you and leans against the sink, crossing his heavy arms across his chest. 

He doesn’t say anything. 

Neither do you.

You just flick your eyes between his boots and his face, never lingering on one for too long. 

Finally, he breaks the silence. 

“You need rest. Come on.” And then he’s leading you out of the bathroom and toward the makeshift little bed on the floor. 

He helps you out of your bloody shirt and into something clean, and when he’s turning to leave you’re grabbing his wrist. 

“Don’t leave me. Please.”

He stares at you for a long, calculating moment. 

Time seems to slow down as he fights an internal battle, Ruth’s voice nagging in his ear. 

But then your bottom lip starts to wobble and his decision is made. He’s helping you to the floor and following soon after, ignoring the alarm bells blaring in his head when you sigh softly. 

He helps you lie down on your good side and settles instinctively behind you, ignoring his racing heart when you scoot back a few inches. 

It’s sickeningly quiet for a few moments, besides the shrill ringing of ever-present tinnitus.

Your body is stiff as a board, rigid and tense and less than six inches away from the man and it’s making him lose his damn mind. 

He stays physically still behind you, quiet and grounding and watching as you slowly relax with each breath you take. 

No words are spoken as you ease into dreamland, body going lax so much that you’re all but pressed against him. 

And he doesn’t move. 

For a long while, he doesnt move. 

Just stays parked right behind you, hand hovering over you every now and then as he fights the urge to feel your skin. 

He tells himself that he’s monitoring your breathing, making sure your temperature is okay, checking your wound. But he’s not really doing any of those things. 

Deep down, he wonders what it would feel like to give in. To lean over and press his lips to your shoulder, wrap his arm around your waist and pull your body flush against his. 

The longer he spends by your side, the more he grows to yearn for the position. 

Maybe this is his place in the world. 

Wrapped up with you safely in his arms. 

But the safety is shattered by a vibration in his back pocket. 

He’s careful not to move too quickly as he pulls his new phone free, shifting closer to you as he unlocks it and reads the message. 

With a heavy sigh and newfound determination, Price forces himself to his feet and gets to work packing everything up. 

He works quickly, skilled and experienced, and spends just a few moments watching you sleep before he settles in a crouch by your head. 

“It’s time to go, Dove,” he whispers, warm paw landing on your shoulder and shaking you gently until you regain consciousness. 

You frown up at him, drowsy and confused and still half-asleep, but to him you’re awake enough. 

He helps you into a seated position and slowly begins explaining, keeping his voice low and even to -hopefully- keep you semi-calm. 

“We need to leave now. Kyle and Johnny are tailing them, they’re getting too close for comfort.”

You rub your eyes and stifle a yawn as he helps you put your feet in your boots, then tightly laces them up for you. 

You watch him as he handles you with such care, and for a moment you almost think the old Price might be back. The one who holds your gaze for a second or two longer than he should. The one who dusted snowflakes off your cheek and gazed at your lips like he’d never heard words before. 

You’ve been walking for at least an hour. 

At least it feels like it. 

In reality, you have no idea how much time has passed. It’s dark, the moon hidden beneath thick clouds, and the wind has a brutal bite to it. 

You’ve tried finding the Lieutenant in any of the dark cars or windows on the street, but it’s almost as if he’s not there. 

For a brief but terrifying moment, you wonder if this has all been an elaborate set-up. If Simon has no intention of saving you, protecting you. 

The thoughts are cut off by a set of headlights lighting you up from behind as a car turns onto the quiet street. 

Your heart is in your throat, pounding in your ears as the car approaches, then slows behind you. 

It’s hardly rolled to a stop before the doors are opening. 

You turn around, fear licking up your spine as two men stalk toward you in the dark.

You back away, looking around frantically for any trace of Simon or Kyle or Johnny.

“Don’t run.” A man’s voice says from behind you. 

You scan the area desperately, searching for someone to come rescue you. 

This couldn’t have been the plan. 

Could it? 

Tears well up in your eyes as your fears are confirmed. 

There’s no one to help

“Help!” You scream, sprinting down the street as the men chase after you. 

“Someone! Please-” and then you’re shoved into the snow, face smushed in the freezing flakes.

“Keep quiet or I’ll put a bullet in you right here,” a man hisses. The cool barrel of a gun is suddenly pressed to the back of your head, punctuating his words. 

You close your mouth and hold back a sob as you’re lifted to your feet and shoved in the direction of the car. 

Your face stings as the cool air nips the frostbitten skin of your chin, and your vision swims with snow and tears.

You glance around helplessly as you get closer and closer to the car, desperate to find anyone who can help. 

The people who are supposed to help. 

No one. 

Nothing. 

“Keep moving!” A rough hand shoves your shoulder and you fall forward, only to be caught and yanked right back up. It’s almost dizzying. Or maybe that’s the fear.

“Open the trunk.”

Trunk? 

Your blood runs cold. 

Simon never prepared you for this. Is this part of the plan? 

Not if you have any say in it. 

“No!” You squirm and yank free of the grip on you, only to be grabbed by someone else. 

A fiery pain flares in your abdomen as the man yanks you forward. 

“Try that again. I dare you.”

You shake your head, struggling against him as he forces you toward the trunk.

And then there’s the crack of a gunshot. 

You’re on the ground. 

There’s a body on top of you.

Footsteps fading. 

Tires screeching away.

Footsteps approaching. 

It’s too familiar.

And then another car is racing away, the weight on top of you is gone, and you’re being pulled into a seated position. 

Someone’s hands are holding your head, checking your face, making sure you’re alive. 

Once he’s confirmed you weren’t caught in the crossfire, Price yanks you to your feet and marches you toward your safe house with a firm hand on your bicep. 

His grip is bruising, but you’re far too terrified of his wrath to complain.

“Get upstairs. Grab your emergency bag. You’ve got two minutes. Go!” He barks at you like you’re one of his soldiers, and it shakes you to your core. 

Gone is the man from only a few days ago. 

The one who stared at your lips and gently wiped snowflakes from your cheeks.

Your chest aches. 

“You!” He snarls, turning his glare on Simon and marching toward the soldier. 

“What you did was dangerous, reckless, and in disobedience of my direct orders.” He sounds angry enough to kill.  

Terrified to be caught dawdling, you hurry inside and rush up the stairs, bending behind the door to grab the bag only to hiss at the sudden pain in your side. 

You press a trembling hand to the spot, wincing when it throbs again. 

The fabric around the spot feels warm and sticky, and your head starts to spin as you realize why. 

Slowly, with shaking fingers, you lift up your sweater to reveal the shallow stab wound marring the flesh of your abdomen.

Blood isn’t pumping or gushing from it, thank God, but it is bleeding in a steady little stream. 

You let out a soft gasp, face screwing up in horror as you stare at the wound. Your imagination sprints toward every worst-case scenario you can conjure as you watch the blood leave your body. 

“What’s taking so long!” Price shouts from the side door downstairs. 

Your vision starts to swim, blurring the red tainting your skin.

“Coming!”  

You turn to the bathroom and grab a face cloth, pressing it tightly to your stomach and slapping some medical tape on it to keep it in place. 

It hurts, but you can’t focus on that right now. Not when you can hear him walking through the house. 

You grab the bag, ignoring the pain, and hurry down the stairs, almost running right into the Captain. 

He looks ready to reprimand you, and you duck your head in preparation.

“Come on, hurry up.” He grabs you by the bicep again and practically drags you outside and into a car that was NOT there when you went upstairs. 

He yanks open the passenger door, and you jump in before he has a chance to push you inside. 

You drop the bag to the ground as he slams the door shut, taking a moment to wince as the pain in your side flares now that you’re not moving. 

It stings like a bitch, and you want to take time to clean it properly, but you doubt you’ll be granted that luxury.

Your moment is over far too quickly when the Captain hops in the driver’s seat and slams the door closed. 

The car beeps as he starts driving without his seatbelt on, and the sound helps the silence from being too heavy. 

He doesn’t turn the headlights on. 

He drives in ghost mode until he hits the highway. 

Only then does he flick on the headlights, click his seatbelt on, and silence the beeping. 

You don’t say anything. 

And neither does he. 

For the first little while, you focus on your breathing. On bringing down your adrenaline and calming your racing heart. 

When that finally starts to happen, though, you become acutely aware of the burning pain in your side. 

The spot you were stabbed. 

It’s a fiery pain like nothing you’ve ever really experienced before.

Tears well up in your eyes as you think about it, and you turn your head to the window to hide them from the man beside you as they roll down your cheeks. 

As you stare out the window, you catch a glimpse of your reflection when the highway lights hit the glass the right way. 

A dark smear of blood is smudged across your cheek. 

Glancing down in shock, you stare at your hands, waiting for the light to hit the car again. 

When you do get a second and a half of light, you find the source of the mark on your face. 

Your hands are covered in your own blood. 

At least, you think it’s all yours. 

You ball your hands into fists and glance at the Captain out of the corner of your eye, watching to see if he’s noticed yet. 

His eyes are focused on the road ahead. Whether that’s out of necessity or because he can’t bring himself to look at you, you’re not sure. 

When you’re sure it’ll be inconspicuous, you slowly shift your hands and press your palms to the seat beneath you, sliding them beneath your thighs and successfully keeping them hidden. 

Price doesn’t mention it. 

You sit in silence for about five hours before he pulls up to a gas station to refuel.

When he gets out of the car, you flip the little mirror down and examine the side of your face as much as you can in the dark.

With a glance out the window to make sure he’s still occupied, you quickly spit on the sleeve of your jacket and scrub at the mark on your cheek until it disappears.

Not exactly the skin care routine you’re used to, but desperate times and all that. 

Price gets back in the car a few moments later without a word and starts driving down the highway again. 

~*~

By the time the car stops somewhere besides a gas station, you’ve long since lost feeling in your legs. 

“Wait here.” The first words spoken in over seventeen hours, and you almost mistook them for the man clearing his throat. 

He gets out of the car and pulls out his gun, creeping carefully up to the old cottage.

He disappears inside for a few minutes, only to return with a lantern and nod you inside. 

You slowly and carefully exit the car, one hand pressed to the wet cloth on your side as the pain gets worse. 

It borders on excruciating as you make your way inside the shack and into the only bathroom in the tiny place. 

Finally, with the door shut tightly, you undress to the best of your abilities and unwrap the wound on your side. 

The cloth is soaked dark, and the wound itself is red and raw and starting to bleed again in a few places. 

Tears stream down your cheeks as you rinse the cloth and rinse the cloth and rinse it a little bit more. You rinse it until the water runs mostly clear, and then you wring it out until your hands cramp and your arms shake before carefully pressing it to your side again. 

The cold water soothes some of the pain, if only for a moment. But a moment is all you need.

You wrap it the same way you did before and carefully redress, cleaning your bloody hands thoroughly before leaving the bathroom. 

You try your hardest not to limp as you go looking for Price. 

Thankfully, there isn’t much ground to cover, and you find him quickly. 

He’s hunched over the only table in the little place, maps and papers strewn about. 

The light of the lantern flickers across his face and, for a moment, through the dim light, you can see just how many years John Price has lived. 

He doesn’t look up when you walk into the room. 

In fact, he ignores you completely, even as you take a few slow steps toward the table. 

You stand there like an idiot for a minute or two before finally coming to your senses and turning on your heel to find a place to hide in this tiny cottage. 

Once you find one, you think you may stay there for the rest of your life if you need to. 

Your back is pressed against the sheets, Simon’s chest against yours, and his face is buried in your neck as he thrusts into you deep, and hard. His hips roll against yours, spreading your legs wider, stuffing your wet pussy full of his aching cock. Every single moan falling from your lips, every last babbled word you can get out as he fucks you dumb, he drinks it all in with his lips pressed to your throat to feel the vibrations flood through his body.

He is always particular about that, rightfully so, to the point where he’ll fuck you any way you want but he needs to feel you to cum. To feel your wet, warm walls wrapped tightly around him, clenching down on his length when his tip knocks against your cervix. To feel your cries of pleasure when he angles his hips just right to brush against your sweet spot.

Your fingers tangle in the hair at his nape, tugging slightly, earning a low groan rumbling out from the depths of his chest. Your nails rake down the rough skin of his back, leaving red, angry marks in your wake. Wrapping your legs around his waist, the new angle allows him to dig deeper, leaving you a moaning mess under him.

The skin of his abdomen glides on your clit, stimulating the sensitive bundle of nerves when he thrusts in and grinds his cock on your cervix. Your nipples drag against his chest, hard and swollen, aching for his lips. You press soft kisses to his shoulder, biting ever so slightly and licking away the pain until it fades into pleasure again.

The veins and ridges of his cock slide through your walls, molding your pussy to him, stretching you, pleasuring you, all because of him. He fills you to the brim, leaving no space inside of you empty for long, before pulling back out and doing it over and over again. Stars burst behind your eyelids when he zeros in on your sweet spot, his precision maddening, his consistent thrusts enough to bring you impossibly close to your climax.

He can feel you getting closer, can feel the frantic vibrations, can feel the way your heart speeds up when you squirm your hips under him to find more of the friction you so desperately crave. Simon gives into your body every single time, thrusting harder, pounding deeper, slamming his hips against your faster the more eager he grows to feel you cum on his cock.

Each thrust knocks the breath out of your lungs, leaving you gasping for air, each exhale turning into sounds of pleasure. His skin is warm and sweaty on yours, one hand gripping the fat of your hip, the other caging your head in, keeping you steady while he pounds into you relentlessly. His face stays buried in your neck, his lips trail up and down as he sucks and bites against the one spot he knows you like, and when your walls clamp down around him, he hits your sweet spot one more time and you’re cumming for him.

Moans rip free from your throat as your body grows rigid and your muscles draw taut underneath him. Cum gushes from your pussy, leaking out around his cock, dripping from his skin and making a mess on the sheets below. He groans, deep and low, rolling into you to drag out your high for as long as possible before he brings himself to that same sweet release.

He lifts his face from your neck, wrapping his hand around it instead, still allowing himself to feel the vibrations but settling on placing his lips against yours. Your lips move with his, finding his rhythm, moving in tandem the closer he gets and you continue to moan which he swallows greedily.

Only when your body twitches with overstimulation, only when your nails dig into the skin of his back, only then does he drive himself to the hilt and spill his seed. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out in continuous streams from his swollen, sensitive tip, hitting your cervix and leaking out around him when nothing else will fit.

His kiss turns slower while his movements come to a stop, swiping his tongue against your soft lips before pulling away with a wet pop, breaking the strings of saliva connecting the two of you. The sight of you so blissful underneath makes him feel like this is the prettiest you have ever been.

Tears stain your cheeks, your eyes half-lidded and bloodshot. Your mouth hangs open ever so slightly, drool dripping from your chin, as whimpers and whines continue to fall the more you feel his cock twitch deep inside of you. You look so raw, so vulnerable, so his. His to please, his to love, his to cherish.

Your voice may belong to everyone else, but the vibrations of your body will always belong to him.

│Masterlist│

Tags: @fysalia, @scarhein, @bl-nk-bla-k, @joelmillrenthusiast, @jo-ys-things, @wcaress, @tessakate, @sexychickenmagnet

Tonight, far from the gunfire, safely tucked in your flat while the two of you awaited deployment instructions, you were still plagued by dreams you couldn’t explain once awake. 

He exited the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, drying his hair with another—the one he always stole from you after insisting he didn’t need a second one. Steam followed behind him as he took quiet steps across the room, eyes locked on your sleeping form. 

You lay sprawled on the bed, wearing nothing but your underwear and an old shirt he’d accidentally forgotten once and never managed to recover. Not that he’d tried very hard to get it back—he loved seeing you in it. The only source of light in the room came from the bathroom behind him, engulfing you in a warm hue of yellow in an otherwise dark room. The blanket was kicked to the feet of the bed, covering only half of your leg. The clock on the nightstand glowed in neon-red, late enough to let Simon know he wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight. 

As he was about to turn to the dresser where you’d mercifully given him a quarter of a drawer to put all of his belongings in, you muttered something under your breath. He halted at the noise, knowing exactly what would follow. You had the same routine—mumble, conversation, yawning, sleep. He’d memorized it, as he had memorized all the…characters that seemed to live in your dreams. 

Tonight, however, it wasn’t a non-existent figure who had earned your anger. Tonight, you were mad at Soap.

“Can’t understand shit he says, Simon,” you whined lowly, barely comprehensible as you drawled out the words. “Stop him.”

Ghost stilled, hand covering his mouth to keep his smile from breaking into a full grin. He walked closer to the bed, legs pressed against the mattress by your feet. He tilted his head, wondering what Johnny could’ve done to be a subject of your irritation tonight. He let the spare towel fall to the floor, knowing you’d be annoyed at it the following morning.

“Those bloody Scots,” you huffed out. Despite the arm thrown over your eyes, he could practically hear the frown forming on your face. 

He pressed his lips into a thin line, bending forward to place his hands on your ankles. “Yeah? What’d he do this time?”

You hummed at the touch, seemingly struggling to form a sentence as he ran his hands up your leg, fingers digging into your skin once he reached your thighs. After a beat, you dropped your arm from your face and sighed softly, eyes still closed. Ghost lifted a knee to the bed, letting some of his weight fall on your thigh as he leaned forward, eyes practically glowing with amusement. 

It seemed the topic was too much for you to linger on Ghost’s touch, however. You pouted as you answered, as if this weighed heavily on you. “He keeps askin’ me to eat haggis, Simon. Haggis.”

 He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. The sentence was so ridiculous he couldn’t help it. Yet, a small part of him wondered how much of it was true—Johnny did like haggis, after all. 

He dipped his head lower and planted a kiss on your hipbone. “You don’t have to eat haggis,” he assured you, enjoying the way you shivered beneath him as he placed a kiss on the other side. “I’ll kill him if he makes you.”

Ghost finally placed both knees on the bed—one between your legs, the other to the side. He placed slow kisses on your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone. Each kiss caused your voice to come out quieter and slower than before. As much as he enjoyed your nonsense and barely-coherent conversations, the longer you talked, the less you rested. 

By the time his lips reached your jaw, you had stopped talking about sheep intestines and Soap—thank God. Speaking about Johnny in your bedroom at four in the morning was far from his definition of late-night romance. 

He planted a slow kiss on your jaw, feeling the vibrations of your hum against his lips. You yawned once, loud and wide. That was the cue he’d learned to interpret as your rambling finally coming to an end. He let himself fall by your side, still wearing nothing but a blanket that seemed to struggle to stay in place. 

You turned your body with impressive speed. In a blink, you had already wrapped a leg over his, and had snaked his middle with your arm. After another, briefer yawn, you placed a slow, lingering kiss on his throat. If you felt the way he swallowed dryly at the sudden proximity, you showed no signs. 

“Haggis,” you muttered, and it was the last thing Ghost heard from you that night. 

He shook his head as he pressed his palm against your warm cheek, rubbing your cheekbone gently. He let his forehead fall against your own, smiling at the sight. 

“Yuji!” You scold in a light tone of voice but the furrow of your eyebrows show your distress, “I told you not to run in the classroom!”

The little six year old has the decency to lower his head in bashfulness. Then, like a light switch, he’s back to his quirkiness. “I got you something!” 

Your distress melts away. Your eyes soften as Yuji pulls something from his front pocket and holds it out to You.

“Awww, sweetheart.” You gingerly pick up the round shaped plastic container from Yuji’s hand. Ruffling his hair, You chuckle as Yuji giggles. 

“Open it!” The boy squeals. 

The plastic container is small, your hand easily covering the entirety of it. It’s pink with white glitter coating the upper half. 

You shake the object a bit, surprised to hear something clanking inside. Curious, You twist the container open. A small gasp leaves your lips once the object falls into your hand. 

On the palm of your hand is a ring. There’s a heart shaped diamond resting on a silver coated band with tiny stars engraved on it. 

“Oh, Yuji.” You coo, “What is this?”

Yuji’s cheeks turn a bright shade of pink as he explains, “It’s a ring! For you.”

Unable to handle the cuteness, You slip the ring onto your middle finger.

“Nooo!” Yuji frowns, “It’s a wedding ring!” He explains.

You’re at a loss for words as You blink at your student. It’s not uncommon for students to develop fleeting crushes on their teachers but they usually last all but five minutes. It’s the first time You receive a wedding ring.

“Yuji,” You blink your confusion away, “Why are you giving me a wedding ring?”

A toothy smile brightens up Yuji’s face, “Because you’re my wife!”

As much as You want to smother the little boy in smooches for being so darn cute, You slip the ring from your finger and hold it up between the both of you.

“Yuji, honey, I’m flattered,” The crestfallen expression is heartbreaking but You must be unbreakable, “but I can’t be your wife.”

Yuji’s lips wobble, his eyes wet with unshed tears, “Why not?!” He stomps his foot.

“Well, I’m much too old for you.” You begin your explanation, enunciating your words slowly and clearly so that Yuji can easily understand, “And, I’m married.” You hold your left hand upwards and show him your real wedding ring.

Though the tears are threatening to fall, Yuji wipes them away and holds his head high.

Without a word, your student turns around and returns to his seat.

It’s upsetting to see someone experience heartbreak, especially when they’re so young, but You’re glad that Yuji admitted defeat. Hopefully, he’ll forget this whole ordeal by the end of the day.

“Bye, Nobara! Have a wonderful day!” The sweet five and a half year old student waves goodbye back, her hand in her mother’s hand while the other is gripping the strap of her backpack.

As teachers, it is your job to be at the school grounds until every student has been picked up by their parents.

The front gate is almost empty now. Just a few more minutes and You’ll be on your way home too.

Just as You’re about to check for the time on your phone, You feel something tugging at your pants.

Looking down, Your greeted with Yuji’s infectious toothy smile.

“Hey, little guy,” You kneel to be at his level, “Your uncle isn’t here yet?” You scan the parking lot for a tattooed young adult.

Yuji shakes his head, “He’s here.” and points in the general direction of where his uncle is standing.

“Well, have a safe trip home.” You smile at the boy. 

A pregnant pause and Yuji’s still here. 

“Sweetheart?”

“Yes?”

“Aren’t you supposed to go home?”

Yuji shakes his head, “Not yet.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Only You and Yuji (and his eccentric uncle) remain on the school grounds and it’s getting late.

“How come?”

But Yuji doesn’t answer You.

You hold back a sigh of frustration. Instead, in a sweet voice, You say, “Yuji, honey, I have to go home.”

“Okay.”

“So that means you’ll leave?”

Yuji shakes his head and the smile he gives You does nothing to calm your nerves.

“Yuji–”

“Is everything okay?”

A familiar husky voice interrupts You.

Standing up straight, You see your husband, Toji, standing behind Yuji.

“Babe, yeah, everything’s fine. Yuji’s–”

“You!!”

You’re interrupted for the second time in less than two minutes. A new record considering how disruptive your class can get it.

Yuji’s facing your husband. Adorable glare doing nothing to showcase his anger. Especially when Toji easily towers over him.

“Me?” Your husband points at himself.

Yuji nods, “I challenge you to a duel! For Miss Y/N’s hand!”

A heartbeat before Toji erupts into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. He laughs so hard that his shoulders shake and tears are streaming down his cheeks. 

“That’s a good one, kid.”

Yuji huffs, “I am not a kid!” and puts his hands on his waist, “Are you scared?”

That one question sobered Toji up real quick. 

Immediately, Toji’s standing to his full height. He’s flexing his muscles and twists his lips a bit to emphasize the scar running down one side. 

All color drains from Yuji’s face but he still stands on his ground, albeit on wobbly knees.

“Toji.” Hissing his name, You pinch Toji’s meaty arm but to him, it’s like a kiss from a butterfly. You can’t believe your husband’s beefing up with a six year old.

You know Toji isn’t going to do anything. He’s just getting in another laugh by scaring off the boy.

Yuji holds his fists in front of him, ready to fight, when a yelp of his name breaks him from his trance.

“Yuji!” In comes his uncle at last, “What are you doing?”

“Uncle ‘Kuna!” Yuji doesn’t sound close to crying. Not one bit. But he sure looks like it. “You told me to fight for what’s mine!”

Sukuna smacks his forehead while You glare at Yuji’s uncle and Toji nods his head in understanding.

“Yeah but your teacher’s married so you can’t!” Sukuna gestures at You and Toji.

“But…But!” Yuji’s lips tremble, ready for the waterworks.

“No buts!”

This time, Yuji fully accepts his defeats and lets his uncle pick him up.

“Now say sorry.”

Yuji buries his face in the nape of his uncle’s neck, too embarrassed for losing the fight without even trying, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You push back Yuji’s hair, smiling when his eyes briefly meet yours, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Yuji nods his head, then tightens his arms around Sukuna’s neck.

Toji wraps his arm loosely around your shoulder, “You’re a brave one.” Toji comments, a gentleness to his word that he only shares with You.