CoDCoDCoD

Embarrassment follows quickly after, face heating "uhm. I mean. Uh..."

Kyle only laughs good-naturedly, but all you can think about is the fact you're wearing the rattiest pajamas you own, your hair is probably a mess, and your breath most definitely stinks.

"Let's get you checked out by the paramedics, yeah?" Kyle stands up, and against the flashing lights his skin glows in a way that reminds you of the eternal beauty of a phoenix. Cold air bites your skin, makes your stomach twist in anxiety and fluster all at once. "Ghost! I got one for you! Get your ass over here!"

In your sleep deprived mind you don't even realize you're eyeing kyle up. That firemans uniform may not hug hid muscles but damn does he wear it well. face glistening with sweat when he takes his helmet off, grin making your heart stutter.

"The fock do you want, gaz?" A new voice asks, and you flinch three seconds later than a normal person would, mind not quite working when you turn to face–

Oh fuck.

"Is everyone here hot as hell??" You whisper, which is not-at-all a whisper by the way kyle snorts.

The new man is somehow taller than kyle, broad in every sense of the word. His shirt absolutely hugs a fat chest and round stomach, with beefy arms to compliment. You eye the tattoo sleeve hungrily, and only when the man moves to check you for injuries do you look at his face.

A black surgical mask with the bottom of a skull printed on it. Underneath the cap you spot the lightest blonde hair you've ever seen.

"Why do you always give me the eccentric ones?" Ghost, you assume, huffs. He's looking directly at you, gloved hands moving your face to inspect, but its kyle who answers.

"They remind me of you." Kyle leans against the door of the ambulance, arms crossed. God that's hot.

"That a compliment, gaz?" Your emt raises a brow. He doesn't even glance at you when he raises your shirt to check for bruises, only tilting his head at the full-body shudder from the latex on your stomach.

"You want it to be?" Kyle snarks, then turns his focus to you "do you want some caffeine, love? You look dead on your feet."

"Stop trying to drug my patients." A warm palm slides cold metal against your ribs, "breath in deep for me, there you go....good."

Oh.. wow. That makes your thighs clench, and by the look kyle shoots his friend he agrees.

"Oh, obedient too." Ghost quips, moves to the other side and this time you don't need prompting to breath in. He looks all to smug when he looks at kyle "reminds me of you."

You...you must be hallucinating.

No way two obscenely attractive men are flirting with eachother and somehow you're involved in it.

"Hearts pounding, runt." Ghost whispers, in a way that certainly isn't professional. He completely tosses professionalism out the window to kneed a thumb into your hip, speaking over his shoulder "this one could be fun, gaz. It clearly likes the idea. Been eyeing you up plenty."

"Ghost...we talked about this..." kyle groans, reaches across you to pry ghosts hand off and definitely doesn't cop a feel with the hand bracing on your thigh.

"We don't scout on the job, you have thirteen stitches to prove that, remember?"

"But this one would be fun..."

"..."

You pointedly stay deathly silent, afraid any move will have them drawing away.

"...fine." kyle relents, pecking ghost on the ear before handing you a scrap on paper he most definitely already had written.

"Go get some sleep, call us if you want. Sorry about the apartment." With that, ghost is dragging kyle off and even your sleep-deprived brain can figure out what those two will be doing.

You look down at the paper.

What...huh? Two hot guys...want...you??

The tourney grounds are already lively when he arrives. The division between the common folk and the knights and the nobles is clear as he makes his way between tents and bodies. The common folk are densely packed together near the edges of the grounds, their tents shabby compared to the ornate fabrics that decorate the tents of the lords and noble knights that come from houses with prestigious names.

Ghost causes a stir. How could he not with his size, his mask and his mysterious origins. Each theory is more wild than the next. He’s the bastard of a lord come to seize his rightful place, he’s the crowned prince in disguise, he’s one of the old gods made man here to test his followers. 

He hears the whispers and pays them no mind, he has always been a spectacle even before he joined his sire. He had been a large child and an even larger teen. Though, he hadn't always been so violent. Much like the sharpest blades, Ghost had been forged in the flames, his will and his desires beaten and ground and hardened until he was a weapon for others.

When it comes time to add his name to the roll, the master of the games is hesitant to add a man without a title wearing battle beaten armor who know one seems to know? There are noble knights fighting here, they shouldn’t have their reputations sullied by some common hedge knight with no master and no name. He tells Ghost to come back with someone who will vouch for him.

Ghost is smart enough to know that he is no proper knight, there were no fancy words shared between him and his sire, no oath, only his loyalty and his accomplishments in battle. He has fought alongside many of the men, he recognizes their banners and names, but it was always his sire who took the lead, who broke bread with the lords and their families, who had jokes for the men, soft words for the women. His sire was the one they should know and yet they all feigned ignorance.

Only one man claims to know of Ghost, even more shockingly that man is willing to vouch for him. 

Ser MacTavish is a known scoundrel and rake. The other knights and lords know to keep their women away from the unruly and boisterous northerner, despite the fact that he had traveled to the tourney with his own pets. It was said that he could never be truly satisfied.

MacTavish stands out among the others knights of noble birth, today his hair shorn short on the sides, the rest plaited down his back and adorned with flowers. In place of pants or a tunic he wears a tartan kilt, often forgoing a shirt. As he follows along with Ghost to visit the master of games he complains about the southern heat while winking at him. 

He reminds Ghost of the old gods he saw stitched into a tapestry in a sacked keep. There was a man surrounded by other ethereal beings dancing among the weirwoods, but the one with the flowers in his hair had caught Ghost's attention the most. He had only ever seen men adorned in metal, leather and blood. He had never seen a man look so soft, so pretty.

Ghost observes him, curious and apprehensive of his sole supporter. The man is more than a pretty face, his chest covered in thick hair and battle scars, each more ragged and raw than the last. Ghost studies each, a mace, a broadsword, the glancing blow of an arrow. His own body is much the same only he would never put it on display in such a garish way. 

MacTavish drags Ghost to join him in his tent for a pre-tourney banquet, the northerner telling Ghost it's the only way to repay his kindness. The cups overflow with wine, the plates with meat, and pretty men and maidens dance around the crowd moving in ways Ghost has never seen before. 

It’s at this banquet that he sees you for the first time. He sits next to MacTavish, a seat of honor according to his host who has one arm slung over the back of Ghost’s chair, the pressure heavy and hot, while the other swings around a chalice of wine that seems always on the verge of spilling over despite the way that MacTavish drinks heavily from it. 

You are not alone. Your arrival, and the arrival of the other dancers is announced with cries from around the room. Each dancer moving with a gracefulness that Ghost could only dream of achieving. The moves seem both planned and spontaneous, bodies twisting around each other and undulating, pulsing as they fill the empty spaces between tables, between seats, between the throngs of people who feast on MacTavish's generosity.

Each dancer is more pretty than the last.

But you are the one that Ghost cannot look away from. 

You move like gravity is only a suggestion, something to keep others tied to the world while you move about untethered and free of its weight. The dress you wear is made of a fabric that looks like smoke, it moves as fluidly as you do and covers nothing. Every inch of your skin is on display as your body twists languidly to the music. Ghost can't look away as you pass through the crowd, each time you appear he sees another part of you, another glimpse of the woman who is surely not of this world. 

You are a whore.

Even now as you dance around the tent giving the guests a taste and a tease of what you can offer there is only one man who will enjoy the soft caress of your fingers, the plush press of your thighs and that is because he pays with the prettiest piles of gold coin. 

You’ve played this game before with him. Pretend to be the entertainment, pretend you aren’t one of his pretty pretty pets that he drags from tourney to tourney, to battlefield to feast. You don’t look his way, you don’t break the illusion that you are some random woman he has never met before. It’s the same every time. He pretends not to see you, while you pretend to ignore his advances. 

Johnny likes the chase. Likes to think he’s worked for your pussy. And you would be lying to say you didn’t enjoy it, Johnny might have a voracious appetite but he leaves none of his lovers wanting. 

Tonight though you can't help but peer up at the head table, it's as if something pulls you there, calls to you. Through the throng of bodies you see him. Not Johnny, although you see him as well, a woman on one knee, his beefy hand kneading at her thigh as he speaks to the man next to him.

Can you call him a man? The top half of his face is covered with what looks like a mask made of bone, only his eyes visible from two black pits. The lower half is covered by a cloth that he pulls down to eat bites of dripping pieces of meat or swigs of his wine. Each time you hope to see more of his face before he pulls the cloth back up.

He is the biggest man you have ever seen and you wonder if he is big everywhere, for certainly it would be a waste if that was not the case. 

This is the man the others have been whispering about, the secret prince or the beast sent to slay them all. A hedge knight that comes from nowhere yet claims to have been everywhere. You've also heard he is honorable, he's curried the favor of the lowborn attendants in some unspoken way. You have not cared to listen to them because you are not honorable. You are a whore from a disgraced house who sold your body to the highest bidder until you got lucky. 'ave tae call me Johnny if yer goan tae suck mah cock like ye like it he had whispered to you the first night you met after dragging you out to the stables when you should have been entertaining the man who had already paid for your services.

You are also smart, you know it's only a matter of time before Johnny loses interest in you. 

Perhaps he is already losing interest in you. He stares up at the mystery knight enraptured by him, the same as everyone else. You know what it feels like to have those blue eyes peer into your soul, you know what it feels like to have the heavy hold of his arm grounding you, you know what it is like to have that man whisper to you switching between the common tongue and the language of his ancestors. 

It is more intoxicating than even the finest wine. And when you dine with Johnny, Ser MacTavish, you only drink the best.

You are certain he will lose interest in you soon because you have a secret, easy enough to deal with if you found yourself a maester. But every morning as you wake up feeling more and more sluggish, the fatigue creeping up your spine as you perform your duties, dance this same dance from place to place, you start to think that maybe you don't want to get rid of it. If you had someone honorable, someone strong who could protect you and the babe maybe you wouldn't have to sell yourself anymore. Maybe you could sell yourself one final time, give one man the rest of you.

Maybe it could be enough.

When Johnny catches your eye you are shocked that he bids you forward, a wolfish smile across his face as he whispers to his companion. The other man watches you too, his eyes just as hungry.

This is not the game you are used to, but you allow yourself to be swept up in Johnny's hold, arms sticky with sweat as he pulls you against him, jostling you until your barely covered pussy is flush to his cock that strains against his kilt. The tartan rough through the silk of your dress.

He leans his chin on your shoulder, pressing his face to yours as he looks at the knight by his side.

Nae a bastard in the realm luckier than me. tae 'ave such bonnie company, ah must be favored by the old gods

You've thought the same of him, because how could he be so careless and so carefree, not once in his employment had you ever seen him training and yet not once had he been unseated in a joust, or bested at hand-to-hand. After battles and skirmishes he always returns alive, bloodied, bruised and later scarred, but never anything that doesn't add to his allure.

You don't know about the old gods, but perhaps he is blessed by The Warrior so that no true harm will come to him in battle, or by The Crone so that he has the foresight to keep himself safe.

Or, perhaps he is blessed by The Stranger. It feels the most right as you meet the eyes of the hedge knight, his mask hiding his face, the mystery that surrounds him almost suffocating this close up. With Johnny pressed to your back, his thick forearm around your waist and the hedge knight sat in front of you, his eyes heavy where they trail over every place that you touch Johnny.

It's hard not to imagine being pressed between the two of them in a much more private location. Spread out over the furs in Johnny's tent, the air thick with heat and the smell of sex. It wouldn't have been the first time you had shared a night with the northerner and a second partner, but never had it been with someone so large, so arresting.

is it the gods or your lord father's coin that buys your luck

You aren't surprised that the masked man's voice is deep, it matches the aura that surrounds him. His accent isn't one you recognize and you have been dragged across the realm and have met all kinds of folk. It bothers you that you cannot place this man, that you cannot see his face properly, that the tease of his lips when he pulls down the cloth to drink only drives your curiosity. And that when he speaks to Johnny, it is with a strange mix of the deference demanded by his high born name and a familiarity that speaks to years of camaraderie that the two men do not share.

The night melts in on itself in the way it does when the wine flows and no one seems quite ready to call it. Many of these men are meant to fight in the morn and yet the revelry continues until the light in the lanterns burns low and only flagons of wine remain on the tables. At some point Johnny left you to take a piss and when he stumbled back in it was with a woman on either arm, the three of them finding their way to the makeshift dance floor.

Johnny's raucous laughter could be heard over the instruments and the hum of voices.

Perhaps tonight he is the one playing hard to get.

The hedge knight is a mostly quiet companion, sipping his wine and watching the comings and goings of people around you. You didn't mind it for the most part, the rumors of the other folk could paint him some kind of saint and it would likely be far from the truth. The longer you had sat with him and Johnny the more you thought that to be the case.

He found humor in death and destruction. He is crass just like the other knights that you have met. You consider the possibility that he is honorable and that you could bed him and claim that the babe is his. Even if he is not honorable, he is strong and could protect you.

y'know 'im well

You wish he had asked you anything else. You don't want to talk about Johnny, don't want to see the way those other women paw at him, the way their fingers creep beneath the waistband of the damned kilt, the way their lips touch his skin.

It's not jealousy, but it burns all the same.

Don't know that anyone can truly know Ser MacTavish

Ghost is not known for his tact, he knows this and despite many attempts by his sire to teach him to talk proper, it had never really stuck. He just doesn't see the point in it, why should he bend the knee and talk all prettily to some pockmarked, backwards lordling who doesn't know how to hold a sword or his cock just because his father is lord of some shithole corner of the realm. And yet, he can sense it enough that you don't want to talk about the man currently spinning across the floor with two ditzy maidens.

He can try to talk prettier for you but he doesn't know how to spin fun little tales like Ser MacTavish, Johnny as you called him as he held you in his arms. Ghost doesn't know how to ask someone about their family, where they were raised, how they are liking the view. He can't very well tell you how he looks forward to bashing in the head of the man at the back of the tent, the one with the red hair and missing finger for no other reason than he was fuck ugly and once pissed himself in battle.

Do you have a tent, Ser Ghost

When you are the one to break the silence next he feels deficient in some way. He should be the one entertaining you after the way you entertained the crowds. He should live up to his knightly name somehow. He's even tried to keep his gaze away from your body, it's too easy for his hungry eyes to feast on the slopes of your shoulders, the line of your throat, the peak of your nipples through the dress you wear. He got more than enough of you when you were perched on Johnny's lap looking so pretty.

Aye

He answers while not meeting your eyes, looking back over the dwindling crowd. He knows that he should bid his host good morrow as well, even though he knows sleep will not come easy to him. But it will come better to him if he were in his own tent and not here, sat on this uncomfortable chair, surrounded by strangers and avoiding the first woman to have caught his eye in ages.

It's when you laugh that he finally drags his attention back to you. Back to the way your lips twist into a smile, the way the fire light casts shadows across your skin, the way you reach a gentle hand out and place it on his knee, fingers tightening as you lean closer.

Too close.

Would you like company

He can't help the way he looks to MacTavish before he answers, the man no longer dancing but now arm wrestling with some knight's squire, the baby faced boy looks no older than Ghost was when his sire found him.

Your hand leaves his knee, only to reach up and guide his face back to you. He wonders if you will shy away from his scars if you have no issues with MacTavish's. Ghost's are more, he's not a bonnie lad like the other knight, but perhaps he could be as eager of a lover? MacTavish strikes him as someone who wants to please.

Is it wise to steal you away from his more than gracious host, from the man who vouched for him even though they had never before crossed paths? A man who seems to crave violence and bloodshed with the same fervor as Ghost but with a touch more desire for debauchery and indulgence than Ghost has.

Yet, you are not married to the other knight and if you offer yourself up to Ghost who is he to pass up on the very generous hospitality of his host.

He stands, the movement shaky and abrupt after hours in that chair drinking wine and listening to Mactavish's stories. You stand as well, as if having decided for him that you will be joining him. Or maybe that is wishful thinking, maybe you only intend to retire for the night.

You follow him out the back of the tent into the dark night.

The tourney grounds are not quite quiet, not the way Ghost has grown accustomed to after years living off the land. Besides battles and skirmishes, he's spent most of his nights beneath the stars but MacTavish had insisted on him taking a tent for himself, calling it an investment in Ghost's performance at the tourney. Ghost had never needed it before, but, as he had quickly learned, MacTavish always got his way.

Ghost worries that you are used to finer things than a romp in a tent on a bedroll that is scarcely large enough for himself, however, you do not seem dissuaded by his accommodations because as soon as you are both plunged into the complete darkness of the tent your are plucking at the ties on his shirt.

He bats your hands away, capturing them both in one of his own and holding them between your bodies.

i am not some pretty little lord like MacTavish

don't need you to be pretty

i don't have any fancy words for you

don't need fancy words

what do y'need

i need you to fuck me like the whore i am

He doesn't need more direction than that. Ghost drops your hands, before tearing away the top of your dress, freeing the tits he had been coveting all night. You gasp as he takes each in a hand, pawing at them with calloused fingers. He wants his mouth on you and knows in the dark of the tent you won't be able to see his face, but you wouldn't be able to ignore the feel of his scars once his lips are on you.

You do not have the same qualms. Your own hands pull blindly at the mask, yanking it harshly until you have freed it from his head and toss it into a dark corner of the tent. You drag your nails over his scalp and through his roughly cut hair, uneven tufts that he hasn't properly seen for ages. It sends tingles down his spine, a sensation that is unfamiliar to him and yet leaves him craving more when your hand slips behind his neck in order to pull his mouth to your own.

You don't shy away from his rough kiss, from the cleft in his lip that leaves him face in a permanent scowl, or from the gnarled burn that took one of his ears and mars most of the left side of his face.

Folk believe the masked hedge knight named Ghost to be a monster but the skull mask is a kindness. Even the magnanimous Ser MacTavish would be tempted to turn him away if he were to see Ghost fully. Even his sire hadn't been able to stand the sight of him after a point, it was the old man that had given Ghost the mask, the skull of some unlucky bastard long bleached by the sun on the beaches of Dorne.

You pant into his mouth as his hands venture lower, tearing more and more of your dress until you stand before him bare. He might not be able to see you, but his hands paint a pretty picture as they explore each valley and peak of your body. The heft of your tits, the firm press of your peaked nipples, the soft skin of your stomach, pliant and warm, before his fingers dive between your legs, your wetness caught in the downy hair that covers your mound.

He wants to taste you, but you want to taste him more.

You drop to your knees hard, the ground unforgiving but you are determined to find out if he truly is big everywhere. You do not wait for his assistance, if he can ruin your dress you can rip open his trousers before you suck his cock.

You wish you could see it properly, because the moment you are yanking his pants down his cock springs free, thick and curved as your fingers dance over the only part of this man that is soft. The air is thick with his musk and you lean forward, trailing your tongue down the length of him until you find the tip, a pearl of pre-come waiting as your prize. His hands are quick to find the back of your head when you swallow down the head of his cock. You might be skilled but even you know your limits and taking him fully would only hurt you.

With time though…with time you could take more of him. For now you settle for sucking on what length you can take while you cup his balls in your free hand.

Above you Ghost grunts, his hands tightening where they hold you. You want to hear him come undone, truly undone. Would the giant of a hedge knight cry pretty tears as you bring him to climax over and over? Would he shout as he came? Or curse your name? Or maybe he is silent except for the prettiest little whimpers?

Maybe he would have no patience for your games and simply bring you to heel?

You could be happy with either, but if tonight is the only night you have to convince him to be with you, then you will need to focus.

Ghost pulls you away just when you are sure he is about to come. You whine, annoyed that he stopped you when you had been about to pull away anyway but then he's kicking off his boots, ripping off his tunic and pulling you down to the bedroll.

It's certainly not the most comfortable place you have taken a man, but then it's not the worst, and you are only there for a moment before his is moving your body as if you weigh nothing so that he is upon the ground and your legs are straining to straddle his waist, his cock pressed between your bodies.

You lean down and take is mouth again, enjoying the way he fights for dominance from beneath you. His cock is hot and hard as you grind down on it, it drags against your clit with each move, the tingle of pleasure more than you expected from a partner who isn't Johnny.

does Johnny fuck y'proper till ya come

You snort into his mouth at the outrageous question. Leave it to a man to have your pussy on his cock worrying about how another man fucks you. Would it bother him more to know your Johnny's whore? That you had fucked countless men before the northerner?

You bare down on his cock this time, his head notching just right, his hands flexing where they hold your hips as you press down further. He rolls his own hips up, pushing down with his hands. He is far from fully seated but already you feel the sweat dripping down your back. You take a deep breath, your hands pushing against his chest so that you can sit back, taking more and more on him until he is fully sheathed, his fingers so tight on your hips you are sure you will be bruised.

You certainly won't be able to walk right with the way his cock presses into your womb.

will you fuck me proper till i come

Ghost needs no further encouragement. He doesn't let you set the pace, he lifts your hips with ease before pulling you back down on his cock. Your nails dig into his chest as he pounds into you from below. You don't know that you have ever felt so full, so desired, so wanted.

You collapse forward on his chest as his hands continue to guide your movements. You pray to The Seven that he is not yet close, not at all ready for this night to be over and unsure if he will please you as promised, but perhaps at this pace you could come before he has had his fill of you. 

When Ghost’s hips falter and you are certain he is ready to come you almost cry out in desperation, it’s too soon. Only the hedge knight slips a hand between your bodies, pinching your nipple hard before the wide expanse of his palm comes to rest on your throat, his fingers holding loosely as he pushes you up to ride him properly.

You roll your hips, relishing in the feel of him, the change in angle glorious, his own breathing is labor, his fingers twitching around your throat. His other hand drifts, kneading at your thigh first before shifting so that his thumb can press firmly against your clit, even just the pressure is enough to send a zing of pleasure up your spine, the heat growing beneath your skin until you can't help but clench around him, your own movements becoming unpracticed. 

Come on my cock this time and next time I can ‘ave ya comin’ on my tongue. 

You don't know if it is the promise of a next time or the press of his thumb, but you can't hold back your cry as you tumble over the edge. You slump forward into his hold, the hand against your throat holding you in place as he fucks up into you, finding his own release only moments after. The warmth of him spreads through you, and leaks out around his still hard cock.

Can he truly go again? 

Perhaps you will find out. 

Dawn comes slowly across the tourney grounds. Already squires, and servants and the hosts own staff bustle from here to there. You are already gone when Ghost wakes. It is the first time since he was a young child that he had shared a bed with another and he finds that he strongly wants to do it again. Maybe it was fucking you that had tired him out or it was the comfort of your face pressed to his chest, your warm breath against his skin, your hand clutching on to his wrist as you slept. 

Ghost doesn’t expect to see you again, certainly not as he stands in the shit and the mud that leads into the makeshift fighting pit. He's there among the other fighters, most scarred and while not as frightening a visage as Ghost just as lethal. Sprinkled through the group are squires, baby faced and eager to please. Ghost has never had much use for a squire, but as he watches the boy nearest him fetch the knight he is with a wineskin he thinks it wouldn’t hurt. 

It’s as he muses the benefits of a squire that he spots you. 

You walk alone through the throngs of men, your face impassive as if unbothered by the sights and sounds and smells that surround you. When you spot him you smile and though you cannot see it he smiles back. 

He doesn’t miss the way the other men watch you, some of the squires openly staring as you walk by. 

You make your way to him with dainty steps, carefully avoiding the worst of the muck and the grime, but not all of it. The hem of your dress is quickly dirtied. This one more modest and far more fine, yet still not capable of hiding the curves on your hips, the thickness of your thighs, or the plushness of your tits. Is there a way Ghost could steal you away now? Or rip the eyes out of every one of these green little boys who don’t deserve the sight of you?

Ghost had come to the tourney in search of a master, but maybe what he was in search of all along was a wife? He could fuck you again tonight and pray to The Mother for her blessing, certainly you wouldn't leave him if it was his child that took root in your womb. 

He shifts his stance, cock hard and uncomfortable in his armor but he can't stop his fantasies of filling you with his seed even as you come to a stop at his side. Still radiant, still smiling only for him. 

Would you accept my favor, Ser Ghost

A lady’s favor?

He had seen other knights and noblemen receive favors from their women before battle. Tokens of luck and well tidings. A thing that he had never once received himself. He never made an effort to speak to the men around him, he was most certainly not talking to the women. 

Ghost simply nods, not finding the right words to accept such a blessing. Your eyes shine with an admiration he does not deserve as you pull from your pocket a wispy piece of fabric, delicate and fragile, a piece of the dress he had savagely ripped apart because he had not been able to handle even that insignificant of a barrier between your skin and his touch. 

You grab his wrist and pull it towards you. He cannot feel your touch through the gauntlet he wears, but he can remember the feel of your fingers, warm and persistent the night before. With ease you undo the gauntlet, handing it to him before wrapping the delicate strip of fabric around his wrist. You don't wrap it tightly, but you take care to ensure it is secure before replacing the gauntlet. You don't let go.

I'll pray to The Warrior for your safe return

You lift his hand up and place a single kiss to the cool metal of the gauntlet before pulling away. He watches you leave until he can no longer see you in the crowd of tourney goers. He is happy you left, for had you stayed by his side for any longer he was not sure he could have remained a gentleman.

Ghost eyes his competition again, this time with a far more discerning eye, each man here was an obstacle between him and you. He could not accept your favor and not win for you. Once he is victorious he will be deserving of you.

And if he must spend the whole night fucking a baby into you in order to convince you to stay with him, then he will do just that.

The tourney starts the same as all tourneys start. Johnny has grown bored of the airs that the nobles around him put on at these things. It's just folly for old men who were past their prime and green wee lads who had yet to see true war.

Johnny has done his part since coming of age to defend his own ancestral lands as well as fight the king's wars. The excitement of battle, the glory of victory, the parades of admirers had all grown old to him. Even the lavish banquets and perfectly decorated tents left him feeling unsatisfied.

The first thing to have caught his eye in a very long time had been you. Devious, discerning and oh so damaged. It hadn't taken much for him to convince you to follow him after he found you in that rundown, backwaters tavern. A few piles of gold coins and you were his.

Of course, you weren't his sole source of entertainment then, but it hadn't taken long for you to become his favorite. Yet, you vexed him so as you sat next to him in the viewing stands, using his position as a lord's son to get a prime spot to watch the fights. Never before had you been so engaged in the men fighting in the tourney, your attention had always been on him.

That is what he pays you to do, but he had come to hope that maybe a bit of it was a mutual fondness.

Although, he can't blame you when it is Ser Ghost who is taking the field. Johnny has seen many kinds of men in battle from all across Westeros. Never has a man drawn him in the way Ser Ghost has. He had heard talk of a hedge knight's companion who was inhumane on the field, a monster that haunted his enemies' dreams, the kind of warrior that played the villain and never the hero.

Johnny had been curious about him long before they had met.

Even Johnny can't help but lean forward as Ghost approaches his opponent. In full armor Ghost is stunning, with Johnny's help and coin he could be a sight to see, polished steel with gold trim would not do for a man with such a dark aura yet Johnny can't help but imagine him so before imagining the other knight covered in blood as Johnny removes each piece of armor before revealing the man behind the mask.

Have you seen his face?

It had been hard to ignore the fact that you had abandoned him at his own feast. That his guest of honor had absconded with his favorite pet had hurt, but to think that you had had the honor of seeing Ghost's face first? Johnny felt a stab of jealousy that he was not quite used to.

You gasp at the first hit, hand finding his and gripping it tightly. You wore the dress Johnny had brought for you, the kind of thing that wouldn't stand out among the other noblewomen who sat around you. You did not often talk of your past, but you wore this type of garment with ease, too much ease for someone who had been born to a lowborn family. Over time Johnny has dressed you more and more like the type of lady he was expected to be seen with, so slowly, and so carefully that he is certain you haven't realized what he is doing.

You also had yet to realize that he no longer took pleasure in his other companions, all of them knew not to tell you. It surprised him as it was your wit that endeared you to him after your beauty had lured him in. You were oh so clever until it came to this one thing. And had you noticed, you would have realized that by leaving him last night you had sentenced him to servicing himself.

Johnny had come twice to the image of you sucking his cock while Ghost fucked your pretty pretty pussy.

Does it hurt through the armor

Ghost doesn't even flinch when the other man's long sword hits him in the chest. A well calculated blow that allows Ghost to disarm the man as he attempts to pull back the sword that is far too heavy for him. If it hurts, Ghost makes no move to indicate it as a man runs onto the field to claim him the victor of this match. Two more opponents and Ghost win the prize for hand-to-hand. A handsome sum of money awaits the victor, but not nearly what Johnny could offer him.

Will ye kiss it better if it does

You drop his hand in shock, turning away from him and pretending to look very interested in the next pair of fighters.

Could it be that you like Ghost more than him?

You choke down a squeal as he pulls you into his lap, the boning in your dress sticking into his chest as he holds you tight, resting his chin on your shoulder the same way he had done the night before so that he can still see the fight. It does not seem this one is nearly as interesting to you as Ghost's.

Johnny wishes he hadn't given you such a well-structured dress for today, the stiff bodice is tragically separating him from feeling your plush stomach, it comforts him to feel just how alive you are. He settles for one hand holding you in place while the other grasps your thigh through layers of thick fabric. He hopes you will let him fuck you in the dress before dinner, then it will be his come dripping down your legs while you sit between him and his guest of honor.

It does not surprise him when the last match of the day is between Ghost and a knight from Storm’s End who looks like he has been mauled by a bear and put back together. Johnny has met this man, more than once, and luckily only ever as allies. While not quite as tall as Ghost, he is broad and barrel chested, and Johnny once saw him rip a man'ss jaw off with his bare hands. Ser Ulric the Jawbreaker.

Johnny would be terribly disappointed to see Ghost meet a similar fate today.

Seriously maiming or killing your opponent wasn't the goal of these tourneys, the lords and king would not approve of all of their best knights dying for the spectacle of it. Yet, on a day like today where the crowds pressed in close, the sun bared down on the folk gathered and the wine skins had been drained thoroughly it wasn't a surprise to hear calls from the crowd demanding blood.

You stiffen in Johnny's hold when the match starts, your nails digging into his skin where you grasp his wrist. He doesn't mind it, he is the one who has gotten the pleasure of keeping you in his lap all day, feeding you fruit from a bowl and sips of wine from a chalice.

Your hold on him tightens each time Ghost takes a hit from Ulric. From the viewing platform most are on the edge of their seats, many have coin bet on this match. Ulric is the favored fighter, despite the rumors around the tourney grounds that Ghost is some unworldly being, Ulric is known to the nobles. The gathered lords and ladies have seen him at tourneys before, the other knights have fought along side him. He is more than just speculation and whispered rumors.

Even you have seen The Jawbreaker take down countless opponents.

It's why you are crying out when you see Ulric land a blow on the back of Ghost's leg, the place unprotected by armor, the move of a swordsman who knows how to take down an opponent one-on-one. You squirm in Johnny's hold until you can hide your face in his neck, a completely undignified move that gets you curious stares from a few of the ladies that sit nearby. Johnny does not care, let those other ladies sit stiffly next to their husbands, stuffy old fucks who probably couldn't even get it up.

Johnny holds the back of your head gently, keeping your face turned away from the fight but not able to look away himself. He whispers to you in words he knows you do not understand but have always found comfort in, even now you melt into his hold, flinching each time the crash of swords on metal echoes through the field.

Ghost is limping now, blood dripping down his leg and pooling on the crushed grass as he studies his opponent. Both men are breathing heavily, this has been by far the longest match and they won't stop it until the winner is clear and by the cacophonous shouts from the crowd it will only end when one of the two has died.

For the briefest moment Ghost's gaze flicks up to the crowd, to the stands where Johnny sits with you. Its' a subtle movement, something that Johnny only notices because he hasn't once looked away from Ghost. He can't make out the other man's eyes from here, shaded by the helm he wears, but Johnny can feel that gaze, heavy and dark.

Is the other man jealous? Does he covet you, the woman Johnny holds so carefully in his arms? Does Ghost think there is a future with you that does not include him? Does Ghost think there is a future where he is not at Johnny's side?

Johnny grins, because he knows Ghost can see his face, can see the way you are tucked in close. He leans in and kisses the side of your head, smoothing his hand down your back in a move that to anyone else looks like he is comforting you, but its more than that. Ghost needs to understand that you are his, that it doesn't matter that you fucked the masked man, the knight with the skull helm, the mysterious hedge knight who might be a god that walks among them.

None of that matters because at the end of the night it was Johnny's tent you came back to smelling of sex with another man's come dried on your skin. It was Johnny who held you now in the stands with the other fancily dressed folk that even as a proper knight Ghost wouldn't be able to join.

Ghost knows this, knows that Johnny could never beat him in the field but has him beat in so many other ways. Maybe it is jealousy, or rage, or simply Ghost's nature, but the man merely tilts his head in acknowledgement before his gaze turns back on the other knight.

They circle each other, each step leaving behind a print in the mud, the trodden grass a map of their fight, each divet and scrap tracking their path. They come together again, swords clashing, one man grunting as the other swears, the two scrambling for control, for dominance. Even Johnny freezes as they fall to the ground, no longer a fight between two knights, they are simply animals who know that the only way to live is for the other to die.

The crowd has reached a fever pitch, there's no way you can hear Johnny's voice as he tries to assure you its almost over. Ulric has Ghost on his back, a heavy knee bearing down on Ghost's chest. In the fray Ulric has lost his helm, but Ghost has lost his sword. Ulric spits in Ghost's face, bloody globs drip down his helm as the other knight grins, his mouth full of bloody teeth. Its the look of someone who knows that they have won.

Johnny doesn't often pray to the old gods, it has been ages since he stepped foot in the godswood of his youth. There may be no heartrees in this southern land and no gods to hear his prayer, but he asks it of them anyway. It has only been a day but he does not want this knight to die. How utterly disappointing it will be to win you merely because Ghost has died at the hands of another man?

He will never know if it was the will of the gods, or simply the determination and strength of the man who has captured his attention, but Ghost raises hand, Ulric's discarded helm clasped in his fingers and smashes the other man in the side of the head. It is enough for him to lose focus, allowing Ghost to flip the two of them. Ulric is still armed, his sword now pressed beneath the fauld and grazing Ghost's stomach.

Ghost doesn't give the other man a chance to gut him. With the might of a knight not fully man, Ghost bring down the helm again, Ulric crying out first in surprise and then in pain as his face is hit over and over, the ornate edge of the helm breaking through his nose, then his eye socket and then the soft grey matter of his brain.

Ghost doesn't stop until there is nothing left but viscera. When he stands, the other knight's sword falls to the ground with a clatter, covered in blood. A man runs to the field, grasping Ghost's hand and raising it to the crowd as he proclaims him the victor.

When Johnny tells you it's over, you pull away from him, face tear stained and eyes wide. It doesn't seem you believe him until you see Ghost for yourself.

I want to go to him

Of course you do, not even a day since you met this man and you are pulling away from Johnny for him.

he's injured, he needs help

The tourney has a maester that will tend to him, Johnny had spoken to him when you had snuck away to give the knight your favor. Johnny knew what you were doing, saw the little strand of dress wrapped around your fingers as your nervously searched the grounds for the man you had only left hours before.

Johnny lets you go.

If he is in a foul mood that night no one mentions it to him. No one approaches him to dance, no one dares to take the seat next to him, no one dares to ask about you or Ghost. But he hears them whispering about Ghost regardless, late in the night when he typically would have sought you out, when the lights shimmer and the world spins, that's when he hears them.

'e's a monster, a'right

aye, 'eard 'e snatches up men's wives in the night

well i 'eard 'e eats the 'earts of the men 'e kills

ah 'eard 'e steals bairn tae bathe in they're blood

You do not return to his tent in the morning. He dresses for the joust, attendants scurrying around him as they attach his armor. You've never missed sending him off, never not given him a kiss to his helm before he mounts his horse. It reminds him of the days before he found you, different women in his bed each night, none lasting more than a few, very few willing to follow him into battle.

Johnny learns how Ghost felt the day before. The other knight is in the crowd of common folk, his height making him easy to spot. You are with him, huddled in between his arms, peering over the barrier to watch the knights who joust before him. When he is announced you smile and cheer for him just as you always did, but this time you are not alone.

The joust ends with little fanfare, Johnny lets himself be unhorsed early in the day. It would have been more dangerous to continue on distracted as he was. He doesn't see you after the joust, nor at his tent that night. It isn't until the next morning that you reappear in his orbit, your shadow not far behind.

There is a defiant challenge written across your face as you approach, some decision having been made between when he saw you last and this moment. Ghost is unreadable behind his mask, but he drapes a possessive arm over your shoulder.

Cannae believe ye stole mah pet

Ghost's hold tightens and Johnny doesn't miss the way you lean into the other man's touch.

I'm pregnant and it's Ser Ghost's and we are leaving together.

Pregnant? Your hand comes to rest on your stomach, the move drawing both men's attention down. You look no different, tired maybe but you spent the last three nights with a man that strikes Johnny as a thorough lover. And you shouldn't look different, its far too early for you to be showing, too early for you to even know. How could you know unless...

Johnny smiles. It's too early for you to know that you are pregnant by Ghost, the man could have spent all night fucking his come into you and it would still be too early to know, but it wouldn't be too early for you to know if it was someone else's.

Johnny congratulates you, praises The Mother for your good fortune. Ghost nods, but says nothing. Johnny lets them leave thinking they will part ways, start their new life with Ghost's winnings, but Johnny has other plans.

Even if that child were to be Ghost's it wouldn't matter. Johnny has grown tired of tourneys, and fighting, and sleeping in tents and pissing in the woods. His father has grown old, maybe he will suffer a fall, catch a cold from which he cannot recover or pass peacefully in his sleep and it will be time for Johnny to take his place as the lord of their lands.

(you're not ready to pop. actually, you're just carrying more than one and you're ready to kill your husband over it).

your smile is so warm when you look at him. his muscles relax and his mind quietens for the first time in a long while. "can i help you?" you ask him, voice sweet like honey.

johnny clears his throat. he stops looking at your face, instead looking at your carefully painted baby blue nails. for just a moment, he wonders if it's a clue as to what you're carrying.

his tongue darts out to wet his lips. "is simon riley here?" he asks.

your eyes seem to sparkle at that. "oh!" you cry, and johnny dares to look at you. "you must be johnny! wait right here."

you retreat into the house, leaving the door ajar like you know and trust him. but you don't. you have no idea who he is, just what ghost has told you. but still, you left the door open.

johnny wants to push it open some more. to reveal this secret perfect life ghost has been keeping from him, from all of them.

because this, the pregnant wife, the kids running around, the dog barking somewhere in the background, is everything johnny has ever wanted.

johnny hears ghost before he sees him. the lumbering footsteps that sound like they should shake the whole house. "daddy!" a little girl cries, and johnny wants to imagine ghost playing the part, but he just can't.

but ghost doesn't pull open the front door. simon riley did. without the mask, scars on display, blonde hair sticking up in all directions. but the most striking thing is the little girl on his hip, sucking her thumb like she's blanketed in complete safety.

"christ, LT," johnny says before he can stop himself. the little girl gasps and goes to cover her ears. "you got it pretty good here."

simon looks around and nods. "yeah, i do," he answers and tips his head, gesturing for johnny to follow him.

johnny does, pushing the front door shut behind him.

the inside of the house is lovely, too. plants and kids toys everywhere. every sofa has an array of cushions and blankets. there's enough dog beds for johnny to wonder how many dogs you've got.

simon puts the little girl down and she runs through the house, out to the garden. "full of beans at that age," simon says as he leads johnny through the house.

they stop at the kitchen, where you're making enough sandwiches to feed a small army. simon reaches for you, settles his hands on your waist and pulls you into him.

hearing your laugh, standing there as a spectator, feels so wrong to johnny. but what else can he do?

simon whispers something in your ear and you nod. "I'll make up the spare room after lunch," you say and simon kisses your shoulder. "what would you like for dinner, johnny?"

johnny shakes his head. "whatever's fine," he says as simon moves over to the fridge. it's covered in magnets and drawings, not an inch of actual door to be seen. simon pulls it open and grabs two beers from inside the door.

johnny follows Simon outside. the back garden is gorgeous, too. a little swing set, a furniture set surrounding a fire pit. somehow, johnny can imagine you put here with simon, tucked against his side with the fire burning in front of you while the kids are asleep upstairs.

the little girl from before swings on the swing set while a little boy rides his trike around. simon picks him up as he comes zipping past, knocking the trike over and hoisting him up onto his hip.

"papa!" the little boy shrieks. he kicks his legs excitedly and simon presses a kiss to the top of his head.

"say hello to papas friend," he says and nods towards johnny.

the little boy waves his hands. "hello mister!" he says and simon puts him down. he's immediately on his trike and riding away.

"my entire fuckin' world, those two," simon mumbles as he sits on the garden sofa. there's an umbrella, but it's not open.

"got another on the way?" johnny asks, like he didn't notice your swollen belly.

simon chuckles and opens his beer (a corona, the lime forgotten about). "two, actually," he says and stretches his arm across the back of the sofa, leaving a space for you.

johnny takes the seat opposite. "thanks for this, LT," he says quietly, looking around the garden. at the greenhouse, at the flower garden, at the vegetable patch. he looks towards the house, at you in the kitchen window, at the dog guarding the back door. "you've got it good out here."

"I do," simon agrees. he's got it real good. good wife, good kids, good life. "thought you could use a bit of it, johnny."

his throat burns as he nods. "yeah," he answers.

he'd kept himself so guarded, protected those around him from his own mind. and he thought he saw that in ghost. he does see that in ghost.

but ghost isn't in front of him. simon riley is. simon riley has everything.

"you've not got the mask on," johnny says.

simon chuckles. "wife doesn't like it," he says. "don't want the kids to see it, either."

they drink as the kids play, chatting about anything that isn't work (you've got a rule. no work talk while the kids are awake). at some point, you brought over a bowl of cut up fruit. the kids joined the three of you, snatching pieces of fruit and feeding it to the dog at your feet.

it really is a little slice of heaven. the kids asking him questions, pointing at his tattoos, asking how he knows their daddy. your little girl, trinity, stood for a full minute, explaining to concept of twins to him. it's sweet and relaxing and everything johnny needs.

"okay, my munchins," you say as you stand up. you pick up the now empty bowl and head towards the house, the dog at your feet and the children behind you.

simon's got this sickeningly loving look on his face, a look johnny should never get to see. but he does and it's lovely.

"you're gonna get to see bed time," simon says and finishes his beer. "it's always fun with those two."

johnny let's himself smile. "can't wait," he says and looks up at the sky. "your wife is gorgeous, LT," he mumbles.

"yeah," he agrees and looks at him. "she's really something. fucking horny, too. you know, pregnancy and all that. 's been amazin'."

Johnny's eyes widen. "huh," he says, finishing his beer.

"yup." they're both staring at the house, at you in the kitchen. "she'd probably be down to let you fuck her."

johnny nearly chokes. "seriously?!"

“I don’t know… what is there to look forward to these days? I don’t have any friends or family… what am I supposed to be looking forward to when all I see when I look toward the future is a blank abyss staring straight back? How could I possibly have anything to look forward to when the only things in my life are reminders of the worst things to ever happen to me?”

Instead of doodling on his notepad the way he normally would during one of your weekly sessions, Doctor Martins is taking quick notes and nodding along with a few of the things you say. 

He hasn’t been able to extrapolate much from your weekly sessions till this point.

You just haven’t had much to say. 

“It’s gotten to a point where I can’t help but question if saving my life was the right thing to do.”

His pen scratches the paper with such force it tears it a little. 

“Miss Doe, your life matters. It well and truly does.”

You snort and give your head a tiny shake. 

“Not sure how a life like this could matter.”

He opens his mouth to speak again, but the little timer on his desk chimes softly, signalling the end of your session. 

You give him a bland smile and rise to your feet. 

“Looks like we’re out of time for today. Until next time, Doc.”

He watches you silently, a little worried for you as you leave the room, but not worried enough to do anything about it. 

One of your handlers is waiting outside in the car, silent as you get in and silent as she drives toward your safe house. 

The entire ride, you’re pondering… everything. 

Everything you’ve lost. From your friends to your family to your new friends and new family to John. Hell, even Ruth is on that list. 

But now you’re stuck with Agent Greene and Agent Patel and sometimes Agent Ryback and being around any of them is as riveting as watching paint dry. 

Maybe, you decide, they’re this boring because you’ve never opened the door for any sort of conversation or friendship. 

Eventually, when you pull up to the house, you turn to Agent Greene and give her a friendly smile. 

“Did you want to come in for a coffee or something?” The words are rushed and blurted, but she doesn’t flinch. She only gives you a polite smile and unlocks the doors. 

“I don’t think that would be appropriate for your safety.”

You blink at her once, then turn and exit the car without another word. 

Welp. There goes the door to conversation or friendship slamming in your face. 

As you sulk your way through your little safe house, you can’t help but think bitter thoughts about your last team. 

Maybe if they had Agent Greene’s mentality, they would’ve kept you safe. 

It’s a stupid thought, especially when you remember that you asked Simon to put you in harm's way. 

Price hadn’t wanted to put you in that position. He didn’t want to end the daydream. Maybe he was on to something.

Tears are streaming down your cheeks as you get into the shower. 

How is this all that your life is now? 

You find yourself thinking, as you so often do these days, that it would be better if that bullet had killed you.

~*~

Price is nursing his second cup of ‘tea’ when there’s a knock on the door. 

He ignores it, as he usually does, and looks through the files on his desk for the most prospective opp. 

It's been less than a week since he got back from his last one.

The door opens and the big bear at the desk sighs, glaring at the person who dares to enter his cave. 

“Don’t remember saying you could come in.”

Simon ignores his grumbling and makes himself comfortable in the chair across from his Captain, watching him for a long while. 

He looks bad, Simon notes. Though, he and the boys noticed this starting several months ago. His eyes are tired and dull, weighed down by heavy bags.

Simon’s not sure the last time he saw the Captain leave base for any reason besides work, much less get a good night’s sleep. The man looks old and grey and withered. He reeks of sweat, booze, tobacco, and a hint of misery to top it off.

Hard to believe the only difference is the lack of one pain-in-the-ass little dove. 

His strong, revered Captain looks old, tired, a little bit drunk, and straight up bad. 

Only when the vein on Price’s forehead pulses with enough force to burst does Simon lean forward and drop a piece of paper on the desk.

Price stares at it for a long moment, flicking his eyes between the paper and Simon’s eyes before leaning forward and taking it between his fingers. 

He’s not sure what it is at first. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. 

They’re coordinates. That much is obvious. 

But where and what they’re for is beyond him. 

He stares at the coordinates intently, as if watching them will somehow reveal their destination.

“S’been like watching a two-legged dog hobble around these past few months,” Simon finally says, glancing at the paper. “Figured I might as well put you out of your misery.”

Misery? 

How could this possibly…

He glances up at Simon, eyes asking the question his tongue refuses to taste. 

Simon only looks pointedly at the coordinates once again. 

When Price had given you that manila folder with your new life inside, he refused to take a single look. He couldn’t bring himself to read one tiny detail about you or your new life. Hell, he doesn’t even know the names of your handlers. 

If he knew anything, he would’ve found you by now. 

He needed a clean break. No loose ends. 

And he’s been fine! Has he been drinking… more than he used to? Yeah, so what? That happens when you’re in the field of work he finds himself to be in. Has he been struggling maybe a little bit with sleeping at night? Mmmmm how is that anybody’s business but his own? 

He was fine.

And then in saunters Simon Riley, loosening his meticulously tied ends. 

Like the man could let his Captain lose his bird. 

Fat chance. 

Simon’s kept tabs on you since you and the team parted ways.

Good ones, at that. 

“You sure about this?” Price finally asks, looking at his lieutenant. Instead of sorrow and exhaustion and guilt swimming in his eyes, Simon sees hope. For the first time in months. 

Simon gives him a very slow nod, then rises to his feet and turns to the door. 

He pauses with one hand on the doorknob. 

“She needs you.”

Price stares at the coordinates as the door shuts behind Simon. His eyes are stinging but he refuses to blink - scared that the coordinates may be gone when he reopens his eyes.

Finally, for a fraction of a second, his top lashes meet his bottom ones and when they separate again the coordinates are still on the paper.

He lets out an incredulous little laugh and shoves himself to his feet. 

The whiskey in his teacup is in the trash can beside his desk, and then he’s marching over to the coffee maker to start sobering up. 

~*~

You trudge up the walkway to your safehouse with a scowl on your face. 

It’s hot, blazingly so. You feel hot and sticky and sweaty and sore from physio and just plain miserable. 

Summer is supposed to be fun. Full of days at the beach, pool parties, and backyard barbecues. 

Instead, it feels like an endless march through the heat toward an unknown and, possibly worse, destination. 

All your life consists of these days is therapy for your gunshot wound, and more therapy for what your gunshot wound did to your brain. 

Not the most stimulating existence. 

As you lock the door, goosebumps rise on your skin. 

Something feels off. 

You turn slowly, heart racing as you expect the worst. 

Instead, there’s nothing. 

You heave a sigh and push away from the door, freezing when you enter the kitchen. 

There’s a bag on the table that does not belong. 

Your heart is pounding in your ears as you sweep the house for hostiles. 

For Makarov. 

“Your new team isn’t nearly as good as your old one.” 

You gasp, almost shriek, and grab your chest as Captain John Price steps into view. 

“Captain,” you whisper, breathless and still a little afraid. “Are they here?”

The question breaks his heart a bit, and he curses the forces that brought the two of you to meet. 

When he’s not thanking them profusely for dropping you in his path, he’s cursing them for the way they did it.

He shakes his head and takes a step toward you with his hands raised in surrender. 

Only then do you really take a good look at him. 

He’s not dressed in his usual military attire. No, he’s wearing dark jeans, a sweater, and a hat on top of his head.

His face looks tired and worn, and for a moment you find yourself remembering the ‘Grandpa’ comment from all that time ago. 

He’s never looked older. 

“You’re safe,” he whispers. “It’s just me.”

Your shoulders shrug as a sigh whooshes from your chest, and Price feels himself calm down a tiny bit when you visibly relax. 

“What are you doing here?” You finally ask, wringing your hands together. 

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Then opens it one more time to let out a sigh. 

“I… wasn’t going to,” he admits softly. “I didn’t know where you were. I… I tried not to know. I knew that if I knew where you were… who you were now… I wouldn’t be able to keep myself away.”

Your heart is in your stomach, and your stomach is in your ass as his words process in your mind. 

“H-how did you find me?” You manage to whisper.

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes focused on you, watching you as intently as you’re watching him. 

He’s reading you. Reading your body and taking you in after all this time. 

He still has nightmares of your lifeless body on the cold, hard floor, blood pouring from your chest. 

But here you are in front of him now, on your feet. Alive. 

He’s missed you. 

A lot. 

A lot more than he realized, now that he’s with you again. 

“You left quite an impression on us, Dove. S’not just me who missed you.”

One of the others, you realize. Likely Johnny or Kyle. Certainly not Simon. Right?

“Why are you here?” What does he want? Why is he here? What happens next?

“Because I don’t want to be anywhere without you anymore.”

“B-but what about…” you trail off and look around pointedly. 

You can’t exactly just march out of here hand-in-hand without some sort of explanation to your handlers.

Price raises a brow at your lack of imagination. He has no intention of telling those squares a lick of what’s about to go down. 

“Pack what you need. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”

Price is pleasantly surprised to find out that you learned a thing or two during your time with him and Task Force 141. You’re back down the stairs with an emergency bag over your shoulder in just under two minutes. 

“You’ve got all you need in there?” He asks. He knows you do, he just can’t believe this is really happening. 

You nod up at him, smiling and a little breathless. 

“Yup. I was just using the bathroom. I imagine we’ve got a long drive ahead of us?”

Price gives you a wicked grin and leads you to the back door. 

“The drive isn’t too bad. It’s the flight that’ll be long.”

Whatever you thought was going to happen when you got home from physio, this is beyond that. This… it’s beyond even your wildest dreams.

Price leads you out the back door and down to the back lane where an old sedan with tinted windows is waiting. 

He walks confidently without shame. He knows he has nothing to worry about.

The cameras have long since been deactivated, and Kyle already cleared him a straight path from the house to the chopper. 

Now, the only thing he has to worry about is what music you’ll want to listen to in the car ride over. 

~*~

(the) Price is right, the flight is long. Ridiculously so. But some hours or days later, after another car ride and a ferry, you’re standing outside of your new home. 

It’s large, two storeys, and the exterior walls are composed of different light-coloured stones and bricks. It shines like a beacon of hope against the gloomy grey skies.

The feeling that bubbles up inside of you is bittersweet. 

“You doin’ alright over there?” John asks, grabbing your bag from the car and coming up to stand beside you. 

You nod at him and give him a teary smile. 

This is it.

As if. 

He leads you up toward the oak front door and holds it open for you like a true gentleman. 

You take your shoes off at the front door and slowly make your way through the house. 

The rooms are spacious and hold lots of potential, but are scarcely decorated and hardly furnished. 

You’re not sure if you expected the man to have had Martha Stewart’s input when decorating his home or what, but the lack of warmth in his home fills you with excitement. 

A project. 

From painting the walls to adding some homey touches, you know his home - your home now, too - has more than enough potential. 

“I’ve got two guest bedrooms here, if you’re needing your own space at all. They’re both down that hall, and there’s a bathroom on the other side as well. But this here is the master bedroom. Ensuit is just through there.”

You follow Price as he leads you into the bedroom, going in the direction of the master bathroom to have a look. 

He trails after you, watching you with a soft smile on his face. 

This feels good. This feels right. 

Though the rest of the house may be open to opportunity and potential, the master bathroom is the one area that Price put the time and money into maximizing. 

The shower is massive, with two waterfall showerheads raining down from the ceiling and another adjustable one against the wall. 

As if the shower wasn’t enough, he’s got a lovely freestanding oval tub that almost looks like it was custom-built to accommodate his massive size. 

After hours and hours and hours of travel, you could certainly get behind a hot shower or bath. 

Especially if you have some help. 

You’re suddenly reminded of the promise he made back in the bunker. 

You’d be lying if you said you haven’t spent a night or two (or more) with your fingers between your folds, dreaming of him fulfilling his promise one day. 

Today is that day. It has to be. 

Tugging open the shower door, you turn the water on hot and watch in awe as warm water rains down. 

Without saying a word, you begin to undress. 

Price stands in the doorway of the bathroom, thick arms crossed over his chest as he watches you slowly get undressed. 

His cock stirs in his trousers as you reveal inch after inch of gloriously naked skin to him. 

Oh, how he’s only ever dreamed of being allowed to witness something so sacred. 

You’re fully naked now, bare back toward him as you stick your toes under the spray to test the water. 

He drinks in every inch of you with hungry eyes. 

The curves, dimples, stretch marks, and scars. 

Every perfect piece of you, bare for him to view. 

And then you’re stepping into the shower and the water is cascading down your body and he swears his heart stops. 

Michelangelo himself longs for such a muse. 

You keep your back to him, almost like you’re pretending he’s not there, as you start to help the water familiarize itself with your body. 

Price’s breath catches in his throat when you turn to the side, giving him just enough of a view of your front to have him drooling and ready to beg for more. 

“Am I supposed to be doing this alone? Or are you coming to join me?” Your voice is silky smooth and carries on the steam across the bathroom over to where he stands in the doorway. 

Or rather, where he stood. 

As soon as your words reach his ears, his clothes are pooled on the floor and he’s stepping into the shower behind you. 

You can’t help the little gasp that leaves you when you find your hips held in his hands and his hips pressed against your ass. 

He says nothing, only pushes the two of you forward until you’re both under the full spray of the shower. 

The water rains down on the two of you, hot and steamy and a little suffocating as he slowly rocks his hips against you. 

A whimper tumbles past your lips and your eyes fall closed. 

This is bliss. 

This is home. 

“If memory serves correctly,” he whispers, lips dusting over the shell of your ear. “I made you a promise.”

He sure did.

One of his hands leaves your hip and begins its slow and wet journey up your body. 

Your breath hitches when his hand cups your breast, and he pauses there for a moment. 

He tucks his chin onto your shoulder and watches as his own hand squeezes your supple breast. 

“Fuckin look at you,” he whispers, pinching your hardened nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You whine at the touch and arch your back, pushing your chest further into his hand. 

He chuckles, low and gravelly, and pulls on your nipple until you whimper. 

“Such a desperate girl for me, aren’t you?”

You’re nodding before his words have fully registered in your brain, and that only makes him laugh again.

You frown at that and turn around to glare up at him, ignoring the water pouring down on your face. 

“Don’t laugh at me.”

The gruff man before you smiles softly at your pout, index finger dragging against your bottom lip for a moment.

“Sorry, Dove. You make it hard, though.” He means that in more ways than one, and your eyes drop down to his crotch instinctively. 

He watches as your eyes widen and your throat bobs with a gulp. 

He wonders what it would feel like to have you swallow around him like that. 

“What? What’s got you lookin’ so scared?” He asks, tauntingly. To punctuate his words, his cock jumps.

You shake your head and look back up at him, pupils blown. 

“Please.” One word. Six letters. 

He’ll give you anything you want.

In an instant, you find yourself bracing against the shower wall, wet fingers splayed against the tile as Price’s hand in your hair tugs your head back. 

“You gonna trust me?” He asks, dragging his nose down the side of your throat. 

You nod breathlessly, desperate to see what he’s going to do next. To feel what he’s going to do next. 

He gives your hair a tug at the root, teeth grazing over your neck. 

“I asked you a question.”

Oh.

Your legs wobble and your head gets a little airy. 

“Y-yes,” you whisper. 

You can feel his mouth pull into a smile before he sinks his teeth into your skin. 

The sound that leaves you is half cry and half gasp, and John is quick to soothe his tongue over the spot. 

“Sorry, honey,” he murmurs, pressing kiss after sweet kiss to your neck. “I need to taste you.”

Your knees grow even weaker. 

The hand on your waist slowly slinks around to the front of your body, following the water droplets until he’s dipping his fingers beneath the waterfall at the apex of your thighs. 

His fingers spread around your slit, avoiding your more sensitive areas, and instead, they engulf every other inch of you between your thighs. 

He stuffs his big hand between your plush thighs and cups your mound gingerly, making sure to keep his warm fingers away from your aching core. 

“You’ve been seein’ anyone? Hmm? Let anyone else touch this pussy?” His crass words make a gasp bubble out of you. 

“N-no.” 

He knows that already. 

“Hmmm… should I see if you’re lying?”

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure what you’re supposed to say. But he doesn’t mind. 

He waits until you spread your pretty thighs apart for him, and then he’s slowly dipping the tip of his middle finger into your sopping cunt. 

He’s gentle. 

Painfully so. 

The rough pad of his finger just circles your dripping hole, never going beyond the tip. He can feel you clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled. It’s cute. 

He plays with you like this for a moment, his mouth at your throat and his finger at your hole. 

For a moment, you feel like a puppet, and he, your master. 

Well, maybe for more than just a moment. 

Finally, he ends your suffering and slides his digit in to the hilt.

You suck in a sharp breath and quickly sputter out the water. 

“You alright?” 

You nod quickly, rocking your hips into his hand desperately. 

He starts a slow, steady pace. Thrusting his finger in and pulling it back out, thrusting - pulling. Until he stops to wiggle it against your gummy walls and your toes start to curl. 

“O-oh!” 

Price chuckles at your reaction.

“Honey, this is just the beginning. Need you to relax a bit if you expect to take my cock.”

You clamp down around his finger at his words, and he shakes his head in mock disappointment. 

“Should I stop?”

“No!” Your voice echoes in the bathroom. “Please…” 

He gives your neck another nip and kisses it better right after. 

“You think you can handle another, then?” 

You nod immediately, and then he’s sliding his middle finger out to slip it back in alongside his ring finger. The stretch is noticeable but not at all unpleasant, and you find yourself relaxing into his hold. 

The hand in your hair moves down until it finds your breasts, and he gives them each a harsh squeeze. You sigh softly at the feeling, undulating your hips in rhythm with the thrusting of his fingers within you. 

“You’re stunning,” he whispers, breath hot against your skin. 

His fingers press against your walls firmly, intentionally stretching you out to get you ready to take his heavy, weeping cock. 

Your cunt is tight and warm and soaking around his fingers. He’s not sure he’ll last more than a pump or two inside you, if he’s being completely honest. 

He’s spent countless nights fisting his cock to the memory of you. Now that he gets to have you? Cardiac might come to arrest him!

“Oh!” Your hips arch back when his fingers hit a spot inside of you that makes you see stars. 

“Right there? That the spot?” 

You nod like an idiot and drop your mouth open to moan when he hits that spot again and again and again and again.

With every thrust of his fingers inside of you, the palm of his hand rubs against your clit. The combination of both has your head spinning in the hot shower air. 

Your toes curl as the coil in your belly tightens, and your brows draw together as you chase the feeling. 

“Please,” you whisper, leaning your head forward until it knocks against the shower wall. 

“You close already?” The way he asks it makes you want to turn away in shame, but all you can do is nod pathetically and clench your hands into fists as he works you closer and closer to the edge. 

This is everything he’s ever dreamed of and more.

Without warning, your walls clamp down around his fingers, and you pulse around him. 

He stares at you in shock, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

Huh. That was a lot easier than he was expecting. 

He was prepared to spend all night nuzzled between your thighs until you came. Maybe now he’ll spend the night seeing how many times he can make you cum. 

You breathe heavily through parted lips as he slows to a halt and withdraws his fingers from your body.  

“That easy?” He asks, voice light and teasing in your ear. It still sends a shiver down your spine. 

“I said I was close,” you defend weakly.

The sound of your voice, full of hunger and desire, sets something alight within him, and he pulls your body closer to his. 

“I want you to take my cock, darling. Can you do that for me?” 

How could you possibly say no to that?

“Do you think you can take me? Or is your poor little pussy too tired now?”

Oh. It’s not a matter of if you want to do it. He’s not sure if you can. 

You’ll show him. 

You slip one hand off the wall in front of you and slide it behind your back where his leaking cock is throbbing against you. You wrap your warm fingers around his thick shaft and pump once, twice, three whole times before he regains control of his mind and snatches your wrist up in an iron grip.

You’d been behaving so well so far. But really, he was a fool to think that the brattiness you’ve shown him would not resurface.

He pins your wrist to your lower back and takes your earlobe between his teeth, ignoring the sharp gasp that shakes your pretty tits. 

“You really wanna misbehave? I planned on taking my time with you. Not sure if you deserve that now.”

You whine your disproval, shaking your head and wiggling your hips in something that’s half-apology, half-mockery. 

But the way your ass feels against his cock is too good for him to be mad about anything. 

He lets you grind on him for a moment longer, and then he’s withdrawing his hips just far enough to adjust himself, and then he’s pushing back between your legs and spearing through your pillowy pussy lips. 

Every pass of his cock lathers his length with your slick, and each thrust bumps over your clit, making your hole gush.

He continues this for several long, torturous minutes. Each time he rubs the tip of his cock over your swollen clit, you let out a different sort of noise. Some of them border on pain, but all of them are dripping in pleasure. 

Only once he’s deemed his cock wet enough does he stop thrusting, and that’s only to line himself up with your quivering cunt and fuck the tip in niiiiiiiice and slow. 

Your eyes roll back in your head once you finally feel the warmth of him inside you. 

The thick, bulbous tip stretches your poor little cunt to its limits, and you can do nothing but take it as he ruins your messy little hole. 

Your wrist is suddenly free, but your hip is now held captive in his bruising grip. His other hand finds purchase on the wall, thick fingers clawing at the tile as he slowly starts to feed you more and more of his girthy cock. 

Every roll of his hips forward forces another inch of dick inside of you, the walls of your pussy clinging to it every time he pulls back. He wishes he could watch, could see the way your sweet pussy stretches and clings to his heavy cock.

But what he can’t see, you can intimately feel.

Every added inch drags on your walls with each thrust, filling you up in a way you didn’t know you could be filled. 

Every crevice, every cranny, every nook, is sowly being overtaken by him until finally, finally, his hips are flush against your ass and your cunt is stuffed full of him. 

The hand on your hip moves up up up until he’s holding the back of your neck, and he gingerly guides you down down down until you’re bent over for him. 

The new angle forces him impossibly deeper, and his heavy balls nestle against your aching pussy when he leans over you. 

Forearm braced on the wall, his big body shields you from the stream of water above as he begins to roll his hips into your ass. 

Your hands act as a barrier between your head and the tile wall, but Price has other plans. 

“You said you could take it, yeah? So take it.” 

He has your wrists bound in one big hand against the small of your back mere moments later, forcing your cheek to smush against the wall. Your chest is pressed against the wall soon after, and the contrast of the cool tiles against your burning skin only adds another layer of pleasure. 

He fucks into you harder, fueled by each keening moan that leaves your pretty mouth. 

You feel so fucking good around him. 

Tight and wet and hot. Heat like he’s never felt is suckling his cock every single time he thrusts into you, and he’s not sure how long he’s going to last. 

He wants to cum in you. 

Wants to fill you up with his hot cum and watch your tummy swell with his children. 

Those are the thoughts that plague him as he squeezes your wrists and fucks his seed deep into your womb.

His balls throb and his cock aches, but he doesn’t stop thrusting into you until he’s sure you’ve milked him of every last drop. 

Only once the tremors have stopped and his cock has softened does he pull out of your puffy cunt, but your hole isn’t empty for long. 

His long fingers are sliding through your messy folds from the back, smearing his cum over your swollen clit until you whine. 

Then he’s got two fingers fucking your gaped hole, cum sloshing audibly. You push yourself up onto your arms again and your legs tremble. “F-fuck… I can’t…”

Price grins at the challenge. 

“Yes, you can.”

You shake your head but your body obeys him, and in a matter of moments he has your pussy spasming again, sucking his cum deeper. 

You collapse in his arms at the force of your second orgasm, eyes rolled back and mouth dropped open as wave after powerful wave of bliss washes over you. 

He holds you, limp like a ragdoll, in his arms for several moments, before manuevering you to lean against him wiith your arms wrapped around his neck. 

While you recover, he washes your body for you, being careful of the sensitive mess between your legs. He’s gentle with you. Soft. It makes your heart sing and your head spin.

Once you’re nice and clean, Price helps you out of the shower and wraps you up in his warmest towel, then ushers you into the bedroom. 

Your eyes are glazed over and tired, and your body has a light airiness to it that feels like walking on a cloud. 

Price dries you off and helps you climb into bed, sliding in on the other side and immediately pulling you into his arms. 

You nuzzle into his chest and let your lids flutter closed, body still thrumming with the afterfeelings of your coupling. Your heart feels warm and full, and so does your pussy. 

Price tucks his chin on top of your head and lets out the most satisfying breath he thinks he’s ever taken in his life. 

He did it. 

Albeit, a bit quicker than he’d imagined. But expecting a man to last long when he’s balls deep in a slice of heaven is too much to expect from John Price.

As if hearing his thoughts, your tired, fucked-out voice emerges from the tangle of limbs and love. 

“That easy, hmm?”

Your entire body shakes with the force of laughter that bubbles out of John’s chest. 

His Dove and her viper tongue. 

“That’s the first time I’ve had sex in over a year, sweetheart. Apologies if I was a little… prompt.” 

You can’t help but giggle at his archaic word choice, but then the weight of his words hits you. 

The two of you crossed paths a little under a year ago, at this point. 

He hasn’t slept with another woman since meeting you. 

You open your mouth to ask about it, but he’s quicker. 

“I’m sure I can make it up to you, if you’ll allow it.” 

And just like that, any thoughts that aren’t all the ways he plans to make it up to you, fly out the window. 

He can feel the shift in your mood and smiles, tugging back just enough to look at you. 

His eyes are warm, happy. Full of so much love and joy and peace. 

And you’re sure that your own eyes are a mirror of his. 

You’re at home now. 

[1] [about 300]

[2] [about 500]

◾️Cold seed

[1] [about 250]

[2] [about 1.3k]

[3] [about 420]

[4] [about 1.7k]

[5] [about 2k]

[6] [about 400]

...

...

◾️Going dark

[1]

...

Three lines. That's all the local paper allows for the personals section, which is a relic from another era that you didn't even know still existed until you were flipping through the classifieds looking for a vintage bookshelf and your eyes snagged on the column header.

SEEKING CONNECTION

You'd laughed at first. Then you'd read a few. Then you'd read them all, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with your tea going cold in your hands, and something small and sharp turning over in your chest.

The ad you eventually submit reads:

Married woman, mid 30s, seeks interesting conversation and perhaps more with a like-minded gentleman. Discretion essential. If you enjoy good food, dry wit, and don't mind a woman who can out-drink you — I'd love to hear from you. Reply to Box 64.

You pay for four weeks in advance and feel sick the entire drive home.

Because here's the thing about being married to Captain John Price.

You love him desperately and completely, in a way that has settled into your bones over the better part of a decade and become indistinguishable from the architecture of who you are.

Adore the way he smells—stale cigar smoke and sandalwood and old gun oil, a combination that should be repulsive and instead makes you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there. Love his hands, broad and scarred and capable of violence you'll never fully understand, and how gentle they are when they cup your jaw or fix the clasp of your necklace.

And you melt for the rumble of his voice on the phone at two in the morning when he calls from whatever godforsaken corner of the world he's operating in, tired and tight-lipped but always, always asking about you first.

You love him, and he loves you, and it hasn't been enough for a long time.

Not because the love ran out, because he did.

John Price gives everything to his work. Every deployment bleeds into the next. The gaps between homecomings stretch longer—three weeks become five, five become eight, eight becomes ‘I don't know yet, love, I'll let you know when I know’.

And when he does come home, he's there but not there; hollow-eyed and distracted, reaching for his phone at dinner, falling asleep on the sofa before nine, making love to you the first night with a desperate urgency that fades by the third morning into perfunctory kisses on the forehead and an apologetic mumble about an early briefing.

Someday, you stopped asking when he'd be home six months ago; stopped leaving the porch light on four months ago, and you stopped wearing the nice knickers three months ago because what was the point again.

Two months ago, you realised you'd gone an entire week without hearing his voice and hadn't noticed until Thursday.

That's when the panic set in. Not the sharp, clean kind, but the slow, creeping kind. The one that makes you lie awake at three a.m. staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is it, if this is what the rest of your life looks like. A nice house in Hereford with a well-maintained garden and a husband who exists primarily as a name on a bank account and a voice on the other end of an increasingly rare phone call.

You don't want to leave him. The thought alone makes you nauseous.

You just want someone to see you again.

John finds the newspaper three days after he gets home from a six-week deployment in eastern Syria.

He's not snooping; he's looking for the TV remote, which has migrated into the crack between the sofa cushions again, and his hand closes around the folded section of newsprint wedged beside it. He pulls it out, intending to toss it on the coffee table, and his eyes catch the circle of biro ink around one of the small ads in the personals column.

John reads it, and then again.

Then he sits down very slowly, the remote forgotten, and stares at the far wall for a long time, connecting puzzle pieces like his life depends on it, which it very well does apparently.

Married woman, mid 30s. His wife is in her thirties.

Dry wit. His wife is the driest, sharpest-tongued woman he's ever met. It's one of the first things he fell in love with—the way she could dismantle a man's ego with a single raised eyebrow and a well-timed "Bless your heart, love".

Can out-drink you. He's watched his wife put away Whisky Sours at the SAS Christmas do with a composure that made seasoned operators look like lightweights.

Discretion essential.

John sets the newspaper down on his knee. His jaw works and his eyes don't leave the wall.

And he doesn't confront you.

Not over dinner nor in bed that night when you roll towards him and press a kiss to his shoulder—a habit you've kept even through the worst of the distance, even when you're angry with him, even when he doesn't deserve it.

Instead, he waits, and he replies to Box 64.

The letter that arrives for you a week later is postmarked locally. Plain envelope, no return address. Inside, a single sheet of paper, handwritten in a bold, slanted script you don't recognise.

I enjoy good food, better whisky, and I've never met a woman who can out-drink me, but I'd enjoy watching you try. Friday, 8pm, O’Malley’s on St. George's Lane. I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh. — J

Your hands are shaking when you finish reading it, and you have to sit down at the kitchen table and press your palms flat against the wood to steady yourself.

You could throw it away. No. You should throw it away. This was a mistake—a stupid, reckless, selfish mistake born out of loneliness and too much wine and that ugly, gnawing ache in your chest that flares up every time John leaves.

But John has left again. Three days at home, then a call from Kate Laswell, then a bag packed and a kiss on your forehead and a quick ‘Be back soon, love’ and the sound of the front door closing and the silence that rushes in to fill the space he used to occupy.

You read the letter once more.

I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh.

Something warm and reckless curls in your stomach, and you hate yourself for it, and you fold the letter into the pocket of your cardigan and carry it around for three days before you decide you’re going.

Friday night. O’Malley’s.

You arrive twenty minutes early because you're a control freak in crisis, and you take the farthest booth in the corner because your back needs to be against a wall and your eyes need to be on the door—a habit you picked up from your husband without realising it.

You order a gin and tonic to give your hands something to do, and you check your reflection in the blank screen of your phone for the third time. You look good, like you tried again—not the kind of effort you make for John when he comes home, all desperate and over-polished, but a quieter kind; wearing your favourite dress with subtle makeup and your hair done the way you like it, not the way you think someone else wants to see it.

You look like your old self, and that's terrifying, because the whole point of tonight was supposed to be about being someone else.

When your wedding ring catches the light as you reach for your drink, and you stare at it for a long moment, the slim gold band John slid onto your finger nine years ago with steady hands and unsteady eyes, and you don't take it off.

You should, but you can’t, and you did say you’re married.

Eight o'clock comes and goes. Five past, then ten. You're about to convince yourself you've been stood up, which would be both a relief and a humiliation, when the pub door opens and a man walks in, and every nerve ending in your body fires at once.

Because the man standing in the doorway, scanning the room with those sharp, assessing eyes, is your husband.

John is wearing civvies. Dark jeans, a black henley pushed up to his elbows, boots that have seen better days.

He looks like he came straight from the base, which he probably did. His hair is freshly cut but his beard is full, and there is a tiredness around his eyes that you can read from across the room, the same bone-deep fatigue he carries home from every deployment and tries to hide and fails.

He spots you and your stomach plummets.

Meanwhile, his expression doesn't change; not a flicker. He holds your gaze across the crowded pub, and then he walks towards you with the kind of unhurried, deliberate stride that you've seen him use in exactly two contexts.

When he's approaching a superior officer, and when he's about to do something that no one in the room is going to enjoy.

Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth. Your hand tightens around your glass until your knuckles ache, and every instinct in your body is screaming at you to run to the bathroom, to the car park, to another country, but your legs won't cooperate, because Captain John Price is walking towards you and you have never in your life been able to move when he's looking at you like that.

He reaches the booth, stops, and looks down at you. And a beat of terrible, electric silence follows.

Then he smiles, though not the tight, exhausted smile he gives you at the front door when he's been gone for weeks, but something warmer, something almost boyish, and then he slides into the seat across from you, settling in with an ease that makes your blood run cold.

"You must be Box 64," he says casually, calm, like he's meeting a stranger for the first time, which is insane, because he is your husband and he is sitting across from you at a pub where you came to meet another man and he knows. He fucking knows.

"John—"

"John," he repeats, tasting the name like he's hearing it for the first time. Then he extends his hand across the table. "That's right. Pleasure to meet you."

You stare at his outstretched hand, then at his face, and back at his hand.

"John, I can explain—"

"Nothing to explain." He keeps his hand where it is, steady and patient. His eyes don't leave yours. "I'm J. You're Box 64. We're here to have a drink and see if we get on. That was the arrangement, wasn't it? What your ad said?"

Your mouth opens and something inside you dies a little, along with the words in your throat; anything but one.

"John."

"You gonna leave me hanging, love? Already?" He nods at his hand, one eyebrow raised, and there is something in his expression—beneath the calm and the performance—that you can't quite read.

It's not anger, not even hurt. Something closer to resolve, like he's made a decision about tonight and he intends to see it through, and nothing you say is going to alter the trajectory.

You take his hand, shake it weakly.

His fingers close around yours, warm and rough, and he gives one firm shake before releasing you. Then he flags down the barmaid, orders a whisky neat, and turns back to you with that same easy, unreadable smile.

"So. Tell me about yourself."

You stare at him owlishly.

"I—I don't—" You can feel heat crawling up your neck, your throat tightening with the precursor to tears. "John, please, can we just—"

"Tell me," he says again, and his voice is gentle, but his eyes are steel. "What do you do? Where are you from? What made you put that ad in the paper?"

The last question lands like another slap, even though his tone doesn't change. You swallow hard, your fingers wrap around your glass for something to anchor to.

He waits for you to answer; patient as a sniper in a ghillie suit.

"I'm—" You exhale shakily. "I'm from here. I live in Hereford. I'm—" Your voice threatens to crack, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it steadies. "I'm a teacher."

"A teacher." John nods, like this is new information and not something he's known for the better part of a decade. "What age?"

"Year four."

"Year four. That's—what, eight? Nine?" He takes a sip of his whisky. The barmaid left it quietly and shot you a look like she sensed the tension. "Brave woman. I've faced insurgents with less fight in them than a nine-year-old with a grudge."

The laugh that escapes you is wet and startled and completely involuntary, and John's eyes soften for a fraction of a second before the mask slides back into place.

"What about you?" you ask carefully, because two can play this game, and if he's going to make you sit through this surreal performance, you might as well commit. Your voice is still unsteady, but there's a spark of something underneath the fear—defiance, maybe, or the stubbornness that made you put the ad in the paper in the first place. "What do you do?"

"Military," he answers briskly, which is what he always says at parties and barbecues when civilians ask, offering nothing further.

"What branch?"

"The kind that doesn't let me talk about it." He leans back in his seat, one arm resting along the back of the booth leisurely and looks at you with an expression that's half amusement, half something hungrier. "I travel a lot. Gone more than I'm home unfortunately."

"That must be hard," you reply, and you mean it in a raw way that has nothing to do with the roleplay and everything to do with the long years of lonely nights and unanswered phone calls sitting between you.

John hears it and you watch it land. A brief tightening around his eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw before he takes another slow drink.

"It is," he says quietly. "Harder on the people who wait, I'd imagine."

Your breath catches. You look down at the table, at your ring, at the condensation pooling around the base of your glass.

"Yeah," you whisper. "It is."

The silence that follows is different from the others. Not tense or loaded. Just heavy, in the way that true things are heavy, settling between you like something solid.

Then John clears his throat. "Another round?"

You nod, not trusting your voice, and he waves the barmaid over again.

The second drink loosens something.

Maybe it's the gin, perhaps the sheer absurdity of the situation, but somewhere between your second and third drink, the fear recedes enough for you to actually talk.

And John—your husband, who has spent the better part of a year giving you monosyllabic answers over dinner and falling asleep during films—is talking back.

He's always been charming. It's how he got you in the first place, at a mate's wedding eleven years ago, when he cornered you at the bar and spent forty-five minutes making you laugh so hard you snorted champagne up your nose. Though you'd forgotten what it looks like when he aims it at you with intent.

John asks about your students and listens to the answers. He asks about the book you're currently reading and offers an opinion on it that tells you he's been paying more attention to your nightstand than you thought. He tells you stories from deployment that are carefully scrubbed of classified details but still make you laugh; the kind of stories he used to tell you when you were dating. Absurd, self-deprecating, designed to make you think he's funnier than he is.

He is funny. You'd forgotten that, too.

"You've got a nice laugh," he says at one point, swirling his whisky, and the way he says it, like an observation, like he's hearing it for the first time, makes your stomach flip.

"Don't flatter me, J." The letter feels strange in your mouth, this thin fiction stretched over the truth of him. "I'll think you're after something."

"Maybe I am." He holds your gaze and doesn't smile. "That a problem, love?"

Your mouth goes dry.

Three drinks in, you're leaning across the table towards each other, and his hand is resting on the tabletop close enough to yours that your little fingers are almost touching, and you're telling him about the time one of your Year Fours brought a live frog to class in his lunchbox and it escaped during maths, and John is laughing—really laughing, with his head tipped back and his eyes creased—and for a vertiginous moment, you manage to forget.

You forget that this is a performance; that your husband is sitting across from you pretending to be a stranger because you put an ad in the newspaper looking for someone else. Everything except the sound of his laugh and the warmth in his eyes and the way he's looking at you like you're the most interesting person in the room, which is how he used to look at you all the time, before the deployments ate him alive and left you with the husk.

Then his eyes drop to your left hand, and the warmth doesn't leave his expression, but something sharper slides in alongside it, like the glint of a blade edge, and then he reaches across the table and takes your hand, turning it over in his.

His thumb presses against the band of your wedding ring, holding it there.

"You know," he says, and his voice is still easy, still conversational, but there's a new undercurrent to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, "if you were really going to go through with this little adventure of yours—"

He taps the ring once with his thumb, clicks his tongue.

"—you probably should've taken this off first."

The blood drains from your face. The pleasant haze of gin and good conversation evaporates in an instant, replaced by a cold, lurching clarity.

"John—"

"Bit of a deterrent, love. Even when you mentioned it in the ad." He's still holding your hand, still running his thumb over the ring, and his expression is unreadable—not angry, not hurt, just steady, the way he looks when he's holding a position and waiting for something to break. "Any bloke worth his salt would've clocked that you're not really in it five minutes in."

Your eyes are stinging. "I wasn't going to—I would never have—"

"I know." He replies simply and releases your hand. "I know you wouldn't."

The lump in your throat is enormous and razor-edged, and you have to look away at anything that isn't his face, because if you keep looking at him, you're going to cry in the middle of this pub and he will never, ever let you live it down.

"I'm sorry," you manage, barely a whisper. "John, I'm so sorry, I didn't—I was just—"

"Don't."

You look back at him. He's leaning forward now, strong forearms on the table, and the mask is gone. All of it, the J performance, the first-date charm, the controlled amusement. And underneath is just your husband. Looking at you with an expression that is not anger, that has never been anger, that is something far worse.

Guilt.

"I should've been home more," he murmurs; too honest for a pub on a Friday night. "I should've—" He stops, his jaw clenches before he tries again. "I should've given you a proper life. A family. A husband who's actually fucking present. And I didn't, and you—"

He gestures vaguely at the booth, the pub, the entire premise of the evening.

"—you shouldn't have had to do this to get my attention."

The first tear slips down your face before you can catch it. You swipe at it furiously with the back of your hand before the barmaid, who has become somewhat intrigued by whatever is happening at your table, can clock it.

"I wasn't trying to get your attention," you lie, and you both know it's a lie, and his mouth twitches; not quite a smile, something more tender and much more broken.

"Yeah, you were." He reaches across the table again and takes your hand, properly this time, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing. "And it worked."

You let out a breath that's half laugh, half sob, and squeeze back.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The pub buzzes around you. Glasses clinking, conversations flowing, some '80s song you can't name playing from the speakers. And you sit in the middle of it, holding hands across a sticky table, and the nine years of silence and distance and loving each other badly feel, for the first time, like something that could be survived.

"I need the loo," you announce eventually, because your mascara is probably wrecked and you need thirty seconds of privacy to pull yourself together before you dissolve entirely.

John releases your hand with a nod. "Take your time, love."

You slide out of the booth on legs that feel slightly unsteady with gin and adrenaline, and make your way to the back of the pub, past the bar and down the short corridor to the ladies'.

It's a single-stall bathroom. Small, clean enough, a lock on the door that you click shut behind you before bracing your hands on the edge of the sink and staring at your reflection in the mirror above it.

Your eyes are bright and glassy. Your mascara is, as predicted, smudged. You look wrecked and flushed and alive in a way you haven't in months, and you hate that it took this—a dating ad and a Friday night charade—to put that look on your face.

You run the tap and press your cool, damp fingers against your closed eyelids. Breathe. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish your drinks, go home with your husband, and figure out the rest in the morning like adults who have been married for nearly a decade and know how to have a difficult conversation.

You're drying your hands when the lock clicks.

You freeze. Your eyes snap to the door in the mirror's reflection as it opens, and John slips inside and closes it behind him with a soft, definitive click of the lock.

The bathroom shrinks to nothing.

He fills the space. Not just physically, though he does that too, broad shoulders and solid frame taking up far too much of the small room, but atmospherically. The air changes when he's this close, gets heavier and becomes charged, like the pressure drop before a storm front.

"John, what are you—"

He moves. One step, then two, and then his big hand is flat against your lower back and he's pressing you forward, gently but firmly, until your hips meet the edge of the sink and your palms catch the porcelain on either side.

His body moulds against your back. Chest to spine, hips to arse. One hand sliding from your lower back to your waist, gripping and anchoring, while his other forearm braces against the wall beside the mirror.

You can see him in the reflection; towering behind you, head dipped, mouth hovering at the shell of your ear, and your breath stutters at the look on his face.

"Gonna make you remember why you married me, darling," he mutters into your ear, and his breath is hot and damp on the side of your neck, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling your arse back against the hard line of his cock already straining behind his zipper.

"John—"

"Shh." His lips graze the spot beneath your ear. No kiss but a warning. "You wanted to be seen, love. I see you."

His hand slides from your waist to the hem of your dress and drags it up slowly, bunching the fabric around your hips until you're exposed from the waist down. The cool air of the bathroom hits your bare thighs and makes you gasp.

"John, we can't—We're in a pub—!"

"Should've thought about that before you went looking for a date, shouldn't you?" His voice is rough and threaded with something dark and tender at the same time, and his fingers hook into the waistband of your knickers, tugging them down your thighs in one smooth motion. They pool around your ankles, and he doesn't bother removing them fully—just leaves them there, tangled between your heels.

"Anyone could—"

"Door's locked." His hand trails up the inside of your thigh, calloused fingers dragging against the soft skin, and you bite your lip to keep the sound that wants to escape inside. "And you're going to be quiet for me, aren't you, hm?"

You hear his belt buckle. The clink of metal, the drag of leather through belt loops, then the rasp of his zip, and your hands grip the sink so hard your arms tremble, because the sound alone is enough to make your pussy clench around nothing in anticipation.

"Nearly a decade of marriage," he murmurs against the back of your neck, and his free hand slides between your thighs from behind, two thick fingers dragging through your supple folds, finding you already embarrassingly wet. He lets out a low, dark sound of approval that vibrates against your skin. "And I let you forget."

His fingers circle your clit once and your hips buck back against him involuntarily.

"That's on me," he continues, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that makes your toes curl in your pumps. "My fault. My fucking failure. Not yours."

He presses one thick finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with a slow, curling thrust that makes your breath hitch and your walls clench around him. He groans quietly and his forehead drops against the back of your head.

"'M finally gonna put our baby in you," he declares, and the words are rough and raw and utterly certain, a promise sealed against your skin. "Should've done it years ago. Should've given you that. Should've given you everything."

He withdraws his fingers and you whimper at the loss with a needy, desperate sound that you'd be mortified by in any other context, and then you feel the blunt, plump head of his cock pressing against your entrance and every other thought in your head goes static.

"John—" you mewl. John pushes in slowly.

He stretches you open around him with a fullness that borders on too much, and the sound that tears from your throat is muffled only because you clamp your hand over your own mouth.

More than a decade and his fat cock is still enough to make you go stupid.

"Fuck," John breathes, his hips flush against your arse, buried to the root, and his grip on your waist is bruising. He doesn't move yet just holds there, letting you feel every inch of him, letting your body adjust around the thick, throbbing weight of his cock.

Then he starts to move, and it's not the perfunctory, tired sex you've been having for the past year. The kind where he finishes quickly and rolls over and you stare at the ceiling and pretend you came.

This is John Price. The real one, the one you fell in love with. The one who backed you against the wall of your old flat on your third date and made you see God by eating you out through your knickers before he'd even taken anything else off.

He fucks you deep and deliberate, one hand gripping your hip while the other wraps around the front of your throat lightly; his fingers curled against your pulse point, feeling the frantic beat of your heart against his palm.

"Look at yourself," he orders, and your eyes—which had screwed shut at some point—fly open to meet his in the mirror. Pupils blown.

The sight of it is obscene. Your dress bunched around your waist, his thick forearm braced beside the mirror, tendons flexing, his body curved over yours, and the slow, powerful roll of his hips driving into you from behind with a rhythm that's making the mirror rattle against the wall.

"That's my wife," he grunts, and his reflection's eyes are fierce and fixed on yours. "Mine. Not some fucking stranger's from a newspaper ad."

You can't speak, only feel his cock dragging against your walls, his hand on your throat, his chest solid and warm and present against your back for the first time in what feels like forever.

He picks up the pace; harder and deeper thrusts, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small bathroom while his ragged breath puffs against your ear. And then his rough hand leaves your throat to reach between your legs, flicking your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that make you bite down on your own fist to keep from screaming.

"Quiet," he reminds you, and the bastard sounds smug. "You want the whole pub to know what I'm doing to you in here? Huh? Want them to know ‘m fucking my wife?"

You shake your head frantically; cunt fluttering and squeezing his shaft, because dirty talk from John Price is its own kind of sweet torture.

"Then cum for me quietly, love. Right now."

A few more hard, precise thrusts with his cock dragging inside your quivering cunt, massaging that spot that keeps swelling inside you, and you shatter.

The orgasm rips through you so violently that your knees give out, and the only things keeping you upright are the sink under your hands and John's arm locked around your waist. You clamp your teeth into the heel of your palm and muffle the cry that wants to tear out of you, your walls clenching and fluttering around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses.

"Christ—fuck—" John's hips stutter, his rhythm breaks, and he buries himself deep—so deep—and holds, his cock kicking and pulsing inside you as he cums with a low, guttural groan pressed into the curve of your neck.

He spills himself empty inside you, balls throbbing with each little jerk of his hips. Hot and thick, deliberate this time. No condom, no pulling out this time, and the significance of that isn't lost on either of you. His hips roll lazily through the aftershocks, working every precious drop into your messy cunt, and his hand slides from your waist to your lower belly, pressing flat.

"There," he murmurs, and his voice is wrecked and satisfied, unbearably tender. "That's where it belongs."

You're shaking. Your entire body is trembling, your legs are useless, and there are tears streaming silently down your face that have nothing to do with pain.

He stays inside you for a long moment; breathing, his lips pressed against the nape of your neck, beard scraping your skin, his hand warm on your lower stomach. Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, and you feel his cum start to leak from you immediately, warm and slick against your inner thighs.

He reaches down, picks your knickers up from around your ankles, and slides them back up your legs with an almost clinical efficiency. When they're settled back into place, he pats your arse once, light and proprietary, and tugs your dress back down.

"There we go," he says, like he's just helped you with your coat. "Good as new."

You let out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob, your forehead dropping against the mirror.

"How about a 'thank you,' love," he adds while he tugs his softening cock back into his jeans, and when you lift your head and catch his eyes in the reflection, the smug satisfaction on his face is so thoroughly, infuriatingly Price that you want to slap him and kiss him simultaneously, "for stuffing your pretty cunt full of my cum, hm?"

"John."

"Mm." He presses a kiss to your temple, achingly gentle after everything he just did to you, and reaches past you to turn on the tap. He wets his hand and wipes beneath your eyes with his thumb, cleaning up the mascara.

"Ready to leave, love?" he asks, straightening up and buckling his belt with the same unhurried ease he does everything. "Or would you like another drink before your husband takes you home?"

Your legs are still shaking, his cum is slowly but surely soaking into your knickers, and your heart is so full it might crack your ribs.

"N-No," you manage, small and hoarse. "I'd like to go home now, John."

He looks at you, really looks. And there is nothing left of the J performance, not the Captain Price mask, just John, your husband. The man who drove to a pub on a Friday night not to punish you but to remind you both of what you'd almost let slip away.

"That's my girl," he replies softly.

He unlocks the bathroom door, checks the corridor, and guides you out with his hand on the small of your back. You walk through the pub on shaking legs, past the booth where your half-finished drinks are still sitting, past the barmaid who gives you both a knowing look that you pretend not to see.

The night air hits you like cold water when you step outside, and you suck in a breath that fills your lungs properly for the first time in hours.

John pulls his car keys from his pocket, presses the fob, and opens the passenger door for you without a word. You climb in. He closes the door, rounds the bonnet, and slides into the driver's seat.

Neither of you speaks on the drive home. His hand rests on your thigh, squeezing gently every other minute, and your hand rests on top of his, your fingers tracing the ridges of his calloused knuckles and the band of his own wedding ring, which he has never, not once in nine years, taken off.

When he pulls into the driveway, the porch light is off. You haven't left it on in months.

John kills the engine. Sits for a moment, looking at the dark house.

Then he turns to you, and his voice is quieter now, stripped of the previous smugness, the heat, the performance. Just the raw thing underneath.

"I will do better."

No grand speech or a promise wrapped in flowers and apologies and all the things you've heard before and stopped believing. It's four words, plain and blunt and offered without decoration, and they land heavier than anything else he's said tonight.

You reach across the centre console and take his face in both hands, and you kiss him slowly, like you have time, because you're going to make time.

"I know," you whisper against his mouth.

You close your eyes and wait for it to kill you.

But instead of feeling the end, you hear a harsh rush in the water. You open your eyes and find the large mass huddled at the bottom of the tank. After taking a good look, you recognize the mass as another mer-person, a rather large merman.

However, instead of using his size to his advantage, the strange merman curls inward himself. That's weird. It's almost like he's trying to make himself smaller. But why?

Curiosity getting the best of you, you swim closer to your guest. Old scars and fresh cuts litter his torso while his tail glimmered in the prettiest teal you've ever seen. You let out a small chirp, against better judgement, to catch the fellow merman's attention but instead of seeing a face, you're met with a metal mask with two beady eyes.

You stop.

What happened to him?

Splash!

Before you have a chance to react, you're dragged down to the other side of the tank by a large pair of arms, just missing a loaded syringe.

You look up, after landing at the bottom, and are met with the iciest pair of blue eyes. You try to wriggle your way out of your hero's? captive's? arms but he tightens his hold. Too weak to care, you go still and close your eyes. At this point, you don't even care what happens to you.

Johnny didn't care…

or Kyle…

or Simon…

or John.

None of them did.

So why should you?

"Live pыбка (little fish)."

What?

"Live," your guest grumbles again. It's clear by his voice he hasn't spoken in a long time. "Don't let them win. Live."

You freeze. For such icy blue eyes, they hold an unimaginable amount of fire in them.

"No matter what they do to me, I live. I live, I win. So will you." His fight to live evident by the old and new scratches on his mask. He asks if you understand. You're not sure why but you nod your head. Maybe you still want to live?

You relax in his arms. You stay there until those strange doctors from above leave… and then some more. It didn't seem like your new friend minded. He kept his arms around your torso and even showed slight amusement when you burrowed yourself further in his chest.

"What's your name?" You didn't even realize you were wondering that until the question slipped out your mouth. You rise from his chest and stare at him, almost in shock by your curiosity.

"Nikto."

— — —

The first thing Simon does when he comes to is groan. Why does his head hurt so much?

He slowly opens his eyes and is taken aback. Grey concrete walls and steel bars. Clearly not the lab where him and the guys… the guys?

Simon frantically looks but immediately stills. Johnny and Kyle are each at his side with John in front of him, all sitting and all unconscious. What happened?

"Already awake?" A shadow slowly makes its way to the cage. "You were the hardest to take down. Makes sense you'd be the first to come to," the voice laments. It takes Simon a bit to recognize that irritating twang.

"Now why that face?" Graves jokes. He crouches in front of Simon and smirks. "Did you really think Shephard would just let y'all walk out of here with that fish? C'mon, the man's bald, not stupid." Graves gets up and laughs. "Doesn't matter now."

"What's goin' to happen to them?" Simon asks. Graves stared at him in awe.

"Buddy, you have bigger fish to fry. See what I did there." When Simon gets out here, he's going to smack that smile off his face. "If I were you, I'd figure out how I'm going to get out of here before it's time to make the next batch of fish grub." With one more cackle, Graves leaves Simon with his thoughts.

Simon takes in a deep breath. As long as he's alive, it's not over yet. He'll get you out of here. They all will.

Word Count: 736

You breathe, taste copper and something burnt, like popcorn left in the microwave too long until the smell coats the back of your throat. A strip light overhead, half of its housing torn free, swings slight on a wire in a draft you can feel against your cheek. Dust hands thick in the air, particles moving in slow orbits through the light like the whole corridor is underwater. 

You try to move your left arm. It doens’t move and you try again. 

Something shifts above you and the weight across your shoulder increases with a small grinding sound, compresses the air from your chest, forcing a thin, broken sound out of your mouth and you stop. 

Okay.

Okay. Don’t do that. 

Your right arm barely moves, fingers scraping over concrete, nails catching in grit, palm slipping in something warm. You press it flat and use it to push carefully, until your head lifts an inch. Two. The room tilts sideways and you hold very still until it stops, until the ringing in your ears turns from one high pitched sound into many. 

Your vision pulses, the corridor tilting in and out of focus, emergency lighting flickering red and white and red and white and- across the ceiling in slow, nauseating intervals. Somewhere far away, alarms are going. Somewhere farther than that, people are shouting. Or… maybe they’re not. Maybe those are just echoes in your skull, trapped there by the blast and circling with nowhere else to go. 

You turn your head, cheek dragging across the concrete, grit biting into your skin, hair sticking wetly to your mouth. The room greys at the edges and you wait, teeth pressed together, eyes fixed on the ceiling strip light and its slow swinging arc until the grey retreats and the edges come back sharp and you see him. 

Eli. 

Eli on his side, half curled a few feet away, shirt torn open, soaked dark down one side. Dust has turned his hair grey. There’s blood on his face. Blood on his mouth. Blood under him, spreading in a slow uneven pool that keeps finding the little cracks in the floor. 

No.

The word doesn’t make it out of your mouth, it sits behind your teeth, useless and childish.

No, because Eli does not get to be still. Eli does not get to be quiet. Eli does not get to be a body on concrete with the alarm painting him red every other second. Eli is supposed to be barking at you. Dragging you. Ruffling your hair with one heavy hand even though he knows you hate it. Swearing under his breath about reckless fucking pop stars who think barricades are decorative. Eli is supposed to be annoyed and alive and telling someone on his mic to move their ass before he moves it for them.

The room blurs.

The black comes up soft.

You don’t mean to close your eyes, they just close, without you realizing it and the world fades. 

Not all the way, not like before, with the white nothing of the blast. This is more like a dimmer switch, the light dropping by half, the ceiling retreating, the strip light blurring into a smear of white above you.

“- eyes open.”

The words reach you with a half second delay, stripped of their beginning, arriving mid sentence and flattened by distance. The easy drawl has been pressed out of them, voice left rough, dragged raw. 

“Stay- eyes open. Don’t- “

Your eyes flutter, one opening wider than the other, vision rolling towards the voice, towards Eli, who is moving. 

Towards Eli who is moving. 

He shouldn’t be moving.

Everything about the way he looks says he should not be moving. His arm drags forward against the floor, palm smearing through dust and blood, fingers clawing for purchase. His body follows, a brutal, stubborn haul across the concrete. His injured side leaves a dark trail behind him. His jaw is clenched so hard the muscles in his face jump every time he pulls himself closer. 

“Don’t- “ His voice comes in clearer now, closer. “Don’t you close your eyes. You hear me? Keep- “ A breath, sharp through his nose, followed by a grimace he can’t quite hide. “Keep your eyes on me.”

It’s an effort. Your eyes want to drift. Wants to go soft at the edges and let the ceiling blur back in, wants to follow the strip light in its slow arc and let that be the last thing. White. Swinging. Quiet. Simple. 

Eli makes a sound low in his throat, almost a growl.

“Oi.” His hand slaps weakly at the floor beside you, once, twice, loud enough to cut through the cotton in your skull. “Don’t start being quiet now when you’re always so loud, always making noise. What would Ghost say? Price? Can’t let that bastard have the last word, can you?”

Your mouth moves. 

Nothing comes out. 

“Yeah, I know.” He drags himself another inch and his face goes tight with pain. “You’ve got a complaint. You always have a complaint. File it when we’re not underneath half a fucking building.”

That should not make something in you want to cry and it moves through your chest so tight it becomes a cough, becomes pain so bright and complete your vision whites out at the center. Your body curls around it as much as the weight allows, instinct trying to protect injuries they cannot accurately locate because every part of you hurts. Something wet fills your mouth. You swallow before you can think about it and taste blood all over again.

“No, no, no.” Eli’s voice snaps sharp. “None of that. Look at me.” 

Your eyes snap open and he’s close enough now that you can see the little things. Dust caught in his eyelashes. A thin cut splitting his lower lip. The way his left hand shakes when he plants it. The way he keeps shifting his weight off his left side like something there has gone very, very wrong. 

He reaches you and his hand closes around your wrist, fingers clamping hard enough to hurt, hard enough to anchor you to the room and him to the proof that you are still in it. His thumb moves over the inside of your wrist, searching, pressing too hard, slipping once because everything is too slick. 

For the first time since you’ve known him, Eli looks afraid in a way he can’t convert into irritation fast enough.

“Come on,” he mutters. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t piss me about.”

You want to say his name. You want to say, You’re bleeding. You want to say, Stop moving. You want to say, I’m scared. I want Simon. Simon would know what to do. But your mouth is heavy and your tongue feels too large and the words tangle somewhere between your brain and your throat and what comes out instead if barely a sound. 

“Eli.”

His face changes, just for a second, all the command stripped out of it. All the training. There is only him looking down at your like you are a twelve year old with a scraped knee instead of pinned under wreckage in a corridor full of smoke. 

“I’m here,” he says, too quickly, as if he thinks you might not believe him. His hand moves from your wrist to your face. His palm is rough and shaking when it cups your cheek, thumb dragging clumsily beneath your open eye. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” 

You blink up at him. 

“Look at me.” His voice lowers. Goes firm. “That’s it. Good. Keep your eyes on me.” 

You try. 

God you try. 

The light swings behind him. 

White. Red. White. Red. 

His face swims between colors, cut up by shadow and emergency lights and his mouth keeps moving. 

“- need to check-” 

He looks past you then, toward the shattered end of the corridor, and shouts. “Help!”

The word tears out of him so violently it seems to hurt. He twists, tries to push himself higher, and his injured leg betrays him. His body drops forward, one hand slamming into the concrete beside your head so he does not fall on you. The sound he makes is not one you have ever heard from him before. 

“Help!” he shouts again, louder, voice shredding towards the end. “We need help here!” 

There’s not answer. Or there is one and you cannot hear it. The alarm keeps going. The strip light swings. Dust moves through the beam in slow underwater spirals. 

You blink slowly. 

“Don’t.” The sound of his voice is distant now. Worse because it’s softer. “Don’t you leave me here talking to myself.”

Your mouth curves, maybe.

“There,” he says, seizing on the proof of life. “That’s it. Be smug. Be annoying. Give me something.”

You want it.

You want to so badly it becomes another kind of pain.

You want to roll your eyes at him. Tell him his bedside manner is shit. Tell him you are absolutely reporting him to his HR for calling you annoying during a mass casualty event. Tell him he looks terrible, which would make him tell you that you look worse, which would make you both feel less afraid for half a second. 

But your body is not listening anymore. 

The light drops again and Eli’s face blurs, sharpens, blurs. His mouth moves and words arrive scattered. 

“- look at me-”

You are. 

You think you are. 

“- don’t close.”

His hand catches yours, folds your fingers into his palm, and squeezes hard. You hear him say your name again, sharp. Then again, not sharp at all. 

The pressure is the last thing you feel. 

Then everything lets go. 

***

Five years ago…

You don’t get out of bed the morning after, not really.

Your body has become useless with no instructions, no hunger, no thirst, no private little humiliations that keep it tethered to life. A bladder that gets full. A stomach that twists. A mouth that dries. But yours seems to have missed the message. 

You just lay under the blankets with heavy arms, heavier legs, and nothing inside you reaches. Nothing wants. You stare at the ceiling until the ceiling becomes a blank canvas, a flat, pale nothing your eyes can pour themselves into. 

The minutes thicken, doesn’t seem to move forward. It accumulates, piles on your chest, grain by grain, until breathing feels like something you are doing from underneath dirt, buried alive. 

Your phone vibrates.

Once.

Again.

Again.

You know who it is without looking.

Soap calls first.

Johnny, the screen says when you finally turn your head enough to see it. His name lights the room blue for a few seconds, bright and obscene, then goes dark. Then bright again. Then dark. His contact photo is still there because you have not had the strength to delete it. Soap grinning too close to the camera, two fingers behind Gaz’s head, you laughing half out of frame because John had been beside you with his hand on your waist and you had thought- God, you had thought- that was what belonging looked like. A group of people crowding close enough that no one could fall out.

The phone goes still.

Then Gaz.

Kyle.

His name hurts differently. Cleaner, maybe. Sharper. Soap had always been a little too loud, a little too warm, the kind of man who made betrayal feel like being shoved out into the cold by someone who used to wrap you in his coat. Gaz’s betrayal is quieter and therefore meaner. It lives in the memory of three typing dots appearing and disappearing while you asked him if Price was seeing someone else. It lives in the delay. In the calculation. In the soft, reasonable lie that followed.

You two are solid.

The phone stops.

Then Laswell.

Kate does not call as many times. Of course she doesn’t, Kate is disciplined even in guilt. Kate can ration panic. Kate can make betrayal sound like strategy and apology sound like a formal statement issued after casualties have already been counted. Her name appears once, twice, then a message follows.

Please let one of us know you’re safe.

Safe.

You read the word until it loses meaning and the room goes grey around you.

You should call work.

The thought arrives from very far away, completely detached from the rest of you. 

You imagine standing and the image alone exhausts you. First, you would have to move the blanket. Then sit up. Then put your feet on the floor. Then trust your knees. Then cross the room. Then shower. Then choose clothes. Then look in the mirror and see whatever is left of you looking back. The sequence stretches out in your mind, impossible and absurd. A pilgrimage designed for someone with muscles, bones, purpose. Someone whose blood has not turned to wet cement overnight.

Your hand finds your phone again only because it is easier than getting up, and somehow, you manage to text your manager with your thumb barely moving.

Migraine. Can’t come in today. I’m sorry.

It is not a lie exactly. There is pain behind your eyes, pressure in your skull, a pulsing ache at the base of your neck from crying too hard on the kitchen floor after everyone left. But migraine is easier because is does not say: My husband been cheating on me and married her two weeks after I signed the divorce papers. Migraine does not say: My friends knew and watched me beg. Migraine does not say: I think something inside me has been unplugged and I do not know where the cord is.

Your manager sends back a sympathetic message with too many exclamation points.

Feel better soon!!!!

You stare at the exclamation points until your vision swims.

Soon.

As if better is a place you can return to with enough sleep and a glass of water. As if the better version of you has not been dragged out behind the house and shot.

The day goes soft around the edges.

You sleep, maybe. Or not. It is hard to tell. You drift in and out of shallow, airless pockets of unconsciousness that do nothing to rest you. Each time you come back, the room has changed in some small indifferent way. The light has moved across the wall. The phone has collected more missed calls. Your mouth tastes worse. Your head hurts more. Your body remains where you left it, heavy and uncooperative, as if grief has filled your bones with sand while you were under.

At some point, you cry, tears leaking sideways into your hair, sliding from the corners of your eyes and cooling against your temples.

You think of John.

You think of his ring catching the sunlight at the kitchen table. His signature already on the papers. His voice when he said, I need you to sign. The flat finality of it. The way you had mistaken his guilt for grief. The way you had looked at his face and tried to find your husband in it, not understanding that your husband had already packed himself up and moved into another woman’s life. That the man sitting across from you was not asking to leave. He had left. He was only asking you to make the paperwork match.

You think of Elena’s hand on his chest.

You think of his smile.

That is what ruins you each time. Not the sex, not even the wedding. The smile. That warm, unguarded thing he had starved you of and then handed to her so freely like it had always belonged there. 

You had spent the last year of your marriage trying to coax that smile back into the house. You had made yourself smaller for it. Quieter. Easier. You had folded your needs into neat little shapes and tucked them away so they would not inconvenience him. You had learned to read exhaustion as love, silence as trust, absence as duty. You had thanked him for scraps and called it understanding.

And he had been smiling somewhere else. Smiling for someone else. 

Your throat closes so violently you gag.

For a second, you think you might vomit, but even that requires more energy than you have. Your body convulses once, twice, then gives up. You lie there with spit thick in your mouth and tears drying on your skin and feel a kind of disgust so deep it has no object. Him. Her. Them. Yourself. The bed. The room. Your own hands, curled uselessly near your chest. The whole act of being alive.

Evening comes, the grey light thins into blue, then black. The bedroom disappears until the furniture becomes shape without detail. Your phone glows periodically in the dark. Missed call. Missed call. Text. Voicemail. Missed call.

Soap leaves messages.

You do not listen to them, but the transcriptions appear in broken pieces beneath his name anyway.

Hen, please just-

I know ye dinnae want-

We need to know you’re-

I’m outside if-

That one makes you move.

Not much. Just your eyes toward the window. Toward the curtains. Toward the thin line of streetlight at the edge of the fabric. Outside. He is outside. He wants proof you are alive because your death would inconvenience his guilt. Because if you die, there is no future version of you to forgive him. No eventual softening. No absolution delivered years from now over coffee and tears. Just the thing he did, sealed forever. You do not look out the window.

You do not give him the mercy of movement.

The next day is worse because you wake up in it.

John. Elena. Soap. Gaz. Laswell. Wedding photos. Two weeks. Your kitchen. The tea on the wall. The fruit bowl breaking. Soap’s face when he said, We thought… We thought he’d end it. As if the affair could be ignored if it had just been a one time thing. As if your husband fucking another woman was something they could file away under bad night, single mistake, lesson learned. As if you were the wife and therefore the problem to be managed, and he was the friend and therefore the man to be saved. 

As if betrayal had a quota. As if you had to bleed a certain amount before they were allowed to respect and love you back. 

You sit on the edge of the bed for ten minutes before standing. Your head swims. Your heart beats too hard, too fast. The carpet under your feet feels unreal. Soft in a way that makes you want to scream. You shuffle to the bathroom with one hand on the wall until you catch the mirror out the side of your eye and abruptly stop. 

There is a person standing there.

You know technically that it is you. Same hair. Same eyes. Same mouth, swollen from crying. Same skin, dull under the bathroom light. But recognition does not arrive with any warmth. You look at yourself and feel nothing but a distant pity. Oh, you think. Look what happened to her.

Her.

Not me.

Her.

That is how the days begin to split you. There is the part of you that lies in bed, breathes, blinks, occasionally drinks water from the glass on the nightstand when the headache becomes unbearable. And there is the part that watches from somewhere near the ceiling, detached and useless, observing the ruin. She has not eaten today. She has not showered. She has not answered the phone. She has been staring at the same patch of wall for forty seven minutes. She is crying again. She does not seem to know.

By the third day, work calls twice.

You don’t answer.

Your manager texts. Then someone from HR. Then a coworker you like well enough sends, Hey, just checking in. No pressure, but we’re worried.

Worried.

The word follows you around the room.

Everyone is worried. Everyone is sorry. Everyone is reaching out now that reaching can no longer save anything. Concern blooms beautifully after the damage is done. It costs so little then. A text. A voicemail. A knock at the door. A trembling apology offered after silence has already done its work.

You call out again with another lie and now there is nothing to get up for.

The bed becomes the center of the universe. The kitchen exists below you in memory and dread, still littered with the aftermath of the night everything finished breaking. You know there is glass on the floor. Ceramic dust under the cabinets. Tea dried brown on the wall. An apple bruised under the table, softening day by day into rot.

You cannot make yourself clean it.

Gaz texts later.

I know you told us not to contact you. I’m sorry. I just need to know you’re okay.

You stare at it from under the blanket and wonder what would happen if you answered honestly.

No, Kyle. I am not okay. I am lying in the bed I shared with him and trying not to think about whether he touched her before coming home to me. I have not eaten anything real in two days. My hair is matted at the back of my head. Sometimes I forget to breathe until my chest hurts. Sometimes I stare at the wall so long the room changes color. Sometimes I think if I stay perfectly still, I might disappear without having to do anything dramatic about it. Would that help? Would that make you feel informed?

You pick up the phone.

Your hands are shaking, fine tremors at the fingertips, and open the group chat only because it is easier than sending three separate messages.

Your thumb hovers and for a second, something in you almost breaks the other way.

Almost writes: Why?

Almost writes: How could you?

Almost writes: I loved you too.

Instead, you type:

Do not contact me again.

The typing bubbles appear almost immediately but before they can send anything, you block them and set the phone on the nightstand, roll onto your side, and pull the blanket over your head. 

Weeks pass, and you do not get better.

You become functional in the loosest, ugliest sense of the word. You learn how to perform enough life to keep other people from forcing their way into yours. You shower sometimes, standing under the water with one hand braced against the tile and let it hit the crown of your head until your scalp aches, until the steam thickens around you, until the mirror disappears. You eat sometimes until your belly is swollen with bloat and then you don’t eat anything at all for days.

The house becomes smaller.

Not literally. The walls stay where they are, but your world narrows anyway. Bedroom. Bathroom. Hallway, sometimes. Kitchen only when necessity becomes cruel enough to drag you there. The living room is too full of ghosts, so you do not go in. 

Your phone becomes the only door you open.

That is the worst part. You know it is the worst part while you are doing it. You know, with the detached intelligence of someone watching herself through glass, that every time you pick it up you are putting your hand back into the wound. You know nothing good waits there. You know there will be no answer that makes the betrayal smaller. No post, no picture, no caption that rearranges the past into something kinder to you.

You pick it up anyway, make a burner account, and search for Elena, thumb hovering over her profile before you tap it.

Some small, ridiculous part of you expects the app to know. To stop you. To flash up a warning that says: Are you sure you want to harm yourself in this humiliating way? Are you sure you want to kneel in front of the life that replaced yours and press your face to the glass?

It does not.

Her page is bright.

That is your first coherent thought. Bright. Not just visually, though it is that too- all clean whites and warm golds and soft domestic light- but bright in the way lives look when the person living them believes the world is mostly kind. Brunch plates. A mirror selfie in an expensive coat. Flowers on a counter. A photograph of a book beside a mug. John’s hand visible at the edge of one frame, unmistakable even cropped down to knuckles and a wedding band.

You stare at that hand until the phone blurs.

You know that hand.

You know the callus along the side of his thumb. You know the faint scar crossing the back of it from a training accident he once dismissed as nothing while you cleaned it and called him an idiot. You know how heavy it felt at the base of your spine. How warm on your stomach in sleep. How steady on your face when he kissed you goodbye. You know that hand better than you know your own some days, and here it is reduced to a casual object in another woman’s photograph. 

You scroll.

You shouldn’t, but you do it anyway.

You find a picture of Elena at a restaurant, months before the divorce, a second glass of wine across from her accompanied by a caption about good company. Elena in a mirror wearing the exact same shirt you remember John saying he didn’t notice when you asked if he liked yours. Elena posting an expensive and beautiful bouquet.

Your body reacts before your mind can soften the facts.

Your stomach turns over. Your hands go cold. A tremor starts at the base of your spine and climbs. You scroll backward through time and watch the affair reveal itself not as a lightning strike, not as one catastrophic mistake, but as a whole second life built carefully beside yours while you slept in the ruins of the first and called the draft love.

Your thumb pauses on a picture from the wedding reception.

It is not one you saw before.

Soap is in the background, slightly out of focus, head tipped back, laughing. His tie is loosened. One hand around a glass, the other braced on John’s shoulder. John is laughing too. Elena is turned toward someone outside the frame, smiling wide, her dress luminous under the lights.

It looks easy.

That is what makes bile climb your throat.

It looks so easy for them to stand in the room where your humiliation was being celebrated with flowers and champagne and not collapse under the weight of it. Soap had stood there with a drink in his hand and a laugh in his mouth while you were somewhere else, maybe in the bed John had abandoned, maybe still believing your friends had been caught in the wreckage with you instead of seated at the reception.

You look at the comments and see one from Gaz, about being grateful for the people who keep you steady.

People.

You wonder if he meant John.

You wonder if he meant you before you became inconvenient.

You wonder if he had ever typed anything about you and deleted it because guilt made cowards of men who could clear rooms with rifles but not answer one woman honestly on a bathroom floor.

You throw the phone across the bed.

Not hard. Hard would require energy. It bounces once against the blanket and lands face up, Elena’s profile still glowing at you from the screen.

You stare at it.

Then you crawl under the blanket and cry until the phone goes dark by itself.

This becomes the rhythm.

Wake. Hurt. Check. Hurt worse. Sleep. Wake again. Hurt again. Check again.

You begin to learn things you never wanted to know. Elena likes white wine. Elena wears perfume with peony and yuzu in it because someone asked about it and she answers. Elena has a sister. Elena has a little dog John apparently likes enough to be photographed with, one large hand cupped around its ridiculous tiny body while it licks his chin. John, who used to grumble that you would spoil anything with four legs beyond repair. John, who told you no to a weekend away because money was tight. John, whose new wife captions him as home.

Home.

You close the app so fast your thumb slips.

This house used to be home. Not because it was beautiful, not because it was perfect, but because you had believed love lived here. Even when it got hard. Even when John came home quiet. Even when he turned away from you in bed and you lay there studying the slope of his shoulder, telling yourself distance was just another language marriage learned during difficult seasons.

Now it is just a house.

That is one of the crueller discoveries. Love had not soaked into the walls the way you thought and once it was gone, everything became object again. Bed. Lamp. Chair. Door. Cup. Floor.

You.

Object.

The crying starts so suddenly it almost frightens you, body folding forward, mouth open around a sob too raw, breath punching out of you in broken, wet bursts. Your phone slides from your hand and hits the carpet facedown, a soft little thud and both hands press to your mouth like you are trying to hold yourself in, like if you let go your whole body might turn inside out from the force of it.

By the time the crying burns itself down to hiccups, your head is pounding. Your throat feels scraped hollow. The room has gone blurry and grey at the edges, everything softened by tears except the pain, which remains bright and exact and cruelly well lit.

You bend for the phone. Your fingers brush carpet first. Then the phone. Then something else.

Wood.

You freeze.

For a second, you don’t understand what you are touching. Your hand slides farther beneath the bed, fingertips following the smooth curve of it, the dust gathered along the edge, the familiar dip and hollow of a body you once knew better than your own.

A guitar.

Your guitar.

Shoved underneath the bed, half hidden behind a box of old winter clothes and the soft grey accumulation of neglect.

You pull it out slowly and for a long moment, you just stare at it.

You forgot you had it.

No. Worse. You remember forgetting.

You remember putting it away because John was tired. Because John had just come home. Because John said, not tonight, love, with his eyes already closed. Because the house was easier when it was quiet. Because he made you feel like wanting attention was childish. Because singing in the kitchen felt too bright when he came home dark and distant and unreachable. Because somewhere along the line, without noticing the exact moment of amputation, you had learned to tuck every loud, living part of yourself beneath the bed.

You had made yourself smaller for him.

Quiet enough not to ask. Soft enough not to press. Patient enough not to need. A woman folded carefully around a man who kept taking up less and less space in your life while somehow requiring more and more of the room.

The guitar sits in your lap, dusty and mute.

Your thumb drags over the strings.

The sound is ugly. Out of tune. Barely there.

Still, something in you goes still around it.

How long had you been breaking yourself into smaller pieces for a man who wanted something bigger?

Music had been one of the things John liked about you in the beginning.

That thought should not matter but it does. It lands with a dull, mean little weight. He used to ask you to sing while he cooked. Used to lean in the doorway with a dish towel over his shoulder and listen. Used to say, Again, love, when you stopped.

You wonder when he stopped hearing you.

The first chord is wrong, fingers not wanting to form the proper shape. The pads are soft from disuse, clumsy against the strings. You try again. Better. Not right. Good enough.

Your phone is still open beside you, burner account glowing faintly on the carpet.

You don’t know why you hit record.

Or you do, but the reason is too humiliating to name. Maybe some part of you wants proof. Proof that you are this hurt. Proof that something happened here. Proof that if everyone else can polish the story into a wedding album and a clean divorce and an unfortunate situation, then you can leave evidence of the blood. Maybe you want someone, anyone, to look at the wreckage and say: Yes. I see it. That should have killed you.

You hit record.

For a few seconds, you just sit there crying, then your fingers move.

The song is barely a song.

It is four chords; a melody that keeps collapsing because your throat keeps closing. Words arriving fragmented, not clever, not polished, not even fully rhymed and ends with you pressing your palm to your mouth, shoulders shaking, guitar sliding sideways in your lap.

You should delete it. You should absolutely delete it. There is no dignity in it. No performance. No artistry. It is not a song anyone should hear. It is a woman unraveling on carpet because the people she loved made a liar out of every safe place she had.

You post it.

Not because you think anyone will care but because you are too tired to protect yourself from being seen. Then you drop the phone onto the carpet, curl around the guitar like it is a body, and cry yourself empty.

In the morning, there are two hundred and seventeen views.

You stare at the number for a long time.

Two hundred and seventeen is nothing. It is less than nothing. It is a crowded room, maybe. A small venue on a bad night. A number the internet can swallow without tasting. But to you, lying on the floor with a headache and dried tears tight on your cheeks, it feels impossible.

Two hundred and seventeen people saw you.

Heard you.

Did not stop it from happening, no. Did not fix anything. Did not reach back through time and make John faithful or Soap honest or Gaz brave or Laswell kind. But they saw. For one minute and forty three seconds, your pain existed outside your body. It had shape. It had sound. It landed somewhere that was not just the inside of your own skull.

For now, it’s the closest thing you have to proof that you are still here.

***

Undisclosed military base // Present…

“They denied it.” Laswell says, lowering her phone.

The room goes still.

Not quiet. The television is still talking, voices layered over sirens and crowd noise and the clipped panic of reporters trying to sound useful from behind police barricades. Ghost’s phone is still in his hand, screen dark now, the same number called so many times the glass has gone greasy beneath his thumb. Soap is staring at the broadcast like the right kind of attention might drag you out of the building. Gaz has stopped pretending he isn’t watching Ghost. Price has not moved from where he stands, but his hands are locked together so tightly the tendons look close to tearing.

For a second, nobody answers. The words are too clean for the room. Denied. Like she requested a meeting room. Like this is an email chain. Like you are not somewhere inside a building full of smoke and blood with your phone going straight to voicemail.

Price turns his head slowly. “Denied.”

“They don’t want unnecessary agencies converging on an active mass casualty scene. Local response and counterterror units already on site are handling it.” Her voice stays level, but there is something strained beneath it, something thin and stretched nearly through. “Task Force 141 isn’t needed.”

Soap makes a sound like a strangled laugh. “Not needed.”

Ghost doesn’t speak. He just looks at Laswell, and the room changes around it. Not visibly. Nothing moves. But something in the air lowers itself to the floor, heavy and animal. His mask hides his mouth, his jaw, everything that might give shape to whatever is happening in him, but his eyes do not have the mercy of fabric. They are fixed on Laswell with a blankness so complete it stops looking like restraint and starts looking like the moment before violence.

“Call again,” Price says.

“I did.”

“Call someone else.”

“I am.”

“Call higher.”

Laswell’s eyes cut to him. “I have.”

The reporter’s voice sharpens before Price can answer, pulling every eye back to the screen. “- we’re going now to live footage outside the rear of the venue where our camera operator is picking up movement near what appears to be one of the service exits- ”

The image lurches, too far away and zoomed in too hard, every movement unstable, every flash of emergency light blowing the image out red, then blue, then white. Police vans block half the view. Paramedics move in and out of frame. Rain streaks the lens. Smoke drifts low across the pavement from somewhere behind the venue, grey and ugly under the floodlights.

For a moment, it is just chaos. Bodies in hi-vis jackets. Officers shouting. Someone crying close enough to the microphone that the sound cuts through the broadcast. The camera tries to follow a group of paramedics running toward the loading bay, loses them behind a vehicle, overcorrects, catches the broken service doors by accident.

Then Eli staggers out of the smoke with you over his shoulders, appearing on the edge of the frame, bent under your limp weight, one arm hooked over the backs of your legs, the other locked across you.

He is covered in blood. You are covered in blood. It runs from both of you so completely that, through the rain and the distortion and the violent zoom, there is no telling where his ends and yours begins, splashing against the ground in pools.

Soap stands up so fast the couch shifts. “No.”

Eli takes one step, another, injured leg dragging behind him at an angle that makes Gaz turn slightly, hand coming up to his mouth before he can stop it. Your arm hangs down Eli’s back, fingers open and loose, blood slipping from them in lines onto the wet pavement. Your head is turned away from the camera, hair matted dark against your face, body horribly slack over his shoulder.

Ghost moves then.

Only a step toward the television, useless and instinctive, but Price sees it. Soap sees it. Gaz sees it. Something in Laswell’s face flickers and goes carefully blank again.

On the screen, Eli nearly goes down. His knee hits the pavement and his free hand slams out to catch himself, your body sliding just enough that Soap makes a broken, helpless noise in the back of his throat. Eli’s head drops. For one terrible second, it looks like he won’t be able to get back up. Then he does, forcing himself upright with a violence that looks less like strength and more like refusal, dragging one more step out of a body that has clearly spent everything it had.

“Come on,” Soap whispers. “Come on, mate. Come on.”

The police line surges and holds. Someone is shouting. The microphone catches pieces of it, back up, back up, possible secondary, hold the line, but the words only make the room worse because they all understand them. They understand procedure. They understand threat assessment. They understand why the officers hesitate, why the paramedics cannot simply flood the doorway, why every second is being measured against the possibility of another blast.

Understanding does not make it less obscene.

Eli crosses the last stretch like a man dragging himself out of hell by his teeth. He gets behind the cordon before his body finally starts to fold. Even then, he doesn’t drop you.

He lowers you. One arm under your shoulders, one hand braced awkwardly behind your head, easing you down onto the wet pavement with a care so stubborn it feels almost cruel to watch. Only when you are flat on the ground and medics are already dropping around you does his hand slip from beneath your skull.

The camera zooms tighter.

Too tight.

Your face fills the screen in fragments: cheek smeared with soot, mouth slack, lashes dark against skin gone bloodless beneath the emergency lights. A paramedic’s gloved fingers press under your jaw. Another cuts through ruined fabric. Someone shoves gauze against your side and it blooms red before the hand has even settled. Someone else is speaking into a radio, fast, too fast, while another set of hands searches for a vein.

No one in the room says your name.

It is everywhere anyway.

The paramedic at your throat shifts his fingers. Presses again. Moves lower, then back, head bent close like he is listening for something the rest of the world has gone too loud to hear. Your body does not move. The camera keeps shaking. Rain keeps streaking the lens. The reporter is saying something, but the words do not matter. The only thing that matters is the hand at your throat and the terrible amount of time it takes to find anything there.

Price’s face goes blank in a way that does not look like control anymore. It looks like something in him has stepped out. His eyes are fixed on the paramedic’s hand at your throat, on those two gloved fingers trying to find proof that the world has not taken you while he was standing in a room miles away, useless.

His voice comes out almost soundless. “Find it.”

Ghost’s phone creaks in his hand.

The casing cracks.

The paramedic’s head snaps up.

He shouts something, and the medics around you move all at once. A syringe appears. An oxygen mask. More gauze. Faster hands. Someone at your throat checks again, two fingers pressing hard beneath your jaw like whatever he found is so faint he is afraid it will disappear if he stops touching it.

Laswell exhales. “Pulse.”

Soap bends forward like the word has gone through him.

“They found a pulse,” Gaz says, but he sounds like he does not trust himself to believe it.

Ghost does not look relieved. That is the thing. He does not soften. Does not blink. His stare stays fixed to the screen, and whatever he sees there makes his voice come out low and flat. “Weak.”

Nobody asks how he knows.

They all know how he knows. The speed of the medics. The way they do not pause. The way no one smiles. The way one hand stays at your throat even as they lift you, as if life is something that has to be physically held in place.

They load you into the ambulance fast, with the brutal gentleness of people who do not have time to be careful but are careful anyway. Your arm slips once, limp at the wrist, and a medic catches it and tucks it back against you before the doors swallow you. For one second, the camera sees inside: white light, red hands, oxygen mask, someone leaning over you with their whole body committed to keeping you here.

Then the doors shut.

The ambulance pulls away.

Eli collapses the second you are gone.

He takes one step after it, then his body simply gives out, knees folding, his shoulder hits the pavement, and he goes down hard in the rain.

Soap covers his mouth.

Gaz turns away.

Price looks at Laswell, and there is nothing polished left in his face. No command posture. No distance. Just a man watching the consequence of every silence he ever asked other people to keep.

Ghost finally speaks.

“Find a way.”

Laswell already has her phone up. “Simon- ”

“Find,” he says, voice dropping into something quiet enough to frighten the room, “a fucking way.”

No one corrects him. No one tells him they have no authority, no orders, no place there. The broadcast has cut back to the reporter, but the footage is still moving behind everyone’s eyes: Eli staggering out by accident. Your arm hanging limp. The paramedic searching for a pulse. The ambulance doors closing.

Laswell puts the phone to her ear.

When someone answers, her voice is cold enough to make even Price look at her.

“This is Station Chief Laswell,” she says. “Wake whoever the fuck you need to wake.”​​​​​​​​​​​​​

They can't run, either. Don't run. Won't run. Maybe you could have before the bars got thicker and Simon's grip grew colder, but now the chains go deeper than your wrists and ankles. It's inside of you. A weight heavy enough to bring you to your knees grows as you stumble to the floor, hand slapping against the counter to prevent you from collapsing completely.

You've seen what happens to songbirds who can't leave. Half bald, skin raw and bleeding, their once beautiful feathers stuck at their feet as their shrill cries pierce through the air. You forget that their bones are hollow until they begin to bash their skulls against the bars. Everything shatters. Marrow then matter squelching into one another until the crying stops.

Your fingers wrap around the first thing you can scramble to find on the counter—your pregnancy test. It's still positive no matter how many times you blink, or how many tears attempt to wash your vision clean. The thought crosses your mind to break it into pieces small enough to flush it down the toilet, but its destruction would be an obvious cover for the results that wouldn't fool Simon in the slightest. Yelling out about the results would have the same effect. You place it back on the counter and fight the urge to slam your forehead against the corner; little chained up songbird with a hole in her head who no longer wants to sing.

Outside the bathroom door you can hear Simon cleaning up your mess in the dining room. Johnny's mumbling something. It makes your skin crawl. You think of what they might say. What they might do to you. Your stomach churns again and you fear you might lose the remaining amount of food inside of you.

Each decision you make is out of your control. Your body moves before your mind even knows what's happening. A quiet click comes from the door as you lock it then scamper away from it as if hands might reach out from underneath it to grab you. Then, your search begins.

There is nothing underneath the sink. No bleach, shower cleaner, toilet bowl cleaner—you tell yourself that's for the best. A chemical death would be too slow. Too painful. There's so much that could be done to you before you'd die. That means shampoo and shower gel is off limits, too.

For a split moment, your eyes flicker to the bathtub. Filling it with water would take too long, though you've heard it doesn't take more than an inch or two to drown. Still, it would be too loud, and any attention from Simon right now is bad attention.

When you look at yourself in the mirror, you don't recognize the woman staring back at you. She's mangy. Red-eyed and rabid, you think of smashing it to pieces so you never have to look at the wretched collar around your throat ever again. Something clicks in your brain. You think of those pieces, beautiful shining shards scattered all over the counter and the floor like icy snow. The sound would be loud, but it wouldn't take you long to get the job done. A shard into your stomach or throat would have you gone before either of them would notice the blood seeping out from underneath the door.

Better yet, you could carve up your womb. Rip the problem out straight from the source, slice up whatever clump of cells resides in you—you refuse to bring anything into this world that might suffer the same fate as you. Locked up, woman turned dog, a bitch meant for fucking and nothing more.

The door shakes.

"Bonnie? Why's the fuckin' door locked?"

Your movements become more drastic. Wings flapping, hitting the bars, feathers flying as you look for anything sturdy enough to shatter the mirror. You could use your hand, but with one already broken you don't want to rob yourself of the ability to carry out your plan because your body is too weak. For countless weeks and months, you've been out of control, spiraling down in burning flames on a ship you have no governance over. You'll ensure your death is in your own hands.

"Open this fuckin' door."

You don't respond. Head whipping around the room, you search for anything heavy enough to throw against the mirror to shatter it but the only thing that catches your eyes are plastic bottles that would break before the glass would. Desperate, you lean against the counter with your elbow pointed out like a battering ram. You tell yourself it's better than using your hands. It'll be quick. It'll be over soon.

Simon's grumbling grows louder the moment your elbow first makes contact with the mirror. You ricochet right off, hand flying back towards your chest to the point of piercing your own heart. Whatever pain you expected doesn't come. There's only a numbness that settles over your arm, tingling, TV static soaking into your muscles and bones.

The bathroom door shakes with a violence that makes you squeak. Though you know you shouldn't, you look at it anyway. The frame is cracking. Hinges bending, as if there's a bull right outside waiting to pummel you the instant it gets a chance to.

Your elbow smashes against the mirror again. And again. Again. Between you and Simon, it sounds as if the world is crashing down around you. The sky falls on top of you. It mocks you. Little bird who never learned to fly now never will. Simon has stolen the one thing you thought could never be taken from anyone, yet as the door caves in, wood flying in a long arc, you realize gods usually do as they please.

Rigid leather collides against your throat as Simon yanks you back by your collar, sending you falling onto the floor. Cold tile smashes into your rear. The strangled yelp you let out is loud enough to hurt even your own ears. Simon stands over you with heavy brows and palms out in question. Behind him, you see the mirror. Cracks travel throughout the glass like untamed roads and trails in a forest, but it's not enough to shatter. Not enough for you to pick up the pieces.

"The fuck're you doing?" he demands.

You can't speak. You can only hold your throat and cough as the tears well up in your eyes, blurring the image of him turning around to look at the damage you've done. There's a change in his posture. Shoulders straighten, back goes rigid like a board, fingers curl as if there's iron between them and his palm. Your stomach drops. You think you might be sick.

"Get up, Bonnie," he says, voice terrifyingly tepid.

"Please," you choke out.

Simon doesn't give you enough time to beg. While his tone feels kind, his hands do not. Fingers curling into your wrist, he yanks you off of the floor and onto your feet. You keep your broken hand close to your chest as he drags you out of the bathroom and into the living room where he dumps you on the floor again.

A confused Johnny sits on the couch, eyes still glassy—a half-man still stuck in creation, body here but mind fractured beyond repair. You refuse to find comfort in him as Simon marches off somewhere into the house. Pain shoots through your hip when you attempt to stand, keeping you chained to the floor as you ignore Johnny's questions.

You're not sure what to do. What he'll do. You think back to how adamant he was that Johnny not do anything with you until you were on birth control, and how carefully he made sure you took your pills each night at the same time. No mistakes. Uncannily paying attention to detail. What will happen now that your very existence is a mistake?

When Simon returns, he has his hunting rifle in hand. You're not sure how to describe the feeling that overwhelms you at the sight of him towering in the doorway with that gun resting peacefully in his palm. Panic doesn't seem strong enough. It rips you from each limb, searing you from the inside out, crawling up your stomach and out your mouth until you're choking on it. Grief. For your own death. For the life you never got to live. For everything you always wanted to do but never could.

You think of where he might dump you. Alone in the forest, flesh left to feed the creatures. Bugs in your skin, skeleton becoming a home for a creature too small to know or care about such violence. Would anyone ever find you? Would your mom be able to hold you one last time?

"What's going on?" It's the first question Johnny asks that actually makes sense in your mind. He doesn't move from the couch. There's something about the tone of his voice that's still too faded—like he still hasn't found his way back home.

"Gonna take care of Bonnie," Simon explains. He's talking about a dog. A cat. Some sort of pet worth nothing more than flippant conversation.

"Take… care of her?" Johnny sounds so innocent. Almost as if he believes Simon at face value. But there is something more behind his words that leave Simon's muscles twitching and the hair on the nape of your neck standing on end.

In a desperate attempt to buy yourself some time, you twist around, body dragging across the floor until you've reached Johnny's legs. "I'm pregnant."

All he can do is stare and blink at you. Disbelief clouds his eyes as he glances back and forth between you and Simon, like he's not sure who to believe.

"C'mon, Bonnie," Simon urges. He's trying to take you away. Away from Johnny. Away from this house. Away from everything.

That's what you wanted, isn't it? Who cares what hand it's by?

It's impossible not to recoil when Simon begins to march toward you. You're not sure where his temper is at yet, but his eyes only seem to darken as he stares down at you.

"I'll take the pills," you plead. "The other ones. To get rid of it. I'll take them and I won't fuss, I promise."

"I'm gonna be a dad?"

It's like he's not even listening to you. Johnny slides off the couch onto the floor next to you, knees bumping against you as he takes your hands into his. He's kissing the tips of your fingers and your sore, broken knuckles. This news is shock therapy to him, throwing him into more of a lucid state than you've seen him since that incident by the stream.

"I-I can't." You want to rip your hands away from him but you can't find the strength.

"Don't say that. You'll make such a good mum, I know you will," Johnny attempts to rationalize. He looks up at Simon, eyes glimmering. "I can't believe I'm gonna be a dad."

As Johnny pulls you into his chest, you follow his gaze up to Simon who continues to look down at the two of you curled up on the floor together like lovers caught in the midst of night. You pray he takes your offer. Your adamant plea to not let nature take its course and for him to finally show you mercy for once.

Though his lips grow more firm, Simon's grip on the rifle grows limp until he's dropping it to lean it against the wall. Relief floods through you until he nods.

"Congrats, Johnny."

The earth splits open beneath you but it doesn't consume you. It leaves you dangling in Johnny's arms, feet swinging helplessly in the air as you're confronted with your only two choices—hang or plummet.

Your face contorts. Fractures spread across your skin until you're bleeding nothing but brine. Everything stings. You are an open wound.

"No. No, no, no. I can't. I can't! I can't!"

Your voice builds with each syllable you spew out, spit flying out of your mouth and into Johnny's chest until you gather the strength to wiggle away from him.

"I can't! I won't! I can't! I can't!"

It's your new mantra. The only phrase you can speak. You repeat it like a broken record that no one bothers to fix. They just listen to the record skip until the scratch is permanent—damage irreversible.

Simon grabs you by your arm and drags you to your feet when your wailing starts to trouble Johnny. Even then you don't stop. You sob. You scream until your throat hurts. He drags you out of the room, down the hallway, and into the bedroom where you're put where all bad girls go. Soft pillows, cold blankets, and a cage padlocked so you can't leave.

With the door shut behind him, Simon leaves you to throw your tantrum in solitude. Legs kicking, limbs flailing, heels digging into the base of the kennel until you're covered in sweat and your voice has no more strength to scream. The tears don't stop for some time after that. A broken faucet. A laceration that cannot be mended.

For what feels like years you lay in that kennel; unmoving. You're not sure what your body does. You don't know what you think or what you feel, or even if you manage to sleep the pain away. All you know is that you do not have the energy to lift your head when Simon opens the bedroom door some time later.

He crosses into your field of view with a plate in his hands. It's impossible to read his expression even as he kneels to unlock the kennel door to set what looks like another attempt at getting you to eat dinner down on the ground.

"Please. Just give me the pills," you beg, voice raw.

Simon locks the door again. "No."

"We both know you don't want this," you rationalize. "Another mouth to feed. Another pet to take care of. We can just pretend it's a miscarriage and Johnny won't know the difference."

As Simon stands to leave, he looks down at you as if he's considering your proposal. In an attempt to meet him halfway you sit up, eyes intense and red as you await his answer.

The only response you get is a curt shake of his head and a gesture towards your dinner plate. "Don't wait for it to get cold. You're eating for two now, Bonnie."

“C’mon, it wasn’t even close. You,” his gaze swings accusingly towards Simon, “were letting her squirm around too much.” Simon shakes his head.

“Didn’t want to break her.” You’re fragile. A little kitten in the jaws of wolves. Breakable like a pane of glass. Even more so now, since you’re sick. The bond corroding away inside your body hasn’t done you any favors.

The smallest amount of guilt pinches in his stomach. They’ve made a mess of everything.

Only right they clean it up.

A small cough echoes from the bedroom, and Simon frowns. You should be asleep. There was enough sedative in that water to knock out a horse. He jerks his head towards the sound. “Johnny.” His mate nods, and silence fills the kitchen as he disappears down the hall.

“So what’s your plan here?”

“Ger her on the plane, get her home, go from there.” There’s more, a methodical step by step plan, but he doesn’t care to elaborate. Kyle can infer most of it already. He’s familiar.

A hand rests on Simon’s shoulder, thumb working slow circles into the tense muscle. “She’s in the closet,” Johnny murmurs, “passed out. Must’ve been feelin’ really anxious, poor thing.” The sympathy is dripping with something darker, something sinister. You’re anxious, you’re fearful, and though it’s their fault, they don’t truly care, not in this moment. Once they get you home, get you settled, they’ll work on it, right the ship. But for now, it’s fuel for a machine that has to keep churning, has to carry you across the finish line. Fear is a powerful motivator, they know. If you threaten someone’s life, scare them into thinking they’re in real danger, they’ll do anything to protect themselves.

Anything.

“Closet again.” Johnny shoots him a mischievous grin. It’s been hours since you retreated back to your room after dinner, tucking yourself away in your nest. “Gonna be a tight squeeze.”

“‘m not crawling into that closet unless it’s to drag her out.” He tells his mate with a flat look, trying to curb his frustration. He knows it wasn’t a conscious decision to build your nest in there, more so your biology urging you to find somewhere safe, your omega trying to retreat, protect herself, but bloody hell do you make everything so difficult. “Did you take her temp?” Johnny hums.

“Borderline high. Think we’ve got one more day before it hits, maybe two.” His mate is almost giddy, the overwhelming happiness flowing down the bond like warmth, filling an empty space in Simon’s chest.

And why shouldn’t he be? They’re getting everything they ever wanted, everything they’ve dreamed. All their planning, their strategizing, everything put into motion finally paying off. If they’re lucky, they’ll get through this unscathed, they’ll bite you, bond you, keep you forever, and you’ll never know the truth. He can taste it, taste you, on the back of his tongue, and it’s more than just perfume, pheromones. It’s clean and buttery and sweet…

and made for his mouth.

Made for their mouths.

There isn’t a gift quite like having a mate. Someone predestined for you, a mate is the only thing in the world that belongs to you before you ever see them, lay a hand on them. There is no ownership greater than the bond, no claim stronger.

There is no choice.

Only fate.

“Bleedin’ christ.” Johnny swears, laser focused on the rear view mirror. He’s rattling in the passenger seat, shaking from the amount of energy it’s taking to restrain himself.

“Stay calm.” Simon grits from a clenched jaw. He’s clinging to shreds of control, his alpha instincts surging to the surface, trying to break free. Johnny sits frozen in the passenger seat, still locked onto the mirror watching you fade into the distance.

“Ghost, Soap. Status?” The earpiece chirps, John’s voice echoing between them.

“Clear. Lost the target, we’re returning to base. There’s been… a complication.” The line is quiet for a moment, no doubt their captain weighing their words, trying to discern their meaning. Eventually, he just acknowledges them, but it hardly registers.

“Copy.”

“I cannae believe this.” Johnny hisses, half mad. His scent has turned feral, rimmed in rage, in confusion, as Simon’s teeters on a similar edge. They’re a powder keg right now. “Of all places…” Simon grimaces.

“Nothin’ we can do about it now.” It’s rotten luck, at the end of the day. Finding their scent match, their omega, should have never happened while they’re on a mission, in some unknown in a foreign country. It’s the perfect storm of wrong place, wrong time, and all he can do is hope that their little show was enough to convince whoever is tailing them you’re not of interest. “We’ll get clear of this, ask for leave, come back for ‘er.” Johnny’s eyes are dark as they flick towards him.

“She’s no’ gonna come willingly, not after that.”

“No.” Simon agrees, his hand coming down to lay atop Johnny’s, their fingers intertwining. “She won’t.” An unspoken certainty settles between them, a silent promise to do what it takes.

Whatever it takes.

Johnny is out for a run during breakfast.

It’s his normal, and they’ve tried to get back into their usual routines, their normal life, without exposing themselves as much as possible. They’ve scrubbed the house clean, anything personal or meaningful loaded into storage crates, cardboard boxes and bags, all of their belongings that made this house their home hidden away. Everything from photos to tea towels, all of it crammed along the walls of their bedroom.

It makes Simon’s skin itch.

The sooner they can move on from this, the better.

“Johnny’s gone on a run,” he tells you, not surprised at the answering silence. You try not to speak to them, insisting on kicking and screaming, digging your heels in like a petulant toddler.

He wishes you’d just give it up already, but he can’t deny he enjoys your stubbornness, your strong will.

It makes everything more interesting. More fun.

You’re worse for the wear this morning, listless, slightly swaying in your seat, pushing food around your plate, scent tinged slightly sour at the edges. Just enough that his alpha bristles, an overwhelming need to fix it, fix you, rolling through his blood like a wave.

“Feelin’ alright?” You blink at him, brow furrowed for a moment before it smooths away and you shake your head.

“I’m fine.” You croak, reaching for the pill bottles. He feigns disinterest as you shake them into your palm, watching you from the corner of his eye. You’re a dutiful patient, clinging to the hope that the medication will help you, ease your suffering, completely oblivious to the truth.

They tossed that poison weeks ago, and what’s left of it is currently burning through your system. The last line of defense disintegrating before his very eyes, castle walls collapsing into dust around you.

He smothers his smile.

It’s not that he’s taking pleasure in your suffering, because he’s not, but he can’t help but silently celebrate the inevitable. Every second, every hour brings you closer to the finish line, to the moment where you’ll be so overtaken by your biology that you won’t be able to fight it, or them. Your protests, your fear, your rational thought will fade away as your instincts take over and you beg them for bites, knots… bonds.

You’ll become theirs, and they can leave this entire mess in the past where it belongs.

“She has it..” Johnny scrubs a hand over her face. “She’s sick, Si.”

They watch from the SUV as you come out of the clinic, zipping your jacket up to your chin. Your eyes are dull, lifeless, and a chill runs up Simon’s spine.

Bond corrosion. They’ve felt the effects too, the rot festering under their ribs, their biology slowly turning on them, punishing them. They’re just too strong to succumb.

Johnny taps away at the keyboard of the laptop balanced on his knees, your medical records spread across the screen in a dozen different windows. “Been gettin’ treatment for it for months. Suppressants, blockers, painkillers. The whole lot.” Simon grits his teeth. “Says here she had…” He trails off, focuses through the windshield to where you’re standing on the sidewalk.

“Had what?”

“A heat. After we left.” Regret tinges Johnny’s scent, and it pinches his heart. It shouldn’t surprise him, considering they went through a rut around the same time, but at least they had each other. They always had each other. You had no one.

You look over your shoulder for a second, eyes sweeping across the street. Simon freezes.

“Can she…” Johnny whispers, Simon shakes his head.

“No. She might feel us, maybe. But if she’s this sick, I doubt her instincts are reliable.” The moment passes. You turn away, flipping your hood up over your head, walking in the opposite direction, walking away from them.

“We need to move in. No more waiting.” Johnny pulls his phone from his pocketing, opening their text thread to Keller. A hot flare of jealously rises in his stomach. His alpha is possessive. Alex has no right to see you, smell you. You’re theirs.

“He doesn’t touch her,” Simon warns. “We only want him to spook her. Make sure he understands.”

“Tonight?” There’s hope in Johnny’s eyes, excitement. A little bit of worry too, for you, but overall, this is a good thing. An expedited timeline just means they’re one step closer to bringing you home. Sick, but they’ll fix it. They’ll take care of you. Simon nods his affirmative.

“Tonight.”

“Dove?” A small crease forms between your brows, as Johnny gently shakes your shoulder. “Dove, ye alright?”

“Mmm?” You shake him off, pressing deeper into the cushions of the couch. Simon’s fingers find your cheek, backs of his knuckles brushing upward, over your temple, across your forehead. Hot. Your skin is hot, nearly burning, damp with sweat. Dark satisfaction burns through his veins. How long will it be before you’re begging for them? Crying for them? How long will it be before you forget how they’ve hurt you, all the suffering you’ve endured because of them, and crawl towards them on your hands and knees?

Your scent blooms, flowers into something sweeter as you lean into his touch, lashes fluttering as your eyes open.

“What is it?” You mumble, pushing yourself up on an elbow, shaking your head like you’re trying to shed the clutch of sleep. It’s no use. It’s not sleep that has its hooks in you but heat, biology building to a crescendo, an overwhelming symphony drowning out your rational mind, your logical thoughts.

“You’re sick, sweetheart. Think you’ve got a fever.” He lies easily, and you try to push him off, but there’s no strength in you, your effort feeble.

“No, ‘m fine.”

“Ye’re not.” Johnny argues, propping you up with arm around your shoulder. “Did ye take yer meds?” Simon swallows his snicker.

“Y-yeah, I don’t know why they’re not working.” You moan, attempting to pull away. All it does is give Johnny an opening to hold you closer, and his mouth brushes across the top of your head when you instinctively turn your face into his neck, seeking his scent. “It’s so hot.” You complain, and Johnny smiles, unabashed since you can’t see his face.

“Aye. Want to get in the shower, try to cool off?” You nod miserably, and Simon urges you up, supporting your weight as you struggle to your feet.

“Take it slow,” Simon murmurs as you tackle the stairs, one painstakingly drawn out step at a time. Johnny’s behind you, fingertips at your waist, as Simon shoulders your lack of balance from the side.

Your scent is overwhelming. Burnt sugar turning to caramel, it mixes with Johnny’s excitement, his joy, tangling together in a perfect, heady combination that nearly has Simon’s mouth watering. He can’t wait to taste you, can’t wait to spread your legs and bury his face in your pussy, taste your slick.

The bathroom in their room is large, more than enough room for them to maneuver around you as Simon holds you upright where you’re sitting on the closed toilet lid and Johnny tests the temperature of the water.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes.” You shake your head, try to pull away as they curl under the hem of your t-shirt.

“It’s alright dove,” Johnny reassures you, now kneeling at your feet. “We’re jus’ gonna get ye cooled down.” They synchronize their movements, Simon lifting you slightly so Johnny can hook his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and pull, Johnny holding you at the waist so Simon can get your bra off. You’re left only in your underwear, listing weakly to the side into Simon. “Such a good girl,” he croons, rubbing your thighs, “such a good omega.” You mumble something into Simon’s stomach, an objection maybe. A last line in the sand. “Up ye get.” Johnny pats your waist, and they herd you into the shower, supporting your weight, carefully holding you under the spray.

“Don’t…” You protest, but it’s fruitless. Your body is bared to them, naked while they're clothed, and Johnny grins with a full mouth of teeth, the widening maw of a predator. He drinks his fill, sweeping over you from head to toe, his fingers lightly brushing your nipples as he soaps your skin. When you shudder, Simon can't help himself, can't stop from splaying a hand across your belly, feeling your softness, the goosebumps rising beneath his touch. 

“You’ll feel better after this,” He promises, moving you deeper into the shower, rubbing your back as water cascades over your shoulders. This won’t do much to keep you cool, not for long. It’s a temporary balm, but until you’re panting and presenting, they need to stay the course. Try to keep you cool, keep you comfortable, until you’re overwhelmed by your heat and unable to fight it.

“Cold,” you whimper under the lukewarm water, instinctively pressing yourself into Simon. You fit there so perfectly, and Johnny smiles, sweet and sharp, the loofa in his hand sliding down your spine, soap working into a lather.

“I know dove, I know.” Johnny keeps his voice even toned, pillow soft. “Jus’ a minute more.” You shake your head against Simon’s chest, your nose turning inward, dragging across his wet shirt like you’re searching for him, seeking his scent. You sniffle, fists clenching and then relaxing, a battle unfolding inside your head, your body, a whine growing in your throat as the shift you further under the water to rinse off.

Johnny starts to hum. It’s a gentle, slow rumble building from his chest, and Simon presses a thumb into your nape, careful and firm. You’re powerless against his touch, Johnny’s subharmonics, your muscles immediately softening, turning more pliant by the second. Johnny kills the water and you sag between them, boneless and shivering. “Poor thing,” You shake your head.

“No.” It’s a whisper on deaf ears. Simon reaches for the clean towel they hung on the rack, wraps it around your shoulders. “No.” You say again.

“Aye, we heard ye.” Johnny rubs your shoulders, your arms dry, and you try to take a shaky step away, a small, half attempt that ends with your knees buckling. Months of sickness, meds, futile efforts, has wrecked you, left you defenseless, and he considers it a small stroke of luck. It’s easier, like this.

Simon leads you out of the bathroom, an arm wrapped around your waist, as Johnny moves ahead, pulling back the covers of the bed.

Their bed.

Not yours.

Not guest bed, not the little nest you’ve built in the closet, but their bed. The one that’s saturated with their scent, their warmth, the one that will become yours.

“No,” you rasp, pushing against Simon’s chest as he lowers you to the sheets, “not in here. I want m-my room. My...” The rest goes unsaid. Your nest.  Your omega is seeking her safe space, you don’t realize yet that this is where you’re truly safest. With them.

“I know,” Johnny soothes, cupping your cheek. “But we need to keep an eye on ye.” Simon tugs at the towel, your grip falling away, anger igniting behind your eyes for a brief moment before it’s snuffed out again, and you hang your head.

You don’t fight as Simon pulls the sheets and blankets up to your chin, you don’t push Johnny away as he fluffs the pillows behind your head. The heat roiling under your skin has drained your energy, and once they’re done tucking you in you roll onto your side, turning your back, shutting them out.

He’ll allow it, for now.

Johnny is already climbing into bed, over eager, eyes shining, murmuring into the crown of your head sweetly. Lies, probably. False promises meant to relax you, and Simon watches as your shoulders hitch once Johnny’s arm folds over your waist.

You do not have the strength to push him away.

Simon takes the other side. Your eyes crack open, fever heavy and suspicious.

“Close your eyes dove. Sleep.” Your mouth opens, closes, and he waits for your temper, your questions, but your lower lip trembles instead, and you bury your face in the pillow, hiding from him. From them. From everything.

He squeezes your hip, relaxes his palm next to Johnny’s, their thumbs folding over one another atop your body.

This is it. This is right. This is how everything should have been all along, you here, with them, cradled between their bodies, an omega made for her mates.

This is where you belong.