When You Break Up With John Price But You Didn’t Break Up With His Mom.

Winning Them Over

pairing: John Price x Younger!Reader

synopsis: Spending New Year’s with your family was always filled with traditions and warmth, but this time, it’s different. Introducing John Price to your parents adds a layer of tension you didn’t anticipate. Between your dad’s probing questions, your mom’s quiet doubts, and your own nerves, the evening is a test of patience, love, and John’s unshakable resolve.

word count: 2168

warnings: Family tension, age-gap dynamics (reader late-twenties and John late-thirties), protective parents, but lots of eventual fluff.

The drive to your parents’ house was quiet, though the silence between you and John wasn’t empty. It buzzed with the kind of unspoken tension that came when two people prepared for an inevitable battle—though in this case, the battlefield was your parents’ living room.

John’s hands rested calmly on the steering wheel, his steady presence grounding you in a way that you desperately needed. But no matter how many reassuring glances he sent your way, your nerves refused to settle. 

“You alright, love?”  he finally asked, his deep voice breaking through the spiral of anxious thoughts swirling in your head.

“I’m fine,” you replied, though the nervous tapping of your fingers on your thigh betrayed you.

“Sure about that?” he asked, a hint of a smile softening his words.

You sighed, leaning back against the seat. “You’ve met stubborn recruits, right? Ones who won’t back down no matter what?”

“Plenty.”

“That’s my dad.”

John chuckled. “He’s just protective. I’d expect nothing less.”

“It’s not just him,” you muttered. “It’s my brother, my mom, my aunts, uncles—basically everyone. And don’t even get me started on my grandparents.”

He reached over, resting a comforting hand on your knee. “You’re worth it, love. Let me handle the lot of them.”

As the house came into view, its glowing windows and faint sounds of laughter wrapped in a blanket of snow, your stomach twisted.

When you pulled into the driveway, the house was already alive with movement. Warm light spilled from the windows, and the muffled sounds of laughter and chatter filtered through the cold night air.

The door flew open before you could knock, revealing your younger cousin Sam, who immediately shouted back into the house, “They’re here!” He bolted inside, leaving the door wide open.

Your mom was next to appear, pulling you into a warm hug before her gaze shifted to John. “This must be him,” she said, her tone polite but cautiously curious.

“Yes, ma’am,” John replied smoothly, shaking her hand. “Thank you for having me.”

Her smile was polite, though the flicker of hesitation in her eyes was impossible to miss.

Before she could say more, your dad appeared, his broad frame filling the doorway. He scanned John with a critical eye before clasping his hand in a firm, deliberate handshake. “So, this is the boyfriend,” he said, his tone heavy with skepticism.

“Dad,” you said quickly, stepping in to buffer the tension. “This is John Price.”

John offered his hand without hesitation. “Sir,” he said, meeting your dad’s gaze evenly.

Your dad’s handshake was firm—too firm—and his eyes didn’t leave John’s. “Military, right?”

“Yes, sir. Captain.”

Your dad released his grip, though his expression didn’t soften. “Well, let’s hope that discipline carries over into how you treat my daughter.”

“Dad,” you interjected, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

John, steady as ever, responded calmly. “It does, sir. With all due respect, your daughter is the most important person in my life. I treat her with the care she deserves.”

Your dad grunted, stepping aside but clearly not convinced.

In the living room, chaos reigned. Your aunts buzzed in the kitchen, their voices rising and falling in a rhythm only they understood. Your uncles were sprawled on the couches, debating loudly over a football game.

“So, you’re the infamous John,” your Uncle Robert said, leaning back in his chair with a beer in hand.

“Infamous?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, we’ve heard a lot about you,” Uncle Robert replied with a grin. “The age gap, the military background. It’s all very… interesting.”

Before you could snap a retort, John replied smoothly, “I’m glad to be a topic of interest. Hopefully, I can live up to the hype.”

That earned a laugh from your Uncle Paul. “He’s quick. I like him.”

“He’s not here for you to like, Paul,” your dad muttered, glaring at his brother.

John’s calm reply cut through the tension. “I’m here for her. But earning your family’s trust is just as important to me.”

In the corner, your grandparents were observing quietly, their expressions unreadable. Finally, your grandfather spoke up, his voice gravelly with age.

“You’ve been in the service a long time, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” John said, straightening slightly. “Twenty years.”

Your grandfather nodded slowly, his sharp eyes narrowing. “And now you’re looking to settle down? Start a new chapter?”

John hesitated, then met his gaze steadily. “I am. And your granddaughter is the best chapter I could’ve asked for.”

The room fell silent for a moment before your grandfather let out a low chuckle. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

Your grandmother smiled faintly. “He’s polite. That’s rare these days.”

Meanwhile, your little cousins had taken to bombarding John with questions. 

“Uncle John!” Peter exclaimed, dragging him toward the couch.

“You’re in the army, right? Does that mean you can fight anything?”

“Have you ever fought a shark?” little Tim asked tugging at John’s sleeve, his eyes wide with curiosity.

John leaned down to his level, his expression serious. “You know, I’ve never met a shark brave enough to try me.”

“Whoa,” Jane whispered, her mouth forming a perfect O. “What about a lion?”

“Lions aren’t too keen on me either,” John replied, straightening up with a grin. “Guess I must be scary.”

“And a bear?” Sam added, bouncing on her toes.

John crouched to their level, his tone serious. “Not a bear or a shark—but once, I wrestled a crocodile the size of a car. Oh and I even had to outsmart a pack of Dinosaurs” John said with a straight face earning gasps and giggles from the kids.

Jamie chimed in, “Bet you could take down a dragon too!”

John leaned in, his voice low. “Depends. Fire-breathing dragons? Or ice ones?"

The kids erupted into a debate, forgetting to press for more stories as John gave you a knowing smile.

Looking at the scene your cousins Henry and Sarah cornered. “So, he’s the guy, huh?” Henry asked, tilting his head toward John.

“Yes, he’s the guy,” you replied, your tone edging toward exasperation.

Henry smirked. “He looks like he could snap a tree in half.”

“Good thing he’s on your side,” Sarah added with a wink.

In the living room, your brother Matthew leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he observed John with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.

“So,” Matthew said, finally speaking up, “what’s it like dating someone so much younger? Bet it’s a nice change of pace from all the army guys.”

“Matthew!” you hissed, glaring at him.

John, however, didn’t miss a beat. “It’s not about age. It’s about connection. Your sister and I understand each other—that’s what matters.”

Matthew raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting such a composed response. “That’s a good answer,” he admitted, though his tone was still tinged with skepticism. “But let’s hope you keep proving it.”

“Plan to,” John said calmly, his expression unchanging.

Inside the kitchen, your aunts were bustling in the kitchen, their chatter blending with the clatter of pots and pans.

“So, he’s the boyfriend,” Aunt Lisa said as she stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She gave John an exaggerated once-over. “You didn’t say he’d be so… imposing.”

“Handsome,” Aunt Rachel added, grinning.

“Both,” Lisa corrected with a wink.

You groaned, shooting John an apologetic look, but he just chuckled.

By the time dinner rolled around, the dining room was filled with the overlapping sounds of clinking silverware and animated conversation. Your dad took every opportunity to steer the discussion toward John—his job, his past, his future plans with you.

“So,” your dad said, leaning back in his chair, “where do you see this going?”

John didn’t miss a beat. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t see an end. I’m here because I want to build a life with her.”

Your mom’s fork paused halfway to her mouth, her eyes flicking between you and John. The room fell quiet for a beat, the weight of John’s words settling over the table.

“Well,” your dad said finally, clearing his throat. “I suppose time will tell.”

Later, while helping mom and aunties in the kitchen, your mom finally voiced what had been simmering beneath her polite exterior.

“He’s lovely,” she said, glancing at you over her shoulder. “But… he’s older.”

You sighed, setting down the tray of glasses you were carrying. “Mom, we’ve been over this. Age doesn’t matter to us.”

“I know,” she said quickly. “But it’s hard not to worry. You’re young. You have so much ahead of you. Are you sure this is what you want?”

You stepped closer, your voice firm but gentle. “Mom, I’ve never been more sure of anything. John is kind, patient, and he loves me in a way no one else ever has. He makes me happy. Isn’t that what matters?”

She studied you for a long moment, her expression softening. “You’re happy?”

“Completely,” you said.

She sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Then I’ll trust you. But don’t expect your dad to come around so easily.”

“That makes two of us,” you muttered, earning a quiet laugh from her.

As midnight approached, while most of the family gathered in the living room for the countdown, you found yourself helping your dad with the fireplace. The crackle of the logs filled the quiet space, and for a moment, it was just the two of you.

You glanced at your dad, his familiar furrowed brow mirroring the weight of your own nerves. If there was ever a time to be honest, it was now. “I know the age thing bothers you.”

He paused, his hands stilling as he adjusted the logs. “It’s not just the age,” he replied, crossing his arms. “It’s the life experience, the gap in where you both are.”

“I get that,” you said, meeting his gaze. “But John and I aren’t about the years we’ve lived. We’re about how we make each other feel—safe, supported, loved. Isn’t that what matters?”

He hesitated, his expression softening. “I just don’t want you rushing into something you’ll regret.”

“I’m not,” you said firmly. “This is the most certain I’ve ever been about anything.”

Your dad’s brow furrowed deeper. “You know, I wasn’t sure about John at first either,” you added with a small laugh, hoping to ease the tension.

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you said smiling. “I thought the same things you’re probably thinking—he’s older, experienced, and his world is so different from mine. But the more I got to know him, the more I realized that he doesn’t just make me happy; he makes me better.”

Your dad was silent for a moment, his hands pausing in their work. “That’s a high bar,” he muttered, but the tension in his tone lessened.

“Can I ask you something?” you said.

“Sure,” he said warily.

“How did you know Mom was the one?”

He blinked, taken aback. “Well, I just… knew. She made me feel alive, like no one else ever had.”

You smiled softly. “That’s how I feel about John. He’s not perfect, but he’s perfect for me. Isn’t that what you’d want for me?”

Your dad sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I want you to be happy. That’s all that matters to me.”

As you stepped away from the fireplace, your dad lingered there, his gaze distant but thoughtful. The warm glow of the flames danced across his features, softening the usual stern lines of his expression. You could tell he was still mulling over your conversation, weighing your words against his protective instincts.

John was waiting for you near the window, his steady presence like a beacon pulling you away from your swirling emotions. When his arm slipped around your waist, the warmth of his touch grounded you.

“Still holding up alright?” John murmured, slipping an arm around your waist.

“Better than I thought,” you said, leaning into him. “I think you’re winning them over.”

“Mission accomplished, then,” he said, his lips brushing your temple.

Ten… nine… eight…

Your dad caught John’s gaze and gave a small nod, subtle but meaningful. It wasn’t a surrender, but it was the beginning of something—a fragile truce, an acknowledgment,  a reluctant but meaningful sign of approval.

Three… two… one…

Cheers erupted as the clock struck midnight. John turned to you, his hand gently cupping your cheek. “Happy New Year, love,” he murmured, his eyes holding yours for a heartbeat before he kissed you. 

---

…dbf!john that has to take care of her while her dads on a business trip?

you were enthusiastic at the idea of finally being able to spend some quiet time home all alone with no yelling from your dad, no loud voices, just peace. but evidently he had different plans for you.

“oh,” you stopped mid walk right in the middle of the stairs, a sudden rush of warmth spreading over your chest and cheeks at the sight of john in your living room, manspreading on the couch “what are you doing here sir?”

john raised both brows in amusement, you were his favorite sight, so sweet and delicate, young and forbidden, “yer dad asked me to take care of y’a while he’s away, doll”

“but i don’t need it, i can be left alone,” you replied hesitantly, walking down the last stairs. your eagerness from earlier was now replaced with your signature shyness and bashfulness, just like every time you were around him — butterflies filled your stomach and you couldn’t even master coherent sentences or thoughts, you excelled in college but turned out a blubbering and stammering mess with this man.

“know you do, angel,” he said, his gruffness somehow softening when talking to you, “just doing my mate’s a favor”

maybe your dad didn’t know it, but he was doing you a favor by letting his best friend stay over. ”alright, sir,” you shrugged softly, and john’s pants almost stiffened—so obedient, so docile all the time. you were such a good girl.

“it’ll fell as if I’m not even home most of the time,” you blushed, feeling out of space in your own house, a squirming bunny underneath his attentive gaze, too warm and sharp to handle

“b’have as if i wasn’t even here, princess, just here to keep an eye on you if somethin’ happens.”

and oh, it felt so torturous, the forced proximity with the man of your dreams, the one out of your league, the only one you wanted. a real man, john was, so old and strong, buff and stern, giving you a sense of protection and control you longed for. you yearned for a sense of security and dominance that only john could give you. if you were the romance, he was the discipline.

dadsbf!john price was such a provider, a caregiver, he took care of everything in the house, made sure to turn on the stove for you when you wanted to make something, he didn’t let you touch any knives, made you breakfast in the morning, brought your fresh ice cream or strawberries when you were reading or studying in your room. but the tension between the two of you was tangible, it frizzled the air anytime you accidentally brushed your hands together or walked next each other — your father’s best friend, too much older than you, in his late 40s, and a sweet, little girl who was barely 21.

he tried so hard to be responsible, the be a military man, a seasoned captain who knew how to resist temptation. but you weren’t a temptation, because temptations could be bad — no, you were sugar, honey. sweet and tender at the touch, to taste, to feed off to. sweet for the soul and healthy for the body, as the bible would say.

but it was even harder for him, to restrain himself, knowing how much you wanted him, you looked at him with the most innocent eyes, batting your lashes at him like a lost puppy, a bunny that wanted to be picked up and cuddled, and thrown over his shoulder and taken care of by a rough, old man.

you always walked around the house in those tiny, mini skirts that hugged your ass, thigh highs that made him want to bite down on his fist, and that innocent bunny demeanor that made him loose his cool — bending over the kitchen counter when you made yourself some strawberry milk, giving him a perfect view of you bottom, or getting on your tip toes to reach for the highest shelves, softly calling him with a “sir? need your help please”

dadsbf!john price who had you sitting on his lap at night, on the couch, reading your lovely book, while he was watching tv, one of his usual movies about missions, shootings and undercover agents. you were all curled up against him, squirming and shifting position every once in a while — john was a patient man, but your cute butt kept pressing against his crotch when you moved, and he had to clench his jaw restrain himself from groaning.

“you uncomfortable, love?”

you only shook your head, lowering the book, revealing your flushed, red blushing face. “sorry sir, ‘s just a fuzzy feeling, it tickles” poor girl you didn’t know what was going on :( how to make this feeling in your belly stop.

“mmh? feel fuzzy, doll?”

and oh, he knew how to make you feel better. he gently grabbed both your hips with his large hands, positioning you between his spread legs, back pressed against his chest — you inhaled, your breath caught in your throat as you felt his rough, calloused hands parting your legs, spreading them for him.

dadsbf!john price who talked you through it, teaching you about everything you didn’t know about yourself, you’d never tried. his thick fingers pressed lazy circles around your clothed clit, his thick beard pressed against your cheek as he spoke with a deep, rough voice.

“this right here…if i touch you here, it’ll feel very good doll. can touch slowly, lightly to let the sensation linger, play with it,”

your breath was ragged, you were nervous, felt exposed, only your oversized cute shirt covering you, those unfamiliar sensations making your head dizzy. you looked down, whimpering when his middle finger and index traced circles over your clit, against your panties, but he quickly reassured you when you mewled, cooing at you and using his free hand to lift your chin.

“shh, shh, eyes up, doll, i’ve got you, princess, look at me,”

you did. he wanted to introduce you to the feeling first, slowly teaching you how to get used to these things. he pressed a kiss on the corner of you mouth, and you whined against him.

“..and if daddy rubs harder, fast, you’ll feel warm inside, on your belly, like this, on your petal,”

“oh- oh gosh—“ you squirmed, biting your bottom lip, a sudden wave of pleasure shot through your legs when, and you involuntarily attempted to close them, but he quickly moved his hand to part them, spreading them wider.

“I know love, I know, feels good little one, easy, easy now, wan’ daddy to stop?”

“nu-uh, please” you could only shake your head, too shy and caught up in the sensation, your cheeks were as red and warm as bright flames and ripe strawberries, blushing fiercely — it felt so good, yet you were so embarrassed you couldn’t even look at him.

“that’s it, bunny, spread them for daddy, good girl, could spend all week like this until your pa’ comes back,” his rich, gruff chuckle vibrated against your back, and you felt your tummy coil at his words — with a twist of his wrist, his hand disappeared underneath your cotton panties, and you flinched on his lap, squirming when his bare fingers started caressing your clit.

dadsbf!john price who taught you how to kiss, pushing his tongue against yours, licking off your lipgloss, chuckling when you needed to breath, before devouring your mouth again, starving, hungry — your arms around his neck like your life depended on it.

dadsbf!john price who would tuck you to bed and hand you your favorite plushie before going to sleep in your father’s empty room,

“can sleep with you if you dont wanna be alone, sir”

“oh doll, as much as i’d love you to, don’t think either of us will get any sleep if you get in bed with me, and that can’t happen, love,”

dadsbf!john price who made sure to not smoke around you, especially inside the house. he’d get to the back patio or front porch to indulge in one of his strong scented, thick cigars. a soft angel like you can’t fill her lungs with such venom.

dadsbf!john price who grinned smugly whenever your dad called him to know how you were doing. he pressed his phone against his ear, hiding his cocky grin underneath his thick beard and mustache.

“doing fine, pal. reads her books, takes her dog out, studies, goes to church. usual things.”

he didn’t tell him how you were kneeling in front of him on the couch, your knees pressed against a plush pillow to not hurt your legs, doe eyes looking at him expectingly, waiting to him to end the call to teach you how to make him feel good with your mouth — his free hand rubs against your warm cheek, playing with your long hair.

and when he ended the call, he bucked his hips, manspreading, giving you a look that could be both tender and intense, sharp and commanding.

“what did he say, sir?”

“nothing much, princess. misses you,”

you smiled at that. you had daddy issues, didn’t matter how much your dad truly loved you, and he did, he was just incapable of showing it. he didn’t know how to. always moody, serious, yelling at any given moment. you needed a real old man that could love you and treat you like the most delicate and precious girl. you wanted john to do it.

john loved seeing you smile, he couldn’t tell you that he’d made it up, added that last part about the call, just to see you smile, even though your dad hadn’t actually said that.

john was alone, practically married to his job, literally, with much more experience with women you could ever imagine — until God pitied him and decided to send him a little expiatory angel, you.

“aight’, doll, wan’ daddy to show you how to take him with your mouth like a good girl?”

you nodded, hesitantly. your shyness and timidity always had the best of you. but he wanted to take his time with you, protect your sweet purity.

“use your words, love. speak up for daddy, come on”

you blushed and fidgeted with your hands, batting your lashes at him “yes sir,”

“good girl, angel. buttons.” single, short words, speaking with military authority.

you opened his pants with shaky hands, nervously. but he firmly cupped your chin, tilting your jaw up.

“no need to be scared, love, look at you…nervous, are you sweet?” he cooed condescendingly at you, making your bite your lip and nod, puppy eyes big and round.

“just open your mouth and be still. daddy’s gonna help you, if it gets too much for ya, tap my knee. copy that, bunny?”

“yes daddy, mkay” you gave him a little nod, almost shivering at the way his thumb brushed against your bottom lip.

“show daddy your tongue, that’s it. here it is, fuck, gonna be rough with ya, angel, could eat you up, love. good doll, now, zipper down.”

---

Barry Sloane as Captain Price Beta version Joe “Bear” Graves | SIX

Never misses, even in style

---

meet your match

price x f!reader | 10k | AO3

cw: dubcon, explicit sexual content, praise kink, daddy kink (mentioned), breeding kink, john price wife-hunting/wife at first sight, perfectionist/workaholic/lonely reader, stalking, manipulation

John spots the ad as he punches a pin through his card. 

It’s impossible to miss.

Bright red hearts, pink-and-white checkered borders on glossy paper someone paid extra to print. A heart-shaped tack centered perfectly along the top edge. Big looping letters—MEET YOUR MATCH SPEED DATING.

It looks absurd next to his card. A dull rectangle of plain cardstock, his name printed in clean, unembellished letters, ‘John Price - Handyman’, and his number below. No bright colors, no flourishes. Simple like the work. Honest. Keeps his hands occupied between deployments.

The disgust arrives on a delay, a spark traveling along powder. A twist in his gut, a curl of his lip. His eyes rolling hard in his skull. It’s an affront—not just to him, but to the very idea of how things are supposed to go.

He yanks a trolley free, muttering under his breath.

Who in their right mind would waste time like that? Spinning around, talking to strangers, volleying shallow questions, forcing laughter. Acting like most people don’t make up their minds in the first thirty seconds about whether or not they want someone in their bed.

The whole affair reeks.

He shoulder-checks another man in power tools, too distracted by the voices of his sergeants drifting uninvited through his head, summoned by all his grousing.

Stubborn, cantankerous Price. Twice-divorced, stuck in a year-long dry spell because he’s got a habit of scaring off any decent woman who strays into his orbit. The mean old bastard who always moans about the good ol’ days—when men met women face-to-face, not through some app where you swiped left or right like you were picking out a meal deal.

When he could pick them up right off the street, like the first Mrs. Price. Or the supermarket, like her successor.

The memories leave a bittersweet taste. An ache in his groin. It’s been a minute since he took a girl home. Since he tried.

Through the shelves, the poster shines like a fucking beacon.

He breathes sharply through his nose, shakes it off, and shoves deeper into the store.

He never should’ve looked at the bloody thing.

Four fingers’ worth of amber sloshing around in his belly, he swallows the burn of embarrassment with another glass. Lets it dull his better judgment. The tips of his ears red hot as he punches his bank card into the online checkout, grumbling some half-formed excuse to himself. 

The confirmation email arrives in seconds. He ignores it.

He spends the week installing cabinetry, letting the scream of a circular saw drown out his thoughts. Shovels dirt over it when he lays a garden path for a neighbor one afternoon, determined to bury it one stone at a time. Tamping it down along with the dirt, out of sight, out of mind.

But then the reminder lands in his inbox, bright and cheery. Evidence of his lapse in judgment. His mood sours, dragging him into the muck like a boot caught in deep, clinging mud. He knows he ought to ignore it again, chalk it up to a stupid mistake, but—

An itch flares on the back of his ring finger. He scratches it raw, but there’s no relief.

On the night of, he drives white-knuckled to the next town over, pulling into the car park twenty minutes early. He leans against his door, cigar in hand, smoke curling into the cold air as others arrive.

Most of them come in groups, chattering and laughing, familiar. He jumps from one face to the next, cataloging. His finger rests on an invisible trigger, caught between decisions—go in and see what the fuss is about, or make a quick retreat, head home, and catch some pretty face’s stream instead.

Then, a small cluster of girls passes by, giggling behind manicured hands, casting sidelong glances that scream daddy issues. He exhales a ribbon of smoke, watching over the glowing cherry of his cigar.

Whether or not he, by some miracle, finds a match tonight, there’s always the potential for a consolation prize.

As soon as he slaps a name tag onto his chest and scans the crowd, it’s obvious—he’s one of the older men present. Hell, scratch that, he might be the oldest by a fair stretch.

The younger bucks don’t spare him a second glance, too busy puffing out their chests, checking the competition among themselves. The women, though, they’re more forgiving. A few give him passing looks, flickers of intrigue as they clock him standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching.

John knows what he looks like. North of forty, gray threading through his temples, a soft layer of fat settling over the muscle beneath. Dressed sensibly, nothing flashy. Not like the men peacocking around in too-tight shirts, drowning themselves in cologne, preening. He’s here, and that’s about the extent of his effort.

And then the first round begins. He sits across from the first girl, and the second her eyes widen—not in the way he’d like—he knows exactly what kind of night this is going to be.

It proceeds as expected.

The fascination with his years, the curiosity. What’s a man like you doing at something like this? The inevitable prying. Married before? Twice? Oh, well, then. Or worse, the giddy birds, buzzing in their seats with smiles that say, yes, he is the answer to some life-long wound, a stand-in for the attention they never got from their fathers. 

Then there are the unbearably shy ones, pulling teeth just to get a full sentence out before the round is called. Good girls. Decent girls. Girls who stare at him as if he’s about to vault the table and sink his teeth into their throats.

Which is absurd.

He’s a war dog. He prefers a bit of fight. Skin in the game. Make it worth his while, tucker him out.

By the end of it, his card is full, but he’s unimpressed.

His knees and back ache from all the repetitious standing and sitting, moving from seat to seat like some wind-up toy. His jaw is sore from clenching, his temples pulsing from two hours of forced patience. Hands itching for a smoke. It’s nothing like sitting and waiting for a clean shot. That always results in at least a job well done. A mission accomplished. This? A lousy scorecard and a couple of numbers he won’t call from girls who don’t have a clue what they’re looking for?

He’s out of his fucking mind for even bothering.

It’s demeaning.

The organizer flicks on the mic, sending a screech of feedback through the speakers, and he rips the name tag from his chest, teeth grinding. He didn’t listen the first time—only a fucking moron would need the rules explained twice. He’s already angling toward the door, ready to make his exit, when he sees you.

The evening turns on its head.

The last hour wiped clean with a look.

Bright red hearts dangle from your ears. A matching necklace rests at the hollow of your throat. A pink-and-white checkered clipboard sits on your hip, a matching pen twirling absently in your fingers. Chipped crimson varnish on your thumb, like you’ve been peeling it off. Chewing, maybe. 

Glittery boots lend you height. Shoulders squared, posture straight. Doing your best to exude confidence.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

You prattle on. Platitudes, mostly. How engaged everyone looked in their conversations, a playful quip about how some already seem like goddamn lovebirds. Your voice lilts with charm, a smidge warbly. You must’ve given this speech a hundred times before. Then comes the boasting.

Your agency’s success rate. The numbers, the percentages. How many second and third dates attendees report back. How you’ve helped introduce hundreds of couples. There’s pride in it. Your eyes brighten. But it’s a veneer. Thin as lace.

He sees it. The beads of sweat gathering at your hairline, the faint sheen behind your ear, the subtle tremor in your voice when you get too caught up in your own enthusiasm. A broken-off giggle. The occasional tap of your fingers against the edge of that clipboard, a tic, a tell. You’ve got the confidence, but it’s over-rehearsed. As much of an accessory as the ornament wrapped around your neck.

And he can’t help but wonder.

What would you do if someone called your bluff? If he found you after? Stepped in close, trapped you against one of those god awful stiff-backed chairs, close enough that you felt the weight of him hovering? What would you do if he gave you his honest opinion about your ‘work’, face-to-face?

His mind spins on it for half a second before you say something that derails him completely.

Babies.

It lands like a stone dropped in a pond. Ripples outward in nervous laughter, uncertain shuffling. The younger attendees shift on their feet, casting shy, uncertain glances at each other. You fumble through it, quick and awkward, as if you’ve only realized the present demographics aren’t quite ready for the stork.

He hopes it’s an exaggeration. An offhand comment, a bone tossed out for the older guests in the room.

(Him, because who else fits the bill?)

His blood runs hot at that.

Something stirs in his gut, rising insistent and uncoiling in his chest. A want he thought he’d discounted out years ago, snuffed like a match between his fingers. Delayed by his climb through the ranks and waylaid by fizzling romance.

Children. 

Can one ever really bury an instinct like that deep enough?

His own father soured him on the notion—spiteful, unforgiving, malignant tumor of a man. Impossible standards, an intolerance to match. A rage John inherited, honed, funneled into the one bloody release he found in service. An ugliness that made him swear off continuing the line. 

Still, something funny holds him back. That itch.

He’s canceled every vasectomy he’s ever scheduled in the last decade. Reversible or not, it’s intoxicating to know what he’s capable of.

With you wandering into the crosshairs, it clicks into place. He understands.

He swallows, jaw clenching, and forces himself to look at your face instead of the hollow of your throat, where that ridiculous necklace rests. Forces himself to focus on what you’re saying instead of the shape of your mouth as you say it.

A-ffirmed. He’s out of his fucking mind for coming here.

He tells himself he won’t hunt you down afterward.

No. You’re insulated. Shielded by a flock of hens who swarm the second you return the microphone back to its stand, all clucking approval, dishing out compliments, asking their inane questions about your services. You nod, smile, say your thanks, gracious and warm, and it’s exactly the excuse he needs to leave.

He should leave.

Instead, he declines to give your colleague his scorecard, stuffing the useless sheet into his pocket without so much as a second look-over. He chews the inside of his cheek, locked on you. Takes what he tells himself will be his last look. Prints you on the inside of his eyelids.

Then he sees your hand.

A short stack of business cards, matching the damned poster that started this whole ridiculous mess. He moves before he can think better of it.

Crosses the hall in a handful of long strides. The younger women scatter in his wake, parted by his low, muttered pardon me’s.

And you, you—

Eyes wide, lips parting around a breath, half a sentence, “Here, sir,” before he plucks a card from your fingers.

Then he’s gone.

Straight out the door. Across the car park. Sliding into the driver’s seat, his pulse thundering in his ears, his hand already reaching for the glove compartment. Lighter. Cigarette. Routine to steady himself. Busy his hands so he doesn’t barge right back inside and drag you out behind him. Fire to distract the caveman clawing at his brain.

He doesn’t look at your card right away, not until the first drag burns through his lungs.

It’s just as garish as the poster. Wine-red lettering. Your name. The dating agency you work for. Your number.

And if that isn’t convenient. 

That’s half the battle won.

He should call. Go through the proper channels, hire you for your services like any decent man would. But there’d be no way to lie about what he’s really looking for and what he really wants.

He can’t be too direct, can’t risk scaring you off, but he also can’t leave it up to chance. Experience—and two spousal payments—have taught him better than that.

He won’t make the same mistake a third time.

John does his research.

Your online presence is threadbare, limited to a short bio on the agency website and a sparsely populated profile on a corporate network. Matchmaker, professional hostess. He scrolls, picks apart the scraps. Posts you’ve written and shared, abbreviated comments you embellish with hearts.

Little as he has to study with, it adds up.

You’re all work, no play. Polite, sweet, and a real go-getter, as a former colleague describes you. All butterflies and whiskers on kittens. Sugar-coated professionalism. Your accomplishments and certifications laid out like medals, ambitions clear. Ruthless, in your own way, but the kind with puppy teeth, growing into your bite, he’d bet.

He saw you struggle and the nerves you tried to hide. Maybe others bought it, but he didn’t. If that’s where you are after years on the job, he imagines what you were like in the beginning. Easily rattled, unsteady on your feet.

Still. You’re trying. Look where you are now. Go-getter.

The effort and determination, however clumsy, fascinates. It keeps him searching for a glimpse beneath the polished exterior, but there’s nothing. Not a single mention of friends, family, or, notably, a boyfriend.

It makes his teeth ache.

He needs more.

A hideous, modern building. The very opposite of you—cold, plain, and impersonal. Expensive, not without amenities. His favorite?

The floor-to-ceiling windows.

Blessedly, you are a creature of routine.

Home to work, and work to home. A seamless loop, unbroken save for brief, reasonable deviations. Trips to the shops, a walk through the park near your flat, a community gym. Even then, there’s no idle wandering or wasted time.

Sometimes, when you duck into the market, you emerge with a bouquet of flowers, petals and leaves wrapped in crinkled brown paper, or a bottle of wine, its slender neck peeking out. Small indulgences you buy yourself.

Because there’s no one else to do it for you.

He’s all but confirmed it, watching you ferry yourself between the same points, alone every time. No one welcomes you home. No one goes home to you. Big, lofty place like yours and no one to share it with.

It doesn’t sit right with him, on two fronts.

The first—you pride yourself on your expertise. The training, the certificates, the metrics. It’s all laid out online, your badges of honor, but you’re missing the biggest one, aren’t you? Lacking firsthand knowledge. Quite the albatross hanging around your neck.

The second—it’s self-flagellation, needless and punishing. Pretty, smart thing like you, locking yourself away. A princess banishing herself to a tower. The persistent, cynical part of him wonders if it’s simple snobbery. That you think you’re too good for men like him. 

Yet that’s not quite it either, is it? 

You shut yourself off from everyone.

Twice in one week, from his spot in the mouth of the alley outside your office, he hears you decline invitations for drinks from your colleagues. The same excuse, too much to do, and a pat to the stuffed tote slung over your shoulder.

You work hard, pour yourself into the gig, and when you manage to unwind, it’s always in isolation. A quiet dinner, a solo glass of wine, a book balanced on the arm of your couch. Those big yoga stretches in the morning and at bed time.

The thought solidifies into certainty: You need someone to step in. Someone who sees you.

Luckily for you, John does.

(You never pull those shades down all the way. A fancy place like yours? It’d be a shame to keep them covered, lose the view.)

Satisfied he’s learned all he can from a distance, John decides to meet you properly, on familiar ground. A lonely, overworked girl deserves at least that much. He isn’t cruel.

Buying another ticket to another fucking night of pointless dating doesn’t taste so bad when he has you to look forward to.

This time, it’s in the back room of a restaurant. Smaller, intimate.

Perfect.

John glides through the song and dance. Sign in, take the name tag, acknowledge your coworker, let them believe he’s another hopeful looking for love.

He is, in a way. Different from the last time. He strides with purpose now, heat-seeking. He sidesteps the idle chatter and growing crowd.

Eyes on the prize, and there you are.

As primped and polished as the first night, dressed in soft colors that contrast the tension strung tight in your shoulders pulled up to your ears. Just as on edge, if not more.

That damn clipboard is back on your hip, clutched like a lifeline, and it takes less than a second for his mind to replace it. A warm weight settled against you. Small hands grasping at fabric. A dark-haired child perched, fingers curled in your blouse.

His throat tightens.

You really shouldn’t have mentioned babies.

You move through the space in a current, pulled in every direction at once. Checking in with your coworker, refusing to delegate. Pointing guests toward the toilets, fielding messages on your phone, juggling it all with a thin smile.

It’s admirable.

Nevertheless, hairline cracks form. The light dulls in your eyes, the stress shakes your hands. You’re tired, and not the kind he wants to see on you.

Not the delicious, drowsy fatigue of a body thoroughly spent, melted into the mattress after he’s wrung you dry. Not the half-hearted whimper of a protest as you nuzzle into his chest, mumbling about your ruined makeup staining pillowcases and how it’s his fault. Not the slow, syrupy exhaustion of pleasure that makes you pliant and warm in his arms. The kind of fatigue that leaves you soft, content. His.

Nor the bone-deep weariness of a woman woken in the middle of the night, cradling—

He blinks, biting down on the thought, and suddenly, you’re within reach.

“Oh, hi again,” you chirp, passing a scorecard into his hand. “You came a couple of weeks ago, right?”

That ugly impulse rises within him again, the desire to drag you away outside and make your problems disappear. “I did.”

“Thought so. Well, good luck,” you check his name tag with a smile. “John. Hope you find someone tonight.”

If only you knew.

“One question, if you don’t mind,” he says, barely keeping his face neutral. “Ever find your own match at one of these?”

Your eyes widen with an almost comical look of confusion. “Excuse me?”

John doesn’t lower his head but instead stares right down his nose. “No ring on your finger,” he muses. “Boyfriend too scared to step up?”

“I–I’m not–”

“Don’t tell me,” he chuckles under his breath, “Miss Matchmaker is single?”

John tucks his chin to his chest and watches your pulse jump under your necklace. “Now that,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “is interesting.”

You freeze like you’ve been caught in a lie. Here you are, a professional playing cupid to the lovesick masses, and yet you’re fumbling. Single.

To your credit, you recover quickly, wetting your lips and pasting on a smile. “I don’t see how my personal life is relevant.”

“Oh, but it is,” he insists. “Handin’ out happy endings left and right, and you don’t have your own? How am I s’posed to believe your expertise?”

A line creases your brows. “My job isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it? You sell love for a living, but you don’t believe in it enough to keep it for yourself?”

“That’s not—I do not sell love…” You stop yourself, sucking in a breath. “I’m focusing on my career.”

“Right. Too busy pairing up strangers to find someone of your own.”

You bristle, shifting your weight, trying to hold your ground.

He likes that. Likes knowing he’s getting to you, pressing into a tender spot. Chipping away at the outer, painted shell.

Before you muster a response, he breaks into a warm laugh to play up the angle. “Only teasin’.” More like testing, sussing out how much give there is until you crack open and spill. “Well,” he pockets his hands, “guess that means you’re up for grabs, huh?” He winks. “Talk to you later, sweetheart.”

He leaves you stuttering, clipboard clutched to your chest.

The night is a blur. He couldn’t name a single woman he spoke to. Unlike last time, his sheet is empty. No scores. If any woman sees it as a loss, he wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t care.

John steps out for air until more bodies trickle out, and then returns inside. He skirts the edges, poking around the tables at the far end where you’re collecting placards, setting the scene.

In his periphery, he sees the moment you realize you’re on a collision course.

“Lose something?”

Fuck, your voice. Your normal voice, not the chirpy affect you slap on for work. Even if there’s a new wariness to it.

“Think I managed to misplace my card.”

Your eyes widen, darting over the tables you cleared. A good and helpful girl, ignoring that little voice in your head.

“Oh no, I’ll help you look. Do you remember what table you ended on?”

He grins. “That’s kind of you, darl.”

He peeks as you check beneath tables, bending and huffing in frustration when you come up empty-handed. The apologetic smile when you finally admit defeat.

“I guess it’s long gone,” you say reluctantly.

John lays it on thick. Shakes his head with exaggerated disappointment, crumpling the sheet hidden in his jacket into a tight ball. “That’s too bad. What a wash.” A wistful sigh. “And you put on such a lovely event, too.”

The conflicted delight on your face is delicious.

“I’m so sorry.” you murmur. “Let me comp you a ticket to another event. I can’t let you go home empty-handed.”

What a turn of phrase.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist. You took time out of your schedule–”

“Grab a drink with me instead.” He interrupts smoothly. “Lift my spirits.”

You hesitate, before shaking your head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“A friendly drink?” he teases. “Where’s the harm in that?” 

Not like you have a boyfriend to make jealous.

“It’s just, I ought to get this stuff back.” You nod toward the neat stack of placards, the tote overflowing with the event’s paraphernalia. “Calculate the scores, check compatibility…”

“Can’t your colleague do that for you?” he presses. “Think you deserve a drink for a job well done,” he adds, watching the way you react to the compliment, soaking it in like it’s the first kind word you’ve heard all day. “I saw you working hard all night. Busy girl, eh?”

Indecision shines behind your curled lashes. The gears turn in real-time, weighing the consequences of saying yes.

His nails puncture the paper in his pocket when you flash yet another sorry smile. 

“I’m flattered,” you say, ever so gracious, “but I really can’t. I’ll send that free ticket to your email.”

The dismissal lands like a slap. Indignation sprints across his mind with disbelief snapping at its heels. You don’t give him a chance to tell you where to send that email instead, just the brush-off, slipping away before he can get a word in edgewise. Choler floods the chambers of his heart, draws a bit of blood.

Well, there’s that bit of fight he wanted.

You don’t look back, and he doesn’t blame you. You must feel the weight of his stare between your shoulder blades, on the curve of your ass. You whisper to your coworker, gesturing for their help with you.

His jaw flexes, fingers uncurling from the shredded card in his pocket.

That’s alright.

What kind of man would he be if he didn’t have a backup plan?

The moment unfolds as if coincidence.

John times his approach as you exit the florist, fingers idly stroking the petals of the bouquet in your arms, the same tulips you buy every week. He pictures doing the same to you.

He moves as you step onto the pavement. The collision is gentle, considering, but hard enough that his shoulder clips yours to knock your balance. Enough that you let out a startled gasp, grip faltering, sending the bouquet tumbling from your hands and bag jerking down your arm.

“Shit,” he mutters, crouching before you can. He gathers the flowers, offering them back with a small, sheepish smile. “Didn’t see you there, love. My fault—Wait.” 

He tilts his head, narrows his eyes like he’s only just putting it together. Like he didn’t spend the morning in your shadow to ensure this exact moment. 

Your attention jumps up to him in pure surprise.

“I know you. Miss Matchmaker.”

Recognition washes over your face, and in the span of a breath, confusion gives way to composure. It’s impressive how quickly you smooth it over, tucking away irritation.

“John?”

“You remember me.”

How could she not?

“Of course,” You take the flowers, clutching them tight. Never without a shield. “What a, um, small world.”

John huffs a short laugh, rocking back on his heels. “‘Fraid so.” He lets the silence stretch, drinking you in. You’re too poised to flinch outright, but he’s trained to catch it anyway. Fingers crinkling the paper, chin tipping a fraction higher.

You’re dressed for errands, wrapped in a trench that frustrates more than it should. He knows what’s beneath—having committed the curve of your waist to memory, the shape of your hips. It’s irritating, really.

Still, he likes the look of you like this. Definitely the type to never step outside without making yourself presentable. The type to live by the mantra you never know who you might run into. Collar turned up against the chill, hair styled meticulously away from your face, not hiding that guarded expression. You’re assessing him the same. 

Good.

No catching you on the back foot today, not without a push.

“Draw up any matches since last we met?”

You exhale a short, amused breath. “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

He grins. “Ah, right. Can’t have the matchmaker giving away her secrets.”

“Yep. Sorry again about your missing card and, um…” You trail off, and John fills in the blank. The rejection. Your insult is forgotten. Water under the bridge, as far as he’s concerned. “I hope you come next time. We’ll get you sorted.”

“Don’t think you’ll see me there again.”

“No?”

“Don’t think speed dating’s for me.”

You nod knowingly, and hike your bag higher onto your shoulder. “It isn’t for everyone. Some people prefer or have better luck meeting the old-fashioned way.” You lift your wrist and check your watch, the impatient thing that you are. Eager to get home to the hour or two of work you needlessly do every Sunday evening. You start to pull away, already checking out. “Well, I better–”

He steps forward, boxing you in toward the wall.

“Like this?”

Your brow knits, mouth pressing into an unsure smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Polite and strained. You glance at the busy walk, weighing whether it’s worth stepping around or if that would be too rude.

“Like ‘this’? I don’t–”

“Two people, running into each other by chance.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. Smile lapsing, dropping in and out. Curiosity buried beneath skepticism. 

“John…”

He likes how his name sounds on your lips. He wonders how it’d sound under other circumstances.

“Have dinner with me.”

You blink and shrink back, though there’s nowhere to go. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” He doesn’t let your words land. He leans into them. No retreat. Not when the unseen thread fixing the two of you together tugs on the knuckle of his ring finger.

You adjust your grip on the bouquet. “I don’t date clients.”

“Haven’t hired you for anything, have I?” He tilts his head, innocent. 

“A technicality.”

“But not untrue.” He cocks a brow. “One dinner. No strings. If you decide halfway through you’d rather be anywhere else, I won’t stop you.”

Another beat of hesitation. He’s patient. He knows how this works.

Then, finally, you sigh. “Fine. One dinner.”

John smiles. “That’s all I ask.”

For now.

In the days leading to dinner, there’s not enough work to fill his hands.

Certainly not enough to fill his mind.

His thoughts, however, are consumed by you. Maddening how much of his attention you command, how the brief moments shared echo in his mind long after. A constant reverberation, shaping his thoughts, making him imagine another life. Branches reality in two—one without you, unthinkable, and the other? 

A home. A two-storey house with a garden. Kids. Maybe a dog. A do-over. His childhood, but through the looking glass and done right.

A life he’s determined to see the latter into fruition.

There’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

He assembles an outdoor playset for a young family. Decent-sized house and lot. Not unlike the one he sees behind his eyelids. The little ones badger him with questions, tug at his sleeves, chatter away as he carefully fits the wooden frame together and hangs the swings. It’s good practice, what with his plans.

When their mother pops outside to offer water, she compliments his aptitude with children. His patience. Assumes he must have a brood of his own, and he doesn’t correct her. It’s in the works.

Her nails are red, like yours, but perfectly maintained. Despite the slight bags under her eyes, there’s a lightness to her smile that tells him she’s exactly where she wants to be.

And when she steps away to take a call, he imagines you in her stead. Having it all—a home, a family. He’ll give it to you. 

She disappears inside. Her children shriek with laughter, and he wipes the sweat from his brow.

Yes. You, standing in the threshold, tea mug warming your hands. Watching a runt or two running wild, belly low with another. Your nails painted that same cherry tint. Chipped, but perfect.

The restaurant’s host recognizes him, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t recognize you. How would he?

You’re younger than your predecessors, for one. Smiling, for another. Not on John’s arm as a captive for one of his fruitless, belated apologies. Nor are you clearly hostage to obligation, for a tired anniversary ritual, a repetition of mistakes. No. You’re here as someone new, a departure. John’s future.

He erases the other man’s disapproval with a banknote slipped into his palm. The coward keeps his lips sealed, ushering you to the table you deserve.

Price, party of two.

Maybe this time next year you’ll be celebrating a party of three.

If you’re upset over the server’s harmless assumptions about the two of you celebrating a special occasion, you hide it behind the menu. After ordering, you’re forced to relinquish it. Nothing left to hide behind.

The scrape of your finger over your thumbnail betrays agitation. A nervous habit he’ll break after the engagement. Can’t wear his ring without a flawless set.

He doesn’t want to change you. Not much. Not beyond what warrants influence.

As the conversation unfolds—your preferred wine, the rhythm of your day, the idle pleasantries—he studies. His first unobstructed view. No more staring across a crowded room or through your window from his car. Up close and personal.

You are everything he wants. Intelligent, pretty, industrious, and amenable. A woman made to be adored. 

A wonder you deprive yourself of it.

John’s old hand at extracting information. There’s little difference between threats, praise, and encouragement. The right pressure and tone—all surface some truth. He’s practiced on plenty of folks with everything to lose.

But this? Far more delicate. High stakes.

And for all your sugar-spun sweetness and girlish, heart-strewn wardrobe, you are no easy conquest. You play coy. Meet his questions with half-answers, sidestep when you can, parry when you can’t. You know you’re being led, but not quite where.

Puppy teeth, but the same sensibility—you don’t know when to give up and roll over.

All the more proof you need him around.

It’s cute when you try to go dutch on the bill, flustering all over again when the server informs you John’s already paid. Damn near insulting, isn’t it? To be taken care of. That insistence on covering yourself, as if you can’t afford even the notion of dependency. A lifetime of self-sufficiency turned reflex.

You don’t know what to do when someone else takes the reins, and does a good job.

It shouldn’t surprise you. Not after he’s played the perfect gentleman. Holding the door. Pulling out your chair. Helping you in and out of your coat. Adamant on following through with escorting you home.

You made him meet at the restaurant. A necessary concession at the time, but a bruise nonetheless.

He acts surprised when he parks outside your building. Compliments the structure, neighborhood, all that. He leans against the driver’s side door, hands tucked into his pockets. Casual, as if he hasn’t plotted out how he’d get you inside.

You tiptoe around a goodbye. Promising.

The nerve comes, eventually.

“Were you…?”

He tilts his head, feigning mild curiosity. “Was I what?”

You square your shoulders in that trumped-up confidence. “Coming up?”

He lets the question hang for a beat longer than necessary to let you hear yourself. 

This is a surprise. You pushed back on the date, but here you are asking him up. Lonely, needy creature. You’re probably wet.

Briefly, he reconsiders crowding you into the lift and watching that wide-eyed surprise melt. Years of stratagem hold him in place. The long con is always the smarter play.

“Oh, darl,” he murmurs, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I am flattered.”

He injects enough warmth seep into his voice to make the rejection sting without cutting deep. “I was only teasing earlier,” he adds, a playful glint in his eyes, the perfect balance between charm and rebuke. “Think we ought to get to know each other better before that, don’t you?”

The shift is immediate. Your face falls. A flicker of surprise, a flash of embarrassment that you rush to mask with a nervous laugh, waving your hand as if physically brushing it off. That confidence of yours really is paper-thin. Fragile. So easy to poke and prod. Moldable.

“Ah, of course. I didn’t mean—”

No, but you did, and that’s the beauty of it. You want to mean it. You don’t know how to ask for what you want yet. Another lesson to teach.

“Don’t fret,” he soothes, taking a step closer, fingers finding your chin, featherlight, guiding it back. “How about a kiss goodnight instead, hm?” He taps the divot of your chin. “Tide you over until next time?”

He tastes your perfume first, having caught hints of it all night. Now it’s stronger, heady as you lift your chin. He waits until your eyelids flutter shut before leaning in, smelling burnt sugar before he samples it.

John knows indulgence best through cigars and smoke rolling over his tongue. But you? You cut through what that’s dulled, brighter. Red wine, velvet and ripe, staining the sweetness like crushed cherries. It’s Herculean, the effort to not change his mind and hustle you indoors. His mouth presses more firmly, and for one dizzying moment, he imagines the taste of your skin—licking sugar out of the bowl.

You try to get closer, but he cuts it off.

Your lips are wet, trembling when he pulls back, and you wear shame—white-hot and burning. In disbelief that you asked, aren’t you? What has gotten into you?

“Oh, I got lipstick on your mouth, let me–”

“Leave it.”

He pulls over once on the drive home, rummaging through the glove compartment to wipe the smear of your lipstick from his mouth. The sight of the red stain sends a pulse of heat straight down. You’d lose your head if you saw him now, he thinks, flicking open his belt in the dark. What you do to him. 

He barely gets a good tug in before he ruins that stain, tasting sugar in the back of his throat.

Home in bed, he pulls up the headshot from your agency’s website and dips a hand under his waistband again.

Just something to tide him over.

You wait a standard three days to text. He calls instead.

You sound breathless, which makes sense. Now’s about the time you leave the gym.

“I’m scoping out a potential venue,” you explain, rushed, coming down from whatever routine you finished. He pictures it. Tight leggings, top clinging to sweaty skin, earbuds half-pulled out because you’re walking home alone. “I was thinking you could help?”

“Help? What do you need me for?”

“The atmosphere’s different when I’m alone. I don’t get a good sense if a space is conducive to dates.”

You’re asking him to play along. To be part of your world. Giving him another opening.

He smiles, unseen but satisfied. “Right. What am I getting out of this?”

There’s a short laugh on the other end, meant to cover your nerves. “Dinner,” you offer. “And the opportunity to let me know how you really felt about our services.”

Clever girl. Keeping it professional and leaving yourself an out.

“How could I refuse?”

The restaurant is a hole in the wall. He’d’ve never found it on his own. A perfect setting, but not for what you said. Testing the atmosphere. John knows better.

You’re staring through the menu, picking your thumb.

“Would it help if I set a timer and moved to the next table in five minutes?”

Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

“You’re fidgeting, sweetheart.”

You pull your hand away like you’ve been caught, setting it flat on the table.

“Nervous?”

A quiet admission. “Maybe.”

“Don’t date much, do you?”

Your spine straightens. “I told you, I’m focused on my career.”

“Mm.” John hums, leaning back. “Not a judgment, sweetheart. Just an observation. I merely find it interesting. You run speed dating. Introduce people. Help them make connections…”

“I’m good at it,” you murmur, a shield being drawn up.

“Never said you weren’t. Simply curious why someone so good at helping others find their person hasn’t found one of her own. Especially when she’s a catch.”

You don’t answer, not right away. But you don’t look away, either.

Good girl. Let him in.

The silence goes taut. Then, a sigh, and you lift your eyes again. There’s something different in them now. A crack in that carefully maintained composure. Vulnerability.

“I used to date a lot, actually. I had bad luck with men, though.”

John’s thighs flex under the table, hot and hungry pulse running through him. Finally. Finally, some answers. 

“Tell me about them.”

It’s not a question. An invitation. One you’re teetering on the edge of accepting. Curiosity wins out in the end. You bite.

“There were…a few. Nothing serious. Not for lack of trying.” You confess, embarrassed. “I attract the wrong kinds of men.”

Funny. “What kind of wrong?”

“A flake,” you start, bitter. “Canceled more dates than he showed up for. I stopped bothering after a while.”

One.

“A man-child. Wanted a girlfriend who was more like his mother. Expected me to cook, clean, take care of everything while he played video games.”

Two.

“A cheapskate.” A hollow laugh escapes. “Took me out on a ‘fancy’ date and made me pay after he ‘forgot’ his wallet. On my birthday.”

Three.

“And…” Your throat works around the last one. The worst one. “A cheater. Slept with one of my friends. I walked in on them.”

Four.

Your four horsemen of the dating apocalypse.

John’s jaw clenches, though he schools his features. He can’t have you seeing what that information really does to him. Can’t let you know how badly it makes him want to hunt them down and fix it.

On top of it all, you tack on how they made you swear off dating for a year. Which turned into two, then three.

“Three years?”

You bite your lip, insecurity crossing your face. “Is that…bad?”

Three years. Three years of no one waiting on you, no one to spoil you. An empty flat, and, he assumes, a cold bed.

“Not at all. Only been on a few dates in the last year, myself.” ‘Date’ is a strong term for tossing part of his pay at pretty girls on screen for a chat. “Is that what this is, then? A date? Could’ve sworn I was here to help scope out the space.”

“No, I–I did ask you here to help with the venue, John. That’s all. Really.” A lie that twists you into knots, wrings your hands, fiddles with your necklace. It’s short-lived. “I suppose, if you want, it can be a date.” The words come out shy, testing the waters. “But so we’re clear, I’m not looking for anything serious, alright? I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Another lie. A thousand nights alone? You’re ready.

He smirks. “Well. Regardless, y’know how to make a man feel wanted, sweetheart.”

And if that doesn’t make you preen.

The conversation shifts when dinner arrives, treading into gentler waters. John alludes to his job, a morsel, and you, sweet girl that you are, don’t press for more. Content to gnaw on the bones he offers, easy details meant to keep those puppy teeth of yours busy. His parents. Where he’s from. How he wasn’t much of a student. How he worked under the table as a kitchen porter at a golf club until he joined up.

It works better than the wine, softening you bit by bit. The prick who poked at your insecurities earlier? He’s dissolving into someone else entirely. Someone you’re trying to figure out. Someone you might even like.

Your eyes linger longer when he speaks now. Your smile turns natural, less forced. You lean in when he talks, hanging on his words.

John knows exactly what he’s doing, feeding you enough to keep you intrigued, to have you looking at him through softer eyes. Because if you’re trying to piece him together, trying to understand him—you’re already invested. That’s how he’ll get you.

One crumb at a time.

It’s necessary groundwork. Sooner or later, details’ll come out. After all, you’re going to marry him. Certain things will have to be—

“Any, um…notable girlfriends? Since I told you about my four awful exes.”

Innocent. Fair. It still puts him on edge.

A big test for both of you. He told himself he’d lie weeks back. A fabrication to allow him to censor the truth and leave his past behind. See if he couldn’t get out of his payments and wash his hands completely of his ex-wives, call in a couple favors, push papers.

Yet now, now that you’ve bared your heart to him like a good and honest girl, he suppose it’s only right to tell the truth.

That’s not the plan, though.

He’ll phone a few names tomorrow. Get started on the paperwork.

“No one worth mentioning.”

The rest of the evening is easygoing from there. You remain relaxed, the earlier stiffness gone, but you’re still holding back. You let him toy with one of your rings for a few seconds before pulling away. Your feet bump under the table, and you tuck yours beneath your chair. Your eye contact’s better, but you find reasons to look away.

You’re resisting what’s building between you. He can see it clear as day. For one simple reason, John bets.

You don’t believe in love. Don’t trust it, at least.

Not anymore. Maybe you did once, back when it was uncomplicated, hadn’t soured in your mouth, and burned you down into the frazzled woman he’s observed. Before it became studied instead of felt. A series of points and calculated risks, a numbers game that you understand better than most. An expert on what works for everyone else but never quite trusting enough to let it work for you.

It’s why you throw yourself into your work. Why you obsess over climbing a ladder built on the successful couplings of others, measuring fulfillment in repeat dates and engagement announcements. If you can’t have it for yourself, at least you can manufacture it for someone else.

The problem is, he does believe in love.

He’s just never been any good at it.

It’s one of the few things he’s never let go of, even if he’s never known how to hold it properly. He’s always been better at destruction than construction—an arsonist, never an architect. He sets the foundation only to strike the match and burn it to the ground. That’s why his ex-wives only speak of him through intermediaries. That’s why his relationships have been more like wrecking balls than anything resembling stability.

It’s why he throws himself into his work.

It’s why you’re perfect for him, even if you fuss about it and tell yourself otherwise. Insist you want nothing serious to do with men again.

He knows better. Knows that under all that steel and sugar, there’s a heart that wants and aches, no matter how stubbornly you try to deny it.

This time, you surprise him. The dinner is pre-expensed on a company card. The grief that stirs with his ego ends smothered by the victorious look on your face when he pockets his wallet.

It makes you bold.

You suggest a pub a street over for afters, and he lets you lead. Men shrink away on the walk with him beside you, a hand on the small of your back. 

The tables are smaller here, giving your legs nowhere to go when he spreads his underneath and cages them in.

Another round comes. Time slips by. The noise of the pub hums in the background, but his focus never wavers. With every sip, the distance narrows.

Inevitably, the conversation returns to speed dating and its apparent science. You try to stick to your principles. Too bad he has years of experience in bending those. It doesn’t take much more prodding.

“I can’t tell you what your dates said, word for word.”

“Then summarize.”

“You were…” You vacillate, searching. “Largely described as, um, curt, reserved, and distracted.”

Not inaccurate. He’s had worse appraisals and assessments.

He chuckles. “Must’ve had my eye on someone already.”

“Oh?” you say, trying for nonchalance, but it falls flat, hovering awkwardly in the air.

John shifts, stretching his legs out and closing them back into your space like he owns it—owns you. 

God, you are so close. Skirting his reach. 

You’ve reached a critical juncture. Make or break. Two dates, that’s all it takes, isn’t it? Two dates, and life itself stretches out with endless possibilities. Weeks of wanting have led to this. All the work he’s put in to get you here, to this goddamn table, where he can almost taste what could be.

His ring on your finger. His baby on your hip. Your own success story.

No one’s ever gotten anywhere worth going without a push. Without a nudge to take that last step and get over that line they’ve drawn for themselves.

John licks his lip. “Think you know who, sweetheart.”

It will take time, he realizes on the way to yours, to fully tear down the walls you’ve built around yourself. He feels it in the tentative kiss you place on the corner of his mouth at your building’s door, and again in the lift. 

He’s no stranger to controlled demolition. This time, he won’t half-ass it. No more mistakes or half-hearted efforts. Third time’s the charm, and he’s ready to make sure of it.

Whatever backsliding occurs between the pub and your front door, he erases mouth-first. For a split second, he catches that flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, the subtle hesitation that says you’re not sure whether you should give in, but he doesn’t give you the luxury of doubt. You’re here. He’s here. It’s inevitable.

With both of you starved for something—anything—there’s no room for second-guessing. The barren years of your dry spells? Tinder, piled high.

Between fervent kisses, he steals glances at your place, cataloging details. Every corner of your world is his to explore now, but the bedroom is the prize. The view is better here, inside. No longer looking up at some unreachable, untouchable version of you from the outside. He has access now. Control. It’s a quiet triumph that settles in his chest, a thrill he can’t quite suppress. It seeps into his touch, his hands finding the hem of your dress, claiming inch after inch as if he’s laying claim to the territory he’s finally breached.

All it took was a little patience—and a hell of a lot of persistence.

John pushes you until your legs hit the bed, hands dimpling into your hips, half-tucked under your dress. He tugs at the fabric. “Want to take this off f’me, baby?”

“Yeah, okay…”

While your view is obscured by the dress, his eyes roam your bedroom. It’s exactly as he imagined—sophisticated and cozy with shades of rose, peach, and marigold. A collection of framed photos on the bureau he’ll study tomorrow. On your nightstand, a tray with jewelry and lipstick tubes. Dog-eared books—romance, unsurprisingly.

The dress pools at your feet. John takes in the sight of you, his smirk widening. Rubs circles with his thumbs on the skin exposed by the high arches of your deep plum panties.

“You wear this for me?” He abandons the bottoms, touch drifting up to cup your breasts through the matching brassiere. “All dolled up, planning on getting lucky?”

His thumbs roll over your hard nipples, coaxing a gasp from your lips, and your hands fly to his wrists. Not to stop him, but to steady yourself. Your legs tremble, barely holding you up. 

“No, it’s not–I didn’t want to assume–“

“Mm.” He hums, eyes half-lidded. “But you hoped.”

Your weak denial dies on your lips when he guides you down, gently but insistently. He maneuvers you like he owns you already, coaxing you to sit, then easing you back until your spine meets the mattress. His hands work their way down your legs, kneading the goose-pimpled skin of your thighs and calves. Each press of his thumbs is purposeful, a silent reminder of who’s in charge now.

And then he sinks lower.

John shoulders between your legs, prostrating himself on the floor, knees hitting the carpet as if this—you—are worth worship. His head dips, lips grazing along the inside of your thigh.

“Easy, love.” His hands are steady as they hook behind your knee, lifting and folding one of your legs over his broad shoulder. The angle opens you up to him and reveals the damp staining the cotton. He sets your other foot on the edge of the bed. “Let me take care of you.”

Your breath hitches, and that’s when he sees it. The moment you let the reins slip.

“Good girl,” he praises. His grin, hidden between your thighs, stretches with a kiss.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

He called it like he saw it then. He’s smug that it’s true.

Even filtered through the thin barrier of the gusset sopping up its share, you are a wonder on the palate. A delight on the senses. He noses over the slight springiness of the curls trapped underneath, tongue laving over every dip where the fabric clings. Everywhere but where you want him.

“John, John, please,” You’re gasping on the bed, bright whines spilling out. Hands strangling the duvet. 

“Need somethin’?” He puffs over your drenched panties, rubbing his rough, bearded cheek on your thigh deliberately. “Gotta ask.”

It’s another minute of torture for you to work it out. It comes out in a whisper. “Take them off, please.”

“There’s a girl. Lift up.” 

The panties come away and promptly disappear. In the low light, your cunt’s a mess, shiny with a mix of soaked-in spit and arousal. Perfect like the rest of you.

“Oh,” the single word you manage when John gets his mouth on you unimpeded.

Victory tastes like burnt sugar melting on his tongue, slow and rich, heating into syrup. He groans into your cunt, digging one hand into your thigh to keep it hooked over his shoulder. His other hand wraps around your ankle, anchoring your other foot in place.

You twitch, moans pitching higher and higher, trying to press yourself closer into his mouth. He doesn’t let you. He keeps you right where he wants you—pinned open with every tremor and gasp fueling that molten heat rolling down his spine and thickening his cock.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, lips brushing skin. His thumb strokes soothing circles over your ankle, a mockery of tenderness compared to the ruthless way he’s devouring you. His tongue works with intent, coaxing you to the edge.

His grip deserts your thigh, and you clench around the finger he slips in while you’re nice and distracted. Lets off your clit with a pop, pulling back to admire your face scrunched in pleasure.

John kisses the crease of your thigh. “This what you’ve been doing all by yourself, baby?” His taunts, dripping with satisfaction as he works you open. “Bet they weren’t enough, were they?”

His smirk deepens when he adds a second, savoring the way your pussy almost sucks them in. When you don’t answer, he stills. “Were they?”

You’re a quick learner. “No, no, they weren’t.”

“Thought so. Gonna give you one more before I fuck you, gonna need it.” 

You take the third with a quiet thread of praise. His cock’s pulsing hard against the zipper of his trousers, aching to switch places with his hand. It’s magnetic. The whole world centers on your weeping cunt, squeezing three of his fingers to death with how badly you want to come. It’s a miracle you still haven’t yet, given how you circle the edge. He’s an inkling of what you need, but he won’t let you backpedal.

You speak in front of rooms of lovelorn strangers. You will speak to your man.

He gingerly pumps his fingers into you as deep as they’ll go, curling and petting in all the right places. Your clit twitches, abandoned. 

“John–” Yes. “–will you–mouth, please.”

“Hm?”

“My clit, please, need your mouth–”

He’ll work on articulation another time. He dips his head and licks a broad stripe over your neglected bud, then molds his mouth to it. Grunts around it when your fingers thread into hair and tug down.

That’s when the floodgates open, and you finally give into everything you’ve held at arm’s length for too long. Toes curling, muscles tensing, a heel digging into one of his vertebrae. Must be a relief.

John rises to his feet as you come down, knees popping in the silence. He licks his lips, wiping them off on the back of his hand. He towers, intentionally overwhelming and blocking out the room as he looms. Casts a shadow he hopes you feel on every inch of your skin.

He works his belt open while you piece yourself back together, though there’s no point in that. It’s a bright spot when you awkwardly reach behind your back and free your tits without being asked. 

A wild look in your eye. Smudged makeup, hair coming unstyled. The loss of composure he’s waited for. Naked hunger in your gaze, eating him up as his clothes hit the floor. You’ve been with boys, sure, but John knows what he looks like. And he looks like a man.

He doesn’t ask about a condom. Gentleman enough he has one in a pocket, but not enough that he’ll do the decent thing and remind you about it.

You squeak in his neck when the steel wool above his cock scrapes your inner thighs. He grinds against you lazily, holding you in the band of his arms to kiss and share your taste. 

“It’s a lot, baby,” John warns, rutting himself through the mess between your legs. He swallows hard when he prods your hole with the tip, squeezing the base to warn himself. It notches, your body yielding despite your squirming. Skittish even now. From there it’s a smooth, slow glide.

Still knocks the breath out of the both of you.

“Oh god, John, f-fuck, it’s so–”

Your cunt’s hot as an oven. Wet and fitted for him. Gives in easily now that the right man’s filling it. Knows he’s it for you, meaning it’s only a matter of time for your head and heart to catch up. 

His chest and belly meld to yours as he keeps you pinned, hips pushing until they’re flush, and he’s sunken to the hilt, grinding in to claim whatever space is left.  “Good girl. Let me in.”

“S’good, big,” you sound delirious, slurring as nonsense tumbles out in a breathless rush. 

He barely lifts his hips those first minutes. Warming you up for what’s coming, what he’s been starving for this whole time. Getting an eyeful of your sweet, dumbfounded expression, coming to terms with it. Figuring it all out while your pussy stretches around his cock and greedily swallows it whole.

John readjusts, peeling his sweaty skin from yours, keeping himself pressed deep into the spot that’s got you strangling his cock. His hands wedge under your knees and push, allowing himself to finally build up to his desired pace. An urgency that speaks to his need to usher in the future and slip a ring on you.

“Feel like a dream,” he pants, staring down at the bounce of your tits through half-shut eyes. The smell of sweat and sex and your cunt under his nose. “You’re so pretty like this, sweetheart. Yeah, look good under me.”

You struggle to breathe around his thrusts.

“Knew the moment I saw you, y’know. Took one look and knew. Knew that not a single girl I’d speak to would measure up to you.” His rhythm never faltering. “But you made me work for it, didn’t you?”

You pant, fingers clawing the pillow above your head. “You–You made me work, too–you didn’t come up–ah, that night.”

John laughs, the sound rough as sandpaper, deep and throaty, and it rattles through you. It drives him to push a little harder, to coax more of those desperate sounds out of you. “And look where we are now, baby.”

Tears slip out of your eyes, painting black streams of mascara on your cheeks. You’re wrecked and he’s barely scratched the surface.

You shouldn’t have ever mentioned babies if this isn’t where you wanted to end up.

Your second orgasm builds similarly to the first. Shaking legs, head sinking into the mattress, spine arching. Stars appear in your pupils, shiny under the glass of tears, and lock onto him, transfixed. A whole mess of big feelings. Uncertainty, confusion, disbelief. Fury, ardor. He can tell, despite everything, a part of you does not want to want this. But gravity doesn’t ask permission before it pulls.

He fishes spit out of his cheek and drops it under a thumb on your clit to bring it home.

“Gonna come on my cock, pretty girl? Squeeze me tight?” 

“John, I’m gonna–I’m gonna–”

“You can do it, too good of a girl not to–Christ.”

Whatever plea you utter gets lost in a feverish rush and a full-throated moan. You go tight as a vise, clamping down on him as you come. Liquid heat rolls down his spine and his pace turns choppy. Fingers slipping from your knee and clit, taking bruising handfuls of your hips he’ll kiss better later. 

He plugs himself deep, coming to a sudden halt to spill. Every muscle in his body goes rigid as he plants himself at the root, filling you in hot, desperate spurts. It goes on longer than he thought it would. You milk it out of him, and it leaves a stringy, sticky mess, tagging over your folds when he reluctantly withdraws.

A whimper sputters from your bitten lips when he lets his drooling tip spew its last over your winking, fucked hole.

The two of you catch your breath in silence.

You said—I don’t know if I’m ready.

He wonders what you’ll say in the morning.

John coaxes a third and final orgasm out of you as he massages his cum back into you, shushing when you cry a little more on his shoulder about it. Whining about it being too much. Same as when he wipes you clean and you go shy on him. Only cracking your legs open again when he reminds you how proud he is of you for taking him so well. For everything.

He waits until you’re deeply asleep, mouth slightly open, completely immovable, to climb out of bed.

He pads through your flat bare like he owns the place. A glass of water to keep him company as he leisurely tours.

Your work bag sits, still packed, next to your desk at the window. He kicks it under. This will be the first weekend you don’t lift a finger if he has his way. 

At least. Not in the service of others.

John stares at the pill case on your bathroom vanity as he empties his bladder. His next hurdle.

He’ll let you keep your job. It makes you happy, and he’s not so cruel to take that from you. But if you ever change your mind, if your investment in it wavers, he won’t stop you. Between his pay and benefits, the handyman business—he’s more than capable of providing for the two of you. And when the time comes for more, when you need to feed, clothe, and house his whelps, he’ll take care of that too.

After all, there’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

---

The Arrangement

Summary:  John proposes a friends with benefits arrangement. But he's making it so very difficult to stick to the terms.

Warnings: Slight reference to Reader being harassed, making out, implied cunningulus and fingering, actual cunningulus, p in v sex, lotus position, hand job. Initial miscommunication of expectations about what John wants now and what Reader thinks John wanted last night. A flirty, teasing, knows-what-he-wants-and-its-you John appears.

Author’s note: This has interspersed flashbacks to the night before– those are expressed as paragraphs of italicized text. Hopefully that makes it easier to follow.

Word count: <4K | Rating: 18+ MDNI. NSFW. It’s smut, people. | Credits: Left photo, unsplash. Remaining photos, pinterest. Banners and dividers made in Canva.

John Price masterlist | Main Masterlist

No matter where you were stationed or deployed, the one habit you followed religiously was to wake up and have a cup of coffee. It was a grounding ritual for you–a small pocket of time that was yours and yours alone, before the demands and obligations of your life imposed themselves on your day.

Today was no exception. You lean against the kitchen sink, staring out the window of your flat, listening to the coffee maker bubble and brew. It was still pitch dark (the kitchen clock read 5:06am), and all you could see was your reflection staring back at you. Of a woman in her mid-30s. Tired, body well-used and aching, her world shifted on its axis. 

John Price was a long-time colleague and friend. Last night, that status changed to long-time colleague and friend with benefits. Well…that’s what he had proposed, and that’s what you agreed to. 

Except…after the night you just had, you weren’t sure how you were going to keep things casual.

“John, thank you for the walk back. I’m sorry you had to witness that debacle at the pub.”

You glance sideways at him. Wearing his usual watch cap, wool overcoat, jeans and winter boots, he blended right into his surroundings–a cold January night, snow silently falling in big fat flakes, covering everything in sight. 

The streets were quiet–not a single car on the road or people out and about. The only sounds the two of you could hear were from the crunching noises of your boots as you trudged down the street together in the snow. 

He rubs his bare hands together briefly, blowing into them with his mouth before shoving them back into his pockets before he speaks.

“Love, that random drunk was out of line and everyone knew it with the way he was harassing you. You were magnificent, verbally handing his balls to him. Well done. I’d have wrecked him and given him a toss through a window, yeah? But everyone just joined in and took the piss out of him instead.” 

You snort, a small puff of warm air escaping into the frigid night. “Well, I’m glad you let me handle that.”

“I knew you could.” He pauses, then adds, “I have no doubts you could’ve wrecked him and tossed him through the window yourself.”

You chuff out a laugh, imagining that ridiculous visual.

Stopping at the front doors of your apartment building, you turn to look back at him. “Come in for a drink? Least I can offer you for your troubles walking me back.” 

He removes his watch cap, slapping it against his leg and stomping his feet briefly to shake the snow off of himself. You tiptoe up to brush the remaining snow off his shoulders before doing the same yourself.

“Well?” you ask him, bouncing on the balls of your feet, trying to keep warm.

“I’m afraid if I say no to you now, there’s no telling what you’d do to me, in the mood you’re in. Lead the way,” he chuckles, following you inside the building foyer.

“Can’t sleep?”

You turn around, seeing John clad only in his boxer briefs, leaning against the kitchen doorway. His eyes sweep over you in your thigh-length silk robe, watching you intently. Gods, he was ruggedly handsome, especially with that knowing smile tilting the corner of his mouth. 

Your eyes travel from his feet, darting upwards over his tall, broad, muscular form. Over his thick thighs. His large, capable hands and brawny forearms folded across his hairy chest. All the way to his roguish, bearded face and mussed, dark brown hair. His ocean blue eyes meet yours, watching you intently.

You let out a small, shaky breath as your body reacts to the totality of him standing before you. More, your mind traitorously whispers. You firmly shut that thought down until he takes a step towards you. 

“How are you doing, love?”

The two of you were sitting on your loveseat. Drinks long done and the conversation finally winding down. This would be when he would say it’s getting late, and then you’d hug him and see him off. But this time he’s made himself more comfortable on your loveseat–legs spread, his knee lightly brushing against yours. 

His mood seems reflective tonight, and you don’t miss the lingering looks he’s been giving you. He reaches out to trace your kneecap lightly with his fingers, as if to assess your reaction. His fingers lazily trace a random swirl pattern, causing small shivers to course up your thigh. 

John was always a tactile person, clapping his hand on your shoulder, patting your knee, hand on the small of your back when steering you through a crowded room. It was something over the years that you’d gotten used to, and you always thought he was being gentlemanly. 

But this…this felt a little different.

“This is the first time in a very long time we’re both not seeing anyone.” It’s a statement rather than a question. 

“Yes?” you reply questioningly, curious at the shift in the conversation.

“I’d like to propose something to you, and all I’d like to ask is for you to hear me out.”

You laugh. “You’re being very cryptic. That’s not like you. But…you’ve got my attention now.”

He tilts his head to the side, a small smile ghosting his lips.

“We’ve known each other for several years now? I’d like to think we’re good friends and work colleagues, wouldn’t you say?”

“We are…” you say slowly, searching his expression for any sign of where he was going with this conversation.

“We’re in a very unpredictable, stressful line of work. We have our own language and ways of working that few people understand.”

“Mm hmm…go on,” you wave at him to continue, genuinely intrigued. 

“But we’re human beings too. It’s difficult to meet people who can put up with what we do. Being in a committed relationship takes a lot of time and effort that we both don’t have the headspace for. Doesn’t it get lonely sometimes? We crave intimacy. We have wants, desires, physical needs that aren’t getting met.”

Your mind rapidly sifts through all the scenarios of where John’s train of thought is going, and you can’t help but blurt out the one improbable possibility that remains. “A friends with benefits arrangement? Is that what you’re proposing?”

You lean back up against the counter, arms crossed over your chest. “I-I…don’t think I’ve used some muscles in a long time John…they’re screaming at me now,” you admit, trying to deflect with some dry humor, trying to give him some version of a truthful answer.

He tsks playfully at you. “You’re not really answering my question.” Now he’s drifted closer to stand in your personal space, scant inches away from you. 

Your eyes lift again to meet his, wary. Afraid of stammering out that you’re in way over your head. Messing things up mere hours after you agreed to this arrangement that he proposed.

He lifts a finger to trace up along your jaw, then further back to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. You’re trying to mentally retreat to being at arm’s length again, but you both know it’s way too late for that. 

Dropping your eyes back down to his chest, you gasp, surprised. Faint bite and scratch marks dot across his chest and shoulders. Embarrassment heats your face as you recall everything the two of you did last night. “Oh sweetheart, if you could only see your face right now,” he says, his raspy voice deepening. “Are you sure you want to stay as just friends with benefits, love?”

“Exactly. Friends with benefits. And we’d keep it casual.”

You instantly call him out. “John. You don’t do casual. Casual and John Price is an oxymoron, like jumbo shrimp. You commit 110% in everything you do.”

He cocks his head, grinning at your rebuttal. You’re completely right about him. You’ve seen how intense he is on missions, how dedicated he is to his team. Hell, even how competitive he is at pub trivia nights (which was the actual reason he was out with you tonight–he was your ringer on all things military history).

“I could say the same about you, love. All the more reason to give us a chance? Look, I’m not asking for an answer from you right now, but maybe give it some thought, yeah? I’ll respect your decision either way. We’re adults here.”

“John, I–this…this is a lot to process.”

He nods and lets out a long sigh, drawing his fingers away from your knee. “I completely understand. And…it’s late and I think it’s my cue to go. But…before I do, how about a goodnight kiss?”

You cross your arms, looking at him skeptically.

“I just need something to keep me warm enough for the walk back home. It’s cold out, you know,” he says, straight-faced.

Your mouth twitches, as several comebacks form on the tip of your tongue, but you choose to go with the first one that came immediately to mind.

“Johnny’s been rubbing off on you. I didn’t think you had it in you to be so dramatic. Fine.” 

You lean forward, and before you realize it, he’s pulled you effortlessly on top of him. Straddled on his lap, hands resting lightly on your hips. Giving you the option to get off of him if you wanted to.

“Go on then, give me that kiss,” he softly dares you, an amused look on his face. Seeing your eyes target his cheek, he clarifies. “On the lips.” 

You stare at each other silently for a few more seconds–a charged test of wills over this one small, trivial thing. 

“Incorrigible,” you finally huff, placing your hands on his shoulders to brace yourself. Gods, he smelled good, a mixture of whiskey and cigar smoke. 

You gulp, suddenly hesitant, as your eyes meet his.

“It’s just me,” he whispers conspiratorially, one corner of his mouth lifting, eyes crinkling. “It’s just one wee kiss. What possible harm could there be in that?”

You lick your lips and lean forward.

“Yes. Friends with benefits. That was what we agreed on,” you say slowly, faintly, kicking yourself almost instantly as soon as the words come out of your mouth. 

He’s practically giving you an opening, girl! Why didn’t you just take it? your inner voice shrieks.

“You know, I’ve always wondered how it would be between us. Would it be tender, hot, sensual? Filthy and feral? And to know now that it’s all of that, and so much more? Now I’m not so sure about what we agreed to. Maybe you were right. Maybe I can’t do just casual after all,” he rumbles. 

You exhale, closing your eyes briefly. Was he saying this was a mistake? Was this the part where things would get weird and awkward?

“So…what is it then you want?” you mutter in exasperation, slowly scrubbing your face with your hand.

Gently claiming that same hand, he turns the inside of your wrist towards him, planting several reassuring kisses against it, his gaze never leaving yours.

“I want you, love. Never, ever doubt that. But after last night, you’re giving me hope there could be more with us. Like maybe we could be exclusive. That maybe we could…have this every day and night we’re together? What would you say to that?” 

Now he’s right up against you, his hands on either side of your hips, gripping the kitchen counter, his growing erection pressing against your stomach. Bright blue eyes filled with wicked promise stare at you. Watching for your telltale reactions, the same ones he learned intimately last night.

A small involuntary shiver runs through you as you allow yourself to think that there could be something more between the two of you. But was he just teasing, or was he being genuine?

“Why are you trembling? Have I not satisfied you enough? D’you want another go?” 

Despite yourself, you laugh at his attempts to fluster you. A small, breathy moan escapes your lips as he leans down to kiss the side of your neck. 

“I knew it,” you say, eyes fluttering shut as he switches over to kiss the other side of your neck. “This was a straight up seduction. You planned this all along. This was never going to be a friends with benefits thing.”

The kiss started innocently enough, until one of his hands drifted up your back, caressing the nape of your neck. Trailing up gently, his hand tangles in your hair to cup the back of your head. His other arm curls around your lower back to bring your core flush against the growing bulge in his pants. The room was silent save for your soft pants and his low rumbles of encouragement as one kiss turned into several.

“Want more?” he murmurs against your lips, the hand around your back snaking down and around to grab one of your thighs, wrapping it around his waist, bringing you even closer to him.

You nod, followed by a soft whispered yes as you buck your hips against him, trying to ease the ache forming between your legs, only to realize it was making the ache worse.

His hand flexes in your hair, tugging slightly, making you arch your back slightly.

“John?” you gasp as pleasure prickles along your scalp and down your body.

“Yes, love?”

“Friends with benefits? D-do you really mean it?”

John leans back to look at you and shakes his head in disbelief. “How can we just keep it casual when you’ve been asking, pleading, begging me for more all last night? Who’s doing the seducing? Not me. You are. But how can I say no to a smart, tough, beautiful woman like you in need? Turns out, I’m a weak-willed man for you.” 

You scoff faintly at his last statement, but he continues.

“You want to know what my favorite four letter word is now? S’not fuck or cock, or cunt. It’s more. Especially when you whimper it. Cry out saying it with my name. But it’s alright love,” he smirks, kissing down to your exposed collarbones. “You can be greedy. I’m in a giving mood this morning.”

His hands caress your hips, massaging in slow circles over your robe. Drifting upwards, he palms your breasts through the silk fabric, gently tweaking your nipples, rumbling in approval at your hitching breaths. 

“Sweet girl, you sound so pretty when you come,” he utters softly, wet fingers rubbing against your throbbing clit one last time, mouth and beard still shiny with your slick. “Seems like your body was craving something it needed, coming so quickly on my mouth and fingers. Had no idea you tasted so…addictive. Can’t get enough of this.” 

On your back now, catching your breath, you look up at him. Jeans and panties wrenched down to your ankles, caged in between his arms and legs on the loveseat. You watch him lick and suck each of his fingers slowly, humming with satisfaction. You close your eyes briefly, trying to gather your thoughts as you feel your pussy pulse in reaction at his lewd display.

“John?”

“Yes, love?” He groans at the way your eyes open again to meet and hold his gaze. Tentative, yet hungry at the same time. A part of him is ecstatic that he’s finally getting to see this side of you.

Grasping one of his wrists, you ask him hesitantly, “Can we go to the bedroom now?”

He sinks to his knees in front of you, lifting one of your legs to drape over one of his broad shoulders. Rucking up the hem of your robe, he lets out an indistinct sound of approval, seeing that you’re completely bare underneath and dripping wet between your legs. He parts your robe, eyes feasting in appreciation over every exposed curve, slope and stretch mark he sees before he lowers his head again.

He speaks, interspersing kisses up along your inner thigh slowly, his soft beard lightly tickling and abrading your skin.

“You don’t have to say it.” Kiss. “But I know what you want.” Kiss. “Your eyes, your body are telling me everything I need to know about how you feel about me.” Kiss.

You steady your hands on the counter, your standing leg shaking slightly before feeling the heat of his mouth and tongue fasten over your aching clit.

“Such a good girl, riding me like this.”

On your bed, the two of you were entwined in a lotus position, your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms wrapped up and around his shoulders as you rocked your hips. You were keening softly as you rode his hard, thick cock. Nipples sensitive from rubbing against his chest hair. Losing your mind at all the filthy and depraved images he was evoking and promising with his rough, gravelly voice.

“John, s’good,” you slur in his ear, the pleasure stealing your ability to form words. “Feels s’good.” You didn’t know it could be like this with him, and now that you had a taste of it, you couldn’t get enough. 

“Always knew it would be…you just needed convincing. Timing was never right. Was trying to be a gentleman,” he rasps, feeling you clench hard around him. “Now you have me. Anytime, anywhere, however you want. I’m all yours.”

A small little alarm in the back of your mind trips at his words. He can’t be saying what you think he is saying…friends don’t just say those things like that…do they?

You cry out as he angles his hips slightly to hit that spot deep inside you. You rake your nails down his back. He grunts slightly at the pain, but he ignores it, focused solely on making you come apart in his arms.

Your thoughts scatter to all but one which you give voice to as you bounce harder on his cock, craving the friction, the feeling of fullness, chasing the orgasm just building, just barely within your reach. 

“More, John. Need more. Please.”

He instantly complies, gripping your hips, thrusting up into you harder.

“Fuuuuck. That’s my girl. Using your words. Coming with you now. Come now, with me.”

Arching your back, white-hot pleasure forms in your gut, expanding and streaking through your body as you shake and whine brokenly, coming harder than you ever had before in your life. Seconds later, you find yourself almost crushed in his arms as he lets loose a feral sound, bucking upwards, feeling him spurt hotly inside you.

“And w-what is it that I’m t-telling you that my words c-can’t?” you stutter, your hands tangled in his hair, biting your lip as his tongue joins the fray against your sensitive clit.

“‘M busy right now, sweetheart, trying to make you come again.” Your thighs partially muffle his words, but his fingers keep busy teasing your folds, his mouth and tongue working their magic against your clit.

You let out a small exasperated laugh-moan. “In-infuriating man…t-trying to get me addicted to your t-touch. That was the p-plan all along, wasn’t it?” you whimper, toes curling, head tilted back. “W-with hot, mind-melting s-sex?”

“Hmm…is it working?” He turns his head, sighing against your inner thigh, kissing and nipping it. You can feel his smile against your skin.

“An-answer my q-question, John.”

You swallow your disappointment as he backs off. He stands up to take a half step back, but is still close enough to close your robe back into place and gather you into his arms.

He whispers your name. “I need to ‘fess up. I genuinely went in proposing this friends with benefits thing, thinking that was what we could have, and it would be enough. Except, once we kissed, I knew that what we agreed to wasn’t going to happen. Especially not after the way we spent the night together. But you were being so serious and earnest about sticking to what we agreed to.”

You let out a long, shaky breath. “I thought that was what you wanted! I didn’t want to mess up our friendship because I was feeling things. Big things, and it wasn’t the same for you,” you quietly trail off.

He cups the side of your face with the palm of his hand.

“Oh sweetheart, it is definitely not one-sided. It’s 100% mutual. I was giving you all those outs so you could change your mind.” He huffs out a small laugh. “And yes, I might’ve been a little underhanded in trying to…persuade you to see it my way first with sex.”

“I wasn’t sure if you were teasing me, or playing some kind of warped game about calling the whole friends with benefits thing off.”

“I’m sorry, love, that wasn’t my intention. You know me. I’m as direct as they come. But I should’ve come clean sooner, to just admit that I can’t even follow the terms that I proposed and not have you doubt yourself. And that this, this is something real and worth having.”

You close the gap to hug him, arms stroking up and down his back.

“I’m blaming the dopamine. Or the serotonin. Or some other unspoken chemistry we’ve had for a long time and we didn’t realize it until last night. I don’t know,” you say half to yourself, half into his chest before you speak up again, looking into his vivid blue eyes. “So what are we to each other, then?”

“Simple. I’m yours, and you’re mine now. That’s all there is to it.”

“I can live with that,” you grin.

“Good.”

The two of you stay in each other’s arms for a few more moments, listening to the sound of the coffee maker finish its brewing before it beeped twice in finality.

“You going to have your coffee?” he asks, tilting his chin towards the appliance.

You shake your head slowly, new possibilities unfurling in your mind with this man standing in front of you. “Coffee can wait. I think…I might want something else first thing this morning,” you smirk at him.

Your hands trail down his back slowly, then around his waist to his front, fingers tangling in the elastic band of his boxer briefs. Snapping the elastic band playfully, you dip one hand below.

You gently grasp his erection, stroking him up and down languidly. Tiptoeing up to kiss the side of his bearded jaw, you murmur, “You don’t have any plans for today, do you? It’s the weekend.”

“No, I don’t, I–fuck...” He chokes on his next words as you stroke him a little more firmly, teasing and circling the tip gently with the pad of your thumb.

“Excellent.” A pause. “So, back to what you said earlier. You said you were a weak-willed man for me?” you purr, emboldened by his responses.

You watch his eyes crinkle in amusement, then shift to surprise as you roughly drag his boxer briefs down to the floor with your free hand.

“And that I’ve been the one doing the seducing?”

“Yes ma’am,” he says solemnly, mouth twitching ever so slightly.

You let out a low, throaty laugh, the sound making his cock twitch in your hold. “Oh, I like the sound of that,” you purr, nipping at his collarbone. “You kept calling me your good girl last night. I loved that. I wonder…are you partial to being called a good boy from time to time? What would you say to that?”

You stroke him exactly the way he showed you last night, making him almost cross his eyes now like he did then. 

“Fuck. Right there, love. I…ah…I could be persuaded.” He lets out a low, sandpaper-rough noise of need. “I have to say, I am really liking how forward…” he shudders, “you’re being right now.”

You give him a hungry smile as you open your robe, sending it slithering to the floor. “I’m just taking a page out of your playbook, John. Now, let’s go back to bed.”

“Yes ma’am.”

John Price masterlist | Main Masterlist

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John Price who isn’t just older—he’s worn in. A little gross. A little rotten. Manipulative. The kind of man who sees a pretty bird like you—young and sweet, all soft lips and shy eyes—in some dingy pub sipping something pink, and he doesn’t think I want her. No. He thinks mine.

John Price who decides quick. From the first glance, it’s already settled. He’s already imagining you on your knees in his kitchen, wearing nothing but one of his shirts. Already thinking about how tight your cunt will feel wrapped around him. How pretty you’ll look pregnant, tits swollen, begging for him to fuck you slower.

You don’t know it yet, but he’s mapped it all out—where you’ll sleep in his house, how long he’ll let you play independent before he starts cutting off your options. You won’t need your job. Won’t need friends. Won’t need anything but him.

He’s already picked the ring. Already picked the crib. Already thinking about whether he’ll fill you up before or after dinner, or how many kids he wants.

Twisted in the head, that’s true—but it doesn’t matter. He knows what you need before you even open your mouth. Knows how to touch you, how to own you, without ever asking for permission. You’re not equals. Never were.

He’s choosing you. He’s keeping you.

And oh, sweetheart—whether you feel it yet or not, he’ll make damn sure you learn to be grateful.

Grateful to wear his ring. Grateful to carry his name.

Grateful every time he fills you up, breeds you with his cum until you’re full—so full it leaks out of your swollen, poor cunt—reminding you exactly who you belong to.

Because in his house, in his bed, wrapped around his cock—you’re not just his girl. You’re his wife.

And he’ll fuck the doubt right out of you if he has to.

tell me im wrong.

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Old Man!Price has a thing for pretty little things.

He'd be the type of soldier to randomly pick up a dandelion or random weed flowers, inspecting it closely before crushing it in his calloused palm as if he was not admiring it a moment ago.

And you're no exception.

Pretty and perfect. An invitation for corruption as if you're begging to be ruined, shown no mercy and totally under his control. You're perfect for it, almost too perfect as if reality is playing a cruel trick on him by putting you into his arms. It was too easy, very easy but John doesn’t complain. He knows better than to fuck up a good thing by overthinking. 

John holds your nose closed, stopping you from breathing for a moment. He tsks you at your feeble attempt to take his whole length and currently you are paying the price. Eyes glaciated with struggle, slobbering down his length, your drool dripping onto your tits- a perfect display of submission, compliance. 

“I told you you couldn’t take me all the way but you just had to argue with me, didn’t you?” John says, his voice dark and glazed with authority. 

You let out a pathetic, muffled whimper, your gaze filled with apology and regret. He lets go of your nose allowing you to get a breath of air as you pull away from his cock breathing heavily and babbling a series of ‘I’m sorry’s’. 

John sighs as tears roll down your flushed cheeks.

“I’ll give you one more chance, dollface. Open wide.” 

You part your lips hesitantly, scared of disappointing him. John pushes his leaking cock past your lips, your tongue instinctively darting out to lick the tip, gathering his pre-cum as you savour the taste of his salty goodness. A soft moan of satisfaction leaves your mouth as you try your best to take him fully. 

John shudders, groaning, his eyes screwed shut. Damn it, he didn’t want you to do that, he was gonna end up cumming and at his age, there was no way he could be ready for another around straight after. 

He grips the armrest trying to think of anything else other than his pretty babe sucking his cock so bloody well. 

Ponies… Beer… Shit- No, beer makes me horny… the SAS… military life… my birdie sending me a boudoir album on our first anniversary when I was away- Lake… Lake house… Holiday… Birdie in lingerie… pretty boobs, soft, warm… Wait, no- Ah, fuck…

He gives up as he feels the impending coil about to snap. Grabbing the back of your head, he shoves his whole length in not caring about your comfort. Your nose nuzzles against his dark bush, musky scent engulfing you. John cums, cums so hard that it makes you gag and spill out of your mouth. 

You pull away panting, swallowing what remains of him. Looking up at him, you raise an eyebrow at the sudden loss of John’s control. He laid back, spent and heaving with his arm covering his eyes. 

“Let's go to a lake house, Birdie.”

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