Sorry For Asking This Question, But Recently I Really Wanted To Read Something Very Sad (mmm... Suffering

i know it's been said a million times over, but john price is the kind of man to give you the ultimate princess treatment at all times.

gets legitimately annoyed when you keep racing in front of him to open your own doors. starts lunging forward and snatching you off the ground when you start to make a run for it

"you're a right brat, you know that?"

ultimate handyman. mumbles that he's "picked a few things up" through the years when you ask how he knows how to fix literally everything. assigns you the very important job of flashlight holder when necessary

loves when you lay on his chest at night to tell him all about your day. runs his hands up and down your back, plays with your hair

forever gifting you flowers. he's on a first name basis with the local florist and makes sure to send you special bouquets when he's deployed

keeping all the sweet message cards that come with them in a little box in your closet

likes helping you put your shoes on, absolutely demands to do it when you're wearing heels. always presses a kiss to your ankle when he's finished, looking up at you with a positively sinful look in his eyes

makes you show off your outfits to him before you two go out. twirls his finger in the air and lets out a low whistle when you do a little spin, a shy smile on your lips

smiles when you tell him you're going out for an afternoon with friends. nods at his wallet sitting on the bedside table. "you know where my card is darling, don't forget it."

king of breakfast in bed. very good chef overall, but his specialty is grilling because he is the ultimate dad

builds you random yet extremely useful things for your sheer convenience. you made one comment about how you wished you could utilize the little bit of space between your washing machine and the wall, and by the end of the weekend he'd built a custom shelf, stained it and installed it

letting him bend you over the washing machine as a thank you

Not what was Seen

Sergeant Kyle Garrick is not actively trying for a wife, but when he stumbles across a brainy little thing he can't resist pursuing her. It doesn't hurt that he could pry her out from under that big Austrian's thumb, ambassadorship be damned. He knows he's better for you. If only you could see what you have. Kyle Gaz Garrick x Fem/AFAB Reader in an Edwardian Bridgerton-esque AU, no Y/N, Slow burn. ~18k words 18+ MDNI CW: unreliable narrator, negative self talk/image, shitty ass parenting, emotional/verbal abuse, implied body/fat shaming, panic attack(s), period-typical sexism, slow burn, PIV sex, sleepy sex, eventual happy ending, pregnancy. Math and Physics shit

Not what was.... - The COD but Bridgerton Series

Archive of Our Own Link

GIF by picturenic GIF by a-secret-land GIF by margi-again

As the third daughter in everything but birth, it meant you were well used to disregard. Your sisters were considered beauties for the ages, many a suitor had appeared with sonnets and lyrics that waxed poetic about their features. They tenderly plucked away at harp and piano, sweet music filling the air while your music teacher had quit in a rage, swearing your incompetence was intentional. It wasn't, but you'd had no luck convincing anyone of that. They swirled around the dance floor, majestic and regal, gilded lilies with their partners, while you stomped and trod on every toe. So you largely went forgotten by society, and well, even your family.

It has its advantages. It meant that all eyes were on them. It meant that all expectations were on them. So when your eldest sister married a Duke, your family was ecstatic and the burden of improving the family status was gone. With your younger sister engaged to be wed to a Viscount, who doubled as a shipping magnate with a fortune the pharaohs would be jealous of, the familial upkeep was secure. That meant all you had to do was get married. No expectations of wealth or status attached. Great in theory. Horrendously terrible in practice.

No one could honestly expect a love match. Those were for the heroines in novels, not for plain second daughters of the peerage. So all you had to do was find a perfectly acceptable, nice man you could tolerate for the rest of your life. Ideally, rather soon so your younger sister doesn't have to drag out her engagement. Again, great in theory. However, it rankled. Feeling like a cat rubbed the wrong way you faced down your reality, hair askew, eyes wild, claws out, and spitting mad. Your sisters had been better at their lessons, all their lessons. Better at securing matches. Better at existing, you thought bitterly watching your parents dote on them and their partners while you languished in the periphery. It would be nice to not be ... unsuccessful. Uninteresting. For once at least. That foolish line of thinking was what had landed you here. Once again feeling the bitter tang of disregard.

The brutally tall Austro-Hungarian Empire's ambassador with a chestful of medals staring down his nose at you. Logically the man probably did that to the world at large, you reasoned with your wobbly stomach, he towered above everyone, he'd have to look down at you. So you drag the little German you'd memorized for this foolish endeavour out of your terrified mind, "Hallo Ich heisse-"

"Your accent is terrible," he mutters and sips his drink. Embarrassment rushes through you and only the thought of having to crawl back to where your family waits with your tail between your legs keeps you going.

"I apologize Botschafter Kilgore König, I-"

"Boat-" he interrupts and you blink blankly at him and he pointedly makes shapes with his mouth as he speaks as if he's talking to an especially thick child, "Boat-shaft-er"

His eyes meet yours and you grit your teeth and smile brightly, dutifully repeating it back to him with his corrected pronunciation, "Botschafter."

Pleased he nods, "Kuu - nich."

"König" your teeth hurt in your smile as you say it, but it seems worth it as he nods again.

Murming around the rim of his glass he stares you down "All together now kätzchen."

Smiling brightly like you haven't a care in the world, you dutifully repeat, "Botschafter König."

"Gutes kätzchen, now what brings you this way?" König smiles blandly as he says this, eyes darting around, clearly already bored with you as a conversation partner. You frantically scramble for your thoughts scattered by your building ire.

"I - I - I wished to make your acquaintance." you manage to stammer out, "I had hoped to ask you about Vienna."

He hums non committally and the creeping embarrassment flares hotter in you. You're being all too forward, this had seemed a fantastic idea yesterday when gossip of the ambassador visiting the court had spread. Snagging a foreign ambassador as a match would surely earn you some notice. Now though, as you thoroughly fumbled the snagging, it seemed it was just another harebrained attempt at something you'd have to abandon, leave it behind when your abilities are found to be wanting.

So you curtsy a farewell, making sure you nail the pronunciation at the same time, "I hope you enjoy your time here Botschafter König."

With that said you flee to the relative safety of the fringes of the ball.

Dropping into a chair at an abandoned table you could practically hear the placating coos of your mother. It was not something you were eager to return to, so you let your attention wander. It doesn't go far, snagging on a crumpled note on the tabletop. Pulling it to you it becomes clear that it's diagrams, numbers and angles added to it to show that whomever scrawled it out was working with quaternions. Excited, you examine it closer. You'd never been good at your lessons, the needlepoint, deportment, dancing, literature, poetry, and languages going over your head, but the shadows of your sisters had proven beneficial there as well. Satisfied with their successes your parents had allowed you to indulge in odd hobbies and reading, like subscriptions to the Annals of Physics, and the International Association for Promoting the Study of Quaternions and Allied Systems of Mathematics. Your governess had coached you all through the basic sums every girl learned, and your sisters had stopped there with her, satisfied with the ability to manage a household. But you'd enjoyed it. Seeking out more and more texts, decoding the universe in the language of mathematics. It clicked with you on some level that nothing else had, the formulae straightforward, and when they weren't, the rules of engagement were clear. Written in stone, steps for you to take until they bowed to your machinations, the laws of the universe unravelling to become clear at your feet in constants and variables.

You can make out two different styles of writing, both trying to solve for the initial angle of a hand cannon to hit a target a certain distance away. Well, that was their issue, you spy the use of Hamilton and Grassman's theories rather than the much more practical and recent Gibbs-Heaviside approach. Lucky for you they'd left the graphite stick behind as well and you snag it, reworking what they'd fumbled. Pleased, you set it down firmly when you've solved it completely, the QED you scrawl at the end making pride flare behind your sternum. Something that quickly vanishes when you look up into amused brown eyes in a handsome face. Your stomach swoops and you gape, manners gone as he smiles at you, bright grin blinding against his bronze skin.

"Sergeant Kyle Garrick" he introduces himself, with an inclination of his head. Fumbling you manage to return the sentiment and introduce yourself. He snags the paper and you watch with horror as the infamous rake Sergeant MacTavish drops into the chair beside him. Not brave enough to linger without your mother nearby, even in the entirely public setting of the ball, you mutter farewells and for the second time of the night, you flee.

Returning to the safety of parental supervision, you link arms with your mother as she talks to the gathered well-wishers for your sister and her fiancé. Happy to once again be overlooked by all you nod and make approving sounds as the conversation demands. You're only drawn away again when the host of the ball appears at your elbow and signs your card. Thanking your lucky stars he's arrived in time for a simple box waltz rather than the fast-paced quadrille you still abashedly mutter apologies as you mark up his shoes, stumbling your way through the dance. Embarrassment burning through you, it only ramps up when he returns you to your family's sphere of influence, ambassador König chatting with your brother-in-law. It makes sense you reason, hiding behind your brightly chatty sister. Your brother-in-law is a Duke, very high up and involved in the monarchial going-ons, of course they'd have crossed paths before.

Despite your attempts at concealment König's attention still catches on you and he greets you with, "Ah! Kätzchen, hello again." nodding his head at you. Freezing as the attention shifts to you, you nod back and thank your lucky stars again that his attention is drawn back to whatever your brother-in-law discusses with him. Your sister loops an arm through yours, leaning in close with an amused quirk of her brow.

"Lofty goals sister?" she hums in your ear and offended, you tug at your arm, desperate to flee for the third time this night, but she's stronger than she looks so you remain stuck fast at her side.

"Don't worry." she coos condescendingly at you, "I can help! You remember I've snagged a good one myself." and with a wink, she inserts you both into the men's conversation to your horror.

"Ambassador!" she brightly says, simply interrupting whatever they were discussing. "How have you found your visit going so far?"

He takes the interruption well, responding politely, "Very well, your country has been most accommodating."

You let her carry the conversation, fiddling with the embellishments of your dress as she talks.

"Has anyone shown you around Mayfair, ambassador?"

He hums in response "Not yet, I've been a bit... preoccupied."

She nods as you pick at nonexistent lint, "Of course, well, you must let us show you around St. James Street. There's a club there for everyone!"

"Oh?" he says sipping on his drink.

"Yes!" she says excitedly and you stiffen as she shoves you forward slightly, none too gently "Even for my odd little sister here."

She winks at you as he turns a questioning gaze upon you and you fumble to be as smooth a conversationlist as her.

"Oh yes - um, I quite enjoy -" wracking your brain for the more appropriate clubs, unlike the mathematics ones that you weren't welcome in is a surprisingly strenuous task, "-the Floriography and arrangement club?" It really shouldn't be a question but it comes out that way as he stares down at you.

Hurriedly you tack on, "They really do have one for everyone though!"

He nods at your words and in the corner of your eye, you see your sister elbow her husband, roping him into her scheme. As the sounds of a waltz slowly winds down he suggests, "You two should go for the next song."

Both you and your sister turn matching stares of horror on him. But König is already signing your card and guiding you to the floor as the musicians pick up the pace for a quadrille.

"I'm so sorry, but dancing is not one of my talents." you quickly stammer out as he places his hand on your hip. Your shoulder complains as he hoists your other hand higher than the cut of your dress was designed for, the fabric cutting into your skin.

"Relax, kätzchen," he says and you have to crane your neck to look up at him "I am also better off the dance floor."

Trying again you start, "Your toes. I really do apo-" cut off by how he swings you, you realize that you're well matched in skill. Neither of you able to keep up with the beat, amused horror bubbles in you at the aghast look of your sisters and mother from the sidelines as the two of you step on each other's toes and turn in random patterns. The other dancers quickly give you both space so they're not bumped into as you turn several beats behind where you're supposed to, then again late, then somehow you manage to twirl early? Embarrassment burns hot in you, but peeking up at König it seems he is entirely unaffected. A mask of polite indifference settled upon his face, not even flinching when you crash your heel onto one of his toes. Thankfully it ends rather quickly and the two of you return to your family, your sister mouthing an apology at you. To your utter astonishment, Sergeant Garrick stands there, chatting amicably with your mother. As you pause by them he reaches out with another blinding grin and snags your dance card, signing for two, -two!- dances. How on earth you hadn't managed to scare him off with that appalling display is beyond you and you blink vapidly at him. König seems to have taken a strange offence to the man signing up for dances with you still on his arm and your mind whirls as he signs your card for another dance after Garrick. When did this become your lot? Your sisters were the ones that had men in jealous tiffs, not you. Your mother is smiling, all teeth, not even hiding her pleasure at this development as she pulls you and König into her discussion with the Sergeant.

"I'm so pleased to see you've found such pleasant company tonight dear," she purrs, "such magnanimous gentlemen."

König nods at her words but Kyle shoots her a look you can't decipher before saying to you "I was surprised to see how learned you were miss," and whatever he would say next is cut off by your mother's titter.

"Oh we all are," she sighs, "lessons were never her strong suit." -you bristle at the insinuation as she smiles patiently at you- "But you have other talents, don't you dear?"

König pats your arm sympathetically "Ah poor kätzchen," and you burn with embarrassment.

"I never cared for schooling either, I was not a good student. But my sisters have said no governess can truly prepare a wife, I'm sure you will do well in time." his tone is placating and it burns your ears.

Kyle gives him an odd look and holds out his arm with a cough, "Right then, shall we?"

Nodding frantically you snatch his arm, fumbling up apologies in advance of your horrendous dancing. "I'm sorry Sergeant I-"

"Kyle, please." he smiles at you, leading you towards the floor.

"Kyle," you acquiesce, "I really do have two left feet, I'm sorry for your toes, really, I am."

He laughs as both his hands find your hips and you look up at him confused, "I saw sweetheart."

You didn't think it possible but your embarrassment ratchets higher at that before his grin knocks the sense out of your head, "Trust me, I'll take care of it for the both of us."

Throughoughly confused you stare up at him and gasp when you feel him ease you up. He settles your feet onto the tops of his like you had 'danced' with your father when you were but a child.

"Kyle!" you hiss "I'll crush your feet!"

"You were going to anyway right sweetheart?" he teases you, eyes sparkling as his hand lifts yours and you can't help the shocked giggle that falls out of your lips. The music swells and he carries the both of you off into it as you giggle, lost in a strange euphoria of actually blending into the dancers, the unconventional method sending an almost forbidden frisson of excitement through you. You relax into his hold as he competently steers you both around the floor.

"I apologize if I was too forward, signing up for two." he says and you meet his eyes with yours as he continues, "I just didn't think you'd be able to explain in one."

Confused you tilt your head at him, questioning.

"The calculations?" he reminds you as he spins you both and you stiffen at the reminder of it.

"My proof is correct!" you defend righteously, offended, but you're thrown off by his warm chuckle. Knocked off kilter you stare at him.

"You were right sweetheart, I want to know how you got them."

Oh. Well, that was easy.

"You didn't use the Gibbs-Heaviside technique, you were still using Hamilton and Grassman's theories." he nods at your words so you continue.

"For the vector analysis, you need to take more of the vector theory Heaviside uses with Maxwellian electrics, and apply it to the initial starting point, using the muzzle velocity to determine both the x and y vectors as separate entities." he nods again and you eye him, unsure if you'd lost him.

He spins you both through a corner and casually adds, "Of course then you'd apply gravity to the vertical, but did you account for the -"

You cut him off, shamefully admitting your lack, "The wind resistance? I must admit I did not, I'm unfamiliar with the drag coefficient for it as I didn't know the shape of the projectile."

"They're often whatever we can grab in the field." he grins at your double take, right Sergeant Garrick, he likely had much more practical experience than theoretical with the weapons.

"Still," you defend your works, "it was as accurate as possible with the information provided."

He nods in agreement.

"But how'd you solve the..." he trails off as you look at him, the song fading in the background as you both still.

"See? Two songs." his eyes sparkle and you giggle, stepping off his feet carefully to give his toes a break, applauding lightly with the others for the musicians, and drifting to the side to wait for the next cue of music.

"Have you seen the new theories in the Annals of Physics?" you pipe up, responding to the question he never finished and he shakes his head at you.

"A man named Albert Einstein has published three articles in there so far this year, the second with Brownian motion, it was remarkably interesting - and the proofs really helped me in improve in well, all motion really." you admit and he smiles at you.

The music picks up again, and you giggle as he places you back on his feet. Easily chatting with him about proofs and concepts as he swirls you both around to the beat of the music, his hand warm in yours and his arm strong against your back. Despite your earlier trepidation, you find that you are having probably the most fun you'd ever had dancing, happiness glowing in you as he escorts you back to where König and your mother await. As you cross the ballroom floor you feel his arm stiffen and you follow his gaze to where you can just make out Sergeant MacTavish heading out the doors to the garden. Confused you look up at him, but he doesn't explain, instead dropping you off with a hasty farewell and he vanishes into the crowd as your mother looks at you amused.

There's barely a beat for you to catch your breath before König is dragging you back out towards the throng of dancers. Again, your dress bends awkwardly at the seams, stiff fabric stabbing into you as your arm is lifted high and the two of you begin your awkward stumble.

"Your mother has invited me to 'promenade' with you kätzchen." he says blandly. Stunned, you can't respond before he continues.

"I am intrigued," musing like you aren't even there, "a little foreign wife would do me well in the regard of the court."

Mind spinning you stumble even more so than usual, trying to find an appropriate response. Whatever you manage to find is crushed as much as your toe is by his boot, your focus going to praying that it's not broken.

Your mother is delighted when König comes to call, even though you've begun to really regret this hastily made scheme and easily brushes aside your protests. Too swept up in the potential of three well-matched daughters to see how you no longer want this match, or just as uncaring as usual you're not sure, and you don't know if you have the emotional fortitude to find out. So you're dragged out to wander along the river with him, your mother and father trailing a respectable distance to give the illusion of privacy. Something that vanishes quickly as you begin to expose your failings.

He talks of Shakespeare and poets that sound vaguely familiar, but life on the line you wouldn't be able to add more than a cursory 'they were a pleasant read' to the discussion. You gamely try though, doing your best to be a good conversation partner with your mother's glare burning a hole in your back. You can almost hear her patented sigh and the 'why did we even bother with a governess?' that would come with this as per usual. The massive man seems to have patience that is not proportionate to his size, and tiring of your bland answers tries again as you twirl your gloves nervously in your hands.

"I have seen advertisements for a gallery display of Jean-François Raffaëlli's works. Have you been kätzchen?" he asks and you wrack your brain, desperately looking for anything. Your mother swoops in, piping up from behind you, coaxing.

"We went to it last week, didn't we dear?"

"Yes, yes-" searching your memory you find a very clear remembrance of being so disappointed in their lack of seating options and not much else but oh!

"I did like that one...." you pause, searching for the words. König looks down at you bemused, a large hand dropping to curl around your elbow, steering you to turn around at the end of the promenade as you think.

"Where it's a promenade walk like this one?" gesturing broadly at the river walk you all are on "There was a man on a horse, and the tree was... pretty?" you hope you hide the wince. Lord, you must sound like a simpleton to him.

"Ah yes, The Quai Malaquais scene. Part of the Paris series yes? Did you see the city guide?" his eyes twinkle with mirth as you stare up at him blankly.

"The dog dear." your mother supplies with a long-suffering sigh. The dog? What bloody dog? Surely you would have remembered a dog at the exhibit. You should probably never try to bluff the man because he clearly reads you like a book.

"Well we shall have to return so I may point him out to you kätzchen." he pats your hand patronizingly and you burn with shame. As you parade along the strip by the river he proves rather skilled at talking about nothing which is quite good for you apparently, as you seem to have nothing between your ears but lint.

A point driven further home when you linger a little too long outside the drawing room doors, your parents discussing the day's events later that evening.

"God, I worry about that child." your mother mutters.

"Don't worry love, the ambassador's not looking for someone to debate." your father chuckles and you can feel the tears building in pricks at the back of your eyes.

She's not calmed by his words, protesting "Still!" and your father sighs.

"I assure you, he's looking for someone inoffensive and biddable, she can manage that yes?"

She's sniffing derisively in response while tears slowly seep down your cheeks.

"Yes but, if this falls through...." her voice makes it clear how little she thinks the possibility of your finding another potential match is.

So tears burning your cheeks and a sob throttled in your throat you seek respite in your room. A sense of impending doom closing in. They were right, weren't they? What man would want a wife that couldn't talk the arts, or literature or carry on a decent conversation with him or the inevitable dinner guests? There weren't any. Spinsterhood honestly didn't seem that bad, but you had to marry. Your younger sister was already engaged, you had to be married before she could or be so settled firmly on the shelf she'd have a decade-long engagement. So no. It seemed you were going to be a biddable bride for the Austrian ambassador. Blearily you wonder what force had collided with you so much to alter your path so, from your plan to impress with a wonderful match to this misery. Flipping your poles, negative acceleration, stealing your momentum to fuel its own. No matter its name it seemed your fate was sealed.

Puttering around balls was a skill you'd developed quite well in the years since you'd debuted, knowing you'd best steer well clear of dancing, and that conversation, well, wasn't your strongest suit. So you excelled at quick hellos and goodbyes, able to flit and meander from pocket to pocket of people. Unfortunately, you don't get to put it into practice at this one. Your mother has her eyes set firmly on the prize that is apparently an Austrian ambassador. Dragging you to-and-fro to strategically place you in his eyeline, available for another dance. It's some kind of Newtonian torture, stuck in perpetual motion, swinging this and that way in response to his mass. The fresh air of Sergeant Garrick stealing you away for a dance and you sparkle in his light, kinetic motion turned to heat.

"Did you see the news of the Willows number one?" he asks you as he scoops you onto his feet.

This time you gasp at the question, rather than this odd thing becoming a ritual between the two of you, "Yes! Oh, I'm sure the author did a marvellous job of describing it, but what I wouldn't give to see a zeppelin like that take off with my own eyes."

He takes up your hand and asks at the same time, "So why didn't you? It was only up in Cardiff."

Spirit slightly squished you murmur something about social engagements before turning the subject back to the inaugural flight, "What's your interest in the Willows?"

He laughs at your question and you stare, confused, as he swirls you, not in on the joke. As the beat slows and he sways the two of you he explains, "MacTavish and I have a bet, we've been doing the workings on how if used in a military application one might have to evacuate quickly."

You stare, your ask still not answered.

"Well he thinks that the zeppelin could reach a height at which you couldn't parachute from safely, I think that as long as it's not a tethered chute there's no issue with terminal velocity." his eyes are sparkling and his voice is gentle as he pulls you in, both physically and into their argument "What say you, my little physicist?"

The rest of the number is spent debating drag coefficients, the crushability of human bone, and the flight limitations and capabilities of zeppelins as he steers you about the floor, in equal measure serious and teasing. In a fit of boldness when he drops you off at your mother's side you offer your hand and he kisses your knuckles with sparkling eyes. The heat of his lips scalding through the thin silk. Then he's bidding you farewell, disappearing into the crowd. Leaving you feeling oddly bereft.

You don't have much time to take in that feeling before König is nearby, your mother and brother-in-law encouraging him to sign your card. Then you're back out on the floor, no longer focused on dancing, instead you dodge his feet. Not keen to feel his mass pinning yours to the earth, crushing your poor toes, you make poor conversation, eyes trained on your shoes. But it doesn't stop your eyes from snapping up when you hear Kyle's bark of laughter in the throng of dancers. He's twirling with a beautiful woman and they move like a dream. She's clearly a born dancer, well matched with the smooth way Kyle moves even with how she glares at him. Something bitter and acrid twists in you as you see how he's still smiling as she hisses at him. Of course, you were but an oddity to him, not anything serious. Who would want a wife who talked of the pounds per square inch tensile strength of canvas needed for parachuting when you could have one that moved like her? Your attention snaps back to König when he lets out a small grunt, turns out even he is not immune to his pinky toe being squished between two masses. The conversation between your mother and father replays in an instant in your head and frantic apologies spill from your lips. He nods, face impassive and bland above you, and you fight to not hyperventilate. And not squish his toes. And not have yours squished. And not fall over. It all proves rather too much and you're frantically blinking back tears as he returns you to your mother's side, leaving you there with a curt nod and no backward glance as he strides off.

"Oh, what did you do you silly girl? Have you scared him off?" she hisses as she skillfully sequesters the two of you behind some ferns and overly large statues so you can regain your composure. Of course, she'd care about that and not you, it forces a sardonic huff from you and her glare ratchets up.

"No Mother, I don't know, he just...." lost for words you trail off and try to swallow the lump in your throat. She puffs out air in irritation at you and when she sees that you're no longer brimming with tears drags you back into the fray. You take up familiar residence in the looming shadows of your sisters, allowing them and your mother to dominate the conversation while your head fills with nothing.

"Mother do you see-" your sister mutters under her breath and your mother cuts her off, staring across the room.

"I do." her voice is hard as you all watch König step all over the toes of the newly out debutante.

"Isn't that the one-" your sister starts again and your mother finishes it, "That has no fortune and is desperate for a match? Yes, it is."

It really ought to be horror that suffuses through you. Maybe these poles of yours are switched as well because all you can feel is relief watching your only chance at a match dance with another.

While you might be socially inept, you are truly the nut that fell from the apple tree, so your mother and sisters are magnetic, easily pulling information from others. It sounds like König's interests are being swayed away from you and towards a girl who through circumstance will be as just as biddable as you, and more than likely can discuss Raffaëlli with him. You can't find it in you to really care but they clearly do, doubling down and drilling into your thick head that again this is your only viable option. Your poor little sister can't wait a decade for you to achieve spinsterhood before getting married. So you find yourself out to luncheon with König and your parents.

Not willing to give you a chance to put your foot in your mouth your mother comandeers the conversation, artfully steering it and König so all you have to do is mindlessly agree with the prettiest smile you can muster. Staring blankly at the menu until the waiter arrives at your elbow. You scan it frantically, but it turns out you don't have to as König turns to the man, ordering you a glass of white wine.

"Ummm..." you halfheartedly interrupt when the man turns to your father for his order next, and you see your mother's eyes widen but you barrel onward, "I don't want -"

König waves you off, "Nonsense kätzchen, it's a good Austrian wine, you will like it." and you can see the waiter hesitate.

Where it comes from you don't know but the tiny bit of inertia in you allows you to push, saying, "I don't drink."

"Well kätzchen, I think you do. Really now." his eyes are hard even if his voice stays light, and doom is a pit in your stomach.

"You just need to try it yes?" he says and nods at the waiter, your momentum stalled, stolen, you slump slightly in your chair as he purrs, "Gutes kätzchen."

There's a roaring in your ears that doesn't let you listen to the drinks your parents order and conversation picks up around you again. When the glass of wine is dropped off in front of you, you ignore it, and thankfully no one cares enough to notice how you sip at your water instead. Before long the waiter is back and you listen, panic a butterfly in your diaphragm as König orders for the both of you, the full meal you had wanted for him and a little garden salad for you. Salt pricks your eyes and you excuse yourself to the bathroom when your father remarks how kind it is that he considers your health.

Of course, it's your kind of luck that there's only one room for ladies and it's occupied. So you stand sniffling in the bathroom corridor, doing your best to fall apart discretely. Rotten luck piling on as you look up to see Sergeant Garrick staring at you aghast.

"Sweetheart what's wrong?" his voice is oh so gentle and your tears and efforts to scrub them away double. Your laugh comes out watery as you try to convince him you are all right. Clearly not falling for it he nods at you and settles leaning on the wall across from you, watching warily as you pat frantically with your hankie.

His voice is mild as he says "Have you seen the latest Annals of Physics?" and you shake your head as you sniffle.

He hums and as you dry your eyes there's the sound of rustling. When you look up he's holding out papers to you with a gentle smile. Baffled you stare and his lips tip up in humour at your confusion.

"I had meant to bring it as a gift when I called on you but I think you'd prefer it now." his grin turns blinding as you blink.

"Kyle?" you question and his voice is so tender as he shakes the papers at you again.

"Einstien published again, I know you likely have a subscription," he shrugs with a smile as you take the leaflet, staring down at it while he finishes, "but I thought to add some of my own thoughts."

Through the thin paper, you can feel the faint shape of sticky paper notes tiled inside and warmth fills you as you stare up into his sheepish grin, your heart daring to hope beyond hope. As the bathroom door creaks open behind you he bids you farewell and you cling to the energy he gave you as if it were a life preserver, using it to propel you through the rest of the torturous luncheon and back home to your room. Where you quickly read your own copy, heart thundering in your ears.

You force yourself to read it again, to cogitate on it, and the implications thrill you. But it's for an entirely different reason that your fingers shake opening the cover of Kyle's copy. You devour the words on the page, a starving beast invited to feast. Scrawled in the margins in pencil are what seems to be first impressions, quick questions; - why this method? Where does this connect? And small notations when they are answered later or tiny neat calculations as he runs real numbers through theoretical methods as if to test their surety. Greedy fingers trace the impression of his pencil and you feel the grooves it dug in his shock at the penultimate equation, E=mc². Excitement frissons through you, an echo, a quantum entanglement, of what you're sure were his own feelings at this discovery, the sheer connotations, the implications this has. Frantically you return to the start of the paper, eager to follow on his journey, this time following the deliberate ink marks as he adds notations specifically for you. Questions asking your opinion, how you'd apply it, even highlighting and underlining words with notations about phrasing, pondering if it's mistranslations or intentional. You scrabble for your graphite stick and sticky notes, a conversation beginning on the pages, questions and answers swirling in a blend of smudged black and paper squares. It keeps you up well into the night as you pour over it, adding layer after layer of care into it.

To your utter delight and your mother's surprise, the next few days are full of calls from Kyle. He never appears empty-handed, fresh-cut blooms for your mother and newly published papers for you. Complete with handwritten notes added and you pass old ones back and forth, the edges no longer able to meet from the heft of the notes from the two of you sandwiched inside. Hope presses into you, giving you momentum, force to carry you through the few days he doesn't visit.

Those days to your disgust and your mother's satisfaction are occasionally marred with visits from König. The number of visits wax and wane with the gossip around the freshly outted debutante entertaining both him and another suitor. You assume that you are the backup option, surprised at how bitter it makes you feel when you don't even want to be an option.

It comes to a head one afternoon when you'd seen them both back to back in previous days, and now both had asked to speak with your father privately today. König arriving and departing from your father's drawing room in the morning and Kyle in the afternoon. You'd been trying to curtail the runaway hope inside you, but it was a juggernaut, no force inside you strong enough to supersede it. The hints dropped behind finger sandwiches and tea, discussions about children, houses and futures. It all made you rather breathless, and all day you'd been hung on tenterhooks. Suspended in motion, unable to do more than fret, you didn't eat, you didn't drink, so really it shouldn't have been a surprise to you when you wake up staring at the ceiling of the parlour. Worried sisters and your mother crowding you. You're given a full day to recover from fainting at the revelation that both men had asked for permission to ask for your hand in marriage before the news comes.

Ambassador Kilgore König never really struck you as the kind of man who fished. And maybe he wasn't. Maybe that combined with the clear lack of grace and coordination evidenced in every dance he undertook was the reason why he'd fallen overboard. The reason he'd drowned on what was supposed to be a simple day of manly bonding, fishing on the Thames. Little oddity that you are that's what you ponder while your mother and sisters debate the proper protocol. Do you need to go into mourning? There had been no proposal, only courtship. After much discussion, they settle on three days of avoiding social engagements and compromise on muted colours rather than harsh black mourning.

It all makes you itch, desperate to see Kyle again, and you count down the hours while your mother switches her focus. She researches the military, becoming a near-expert in it, given that clearly you'd never be able to secure the match yourself and with your only other suitor dead... well she has a lot of work to do, doesn't she dear? Anger flares hot and bright in you when she mutters something about him being 'only a sergeant' and you fiercely defend him, only to get shot down by her scathing words. Tears of rage and impotence burn your cheeks while she coos at you, don't worry dear she's sure he'll move up as time goes on. You choke on anger and the words to defend him but your distaste for her must come through because she tsks at you and dismisses you harshly.

So when Kyle appears in front of you both at the ball the next day the elation that rushes through your veins is a dizzying whirl. Almost enough to ignore how his smile isn't wide, showing his teeth like usual, or dimpling his cheeks. Almost enough to ignore the sinking feeling as your mother chatters to him excitedly while his smile grows tighter and his eyes get harder. Smoothly interrupting your mother he guides you away and joy dares to bubble in your blood, ephemeral. Popped at how the music cues and he slowly sways with you as you stumble. The ritual gone. Vanished. Wiped away and when you wrench your gaze from your feet to him, his eyes are sad but his face is hard.

"I'm sorry," he starts and your stomach is a black hole. Dense and collapsing inward.

"I shouldn't have started this in the first place," he continues and when his eyes meet yours you'd almost think he flinches, but it's hard to tell with how yours are watering. The light inside you devoured.

His jaw tightens and so do his arms, keeping you upright as you stumble through the waltz.

"I-" he sighs, "I have the luxury of marrying when I wish, to whom I wish. And I want a wife who wishes for me too. I won't be someone's consolation prize."

He's staring off into the distance now, still steadfast and majestic in the flow of the music, despite how you're stomping on his toes, how you're wilting in his hold. Words, protests, flow through your mind but don't make it out your mouth as the air's so hot it's choking. The sound of the ballroom fades and you think he might be saying something else but everything grows more and more muffled. Your body is an oxymoron, impossible density moving from your stomach to your throat and inexplicable lightness in your limbs as your fingers, your whole hand, all of you shakes, trembles, aspens in the wind. The song must have finished because you're now in front of your mother and she's frowning. Oh lord, she's mad, what have you done now? Despite the lessons drilled into you, your mouth flops open and frantically you suck in air. Gasping like the fish your governess would mock you for being does nothing and it feels like you're breathing through one of your father's cocktail straws, grey ringing your vision. There's a hand on your elbow and everything is blurry, then there's a seat under you and your younger sister staring worriedly as she fans you. She's saying something you can't hear and you lock your eyes to hers. The colour is familiar as the one that stares at you in a mirror, grounding, so you fight to control your breath, gaze locked with hers. In. Out. In. Out.

As each breath comes the grey fades and you can almost feel your throat relinquish its hold on your air, rushing in to fill every crevice of your lungs. It gets easier to breathe in a pattern. Easier to draw it in deep, to exhale it slowly, as your sister's thumb rubs circles on the back of your hand she'd grabbed at some point. With a pop and a crackle sound bleeds in. Murmurs and faint music drifting to the out-of-the-way sitting area she'd dragged you to.

"You ok?" she asks, softly, eyes still worried. Dazed, you nod. But you're not, are you? So you shake your head, eyes burning. Fighting desperately to not cry as she wraps you into a hug, her perfume light and familiar, a buoyancy you cling to.

"Did I... mother... what..." there's too many questions and thoughts to force out your stubborn lips, swallowing around a raw throat you try to fumble them out anyway.

Luckily your sister has more sense than you and pulling back from the hug answers what you can't ask, "Don't worry, no one saw. Sergeant Garrick brought you back and you were ...." her brow pinches as she frowns, "So I got you away. What happened?"

The cool rush of relief that you hadn't embarrassed your mother evaporates in the horror, the reminder of what had happened on the dance floor. Your sister's frown deepens as your eyes go wide and you impersonate a landed fish again.

"Oh I'm going to kill him." she hisses, and you clutch at her sleeve before she can make a move, shaking your head.

"Don't!" bursts out of you and she stares, waiting. Shame and embarrassment burn almost as much as the tears that spill over as you admit your lack.

"He's breaking off the courtship," it's too warbly and watery to really be words but she seems to figure out the meaning regardless, face softening as she pulls you back in for another hug and you give in to it for a minute. Pulling away to scrub frantically at the wetness on your cheeks with your sleeve, and with a sigh she passes you a handkerchief.

"It'll be all right," she says, and for once it doesn't sound like she's talking down to you, "You'll find someone else -"

Frantically shaking your head you muffle a cry in her hankie and she sighs again.

"You do have some charms you know," she says lightly, teasingly, "dancing isn't the be-all to charming a man."

"No," the ball is tight in your throat still but you've managed to stop the tears so with a sniffle you stuff the hankie into a pocket.

Trying to explain, "Kyle-"

"Oh ho! Kyle is it?" she says quirking an eyebrow and embarrassment is hot in your veins as she elbows you jokingly. Her head tilts and you see her eyes sharpen.

"Oh," she breathes, snatching both your hands up in hers, "You actually like him."

"Yes!" you cry, and her grip is strong enough to stop you from tearing your hands away to bury your face in them to your dismay. She shakes your hands, her voice energetic enough to tear away your gaze from your lap and back to her face.

A bright smile as she says, "Then all you have to do is get him back."

Stunned you just stare. How on earth were you supposed to do that? She drops one of your hands to wave airily, the confidence of the pretty as she says "Easy. He didn't say anything to Mother, and with the ambassador's death he won't come calling for a few more days so you have until then to convince him to not withdraw his request for your hand."

Now you're sure your face is aghast because she just rolls her eyes at you, "Trust me~"

You're not sure you have any other option but to.

"Though...." she trails off eyeing the far-off dance floor. Peering across the distance your throat tightens again as you spy Kyle dancing with the beautiful woman who made him laugh again.

"We'd best hurry." her voice is resolute and her hand is firm as she drags you to standing. Herding you towards the bathroom she calls, "Honey!" and her fiance seems to materialize right there.

"Tell Georgia I need her skills in the bathroom please." she says as she drags you down the hall, and while he looks confused he disappears, presumably to do her bidding as the doors to the washroom bangs shut behind the two of you. The puff around them and the red in the whites of your eyes are shocking in the mirror but you don't have time to linger on that as another woman comes bustling in.

"Oh honey," she sighs, staring at your face before winking at your sister, "I guess this is why you called hmm? Let me see what I have..."

Producing the largest clutch you have ever seen from under her arm you are whirled through pokes, pats, and prods as the two of them work powdered and liquid magic to hide the worst evidence of your tears. And then more, for a 'zhush' says Georgia with a wink, smearing something fruity on your lips that makes them glisten. Almost stabbing you in the eye with another little stick that somehow manages to make your eyes look bigger, wider, and ... sultry? Nodding with her completed work she packs up her bag of magic and you stammer out thank yous as the three of you exit to the ballroom.

"Go get him." she says with a wink and a swing of her hips, disappearing into the crowd. Adrift you cling to your sister's elbow as she circumnavigates the room, eyes sharp, her fiance trailing behind you both.

"Do you think you have it in you to ask him to dance?" she asks in a whisper, both of you spotting Kyle standing by a large bearded man, embroiled in what looks like quite a serious discussion. Biting your lip you shake your head as your hands tremble at the thought of daring to go so against... everything, to untether yourself so fully to leave it up to him and his whim to pull you in or not. She nods, jaw tight and beckons her fiance forward to whisper in his ear. He vanishes and she plants you both on the edge of the dancing, half an eye kept on Kyle and the other man. Kyle looks up and you think for a second, that he's looking at you, that it'll be some moment from a romance novel. That he'll read your heart from across a full room and come to take your hand and sweep you away. But that's not your lot. So he looks away. So you do as he did, throwing your gaze about, searching for something else to distract from the return of the burn behind your eyes. Attention catching on a woman, alone, with MacTavish at a tucked away drinks table. Blinking, you stare despite it not being polite. There's no way you saw that right, did she just bite him?

"May I have this dance Miss?" comes Kyle's rich voice and your attention is ripped to him. He's holding his hand out in offering, face hard and your sister is making wide eyes and very unsubtle head tilts at you. Not trusting your voice you just nod and take his hand, the pause in the music before it starts awkward, stilted, between the two of you. Thankfully he takes up your hand and hip without much ado, keeping you both to the the fringes of the dancers as you sway in a loose imitation of dancing.

"I don't appreciate some overpuffed Duke abusing his rank to order me about." he grits out, eyes firmly locked somewhere behind your head and you gawp, stomach clenching at his tone.

"I - no - I!" you bumble out and he snorts, and winces as you accidentally stamp on his toe. You're blowing this. This is your chance. Maybe your only chance, your brother-in-law won't be able to pull rank again. But you can't think, talk, and do this. It sparks frantic force inside you. Overcoming the stalled core of your being, your vector altered and you spy it. A way out. Before you can stutter, freeze, or falter again you tangle your fingers with his and ignore the frown on his face. When you both circle by the entry to a balcony you step through the ring of onlookers and drag him with you out into the cool air. Thankfully despite the curious looks you both get no one follows and the balcony is empty, likely due to the chill in the breeze. Abruptly his hand is yanked from yours and you spin to face him, hands flying up to clutch at your arms from cold and hurt.

He waves his newly freed hand in an aborted motion, sighing, brow pinched. Snapping, "Look I know you think I'm your only option-"

"You are!" it bursts from you, "It has to be you!"

His eyes go flinty and his lip lifts in a snarl, "I knew I never should've done this."

Your eyes are brimming with tears and your thoughts are churning, how can you make him see? How can you make him understand?

He barks a cruel laugh, "But for some foolish reason I thought, maybe, just maybe, someone would choose me. Me!"

He laughs again without humour, dry and bitter, shaking his head, making like he's about to turn and head back into the ballroom. In an instant, it runs through your head. Dances happy in his arms, notes in gifted papers, discussions of parachuting; shooting angles, terminal velocity, and mathematics. Snapping out before you finish the thought your hand snags his sleeve.

"I did! I never wanted him! I chose you every time Kyle. I would choose you again and again. That's why it has to be you! I won't marry anyone else!" the words are coming too fast and too frantic but it must get through to him.

Because suddenly soft lips are on yours. Pine and mint in your nose, a firm hand on the back of your neck as the other squeezes your hip. Your hands fly up to clutch at the front of his jacket, eyes sliding shut as his mouth opens on yours. Tongue licking out to tease your lips, the little gasp that escapes you at the teasing slide allows it to enter your mouth. Slowly his tongue meets yours, stroking as your knees tremble and every thought falls from your head. Tentatively your tongue tangles with his and all the slowness vanishes as he invades your mouth. Pulling back gets you a breath of air that does nothing to stop the way your head spins. His lips smash into yours again, teeth clicking, but you can't find it in you to care as his tongue works magic in your mouth. He draws back and surges forward, over and over, each time passionate and a complete overwhelming of your senses, the firm grip he has on your hips not grounding you at all in his onslaught.

A cleared throat snaps the two of you apart, and to your horror Sergeant MacTavish is standing in the doorway of the balcony, grinning widely. Winking, he turns his back on you both but stays leaning against the column. Kyle rolls his eyes and then leans his forehead into yours, squeezing his eyes shut as both his hands squeeze the flesh of your hips.

"Really?" he breathes, soft and quiet between the two of you. Curse your confounded dumb tongue and kiss-addled mind because all you can come up with is a nod. His chest heaves under your hands as he sighs, and it puffs across your face.

Stepping away he tugs at his jacket, righting what you'd wrinkled. Nodding at you he spins, walking away out the door, MacTavish starting when he comes up beside, but falling into step with him. Saying, "Aye, tha' was quick, dinnae take ye for a minute man Garrick-" and you see Kyle shove him as they disappear out of view. With trembling hands, you fuss away the wrinkles and awry embellishments of your dress. Both your sisters appearing in the doorway.

"So?" demands your younger sister, practically bouncing as you walk to them. So? Wracking your mind and memory of the past few minutes is stressful. Did you do enough? Did you say it well enough to show him how you meant it all? You know there at the end, there'd been a moment where there were more powerful words to say. Ones you were ready for, that you knew, technically had the vocabulary and language capacity for but had been unable to fall off your tongue. Stalled in your thick head instead.

"Maybe? I don't know." you admit and burn with shame at how her shoulders drop in disappointment.

"Sorry...." falls from your mouth as the tears start once more, and both of them coo in an eerie similarity to your mother. Wrapping you in hugs and whisking you all away to home.

Exhaustion is a grounding force, dragging you in a gravitational pull toward your bed once you've changed. But your eye catches on the papers, the notes out on your desk and an idea sparks. Scrambling, you hunt through your collection of papers for one of the oldest you have. From way back when you were just starting to explore mathematics beyond the simple sums from your governess, more of an instructional guide than a paper. The topic simple, algebra simplified.

Finding it you snatch it from its resting place on your shelves, and with trembling fingers open it to the first page. Placing with care a single sticky note, writing with your nearest printing what you wanted, needed to say in the language you knew best.

14x - 7i < 7(2x - 3u)

Leaving it open so the ink won't smudge, not risking your precious message you do your best to sleep that night and at first light wrapped in your dressing gown, not even dressed yet, you find the butler. Sending the paper to Kyle. Hoping, praying, your message is received, is understood, is wanted.

It must be.

For that afternoon he drops to one knee in your family's parlour.

The attention you both face is stifling at the next ball, the crowd of well-wishers overwhelming with their outpouring of congratulations and best wishes. Your mother lords over it all, more peacock than proper lady, showing off her matched trio of daughters, two weddings in a year! Thankfully Kyle guards you, firm and resolute at your side, gently guiding conversation away when you falter but it's odd. He pauses when discussing things, looking at you, waiting. Invariably you must be vibrating on the same frequency because it's almost always on something that you have something to add to the discussion, not that it's the best opinions or thoughts but he smiles at you like they are. When it's on one of the topics you have nothing to add to he smiles then too and steers the conversation in a direction you can follow easily, body stuck in his gravity, no need for steering. Well used to being managed it's still confusing. While so many others, your mother, father, sisters, and even your governess had helped you in the same way you'd never felt like this, never talked so much in your life. It makes your head spin. Johnny MacTavish appears from the crowd to shake Kyle's hand and drag him into a hug, clapping him on the back with a boom of laughter.

"Good on ye Garrick! Got yerself a bonnie thing." he winks at you as he releases Kyle who's rolling his eyes with a long-suffering grin, before taking the time to introduce you both, the whirlwind of a man departing not long after, spying someone across the room. The large bearded man you'd seen in his orbit before steps up as MacTavish departs, sketching a shallow bow with a gentle smile.

"Captain," says Kyle with a grin and at your confused look introduces you to each other. Nodding your head politely at Captain the Lord Johnathan Price, Vicount of Creden Hill you tentatively smile back when he insists on 'Price' instead, never one for formality yourself.

"Can I borrow him for a moment, miss?" he cuts a look at Kyle and you feel him stiffen at your side as Price continues, "Just need him to deliver a message, have him back to you in no time."

The laugh lines around his eyes are crinkled but the blue in them is deep and serious, making you hesitate and look frantically at Kyle. With a deep sigh, he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to it, brown eyes sucking you in and erasing the worry sprouting in your mind. You can feel yourself soften as much as the plush of his lips through the lace of your glove.

"Back in no time sweetheart." he murmurs just for you and with a nod at the family and friends gathered follows Price into the swell of the crowd.

Thankfully as he disappears, so do most of the well-wishers. No longer a matched set of to-be-wed individuals you don't draw as much attention and Kyle had many more stopping by for him than you did. Maybe that was something you should have been bothered by, but it wasn't, it was a simple fact. You'd been content to hide in the fringes of the balls, so you didn't have many friends to congratulate you. Though you did appreciate how Georgia had stopped by to engulf you in a hug, whispering in your ear about how it looked like 'he was worth the tears' departing with a wink and a whirl of fabric. It leaves you in a blessed lull of conversation for all too short of a time. Your sister sidling up beside you.

"Look," she hisses under a plastered-on smile, elbow sharp in your ribs. Nowhere near as sharp as the pain that shoots through you. Kyle's regal under the lights, head high and in synch with the music. The other woman in his arms. The one who can dance. The one who made him laugh. The one much prettier than you. The one much better suited to him than you. Look at how he doesn't have to literally carry her across the floor. Look at how they move through the music, symphonic to your discordance. It's no social faux pas, but it stings something deep and personal in you. A familiar black hole growing in the base of your throat your chin wobbles as you do your best to remember how to breathe.

It must be evident on your face anyway because she timidly offers, "Maybe he's letting her down gently?"

"Maybe." it's hard to grit out, even harder to swallow around the rapidly expanding ball in your throat. Harder even more to watch with burning eyes as they spin decorously on the floor. Separating easily but you don't miss the glance he shoots her as they part. Fire is liquid in your eyes, and spinning you seek refuge in the cool air of the balconette behind where your family has held court. It's not far enough, you can feel the eyes on you, you can still hear whispers and murmurs of conversation. But it will do. So you soak in the chill of the air, resolutely focused on the sway of the manicured bushes and trees in the slight breeze. Anything to clear your head of how they moved together, anything to stop the tears from flowing. You almost resort to counting flowers in desperation when there's the warmth of a body beside you, his breadth blocking the worst of the wind and you have a moment of realization of just how chilled you'd become.

Leaning on the railing, eyes forward he murmurs softly, "Your sister read me quite the riot act."

"It's fine. I know... I know I'm not the best dancer." you stammer out, your mother's impromptu lesson on marital advice surging to the front of your mind. How she'd sat you down after Kyle had left following his proposal, lecturing on how a proposal didn't guarantee a wedding, to stay vigilant for your virtue. How that those activities were for after the nuptials, how then you'd be expected to perform wifely duties. How those duties would hurt. How you shouldn't be surprised that he'd also find ... release elsewhere. Really you couldn't expect to be his everything. As long as he left no bastards around and kept it discrete you ought to be thankful for him. Best not to draw attention to it with any fuss, you need to be thankful that he was marrying you, that he'd be keeping you, of all the girls. Each point driven home with more sincerity than you'd ever seen her muster before. So you know what this must be. The start of it all. The angle set for the rest of your path. You knew that life was nothing like the flowery romances your sisters devoured. But you hadn't expected it to be so opposite, so bitter. So hard to choke out the words without crying.

"If you must ... dance... with others to be happy...." it's too hard to finish. The faltering of your tongue has nothing to do with the metaphors you'd struggled with in literature as he goes stiff beside you. The bushes and trees are wavering again, but there's no breeze on your skin.

"I don't." he bites out, and you don't dare look as he sighs.

"Sweetheart, look at me." his voice is gentle, coaxing, and it takes a heartbeat. Then two. Swallowing around the hot ball in your throat you turn your head slightly and have to swallow again at the sincerity in his face.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, "I was delivering Price's message." finishing with a wry smile, "You're my only... dance partner. I take my vows seriously."

"Me too." falls out of you despite the knot in your tongue along with all the breath in your lungs and he smiles softly, eyes flicking to the nearby doors, the people lingering on the edge of this conversation.

"God I want to kiss you," his smile turns wry, "but I think our mothers might have something to say about that."

It draws a laugh from you, the looming silhouettes in the pouring light of the ballroom a reminder of propriety and you'd never hated it more as his hand drops and he shifts slightly. His body shields you as you both turn to look out at the garden again. Relief heady and rushing through you as the knot in your throat unravels completely. Needing to take in something other than Kyle before you cave and demand he kiss you, you lean forward, bracing your forearms on the railing. Drawing in a cleansing breath of cool air.

His voice is louder than any of the conversation before and it almost makes you jump, "Do you see the flowers on the bushes?"

They're a bit far and in the darkness not very detailed but you can, so you nod, startling as there's the warm brush of fingers on your wrist.

"Hibiscus is such a lovely garden addition," he says just as loudly when your eyes snap to his and quickly you redirect your attention to the bushes again, nodding along as one long finger snakes in under the lace of your glove to tease at the palm of your hand. Behind you is the soft murmur of voices and swish of skirts, a reminder of your chaperones as your heart pounds, his fingers sliding slowly up your skin as your breath catches.

"The flower is gorgeous, the petals soft. Beautiful and practical too. They make a fine tea." he continues, still staring into the darkness of the garden, broad hand squeezing into your glove, the lace stretched to its limit. The filigree digging into your skin, but you can't find it in you to mind as his fingertips settle into the gaps between your fingers, a hidden hand hold, a connection for just the two of you. Your heart is thunderous and you wonder if he knows he holds it as easily as he's holding your hand now. Skin to skin his warmth is scalding, the squeeze of his fingers, the soft slide of his palm on the heel of your hand dizzying, nothing and everything. The singularity before the big bang. All you were and will be focused down to this touch point, your lode stone and you can't help how your eyes tear away from the garden to find his.

His grin is easy and sweet, blinding as he says, "Hibiscus always reminds me of you sweetheart. We'll have to plant many."

It ought to be criminal, the way he can say that and squeeze your hand, the way it shoots right through you so it feels like he's got your heart in a vice grip instead of your palm. Every beat of yours is his, every molecule, every atom, entranced in him. Superposition, you, Kyle, separate, entwined.

It's what you use to carry you through the short weeks of wedding planning, the little comments from your mother piling up. But it's easier to smile through when you feel the indignation from him at your side, comfort in a presence just for you. Though it leads to no small amount of embarrassment as you nervously wait out the time with your sisters. Your married sister smug and tight-lipped, only promising that your mother was very ill-informed about the marriage bed. Both of you mildly scandalized when your younger sister sighs and agrees with an 'Oh I know'. All of you devolving into giggles, since when was your little sister more worldly than you? Embarrassment burning bright when they turn their combined focus on you. Agog at how you admit that, despite how he'd been glued to your side, things... hadn't escalated beyond stolen kisses. They wave off their surprise but it lingers in the back of your head. The spectre of the feast as you finish organizing the details of the day.

The hibiscus in the bouquet. The few guests. Family for you both. Price and his very new wife whom turned out to be the woman Kyle was dancing with, MacTavish and another man, Riley, whom Kyle promises to introduce to you afterwards, on his side of the aisle as well. It's a bit of a fight to keep it that small, your mother wanting to invite nearly the whole ton but you manage to avoid that, saved by your sister's wedding being only a few weeks after yours, hers naturally more suited to more spectacle, and spectators. The dress, carefully chosen and tailored. The trousseau put together for the honeymoon and after. Your great-grandmother's hankie in your pocket, your sister's loaned necklace, the blue suede lining of your instep over the silver sixpence in your shoe, and sparkling new earrings donned the time comes.

It's terrifying. It's exhilarating. Clutching the bouquet for dear life you tremble, your father's arm keeping you upright as you stare after the disappearing figure of your sister into the depths of the little building. The music swells and you step forward. Out of the afternoon light into the dimmer shade of the steeples and deeper into the aisle. The change in light blinds you, and even though you can't see them, you can feel the stares. The judgement. Panic swells and your eyes finally adjust. Kyle's standing at the end. Eyes on you, a grin crawling across his face, blinding and golden. Haloed by the stained glass he's never looked more divine. The unease vanishes, and the guests disappear. All that's left is the intrinsic pull with every beat of your heart forward towards him. Each step nearer making his details more defined. The dimple in his cheek as he grins. The slight crinkle of it around his eyes. The richness of his laughter in the warm brown of his eyes. How his eyes are soft on you, tracing your figure in a way that makes your belly heat.

It's like staring into the sun. All-encompassing. Blinding. Beautiful. You can't look away. Eyes locked to his as you dazedly repeat the words. Only realizing that you're married when he dips you into a deep kiss that makes you throw your arms around his neck, the rest of the world vanishing in his warmth. Your universe starting and ending at the press of his lips. Mourning the loss of their warmth when he pulls away and stands you up earns you a smile and another quick peck before you're both walking out into the sunshine, cheers and rice falling around you. With hugs and farewells to your gathered family and friends, you're both tucked into a carriage with your luggage and sent off to a whirlwind of trains and automobiles and soon you're in the lush hills of rural France. The start of your honeymoon.

The ephemeral joy fizzing in your veins lightens gravity's load, allowing a state of perpetual bliss. Sugary sweet as he feeds you finger sandwiches and sweets at tea from a darling patio overlooking a small river. Dizzying as he coaxes you onto the handlebars of the bicycle despite how you insist that you had no experience in practical applications of balance, laughter peeling through you both louder than the bells of the church as he proved you wrong and took you bouncing down country roads. Infusing the very fibre of your being with him the way the lavender fields filled the air, an ease to existing with him that you'd never felt before. Soft grass against your back as he pillows your head on his arm, pointing out the clouds lazily meandering by above, the two of you whispering back and forth the methods and calculations to figure out their speed of travel. It left you suspended far above the surety of hard earth, adrift in new territory. Floating closer to open sky and promise, making the anchor point of his hand at the small of your back all the more welcome as he patiently followed you around narrow streets, tucking you in close to feel his warmth when cars and carriages passed. His warmth the burn of a hearth, homey and grounding, his steadfastness surety in the whirlwind of your giddiness as the two of you meandered through the farmers market.

But perpetual was only ever theoretical, bound by nature's laws you can feel the bliss fade. Feel it slow as you spy a little family restaurant tucked in the corner of the market, the waiter guiding you to an intimate table for two in flickering candlelight. Dinner kindling a different warmth in your belly as Kyle grabs your hand whenever there's a break between the courses, lifting it to brush his lips over your knuckles or rubbing them with his thumb. Eyes trained on yours as you talk about everything and nothing all at once, the ache in your cheeks from smiling all day nothing compared to how your thighs clench at how he watches you lick the sauce off of the dessert spoon. The two of you meandering back to the hotel like the lazy clouds you'd watched, belaying the anticipation winding tighter under your skin.

And then you're waving like the candlelight alone in the bathroom. Washing up done, torn between who you want to be, your trousseau open in front of you. Frothy lace negligee packed by your enterprising sisters to your right too embarrassing to even look at, and your regular nighttime chemise to the left. Can you do it? Can you be this brave bold new wife confident in her... duties? A deep breath that's not as fortifying as you'd hope helps settle your swirling nerves and you slide the negligee on. Twisting and turning in front of the hotel mirror brings memories of seamstress visits with your mother and sister, and you can see her hand snapping out to point out all the flaws. Where it's not right on you, how it'd look better on your sisters and panic is a storm. Choking and cloying. Frantically you claw off the lace. In a practically Herculean effort, you manage to take control of your breathing again and shove the negligee into the depths of your case before slipping into your old chemise.

Twisting in front of the mirror again brings tears to your eyes. It's hopeless. Rather than the comfort that you're familiar with now all you're seeing is how frumpy it looks compared to the tantalizing promise of the negligee. Would Kyle even want you in this?

Some insidious part of you whispers, does he want you at all? The darkness looming in the back of your mind in hidden words roaring forward with your sister's voice and face in your memory.

"Really?" she said voice confused and face twisted in concern, "He hasn't tried... anything? Anything at all?"

You'd rolled your eyes and insisted, "Kyle's a gentleman. He wouldn't."

It was her turn to eye roll then, but as she'd acquiesced the worried bite of her lip and how she'd looked at you - worry, and... pity. It haunted you.

"Sweetheart?" Kyle's voice cuts through your spiral, interrupting your thoughts and you spin, frantic. You'd spent all too much time in here, was there anything else you could change into?

"Everything ok?" his voice is louder now through the heavy door as he nears and you're digging through the chest of your trousseau in near panic.

Trying to hide it from your voice you call back, "All good! Just need a minute."

Stars above you needed more than a minute, why would you say that? Cursing your dumb mouth your search harder. And there's nothing. Nothing else. It's your damned regular chemise or that horrifying lace. Eyes burning you can feel the implied clock, time immutable, marching on, Kyle waiting.

There's nothing for it. You can't bear to summon the spectre of your mother to point out all your lacking in the lace and while you're certainly not your sister who could actually pull off this chemise, it'll have to do. With trembling hands, you close the lid of your trousseau and swallow around the lump in your throat. Hesitating by the door to the bedroom. It'll be dark, candlelight. Kyle'd been lighting them as you'd gone in, turning off the lamps. Maybe that'd help him somehow miss the drabness of your attire. The trembling hadn't left your hands and as you turn the knob you have to try twice to really get the grip the stiff old door needs before it creaks open and you enter. Eyes trained on the wood grain of the floor unable to bear what will surely be disappointment on his face. At the sharp intake of breath, you can't help but look up.

Kyle's grin crawls across his face, incandescent bright, a solar supernova. The mass of his joy drawing you into his orbit, the heat in his eyes trapping you there and your feet still on the cool hardwood. The rich warmth of his eyes softens and he stands from the edge of the bed where he'd been sitting. You forget how to breathe. All the air vanishes in this moment, your nerves eclipsing all thought, all basic functions. His smile turns smaller, more intimate, but just as warm, like the papers you'd passed back and forth, something just for you. Behind your sternum, it feels like your heart is bursting, swelling bigger than your body can handle. Air rushes into your lungs as your whole body shivers when he drops a kiss at the bend of your neck, passing by and on to the bathroom.

"Go ahead and get into bed, sweetheart. I'm going to bathe, it might be a bit." he calls over his shoulder as he goes and you spin, confused and staring.

He smiles softly at your look, "Don't fret sweetheart. Go ahead. If you fall asleep waiting, that's ok."

And with that, he closes the door behind him. Seeing nothing else to do you climb into the decadent bed fluffed up with linens and puffy duvets. Resolving to not fall asleep before he comes out. But it's hard. Your day had been amazing, a whirlwind of joy, but long. The day of travel before adding on. Body stilling as you lay back into comfort, your mind begins racing, spinning back and forth between your doubt; did he really want you? And that look. Surely that meant he did. Right? But he'd just walked away. He was likely very sweaty after hauling you both around on the bike all day, maybe he did really need to bathe. But maybe... maybe he doesn't want you. It's something driving you mad with distraction and fear but your eyes are just so heavy. The pillow is just right, soft and cradling but firm under your neck. Despite yourself, you feel your eyelids drooping as you think, as you worry and debate. Lower. Lower. Then nothing more.

The fog of sleep clouds your mind and slows your thoughts as you slowly wake. Sensations overwhelming as your mind is quiet, drowsy, comfort surrounding you. Warmth from the duvet and a scalding heat at your back and draped across your waist, a heaviness with it. Blearily you try to make sense of this but the warm puffs of air on your neck drag your thoughts that way instead. As you begin to twist to face the source two things happen. Firstly you realize you're in bed with Kyle, and that he's wrapped around you. Secondly, he's awake.

At your movement his arm that had been under your head without your realization starts to pull you back further into him with the help of his other arm banded across your waist.

"Hmmm sweet girl," he hums into your hair and it makes you squeeze your eyes shut again and shiver despite the burning of his hold.

"All worked up weren't you?" his voice is soft and rough with sleep as the hand on your waist starts to slide down your hip and his other hand snakes around to cup under your jaw. His thumb stroking your cheek as he asks, "Twisted up in your head worried about it yeah?"

The gravel of his voice makes you clench around nothing as you half nod, eyes flying open to stare uselessly into the pitch black, mind trying to think, to slot into gear but his hand has found the edge of your chemise bunched up around your thigh. The feeling of his fingers teasing under the fabric on the soft skin of your thigh too much feeling for you to think around, sleep reluctant to leave your thoughts completely. He hums into your hair at your nod and you feel the muscle of his arm bunch under your cheek as he shifts and your eyes slam shut again as his lips softly kiss the skin of your neck. His tongue flicking out to lick softly at your skin as you gasp, his hand slowly working your clothes higher and higher, millimetre by millimetre. Before you can think, before you can overthink, he takes a break from your neck to say, "I love that brain of yours, but you just need to turn it off and feel sweet girl, yeah?"

Again, you can't manage more than a half nod and a gasp as his hand reaches just below where you're aching. Kyle chuckles warmly and then his hand holding your jaw twists your head back towards your shoulder and it'd almost be uncomfortable if his lips didn't immediately meet yours. Everything else forgotten in the soft lazy way he kisses you. Soft lips pushing and pulling back slowly, achingly slow as his tongue flicks out in kitten licks until your world begins and ends at his plush lips. It's decadent, rich, in how he takes his time, slowly opening your mouth. You could drown in this warmth, in the taste of him if it, could almost fall asleep in the lazy affection if weren't for the frisson of desire shooting through you with every slide of his tongue against yours, a life preserver for your sanity. When suddenly your world expands, his hand at your thighs reminding you of its presence. His fingers petting in small patterns at the crease of your thigh, delicate and teasing. It makes your mouth drop open wider in surprise and he takes advantage, sweeping in hungrily, overwhelming your thoughts before any embarrassment can rush in. Easing back from his invasion he pulls back to kiss you wetly, sloppily, over and over as his fingers creep higher.

Gently the pad of his finger spreads your cunt, sliding through the mess you've made for him and he groans into your kiss. You squirm, embarrassed, and he pulls from your mouth to nip lightly at your neck, tone teasing as he says, "Just feel sweet girl, no thinking now."

Tongue tracing patterns on your neck his hand cupping your jaw drops to grab your chemise and yank it up to your chin, baring you under the blankets. Frantically you grab at it and squeeze your thighs at the same time as his finger swirls through your folds, stealing any thoughts that had formed.

"Mmmm, good girl." he breathes into your neck as you tremble and cling to the fabric, still holding it high in your stupor as his fingers slide and his thumb drops to brush lightly over your clit. His other hand becoming a branding weight just under your breasts.

"Hold that there for me love." he says with a kiss as his fingers continue the maddeningly slow dance between your legs and the others begin to tease at your nipples. Your thighs can't decide to open or close for him, frantically clenching around his hand as your nipples pebble under his attention, as he runs his nails over them lightly and gently tugs them. Your hands aren't much better as they settle into a vice grip, holding the fabric to your chin as your hips start moving of their own accord, grinding back and forth.

"Good girl." he croons, voice thick, and through the haze of desire, the coiling in your core, you recognize another sensation. Fabric against your now bare ass as you grind back into him. The realization makes your hips jerk slightly more and he groans as you feel the heat and hardness of him through his thin bottoms. His fingers chase you back and soon you're grinding on his fabric-covered cock. Caught between the heft of it pressing into the cleft of your ass and the fingers he's slowly stretching you open with as his thumb swirls on your clit. You're light trapped in his pull, stretched taught and infinitesimally on edge, teetering before earth-shattering bliss and just as your grinding works his underwear down enough that his bare cock is out his fingers start to push in and breach your hole. At the same time, his thumb strums firmly and the heat of his cock is burning between your ass cheeks and you shatter. Flying into euphoria, the pressure in your pelvis gives way into light and wave after wave of pleasure as his fingers pump into you, drawing out your orgasm as his cock throbs on your flesh.

As you frantically pant, his arms pull away and he lifts your leg as he sits up, swinging it so he's kneeling between your legs. Then he's grabbing the chemise from your hands and yanking it over your head, bending to kiss you frantically as you feel him shuffle on the mattress, working his way out of his underwear. The shock of cool air sobering as the blankets are pulled away when he sits up.

It's almost enough to snap you into frantic thinking but before you can his hand brands your hip and you feel it as the other slides the fat head of his cock through your dripping folds. The tip easing in minutely and back out as his hand drops it to draw circles around your oversensitive clit. Automatically your knees snap up to his hips and your hands shoot to his shoulders, whining, "Kyle!"

He chuckles and presses a kiss to your arm, working another centimetre in and it's not enough. You're aching and throbbing, and he's teasing you with his cock as slowly as his tongue did your mouth. It makes you whine and he drops to his forearm to kiss you again, slow and messily. He eases in further as he pulls back to pepper your face with kisses, the head of his dick slipping in completely before he pulls out again. As he eases in again, he's licking your jaw and you've had enough, locking your ankles behind his back you yank and suddenly he's fully sheathed in you. Cock head bumping into something you'd never felt before and his teeth are sharp in your neck, biting in surprise at your bold move.

"Fuck." is punched out of him, deep and almost pained as his teeth drop from your neck and he presses his temple to it instead, breathing frantically into your skin. You're digging your nails into his shoulders you belatedly realize after the sharp flare of pain fades and is replaced with delicious fullness. Oh, he feels divine. Experimentally you wiggle and don't achieve much, but it draws an automatic half-thrust from him that has you both groaning.

"Christ love," he grits out, "gimme a minute, or this is gonna end all too soon."

You'd almost giggle at that but he punctuates it with the swirl of his thumb on your clit and your mind is wrapped in that, back arching at the tantalizing slide. Thank the stars he doesn't actually take the full minute because the way you arch seems to be some magic angle as he starts to thrust into you, bumping into something that winds you tighter and tighter. It's slow at first, the same as how he kisses you but as both your mouths grow frantic and your nails dig tighter into his skin his thrusts pick up speed. Muttering to you through the kisses, "Such a good girl f' me."

Voice tight he's dropped the refined way he talks, "Love that brain o' yours but Christ, sweet girl, look at ya. Not a thought in there, gone dumb on my cock yeah?" Sweet words contrast with how his hips smack into your thighs.

Sleep gone from his voice it's rough with desire, "So pretty, my sweet girl. My favourite thing in the world, gonna give you everything yeah love?" And you can't think, can't respond, not with how he's driving into that spot over and over. He's thick, with a wider part midway that you feel moving through you as white fills your vision and you become a collapsing star. Incandescent, burning up in ecstasy as you burst, clenching around his cock. He loses his rhythm then, hips stuttering into yours in short brutal thrusts before he follows you into heaven on earth.

Stunned, your hands flop from his shoulders as you both gasp for breath and he collapses on the bed next to you. Rolling you as he falls so he's still inside he pulls you in close, tucking your head under his chin and drawing your leg over his own, keeping you comfortably spread around his softening cock.

"Um...." is all you manage, stunned and brain scattered, and he laughs. His chest bounces under your fingers as he chuckles and kisses your forehead.

"Perfect sweet girl. See? Didn't need to worry, we were made for each other." the lightly teasing tone of his voice makes you smile as you snort. A yawn forces its way through you and you feel his smile when he kisses your forehead again.

"Go to sleep love, got a big day tomorrow and we've got all the time in the world to get more practice in."

As you drift off in the warmth of his embrace your last thought is practice is the last thing you need, if he gets better you just might not survive it. Somehow, it doesn't seem to be a worrying enough thought to keep you up.

The next few weeks pass in a blur of fucked out bliss. You learn the salty taste of his cock and his cum tucked into an alley after exploring a darling little town, his jacket under your knees to protect you from the rough-hewn cobblestone. He returns the favour during your picnic by the river, making you bite into the palm of your hand as his tongue works magic under your skirts. Slowly under the bright ecstasy of his attention, you bloom and grow, confidence growing in and out of the bedroom. His lips become nearly as familiar as your own, attached to yours from the moment you fall into bed until the moment you fall asleep, stolen kisses in every spare moment of the day. It becomes habit to twine your fingers with his when you walk, forgoing the demure hand in his elbow, the squeeze of his fingers and the warmth of his palm too alluring to resist. You both make a token attempt to explore the town and the sights but really you spend it exploring each other. Growing together. More and more intertwined, combined forces magnify it all. Time passes all too quickly, marked only by the letters from home. Tales of your younger sister's spectacle of a wedding, more well wishes from friends and family who couldn't make it and to your surprise a letter from John's wife, poor dear confused about how to reach him on deployment. She's the only one you bother to reply to, the others can wait, but sadly you have to admit that you don't know how to as you're still on your honeymoon. It sets a new worry in the back of your mind as you finish out the remainder of your vacation with Kyle. Will you be able to handle it as a military wife? How will you make it through the lonely times? It creeps larger as you feel him take over your heart. He'd held a piece before you married, it's what gave you the strength to confess in your note, but now. Now, he's taken over it near entirely, every corner filled with the light of his smile, the breadth of his back, the sound of his laugh, and the the warmth of his eyes. So the thought of being parted is icy cold dread down your spine.

Luckily you don't have much time to dwell on that for the rest of your trip, Kyle whirling you through sight after sight, and through orgasm after orgasm until you're tucked into trains and carriages on the way back to the mundane. Staring out the train window you realize that for all your joy and happiness on your honeymoon, neither of you have said those three little words to each other. Somehow the hurdle of saying it aloud, to him, rather than in a letter is a barrier you can't get past, although the feelings are something you'd never been more sure of. You rationalize away how he's never said it, that's all right. The dark insidious voice in the back of your head that speaks with your mother's voice reminds you of her words - really you couldn't expect to be his everything. He'd said he'd had the luxury of choosing to wed, that he'd wanted a wife that would choose him too. Nothing about love. When you look over at him your movement must catch his eye because he looks up from his book, flashing you a brilliant grin, warmth and sweetness mirrored in his eyes. It makes you think that you don't need love, all you need is for him to keep looking at you like that.

The rest trip home is wildly uneventful and you return to your family home unceremoniously, most of your family off on adventures; your parents following your younger sister on her honeymoon trip and your eldest sister back to the dukedom with her husband. The servants are kind, efficiently packing the rest of your trousseau into the carriage before you're off again. This time to Kyle's home in the suburbs of London. When the carriage stops you feel a strange energy from him, vibrations of nerves and you realize he's worried about how you'll see it. Ignoring decorum, you open your door as he protests and scrambles out his side to get to you.

"Oh it's lovely Kyle!" you manage to gasp out before as you trip off the footstep. Luckily he's got sharp reflexes and stops your fall before you smash your face into the lovely brickwork path leading to a modest home. It's no manor home like your parent's but it's a gorgeous brick home with clear Tudor influences in the gables and architecture, the effort in its care and upkeep is clear in the manicured gardens and clean brick. He's still vibrating with nerves as he gives you a tour, showing off the impressive rooms with a humbleness that you feel he ought to eschew for his home is beautiful. The story of how he restored it with Simon and John's help when he bought it for an exorbitantly low price after it was gutted by fire gives the way he fondly pats the mantle more meaning and you watch him with new eyes as he points out the little things. Talking about how they struggled to get the perfect angle for the roof joists but it was worth it as the exposed beams look almost like latticework decorating the high ceilings, how the wood for this door was sourced from a tree John felled on their deployment to Egypt and he loved the colour so much they'd brought it back. He trails off as the tour finishes in the garden, watching you nervously. His voice is resolute but after the weeks together you can hear the wobble in it, "You're welcome to change anything, of course, it's your home too. You -"

You cut him off before he gets too far, sliding your hand along the railing, "It's perfect Kyle."

Turning to smile at him softly you add, "Maybe some hibiscus in the garden though."

His grin is blinding, sweet and ephemeral joy that passes through his lips to yours as he sweeps you up into a kiss, carrying you over the threshold and into his and now your bed.

Days pass as you settle in, delighting in the mundane, meeting Kyle's small staff and shocking the poor gardener when he comes back from his weekend to you covered in dirt and planting hibiscus, finding a new daily routine volunteering at the local school as a mathematics teacher and puttering about your home. Then comes the fear you'd locked away in the back of your mind, Kyle's first deployment. As he kisses you that night, hidden in the dark and emboldened by the fear of what comes when he leaves, you find the courage, the momentum to say it. Whispering I love you to him after you're both exhausted and sweaty earns you a bone-crushing hug and the tenderest kiss of the night before he whispers back, "Love you too sweet girl."

It atomizes your heart. Infentesimale pieces that will come back together in the shape of him, but as you wave him off it's just an aching cavern. Haunting what-ifs and terrors stalking your thoughts and dogging your footsteps. Seeking solace in routine you throw yourself into the everyday you'd built for yourself. But it's not enough, the quiet evenings alone after the housekeeper leaves wear on you, a grindstone on your hope, whittling it down until the next day.

"'ere ma'am." the gardener says with a grunt, dropping a filthy picnic basket on the dining table as the housekeeper looks on aghast. Confused and curious you approach tentatively as he flings open the lid with an air of the dramatic.

Gasping you reach for the mewling kittens inside as he explains, "Found 'em in the bushes th' other day, took 'em home for th' missus t' bottle feed but they're proper hellions. Too much trouble f' us. Thought they might be good company for ya."

It nearly makes you cry, how thoughtful this was but -"Your wife won't miss them will she?"

He snorts, and rubs the back of his head awkwardly, "Ah... she mighta told me t' get rid of 'em."

It's your turn to snort before thanking him profusely, and then your days and nights are full of chaos as your new charges wreak havoc. The bottle feeding and potty schedule is a nightmare but it turns out that sleep deprivation has a great way of making time inconsequential to your brain so you don't have time to think or really worry about how long Kyle's been gone as it's hard to even realize how much time has passed. If you dare to sit and let your mind worry one of the kittens will find a way to distract you, knocking over vases and knick-knacks, trying to scratch Kyle's carefully installed beams, or simply bringing you the small felted mice the housekeeper had made for them after she got over the shock of them arriving. Between them and your daily routine, you find a way of existing with the worry rather than being frozen in its paralysis.

So it's a shock when the door swings open one day and Kyle steps through. Ecstatic you rush him and forget about the kitten in your arms until you're wrapped in his embrace, lips tangled together when he jerks away with a shout of pain and you see the little tortiseshell climbing her way up his chest, claws sunk in deep.

"A cat?" he asks incredulously, hands coming up to gently pull at her as she stubbornly digs in through his hisses of pain. Wincing, you try to help untangle him from the needles of kitten claws, "A kitten actually, and uhm,"

Before you can explain that there are more, the other two come bounding in and you can see his eyebrows shoot up. Frantically you scramble for the words to justify them, finally untangling the kitten and cradling her to your chest again you step away defensively.

"They... helped me. It was hard with you gone and it was just nice to have company." you awkwardly explain as he kneels down to offer his hand to sniff to the other kittens who swarm him as their sister loudly protests being removed from Kyle in your arms.

He grins up at you from the floor, scratching the tuxedo kitten behind the ears, "Missed me love?"

"Terribly." you admit softly, and he smiles sadly at you before standing, stretching and stepping to your side. Kissing you on the forehead as he murmurs, "Missed you too."

After a longer hug and more kisses, he heads off the shower, complaining of smelling 'like the road' and with a threat that they better not scratch the floors. You take that for as much acceptance of the kittens as you'll get and resolve to shoo them away from him so they won't get on his nerves. It proves an impossible endeavour. The man must be part catnip or something as they follow him around like little ducklings. Climbing him in lieu of the cat tree and piling over him to sleep in spite of his indifference. It's annoying. You poured hours into feeding and playing with them and now they ignore you in favour of him? Feelings slightly stung you sulk about it until you start catching the little moments as time passes, where you catch him murmuring to them about what they must do all day, when he held the tortie up to catch a fly she'd been chasing all day, and the final confirmation to his feline conversion comes when the boys visit. Wandering back with the tray of snacks you hear them talking and it almost makes you laugh, the pride in his voice as he talks about their little accomplishments. Finally getting to the top of the cat tree on their own, catching the moth that had wandered inside and more, as Simon, John and Johnny each sit with a kitten and felt mouse. Fearing laughing you drop off the tray of snacks with a kiss and make your escape. But it's what springs to mind when you bid him farewell next and he whispers to you about not acquiring any more strays. So you promise and wave him off, and in your next letter to him, you make sure to include an update about the troublesome threesome.

This deployment passes a bit easier, it's almost over, just two weeks before Kyle returns when you're struck with the more persistent stomach bug. After a few days of sporadic illness and exhaustion, the housekeeper calls for the doctor and you get the news. You're pregnant. It's something that you keep squirrelled away, a small spark of joy to share with him when he returns, so when your mother comes to call the next for the first time since you were married you dodge her pointed questions about grandbabies. Sipping tea in your parlour as she prattles on. Maybe it's the kindness you've become ensconced in, maybe it's the near constant stream of praise that falls from Kyle's lips when he's home but you're noticing for the first time just how cutting she is. Every effort of yours is brought low and compared to your sisters. You're volunteering at the school? Do be sure not to confuse the children dear, and did you know that your sister was paying for a new one to be built in her husband's dukedom?

It sets your teeth on edge so you do your best to rush through it and get her out the door. Before you can though the kittens start yowling up a storm.

"Good heavens!" your mother exclaims, hand flying to her throat, "What is those terrible little beast's problem?"

Confused you stand, ready to search out the cause of their distress when Kyle comes into the parlour from the kitchen entry.

"Kyle!" falls from you as you beam and rush to him as he juggles 3 loud cats. Forgetting your mother, you lean in and kiss him before the dramatic throat-clearing forces you to pull back.

Rolling your eyes at Kyle you keep your back to her as she speaks, "Really now darling, I know you're a bit slow but remember proper behaviour -"

Whatever the rest of that comment would be is cut off by Kyle as he bites out his words, glaring over your shoulder, "Christ, I'm too tired for this. Shut it and get out."

Baffled, both you and your mother stare at him agog. His fury is hot in his eyes, and he's an imposing figure still in his uniform despite the cats hanging off him. Spitting out the words like they're acidic, "I don't care if you're her mother, no one talks to my wife like that."

"I -" starts your mother and he cuts her off with a harsh "Out. Now." and she scrambles to do exactly that, the door slamming shut behind her as she leaves.

It leaves you bemused, a faint relief and realization striking you. You'd never been more happy than when she hadn't been involved in your life. The few hours of her company had been an excruciating reminder of why that was. And as you watch Kyle putter around grumbling and juggling cats you realize that while you'd be happy to see your sisters visit, you'll be more than happy with just the family you make in this home. Your home with him. It has you smiling as he sighs.

Turning to face you he starts apologizing, "I'm sorry love, I lost my temper. I just -" finally looking up from the cats he stops as he sees the smile on your face. Confusion colouring his own.

"Love?" he asks and it makes your grin wider as you start to approach him.

"Thank you." you say softly and he grins back at you before you continue, "Besides, I think it's time we focus on our own family."

Nodding at you he hefts a cat and kisses it on the forehead, making you giggle. Confused again he shoots you a look, and you simply place your hand on your belly. He freezes, man made stone as the cats paw at him and now it's your turn to be confused, to worry.

Questioning, "Kyl-" before he drops the cats and sweeps you up into a hug. Murmuring praise and happiness into your neck as he spins you and you feel dampness at your collar. When he pulls back his eyes are slightly red and you can't help but cup his cheek as he stares at you like you're the beginning and end of his universe, and when he kisses you again you can feel that breadth of his emotion, his love, and his devotion.

It's everything. Superposition, you, Kyle, the kitties, the baby. Intertwined, interconnected in love, atoms tangled at the quantum level, forever linked.

GIF by picturenic GIF by a-secret-land GIF by margi-again

Notes:

Translations: Botschafter - Ambassador Kätzchen - Kitten Gutes - Good

Enjoyed this? Check out the other fics in The COD but Bridgerton Series - Not what was....

Inspired by this post and @waves-against-a-cliff "Cbf!Johnny" comment. I present more of John Mactavish as the dog he is.

cw: dubcon(reader agrees but just covering my bases), f!reader, overstimulation

Living with Johnny was an easy decision. You've known him your whole life, and with his frequent deployments you usually have the flat to yourself. It's like living alone, except sometimes your best friend is around for "long term sleep overs" as he pitched them. He has his share of the bills on autopay and for the most part it's fun when he's around. You watch movies and throw popcorn at each other. You laugh at his stupid jokes in between complaining about your most recent attempt at dating.

"You know it wouldn't be so bad if any of them were halfway decent in bed," You tell Johnny absentmindedly. He's got his head in your lap, eyes focused on the TV screen as your fingers pet through his hair, barely paying attention.

"Hard getting practice in, not like you can ask a bird to play test dummy," He shrugs. You groan, leaning back against the couch. You guess that's fair, but it's not like you're asking for anything spectacular. An orgasm shouldn't be this hard to come by.

"The special service isn't training you to give head?" You tease.

"No that's just the navy." Johnny grins, finally turning his attention to you. His eyes dart over you, he's got that spark in his eyes that means he has a bad idea. "You know," He rolls the idea over his tongue, "I'm a little out of practice."

You push at his head with a laugh. Johnny sits up rather than be pushed off the couch and grabs your hips to drag you close. You shriek and feel his fingers pinching at your soft sides until you laugh.

"Good for both of us, yeah?" He asks, "I get to practice and you get off."

"You're not funny," You giggle out between fits of laughter. You twist in his grip to crawl away and he pulls you right back. His fingers tighten hard enough to bruise and you whine at the ache. "Ow, Johnny." You kick at him and he catches your ankle, flipping you onto your back.

"Lemme see your cunt." He says and the air rushes from your lungs. You stare up at him, his smile too wide. You've always found his toothy grin to be boyish, charming, but now it feels warning, predatory. You blink at him, feeling your cheeks starting to burn.

"Not funny," You tell him more firmly, turning to tug yourself out of his grip, your fingers twisting against the arm of the couch. You forget how strong military life has made him, too familiar with the scrawny kid you used to beat at footie. Johnny pulls you with a strength you've never felt, hauls you down the couch to lean over you. He's actually starting to scare you a little, the heat in his eyes is too close to burning and his teeth seem so dangerously promising.

"I'm not joking," His fingers drag from your hip, trail down to rest against the soft swell of your mons. He holds your legs open with the hand around your ankle and you struggle to take a breath. "Who else am I gonna practice on? You tell me what you like, yeah? And I'll show you what I can do with my tongue."

"Johnny I don't-"

"Ya were just sayin' you're in a dry spell," He reasons, his fingers rubbing teasingly between the waistband of your sleep shorts and just dipping too close to your clit, "can tell me exactly what you want as long as you want, know ple'ny of hens would love this opportunity."

Somehow that gets you. You wince at the mention of someone else, Johnny's never been one to date but he brings girls home sometimes. Or- no he usually goes to their place. Stays out late drinking with the boys and doesn't come home until late in the morning. You scrunch your brows together and he starts in on the begging.

"Please hen? Please," He pouts, dropping to rest his chin against your hip, "please? Please. Lemme do it. You gotta. Please. Ahm askin' nice an' everythin'. Please, please, please."

"Christ," you push at his face, just so you don't have to look at it anymore, "Fine, but just this once."

"Just this once tonight," Johnny agrees too quickly, already ripping your shorts down your legs.

You expected any sort of hesitation, but it feels like you've barely gotten your pants off before Johnny's pressed his mouth to your pussy. His tongue licks broad stripes, his head wiggles to try and push closer, lips kissing and sucking at your folds so eagerly it makes your head spin. You swallow, he's messy, unorganized, but the enthusiasm is there. Your fingers find his hair again and you swallow down your hesitation a second time. Johnny's your best friend, you can tell him anything, so you can tell him what you like.

"My clit," You start, tugging at his hair, "lick- lick it, um-" Johnny follows directions well, moving easily to flick his tongue against your clit. It's too gentle, maddeningly gentle, you can just barely feel it. "Harder," You suggest, "more pressure." Johnny presses his tongue harder against you, laves his tongue like a wave against your clit with firm pressure. You whine, feel him drag his mouth against you, his beard scratching your sensitive thighs. His tongue maintains its position, licking at your clit with varying degrees of intensity, testing the waters and listening to your soft panting whines.

You meet his baby blue eyes, his pupils blown wide, and he pulls back to let you see the way his tongue moves. Flat and pink, flicking against the sensitive bundle of nerves in teasing licks before he lowers down again. "You can s-suck too," You manage.

"Where hen?" He asks, lips closing around your clit and sucking hard. Your next words die on your tongue, your mind flooded with the sudden pleasure. His pulls back, and you try to come up with the words again, watching his thumbs spread your folds to further expose your clit to him. He sucks at it again, tongue working against it when his lips aren't pulling it. He only stops to work his tongue between your folds, dragging the tip around your hole to collect slick before pulling it towards your clit. "Gotta be specific or I won't know."

He's such a cheeky fucking bastard. He sucks at your folds, sucks at your thighs as his thumb rubs over your clit. Johnny's mouth is on your clit every time you open your mouth to give another direction. He works you up and then lets you drop back down, his lips kissing over your like he has all night.

"Fuck," You whine, hips following his mouth as he drags his tongue from your hole to your clit, "Johnny." He hums, lips around your clit, tongue fluttering against the sensitive bud. "Your tongue my-" He pulls off with a wet noise, and holds his tongue against your slit, waiting like a dog for your next order, "-my, uh-" fuck, having to ask for it out loud is embarrassing, and yet the heat on your cheeks has started to spread through your entire body, "-my hole. Please." You tack the politeness onto the end. You feel a little... guilty asking, but it's Johnny and he asked you to do this. (sort of)

"Look at you," Johnny coos, "such a good girl, so polite when ya want somethin'." You throw your arm over your eyes so you don't have to look at him. Your skin burns with embarrassment. You can't look at him right now.

"Shut up," You mumble. You feel his tongue prod at your clenching hole, the squirmy muscle wiggling it's way inside you to lap at your gummy walls. Johnny sucks your slick straight from the source and groans. The noises he makes, the wet slurping and sucking, make your blood run hot. His thumb rubs at your clit, his tongue stretching you out, the combination makes your cunt tingle with pleasure. Your whines sound more desperate than you'd hoped.

Johnny pulls back, dragging his tongue in broad strokes up your cunt. His licks are long and desperate, too eager to taste you, his eyes closed in bliss even as his ears twitch with your every moan. His mouth leaves you, and you pull your head up from where you'd been arching off the couch to see what he needs. Meeting his gaze is a mistake. As soon as your eyes touch his hand comes down hard on your clit. You yelp, as his fingers soothe over the sting. The sharp pain dissolves into heat, tingles over your skin like a rush of goosebumps. His fingers tap at your clit, and you whimper.

"You gotta keep talkin' hen," He presses, his fingers toying with your folds, "or I might start pullin' at the leash."

"You hit me," You whine. He pouts at you, imitating your own pout, and spanks you again. Your hips jump, your head dropping back against the couch. Two more sharp stinging spanks hit you and your stomach clenches. You can feel slick dripping off of your cunt and wetting the couch underneath you, which means Johnny can feel it too.

"Think you like it," Johnny grins, his fingers press into your cunt, two thick digits filling you without warning. You whine, clenching around the intrusion. "I thought you were helpin' me practice," His fingers twist in and out of you, and you grab for his wrist, "Where's my polite girl gone, hm?"

You squeeze his wrist, try to get him to stop fucking you with those delicious twisting jabs. It only makes him fuck his thick fingers into you faster. You gasp, your muscles tightening as he hits that delicious sweet spot you never seem able to find yourself. Moans drip from your lips, his fingers only slowing when Johnny lowers his mouth to suck at your clit again. You try to blink the stars from your eyes, your lashes fluttering until you can't keep your eyes open anymore. Your pleasure crashes into you with shaking legs, your pussy fluttering greedily around Johnny's fingers.

It's not good enough for him. His mouth leaves you, his breath heavy, and his fingers thrust into you hard. You writhe against the couch, your whines turning high and tight. The spring in your stomach coils and coils, holding you at an edge that doesn't seem to have an escape. The begging in your head falls out of your mouth.

"Please, please," You sob, your hips humping Johnny's fingers, "please Johnny, gonna come."

"Oh bonnie thing," He coos, his fingers picking up their pace, "you come as much as you want, my polite girl." His words split through you. Your back arches, your hips jump, the tightness turns into popping heat and wetness, and you come. Your slick squirting up his arm as he makes soft encouraging noises. Johnny's fingers never stop moving, your orgasm drawn up and released again and again until your hips hurt. Your insides ache, your cunt pushing at his fingers desperately for a break.

Your head is spinning, your vision blurry and your body heavy when you find enough energy to open your eyes. You glance down at Johnny, watch the way he rubs his cock against you. His tip is red and angry, drooling, the length is already coated in the slick it pulls from between your legs. You twitch when he nudges your clit, whimper at the sensitivity.

"Johnny?" He isn't looking at you, eyes glued on the mess between your legs, on the glaze of your come coating your pussy, dripping down your thighs. He wrenches his gaze from you only to shush you, leaning over your body to press his lips against your cheek.

"Just practice," He mumbles, "doesn't count, doesn't mean anythin', does it dummy?"

You feel his tip nudge against your entrance.

You're both already wrecked, sweat slicking your skin, your hands clawing at his back like you're trying to pull him deeper, even though he’s already buried to the hilt.

You’ve been at it for a while now—lazy, slow thrusts that feel more like worship than fucking, his mouth hot on your neck, murmuring filth and little nothings in that rough voice that always makes your stomach flip.

He’s so deep it’s making your head spin. Every drag of his cock feels like he’s carving himself into you, like he wants you to feel him long after he’s gone.

And maybe that’s why it slips out. Maybe that’s why you say it.

You don’t plan to. You just feel so full, so warm, so ruined, that it tumbles out between moans without warning.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Everything goes still.

Simon stops mid-thrust. Doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

You blink, panting, your hands still on his shoulders, confused by the sudden tension in his body.

“…Simon?”

He pulls back.

Not just his hips—his whole body. Just enough to look at you. His face is blank, eyes wide and dark and unreadable.

You feel cold all of a sudden.

“I—what?” he says. But he heard you. You know he did, because he’s already pulling away.

You try to keep your voice steady. “I said I love you.”

He’s quiet for too long...too fucking long.

Then he exhales, low and shaky, and steps back like you just slapped him.

“Don’t,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Don’t say that.”

You stare at him, still half-naked, still aching, still open. “Why not?”

“You know why.”

You feel it start to break—something inside your chest, something you’d been holding together for weeks with sex and silence.

He grabs his shirt off the floor without looking at you. “This was never supposed to be that.”

“And what is it supposed to be, then?” Your voice is rising now. “Just convenient? Just something to do when we’re lonely and bored and pretending it doesn’t mean anything?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just pulls his shirt over his head and avoids your eyes like a fucking coward.

“So that’s it?” you breathe. “I tell you I love you and you just… leave?”

Simon finally looks at you.

His mouth opens like he’s going to say something—maybe explain, maybe apologize—but then he just swallows, jaw clenched, and turns away.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says.

And then he walks out the door.

You don’t call after him, you don’t chase. You just sit there, still aching from where he was, still wet, still shaking, with the taste of I love you still on your tongue like it’s poison.

PART 2

------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs

This might be a wild one.

But hear me out okay.

Simon has his hand somewhere intimate at all times whenever it’s the two of you together.

NOW okay stay with me…

At first, it was somewhat innocent. You’d both be watching a movie on the sofa, he’d deliberately have you lie across him just so his hand can rest on your ass. Casual couple things y’know.

But as your relationship progresses and he’s very used to being able to touch his pretty girl whenever possible…he tends to stray to more intimate places.

There would be one time, you’d be standing in the kitchen, cooking dinner for him on the rare occasion he gets to have a home cooked meal for once. And he’d stand behind you, humming some dumb song that’s been stuck in his head for days. But his hands will be on your tits.

Now, there’s nothing sexual about it really. He just likes holding them. Likes touching you. He’d probably give the occasional squish now and again because let’s face it he’s a man and they’d all do it.

But the only time his need to be touching you would turn sexual, is by complete accident.

(Hear me the fuck out okay?)

So you’d both be lying in bed, you’d be scrolling through your phone as he’s reading beside you (he reads, it’s obvious).

But his hand, would be down whatever pants or shorts you’re wearing for bed, underneath your underwear if you are wearing any at the time…and his hand would simply be resting on your cunt.

Like I said, it wouldn’t be sexual at first and it was an accident this time around.

Because this man can’t sit still at home, it’s too quiet…too calm…he needs something to do.

So what does he do? Play with your cunt.

The pad of his middle finger would idly rub up and down over your clit, not even trying to put any effort in all whilst he focuses on reading. Even if you’re there slightly squirming from the pleasure that the rhythmic motion of his finger creates, he wouldn’t really notice straight away.

He’d circle it a few times, all the while you’re trying to keep quiet as to not disturb him. Having to hold in every moan or soft sound your body aches to let out.

And for the most part, he seems completely focused. Even when his finger would slide down and gather every drop leaking out of you and bring it back to your clit just for more stimulation.

It’s only when you’re close to cumming from the lazy but constant stimulation that he’ll lean down slightly just to whisper in your ear.

“C’mon…give it to me love…please…”

He knows.

He always knows.

I’m sorry this train just won’t stop

More Johnny and Ghost with Ghost’s selectively mute (edit; I originally labeled reader as non-verbal, but I was made aware mutism more accurately describes this!) gf

Soap loves it when Simon fingers you in front of him, movie totally forgotten, and lets him cum on your stomach when he jerks off. And seeing Simon wipe it from your pretty belly and put his fingers between your lips? Goddamn.

But you know what makes him feel over the fucking moon? When you hug him at the door when he’s heading out. When you say goodnight so, so quietly in his ear.

We all know that man is a dog. And now you’ve got him by the fucking leash. He’ll do anything to hear more of that voice.

He’s totally addicted. Now every time he meets up with the guys and you’re along, or he comes to your place for movie nights, he’s leaning down for you to whisper hi, Soap, or goodnight, Johnny. Two little words and he’s melting. And he starts unlocking more little bits— learning to prompt in ways that you’ll respond.

Instead of asking how you’ve been, what you’ve been up to, running his mouth the way his thumping heart is telling him to, he just asks “you okay?” So he can hear your sweet, quiet tone when you say I’m ok.

Makes him fucking hard. He’s never been so hard on so little before. Just two fucking words and he feels like he’s gonna pass out from his blood rushing down.

Welp, since absolutely no one asked

Here are the types of bodies I think the 141 have ✨

TF141 x Female Reader

Tags: cum eating, blow jobs, oral (fem receiving), cumming in pants, multiple orgasms

Warning: NSFW imagery beneath cut

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

As far as sheer beauty goes, Gaz might top them all. I head canon Kyle as being pretty lean, body composed of sculpted, sheer muscle. He's got a slim frame, like a runner or boxer.

Graceful. Strong. Built for endurance and agility.

What's more? It's fucking effortlessssss. Like, legitimately. When he was a middle schooler, he might have been told he was skinny once or twice. But the minute he hit his growth spur and shot up like a bean stalk, no one could say shit.

Why?

Because Gaz looks like a goddamn male model and he doesn't even have to do anything to maintain it.

Perfect skin? Yep. He uses five dollar lotion.

Legs like a ballerina? Uh-huh. The only training he does is for work.

Sculpted, mouth-watering abs? Check. They were built by McDonald's fries, Netflix, and the grace of God himself.

Let's face it. Gaz looks like he walked off the cover of a magazine purely because the lord has favorites. Let's move on.

Now, Gaz might only go the extra mile when it comes to work training...

But those muscles didn't just come from anywhere.

And the first time Gaz gets you underneath him, cock pounding into you for what feels like hours, you finally fucking understand.

Gaz's body—slick, strong, and slim—is built for agility. For endurance.

It's built for trapping you beneath the length of his covetous frame until you're too exhausted to struggle. For holding you down until he's dripping with sweat, until every muscle in his shaking body screams for a break.

Until his long, aching cock is slowly dripping semen onto the flat of your stomach.....for the third time in the past hour.

Gaz might loathe running the track, but he'll have you fucking like bunnies until you manage to buck him off.

The man has stamina that could rival a racehorse, and god help any woman that found herself in his grasp.

"Sit still, baby," he pants loudly, wrenching the globes of your ass in two of his model-esque hands, "M'not fuckin' done yet. One more...I just—need one more."

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

Now Soap? probably the exact opposite of Gaz.

When body building became popular online, Soap jumped right on the bandwagon. Perhaps he grew up as the youngest brother in a horde of boys...or perhaps he was just tired of being the shortest boy on the football team...

But the minute he was old enough to afford a gym subscription, he was there. From dusk 'til dawn, practically. To Johnny, the gym is more than just a hobby. It's a lifestyle, and one that he enjoys immensely.

Soap is bulky, built of bulging muscle, broad shoulders, and thin hips. Every inch of it, from his plush chest to his cut abs, was painstakingly earned by hours of pumping iron.

He goes lifting six days a week, tracks all of his nutrition down to the last calorie. Everything he puts into his body is tracked and monitored--and that's the way he likes it.

He'd never say it aloud, but if it were up to him, I think he'd be the type to participate in those fitness/body building competitions.

In simple terms though? Without all those fancy words? "Macros?" "BCAAS?" What the hell is that?

In layman's terms...

Johnny has arms like tree trunks and ass for fucking DAYS. With the bulk and cut cycle, he oscillates between beautifully fatty in the thighs....to shredded like a piece of paper.

You can't help but watch him go back and forth, mind reeling with the change.

In the winter, you rest your head against the soft plains of his stomach while you lap at the head of his cock, soft and squishy from holiday cookies and hot cocoa. You like him like this.

Full. Rosy cheeked. Cock leaking strings of slick in the dip of his belly button, semen thin and stringy in your mouth.

In the summer? God help you.

In the summer, Johnny's out more than he's in, running himself ragged between his diet, work, and the gym. When he comes home, he's grumpy and agitated, balls achingly full, and semen thick after months of careful water intake.

His caloric intake might be down...but he prefers a different type of eating, anyway.

Good thing he has all those muscles. All the better to hold you down while he fucks you on his tongue.

"Johnny—" you mewl, shoving at his head when his tongue curls around your clit again, "It's past five already—aren't you ready for dinner?"

His lips pop when he pulls off of your swollen clit, eyes glazed over while he watches the way your pussy leaks.

"M'not hungry, doll," he mutters, "Got more than enough to eat here, anyway..."

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Simon Riley....

Now, he's just a big fucking boy. Like, 6'4, over 250 lbs type of big.

Hear me out. Contrary to popular belief, I think Simon has more trouble keeping weight on than keeping it off. I wholeheartedly believe that when he was a teenager he was a thin guy.

Like, he'd fully grown into his height, but just didn't have the nutrition to support it. Simon doesn't cook, and...for lack of a better description, he's not great at taking care of himself. When he was a teenager, still trapped in his parents house, he probably skipped more meals than he ate. And before he joined the army, I think it's safe to say he was a lanky, underweight kid.

But the minute that man starts eating three meals a day?

GODDAMN DOES HE GROW. Like, I'm pretty sure by the end of basic training his drill sergeants were terrified of the monster they'd created.

Simon's fucking heavyyyyyy. Built equally of fat and muscle. He likes the gym, but his body isn't built for the magazine. It's built for utility. For war. For fucking blood. He doesn't care about appearances. He needs strength than can kill.

Barrel chest. Biceps bigger than your head. Stomach muscled and heaving. A trail of wispy, blonde hair leading down from his belly button into the hefty bulge at the front of his pants....

Simon's a behemoth, and anyone whose fought him on the mat knows better than to stand within his arms' reach.

Now, his weight fluctuates pretty heavily, too. A rough few months in the field could see his weight dropping quickly, in which case his hard earned muscle would show through.

But when he's on leave?

...homeboy sustains himself on granola bars and ramen noodles. He gets soft around the middle and also should probably drink more water but...good luck trying to get him to eat more than convenience store junk. He’ll set the kitchen on fire if he tries to boil some water.

Simon's big.

And he's big everywhere.

The zippers on his jeans are remarkably tight. His fatigues look almost like lingerie on his thick thighs. And if he's wearing grey sweatpants?Simon's a lethal fucking weapon at that point.

Why am I telling you this?

Because the first time you see him naked, you might be tempted to reconsider opening your legs for a man like him...your cervix will be bruised to hell and back--not to mention your ass and thighs, too. His hands aren't kind like Kyle's, nor are they careful like Johnny's.

He'll rough you up, pound into you like any reasonable woman could ever manage to take the full length of him without crying.

He'll bite his identity into your collarbones, burn his fingerprints into the fat of your ass cheeks. And when it's all said and done, he'll bully the fattened head of his ruddy cock between your lips and watch the tears drip from your eyes, swollen mouth quivering when you try to swallow his cum.

And if it's all too much to handle? Good luck getting out from under him. Because once you're there, you're not leaving unless you can push him off, match his strength, or make him cum fast enough to leave before he's hard again.

Though, nobody's ever managed it before...not like they'd ever want to.

"Mm—Simon, you're—“

"Shhhh, love," he grunts, your body shoved flat to the mattress beneath his massive frame, "Don't move. Don't fuckin' move. I'm almost there, just....fuck, sit still and let me fill you up, yeah? Then I'll let you go...I promise this time."

Captain John Price

Now, if there is anyone in the 141 that actually enjoys the food they eat, it's Price.

HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT

okay so, Price, as a Captain, probably makes substantially more than the other three. That, and he's a good bit older too. He's past his prime (or so he thinks), and whether or not he has a perfect six pack when he looks in the mirror is the LAST thing he could ever care about.

Price isn't one for keeping up appearances--at least not as it concerns his body shape.

Is his beard trimmed and oiled? Always. He's damn near neurotic about it.

Is he always freshly showered, groomed, and cologne-d? Without a doubt. It's a point of pride.

Does the watch he's wearing compliment his clothing? he spends a STUPID amount of time thinking about it.

Will he gain another pound if he eats the Oreo cheesecake at the end of the night? Yep. And he'll enjoy every. Single. Second of it.

Price is as close to a foodie as a purebred military man can get. He loves cooking, and he recently remodeled his kitchen. He has GREAT taste in wine and spirits, and has spent a significant amount on amassing a good collection in his house.

If there's one word that describes Price, it's this: DECADENCE.

This man drinks, smokes, and eats as much as he pleases because he's lived long enough to learn the value of hedonism.

Why skip the cigs for the cigar when you could smoke both? Why stop at popping a just a single bottle bottle? Why not order the most expensive steak on the menu? Or the thickest slice of chocolate cake you've ever seen? What, like he'll regret it?

Price doesn't regret anything, and his body reflects that.

Of course, due to his profession, he never truly falls out of athletic shape (he's ready to be called away at a moments notice, after all). But he's LONG SINCE ditched his glory days. Like the others, his body fluctuates between highly cut to soft around the edges.

Price is thick around the ribs and plush in the chest. His weight settles around his hips and arms, making his biceps fluff up if he eats enough. His stomach is soft and sweet. So are his thighs.

The only thing that doesn't change?

The hair. Holy shit this man has a lot of chest hair.

All in all, Price likes a good meal, but he's still in elite fighting shape. Though, unlike the other three, his age stops him from being purely athletic. If anything, he looks more like a construction worker or landscaper. Someone who spent a long time building things with their hands instead of running laps around the track.

Now, what was that about decadence? Drinking, smoking, eating...

Price was indulgent in every sense of the word. Indulgent to himself, to his friends, and to his family.

But in bed?

The way Price fucks makes you understand why people let their teeth rot for another bite of Halloween candy.

Price wouldn't know moderation if it hit him in the face. And when it comes to your pleasure, to your body in and of itself, Price will be damned if you walk away without a smile on your face.

He's a service Dom through and through. Hell, just feeling your cunt clench around his fingers, your voice crying through another orgasm, is nearly enough to make him cum in his pants.

He'd done it before, too.

Was he embarrassed about it?

Not at all.

"John," you gasp, watching his length twitch rapidly beneath his jeans, a wet spot appearing at the top of his bulge, "Did you just..."

"Yeah," he groans between kisses, "So what?"

"It's—It's just that...isn't that a little—"

"Embarrassing?" he chuckles, "Hardly...Not if you'll go as red as I think you will when I let you lick me clean."

To John, watching you lap at his softening cock--and enjoy it too--is more than enough to get his blood pumping.

He'd always give you exactly what you want...even if you didn't have the guts to ask for it aloud.

Fun

Dumb things John Price has done:

1. While going on a jog with you he started to jog backwards to look at you with a charming grin. You thought he was going to tell you something but he was just checking out the way your tits bounced and he was gearing up to hit on you. John then tripped over a rock he didn’t see and fell like a tree trunk to the ground. You had to help him, as a human crutch, limp home because he twisted his ankle.

2. Accidentally purchased two pairs of identical diamond earrings. It was a final sale so he couldn’t return the extra pair and was kicking himself for it. They are shamefully hidden at the bottom of his sock drawer waiting for you to lose the first pair.

3. While passing the football in the yard with his eight year old son John accidentally kicked it with more power than intended straight into his child’s face. There was so much blood and tears John felt like the worst parent to ever walk this earth. Your reaction to your son’s bloody nose and tear streaked face didn’t help his case.

so I’m a little freak that gets a raging boner when stupid doofus characters realize how much they messed up and hurt someone

would cum in my pants a little if you made college Johnny from the promethean series suffer I’ll be real

I’d like to think Simon actually manages to coax shy!reader out of their shell and make some cute noises for him during sex :(( and Johnny has to hear just how sweet they sound when someone fucks them right

need that dog to come begging for scraps (please)

This also gives me a boner

Promethean: Coming home to roost

Why is he doing this? Why is he doing this?

He’d come to Simon’s room to talk about his their the bird. The logic just didn’t click in his brain in time. Obviously if his door was closed, it meant she was inside with him, didn’t it? That he was inside of her—

Soap was about to knock when he heard it. Angelic. That was the word for it, really. He prided himself on his skills, but he didn’t know women could sound like that. That you could sound like that.

Johnny had made you cum. Every time he was with you— at least once, usually more. But your sounds were so hushed. You bit your lip and whined. It was cute, and he wasn’t so invested in your pleasure that he needed you to scream for him or anything. He knew you were having a good time, that was enough. Right?

But the moans he heard through that door. He could picture you, mouth wide and back arching while Simon held his calloused fingers at your clit, his strokes careful and deliberate. Soap felt himself rooted at the door. He shouldn’t be listening. But he can’t bring himself to walk away.

Your sounds change. Punctuated. Like you’re crying out for more with every thrust. Johnny can just barely hear the wet smack of flesh on flesh, of your cunt gushing she takes everything Simon has to give.

“Yes, yes— Simon, oh, fuck— please? Oh my god—“

Johnny’s used to getting so horny is brain fogs up. It’s normal for him to get hard and think “this is the hardest I’ve ever been”. But this time it might be true. And he hates it. Why didn’t you sound this good in his bed? Why did he give a fuck?

He knew why you didn’t sound as good back the . He could hear your cries being swallowed by Simon’s mouth as he kissed you. Fucker probably had you in missionary (he did) and was holding your hand (he was) while cooing in your ear about how gorgeous you were and how perfect you felt (it was more like growling).

You were getting fucked proper. And here he was, the once proud hound now pawing at the master’s door like a stray. He doesn’t just want you back, which is horrific enough to realize— he wants to be in the room with the both of you. Wants to see how Simon’s cock is making you feel religion. Wants to stroke his cock and watch how it’s done, then take a turn in your creamy pussy after he’s done and get scolded with Simon’s hand pinching his neck from the back— scolded for not knowing how to fuck you, love you, appreciate what you’d—

Your near sobbing cry from beyond the door snaps free the coil that’d wound so tight in his belly.

Oh fuck. No, no, no. He couldn’t have. Untouched? Never— not him. Fuck.

You’re on your side, nestled under Simon’s arm and nuzzling into his chest when you hear a door slam in the hallway.

Some gay men doodles