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ryuzakemo128 · 6 hours ago

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Proposal Headcanons for Task Force 141 + Graves

Soap

Soap cannot play it cool. The man tries, but the moment he realizes he wants to marry you, it takes approximately 36 hours before he blurts it out mid-date, mid-bite, mid-everything.

“I love you. You love me. Let’s just do it, yeah? Marry me. Right now. I’ll steal a ring if I have to.”

You think he’s joking—until he pulls out an actual ring box from his cargo pocket. It’s dented. A little dirty. But the ring inside? Stunning. Soap actually planned ahead but couldn’t contain himself long enough for the ‘perfect moment.’

He kisses you before you even say yes, whispering, “You’re gonna be the death of me… but what a way to go.”

He doesn’t even make it to the bedroom.

The moment you say yes, he tackles you onto the couch, hands everywhere, breathless laughter between frantic kisses. His mouth is on your neck, mumbling, “You said yes—you said yes, I’m gonna ruin you for the next three days.”

He gets downright feral. Clothes ripped off, ring glinting as he grips your hips and mutters filthy praise in your ear. “Say it again. C’mon, sweetheart, say you’re gonna be my wife—while I’m deep inside you.”

You’re so sore the next morning you can barely stand. He carries you to the shower, grinning the entire time.

Gaz

Gaz puts in work. He’s low-key about it, but he plans the proposal down to the smallest detail: your favorite place, the perfect playlist, the exact time the light hits just right.

He gives a small speech about all the things he loves about you—your laugh, your stubbornness, how you make coffee wrong but he drinks it anyway—and then casually drops to one knee like he’s done it in his head a thousand times.

“You don’t make sense with anyone else. You make sense with me. And I want that for the rest of my life.”

You’re a mess. He’s a mess. Even the waiter cries.

He starts slow. Intense eye contact. Whispering thank you against your lips as he slips the ring on your finger and lays you down like you’re sacred.

But once his lips are on your skin? He loses control.

Gaz eats you out like he’s starved, murmuring, “My fiancée tastes so fuckin’ sweet,” between strokes of his tongue. You’re trembling before he even gets his pants off.

And when he finally pushes inside? It’s deep. Slow. A claim.

“I’m gonna make you feel me for days,” he breathes, forehead to yours, hips rolling with purpose. “This is how your husband loves you.”

Ghost

Ghost doesn’t plan to propose. Not because he doesn’t want to—it’s because he’s terrified. Of losing you. Of not being enough. Of messing it up.

But then one night, he wakes up after a nightmare and sees you asleep, soft and peaceful beside him… and it hits him. He needs to make sure you never leave.

Next morning? He slips a ring onto your finger while you’re still sleeping. Sits beside the bed, just watching.

You wake up to him staring at your hand, expression unreadable.

“Hope that’s alright,” he says softly. “Didn’t think I could get through asking without losin’ my nerve.”

It’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him—and the most sure he’s ever been.

You see a side of Ghost no one else ever has.

Once you say yes, the mask comes off—literally and figuratively. He holds your face, kisses you like he’s drowning, and when he lays you down, it’s pure worship.

But when he’s inside you? All that control breaks.

Rough thrusts. Low growls. Hands gripping your thighs like he needs you to anchor him.

“You’re mine now,” he rasps, voice cracking. “Gonna fuck you until that ring rattles on your finger.”

After? He buries his face in your neck and whispers, “My wife. Mine. Mine.” Over and over like a prayer.

Price

Price goes traditional—old-school, respectful, completely heart-melting. He asks your parents (imagine his old ass asking your parents LMAO (he's only 37)), he wears a suit, he brings you somewhere meaningful.

He drops to one knee with total conviction. Eyes steady. Hands only slightly shaking.

“You’ve stood by me through everything. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything I’ve got left.”

It’s not flashy. It’s intimate. He looks you in the eye like a man who already sees your whole life together—and you say yes before he even opens the box.

Bonus: He tears up. Silently. And tries to hide it with a “Might be dusty out here.”

He pours a glass of champagne, gives a toast to Mrs. Price-to-be, and then takes you to bed like a gentleman…

…until he’s got you pinned under him, writhing, one hand wrapped around your throat just enough to make you whimper.

“This is what forever looks like,” he growls, sliding in with maddening control. “You wanna be mine? You better be ready to take every fuckin’ inch of me.”

He makes love like a man with something to prove—and he proves it again. And again. And again.

After? He smokes a cigar with your head on his chest, murmuring, “Next time, I’m bending you over the vows.”

Phillip Graves

Graves turns the proposal into a production. Champagne, string quartet, five-star dinner, and probably a drone flying a banner overhead.

He gives a speech in front of everyone. A loud one. “This woman right here? She’s the best thing I ever got my hands on—and I’m damn sure not letting her go.”

He definitely drops to one knee in slow motion. Probably has a photographer hiding in a bush. Maybe two.

The ring? Custom-made. Probably with your initials engraved inside. He flashes that smug grin and says, “You didn’t think I was gonna do this halfway, did you?”

After you say yes, he yells “She said YES!” like it’s a victory and kisses you like he just won a Super Bowl.

Graves worships you that night like a man obsessed. Pours champagne over your chest just so he can lick it off. Tells you exactly what he’s gonna do with his wife in every room of the house.

“Gonna fuck you in silk sheets and marble floors, darlin’,” he purrs. “You think the ring’s nice? Wait till you see what I do with this body.”

Takes his time ruining you. Bent over the bed. Face down on the counter. On your knees in the living room.

Every time he makes you come, he taps the ring and says, “Mine now. And I’m never lettin’ go.”

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ryuzakemo128 · 6 hours ago

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ryuzakemo128 · 6 hours ago

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ryuzakemo128 · 6 hours ago

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Photograph | the soft, mushy, fluffy shit with meanie!simon

Simon Riley who despises having his photos taken.

There’s a reason why there’s no pictures of him on file, something Price’s assistant is still too fucking adamant about getting their hands on. There were no pictures of him or his family around the house either, the few lasting pictures in a box locked away in another box in the basement.

But then there was you who had about 5 cameras laying around the house, always ready to take a picture of something.

You’d purse your lips, high pitched babbles leaving your lips to get Simons attention as if he was a baby, trying to get them to focus on the camera. With no hesitation, he’s playfully mushing your camera out of his face, or blocking the view of himself right when you got a good shot of him. And you’d chuckle through a groan, falling all over him like you always did, resting your chin on his shoulder.

“My mom still takes pictures of everything, so you have to be good ‘nd let me take my portion Si.”

“….mmm… Fuck no.”

But when the house is quiet, the dogs in their cages, and you’re deep in slumber for the night, he’s right there in the kitchen by the stove light. Hunched over the counter because of his tall frame, looking through the scrap book you so meticulously put together. Pages filled with pictures of you, off guards of Simon you craftily took, the dogs, little stickers, paper cut outs from magazines or things you wasted his printer ink on, silly miniature drawings, notes about when the pictures were taken, and those god damn the blurry photos you took of the older man. Face covered by his mask or his hand, in an attempt to hide himself—

Was it shyness? Shame? A mix of both, not wanting to reveal the scars on his face that’ll be stuck there for the rest of his life— those permanent proof of events that would be etched in his brain. He hated recalling past bullshit, it makes his stomach turn, his palms sweaty, irritated. He wasn’t used to it, not like he ever could, how much you really, truly cared about the brute.

How you saw the beauty in him, the tattered man that was Simon Riley— he couldn’t understand it.

But then he continued flipping through the book, there’s that photo you took while he was completely knocked out, bare chested, bed head of blonde hair showing of his body covered in tattoos and markings— the more than healed gun shot wound from an incident a couple years back on his left shoulder, the knife wounds, the burns— but you’re there.

Face buried in his chest, eyes smizing at the camera while your other fingers graced right at the mark on his cheek you always touched— content. Content with being with him.

Then another, you’ve got that stupidity cute smile on your face as Simons got your in a playful headlock, it makes your cheeks chub out like a chipmunk, curls covering your face and just barley— you could see Simons lips curved up— laughing at how dumb his baby looked.

Another, one that he took this time, and it’s shit compared to the the ones you take. But Simon adored it, you’re right on the hood of his truck, arm propping you up as you give him that classic smirk with one of his shirts you’d swore was yours, nipples peaking through the material. Fucking gorgeous, incredible being you were.

God damn it, you were his precious baby. Ghost’s heart swells because he’d be damned if he couldn’t continue seeing you taking those annoying photos and putting them together like it was some final award winning project. Simon would probably never admit it aloud, but you and those memories were his treasure, he’d do anything to keep it in his grasp.

a/n: ending is shit but whatever, no one’s reading this. But this being my first fluff(ish) post about simon, woah.

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ryuzakemo128 · 6 hours ago

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Just a wee bit.

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ryuzakemo128 · 6 hours ago

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Something something, marrying Soap and secretly having the garter be his tartan so when it's time for the weird garter toss thing and he thinks he's the one being cheeky by not using hands (proud "little" prick with a smug grin) he absolutely whips his head out from under the dress (red-faced with garter still in his teeth) only to slide it back on with a mumble to you about how he'll unwrap that later (your grandmother heard him and thinks that maybe he isn't the nice catholic boy you said he was) as he proceeds to not-so-smoothly switch to you doing the bouquet toss as a distraction.

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ryuzakemo128 · 16 hours ago

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141xf!reader

tw: NSFW

Price is the captain meaning he would be the one holding the lease to his men.

So when they were all collectively interested in a pretty bird, it was only fair for him to be in charge.

He sat on the couch, with you sitting in his lap, back against his chest as his rough hands spread your thighs wide. Making space for his sergeant to kneel on the floor, looking up at the both of you with his baby blue eyes as he plunged his tongue deep into your cunt. Slobbering as his pathetic groans muffled between your mounds. His grunts accompanied the lewd squelching noises his tongue made with your pretty pussy.

The other sergeant was sitting beside him on his knees. Leaning forward towards you to suckle your throbbing clit gently before spelling their names on the sensitive nub. The wet appendage was rubbing against all the right spots, teasing, kneading. He was more composed, patient, and gentle. Contrasted to the man between your legs who were so desperate and eager, fucking you with his tongue as he got off from humping his crotch on his captain's leg.

While the lieutenant was the most level-headed of them all. Some might say that he had more control of his emotions than his captain, which is why Price let him have his way with you. The older man's hand trailed up your body after giving his sergeants approving head pats, stopping at your jaw to pry your mouth open so the lieutenant could use it like a fleshlight.

And after they were all done getting you ready. As you were wet, wanton, and needy. Of course, Price would be the first one who would sink his cock into your cunt.

He is the captain after all

taglist: @niazrzl, @iiriam, @katerinaval, @niazurzolo, @skeletonsucker, @herdarkangel, @z-wantstowrite, @codeseven, @dilf-luvr-4evr, @partiallysame

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ryuzakemo128 · 19 hours ago

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“The past doesn’t need you anymore. Your future does.”

— Unknown

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ryuzakemo128 · 20 hours ago

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Not Interested | A Materialists fic

Fandom: Materialists

Pairing: Harry Castillo x Reader

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 2.2k words

Summary: Some people don’t want more. Hearts broken from previous relationships, you and Harry are not interested in more. But in each other…? That’s a different thing.

Tags: Meet cute, Reader is grieving, Harry got dumped, mild angst, Reader is bi and has hair, canon non-compliant since the movie isn’t even out

A/N: Finally! Pedro in a romance (SWOL scenes were shorter than I hoped). It’s late considering he has the perfect face to make literally anyone fall in love with him. I got the idea for this fic when we all breathed a collective sigh of relief knowing his name is Harry Castillo and not Randy. This is set in a world where Dakota Johnson chooses Chris Evans over Pedro.

⌘ ⌘ ⌘

“Listen… Randy, right? I’m not interested in you.”

“It’s not Randy,” he said, turning around in his bar stool and looking you up and down. His tongue darted out, licking his plush bottom lip and he gave you the faintest smile. “But thanks for letting me know.”

“Shit,” you cursed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Sorry. I thought— My friend set me up with someone and I was supposed to meet him here and I thought it was you. Sorry!”

“It’s alright,” he said, still not turning away from you. He looked good under the golden light of the upscale bar where your friend told you to meet Randy. ‘You’ll know him when you see him’ was her response when you asked for a picture of the guy. Dude was probably ugly or old.

“So…this Randy is so terrible you’ve already decided you aren’t interested?”

“It’s not really about Randy,” you said, climbing into the chair adjacent to his for no reason. You had no intention of picking a guy up at a bar that night, set up by a friend or not. It was a week night and you should’ve left. Your suit was uncomfortable, your hair was a mess from being under a hard hat and your shoes had traces of sand from the work site. If you weren’t a regular there, you would’ve been denied entrance. Politely.

The man raised a hand and waved a bartender over. “A drink for the lady on me.”

“Oh I can’t—”

“Can be water or a cola. For the trouble you went through to see this guy.”

“Oh well. A gin and tonic, please,” you said, knowing it was a much better choice than a glass of wine all alone in your house with your girlfriend’s cat that hated you.

“Tough day?” He asked.

“Tough week.”

“It’s Tuesday, darling.”

“I didn’t have a weekend.”

“Yet you look stunning.”

“Uh huh?” You said, studying him. “That work for you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t use the same line all the time. I work on a case by case basis.”

“Mmm. So you admit it’s a line.”

“Randy’s loss, my gain,” he said with a shrug.

He was fucking beautiful, you realized when you relaxed into your seat, your feet no longer attempting to drag you away. He had dark curls styled neatly, a greying beard that was charming despite being patchy. His eyes were a deep brown, shiny like those bobas kids had in their teas these days. The only other person with eyes like— well shit, if that dipshit cat Scooter knew you thought of it as a person, it would only lord over you even more. Scooter had similar dark eyes it used to manipulate you into doing absolutely everything.

When he turned, you caught the shape of his nose and fuck if it looked good. Big and bold with a curve that made him look like a statue unearthed from the ruins of Ancient Rome. A good place to sit if you were looking for one.

You scoffed, looking away from him as you accepted the gin and tonic with a quiet thanks.

“What are you hoping to gain, exactly?”

“Nothing you don’t want to give,” he said, his eyes darting down to your lips. You gripped the glass tight in your hands. It had been a while since you were around such attention. Well. There were some but none you bothered registering as attention.

“I’m good just seeing your pretty face until we finish our drinks and never see each other again.”

Simple enough. It wasn’t what you were expecting, but you appreciated the honesty. “To never seeing each other again?” You said, raising your glass.

“To never seeing each other again,” he said, raising his.

“So… why are you here drinking alone? At least I have an excuse.”

“You’re not drinking alone,” he said. “You’re drinking with me. And your excuse is that you came to a bar to reject a guy you can’t even find?”

“It’s rude to stand someone up. I have manners. And clearly, Randy doesn’t. And what kind of name is Randy anyway,” you huffed, taking a sip of your drink. Here you were as agreed upon despite being tired and wanting to do nothing but drink enough to fall asleep so you could work tomorrow. But fucking Randy was nowhere to be seen.

You knew everyone at the bar. It was the exclusive sort, entry restricted to people in a certain tax bracket— those who made enough to be taxed little to nothing. No one you could meet there would be interesting outside of work. It was the sort of place you went to for networking, not for fucking. Or romance. Not that you were looking for it. Something Gemma really wanted for you when she set you up.

“You’ve only talked to me since you arrived. Randy could be anyone here.”

“Oh, I know this place,” you said, waving your hand dismissively. “And I know everyone here. Black shirt there holds enough shares in Blackrock to be guillotined for the impending housing crisis. Bald guy flirting with that poor girl in the corner has a trad wife content creator who funds his failing businesses.”

“She looks young enough to be his daughter.”

“He’s not that old. Just unbelievably ugly.”

He snorted, “What about the old guy in the leather jacket?”

“He owns the building so he comes over all the time. Tried to hit on me and my girlfriend poorly once. And he’s old enough to actually to be my father.”

He asked you about others at the bar and you briefed him. At some point, you bought him a drink. Whiskey, neat. Same as what he had in hand when you very rudely mistook him for your date.

“And that’s why you were so sure I was Randy? Because you know everyone else here.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. Take the debriefing as making up for my rudeness.”

“I would, but you haven’t told me about everyone in this bar.”

You scrunched up your nose at that, looking around the bar to see if you’d missed anyone.

“Who? I’ve told you about everyone here except the staff.”

“You haven’t told me about the beautiful woman in the navy suit,” he said, nodding to you. You should roll your eyes. Be rude or refuse to tell him about yourself. But your behind remained glued to the seat.

“I run a construction business. What about you, stranger?”

“Real Estate. Maybe we could do business together.”

“Yeah? Is this how you find people to do business with?”

“Not very sustainable to only find business with women who reject me.”

“Are you always this cocky?”

“Oh always, but especially when a woman rejects me before introducing herself.”

“I was rejecting Randy.”

He whispered your nickname, a name only your friends and family used. You hadn’t told him that. Hadn’t introduced yourself at all. He smiled apologetically, his big brown eyes in full force to endear you further to him.

“It’s Harry, by the way. Harry Castillo. Gemma calls me Randy because of an unfortunate incident in Intro to Project Management.”

“You lied to me!”

“And you were very rude. What a way to introduce yourself to someone,” he said with a shrug.

“I did say it’s not about Randy— you. I was in a long term relationship until recently and I’m just not looking for anything serious now.”

“I’m not either. I’m fresh out of a serious relationship and I came here only because Gemma insisted.”

“She’s allergic to staying out of people’s business.”

“Tell me about it,” he scoffed and the two of you shared a laugh.

You sighed, eyes darting all over his face. And elsewhere. He was built well. Tall enough, broad chest narrowing into a V at his waist. Arms that didn’t seem to be for vanity’s sake. He looked strong, not like a man getting a personal trainer and steroids for his mid life crisis. His hands were fucking huge. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought he was holding a small glass. His fingers were thick and fuck it’d been so long and your vibrator was good but you missed a warm body against yours.

“So… what did a woman do to fumble you?” You asked.

“Cheated on me with a bartender ex who still has roommates.”

“Shit, that’d do it.”

“He turned out to be the love of her life, so…” he shrugged, his sad smile tugging at your heart. “How did you fumble yours?”

“Ouch. You think I fucked up?”

“Yeah. I don’t see anyone fumbling you,” he said, his thumb brushing his mustache as he gazed at

you appreciatively. “I mean, look at you.” He touched his bottom lip with his thumb and nodded towards you. From anyone else, the gesture would’ve felt sleazy. You shuddered under his eyes, a part of you glad that you could still feel things like this but another part feeling guilty. Like you were cheating.

“She fumbled me, I’ll have you know.”

“Yeah? What did she do?”

You shrugged, a sad smile finding its way to your lips. “I proposed and she went and got cancer about it. I would’ve just accepted a no, like jeez what a drama queen.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low but not laced with the icky sympathy that made you angry and uncomfortable.

“It’s okay. Time has passed since she…” you trailed, clearing your throat and looking away. It felt strange talking about her to someone who never knew her. Strange to be talking to someone in a situation you wouldn’t have been if only she was still there.

“So that makes it two women I know who rejected you,” you said, needing to say something to clear the air of the dead girlfriend conversation. The more it lingered, the more uncomfortable it made people.

“Still only one, same as you. You rejected Randy, not me.”

“You are Randy!”

“You were having fun with me until you realized I’m Gemma’s friend. And what kind of name is Randy anyway,” he said, repeating your own words back to you.

You wanted to know what how he earned the name. Randy. You wanted to coax him into telling you his little secrets. See if he was just as interesting inside as he was outside. “Gemma isn’t such a terrible friend after all. Maybe we should listen to her.”

“That line often work for you?” You asked.

“Yeah, I tell pretty women we should fuck because my friend said so. Works out great.”

You laughed, but looked down at your lap, guilty you laughed so easily for someone who wasn’t her.

If Gemma trusted him… It was a safe option. One night and never see him again.

You leaned towards him and ran your hand up his arm from elbow to bicep. You stopped and gave him a squeeze, biting back a whimper when you felt how firm he was. You tilted your head a little and regarded him carefully, your voice low and sultry when you said, “I think we should fuck, Harry. My friend said we should.”

“Line works when you say it,” he said, bridging the distance between you. He looked into your eyes and then your lips and back at your eyes, a silent request for permission. Fueled by your two gins and tonic, you moved to kiss him.

Harry was a gentleman but was no prude. He kissed slowly but without hesitation, soft lips firm against yours. His mustache poked and tickled, a novel sensation not wholly bad. You allowed yourself to cup his cheek, your thumb drawing patterns into skin. A patch of skin without hair found you and you traced its shape as you relished in the taste of whiskey on his lips. It was different from kissing women, kissing her. It’d been so long since you kissed a man and you found you didn’t hate it. A large hand came up to your knee, caressing gently, and you gasped softly. For your part, you slid one hand over his arm, the other busying itself with the back of his neck.

You wanted to be closer, sit on his lap and press yourself against his chest. Soon, your hand made its way down his neck, landing on his chest. He moaned into the kiss as you explored him, all broad and hard muscle beneath his sweater that contradicted him with its softness. A tingle ran through your body when he touched a sensitive spot in the back of your neck. A whimper escaped you despite yourself and he seemed to have caught on. His thumb went over the spot slowly, repeatedly, and you gasped softly from the feeling. You pulled away, the first to need air. He smelled good, you realized when you remembered to breathe.

His eyes were studying you, really looking in a way that was too much. Too deep. You looked away, your heart beats hammering away in your ears.

Too much. Too much. Too much. But you resisted the urge to up and run.

She wouldn’t want you drinking yourself to sleep every night. Told you as much herself. Asked you to promise you’d try.

His eyebrows furrowed slightly and the space between them scrunched up, showing off lines of his age but also making those brown eyes more lethal.

“Harry?”

“Mmm?”

“Did you drive here?”

When he nodded, you said, “I’m going home now. You can follow me. No staying the night. Just…drive off when we’re done. Is that okay with you?”

“Sounds perfect.”

⌘ ⌘ ⌘

Pedro Pascal character fics masterlist here

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My ask box is open for Harry Castillo thoughts and headcannons

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ryuzakemo128 · 20 hours ago

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prompt: you and Price get in an accident (1.6k)

He comes into your life like nothing less than divine intervention.

A fender bender, of all things. It’s a bad day and you’re distracted, too busy thinking about your dad calling to tell you that he lost ten thousand from his retirement fund when the stock he’d invested in crashed and how you’re supposed to help him out of this mess, and the roads are slick with that last snowfall of early spring, still unsalted even hours after the snow started.

So when you slam on the brakes at the last second after noticing the car in front of you stopped at a red light, your car slips on the ice and slides forward, hitting the back of the stopped car and sending it forward a foot. It’s quick and sudden, and though you stepped on the brakes early enough to avoid a worse collision, your head snaps forward with the jolt and the seatbelt yanks you back violently, winding you.

Your hands go tight around the wheel, eyes so wide that they nearly pop out of your head as you stare at the car directly in front of you. All of the dread in the world pools in your mouth and then down your throat when you swallow, heart galloping in your chest. You almost can’t believe it for a second.

Then the car in front of you—a big, fuck-you SUV that only worsens your anxiety because of all cars to hit, it had to be someone with a fancy, brand new car that probably has a lawyer on speed dial—puts their hazards on and the driver’s side doors opens and reality snaps like a rubberband back into you. With shaky hands, you put your car into park and put your hazards on as well.

“Oh shit,” you whisper under your breath. An understatement.

A tall man in a brown parka steps out of the car and stares at you through the windshield, a stern expression on his face. He has a beanie pulled down over his head and a full beard, and for a second, the mental image of a bear emerging out of its den flickers in your imagination, all snow-dusted and irritable.

He’s grizzled and older than you. The only consolation is that he doesn’t match the image of the driver that you had in your head—no seven thousand dollar suit or bluetooth earpiece; instead, he seems like the kind of man who’d drive an old pickup or a schooner, wearing an Aran sweater and a skipper's cap, with a pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. He seems out of place in the middle of the road in your small town.

But he is real, and even though you watch him march over to you, you flinch when he raps on the window with his knuckles.

“Roll the window down,” he instructs, voice muffled through the glass, and you do because the command cuts through the buzzing in your ear. When you do, he reaches into your car with one hand and pops the lock, then takes a step back to open the door. You’d freak out if the situation were different, but you must be in shock because all you can do is stare at him dumbly as he leans into the car and undoes your seatbelt. “C’mon, sweetheart. Out.”

It doesn’t take much coaxing to get you to step out of the car. All he has to do is step back and you get out, knees nearly buckling, like jelly under you. He holds your elbow to steady you. Your elbow feels delicate and tiny in the width of his palm.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks, looking all over your face.

You want to answer him, but all you can do is whimper, “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, none of that. It was an accident. You alright though? Anything hurt?”

“Uh…I don’t…I don’t know.” It hasn’t really sunk in yet, you think. Maybe tomorrow you’ll be sore all over, but right now you feel fine. On the verge of shaking out of your skin, teeth nearly clattering together, but more or less okay.

“Nothing too bad then. Wanna give me your insurance so we can deal with this, sweetheart?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Let me just—” You move to reach back into your car to fetch your purse, but he stops you, insisting on getting it for you.

And you let him, docile like a doll, watching as he leans into your car and across the seats to grab your purse, big frame looking comically large in your little car. Looking like he’d barely fit in the front seat if he tried to get in.

He comes back out with your little purse in hand and opens it, handing you your wallet and purse by its strap. Your fingers are still shaking when you pull out your insurance information and hand it to him. Everything feels surreal and muted, and the tears are going to flow at any minute now if you don’t get a handle on it.

He must notice because a knuckle fits under your chin and lifts your head up. “Hey, what’s wrong?

“No, no,” you say, reaching up to swipe your fingers over your eyes. “I’m just—I’m really embarrassed. I’ve never been in an accident before.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” His voice is much softer now, pitched low in the way handlers talk to spooked animals. He puts his thumb to your chin, holding you in place. “No one got hurt. Could’ve been worse than it was, and we’ve both got insurance, so what’s done is done. I don’t look mad, do I?”

Trapped between his thumb and knuckle, you can only give a slight shake of your head. “No.”

“Then let’s just take it one step at a time and no tears. Okay?”

You sniff. “Okay.”

“Okay. I’m going to call the insurance, so you get back in the car and sit tight, alright?”

You nod.

“Good girl,” he says, a hint of praise in his voice. “Put the heat on too. It’s too cold for that jacket.”

That makes you go warm all over, flustered and tongue-tied. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to expect a response out of you. The only thing he expects you to do is get back in the car and turn the heat back on, the warm air billowing into your face when he leans in to crank it up all the way.

Though most of the sound is muffled from inside the car, you turn down the heat and crack the window open slightly to hear him give his name to his insurance company. John Price. Even his name evokes the image of him somewhere else in the world, settled into the nooks and crannies of history.

John handles everything for you while you sit in the car like he told you to, settling everything with the insurance companies and calling for a tow truck right after that. You don’t realize that, of course, until the tow truck pulls up in front of his car and he comes back to usher you out of your car.

“How am I supposed to get home?” you croak. The tow truck driver hitches your car to the bed of the lift and pulls it up, your little car looking pathetic all alone up there.

“I’ll drive you home then bring mine in later.”

“Why can’t I drive my car to the garage too?” You’re petulant now that you’ve learned that he won’t bite, and you know it’s petulance because you don’t actually put up much of a fight to get your car taken off the tow truck.

That petulance trembles when his expression grows stern again. “You’re getting it checked by a mechanic before you get behind the wheel again,” he tells you in no uncertain terms, eyes daring you to contradict him.

You don’t. It’s hard to argue with someone so adamant on your wellbeing. A mechanic in later days will tell John, with you by his side, that your car was mostly fine apart from some slight damage to the bumper, but that you made the right call to bring it in just in case the frame cracked during the accident.

John’s arm will be around your waist at the time and he’ll pull you tighter into his side when the mechanic says that. And what do you do but go with it, curling into his side like it’s natural. You’ll have already fucked him by then anyway. It’ll be no less forward than letting him take you for coffee and then back home, following you up to your apartment and into your bed.

Now though, you let him usher you into the passenger seat of his car and shut the door behind you, the wind cutting off abruptly. It only comes back when the door opens on his side.

You rattle off your address and watch bemusedly as he programs it into his GPS and hits save. You don’t have the temerity to question him, to poke a hole in the bubble of familiarity ballooning around the two of you. The real world seems far away in his car, like you’re in limbo, the rules different here somehow.

“How about a coffee?” he asks at the next light, putting his hand on your thigh and shaking when you don’t respond right away. “Does a hot drink sound good right about now?”

“I guess?” you say. In truth, it sounds great, but you’re losing the thread of this conversation, your old preoccupations getting further and further away from you.

John gives your thigh a squeeze, lingering for a beat before pulling away. “Good. It’ll be a nice little pick me up before we go home. My treat.”

All you can do is nod, your throat dry.

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