Archive of Our Own

You don't visit the UK in any capacity often, but you do try to visit at least once a year, if only to spend a couple weeks, usually in the springtime, with your mother's side of the family. She'd long left the native shores of her homeland, but she still liked to keep you acquainted with where she came from, and you've taken on that tradition for yourself.

So there, you stand by the baggage claim, waiting for your luggage to appear, while you tap your foot impatiently. You're not a fan of traveling—the cramped quarters, your thighs pinch together in the seat, and you hate how your ears pop during take-off—but anything to see your nan, you suppose. She's getting up there in age, and each visit you worry might be the last year.

Your grandad, too—and you smile, amused at the afterthought. You don't mean anything by it, but your grandfather, ex-military, has always been a bit of a stoic. Always in the background, sitting in his armchair with his bifocals perched on his nose as he holds whatever Agatha Christie novella of the week with one wrinkled hand.

You're slotted to spend the next two weeks with them—helping your nan with the garden, sitting quietly over a cuppa with your grandad, and visiting a few of your nearby cousins. Nice. Peaceful.

Mostly. You're sure there will be bumps. Your grandmother's bound to grab your face, holding you out to examine you, before softly tutting, “No soulmate yet, darling?”

Your grandad will huff in amusement from his chair, but he won't say anything, and you'll be there, spilling out your guts that no, I haven't found my mate yet, and yes, I'm sure the boys here are much nicer than the ones back home.

Then you'll be guiltily accepting a dinner invitation to your grandparents’ neighbor's home, and it'll be awkward as you sit across from a man around your age, similarly depressingly single, as your respective grandmothers jabber about the weather and their gardens and give the two of you sideways glances with raised brows, wondering if you feel anything for this perfectly compatible man.

Oh, yeah, it's gonna be great.

Just have to get there—to your grandparents’ little bungalow with the orange brick face and white trim. Thick hedges that line the lane. Your mother has always been jealous of your grandmother's ability to grow rosebushes—back home, roses don't bloom. Not like in England. Not like at Nan's house.

You just have to wait for your uncle to pick you, and he'll drop you off at your grandparents’ house. Then you've got two weeks.

Two weeks until you have to go back to the monotony that is your life.

You force yourself still when all you want to do is bounce around, to dart out of the close-quartered crowd, and go outside. Judging by the large windows of the airport, you're not likely to find any sunshine, but just some wind on your face would make it worth it.

You can't stand being so close to all these strangers. It bristles your patience and sets you frowning as you rap your fingers along your opposing wrist. Sets your instincts on fire, your lungs burning, as you pull into yourself.

It's so odd how tense you feel, like you're balancing on the edge of your grandfather's old army knife. Something acrid burns at your nose, but when you take a deep breath, the air simply reeks of bleach and stale coffee. You'd think something is wrong, but you aren't even sure where to begin on what. 

You dart forward nervously, a little disjointed, to grab your suitcase—noting it by the bright pink flower that your mother embroidered on the corner when you were a teenager and made your first trip abroad without her to visit your grandparents.

You grab the suitcase and yank hard, wincing as it clatters to the floor clumsily. Your cheeks burn as you feel the people nearby peeking in your direction, cold water down your back. You shake off the feeling, rubbing your nose, and hoist your suitcase up off the ground onto its wheels.

But that feeling doesn't go away. It's thick, oppressive, like someone's staring directly at you, scorching you with their judgment. You take a few quick steps away before glancing around nervously.

Your mother always told you soulmates are such a strange thing—to have a piece of you missing, and when you meet them, it's like everything slots into place. You've asked your grandmother what it was like when she first laid eyes on grandad, and she'd get all red in the face, tight-lipped, before saying primly, “You just know. Immediately.”

She's right. You do.

Because standing about fifteen or so strides in the other direction of you is a pair of men dressed in military fatigues. You think, maybe a few moments earlier, they had been speaking to each other, low, discerning discussions that you’ve got no part in, but now, they’re not. Their eyes clash with yours; it’s only a second, to which you look away because something burns behind your eyelids like looking directly into the sun. It's instantaneous, that sense that slides free and buries in your gut.

You've found your soulmate, whichever one of them it is, and your heart sinks into your stomach.

You duck your head immediately, holding your breath, as you try to blend into the crowd. This cannot be happening. This absolutely cannot be happening. Not here. Not now. You aren't ready.

Oh, god, and you just spent eight hours on a plane. You look terrible, you know, with your hair amess and your clothes rumpled. This is the worst timing ever in the history of anything.

You'll just have to avoid them. Whoever they are, you'll have to meet them again eventually, right? They're your soulmate, and it'll be a nice, little meet-cute in a café, or in the elevator, or at a dog park—something sweet and aesthetic to give you the best chance possible to win them over, right? Give you time to primp and polish yourself into something worth having.

One peek behind your shoulder reveals that you have not managed much at all, given the two large figures similarly pushing through the crowd. And they aren't being slick about it at all, just shoving right through until the people in front of them behind to part a path to avoid getting trampled. You almost choke at the sight of it and just try to power-walk faster. Your suitcase is weighing you down, but you can't leave it.

Where the hell is your uncle? He said he'd be here!

You grab your phone out of your pocket and one-handedly type: where are y—

You're startled by a hand that wraps around your upper arm—you hadn't noticed, in your panic, how close the footsteps had gotten. Someone turns you to your side quickly, and you nearly stumble, heart pounding.

You think you might be sick. It's one of the men from before—this one. This one must be your soulmate. Everything around you seems to fade into a muffled buzz for a moment as your eyes pour over his face—your soulmate's face.

His eyes are blue, you discern just like how you force yourself to breathe and a part of you is warm to know it. Warm under his thick, dark brows, the purse of his thinned mouth, his callused hand against the sleeve of your shirt—heat sears through the fabric and sinks into you. This one is yours.

Terrible. It's unfortunate how devastatingly handsome he is; you'll spend your whole, insecure life, looking over your shoulder, wondering who's coveting him. Wondering why you.

He's decently tall, peering down at you with a grin that makes your knees quake, and he teases you curiously, “Where're you runnin’ to, lass? Can I join you?”

Even worse, he's Scottish. What the fuck.

You've swallowed your tongue, and your voice is nothing but a squeak. “I don't know you!”

His eyes pour from your head to your feet, then back up in one swift gesture. “Ye will.”

That spurs a prickle of fear in you, disconcerted and perhaps futile but there nonetheless. His hand slides up your arm, towards your shoulder, as you remember he is, in fact, touching you. But when you try to shrug it off, his fingers tighten against your arm.

“Where are ye goin’, doll?” he laughs, but there's an edge to it, and you're careful not to toss yourself over. “You cannae be runnin’ from me.”

“Let me go,” you retort, your tone sharpened but reedy.

Your soulmate opens his mouth to reply, but he's interrupted by another voice, gruff and entirely too close—you jump when it sounds from right behind you. “Ease up, Johnny. She's skittish.”

The man, your soulmate—Johnny, apparently? You wince internally at the misfortune of his name—flashes the other man a cheeky smile. “I can see that, Lt. Lass would disappear if I let ‘er.”

“So don't let ‘er.”

The other man's words are clipped amidst the slight teasing nature of his response, and you yank towards him, trying to see who this new individual is.

Because there's no fucking way. It doesn't make any sense. You know your soulmate. You've seen his face, having gazed into his eyes, and you knew instantly—instantly—that was him.

And yet, when you look at this man behind you, that same alarm screams in your head—important! Alert! This is your soulmate—and god, look at him. He's large, broader than Johnny even, and tall. The brush of his eyebrows is a sharp blonde. But what the fuck is on his face?

You can't make out much of any of his features by the dark balaclava pulled over his head, the fabric tight around his nose, his lips, and the eyes—they're thick as molasses, pouring gently, gently, through the ring of black on his exposed eyesocket.

What a fucking freak. Is it terrible that you're into it?

What is going on? Why are they both—they can't both—that's insane. Absolutely insane. Two soulmates. You cannot possibly have two soulmates. That doesn't happen. That’s the point of a soulmate: two halves of one whole. You're reading something wrong; you have to be. One of them isn't right.

Why does the thought of an error tear at your stomach?

This other man, this potential soulmate, stares at you, barely more than a stride away. His arms, large and tight against his sleeves, cross over his chest, which only serves to emphasize his imposing figure further. The way he looks at you, it's almost speculative.

“Look at our bird, Johnny,” the large man with the stupid mask says to his counterpart, who still has a monstrous hold on your shoulder. “Just fuckin’ look at ‘er.”

His voice is rough, almost disbelieving, and you wince at his words. That's not a good start. Not a good one at all. You wait for it, those cruel words.

Instead, all you receive is a hard stare from Johnny, his eyes glued to your body, and you think he swallows down what you assume to be disgust, his mouth slightly agape. He doesn't deserve this, you suppose, nor would the other man—whoever is your actual mate. They're both way out of your league.

So much so it's almost cruel that the hand of fate would do this to you.

Then Johnny lets out a soft whistle with his breath. “I'm fuckin’ lookin’, Lt. Christ, I'm lookin’.”

You feel like you're going to crawl out of your skin; you almost wish you would. Anything to get away from this situation, anything to not be you for a moment, just a moment.

“Uh…I've got to go,” you say, but it's more a muffled whisper than much else, and your hand curls tight around the handle of your suitcase.

You attempt to take a ragged step forward, but there's immediately a large body in front of you. The one with the stupid-ass balaclava. When he looks down at you, he's almost craning his neck. Unbidden to yourself, your hand flashes forward, fingers crooking against the unforgiving surface of his chest. He's not about to move. And when you look back at Johnny, he's stepped even closer—you can feel the heat of his breath against the back of your neck.

You think your heart might thunder right out of your chest, lightning strike split in two as you glance anxiously between the two men on either side of you. Out of habit, you bite your bottom lip, and it's not even a breath before the masked one raises a hand, his skin rough as he pulls your lip from your teeth and runs his thumb over your mouth. You might have a stroke, you think deliriously; when he tweaks your chin, bringing your eyes to his, the worst sort of whimper escapes you.

Is it fear? Yes. Absolutely. But not completely, and that's the most embarrassing part.

It doesn't seem to matter to the two of them, strange them with their strange aesthetics—seriously, what the fuck is up with Johnny's overgrown mohawk? And that mask? Don't even get you started—because the other man's eyes are hot enough to scorch you, and Johnny's exhale is stilted into something that almost sounds like a pant.

You blink. What the hell are you doing? You're in a crowded airport for god's sake!

Sure, you're mildly tucked off in a corner, and sure, most people probably don't give two fucks what you're doing, but still. This isn't you.

Not sure what else to do, you look for an opening and take it. There's a slight gap between how the two of them herd you against a wall, and you steel yourself before surprising them as you duck under the gap and take off down the hall.

Tiles squeak under your shoes, and you're sure you're getting plenty of looks from passerbys, but you don't know what else to do, and you don't see your uncle anywhere. He promised he'd come pick you up for your nan and grandad—said he had business nearby anyways. You just need to find your uncle, and everything will be fine. They'll leave you alone, and everything will be just fine.

But behind you, there's the terrible thunder of footsteps, loud boots down the stretch behind you.

“She's runnin’ from us, Lt.,” remarks Johnny in disbelief between strides, but not to you. To the other one. “She's actually runnin’ from us.”

“I don't know you,” you call back behind you, then to the people walking by. “I really don't know them.”

Of course, security isn't around, and of course, no one stops to help, not with these two pursuing you with wild abandon.

The other man grits his teeth, barks out sharply at the strangers who begin to stare, “She's our soulmate.”

You almost flinch, hearing them say it. The words sting your ears. Our soulmate. It's ridiculous. Insane. Not true, can't be true.

But the passerbys avert their gaze. Who wants to get in the middle of a dispute between soulmates?

“Leave me alone,” you shout over your shoulder, but when you peek, you realize they are, yet again, rapidly gaining on you.

To be expected, you suppose, with those long legs.

Frantic and unsure, you reach towards your carry-on bag slung around your shoulder before frowning. Right. You don't have your pepper spray. Goddammit, what are you supposed to do?

So instead, you swivel your head around, frantically looking for security. How the hell is there no one around?

“Wait! Lass, wait—”

Again, his hand on your arm locks you down, and you're spun in their direction. You barely made it down the hall. The worst part is turning around to see the strange, out-of-place woundedness in Johnny's eyes. The other one just looks pissed off.

“What are ye doin’?” asks Johnny as if he's got any right to the answer, and considering you're still struggling to split your senses from the two of them, perhaps he does. “Why are you runnin’ from us?”

“Because you're chasing me!” you stress all at once, your irritation cresting.

Who the fuck are these people, and why do they think it's so funny to behave like this? Oh, right—they're your alleged mates. Bullshit. You don't know what they did to make both of them appear as your soulmate, but you're not buying it. It's a fucking insane notion.

Then he grins, something crooked and devastatingly charming, as his hand squeezes your shoulder. “Ghost and I love a good chase, so ye best get accustomed to that, doll. If ye run, we'll chase you.”

The man to the side grunts in agreement. What did Johnny call him? Ghost? That's also insane. Of-fucking-course, that's his name.

God, you're so fucked. So, so fucked.

“What's your name?” rumbles Ghost as he slowly rounds you until they're on each side once more, and each step, his eyes fall on you in an entirely predatory way.

Your little rabbit heart quickens, breath caught in your chest. You can't get anything out, not that you would. Not with him looking like you're something he'd chew on, Christ almighty.

The grin flickers away from Johnny's face. “Doll, put that look away. Yer our mate. We would ne'er hurt you.”

You eye Ghost uncertainly, quipping back, “Uh, he looks like he'd pull me into a white van, and I'd wake up chained to a pipe in his basement.”

When the large man shrugs, neither agreeing or disagreeing, your stomach turns sour.

Johnny gives Ghost a nudge. “Ah, c'mon, Lt.”

“Won't know ‘til you find out, I suppose,” is what Ghost says in what you think is supposed to be comfort.

“Why would I ever want to find out?” you squawk, becoming fully alarmed now.

“Christ, Simon—” Johnny grits his teeth momentarily, giving the other man a displeased look, before he brightens with forced energy, “Dinnae fash, doll. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Big, ol’ softy, that one.”

You pick up on the name—not much else. Simon. That makes more sense than Ghost.

Simon snorts, his arms crossing once more into that intimidating pose that just dares you to try to get past him again. You don't think you'll get a second chance this time. Instead, you frantically peek over their shoulders.

If you could only spot your uncle, he would deal with them, no two ways about it. They'd be running with their tails between their legs.

“You keep lookin’ around,” says Simon, his tone low. “Who are you lookin’ for?”

“My uncle,” you snap. “He's supposed to pick me up.”

Johnny smiles widely. “If you need a ride anywhere, we'd be happy to take ye with us, lass. I’m sure we can make room.”

“Hah! As if.”

The last thing you need is to end up on the evening news. Your nan would be devastated.

“You still haven’t given us your name,” Simon demands, coming back around to the same question he had asked previously.

You scowl at him. “And I’m still not telling you shit.”

He tilts his head to you, and it sounds like there's an amused smile on his lips. “If we wanted to hurt you, we already would have. Grabbed you by the baggage claim, dragged you down the hall, shoved you in a utility closet—hundred, different little things.”

“Because that makes me feel better—”

“But we won't,” Simon interjects, “because you're our mate.”

Fake bullshit—you don’t know how they did it. New pheromone cologne? Witchcraft? God, if you fucking know. But this can’t be real. You know it’s not real.

“Likely story,” you mutter dryly with a cross of your arms.

Simon’s eyes screw shut, and it appears as if he’s taking a steadying breath before he returns, a bit sharply, “Do you even understand—you’re our mate. Do you know how hard it is to find your mate, much less two of them?”

Your brow furrows, soured into a pucker. “Doesn’t exist. I don’t know what you two’ve got going on, but I’m not going to fall for it.”

Hands slide against your hips, and you almost jump out of your skin. Johnny’s resulting voice is like a caress to the back of your neck—entirely unsettling and yet somehow electrifying, like a discharge of static to your nape. “C’mon, doll. Ye dinnae feel a thing?”

A breaking of goosebumps tears across your flesh. You shift uncomfortably, trying to push him away. He knows you do; they both do. But it’s nothing you can trust. It simply cannot be true. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s a joke—a terrible, awful joke, but a joke all the same.

Either that, or somehow you've stumbled into a pair of serial killers that prey on an individual's strongest fantasy—finding your soulmate. Somehow, they’ve developed some sort of pheromone, and it’s a con they run. That would make more sense than two soulmates. It just doesn’t happen like that--couldn’t happen, not to someone like you. Either way, you intend to get out of here, alive and with your dignity intact.

“C'mon, lass. Ye won't even grace yer soulmates with your name?” protests Johnny.

His hand slides up and down your arm, but you can sense how quickly he'd clamp down on you if you tried to run again. That doesn't even take into account Simon, who postures in front of you, and he's reached out to grip the handle of your suitcase, keeping you firmly in place.

You frown at Johnny's request and shake your head.

“You're making it harder for yourself,” Simon rumbles behind you. “We aren't leavin’ until we have at least one way to contact you again.”

“Yer name and number,” Johnny agrees, his fingers tightening along the pulse of your throat. “That's all we need. Need somethin’ to call our pretty, little mate, after all.”

“Call me whatever you want,” you snip back.

You don't plan on seeing them again, anyways.

“Aw, dinnae give me license for that,” returns Johnny with a crooked grin. “I've got plenty o’ names that would melt a wee birdie like you.”

His gaze is like tar; it burns and sticks to every part of you as those blue eyes pour over your body. You snap loudly, firecracker-bite. “Stop staring at my ass!”

“It's a nice arse, doll.”

He grins over at Simon, his attention only now pulling away from your backside.

You glare at him as your skin prickles. Swallowing, you try to steady your irritation before you get yourself into any more trouble than necessary. Better to get your uncle and get out of here.

Their stares fall to your hands as they watch you pull out your phone. You flip through your contacts, but Johnny’s talking before you get a chance to even breathe.

“Police aren't gontae do you much good,” he says, almost too chipper, as if that means anything at all to you.

“I’m not,” you retort impatiently. “Neither of you have done anything illegal enough to stick yet.”

You could try to pin them for assault, but you aren’t sure you’d find a jury on the planet that would convict a pair of men—UK’s finest in fatigues and all—over hassling their soulmate. You wince—alleged soulmate.

You click on the contact, but your phone’s out of your hand faster than you can even react, and when you glance up, Simon has plucked it up, shoving it into his backpocket. What the fuck does he think he’s doing? He has no right!

Your hands ball into fists. “Give it back!”

“Not done talkin’ yet, sweetheart.”

“Yes, we are!” you snap, holding your hand out impatiently, foot tapping to the pattering of your swiftly-beating heart, a twist of nerves and ferocity. “Give it back.”

You think, under that mask, he’s grinning. You know Johnny, positioned behind you, is. His snickers are impossible to ignore. Your face is warm as you hiss, staring at Simon expectantly—tap, tap, tap…

“I’m no’ givin’ it back,” he retorts, “‘til we get your name, sweetheart. You think we’re goin’ to let you walk away from us?”

Your riposte is less measured than you’d like, belaying your exasperation that saps into outrage. “I don’t expect you to let me do anything. You don’t have a goddamn say in what I do!”

Simon stiffens at that solid declaration, and his hands fall away from their folded position. He’s reaching for you at the same time Johnny smirks—you can feel it like a presence in the back of your mind. You’ve half a mind to whirl around and slap him across the face—see if he keeps smiling after that. But you have a feeling that would only make everything exponentially worse, especially given how Simon’s meaty hands clasp around your upper arms, dragging them to your sides.

“Oh, you’re in trouble now,” Johnny chuckles against your shoulder, his head low, and that stupid, fucking mohawk tickles against your neck.

You hiss, kicking out, but aren’t given much leeway as you’re dragged squarely in front of Simon. There is a moment, a knee-quivering, terribly self-conscious moment, when you feel his presence shadow over you, and you swallow. His hands are like brands on your skin, burning straight through your sleeves; the best you can manage is to stand up straight. It doesn’t inspire much confidence.

Simon gives an indiscernible nod over his shoulder. “Johnny.”

There is no command there, but somehow, Johnny seems to find one. He grins—a pearly, crooked thing—and turns on his heels. When he turns past a corner, he’s gone, and you’re left with a beastly thing. Short breaths through your nose, you do not look at Simon fully. You can’t. Your stomach twists instead.

There must be some sense of reason—something you can appeal to. You bite your lip and consider your angle here, but it’s considerably shaded.

“Where’d you send him?” you ask, spine straight to give yourself as much height as you can and certainly not because his hands feel like lightning strikes down your central nervous system.

“To find us a nice, quiet corner, doll.”

“For what?” you yelp, and you’re yanking at his hands, at his wrists, at anything you can reach.

“So we can tell you how it is, sweetheart.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you squeak just as Simon’s thick arm spans your middle, more frantic glances to the passerby.

But no one seems inclined to help when everytime someone looks oddly in your direction, Simon just barks out, “My soulmate.” Everyone’s eyes avert after that.

But you still struggle against him, your palms flattening to his chest. You glance up at him, feeling uncertain, perhaps even shy, because your eyes flicker across the dips of his covered face, and all you can find in your head is lovely, lovely.

You think he has to be scarred, disfigured perhaps. Something of an equal measure to cover one’s own face so thoroughly. But even so, your heart beats in firm timing—he’s lovely, he’s lovely, he’s yours.

Yours. You’ve never liked the sound of it so much.

When Johnny returns, it’s with a tempered grin, and that alarms you even more, especially when he says in quivering excitement, “Found an empty gate. She’ll appreciate that.”

“I’ll appreciate it?” you squawk like a parrot.

But Simon already has you thrown up in his arms, and Johnny’s achieving the impressive feat of managing all three of the suitcases. They bring you through crowds until it begins to thin out, and the lights are dimmed as you cross into a different concourse.

The hallways bleed into a gentle opening—an unoccupied gate, just as Johnny said. It’s eerie, looking at the space that’s usually so full of sound and finding it quiet, the only noises being distant crowds and the mechanical whirls of this and that.

Simon sits you down on one of the seats amidst the waiting area, and you blink at the two of them, half-indignant, half-perplexed. Because Johnny crouches down in front of you, and you’re looking at him like he’s crazy.

“If this is some weird attempt to convince me I should ever want to willingly spend time with the two of you, it isn’t working,” you say, but even you’re aware of the slight tremulousness of your words. “In fact, you’re not giving me a good reason that I shouldn’t just call the cops.”

But Johnny’s expression is soft amidst his amusement. “Aw, doll, ye wouldnae want to do that.”

“And—and why not?”

You nearly jolt when you feel hands on your shoulders, and you whip around to see Simon standing behind you, his fingers gentle but firm as they caress the space above your collarbone.

“Because it’ll make the Lt. upset,” Johnny says lightly, “and he gets pretty heavy-handed when he’s upset.”

You jolt, almost out of the chair. “He’d hit me?”

Johnny is immediately appalled, then bashful. “Jesus, no, doll. I could’ve worded that better, I suppose.”

You feel tight, like a wound-up toy, and when Simon squeezes your shoulders, those big hands of his as much a warning as a boon, you try to peek back at him nervously. Instead you only feel a tenderness as chapped lips press to the back of your neck, to your exposed shoulder.

“Not you,” Simon rumbles. “Couldn't hurt you. Just look at you.”

Johnny chirps with a grin, “Bonnie, wee doll.”

You freeze, a soft, surprised sound escaping you, and when you crane back to peek at the one pressed to your back, you find Simon has pulled up his balaclava. He nudges against your shoulder, pecking little kisses along your skin. His stubble scratches and sends a wave of goosebumps down your neck.

“What—what are you doing?” you stammer as you grow squirmy and deliciously warm.

That prominent demand returns, but it's quieter this time, more persuasive. “Tell us your name, love.”

You barely have a moment to register those words before Johnny's patting your thighs, nudging them apart until he's nestled up against you, his head drooped against your belly as he stares up at you with wide, pleading eyes. Puppish. Sweet.

“Just answer the question, doll. That's all we ask.”

You try to gather up any sense of fire or even smoke, but they've smothered your indignation under their gaze, and you're left, dry-mouthed and trembling in uncertainty.

“Why?” you squeak.

It's a stupid question. You know why.

You feel the curve of his nose, hot air blown against your neck. “Just give us a fuckin’ answer.”

“We won't risk losing track of ye, doll,” Johnny adds.

His hands knead your thighs through the material of your pants, and you try not to flinch when they slide higher to wrap around your hips. He stares up at you—somehow, you feel yourself breaking to his pathetic expression.

“Come on,” Johnny coos as Simon nuzzles your neck. “Your name. That's all.”

Something by the way they beg tells you that your name's all they would need to find you again, to weasel their way into your life, to wrap themselves completely around you. You've always wanted to find your soulmate, but this feels like a mockery of everything you sought.

And maybe, just maybe, you like the desperate look in Johnny's eyes as he begs you for just a scrap of your attention. Maybe your blood rushes warm and sweet at Simon's insistent touching. Maybe it's nice to be desired.

“I don't know,” you reply in false consideration. “You haven't even introduced yourselves to me either. How's that fair?”

Johnny freezes between your thighs, and behind you, Simon's mouth pauses on the curve of your throat. Then they both begin to laugh.

And you feel dreadfully left out.

Their laughter is pleasant, but it's also unexpected. A twinge of self-consciousness heats your cheeks.

“What's so funny?” you snap.

Johnny snickers. “Sorry, doll, I think we got too far ahead of ourselves.”

You consider slapping his head but withhold. You're rewarded with their names, albeit only from Johnny, who gives a bold grin as he brings forth the same names you'd come to know through shoddy guesswork.

“And yours?”

The words part from your tongue like fly strips, but Johnny seems delighted. Simon seems tolerant of the delay at best. His hand curls around the back of your neck the same second he pushes the hair from the nape of your neck. Another kiss. Another patter of your heart. You try to turn, but you’re firmly set looking forward, looking down to Johnny’s indulgent expression. He strokes your thighs, up and down.

Something inside you feels sharp and fractious, but it comes out timid. “Can we skip to the punchline please?”

They are both still. Johnny’s head is tilted so warmly, and it burns you up inside. It’s a beautiful gesture, one you would have greatly enjoyed gushing to your mother about—my Johnny tips his head to the side like a dog when he’s perplexed, isn’t he cute? Something that pangs affectionately in your chest but mostly aches now because it feels like he’s making fun of you in a uniquely cruel way.

Simon’s jaw sits in the curve of your shoulder as he stares at you. “You think we’re having a laugh?”

“Are you?” you counter waspishly, turning just enough to catch a glimpse of his mouth—pallid face, rosy lips.

You would have thought you accused them of ritualistically skinning infants in front of their mothers by the way Johnny’s face falls. Simon’s lips pin into a thin line. Something tickles in the back of your mind that you might have crossed an invisible boundary denoting Simon’s patience for your resistance.

His hand tightens on the back of your neck, and you squeak, arching your neck in the direction he pulls you—just a smidge towards him. “Am I laughing, pet?”

“No,” you whisper, your tongue stuck to the roof of your dry mouth.

“Is Johnny laughing?”

You glance down at him, how Johnny’s got his cheek against the fat of your thigh, blinking up at you. His thumbs dig into your hips; his nails are blunted. He’s quiet, petulant almost.

Your response is barely more than a breath. “No?”

“Mm. That’s what I thought.” His mouth skims along your nap, across your shoulder, before you feel the slightest press of teeth. “I don’t want to hear anything like that again, doll.”

That doesn’t assuage your bubbling panic. “But—but there can’t be two of you. People don’t have two soulmates. That’s not a thing.”

Nothing more than tabloid slop.

“Does it feel like a lie?”

You swallow, but it sits heavy in your gut. No, it doesn’t.

“Then I don’t want to hear you worryin’ about that. Not your concern, doll.”

You exhale, giving a tiny nod. You’re still wrung tight as a fist, but you manage a semblance of peace. Beneath you, to your feet, Johnny beams. When he kisses your clothed thigh, you feel your heart in your throat.

“Aye, glad that’s settled. Dinnae fash a bit, darling.” He’s chattering between your legs, nuzzling you. “We’ve got ye handled. We’ve got a bonnie flat up in Manchester—not that there’s much to it. It’s rather spartan, but I’m sure you’ll fix it up nice, doll—”

“I—-what?” You blink several times. “I’m not moving in with you!”

Simon grumbles at that, and when you turn, it looks like he’s flicking through your phone. How the hell did he get that open? Better question: what is he doing? You huff, leaning over to reach for it, but Johnny’s got you by the waist, and he’s drawing you close all at once.

“Oh, aye, not immediately,” Johnny remarks, and he’s everywhere, all around you, “but in time. You’ll like it there. Bonnie place for our bonnie lass—”

“Johnny—” You’re pushing at his face. “—what is—Simon, what are you—?”

“Adding our contacts, pet.” He must finish his task because you feel him behind you again, your phone once again tucked out of your reach. “Nice picture on your homescreen. You and your friends at the beach, love?”

You flush. “Fuck off.”

“Oh, aye, send me a copy, Lt.?”

Simon’s smile curves against the back of your neck. “Already done, Johnny.”

You send them both looks of disbelief. How do they manage to do this? Make you feel like a spinning top? You’ve got no sense of direction beyond them, the only solid objects in your periphery. Oh, you’re in trouble. Nothing will ever be fair if they can gang up on you so seamlessly.

You shove Johnny’s hands off your thighs, but he slides them right back up, cupping the swell of your ass until you’re practically sitting on him.

“Stop that,” you protest, huffing.

“Stop what, doll?” murmurs Johnny as his head falls between your thighs again.

“The—Simon!” you squawk when you feel him slide your shirt down your shoulder until he’s mouthing at bare skin.

Your bra strap is slid to the side, and you whip around to smack him, but his lips fall over a sensitive spot on your neck. Warmth pours through your stomach as a soft sound escapes you in some pathetic turn of a sigh. Your face burns.

“Oi, there it is,” Simon whispers. “Think she’ll purr like a kitten, eh, Johnny?”

“She’s got the claws for it.”

There’s a sweet sort of joke in there, one that twists your stomach with embarrassment. Maybe if you’d known them longer than just this last hour, you’d chuckle, but instead, it strikes something self-conscious in you. You clamp up.

“What do you think, Johnny? Make her purr?”

A sound parts from you like a sputtering car. “Excuse me?”

But Johnny’s fingers are already looped into the waistband of your jeans, and when he pops the button, you squeal, your hands darting down between your thighs.

Your words are incensed. “What the hell are you doing?!”

Johnny grins up at you impishly, palms slid into the layer between your jeans and your underwear like he has any right to it. “C’mon, doll. Lift yer hips fer me.”

Oh? You wonder how he’d like a smack against the side of the head, but you don’t get much of anything when Simon grabs your chin, drawing your face to his. That nibbling mouth crashes into yours, and you know it’s a distraction—you know it is—but it’s hard to focus on anything else as his lips work yours in prompting, little circles as if trying to part them.

Your lungs swell like they’re packed with coals, and you feel it in each dragging breath, snatched between his assaultive kisses. He pecks and teases your lips with a firm authority that makes you certain that this isn’t a laugh to either of them. Couldn’t be. Hard to be anything other than sincere, you’d think, from how he cups your neck and slants into you, into your space.

It’s enough to distract you all together from Johnny between your thighs because it’s entirely too late when he shifts your hips until you find yourself suddenly bare on the disgusting airport seat. You squeak in displeasure, trying to yank from Simon’s mouth.

“Mm, that’s—mm, Simon, don’t!—that’s gross,” you mutter against his lips.

“My tongue?” Simon retorts with a heavy breath. “Better not be.”

You sniff, pushing Simon’s face when he tries to overtake you again. “No! The—the seat. Christ, you two. The fucking seat. God fucking knows what’s—”

“Yer right, doll,” Johnny agrees with a too-quick nod.

Not even a second later, he’s shucking his jacket. “I’ve got you set, darling.”

You think the weird squeak that occurs when you’re suddenly set in front of Johnny, sans jacket, must come from you. It has to, mortifyingly enough. But really, how else were you supposed to react when he’s suddenly clad in a tight, white undershirt that stretches across his chest in a way that makes you squirm? Your mouth is unbearably dry as you attempt to swallow. It feels like sandpaper.

His voice is jovial, but those fingers of his flex into your pliant flesh. “Aw, she likes that, doesn't she, Lt.? All sweet and quiet.”

“She’s wiggling already,” Simon murmurs.

You huff, but there’s nothing for you to say as Johnny taps your hips. “Up fer me, lass.”

“I—I don’t—”

You’re kissed again, but not by Simon. Johnny’s lips are warm, honeyed. He’s up on his knees, hand spread over your cheek as you’re pulled to him. Your blood rushes, but what is there to do beyond settle into his firm direction?

“Shoulda thought o’ it, doll,” he forces through your mouth, into your cavernous chest. “Ye deserve better than that. The best. The best for our lass.”

Johnny’s words slither into the center of you, and it’s snug inside some puzzle piece that makes up a shattered vision of who you are, who you know yourself to be. His soft praises feel good, balming to some bruise you hadn’t noticed until it was explicitly pressed.

“C’mon, doll. Hips up,” he prompts again.

Your hands brace the arms of the chair as Johnny pushes his jacket underneath you, even as he’s still kissing you. There’s a second set of lips trailing up your shoulder, towards the column of your neck. 

Simon pauses at your ear with a rumbling chuckle, and you think he glances at Johnny. “She’ll soak through it, Johnny. Shoulda folded it.”

“Aye, forgive me for being a wee bit impatient, Lt.,” Johnny retorts.

You make a disgruntled whine, panting as you pull from him. “You two are the worst.”

They both laugh at that. You hadn’t meant to be funny.

But in the moment of distraction, that uncertainty pooling in your belly splashes up your throat. “And we really shouldn’t be—”

There it is. That firm clasp to your nape. Simon tilts your head, kissing your throat. “No. You’re exactly where you should be. Now let Johnny in, pet.”

Johnny taps your thighs. You’re trying to find your scandal, but all you feel is that bubbling salacity that toils, low and slow. Your skin prickles with goosebumps. Could you really…? No, right? You’re not—you can’t—

“Shh, I ken,” Johnny coos. “Scary, love? That’s alright.”

“What are we, pet?” Simon rumbles; he nips the space just below your ear, and you nearly jump out of your skin. 

“My soulmates?”

It’s hard to swallow, but you manage it, manifest it to the best of your ability.

Then Johnny jumps in again. “That’s right. Fated, aye? So whatever’s meant to be?”

Does that make sense, or is your brain so scrambled by their caresses all over your skin that anything makes sense? His hands sit between your thighs, and he exerts gentle pressure. Just a nudge. Johnny’s fingers tuck against you, his thumb running over the center of you, and your lip quivers as you blink down at him, owlish.

“Meant to be, huh?” Simon murmurs to you, but you can hardly even listen. “Ours, hm? You're gonna be a sweet, little thing?”

“I’m not always sweet,” you gasp back.

You almost cry out in surprise when Johnny’s fingers slide through your seam, warm and wet. He raises his thumb to his mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Your face might burn right off. “Wait, don’t—”

“Don't?” Johnny says, amused.

His head is ducked as he pecks your inner thighs, along the swell of your flesh to your mound. He grips your hips, tilting you, and you're hesitant, nervously clinging to his forearms. You blink frantically between him and up to Simon.

Simon's expression is unchanged, an even sort of indulgent. “We've a lot to settle, pet. Makin’ us chase you, and all that whingeing...”

You want to protest, to yell at him, but just at the moment of his words, Johnny splits you open. You tremble when his tongue parts you with a lick that he repeats until he's stroking your nub. You make a sound you’ve never heard pulled from your own lips, an equal divination of nerves and whimpered surprise. Your thighs quake, trying to lock shut. But he’s thought ahead of you—they both have—and Johnny’s shoulders are wedged up nicely.

The hand on the back of your neck squeezes, thumb spanning out to stroke your nape. Simon’s words are low, like a rumble, nothing more than a suggestion that bleeds into command, “Easy, pet. Easy. We’ll try that again, hm?”

You expect Johnny’s mouth back on your cunt, but the way he hitches his shoulders, tucks low and under until he’s got the meat of your thighs in his palms. His ears are warm, you note, your face burning; you imagine he may feel the same, but nix the embarrassment for a hunger you can see in those blue, blue eyes. When he kisses your seam, you nearly jump out of your skin again.

“Johnny,” you whisper, your hips jolting.

His tongue slides through your pussy, finding your nub. You gasp and bite your lip. He's holding you still, his grip firm, those fingers digging into your thighs. His tongue works over you—flicking, tasting. You almost cry when he licks to your entrance, teasing the tight opening.

Simon's at your neck. “Good girl. That's our good girl.”

You don't feel like much of anything right now. Perhaps a loaded string? A lodged coil? Your belly is warm, gooey, and you kick out with a moan when Johnny's tongue pierces your softening cunt.

“How's she taste, Johnny?” Simon asks.

All Johnny replies is a grunt that vibrates in your center. You think Simon's grinning, but your eyes aren't opened far enough to see.

“O-oh, please…please…” you whine in a way you're ashamed to have done—to beg for anything is no less than a travesty, but your future does not look so fortuitous if you're bound to the attentions of these two men.

One hand leaves your hips, and he's strumming your clit. You moan, feeling it pulse throughout your whole body.

Terrible, terrible. What have they done to you? What if someone sees?

You have no idea how you'd explain why you've got this perfect stranger's tongue in your pussy anymore than you could explain the inner workings of the sheer audacity that these two men believe this to ever be a good idea.

But all those thoughts are shot away when you feel two fingers, nails blunted, stubby and thick, press into your cunt.

You cry out, arching. “Johnny!”

He crooks his fingers a few times before pumping those digits. Your pussy makes a terribly sloppy sound that burns your face. You feel full. Your cunt whines that it is stretched, and it is stinging, and that hand from the back of your neck slides across your throat.

Simon tugs your head back. You choke, blinking wide-eyed. He's above you, leaning, and those dark eyes pour into yours. You try to focus, but Johnny's tongue swirls over your clit—your hips are trembling.

“You'll take us like a champ,” Simon denotes, another rumble, and you're nearly gone. “Good girl.”

You blink, and he's kissing you. His mouth slanted over yours, he's ravaging your lips, taking what he can and swallowing your moans. When Simon parts your lips, Johnny's tongue flicks across your clit, and you cry.

He's there, and they're everywhere, and you're squirming as you feel pressure build in your stomach, tight as a knot. Simon licks inside your mouth; Johnny's working your little nub. It's a synchronicity that works in perfect time to tear you apart.

Then Johnny pulls back until it's only his fingers stretching your entrance, only his thumb worrying your clit, but it's enough, it's enough—Simon pulls from your lips, panting.

They both are. And you're quaking as your climax seeds in your belly.

But Johnny slows down.

Alarm pours through you as you lose your orgasm. “What—what are you…?” You sniff, frowning, your eyes teary. “Don't stop. More.”

“We'll want to see you again,” Ghost interrupts. “Soon.”

“Tomorrow,” Johnny adds helpfully.

You almost don't register their words. You're so wet, and your clit aches. Johnny's fingers rest inside your pussy, and you clench around them helplessly, trying to force your orgasm, but they won't let you.

Johnny slides his fingers out. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” you repeat, your tone breathless.

“Tomorrow, doll,” affirms Johnny. “Tell us ‘tomorrow’, and we can attend to that drooling, wee cunt, aye?”

Your chest tightens. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Something in your pride holds firm. Your eyes flash down to Johnny, on his knees between your thighs, but it feels like he's hovering over you, pressing you down with his weight until you can't breathe. You wonder what that would feel like; you have an inkling he'd love to demonstrate.

“Ye must decide, doll,” Johnny says after a moment of fraught silence, “or else I'll have to leave you to the Lt., and love, that's not a position I'd want for yer first.”

Your eyes widen as you try to glance up to Simon. He's pulled his mask down over his nose, the corner of his mouth raised, and you swear his gaze smolders with amusement.

Johnny rests his head against the meat of your inner thigh, peering up at you. “Wrung up, all sweet and trembling. Yer first orgasm with us shouldnae be mean, you ken.”

You make a strangled sound at that, your lip quivering. You swallow. Damn your pride, right? You have to. You absolutely have to.

Right? Right.

“Okay,” you squeak—it's not much of anything, but it's enough of an affirmative that both men shift in eagerness. “Alright. Tomorrow, then.”

Johnny grins. “Good. That's what I like to hear, doll.”

You wait a moment before impatiently shuffling. “Can—can you—?”

Johnny laughs. It's hearty and wracks you down to your core, only accented by the muted chuckle from behind you as Simon's lips trace your shoulder again, hand to your nape.

“You'll give us a good one, won't ye?” Johnny asks as his fingers sink into your softness once more.

You clench around them, whimpering, your hips rocking. The burn is immediately remedied by the stroking of your clit.

“Mmph, Johnny,” you whine. “More.”

“More?” The chuckle in his voice makes you squirm. “Ye want more, doll? Can yer cunny even take more? You’re strangling the two, love.”

“Stop teasing,” you snap, your stomach knotting. “Please.”

When he slides in a third finger, you gasp. Your cunt stings at the stretch, but it's almost enough, almost, almost—

Simon sucks the side of your neck, just below your ear, and every part of you unravels at once in a sharp cry.

You stiffen, clamping on Johnny's fingers—short, stunned whines escaping you when you cum. It almost sounds like they're chuckling as Johnny pumps his fingers through your climax until you're limp against the chair.

You blink up at Simon, trying to focus your eyes. He's amused; you glare.

“Seems you've got a little sweet spot behind your ear,” Simon murmurs, and his lips mist over your temple. “Good to know.”

“Awfy good to know,” Johnny groans.

He pulls his fingers out, soaked and sticky, before wiping them on his jacket underneath you. Then he's wiping you, and you're fresh with mortification.

“She soak it through?” Simon asks.

You're not sure you could be more embarrassed until Johnny's reply, “Nah, not completely. But we'll have another try at it tomorrow.”

Simon cups your chin, tilting your face to his. “That right, pet?”

You can't do much more than make a soft sound, and Simon kisses you shortly. You're a little fuzzy, your head brimming with cotton. Johnny rubs your thighs and tells you that you did so nice for them. They tug up your clothes, putting you back to rights.

“Don't suppose we could convince you to let us take ye home, huh, doll?” Johnny asks, and for a moment, you almost say ‘yes.’

But you decline. “I—uh, I really need to call my uncle. He's probably worried sick.”

“He's picking you up?” from Simon as he kneads your shoulders.

You nod, brows furrowed. “Just need to give him a call.”

Wordlessly, Simon slips you your cellphone into your lap from what you assume was his back pocket. You try to summon some rage, but mostly, you feel spent and loose. You really do need to call your uncle before he burns the place down.

“You give him a ring,” Johnny says, his tone bright. “We'll stay with you until he picks you up.”

Your fingers tremble. Are they supposed to tremble? You nearly drop your phone, but when you fumble the device, Johnny catches it between your legs.

“Got it,” he says quickly, a slow smile pouring across his face. “Careful, doll.”

Johnny presses the phone into your hand the same moment that Simon kisses the top of your head, one hard press of the lips in something that bleeds of momentary comfort—you feel both touches as one and the same, glancing down to make sure Johnny's not kissing your palms.

“Go on, pet.”

You dial your uncle, something you probably should have done several minutes prior. He answers on the first ring, your phone lighting bright against the shadow of your face.

“Hey, kid. You off your flight?”

You roll your eyes. You thought he might stop the ‘kid’ part when you hit your twenties, but no dice.

“Mmhm,” you manage.

There's a pause, then: “Your flight get delayed?”

It's an easy out he gives you, so you take it. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“It's all right, sweetpea. Which terminal?”

You look around wildly between Simon and Johnny, waiting for their confirmation, then croak out an answer. Your uncle pauses for so long you're worried he heard them.

Then he continues right on, “On it. I'll see you in five.”

You swallow, giving him a whispered goodbye before hanging up. Then you glance over at Simon and Johnny.

“This is the part where you say ‘goodbye’.”

They are silent for a moment, exchanging a glance that reads hard to the corner of your eyes, before Johnny reminds you, almost promptingly, “We'll stay until you're picked up, doll. Then we'll go.”

About the same second, there’s an unfamiliar ringtone that echoes through the abandoned gate, some generic default ringtone. You startle, searching for an interloper amongst the bright lights. There is no one but Simon grabbing his phone, raising it to his ear with a curt, “Captain—”

Simon departs from the group, peeling off like it’s something of an inevitability, and you watch his shoulders bunch as he steers away. You’re left with Johnny, who looks at you in some sort of indulgent way, His palms still work up and down your legs.

Johnny taps your chin. “You with me?”

You nod, but your tongue flattens in your mouth, dry. “Mmhm.”

There is something tender amidst the smug tilt of his smirk. He raises on his knees, arm sliding around your neck as he presses his cheek to yours. “I’d like you to stand fer me,” he says in the most common-sense way possible, as if your shaky knees are a choice you’ve made. “Can ye do that?”

His arms loop under yours, and it’s not necessary, but you’re on your feet in a single breath. You grapple his forearms, and he looks down at you. A slow, warm blink, then the shortest kiss you’ve ever experienced, barely more than a peck. A comfort, you think. You can walk—you know you can—but maybe buckling at the knees and making him carry you wouldn’t be too bad.

You flush at the thought, and how his grin widens, you almost think he can hear it.

He strokes your hair, cupping the back of your neck. You reach for your suitcase; you need something concrete to focus on that isn’t the ripple of his heated eyes. But Johnny’s hands slide free of you at the same second, and he snatches it up. All three suitcases once more, competently balanced, and he gives you a swift nod to follow.

You do.

He’s leading you to the entrance of the gate, back to the hustle and bustle of the airport. There are people there now, and you wonder if you have the look of what you’ve done, if anyone can tell, but neither Johnny nor Simon made any comment about the dishevelment of your clothes or any hickies on your neck, of your bee-stung lips and hot face. Still, as you walk, you try to catch glimpses of your reflection in metallic sheen with no such luck.

“I can help carry them,” you argue after a moment, feeling your empty-handedness like a moral failing.

Simon interjects, reconvening with the two of you. “We’ve got it, pet.”

He takes most of the luggage from Johnny, eyes no longer turned to his phone—quick call, whatever it was. They exchange a look, then Simon continues, “We’ll see you off, then be on our way.”

“But I can still help—”

Johnny laughs, and his hand runs over your arm, a spool of goosebumps appearing against his nonchalant touch. He pulls you close and kisses you—kisses you in front of all these people, and maybe they don’t know how significant it is, but you feel like they should.

“You could help,” Johnny says, his tone flittering, “but ye dinnae have to. We’ve got it.”

Your stomach does a barrel roll at his warm eyes and the way his palm slides down to your hip to draw you close in a move that feels like a lifetime old, as if you’ve felt it and known it to the marrow of your bones, and somehow he’s managed to crack you open to discover the sweet flesh inside.

He touches you like he knows everything about you, and there is a part of that which makes you feel hazy.

Simon stands only a stride away, but he watches, his expression covered by his mask put to rights, but you think—and it’s the strangest thing—but you think that you can make out the tiny, amused smile etched against his lips from beneath the balaclava. As if you know him just as intimately.

Maybe that is what it’s supposed to be like, and maybe when Johnny kisses you again, the shortest thing, and his nose brushes against yours, you will one day be able to stifle the electric shock that beams down your spine. He sweeps a kiss to your lips as if it’s nothing more than breathing.

A voice echoes down the hall, “Hands off my niece, lads.”

You stiffen at once. There are a million different thoughts that all strike you at once, but the first is the most casual tone you’d ever heard your uncle use, ever. Captain John Price of the SAS, career soldier, and longtime opponent of everything fun in your life has never been so casual towards unknown men that dare to rest even their eyes on your figure. You jolt to break some distance, but Johnny’s arm is around your waist, thumb cradling your hip.

But what was once gentle strokes has frozen into what you can only assume is surprise.

Then it’s all shattered to bits as Johnny opens his fat mouth. “Captain.”

They know each other. You think your mouth drops open, a small ‘o’ that somehow carries the heft of your alarm. They know each other? Of course, they know each other. You knew they were some sort of military, but you hadn’t thought—why would you think…?

Your uncle stops in front of the three of you—denims, t-shirt, some sort of jacket that folds over his frame, but even in his civvies, there’s no accounting for the authority you feel in the raise of his brow. His gaze falls heavy on Johnny’s hand, to Simon's cautious hovering.

“I see you lot managed to meet up,” he remarks, and there’s a flatness to his tone. “It’ll be a long ride, friendly or not, if you don’t take your hand off my niece’s waist, MacTavish.”

“I—he’s—” You try, you really do, but there isn’t much burn to your words; they’re charred to ash before they fall from tongue. “I—”

Johnny tilts his head, a glance towards you. “Your niece?”

“All her life.” Price folds his arms, his shoulders pulling back. “Hands off.”

You give a small wiggle to peel away from Johnny—anything you can to deescalate the tension. Johnny's hand slides down your hip as if soothing, embellished by a gentle pat to your bottom. You manage not to jump when he does so, but your eyes certainly widen.

Simon takes a step in front of you, his hand extended. “She's ours, captain. Soulmates.”

You're not sure Price could look any more surprised than if Simon had punched him across the face. His fists ball up, but he lets out a deep breath.

“No, she's not,” Price remarks slowly. “Can't be. You two are already…”

His words break off, and he's staring at the three of you, his gaze squinted in suspicion. You're not sure what he sees in you—perhaps hiked shoulders, or your nervous shuffling from foot to foot. Maybe, just maybe, it might be in the way you peek up at Simon and Johnny, as if gauging that they are nearby, looking to them for your turn of mood.

Whatever it is, he sighs. “Her mother's not going to be pleased.”

On the contrary, you'd think, but you suppose the distance might sting, what with a vast ocean between them.

You aren’t given much time to dwell on it before Johnny’s giving you a gentle nudge, his hand squeezing your hip. “The drive to your house gives us plenty of time to come up with what ta say—”

“What?” Your eyes are wide. “No, you said you were only here until I got picked up. Congrats, you can go now.”

When your uncle gives a deep sigh, you glance over at Johnny and Simon, their amused expressions.

Your brows furrow. “What am I missing here?”

“I’m their ride, sweetpea,” Price remarks, a glare in their direction.

Oh, god, not the four of you crunched into your uncle’s SUV. You’ll have to call shotgun. And if they think they’re following you home, they’ve got another thing coming to them. They can’t just spring this on you, right?

“You know, putting aside the whole awkward soulmate deal,” you huff, “you think it would have been maybe a little important to mention that I’m not the only one you were picking up today?”

Price’s brows raise, and he crosses his arms in that way he does when you’re toeing the limit of his annoyance. “Didn’t think it’d be that important. Was just dog-sitting for them.”

“You have a dog?” you squeak, turning wildly to the two men.

Johnny looks endeared by your whining, but Simon merely gives you an even look. “That a problem?”

You sniff. “Does it slobber? I don’t like big, slobbering dogs.”

“Ah, doll, you’ll come around,” Johnny cheers. “After all, you’ve got three of ‘em now.”

You desperately want to slap him upside the head. Instead, you stomp your foot slightly, trying to yank your luggage from beside Johnny. He swipes it up faster than you find possible, balancing his own and yours with a dexterity you’d be jealous of if you weren’t so irritated.

Johnny’s grin is obnoxious. “Ready to head to the car, doll?”

You grumble as you scurry forward, measuring your way out of the familiar airport. Just five minutes in a silent room to reorganize your thoughts would be damn detoxing right now, but instead, you’re left to suffer with Johnny’s performative chauvinism for carrying both bags as well as his tempered smirk, how he looks at you and it’s like you’re laid out right in front of him for the plucking. To endure Simon’s darkened eyes, that terrible mask, and his expectation that you will roll over and accept every change for the sheer virtue of being soulmates, as if that has ever solved any problem without the burden of compromise and labor behind it.

The best you can do is keep a few strides away to alleviate some of the awkwardness stewing behind you at your pushy soulmates and your uncle’s disapproving looks in their direction. But as you start to draw a real distance, you’re suddenly grabbed by the wrist.

“Hey—!”

You spin around, temper hot and tongue razor-sharp, but you do not get out a single further work before Simon loosens his grip on you. His fingers caress the silk of your skin, almost indulgent in a manner you aren’t sure of accepting.

His touch is firm but careful; his eyes, doubly so. “Don’t run off. Stay close.”

Your face heats at that, but you glance at your uncle, who walks along with a pinched look that turns uncomfortable at the intimacy of a mate drawing the other half of his soul closer to order obedience as if it’s something he’s due by right. 

You burn to give a cutting reply, but your uncle steps forward, his callused hand on your back. “I’ve got her, Simon.”

Simon looks like he wants to protest, and maybe there’s some comfort in the brush of his thumb against your pulse, but you are sure you’re stronger than that. Still, he seems to bend to whatever authority he finds in Price as he steps back. But his gaze doesn’t falter, and it’s warm against your back, prickling the exposed flesh of your neck, as if there’s little he wouldn’t give for another touch.

Price pats your back, firm and encouraging.

Maybe you expected a bit more yelling, or at the very least were hoping for some threats of bodily harm, but your uncle seems to have taken the whole misadventure in stride, far more calmly than you feel. But he is silent, and to that effect, he must be stewing in it. His hand on your shoulder, he guides you along, distinctly away from the two men that stalk behind you.

Every once in a few steps, one of them—usually Johnny—will try to rush up next to you, take the side of you that’s not covered by your uncle, but Price just swiftly adjusts you in front of him. Eventually, they stop trying altogether, resigned to follow.

A part of you almost feels like you’ve done something wrong, but you didn’t ask for any of this.

You peek up at Price. “Are you angry?”

“About what?” His expression is even, but his mustache twitches. “Fate’s fate. Nothing can be done—”

“You look angry,” you interrupt, your voice quiet, and perhaps there’s a tremor of uncertainty. “Is this a bad thing?”

He pauses, his hand squeezing your shoulder as he looks down at you, then he shakes his head. “No. No, it’s fine. They’re good men. You don’t need to be frightened of anything.”

“Then why are you angry?”

Price sighs. “I’m not angry. I’m…coming to terms with it.” His hand grazes over your head, lightly ruffling your hair, much to your continued annoyance. “Just a strange thought, s’all. But it doesn’t matter how I feel. Whatever makes you comfortable, kid.”

You peer up at your uncle, and for a moment, your earliest memories pour forth of him—barely a teenager as he shows you how to feed the wild ducks in your grandparents’ pond. He carries you down to the water’s edge and sticks your toes in before your mother screams at him from the window to be careful, and the way he grinned back at her, the certainty in his voice when he tells her she worries too much.

Your connection has been wrought between the bars in your mothers’ cell and the summers spent running around the county. You wonder when you grew up in the back of his mind, or if he’s always seen you as the whiny, snot-nosed niece he takes out for ice cream when he’s on leave.

You manage a smile. “Well, if you say it’s fine, maybe I’ll give them a chance.”

He chuckles at that. “Eh, you won’t have much choice. Not how it works, sweetpea. But I appreciate the trust in my recommendation. You’ll like ‘em; you just gotta not be afraid to stand your ground, although I don’t ever remember you having a problem with that.”

His tone is teasing, and you roll your eyes.

“And besides, if they make you uncomfortable, I can always make them regret it,” he adds.

You take a tiny peek over your shoulder to them—your soulmates, your two soulmates. “You ever heard of someone having two soulmates?”

Price snorts, a small pat to your back. “I have. Uncommon, but I’ve seen it.”

“So they’re probably not punking me, huh?” you ask awkwardly, a sliver of vulnerability that bleeds through.

He stops in place, his hand yanking at your arm until you’re still next to him. “Kid, look at me.”

You do.

“I wouldn’t ever let anyone disrespect you like that,” Price reprimands firmly. “Never. So put that thought away. The lads are genuine in their interest, and if I thought they weren’t, this would be an entirely different situation.”

Your voice is soft, kiddish almost in accepting the reassurance. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He huffs, squeezing your shoulder again. “I trust them with you. Wouldn’t let them near you if I didn’t.”

When you reach the car, Price tugs open the door to the passenger’s side, but just as swiftly, it is knocked closed by a sharp shove. Your eyes widen as you pull back to not get caught in the swing. You’re even more surprised when an arm wraps around your waist, drawing you back against a solid chest, and your stomach twists in nerves. The hand lazily locked around you caresses your hipbone, and you swallow as Johnny casually tilts his head to yours as if he’s held you like this a hundred times.

You try to step forward, but there is another body, broad and insistent, that blocks your exit. You look at your uncle; he does not look amused. Maybe if you look at him pitifully enough, you can force an intervention.

Price’s brows are drawn in sharp concern amidst what appears to be some sort of hesitation. You realize he’s waiting for your objection to act. If you expressed any twinge of discomfort, he would be barking orders and tearing them off you, but he’s letting you take the lead.

And you’re supposed to be brave, or at the very least, accepting, so you focus your gaze on Simon, the craggy outline of his shoulders. Your lack of protest must embolden them because they circle you as if they’re cutting you off from Price, as if he’s managing you away from them for any devious purpose beyond catering to your comfort.

“Our soulmate,” Simon grunts, the words nearly mashed into one from where he stands between you and Price, “so she sits with us.”

Price searches for a glimmer of doubt in your expression. You plaster something significantly more brave than you feel, something that doesn’t belay the twisting of your stomach, or how Johnny’s arms feel blissful as he boxes you in, how you remember sinking against them earlier, and how the memories of the empty terminal make your face heat.

“Alright,” Price says as he heads for the driver’s side.

It is the golden rule, after all: no getting between soulmates. And maybe it doesn’t mean that anyone has to like it, but that’s the way it is.

Johnny digs his fingers into your hips, enough that it almost reminds you of the stinging nettle that decorates cattle fields, and there’s that same burn that follows, pouring up your waist. There is no leeway as Simon rounds the SUV, entering the opposing backseat, and Johnny’s got a hand behind your head, gentle, as he presses you forward to inhabit the middle seat.

They’ve got you tucked up between them, and you know they miss it, the way that your uncle glances into the rearview mirror with a chuckle. You sit between them as if they think you might run. Maybe you will; maybe it would be fun.

But Simon’s hand settles on your thigh, his thumb rubbing against the denim of your jeans as if to remind himself that you are presently trapped between them, and Johnny has his arm cresting the back of your seat as he hovers against your neck, sneaking kisses against the softness of your throat when he thinks Price is suitably distracted while driving.

Johnny babbles about the plans he has, how swiftly they’ve been developed in the mere two hours since your chance meeting, and how easily their entire lives will be shifted to accommodate you. Because, he posits, he and Simon must have been waiting for you. Has to be—fated and all that. You feel right, so perfectly slotted between them, that he’s not sure how they’ve never felt your absence until right then, until the moment you locked eyes with them. 

And he’s whispering in your ear, his breath hot and sending saccharine shivers down your spine, “Jesus, look at ye, doll. Dinnae think we’ve ever had something so sweet.”