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The signs first started when you saw your flowers dying. Ever since you first started dating John, he always made sure you have fresh flowers in your home.
"A woman should always have something in her home to complement her beauty."
At first, you thought that he was just too busy to go to the flower shop at the corner. He's the captain of one of the best SAS teams in the country. Besides, there were times when your flowers would be a thread short of death before John replaced them. Maybe this is that.
You give him another week to refill the vase. Still the same old flowers. You didn't bring it up to John. He has a lot on his plate at work. You'd be damned to add to his stress in his own space. Peace is something you like to give to John. It's something your husband always loved about you. You were his calm in the storm. That, and you have no idea how to bring it up without sounding whiny.
After a second week of no flowers, you know your marriage is over. You hoped that John would go back to his normal self and you two could resume your life together, but you know better. After John left a few of his supplies at home, you went to drop them off as you always do. Like clockwork, you knew exactly where to go. You've been to this base countless times. You greet familiar faces and give a polite nod to those you don't.
You found them talking in the lounge. Nothing suspicious or scandalous, but it didn't sit right with you. It wasn't until you saw him smile at her. Not the friendly "I've got your back" or the "I'm smiling out of sarcasm" smile. The one where something is whirling inside him. He looks relaxed...happy, almost.
A few weeks after that, you thought to yourself. What's your next move? What do you? Do you confront John? What do you say? What will he say? These questions haunted you, making the days go by slower than ever. Your relationship with John has simmered into that of roommates. You were only married on paper now. He doesn't talk to you much, and you stopped trying to think of ways to get him to. A small part of you had hoped your marriage would survive, but as the days go by, the roots of your marriage dry out.
The house is quiet. Abnormally quiet. It has been since you saw them talking. Both of you are in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner. Despite the distance, you two still act married. After wiping the counters, you decide to break the ice. Ripping the band-aid off.
"Does she make you happy?"
John turns to you in confusion. "Who makes me happy?"
"The woman you were talking to in the lounge. The brunette with the green eyes."
"What about her?"
You smile to yourself. You can't tell if he's getting ready to defend himself or if he's truly confused.
"You like her."
John's brows furrow as he tilts his head to the side.
"What makes you say that?"
You set the rag on the oven's handle. "You know what, John. You look at her the way you used to look at me."
"We were just talking, love. Nothing to be concerned about."
Now you're annoyed. Is this man just denying it to save him the trouble, or is he just oblivious to his own feelings?
"You like her. She likes you. This is more than co-workers getting along and having a chat. I know what I saw, John. You know it too. I saw how you wanted to hold her hand. I saw the way your eyes looked at her lips. Everything I saw told me everything I needed to know."
John's lips tighten in a thin line. He says nothing as you two remain eye contact. This is awkward and uncomfortable. The two of you sit in silence for what seems like forever. Neither of you move from where you stand. It feels like an atomic bomb would go off if you did.
"Answer me this, John...Does she make you happy?"
It takes him a good handful of seconds, but then he nods yes.
"Is she intentional?"
He thinks about it some more before he nods again.
Clamping your lips shut, you walk to one of the kitchen drawers and pull it open. John's blue eyes watch you like a stakeout. Your moves are careful and calm for someone who just found out her husband is attracted to another woman.
You hand him a small stack of papers.
"I had a lawyer draw these up about a week ago. Everything that was yours prior to marriage stays yours and vice versa. Whatever big item we got together, I'll send you the money for my half."
There are only a few times in his life when John Price is speechless. This would be one of those times.
"Don't worry about having to see a judge, too. Given your profession, the judge is giving us special treatment. All we need to do is sign the papers and hand them to my lawyer. He'll take care of it from there."
John takes the papers and stares down at the pen in your other hand. Is he really doing this? Is this happening?
"I'll move out before the weekend is over," John says. It's the least he can do after falling for another woman.
You shake your head. "No need. All my stuff is already packed and at my place."
"Your place?" John's brows might as well reach the top of his forehead.
Nodding, you explain, "I got my own place around the same time the papers got drafted. I couldn't ask you to move out of your own home. You've lived in this place since before we ever got together. It wouldn't be fair."
"Your things..." John hadn't noticed anything had changed around the house. Was he so disconnected from his marriage to notice his wife's stuff going missing? Is it wrong of him to admit he feels a twinge of relief right now? You aren't turning this into a battle. You aren't out for blood. John does feel guilty for being the reason why is marraige is ending. He feels sorry for whatever pain you're feeling.
"Sign the papers, John." You shouldn't be encouraging the end of your marriage. It's crazy. But it would be crazier to fight for a marriage where all efforts are in vain. It takes two people to be married, two people to stay married, and it takes one to end it.
Being the soldier he is, John heeds your orders. He prints his signature on every line marked with an "x". He flips through every sheet until the granite countertop reappears. Keeping the silence, John hands you the stapled papers back. You skim over them to make sure everything is filled out correctly. You'd rather not have to do this a second time.
Seeing that everything is signed, you nod in approval. With your empty hand, you reach inside your back pocket. A small, metal item is placed on the countertop.
"Here's your key."
Not wanting to spend another second of this emotionally draining night, you give John one last look before escorting yourself to the front door.
John calls out to you. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I would've thought you to be more...emotional than this."
The open door allows the cool night's air to enter the building. Goosebumps form on your exposed arms. The chill slithers down your spine. And you can finally breathe again.
"I was. I was emotional ever since you stopped bringing me flowers."
And this would be the last time you and John ever see each other. A relationship that would've ended beautifully ended in a quiet tragedy.
Meanwhile, in the corner of the living room lies a glass container. Its placement is awkward, serving no other purpose than to collect dust. A vessel that John later donates in hopes that it would one day be filled with flowers again.
The click of the pine door finally lets the silence sit in your home. It was full of talk and people, but now, it's just you. You always invite your neighbors to a dinner once a week. They're an elderly couple that only have two children who are busy with their own lives. You figured that since you have nothing else to attend to, you could offer your time to them. Besides, it also made your home feel more alive. A contrast of your daily life.
Your life is predictable. Go to work, come home, grocery store runs, and occasional events to attend to. You hang out with your friends when time permits, but usually, it's just you and the comfort of your own home.
Something wet touches your leg. Cold and familiar. Looking down, a pretty little lad waits for you.
Willow. A rottweiler you got almost a year ago. Not so much for protection, but companionship. Out of all your friends, she's your best girl. Clingly and sassy too, but that comes with the breed. If life gets a little too quiet for your liking, Willow replaces it with her own lovable chaos.
"C'mon, girl. We've got to clean up. It's almost bedtime for us."
If you aren't in bed by a certain hour, Willow becomes whiny. Begging you to come to bed and keep her warm. She does the same with meal times too. Any minute late and she thinks you've entered a famine. If you're late coming home from work, you might as well send her to a shelter. She's a dramatic one.
Entering the kitchen it smells of butter and herbs. Willow is checking for any stray food on the floor. Dishes are piled in the sink. And the counters are in need of a wipe down. Despite cleaning as you cook, there's always a mess that boarderlines sanity. Mr and Mrs. Rhode always offer to help, but you refuse everytime. It just felt wrong to have them clean up your mess. Besides, them being here means that Willow can bother them instead of you while you're busy.
Slowly, your kitchen begins to look presentable. The air still smelled of roasted chicken, but the counters are free from seasonings and the stove isn't cluttered anymore. Wiping the table down, you move your centerpiece onto the counter. A glass vase of seasonal flowers.
You hate it, but every bouqet of flowers brings your mind back to John. Or atleast, the man you married. Sometimes you catch yourself thinking about him and how he's been doing. You're ashamed to admit this, but it was a constant thought in your head during the first few months after the divorce. You thought about them too. If they're still together. Did she move in like you once did? Are they happy? How serious are they?
You don't remeber much of yourself after you left John. You were stuck in a haze. Going about your daily life without much thought or direction. Everything was a blur. Your friends and family were worried and everytime they would ask "Are you ok?", you never knew how to answer. Physically, yes. Mentally, yes. Emotionally, sure. You never signed up for therapy after the divorce. You already knew all the answers, and the unanswered questions, you knew you didn't want. Like "How'd it happen?"
There was a phase of "Did I do something wrong?" But your friends were quick to shut that down. The Rhode's as well. Given that they've been together for so long, they gave you some of their wisdom: "Marriage is choosing to love that person even when you don't think you do. You chose to be with that person in life, so that means you choose them everyday. There's no choice in the matter, because you already made it."
After that, your mind sort of cleared up. Life wasn't so hazy and you actually look time to live. You went into stores you previously walked past and had short, pleasant conversations with strangers. Some conversations weren't about anything important, but they were nice to have. You thanked the men that complimented you instead of brushing them off with indifference. You talked with the women about god knows what.
And it was all because you figured out that John just stopped choosing you. Simple. Nothing you might have done. Nothing about you that drove him to someone else. There was nothing wrong in the marriage. It hurt to admit at first, but John just stopped choosing to love you.
Putting the vase back on the table, you make sure nothing else needs your attention before heading to bed. You change into something comfortable that doesn't smell like chicken. Your hair and teeth are brushed and your face is clean.
Willow is already in her spot (yours) as she waits patiently for her nightly cuddles. The cold cotton feels nice against your legs and Willow makes herself comfortable at your side. Turning off your lamp, you're ready for another predictable and peaceful day to come, knowing that gifting yourself flowers is a sign of love no one can take from you.
every time i see toxic!price fics and its mentioned that he has a kid i always imagine him being cursed with a daughter that fucking hates him.
being his only daughter, it was only natural that you were a daddyâs girl growing up. he spoiled you rotten whenever he could despite your motherâs protests, claiming that his favorite girl should always be treated like a princess.
it makes him so incredibly ill when he realizes too late that youâre not as forgiving as your mother.
it just absolutely kills him once he realizes that as much as you get your looks from your mother, you get your anger and spite from him.
oh john price, you are exactly the kind of man you raised your baby girl to hate.
Notes: Another old bit. Been sitting in the drafts forever and I'm releasing it into the wild. Heavily inspired by @sentientcave's exploration of Price and his ex-wife and brought to the fore again because @anneofgreengabagool keeps reminding me of how much i love hating these men.
---
You've been up for almost 36 hours now, between living your own life, the call, and traveling back to England to sit at Kyle's bedside. The doctors say he's going to make a full recovery. All of the pieces of metal are accounted for, his lung is patched up. They hadn't told you over the phone quite what had happened, but now you've pieced together that a combination of bullets, an explosion, and a partially collapsed building chewed Kyle up and spit him out.
He wakes up slowly. His eyes are a bloodshot but clear as they flutter open. He groans, and you know his throat hurts; he was intubated until just a couple of hours ago. When you open the straw for his little glass of water, he turns to see you with a wince that turns into a tired grin.
"Hey," he rasps.
You press the straw between his lips. "Don't talk. Slow sips. When you're done with this, I'll get your captain."
He obediently, painstakingly, drinks. A third of the way done, he says, "Thank you for coming."
You clench your jaw and resist the urge to dump the rest of the water over his head. "Update your emergency contact." When he opens his mouth so say something else, you jab the straw into the top of his mouth, gentler than you would like. He winces, but starts drinking again. "Don't, Kyle."
The door opens, and in walks Captain John fucking Price, right on time. His beard fluffs up around his smile when he sees Kyle awake.
"Broken, Gaz?"
"You tell me, Cap," Kyle wheezes.
"Well, the building fell, and apparently you tried to catch it." He comes to a stop on the other side of the bed from you. He crosses his arms, you assume to keep from touching and also to be a little intimidating to you.
Now that Kyle is smiling up at him, you put the cup of water down and take a step back. "I'll let the nurses know he's awake."
"You don't have to go." Kyle's puppy dog eyes are both hindered and strengthened by the bruising around his right eye.
You turn your back to pick up your purse and book from the recliner in the corner. "I'm also going to grab something to eat."
"Grab me a sandwich, love."
If looks could kill, Price would be dead three times over. "Eat shit and die."
---
When you make your way back to the room, you find Lieutenant Riley and a man you vaguely recognize as another sergeant waiting for the elevator. You almost donât clock him. The hood of Simonâs jacket is down, leaving his hair looking ruffled. His plain black surgical mask doesnât stand out. And then he turns to you enough that you can see the scars on the other side of his face, his eyebrows popping up.
âYou look exhausted,â he says as a greeting. His companion - the slightly overgrown mohawk is so familiar but you cannot remember his name - looks between the two of you curiously.
âIâm creeping up on forty hours without sleep,â you answer, taking a sip of your coffee and staring at the elevator door instead of looking at him.
âLook good, then,â is all he says.
âJohn MacTavish,â the other one introduces himself, extending a hand.
âUh huh.â You give him a quick glance up and down as the elevator arrives. John âSoapâ MacTavish. Youâre not surprised he doesnât remember meeting you once, a couple of years ago. He looks a bit startled when you step into the elevator instead of taking his hand, but follows Simonâs lead and doesnât comment further.
You let them enter Kyleâs room while you linger in the hall, scrolling through your phone. Thereâs a seating area just a little further down the hall, that youâre seriously considering, but then the door opens and Soap pokes his head out.
âKyleâs askinâ fer ye,â he says.
You step inside, and put your back to the wall on next to the door. Theyâve obviously left the recliner open for you, but theyâve also rolled it closer to Kyleâs bedside, so you stay where you are. Price is right where you left him, standing over Kyle like a sentry. Ghost is across from the foot of Kyleâs bed, while Soap takes a seat on the window sill.
Theyâre all looking at you. You want to ask if theyâre waiting for you to do a trick, but youâre trying not to start fights youâre too tired to finish. âYou need me to call the nurse?â
âJust wondered where you were,â Kyle says. He sounds better, but thatâs not saying much. âSimon said you rode up the elevator with them.â
Traitor. âI was just in the hall. Donât need to overcrowd you.â
âYou could never, lovie.â
âDonât.â You were willing to be gentle earlier, but lovie is several steps too far. You look at Price. âAre we divvying up shifts, then?â
One of his eyebrows arches. âYou need a break?â
From anyone else, that wouldnât be an accusation. But Price is a master of pointed questions. Too bad for him, you stopped caring about his opinion of you about a year and a half ago. âConsidering Iâm the one listed for overnights and emergency decisions, I should probably sleep more than a couple of hours every three days.â
âWe can get you a hotel,â Kyle rasps.
âIâm set,â you answer, without looking at him. You arch an eyebrow at Price. âVisiting hours end at six. I can be back at five.â
âWeâre approved until eight.â
âThen Iâll be back at seven.â
ââLl walk you out,â Simon says. âLeft somethinâ in the car.â
âNo you didnât,â you correct. âDonât lie for my benefit, Simon, I donât appreciate it. If youâre walking with me, I canât stop you.â
âSorry,â he says, standing and putting his hands in his pockets. âForce of âabit.â
You donât tell him heâs full of shit, because youâre not going to be drawn into a fight that Price can take advantage of. You step forward to pick up the larger bag off of the recliner and push the rolling table close enough that Kyle can reach the water on his own. âStay hydrated. Iâm telling the nursing staff to make sure you stay on top of your pain meds.â
He looks a bit cowed and a lot sad. But he only says, âOkay.â
It tugs at your heart, just a bit. Youâd feel worse if you didnât know those sad eyes were step one of his emotional warfare campaign. You exit the room with Simon on your heels.
He doesnât say anything until youâre in the lobby, calling a car. âCân drive you.â
âNo.â
âAârighâ,â he says. âDonât be too harsh on âim, eh? âE almost died.â
âYou know the last time he talked to me? Six months ago.â You counter. âHe called me, drunk. Asked for another chance. No apologies. No therapy. Just âplease take me back, I know you still love me.ââ
âYou do,â Simon points out. âOr you wouldnât be âere.â
âAnd thatâs whatâs so fucking tragic,â you tell him, finally looking up into his eyes. Simonâs always been your favorite of Kyleâs coworkers, because heâs always been honest and respected your honesty back. âHe keeps reeling me back in because I love him. But the whole time heâs insisting he wants us to work, he doesnât say he loves me, once.â
ââE does.â
âItâs never going to be enough,â you sigh. Your phone buzzes to tell you the car is arriving soon. âLoving me is never going to be his priority. He demands that I make even more concessions, goes silent for months, and then calls me in to make medical decisions. After I've told him repeatedly to pick someone else, anyone else, for this.â
cw/tags: themes of sickness (no graphic depictions). john price x ex-wife. reluctant caretaking. manipulation. unreliable povs.
when he tries calling you, he gets abruptly disconnected.
when he tries texting you, it's delivered but never read.
when he tries emailing you, there are no responses.
when he tries sending you a letter, it's radio silence.
you didn't share many mutual friends by then, and nobody that would feel comfortable passing a message along from john to you. everyone knew the minefield that lay between the two of you; no one was going to navigate that to relay a message past enemy lines unless they lacked some common sense.
fortune has it, john runs into one such friend that's always been a bit of a gossip. he remembers you griping how you could never share anything personal with them, as it'd inevitably find itself right in the hands of the person who shouldn't be told.
he relies on this still being the case.
no, please. don't tell her. i wouldn't want her to put her in an uncomfortable position. she's been through enough because of me, y'know? just glad to know she's doin' well. thanks. cheers, mate. good runnin' into you, too.
â
two weeks. an email from a different email address, one he's never seen you before.
Âť sorry to hear about the diagnosis. hope you take care of yourself, john.
he imagines your voice bitter like parentheses between the words: (but i begged you to stop smoking for years and you hated me for it) (hope you regret ever turning it into a fight) (i was right all along)
when he's alone in the house, he likes to remember how your voice sounded in each room. snappy and sour when he'd piss you off. low and jagged when he'd get you under him.
takes him a bit to decide what to reply, unsure if it'll go through.
Âť just a matter of time like you always said. thought you should know you're still the beneficiary. never got around to changing the paperwork after all was said and done.
eventually:
Âť please remove my name. you had informed me you were going to be transferring it to the new one.
Âť realized too late that whatever's left of me should go to the one who got the worst of me.
â
he knows he has you when you eventually switch over to text. you reply infrequently, but it's a step closer.
Âť is someone bringing you food?
Âť don't worry about that. you've done plenty of that already. delivery is just as easy.
Âť john
Âť promise you (sweetheart, he almost adds), i'm up for it. no trouble at all.
three days later, you're on his doorstep with homemade freezer meals and meds for nausea. your hair is now lit up with kinked grey hairs and your face is softer than before, rounded by the years since he last saw you. your eyes haven't changed one bit â bright and hard like a bird's â and it gives his stomach that familiar jolt when they pass over him.
you look like shit, john.
when you stand in the sun-sweet kitchen that used to be your domain, your seat of power, his prick gets hard. it's just right, seeing you there like that, lit up and glowing.
what happened to your mates? they don't take care of you now that you're not their boss?
he protests, defensive, but you ignore him and walk around, eyeing the spices he keeps on hand for himself. check what's in the fridge, make a sound of disgust, clip it shut.
pathetic.
he pushes back. it's just me and my appetite's not what it was. can't be arsed to do much more, darlin.
you leave after he says that, silent and queenly.
â
his appetite improves when you bring over home-cooked meals. depending on the day, you might dine together in the kitchen like the old days, or he'd take supper in bed while you washed up.
he begins to listen to you; first time for everything.
when you chuck out his cigars, he smiles fondly at you. you tell him to get some sleep and he does. you tell him to rest and he does. you encourage going for walks and he asks if you'll accompany him. he doesn't go into his office, leaves that room shut for once. he'll sit at the kitchen table, or the nearby living room armchair, and chat about your day while you putter around the kitchen, seeking things to fix and organize and reorder.
in crumbs, he learns that your new marriage isn't a happy one, that you've been discussing divorce. you don't want to be divorced a second time, but at least there are no kids involved again. besides, you're looking forward to retiring in a few years, single and free to travel as you like. you're making the best of it; always have.
it takes you weeks until you sit down while he's got the tv on. weeks longer for you to sit beside him like you used to, your feet kicked out onto his lap. his hands are still strong, knowing your heel is your soft spot, loosens nearly your entire body when he grips it tight. still gets a moan out of you after all these years.
â
the sex is tender and strangely slow and a bit teary. you treat him like he's fragile and he hates that. but it's proper lovemaking, like married couples do, so he'll take it. take anything.
happy to make you feel good again, whatever it takes.
willing to wring himself dry to get you back.
â
you don't come with him to his appointments; he's old-fashioned, man prefers a bit of privacy to discuss things with his doctor. you have loads of questions, but back off when he's just happy to sit with you without having to think about it at all.
don't like it mucking up a nice day. aren't we havin a nice day, sweet'eart?
you make him feel better by telling him he still looks healthy as a horse.
wouldn't know you're sick at all, honey.
â
takes you longer than it should; canny woman you are.
â
simon and kyle and johnny come by in a cluster to visit a few months later. you'd emailed them and said john'd be up for company.
arriving to the house and noticing right away that your stuff's been moved back in. a woman's touch, pressed back into place over the house that john built.
you kiss their cheeks and welcome them in; been years since you've seen them. johnny and kyle are subdued, but happy to see their old captain in such good hands. privately relieved that the latest ex-wife tossed herself to the side; she'd never have had the mettle to endure a situation like this, like you have.
simon watches you quietly, always. eyes slowly moving from you at john's bedside to john laid up in bed, a fond smile fixed on your face.
he's having a good day today.
it's polite, is what it is, because their former captain looks like dog shit: flat glazed eyes, pale mouth, and a smaller body under his blankets. makes simon look away, anywhere, out the window.
johnny and kyle've always been good about keeping spirits up. they chat and update the captain on the goings-on, nothing that'll get him goin' but enough to keep him fed on old business.
he starts to flag and you stand up, patting his hand. the lads stand in unison and march downstairs.
at the door, thank you so much for coming by. you don't know how much this means to him.
â
upstairs in your shared bedroom, you crawl into bed with john. take his hand in yours again, feeling its warmth and a trace of its former strength.
that was nice, huh. sweet of them to come by.
he squeezes your hand and turns his head to stare at you, eyes flitting from the smile on your lips to the bright sharp look in your eye.
tired, huh?
you plant a soft, affectionate kiss on his dry mouth. you look at him with the most loving expression, an echo of a time long passed.
ready for your medicine? i made some stew to go with it.
Charles / clingy fem!reader as requested by @cherryheairt
After being rescued, you cling on to him. But once you become the butt of a joke about it, you pull away. Much to his dismay.
You'll never forget how it felt to look into his big, brown eyes for the first time. In the middle of a shootout, in fear of your life, you sighed in relief.
You had no confirmation that he wasn't the enemy, mind you. It was just... something about him. You felt so comfortable, so safe. He practically wrapped you in his arms and hauled you away, strong muscles protecting you from harm.
Your body felt fuzzy and you snuggled into him on instinct. Pathetic, really.
Unfortunately, others agreed.
For weeks after he took you back to camp, you followed him around like a lost puppy. To be fair, it wasn't that far from the truth.
"Need somethin'?" His deep baritone voice muttered. He didn't ask you that all the time. He understood you. He knew you just needed somebody to hide behind. To feel safe with.
You breathe in, "Oh! uh- erm- Do you?"
He sputters out a breathy chuckle, "Just sit down."
You blush but obey, grateful he's not making fun of you or anything. Thats one reason you lov- cared so much for his friendship. Although... you weren't sure he saw it that way.
You were probably just some annoying little sister that wouldn't leave him alone. He was just too kind, or perhaps too busy, to tell you to leave him be finally.
It's true, the camps gossip was getting to you.
"Got your little chick, mama hen?" Uncle laughed, causing a few snickers from those within earshot.
"Sober up, Uncle. Make yourself useful, like Y/N." Charles' tone was sharp as he said it, like he might've actually cared.
He pushed a knife and rag into your hand, nudging you. He was giving you some easy work. So no one could say anything about you. Your heart warmed at his gesture.
But the day after was worse. Sean, no doubt wasted, wandered over acting like a chicken. Arms akimbo like wings and bawking like a chicken about to lay.
You hid your eyes in embarrassment but looked up in time to see the deathly glare that Charles sent Sean's way. He didn't have to say anything to make the boy back away.
"Grumpy fella' can' even take a joke!" He threw his hands in the air as though you were the strange ones.
You meant to thank Charles, but he was back to his work of cleaning saddles, this time with a frown.
That's it, you really were making things harder for him. In his kindness, he never would've pulled away first. You'd have to bite the bullet, take one for the team.
You didn't sit next to him at the fire to drink your coffee, as you usually did. You didn't follow him from task to task. You went to Grimshaw to ask for chores instead of him. You ate by the girls, sitting on the very hem of the blanket, too afraid to get any closer.
It wasn't the most miserable day of your life, at least. You kept your wandering eyes mainly to yourself, too! You should be proud of yourself.
By day three, your eyes moved of their own accord, watching him chop wood in an unbuttoned shirt, long johns nowhere to be seen. Just him, trousers, and an axe.
Surely, that loose hair is a hazard? You fantasized running your fingers through it, braiding it as he laid in your lap.
"I think it's clean, girly." Abigail said, pointing to the over-scrubbed shirt you were raking over the washboard.
"Oh!" You blinked, "There was a, ahem, stubborn stain..."
"...Right." She smirked.
You sighed obliviously, wringing the shirt out with longing eyes.
Charles' eyes darted over to you as you washed clothes. Bent forward and scrubbing with fervor. He was a respectful man, on the whole, but the angle revealed more of your chest than he'd ever seen. He was grateful for his dark skin, it hid his flush well.
He's man enough to admit that he'd... missed you a bit. He wasn't sure why you weren't with him like usual. Sure, he wants you to get closer to the women. But not at the expense of your time with him. You weren't... avoiding him, right?
He stood, leaning on the handle of the axe, catching his breath.
"Bird left the nest?" Arthur chuckled, pausing next to him with a sack of grain over his shoulder, "Happens to the best of em'. Bet she's glad not to hear them jokes anymore."
He laughed as he walked away, but Charles' eyes widened. Were you embarrassed by what the others had said? He thought that he made it plenty clear he didn't care what they said.
He only shut it down for you.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with the loose fabric of his unbuttoned shirt. Your eyes lingered on him until you saw him staring back. You looked back into the wash bin so quickly he was surprised you didn't have whiplash.
So that's how it is.
The next morning he waited around for you to grab your coffee and then followed you to the edge of camp, where you had been awkwardly standing as of late.
"Oh, good morning, Charles." You looked down and tapped the flimsy tin cup with your nail.
"Morning." His voice was raspy with disuse from the night. It sent a shiver down your spine.
"Eh... sleep?" You cleared your throat, "Did you sleep good?"
He smiled, "Yeah. You?"
His smile was contagious. You always mindlessly mimicked it when you saw it, "Mhm. I like this place. The crickets make me sleepy."
Charles reached forward and tucked a stray hair away, behind your ear. He didn't say anything. You felt your heart beat unevenly. Then thud so deeply in your chest you thought you might fall over.
"That's good. I like the crickets too." He smiled softly, sweetly.
You nodded your head, heart eyes staring at him like its the only thing you knew how to do. It kind of felt like that.
"I-I should go ask Grimshaw what she needs." You looked down sheepishly and walked over to her tent.
"I could use your help, if you're up for it."
You didn't expect it, but you turn around anyway, "Oh, really? You're... sure?"
He nodded once, patiently. He was going to get it through your thick skull sooner or later that he liked having you around as much as you did.
"So what do you need?" You sat next to him by the water.
"Need you to braid these real tight." He hands you stripped and dried grass, ready to be turned into bowstrings.
You got to work, happy to be of use to him. He smiled and snuck a look at you now and again. Your focused face charmed him, and he felt himself lean farther into you.
By the end of the day, you felt like he was the one following you. It was simultaneously strange and flattering. What was even stranger is that he kept it up for a few more days.
"Wanna go for a ride?" He said on a particularly warm afternoon.
You shrugged, "You know I haven't got a horse."
He smirked, "Didn't ask if you had a horse. Asked if you wanted to ride."
You blushed and nodded, "Sounds nice."
You were hoisted onto the horse first, Charles climbing behind you. He seemed to know where he was going, hinting at some secluded field he liked. The cool wind whipped around you, making you forget about the heat of summer.
When you arrived, the sun was threatening to set, setting the valley aglow. It was more of a ridge, high on a steep hill, overlooking a vast plain.
"Oh, Charles!" You gasped.
He laughed, "I know. It looks beautiful at this hour." He grabbed you by your waist and pulled you down.
You steadied yourself with your hands on his arm. He made no move to go, but to be fair neither did you. His hands burned into your skin through your dress, forever etching themselves onto your flesh.
He felt the same though, your fingers so much smaller than his, pressing tiny fingerprints into his forearm.
You couldn't handle it any longer, and slid your arms away. He got the hint and let go of you, walking away. He cleared his throat and walked to the edge of the ridge, sitting down.
He held out his hand and you took it, lowering yourself into the grass. A comfortable silence fell for some minutes as you both watched the sun slip away past the horizon.
Then you watched as the moon rose, taking its placing in its milky glory.
"I've gotta say..." You shifted nervously, "I'm a little surprised you asked me to come."
His brows furrowed, "Why?"
"Oh, well... you know..." You laughed and waved your hand dismissively.
"I don't." His expression didn't change.
You curled inward, "I'm just sort of... clingy. Annoying. I know it, it's fine. People joke about it-"
"I thought I told them to stop. Are they still bothering you?"
Your breath hitched, this was not going according to plan, "Well, yeah. It helps that I..."
"Avoided me for days?" He sounded almost... pouty?
You sat straight, "That's not- I wasn't!"
"But you did. You could've told me and I would've shut them up."
You shook your head and looked at your lap, "But they're right, Charles."
His hulking frame shrunk a bit with his slouch, "About what?"
"About me. I... I get in the way and I follow you around. You're just the first person I met so I thought we were friends but I took it too-"
"We are friends. Friends are around each other. I don't see what the issue is." His hand inched toward yours, fingertips brushing, "If you really bothered me, you would've known. Trust me."
His clever smirk made you twist with one of your own, before you bashfully look away.
"I guess..."
His hand fully covered yours, "Stop listening to other people when I'm right here. Listen to... me, instead."
"So you don't mind? When I hang around you?" You picked at your sleeve and hesitantly looked into his eyes. The same brown eyes that captivated you from day one.
"I don't mind." I like it. He wished he could say it but the words died on his tongue. Perhaps he could tell you soon, or maybe you'd understand him anyway. That was one reason he lov- cared so much for your friendship.
"W-Well okay, then. And thank you, for saving me. I know I've said it before, but..."
"Anytime." He leaned over and tucked your hair behind your ear with his free hand, "So I can see your eyes."
CWs: smut! medications & side effects, low libido, subtly touches themes of depression. porn is being watched during sex. this is like two smut fics into one lmao
CoD Masterlist | Main Masterlist
"Do you want to watch porn together?"
Never a dull moment with you, he thinks. Always full of surprises. The way you sprinkle excitement and spice in his slow, boring life is the only thing that keeps him afloat.
And Simon can confidently say that this is the least bored heâs ever been with you.
He's learned to school his expression into place; however, not even years of duty can mask the curious quirk of his brow. He shifts on the sofa, propping one ankle over the opposite knee. One arm rests on the backrest of the couch, fingers thrumming against the leather.
Your eyes fall onto his other hand, sitting atop his thigh.Â
He nods with his chin. "Run tha' by me again?"
You stand barefoot on the carpet. Loose shorts and an old tank top that has stretched out from one too many washes. The nibble of your lip tells him that you're ready to eat your words as soon as he questions them. The same goes for the way you're tormenting the cuticle on your thumb.
But he's interested. Fucking hell, this is the most intrigued he's been in ages.
"Porn?" He inquires the moment you open your mouth to most likely take everything back.
You close your lips with a pop and look at the ceiling, trying to force the heat collected on your cheeks to dissipateâflow southward perhaps, where it's not a bother but a welcome feeling instead.
But then you clear your throat. Straighten your spine. "Yes, porn."
Simon echoes you, enunciating the word. "Porn."
"Porn."
He nods, the corners of his lips curving in a smirk.
"With me?"
You tongue your cheek, eyes sharp. "Did I stutter?"
He pinches the air in front of his face. "A little."
But he must have taken it a step too far, because you're suddenly rolling your eyes and huffing.Â
"Right. I shouldn't have askedâ" You mutter, turning on your heels.
Simon's got quick hands. One of them reaches forward and grabs your wrist, pulling you in. You stumble between his legs, big thighs now parted for you to stand comfortably before him.Â
His eyes soften, then, only because he can tell you've taken pains to summon the courage to ask him such a curious thing.
Simon rests the back of his head against the couch to look up at you. Instead of finding your eyes, however, he sees your profileâstubbornly, you're forcing yourself to look at everything but him.
"M'sorry, alrigh'?" He rumbles. The tip of his finger finds your jaw, and he gently steers you to face him. "Took me off guard is all."
The line between your brows deepens, sudden worry branching through your features. Though when his finger on your jawline turns into a palm cradling your cheek, you sigh, leaning into his hand.
And as your body softens, your tongue loosens, too.
"I justâ" You bite your lip, nibbling at the flecks of dry skin. Once again, your eyes dart around, as if the firmness you need is stuck somewhere in the furniture of the house.
He grounds you again, this time with a light tap of his fingers.Â
You rub your forehead in frustration. "Ever since they upped the dosage of my meds, Iâweâ"
You don't need to finish the sentence for him to understand where you're getting at.Â
Yes, you haven't fucked in months. Heâd wager itâs been at least two, maybe three, and the last thoroughly satisfying fuck heâs had with you goes back to a couple of days prior to that fated doctorâs appointment. Itâs not the longest break, and heâs aware. Fucking hell, before he met you, he couldâve gone years without getting his dick wet. He has gone through years of solitude, in fact.
Though itâs you that he misses. Fucking you senseless. Eating you out. Itâs the taste of your skin, not the taste of skin itself. Itâs the scent that nestles in the creases of your neck, not the smell of sex.
Most people would say that, in such cases, they donât remember the last time they had sex. Simon, however, does. He remembers it quite vividly, actually. Nothing can erase from his mind the picture you paint when youâre feeling goodâwhen heâs making you feel good.
He misses it. Misses you. Heâs human, after all.
But he likes you with that smile. Likes you proper happy. Likes you healthy, hungry, and then sated. Likes you laughing at jokes, at life. Likes the fight thatâs suddenly surged within you. The need for control in a life that left you without it.Â
He misses it, true, but he likes you alive.
And nothing will ever change his stance on that.
His other hand brushes your thigh with the back of his knuckles.
âGo on,â he murmurs.
âWell, IâI canât stop thisââ You gesture vaguely at your stomach, as if itâs there where it all festers. ââSense of guilt. I feel guilty, alright? IâI know youâll say I shouldnâtââ
âAye, you shouldnât.â
ââBut,â you interject, pointing a finger at him. âI still do.â
âLove,â he insists, but not unkindly. âWonât fuck you outta guilt, yeah? You gotta want it.â
âI do!â You whine, lightly stomping your foot against the carpet in frustration. âI swear I do! I justâ"
You rip your cheek out of his touch. His hand falls to your other thigh, then, no matter how reluctantly, just to give you space.
âIâI donât think I remember how to feel like I do anymore,â your voice cracks. âI hate it. I hate how I canât control it anymore.â
Simon falls still. Stays silent, waiting for you to get to the point of your reasoning. No sense in stopping you when, clearly, youâve been trying so hard to tell him what feelings have been festering inside you.
You take in a steadying breath, smoothing your hands down your shirt.Â
âAnd I thought, you know, maybe porn can help me. Maybe it can make me horny.â
He nods, urging you to go on. His hands on you, slow and grounding, draw mindless shapes.
âBut itâs weird to⌠get ready for it.â You cinch your shoulders. âI donât want to watch some porn in the bathroom waiting to get wet only to find you after, becauseâbecause it literally takes a walk from the loo to the bedroom that itâs justâŚÂ gone.â
Simon thinks about it.Â
It would be odd, he doesnât deny that. Doesnât know what you like to watch when heâs deployed. Then, it feels wrong to look at another person while heâs fucking you. Doesnât care much about other people and those fake moans, or selfish ones and their plastic performances.Â
Youâve got a few videos you both took when drunk or when trying to spice it up a little. Perhaps those?Â
He knows heâs got one of you that he canât get tired of.Â
Youâre lying on your front as he pounds into you, pretty ass wiggling against his crotch whenever he stops. The phone is propped up on the pillow, its back leaning against the headboard. The shot shows your face first, then the curve of your spine. Your ass pressed to the V of his stomach, bouncing round and soft.
He put the phone there, even as you insisted itâd be better if both of you were in the frame. But he was stubborn, asked to have something to look at when heâs away, and he joked about how heâs not a fan of his ugly mug.
âCanât have a wank anâ look at this mug now, can I.â
Your face, mainly. Thatâs what he likes to watch. Brows pulled tight, eyes hooded, mouth agape. White paints the knuckle of his hand as it fists your hair, forcing your head back. Then, thereâs you. The uncomfortable and jagged curve of your neck, your tendons bulging at the sides, the veins that branch out from your collarbones and find root at your jawline.
Fuck, the sounds you make. Those strained breaths that stroke your vocal cords like youâre an instrumentâmoans clipped and sharp, rhythmic with the pistoning of his hips.Â
Oh, the groan of your first orgasm. The whites of your eyes eating up your pupils. The curve of your mouth, a pained smile that trembles, unsure whether to cry out or laugh blissfully.Â
Itâs your voice that brings him back. His eyes focus on you once again, redefining the lines of your shape.
He must have stayed quiet for a bit too long, because the worried look on your face starts withering into something even worse, something like rejection.
âWe could watch anything,â you provide nervously, rubbing your palms against your thighs. âYour favourites, maybe? Do you have any? I donât know, you can take the lead on thatâon everything, actually. IâI need toââ
With a frustrated sigh, you run a hand down the back of your neck. âI need to feel like you want to fuck me. IâI want to feel like I want to have sex again. I want to be in control of it.â
Your chest heaves. âPlease tell me Iâm making sense.â
Fucking hell. It would be odd, true, but fuck odd.
Your brows pinch. âItâs okay if you donât waâ"
âThis isnât what I had in mind,â you blabber breathlessly.
Simonâs fingers are buried inside you. The video is muted because you asked.Â
âMet you halfway, didnât I?â
His phone sits propped against the headboard, the lower margin hidden beneath the hills and curls of the pillowcase. The light is dim in the bedroom, similarly to how it looks on his phone. Heâs got you with your stomach pressed against the mattress, just like in that video. The only thing keeping your head from slipping against the bed is his fist, holding firmly onto your locks.
âBut Iââ You choke when his knuckles brush your clit. ââI donât like to look at myself.â
Simon cracks his neck, tilting it side to side.Â
âSâporn, innit?âÂ
You groan. âGod, Simonââ
âYou asked for my favourite,â he rumbles. âThere yâgo.â
Thereâs a slow, accommodating fashion in the movements of his hand. Languid strokes given with two fingers, sometimes slipping out to smear your wetness down your slit, brushing featherlight on your clit.Â
âBut this wonât make me horny,â you whine, though thereâs a telltale weakness in your statement that doesnât manage to mask the lie.
Greedy eyes eat what his mouth still canât. The sweat collecting on your temples, the slope of your nose and the curve of your mouthâlips pouting, teeth sinking into the flesh to silence yourself. Shy thing. Youâve never been one, but he reckons thereâs nothing wrong with a change of pace, every once in a while.
He parts your folds with his fingers and gulps harshly when the thick sound of your wetness reaches his ears. Proved yourself wrong, there.
âWonât it?â
Heâs kneeling on top of you, knees digging into the mattress on either side of your thighs. The video is not what he focuses on, though. Heâs got better things to admire. The angles of your shoulder blades, the indents of your muscles as they tense, and the sweet dip of your spine. Where it hollows and where it endsâtwo tiny dimples crowning the plump of your ass.Â
Fuck youâre a painting, arenât you?
âLook at yourself,â he drawls, forcing your eyes to the screen with a tug of your hair. âLook at how good you were feelinâ, mh?â
The little whine that escapes you matches the clench of your pussy around his fingers. Gladly, he realises that youâre not cutting off the blood flow of his hand, but instead youâre opening up to him, feeling much softer than when he first entered you.
For a brief second, his eyes flicker to the screen.
Thereâs the pretty curl of your lips as you look up at him, subjecting your neck to bend in an uncomfortable arch, though his face is out of frame. You go a little cross-eyed, right there, as your smirk turns into a beautiful smileâall teeth and wrinkled nose.Â
The video keeps rolling, and after a heartbeat, you offer your tongue. From the top of the screen, a rope of spit falls and lands directly on it, and he watches as you drink it down.Â
The soft bob of your throat, the delighted grin it follows, the mouthed âthank youâ.
Simonâs cock sits above your ass. It hangs heavy with blood and gleaming at the tip, aching to be touched. His balls feel painfully tight, and if he ventures and grinds down between your cheeks, he might finish before this thing even starts.
His fingers switch, moving from inside you to lightly tap at your clit. Deliberately slow, circling around your clit to unsheathe it and leave the most sensitive part to his mercy whenever he glides down.
You suck in a breath.
Gentle touches wake up your body, skin rushing with waves of shivers that tiptoe up your spine.Â
âCanâcan you do that?â
Simonâs pads slide forward, from your clit to the curls on your pelvis, slipping easily with the wetness collected on his pads. Back and forth, until the tautness in your thighs melts away into the sheets underneath.
âDo what, sweeâheart?âÂ
Shyly, you look up. Your neck cranes backwards in a mimicry of that same painful curve heâs witnessed time and time again.
Your lashes flutter up to him. âCan you spit in my mouth like that?â
And it goes straight to his cock.
Donât need to tell him twice.
The hand in your hair slowly releases its grip, and by the way your moan comes, breathless and aching, he can tell the sting it left must have added to your pleasure. His fingers grasp your jaw, digging into your cheeks.Â
Shifting forward, Simon aligns his mouth with yours from above.
âOpen up.â
You blink, doe-eyed and bashful. Lick your lips and nibble at the flakes of dry skin, pondering for a moment, before you heed his order and part your mouth for him, letting your tongue loll down your chin.
Simonâs eyes roll back.Â
His throat is parched, and he wonders how the fuck he will spit in your mouth when you managed to dry out his tongue with just a look.
Nevertheless, he summons the strength and purses his lips, letting a rope of spit fall slowly onto your tongue.
He watches your nostrils flare in anticipation. Your brows as they flutter when it lands. How you seem to savour it when you swallow. How you find his face again in your stupor, with your eyes smothered under the dark veil of lust.
His cock grows tighter when you smile.
âThank you,â you mouth, licking your lips as if you might taste more of him again.
Simonâs left breathless as you repeat your own words, and he has to summon all his strength not to spear you with his cock right then and there. He genuinely wants to pace himself, but you look so fucking appetising that he just craves to have a taste. He should give you time to adjust, space to settleâhe shouldnât devour you with his mouth.
He should, should, should. Should be better. Should be softer. Should beâ
I need to feel like you want to fuck me.
Simonâs heart comes to an abrupt stop.
He should, should, shouldâ
âgive you more.Â
Show you how he wants to fuck you, like you asked, instead of going at a slow, far-fetched pace. He was never one to sit down and have a feast patiently. Simonâs hungry, heâs always been. To merely nibble on supper would feel artificial, plainly wrong.
And above everything, Simon wants you.Â
He leans down and smashes his lips to yours.Â
The sound of clacking teeth almost swallows your gasp, but the surprise is short-livedâpromptly replaced with the same kind of hunger, only delivered more tentatively.
His kiss is hungry and unrestrained. His teeth sink into your lip before launching again, smearing spit down your chin. You taste like you. Of mint and sugar. Herbs from the tea you shared, sweet because of the biscuits you dipped in yours, even as he grimaced at the sight.Â
Itâs the taste of you. The feel of your skin.
The growing warmth of your cheeks as his stubble irritates them, the slick of your tongue as it dances with his.
Your palm lands harshly at the nape of his neck, grasping blindly until it clutches around a handful of hair. Your fingers wander and grab, nails scratching his scalp and sending shivers down his spine. Now that your hand isnât supporting your weight anymore, youâre using him as leverageâpulling down his head and further smashing his mouth against yours.
Simonâs hand around your throat tightens just slightly.
âRemember thaâ?â He purrs, lips to lips. Then, he steers your face to look ahead, where the video keeps rolling.
And youâre so diligent, following his lead. âYes.âÂ
âMh,â he rumbles. âFelt good, didnât it?â
The swell of your ass grinds against his cock. Simon kisses his teeth, jaw tight in the effort to keep himself sane.
âYes.â
His offhand reaches down to the base of his cock. Slaps the head against the curve of your ass once, twice.
âWanna cum on my cock like that?â He murmurs, reaching down to lick the shell of your ear. You shiver. âWanna feel like thaâ again?â
You wiggle underneath him, letting out the smallest whine. Shy thing, you. Thatâs one of the things that has changed. Heâs always loved the bite of your teeth, the cut of your tongue. Loved the leash you put on him, how it revealed his need for control for what it truly wasâmere, unfettered fear. Shackles he thought were keeping him safe, when they were only locking him up in a cage of his own making.
He recognises that same trait within you, now. Recognises, also, how youâre trying to be rid of it.Â
Itâs why heâs more than delighted to understand that you're fighting against those chainsâforever his clever, clever girl.
He narrowly misses your hand reaching forward to press the buttons on the side of his phone.
Your voice fills the room.
âOh fuck,â you groan.
Simonâs hand has your hair in a brutal grip, pulling you back until all the phone can record are the angles of your jaw and the sharpness of your collarbones. His chest peeks from above, glistening with sweat and ruddy in blotches.
Your ragged moans are punched out of your lips by the rhythmic snap of his hips. Thrust after thrust framed by the slap of skin and his voiceâsome raucous, crackling thing that rips from his chest, claws and all.
âLike thaâ, pet,â he snarls. âFuckinâ take it.â
And you nod, sweet thing. You nod dumbly as you smile up at him. Your tits hang and bounce as the raw force of his hold lifts your chest from the bed. One last pull, tight and strong, turns those moans into one sharp yell.Â
His grin is unseen but clearly plastered in his tone. âYâliked that, uh?â
Another tug, another helpless moan.Â
âAh fuck, yer close,â he chuckles. The wet squelches of your pussy ratchet up in volume as he thrusts in, over and over, picking up the pace. âListen to thaâ. Yer gonna cum, love?â
The lower half of his face pops into frame from above, only to land a kiss on the crown of your head.
âCan feel ya gettingâ tight.â His lips brush your skin. âGo on, sweet girl.â
Before leaving the grip in your hair.Â
âCum on my fuckinâ cockâ"
Your face hits the pillow with a groan that drowns in linen. The phone falls, now recording the ceiling. No one bothers to pick it up again.
âFuck me,â you heave. âFuck me like that again, baby.â
Simon has to close his eyes and inhale to get himself back in line.
âFuckinâ hell.â He kisses his teeth. âCâmere.â
He pulls your head back once again. Kisses you until his lips feel numb. Right beneath him, you keep chanting your plea like he isnât about to give in already.
âFuck me, baby,â you mumble to his mouth, on and on without rest. âPlease fuck me. IâI want to feel you inside me, please. Please.â
I want to feel like I want to have sex again.
âI want it,â you whimper. âI want you.â
Blood pulses from the base of his cock all the way to the tip. He can feel the shockwaves seizing his limbs when he presses it to your cunt, sliding it up and down your slick until heâs drenched in it.
He kisses your temple. Moves upwards to the back of your head, safely cradling your jaw in his palm.
âMissed it, havenât ya,â he purrs by your ear. His cock enters an inch. âFeel thaâ?â
Heâs never been this hard in his lifeânever been this turned on either.Â
You must realise it too. Words fail you, but your voice doesnât. It crackles through your lips with a moan that shatters on his palm.
âMissed you too, pet.â
Heâs barely been inside you, and if he doesnât truly, really, focus, heâll ram his cock and come so fucking deep youâll drip for days.
Suddenly, the thought feels more tempting than wrong.Â
âYer gonna take it, yeah?â He grunts, moving forward with his hips. âGonna take it like a good fuckinâ girl.â
A pleasing sob. âPlease.â
With a groan, Simon gives in.
Not a sound leaves your lips. He can feel them open up against his hand, choking on air, and that is all you yield as he pushes in. The rest tightens into one euphoric knot at the base of his throat, cutting off each intake of air.Â
In a swift motion, Simon buries his cock to the hilt, hips flush to your ass. His head collapses against you, mouth to your shoulder, and peppers kisses all over its curve. When he pulls back, the first stroke after months sends his brain into a frenzy. His teeth sink into your neck, growling like the famished beast that he isâ
One you tame with your hand in his hair, tightening the grip to settle him.
âOh my fuckingâ" Words tumble out of your mouth in a strained whimper. âFuck it feels so good. Move. Move, please moveââ
Simonâs mouth opens against your neck. His tongue licks a path from your thundering heart to the shell of your ear, where he tries to focus.Â
Itâs the smell of you. The floral of your shampoo and the sourness of sweat. The butter of your face cream and the ginger of perfume.
âI got you, pet,â he croaks, as his heart suddenly ties itself in a knot. âI got you.â
Youâre incomparable. Fit like a glove, you do. Adjusting to him in the blink of an eye, already heaving like he stole the air from your lungsâthough heâs just started, and considering the desperation of your hands, he reckons youâre far from done, too.
Heâs deliberately slow, savouring each second that passesâbut sometimes he slips, and thrusts in a little harder. Apologises with his lips down your neck, turning your hiss into the softest sigh. Thumbs your waist with the hand fisting the sheets, also the only thing preventing him from collapsing on top of you.Â
You find his fingers and twine them with yours.Â
The only sound he hears is the one coming from the video, the screen now flush to the pillow. It fell at some point. He never bothered to check when.
His groans, the slap of skin, your pleas as you comeâ
âFuck,â you pant, hissing through your teeth. âNghâkeep going. God, pleaâkeep goingââ
âYeah?â His voice purrs. âFuckinâ feel thatâChrist yer dripping.â
Your breath picks up, ricochets in the bedroom as another orgasm stalks closer.
âMâgonna come againââ
âGo on then,â he rumbles. âDo it, love. Cum all over me.â
Abruptly, your fingers reach for his phone and lock it. The echo of your moans is cut short, and so are his grunts. For a second, his tinnitus manages to shroud the lack of sounds. Â
But then, thereâs the quiet stagger of your breathing that breaches past, poking a hole through the cotton stuffing his ears. The creaking of the bedframe follows. How his movements make the springs moan under his weight.Â
The wet of your nose nuzzles his cheek. âI missed you.âÂ
Your fingers relent the grip in his hair, hand falling down to cup his cheek instead.Â
âI missed you.â
Itâs said so wistfully that Simon, for a moment, feels entirely out of his depth.
He kisses the shell of your ear before guiding your gaze to point his way. Glossy eyes find him, thinly veiled with gratitude. He almost melts then and there. You got him wrapped around your finger, bow and all.
âI love you,â you say, placing your lips on his. âI love you so much.â
Simonâs chest grows tight.
He can feel those words take hold of his heart. Squeeze it bloody, only to travel southward and tighten around the base of his cock, too. In a stutter, his hips falter, and he has to come to a standstill if he doesnât want this to end so abruptly.
âChrist,â he mutters, âYer killing me, pet.â
The smoothness of your teeth brushes his lips as you smile. âMh. And we donât want that.â
He buries his nose in the crook of your neck and inhales the flowers, the butter and the herbs. The ginger, the sweat and the biscuits.
âAye, we donât,â he sighs.
Your tongue licks a stripe across his mouth. âBut I love you.â
Simon groans. âYer a cheeky fuckinâââ
He pulls back and slams in again, as if to chastise you, but it isnât received as punishment at all. In fact, it spurs you onâyou moan into his mouth and put him under your spell. A chant, continuous, of endless I love yous that peel off the layers that make him.
Simon finally gives in. Heâs missed you, too.
He collapses on top of you, punching a gasp from your mouth as your whole body is enveloped by his. His arm snakes under your belly, and you favour him by lifting your hips. The angle has him hit somewhere deeper, and you shatter beneath him. Your throat cracks a groan, soaked by the pillow, and finally, you let go when his fingers find your clit.
âMissed you,â he croaks in your ear.Â
His pace picks up.Â
âMissed this voice âere.â His mouth latches onto your neck. âMissed yer fuckinâ taste. Missed this fuckinâ cunt.â
Doesnât care about the strain in his spine and the burn of his calves, not when your moans start growing louder and wetter.
âFuckinâââ He stutters. âLove ya. Wanna fuck you every dayââ
Your slick rolls out of you thick as liquor for each thrust, coating his fingers. Two, at first. Then three, gliding smoothly from side to side over the tight knot of your clit.Â
âWhen yer knackered, when yer cooking, when yer in the fucking shop anâ bend over to pick up some shiteââ
âOh fuck, Simonâkeep goingââ
ââFuck, yer made fâme. Naked or not. I always want you. I do.â
âIâmâoh fuckâIâm gonna comeââ
And he can fucking feel it.Â
âThatâs it, pet. Give it to me.â
Your body seizes at first, taut as a bowstring. And then, you bloom.Â
Wave after wave, rippling against him with your whole being. Even as cramped as you are, crowded under the weight of him, you fuck him through your ecstasy. Push your ass backwards to ride him for all his worth.Â
And Simon is entirely helpless, so entranced by the pulsing of your cunt around his cock that he barely realises how heâs coming, too. Itâs all it took, really. To feel you clutch at his hair with your fingers, to have you fight for controlâsteal it from the tight grip of his hands.Â
His teeth sink into the soft flesh of your neck, groaning when his release wrecks him from within. Feels your pulse ratchet up under his tongue, your stutters as they bubble up your throat as you wordlessly beg for him to want you, to love you.
As he silently gives it all to you. All you ask, and more.
Eventually, you fall still. The tightness of your muscles melts. All the effort of your movement turns into mere, occasional twitching as adrenaline leaves your bloodstream.
Youâre soft again. Turning your head on the pillow to find him, resting with his cheek right by your side.Â
âI missed you,â you say wetly. âIâm sorry.â
Simon brushes his nose against yours.Â
He knows how that type of guilt feelsâthe misplaced one, the one with no reason to be there at all. It festers within your stomach and doesnât care about the damage it yields, because itâs not how it operates.Â
Itâs unfounded. Still, he knows words wonât be able to quell the heartache.
But Simon sees what you still canât. It takes balls to survive a life you donât want anymore. He knows a thing or two about that. Swam in his own ocean of shit.Â
Still, he watched you take control back in your hands. You asked for help and crafted a new life that fits you better and patched the wounds left by the one you once led. You witnessed yourself burst at the seams and decided that it was time to pick up the needle.
That requires an incomparable amount of courage.
Simon knows it well. Still bears the scars to prove it.
âDonât gotta be,â he whispers. âProud of ya.â
Your eyes widen. Open the faucet, too. The glittering rim left by your orgasm turns into a river. Tears cascade from the corners of your eyes and branch above the bridge of your nose, down your temple, into your hair.
âFor what?â You chuckle dismissively. âHaving sex?â
But Simon kisses your nose instead. Offers a lovely smile he hasnât granted in a while.Â
âYeah,â he concedes, because you need time. âThaâ too.â
Your giggle is refreshing and genuine, though a bit strangled. He realises only then that youâve been crushed underneath his weight all this time, so he props himself on his elbows. You sigh, wiggling to turn around in the cramped space between his chest and the bedsheets, until your eyes are aligned with his.
Your lashes are clumped, sticking to one another with dewdrops of happiness. They flutter when you look up at his face.
âThank you,â you say. âFor being here. For being proud of me.â
Always.Â
Simon leans down and breathes a kiss on your forehead.
âThere ainât a day that goes by that Iâm not.â
arthur morgan is not a good man. he knows this, always has. the life he leads is not a good one : an outlaw at best, scum of the earth at worst. a criminal with no means of redemption, the blood on his hands too becoming of everything he knows and everything he is. even saints cannot save him now ( and you both know this ). but you-- you are good, you are everything meant for radiance. you, who is brighter than the sun itself, always find the good in everything, even him.
he doesn't get it. tries not to overthink it, really. easier for both of you that way -- better for him to not spiral in that rabbit hole of self deprecation and doubt, and easier for you -- better that he doesn't push you away, try to get you away from a life you should not live.
"i love you, you know." you whisper one night, your hand on his cheek, lips soft against his, like something meant to be holy. "love you so much, arthur morgan."
he doesn't get it, but he kisses you all the same like it's the only thing that might save him ( as if he was meant for saving, anyway ).
"you sure about that?" he tells you, and the slight teasing in his voice is not enough to mask the doubt that creeps into his being, invades his every thought and second of existence in a brave new world. "better men to love out there, sweetheart."
you hum, gentle, never dissuaded. you and your goddamn heart of steel, so stubborn and soft all at once.
"you always say such nonsense." you kiss him again. once, twice, three times, just in case he forgets tonight. "i only want you, you fool. i love you, always. it'll always be you, you know."
he sighs into your kiss, and you feel the way he smiles against you, like a silent surrender.
( he knows. of course he does. he kisses you back. once, twice, three times. just in case you forget tonight. )
Pornstar!Simon whoâs been told he canât fuck you anymore because the way you sound when heâs inside you makes every other costar youâve had in the past look bad.
The Director pulling him aside with the footage still looping on the monitor, voice low, telling him it was obvious your moans dripping out wet and broken were real in a way youâve never given the cameras before, obvious now that every gasp and whimper youâd faked with the others was thin and breathy and hollow compared to this and your former costars were bound to complain.
Said it made the lads before him look like they couldnât even get you properly wet, let alone fuck the sense out of you. Said pairing you with Ghost again was asking for trouble. Too risky. Too fuckinâ real.
Swinging the monitor around to show Ghost the way he had angled his hips so the camera caught his cock stretching your silky cunt half an hour before, thick enough that your walls flutter around him without any acting, slick spilling out around the base every time he bottomed out.
Your fingers scrabbling along the bed every time he ground himself down, too fucked out to really run from the pleasure the way you wanted to, body shaking brain reduced to static goo.
You having a hard time remembering the scripted words you were given, eyes rolling in your sockets, little whimpers and moans punched out âhn-hn-hn-â every time his hips met yours and the head of his cock kissed your cervix.
Ghost cooing down at you when you miss your cue for the third time, hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other kept your thigh shoved wide, voiced amused when he asks âwhaâs amatter? Cat got your tongue, dove?â
Ruined any possibility of you answering when he fucked you deep, making your cunt visibly pulse around him on the monitor, arousal drooling down his balls.
You tried. You really did. You mouth opened, some broken attempt at the first word, but it dissolved into another punched out moan the second he angled just right, letting the camera see the way your eyes rolled in their sockets.
His thumb stroking once over your clit, almost gentle, almost fond. âThaâs it,â he murmured, âtake it. Fuckinâ take it.â
Another missed cue. Another low, rough chuckle. He didnât really give you room to think. Just kept you pinned and full and dripping while the cameras roled and the script stayed forgotten on the floor somewhere behind the lights.
The director was still talking but Ghost wasnât listening, instead, just reached over and rewound the tape instead. Watched the part where you tried to speak again. Watched the way your body gave out for him and only him. Watched his own hand on the screen, thumb stroking your clit.
He hit play once more. Let it loop. Thumb hovering over the button, already deciding he didnât give a fuck what the director had to say about it, he was gonna fuck you again no matter what.
arthur morgan who could look down the barrels of a dozen pinkerton rifles without so much as blinking, could hunt a grizzly through a mountain whiteout with it's blinding fury and never lose the trail. but a weeping woman? that was a whole different kind of peril he had no strategy for, the one that left him stranded in his own uselessness in the face of her tears. he wasn't built for tender phrasing or comforting hands, outlaws were creatures of hard miles, black powder, and flint. the brutal frontier had taught him how to survive, pull a trigger or make a man count his rotting teeth. but it had left him entirely ignorant of how to mend a broken heart or soothe a soul that had been bruised raw by the world, gazing into eyes turned glassy and shimmering in the firelight.
author's note: This has been in my drafts for one and a half years man. Never say never đ And thank you so much for 10k, lovelies! đ¤ xx
The ad is three lines long.
You agonise over it for a weekâdrafting and redrafting on the back of a grocery receipt at the kitchen table while your husband is on deployment, crossing out words and rewriting them until the paper is soft and furred at the edges from erasing.
Three lines. That's all the local paper allows for the personals section, which is a relic from another era that you didn't even know still existed until you were flipping through the classifieds looking for a vintage bookshelf and your eyes snagged on the column header.
SEEKING CONNECTION
You'd laughed at first. Then you'd read a few. Then you'd read them all, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with your tea going cold in your hands, and something small and sharp turning over in your chest.
The ad you eventually submit reads:
Married woman, mid 30s, seeks interesting conversation and perhaps more with a like-minded gentleman. Discretion essential. If you enjoy good food, dry wit, and don't mind a woman who can out-drink you â I'd love to hear from you. Reply to Box 64.
You pay for four weeks in advance and feel sick the entire drive home.
Because here's the thing about being married to Captain John Price.
You love him desperately and completely, in a way that has settled into your bones over the better part of a decade and become indistinguishable from the architecture of who you are.
Adore the way he smellsâstale cigar smoke and sandalwood and old gun oil, a combination that should be repulsive and instead makes you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there. Love his hands, broad and scarred and capable of violence you'll never fully understand, and how gentle they are when they cup your jaw or fix the clasp of your necklace.
And you melt for the rumble of his voice on the phone at two in the morning when he calls from whatever godforsaken corner of the world he's operating in, tired and tight-lipped but always, always asking about you first.
You love him, and he loves you, and it hasn't been enough for a long time.
Not because the love ran out, because he did.
John Price gives everything to his work. Every deployment bleeds into the next. The gaps between homecomings stretch longerâthree weeks become five, five become eight, eight becomes âI don't know yet, love, I'll let you know when I knowâ.
And when he does come home, he's there but not there; hollow-eyed and distracted, reaching for his phone at dinner, falling asleep on the sofa before nine, making love to you the first night with a desperate urgency that fades by the third morning into perfunctory kisses on the forehead and an apologetic mumble about an early briefing.
Someday, you stopped asking when he'd be home six months ago; stopped leaving the porch light on four months ago, and you stopped wearing the nice knickers three months ago because what was the point again.
Two months ago, you realised you'd gone an entire week without hearing his voice and hadn't noticed until Thursday.
That's when the panic set in. Not the sharp, clean kind, but the slow, creeping kind. The one that makes you lie awake at three a.m. staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is it, if this is what the rest of your life looks like. A nice house in Hereford with a well-maintained garden and a husband who exists primarily as a name on a bank account and a voice on the other end of an increasingly rare phone call.
You don't want to leave him. The thought alone makes you nauseous.
You just want someone to see you again.
John finds the newspaper three days after he gets home from a six-week deployment in eastern Syria.
He's not snooping; he's looking for the TV remote, which has migrated into the crack between the sofa cushions again, and his hand closes around the folded section of newsprint wedged beside it. He pulls it out, intending to toss it on the coffee table, and his eyes catch the circle of biro ink around one of the small ads in the personals column.
John reads it, and then again.
Then he sits down very slowly, the remote forgotten, and stares at the far wall for a long time, connecting puzzle pieces like his life depends on it, which it very well does apparently.
Married woman, mid 30s. His wife is in her thirties.
Dry wit. His wife is the driest, sharpest-tongued woman he's ever met. It's one of the first things he fell in love withâthe way she could dismantle a man's ego with a single raised eyebrow and a well-timed "Bless your heart, love".
Can out-drink you. He's watched his wife put away Whisky Sours at the SAS Christmas do with a composure that made seasoned operators look like lightweights.
Discretion essential.
John sets the newspaper down on his knee. His jaw works and his eyes don't leave the wall.
And he doesn't confront you.
Not over dinner nor in bed that night when you roll towards him and press a kiss to his shoulderâa habit you've kept even through the worst of the distance, even when you're angry with him, even when he doesn't deserve it.
Instead, he waits, and he replies to Box 64.
The letter that arrives for you a week later is postmarked locally. Plain envelope, no return address. Inside, a single sheet of paper, handwritten in a bold, slanted script you don't recognise.
I enjoy good food, better whisky, and I've never met a woman who can out-drink me, but I'd enjoy watching you try. Friday, 8pm, OâMalleyâs on St. George's Lane. I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh. â J
Your hands are shaking when you finish reading it, and you have to sit down at the kitchen table and press your palms flat against the wood to steady yourself.
You could throw it away. No. You should throw it away. This was a mistakeâa stupid, reckless, selfish mistake born out of loneliness and too much wine and that ugly, gnawing ache in your chest that flares up every time John leaves.
But John has left again. Three days at home, then a call from Kate Laswell, then a bag packed and a kiss on your forehead and a quick âBe back soon, loveâ and the sound of the front door closing and the silence that rushes in to fill the space he used to occupy.
You read the letter once more.
I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh.
Something warm and reckless curls in your stomach, and you hate yourself for it, and you fold the letter into the pocket of your cardigan and carry it around for three days before you decide youâre going.
Friday night. OâMalleyâs.
You arrive twenty minutes early because you're a control freak in crisis, and you take the farthest booth in the corner because your back needs to be against a wall and your eyes need to be on the doorâa habit you picked up from your husband without realising it.
You order a gin and tonic to give your hands something to do, and you check your reflection in the blank screen of your phone for the third time. You look good, like you tried againânot the kind of effort you make for John when he comes home, all desperate and over-polished, but a quieter kind; wearing your favourite dress with subtle makeup and your hair done the way you like it, not the way you think someone else wants to see it.
You look like your old self, and that's terrifying, because the whole point of tonight was supposed to be about being someone else.
When your wedding ring catches the light as you reach for your drink, and you stare at it for a long moment, the slim gold band John slid onto your finger nine years ago with steady hands and unsteady eyes, and you don't take it off.
You should, but you canât, and you did say youâre married.
Eight o'clock comes and goes. Five past, then ten. You're about to convince yourself you've been stood up, which would be both a relief and a humiliation, when the pub door opens and a man walks in, and every nerve ending in your body fires at once.
Because the man standing in the doorway, scanning the room with those sharp, assessing eyes, is your husband.
John is wearing civvies. Dark jeans, a black henley pushed up to his elbows, boots that have seen better days.
He looks like he came straight from the base, which he probably did. His hair is freshly cut but his beard is full, and there is a tiredness around his eyes that you can read from across the room, the same bone-deep fatigue he carries home from every deployment and tries to hide and fails.
He spots you and your stomach plummets.
Meanwhile, his expression doesn't change; not a flicker. He holds your gaze across the crowded pub, and then he walks towards you with the kind of unhurried, deliberate stride that you've seen him use in exactly two contexts.
When he's approaching a superior officer, and when he's about to do something that no one in the room is going to enjoy.
Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth. Your hand tightens around your glass until your knuckles ache, and every instinct in your body is screaming at you to run to the bathroom, to the car park, to another country, but your legs won't cooperate, because Captain John Price is walking towards you and you have never in your life been able to move when he's looking at you like that.
He reaches the booth, stops, and looks down at you. And a beat of terrible, electric silence follows.
Then he smiles, though not the tight, exhausted smile he gives you at the front door when he's been gone for weeks, but something warmer, something almost boyish, and then he slides into the seat across from you, settling in with an ease that makes your blood run cold.
"You must be Box 64," he says casually, calm, like he's meeting a stranger for the first time, which is insane, because he is your husband and he is sitting across from you at a pub where you came to meet another man and he knows. He fucking knows.
"Johnâ"
"John," he repeats, tasting the name like he's hearing it for the first time. Then he extends his hand across the table. "That's right. Pleasure to meet you."
You stare at his outstretched hand, then at his face, and back at his hand.
"John, I can explainâ"
"Nothing to explain." He keeps his hand where it is, steady and patient. His eyes don't leave yours. "I'm J. You're Box 64. We're here to have a drink and see if we get on. That was the arrangement, wasn't it? What your ad said?"
Your mouth opens and something inside you dies a little, along with the words in your throat; anything but one.
"John."
"You gonna leave me hanging, love? Already?" He nods at his hand, one eyebrow raised, and there is something in his expressionâbeneath the calm and the performanceâthat you can't quite read.
It's not anger, not even hurt. Something closer to resolve, like he's made a decision about tonight and he intends to see it through, and nothing you say is going to alter the trajectory.
You take his hand, shake it weakly.
His fingers close around yours, warm and rough, and he gives one firm shake before releasing you. Then he flags down the barmaid, orders a whisky neat, and turns back to you with that same easy, unreadable smile.
"So. Tell me about yourself."
You stare at him owlishly.
"IâI don'tâ" You can feel heat crawling up your neck, your throat tightening with the precursor to tears. "John, please, can we justâ"
"Tell me," he says again, and his voice is gentle, but his eyes are steel. "What do you do? Where are you from? What made you put that ad in the paper?"
The last question lands like another slap, even though his tone doesn't change. You swallow hard, your fingers wrap around your glass for something to anchor to.
He waits for you to answer; patient as a sniper in a ghillie suit.
"I'mâ" You exhale shakily. "I'm from here. I live in Hereford. I'mâ" Your voice threatens to crack, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it steadies. "I'm a teacher."
"A teacher." John nods, like this is new information and not something he's known for the better part of a decade. "What age?"
"Year four."
"Year four. That'sâwhat, eight? Nine?" He takes a sip of his whisky. The barmaid left it quietly and shot you a look like she sensed the tension. "Brave woman. I've faced insurgents with less fight in them than a nine-year-old with a grudge."
The laugh that escapes you is wet and startled and completely involuntary, and John's eyes soften for a fraction of a second before the mask slides back into place.
"What about you?" you ask carefully, because two can play this game, and if he's going to make you sit through this surreal performance, you might as well commit. Your voice is still unsteady, but there's a spark of something underneath the fearâdefiance, maybe, or the stubbornness that made you put the ad in the paper in the first place. "What do you do?"
"Military," he answers briskly, which is what he always says at parties and barbecues when civilians ask, offering nothing further.
"What branch?"
"The kind that doesn't let me talk about it." He leans back in his seat, one arm resting along the back of the booth leisurely and looks at you with an expression that's half amusement, half something hungrier. "I travel a lot. Gone more than I'm home unfortunately."
"That must be hard," you reply, and you mean it in a raw way that has nothing to do with the roleplay and everything to do with the long years of lonely nights and unanswered phone calls sitting between you.
John hears it and you watch it land. A brief tightening around his eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw before he takes another slow drink.
"It is," he says quietly. "Harder on the people who wait, I'd imagine."
Your breath catches. You look down at the table, at your ring, at the condensation pooling around the base of your glass.
"Yeah," you whisper. "It is."
The silence that follows is different from the others. Not tense or loaded. Just heavy, in the way that true things are heavy, settling between you like something solid.
Then John clears his throat. "Another round?"
You nod, not trusting your voice, and he waves the barmaid over again.
The second drink loosens something.
Maybe it's the gin, perhaps the sheer absurdity of the situation, but somewhere between your second and third drink, the fear recedes enough for you to actually talk.
And Johnâyour husband, who has spent the better part of a year giving you monosyllabic answers over dinner and falling asleep during filmsâis talking back.
He's always been charming. It's how he got you in the first place, at a mate's wedding eleven years ago, when he cornered you at the bar and spent forty-five minutes making you laugh so hard you snorted champagne up your nose. Though you'd forgotten what it looks like when he aims it at you with intent.
John asks about your students and listens to the answers. He asks about the book you're currently reading and offers an opinion on it that tells you he's been paying more attention to your nightstand than you thought. He tells you stories from deployment that are carefully scrubbed of classified details but still make you laugh; the kind of stories he used to tell you when you were dating. Absurd, self-deprecating, designed to make you think he's funnier than he is.
He is funny. You'd forgotten that, too.
"You've got a nice laugh," he says at one point, swirling his whisky, and the way he says it, like an observation, like he's hearing it for the first time, makes your stomach flip.
"Don't flatter me, J." The letter feels strange in your mouth, this thin fiction stretched over the truth of him. "I'll think you're after something."
"Maybe I am." He holds your gaze and doesn't smile. "That a problem, love?"
Your mouth goes dry.
Three drinks in, you're leaning across the table towards each other, and his hand is resting on the tabletop close enough to yours that your little fingers are almost touching, and you're telling him about the time one of your Year Fours brought a live frog to class in his lunchbox and it escaped during maths, and John is laughingâreally laughing, with his head tipped back and his eyes creasedâand for a vertiginous moment, you manage to forget.
You forget that this is a performance; that your husband is sitting across from you pretending to be a stranger because you put an ad in the newspaper looking for someone else. Everything except the sound of his laugh and the warmth in his eyes and the way he's looking at you like you're the most interesting person in the room, which is how he used to look at you all the time, before the deployments ate him alive and left you with the husk.
Then his eyes drop to your left hand, and the warmth doesn't leave his expression, but something sharper slides in alongside it, like the glint of a blade edge, and then he reaches across the table and takes your hand, turning it over in his.
His thumb presses against the band of your wedding ring, holding it there.
"You know," he says, and his voice is still easy, still conversational, but there's a new undercurrent to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, "if you were really going to go through with this little adventure of yoursâ"
He taps the ring once with his thumb, clicks his tongue.
"âyou probably should've taken this off first."
The blood drains from your face. The pleasant haze of gin and good conversation evaporates in an instant, replaced by a cold, lurching clarity.
"Johnâ"
"Bit of a deterrent, love. Even when you mentioned it in the ad." He's still holding your hand, still running his thumb over the ring, and his expression is unreadableânot angry, not hurt, just steady, the way he looks when he's holding a position and waiting for something to break. "Any bloke worth his salt would've clocked that you're not really in it five minutes in."
Your eyes are stinging. "I wasn't going toâI would never haveâ"
"I know." He replies simply and releases your hand. "I know you wouldn't."
The lump in your throat is enormous and razor-edged, and you have to look away at anything that isn't his face, because if you keep looking at him, you're going to cry in the middle of this pub and he will never, ever let you live it down.
"I'm sorry," you manage, barely a whisper. "John, I'm so sorry, I didn'tâI was justâ"
"Don't."
You look back at him. He's leaning forward now, strong forearms on the table, and the mask is gone. All of it, the J performance, the first-date charm, the controlled amusement. And underneath is just your husband. Looking at you with an expression that is not anger, that has never been anger, that is something far worse.
Guilt.
"I should've been home more," he murmurs; too honest for a pub on a Friday night. "I should'veâ" He stops, his jaw clenches before he tries again. "I should've given you a proper life. A family. A husband who's actually fucking present. And I didn't, and youâ"
He gestures vaguely at the booth, the pub, the entire premise of the evening.
"âyou shouldn't have had to do this to get my attention."
The first tear slips down your face before you can catch it. You swipe at it furiously with the back of your hand before the barmaid, who has become somewhat intrigued by whatever is happening at your table, can clock it.
"I wasn't trying to get your attention," you lie, and you both know it's a lie, and his mouth twitches; not quite a smile, something more tender and much more broken.
"Yeah, you were." He reaches across the table again and takes your hand, properly this time, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing. "And it worked."
You let out a breath that's half laugh, half sob, and squeeze back.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The pub buzzes around you. Glasses clinking, conversations flowing, some '80s song you can't name playing from the speakers. And you sit in the middle of it, holding hands across a sticky table, and the nine years of silence and distance and loving each other badly feel, for the first time, like something that could be survived.
"I need the loo," you announce eventually, because your mascara is probably wrecked and you need thirty seconds of privacy to pull yourself together before you dissolve entirely.
John releases your hand with a nod. "Take your time, love."
You slide out of the booth on legs that feel slightly unsteady with gin and adrenaline, and make your way to the back of the pub, past the bar and down the short corridor to the ladies'.
It's a single-stall bathroom. Small, clean enough, a lock on the door that you click shut behind you before bracing your hands on the edge of the sink and staring at your reflection in the mirror above it.
Your eyes are bright and glassy. Your mascara is, as predicted, smudged. You look wrecked and flushed and alive in a way you haven't in months, and you hate that it took thisâa dating ad and a Friday night charadeâto put that look on your face.
You run the tap and press your cool, damp fingers against your closed eyelids. Breathe. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish your drinks, go home with your husband, and figure out the rest in the morning like adults who have been married for nearly a decade and know how to have a difficult conversation.
You're drying your hands when the lock clicks.
You freeze. Your eyes snap to the door in the mirror's reflection as it opens, and John slips inside and closes it behind him with a soft, definitive click of the lock.
The bathroom shrinks to nothing.
He fills the space. Not just physically, though he does that too, broad shoulders and solid frame taking up far too much of the small room, but atmospherically. The air changes when he's this close, gets heavier and becomes charged, like the pressure drop before a storm front.
"John, what are youâ"
He moves. One step, then two, and then his big hand is flat against your lower back and he's pressing you forward, gently but firmly, until your hips meet the edge of the sink and your palms catch the porcelain on either side.
His body moulds against your back. Chest to spine, hips to arse. One hand sliding from your lower back to your waist, gripping and anchoring, while his other forearm braces against the wall beside the mirror.
You can see him in the reflection; towering behind you, head dipped, mouth hovering at the shell of your ear, and your breath stutters at the look on his face.
"Gonna make you remember why you married me, darling," he mutters into your ear, and his breath is hot and damp on the side of your neck, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling your arse back against the hard line of his cock already straining behind his zipper.
"Johnâ"
"Shh." His lips graze the spot beneath your ear. No kiss but a warning. "You wanted to be seen, love. I see you."
His hand slides from your waist to the hem of your dress and drags it up slowly, bunching the fabric around your hips until you're exposed from the waist down. The cool air of the bathroom hits your bare thighs and makes you gasp.
"John, we can'tâWe're in a pubâ!"
"Should've thought about that before you went looking for a date, shouldn't you?" His voice is rough and threaded with something dark and tender at the same time, and his fingers hook into the waistband of your knickers, tugging them down your thighs in one smooth motion. They pool around your ankles, and he doesn't bother removing them fullyâjust leaves them there, tangled between your heels.
"Anyone couldâ"
"Door's locked." His hand trails up the inside of your thigh, calloused fingers dragging against the soft skin, and you bite your lip to keep the sound that wants to escape inside. "And you're going to be quiet for me, aren't you, hm?"
You hear his belt buckle. The clink of metal, the drag of leather through belt loops, then the rasp of his zip, and your hands grip the sink so hard your arms tremble, because the sound alone is enough to make your pussy clench around nothing in anticipation.
"Nearly a decade of marriage," he murmurs against the back of your neck, and his free hand slides between your thighs from behind, two thick fingers dragging through your supple folds, finding you already embarrassingly wet. He lets out a low, dark sound of approval that vibrates against your skin. "And I let you forget."
His fingers circle your clit once and your hips buck back against him involuntarily.
"That's on me," he continues, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that makes your toes curl in your pumps. "My fault. My fucking failure. Not yours."
He presses one thick finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with a slow, curling thrust that makes your breath hitch and your walls clench around him. He groans quietly and his forehead drops against the back of your head.
"'M finally gonna put our baby in you," he declares, and the words are rough and raw and utterly certain, a promise sealed against your skin. "Should've done it years ago. Should've given you that. Should've given you everything."
He withdraws his fingers and you whimper at the loss with a needy, desperate sound that you'd be mortified by in any other context, and then you feel the blunt, plump head of his cock pressing against your entrance and every other thought in your head goes static.
"Johnâ" you mewl. John pushes in slowly.
He stretches you open around him with a fullness that borders on too much, and the sound that tears from your throat is muffled only because you clamp your hand over your own mouth.
More than a decade and his fat cock is still enough to make you go stupid.
"Fuck," John breathes, his hips flush against your arse, buried to the root, and his grip on your waist is bruising. He doesn't move yet just holds there, letting you feel every inch of him, letting your body adjust around the thick, throbbing weight of his cock.
Then he starts to move, and it's not the perfunctory, tired sex you've been having for the past year. The kind where he finishes quickly and rolls over and you stare at the ceiling and pretend you came.
This is John Price. The real one, the one you fell in love with. The one who backed you against the wall of your old flat on your third date and made you see God by eating you out through your knickers before he'd even taken anything else off.
He fucks you deep and deliberate, one hand gripping your hip while the other wraps around the front of your throat lightly; his fingers curled against your pulse point, feeling the frantic beat of your heart against his palm.
"Look at yourself," he orders, and your eyesâwhich had screwed shut at some pointâfly open to meet his in the mirror. Pupils blown.
The sight of it is obscene. Your dress bunched around your waist, his thick forearm braced beside the mirror, tendons flexing, his body curved over yours, and the slow, powerful roll of his hips driving into you from behind with a rhythm that's making the mirror rattle against the wall.
"That's my wife," he grunts, and his reflection's eyes are fierce and fixed on yours. "Mine. Not some fucking stranger's from a newspaper ad."
You can't speak, only feel his cock dragging against your walls, his hand on your throat, his chest solid and warm and present against your back for the first time in what feels like forever.
He picks up the pace; harder and deeper thrusts, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small bathroom while his ragged breath puffs against your ear. And then his rough hand leaves your throat to reach between your legs, flicking your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that make you bite down on your own fist to keep from screaming.
"Quiet," he reminds you, and the bastard sounds smug. "You want the whole pub to know what I'm doing to you in here? Huh? Want them to know âm fucking my wife?"
You shake your head frantically; cunt fluttering and squeezing his shaft, because dirty talk from John Price is its own kind of sweet torture.
"Then cum for me quietly, love. Right now."
A few more hard, precise thrusts with his cock dragging inside your quivering cunt, massaging that spot that keeps swelling inside you, and you shatter.
The orgasm rips through you so violently that your knees give out, and the only things keeping you upright are the sink under your hands and John's arm locked around your waist. You clamp your teeth into the heel of your palm and muffle the cry that wants to tear out of you, your walls clenching and fluttering around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses.
"Christâfuckâ" John's hips stutter, his rhythm breaks, and he buries himself deepâso deepâand holds, his cock kicking and pulsing inside you as he cums with a low, guttural groan pressed into the curve of your neck.
He spills himself empty inside you, balls throbbing with each little jerk of his hips. Hot and thick, deliberate this time. No condom, no pulling out this time, and the significance of that isn't lost on either of you. His hips roll lazily through the aftershocks, working every precious drop into your messy cunt, and his hand slides from your waist to your lower belly, pressing flat.
"There," he murmurs, and his voice is wrecked and satisfied, unbearably tender. "That's where it belongs."
You're shaking. Your entire body is trembling, your legs are useless, and there are tears streaming silently down your face that have nothing to do with pain.
He stays inside you for a long moment; breathing, his lips pressed against the nape of your neck, beard scraping your skin, his hand warm on your lower stomach. Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, and you feel his cum start to leak from you immediately, warm and slick against your inner thighs.
He reaches down, picks your knickers up from around your ankles, and slides them back up your legs with an almost clinical efficiency. When they're settled back into place, he pats your arse once, light and proprietary, and tugs your dress back down.
"There we go," he says, like he's just helped you with your coat. "Good as new."
You let out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob, your forehead dropping against the mirror.
"How about a 'thank you,' love," he adds while he tugs his softening cock back into his jeans, and when you lift your head and catch his eyes in the reflection, the smug satisfaction on his face is so thoroughly, infuriatingly Price that you want to slap him and kiss him simultaneously, "for stuffing your pretty cunt full of my cum, hm?"
"John."
"Mm." He presses a kiss to your temple, achingly gentle after everything he just did to you, and reaches past you to turn on the tap. He wets his hand and wipes beneath your eyes with his thumb, cleaning up the mascara.
"Ready to leave, love?" he asks, straightening up and buckling his belt with the same unhurried ease he does everything. "Or would you like another drink before your husband takes you home?"
Your legs are still shaking, his cum is slowly but surely soaking into your knickers, and your heart is so full it might crack your ribs.
"N-No," you manage, small and hoarse. "I'd like to go home now, John."
He looks at you, really looks. And there is nothing left of the J performance, not the Captain Price mask, just John, your husband. The man who drove to a pub on a Friday night not to punish you but to remind you both of what you'd almost let slip away.
"That's my girl," he replies softly.
He unlocks the bathroom door, checks the corridor, and guides you out with his hand on the small of your back. You walk through the pub on shaking legs, past the booth where your half-finished drinks are still sitting, past the barmaid who gives you both a knowing look that you pretend not to see.
The night air hits you like cold water when you step outside, and you suck in a breath that fills your lungs properly for the first time in hours.
John pulls his car keys from his pocket, presses the fob, and opens the passenger door for you without a word. You climb in. He closes the door, rounds the bonnet, and slides into the driver's seat.
Neither of you speaks on the drive home. His hand rests on your thigh, squeezing gently every other minute, and your hand rests on top of his, your fingers tracing the ridges of his calloused knuckles and the band of his own wedding ring, which he has never, not once in nine years, taken off.
When he pulls into the driveway, the porch light is off. You haven't left it on in months.
John kills the engine. Sits for a moment, looking at the dark house.
Then he turns to you, and his voice is quieter now, stripped of the previous smugness, the heat, the performance. Just the raw thing underneath.
"I will do better."
No grand speech or a promise wrapped in flowers and apologies and all the things you've heard before and stopped believing. It's four words, plain and blunt and offered without decoration, and they land heavier than anything else he's said tonight.
You reach across the centre console and take his face in both hands, and you kiss him slowly, like you have time, because you're going to make time.
"I know," you whisper against his mouth.
And when you get inside, John turns the porch light on.
Like, imagine trying to move on with your life after your divorce and Simon just⌠wonât let you. Your car doesnât start? Thatâs odd, even odder when he happens to be driving by as youâre standing stranded on the side of the road. That guy you went on a few dates with? Ghosts you. You find out later he moved faaaar away too, like he couldnât get far enough away from you. If your kid has a game, Simon is right there on the sideline, a shadow at your back. Afterwards, he suggests getting ice cream, and you canât bring yourself to deprive your son of this time with his dad. So you have to sit there, on a wooden bench, as your kid excitedly recaps the game and Simon dutifully nods along, commenting and offering praise here and there. Itâs infuriating because where was this a year ago, when you were begging for more effort? Where was this time and attention when you were practically raising your son alone? Nowhere. He was always gone, and you were always left to pick up the pieces.
He knows youâre frustrated too, though youâre not doing much to hide it. Itâs boiling over as he buckles your son into his seat and leans down to your window, small smile tugging his mouth to the side.
âAlright?â
âNo.â You snap. âArenât you supposed to be on a mission or something?â He shakes his head.
âIâll be around,â he tells you casually, and your mouth drops open in shock. His hand darts into the car so fast you canât track it, and then his thumb is pressing, hard, into your bottom lip. âGot a new mission now, closer to home.â
MmmmmmâŚ.. knight!Simon who fell in love with whore!reader and promised heâd return when he had earned enough to buy her freedom and take her as his wife. He disappears, and you hear rumors of his capture, that he has almost certainly died. You weep for himâ of course those romantic dreams were too good to be true.
Only for a knight in dark armor to approach your brothel on horseback, a skull plate welded to his helm, a sword with blood still flaking from its pommel at his hip. The madame has you all lined up, smacking those who dare to tremble in front of an honored guest with her riding crop. A bag of gold, far more than the price for a single night, gets tossed on the counter as a hand gauntleted in black steel points at you.
âSir, this is more thaââ
âNot âere to stay the night. Oiâm takinâ that one with me.â
tags: f!reader, low honor/mid honor arthur, dom/ sub dynamics, brat taming, chocking, rough sex, cnc themes, but not really, fucked dumb, guys im sorry im bad at tags
wc: 589
a/n: back from my hiatus, i hope you like this! i had this perfect vision in my head so i hope i captured that here andddd id love recs and prompts etc. tyty
<3
It's obviously spiteful with the way you move, intentionally displeasing to him, disturbing rhythm. You even have the nerve to glance up at him, all unbeknownst, not even bothering to hide the smirk that comes when his angry eyes meet yours.
He forces your hips still, taking a much rougher, harder thrust into you he leans close, hot breath on your ear.
"Quit bein' a damn brat. I know you, you want this," he groans, wrapping each of his hands around your wrists beside your head, he holds you firm. His head drops to your shoulder as he sets a rougher pace.
Against all will, a soft whimper surpasses your sour face. He lifts his head up just enough to look at you and laugh lowly.
"Hm?" One significantly harder thrust. Your face twists further. "Awww, this is what you want huh?" A harder thrust. "A good rough fuck?" Harder.
You gasp for a breath.
"You want me to fuck you like the dirty woman that you are, huh? Dont you?" He grabs your jaw, your eyes shoot open, forced to keep his gaze. And then he stops moving altogether.
"Say it."
"Need my reassurance this badly? I didn't know you were this insecure-"
He roughly lets go of your jaw and begins to pull back, keeping his face close. He pulls back until he slips out of you.
Your cunt clenches around nothing. You sigh at the emptiness and the ultimatum he'd given. A disgusting man who got off on conquering and destroying your pride.
He smiles.
"I know you." He repeats, gleeful, patronizing. "C'mon." Condescending bastard. You feel his damn smile against your skin as he kisses your jaw soft and painfully slow, right where his rough fingers had just been.
...
"Please..." you whisper, "I want you to fuck me, I want to come."
He doesnât move. You tentatively run your fingers through his hair, as if to persuade him.
"I...want you to make me come, I want it, I like it."
You moan louder than before as he thrusts deep into you, fast and punishing. You grasp at his hair tight.
"That wasn't so hard, now was it?" His free hand wraps around your throat, the pressure just enough to focus you.
"So." Thrust "Damn." Thrust "Dramatic." Thrust
"Arthur, please!" You gasp his name as you desperately tug on his hair. He pulls your wrists down and pins them above your head, pulling back just enough to watch you.
"Look at me," he grunts, watching you sadistically as your eyes gloss over. His thrusts are more frantic, on the edge. "Fuck."
At a loss for words you just pathetically whimper. Your cunt fluttering violently around him as you come on his cock. The pressure, the squeeze, suddenly all too much that you don't know what to do with yourself.
Your eyes squeeze shut but Arthur couldn't care less. The panic in your face and the squirms of your poor overwhelmed body pleases him far enough.
He pushes himself deep into you, purposefully long enough to scare you, before just pulling out and finishing a top your belly with a languid groan. His body weight is heavy on your wrists as he relaxes.
After a few moments, he pulls his sweaty limbs from yours, letting go of your wrists. He grabs your jaw, shaking your head slightly. He chuckles as he looks down at your flushed face, one tear at each eye, worn body with his spend.
I have this headcannon that Micah was haunted by Arthur in the time between the epilogue
He canât kill any stag he meets. Micah hates the blasted things so itâs not for lack of trying but every time one ends up in his crosshairs he finds himself physically unable to pull the trigger. The eyes are the worst. He canât look into them without feeling frozen is some kind of instinctual terror.
He walks through a simple art exhibit in Saint Denis to scout out a robbery and amongst various close ups of wildlife that are honestly impressive with how close the photograph must have gotten to see them, Micah notices a portrait of him amongst the wilderness it appears to be taken without his notice he sits proud and as one with the nature surrounding him and it terrifies Micah. He runs away and instructs his men to raid the exhibit and burn the images.
He gets bored one day and reads an old Wild West novel, if only to laugh at its inaccuracy, only to see his name as a dedication in the front cover. Micah tosses it into a lake.
He gets shot, stripped of his weapons and held up by some woman on a forest road who recognised him not as Micah bell but as an old member of the van der linde gang. She doesnât ask for money or for him to turn himself in but instead for information on him. Micah spits out how Morgan is long gone and is allowed to limp away hissing all the time.
By the time John comes to get revenge wearing that bastards hat of all things any mention of the name Arthur or Morgan has him aiming his pistol and firing at whoever dared to utter it.
Heâs not guilty, he doesnât feel bad for killing black lung if anything micah was glad that he was the one to beat the last bit of life out of his failing body but nevertheless Micahs once strong hatred has now morphed into fear of his memory. That murder ,for some reason he will never know, he cannot escape.
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