I made up my mind last night. Moving into this dystopian hell we will be entering, I will strive to be more like Tank Girl.
Stop apologizing. Stop keeping quiet to keep the peace. Don't listen to the other side. They've said their piece and that's enough out of them. We can be loud too. We can be in your face about how we feel about the current state of affairs.
I have some privileges in life and I plan to abuse them to the fullest extent to show America what happens when people decide human rights are not important anymore. I won't be peaceful about this power transition. I won't be quiet. I will use my voice and every ounce of standing I have to make it known that this is not my president and not my country.
Ghost with erectile dysfunction, but he'd never waste a moment to have you even if his body doesn't cooperate in the stolen moments.
So he fucks you with the suppressor on his pistol instead.
Huffs about you being "such a slag for me, hm? Take anything i give you." When you only screw your face in disgust but open your thighs wider for him. Notches the suppressor just barely inside and kisses you, one hand roaming your body, until you're grinding down on it of your own accord.
"Gonne cum for me? Make me a new favorite weapon?" He teases, smiling at the desperate little groan you let out. Ghost starts fucking the suppressor into you properly, pushing further and further until he can angle it just right–
"There you go..." a delighted growl when your whole body seizes, the edge of the suppressor brutally massaging that perfect spot inside you.
He doesn't stop until you're shaking with overstimulation and desperately grabbing at his wrist to pull out the gun.
You earn a kiss on the cheek for schooling the embarrassment on your face after a moment, and a promise "why don't we work through the rest of my collection this weekend?" When he leaves you in that closet, holstering his pistol.
john price who buys a plot of land and moves west, only to arrive after weeks on the trail and find a ramshackle little cabin already squatting on it. the whole place looks abandoned. reeks of neglect. he draws his gun and ventures in for a look anyway, see if he can’t at least salvage the place to build his own—and scares its lone resident, a woman armed only with a knife.
though it takes some time, skittish as you are, he talks you down. learns who you are and what you’re doing on his property. apparently, you’ve been fending for yourself for months after your new husband took your horse into town for supplies and simply never came back. no letter or body, nor word from anybody who might’ve seen him—just a house that’s falling apart and a garden you depend on to keep you alive.
price shows you the deed and bill of sale to convince you he isn’t some drifter or swindler trying to trick or rob you, and watches the fight go out of you when you realize what the papers actually mean, that the land was never your husband’s to begin with. that this stranger has every right to put you out.
you were frightened before, but now you’re looking at winter coming on with no horse, hardly any money, nowhere to go, and truly no one left in the world. and price, who’s spent his life living hard and thought that he’d spend the back half of his life alone, finds he can’t stomach the sight of you standing there trying not to beg him mercy.
he looks at the growing calluses on your palms, the dirt under your fingernails, and the dried mud caked along the hem of your skirts, and he is struck. all those violent, bloody years he survived when better men did not? this must be what he’s been kept alive for. to come all this way to this slice of heaven and find you here.
so he strikes a bargain instead: you can stay through the next month while you decide what you want to do. in the meantime you’ll help him make the place livable and he’ll teach you what he knows.
you’re not stupid. you know exactly how lopsided a deal it is, how little you have to offer compared to what he’s putting on the table—besides the obvious. he gives you the night to think it over, you toss and turn beneath for hours trying to invent a better alternative, but there simply isn’t one.
in the morning, bleary-eyed and embarrassed, you tell him you accept. john just grins and drains his coffee. to him, the matter was never in much doubt. he puts the two of you to work immediately.
the first few weeks are hard. john tackles the roof and walls first, making you his little helper, calling down for whatever tool he needs next or sending you to fetch whatever materials you can manage. you go to bed and wake up sore, palms blistering in a pair of his old gloves. all the while, john, strong as an ox, seems capable of working from dawn until dusk.
in the afternoons, when the heat makes repair work miserable, he puts you both on his horse and rides double to the nearby lake to teach you to fish. you squirm the first time he makes you gut a trout, nearly retching when the knife opens its belly. john only laughs when you try to shove the whole bloody business back toward him. his big hands close over yours instead, guiding the blade while his chest glues to your back, his voice rumbling in your ear as he chides you for trying to worm your way out of it. can’t live on good intentions, love. go on. get your fingers in there.
he teaches you to shoot next and that’s when you get your first inkling of whatever life he led before he found you. he’s an excellent shot, on foot and horseback. he’s also a good teacher. hands-on. correcting your stance, one wide palm at your waist and the other on your elbow, enduring every flinch of yours until you can fire without shaking. he shows you how to set basic snares and read the ground for tracks. in return, you teach him what grows best in the garden and what you’ve found foraging.
and during those early weeks, you live on edge, waiting for him to ask for more than just a second helping at dinner. because you know enough of the world to know what sort of bargain a woman in your position might ordinarily be expected to make, whether the exact terms are spoken aloud or not.
you hold your breath whenever he squeezes past you in the kitchen and go stiff when his hands squeeze your sides while shooting, steadying you against the recoil. more than once you’ve lain awake listening to the floorboards creak beneath his weight while he stays up late, waiting for him to appear at your bedside. when you bathe in the lake, he stands watch on the bank with his back turned, and though you wait to catch him looking over his shoulder. but, to your honest shock, he never does.
he’s refreshingly gentlemanly. you can’t tell whether he’s honoring the existence of your husband, suspended somewhere in that awful limbo between living and dead, or whether john is simply a patient man biding his time. waiting for the right moment.
whatever the reason, each day that passes without him demanding that certain kind of tender as payment relaxes you just a bit more. your vigilance eases and you stop keeping track of where he is in and outside of the cabin. for the first time in a long time, you feel at peace.
as a consequence, the whole situation grows domestic. his razor appears beside your washbasin. his coat hangs beside yours by the door. you start setting two places at breakfast and supper. at night, when there’s oil or wax to spare, you read aloud to each other.
so it comes as a surprise when, near the end of the month, john tells you to put on your best. you’re going into town.
today, apparently, you’re going to finally buy a horse of your own.
you start protesting immediately—you haven’t the money for a horse, your husband carried the bulk of it, you certainly don’t have enough a good one—but john waves all that away. you need one, he insists. can’t have you stranded. and while you’re in town, you can make some inquiries after your husband.
that shuts you up. almost makes you petulant. worse is the stab of shame when you realize you’ve barely thought of the man in weeks. for months, his absence had occupied every waking hour. you would daydream and imagine hoofbeats or footsteps and fly to the window, searching. then john arrived, and at some point, your husband became an afterthought.
in town, john waits patiently while you ask after your husband at the general store, the barber, the blacksmith. he accompanies you into the saloon, standing a few paces behind while you question the bartender and whatever regulars might have been there around the time your husband disappeared. john doesn’t say a word. he watches their faces, thick arms folded across his chest, eyes jumping from face to face beneath the brim of his hat while you explain when your husband left, the horse, and what he looked like.
nobody knows a thing.
in the end, you wilt dutifully. resigned to the fact that he either ran off or that his bones are bleaching in a ditch somewhere on the road. the thought ought to devastate you more than it does, and that brings another little stab of guilt.
john simply plants a hand between your shoulder blades and steers you toward the livery.
there, at least, he manages to cheer you up. he helps you choose a pretty chestnut gelding with a blaze on his forehead and a friendly disposition. john pays for him while you’re busy cooing at the creature, along with a saddle and tack, and when you claim that you’ll pay him back, he merely smiles and says, ‘m sure you will, love.
back home, neither of you mention that your agreement is nearly up. and when the month comes and goes, and neither of you mentions that either.
the timeline simply stretches, one day passing into the next. any sense of urgency gets lost. there’s still work to be done on the cabin, after all. you’re getting better with the rifle but john reckons you’ve plenty left to learn. you’ve only just got your own horse and ought to become a better rider before setting off anywhere alone. then the sun starts setting earlier and the leaves start to change, and really, leaving now would be foolish what with winter so close. you better to stay until spring.
john lays all this out over dinner one night. says it so plainly.
you agree, a mite too eager, and hide your smile behind another bite.
that night, while you sleep curled beneath your blankets, john eases your door open enough to look in on you. he stands there for a long while, listening to your breathing, before slipping a hand into his pocket. his thumb finds the worn band of that wedding ring he picked off a dead man on the road west and toys with it.
he wonders if he ought to pray. john never put much stock in faith or fate before. but what could he call this? finding that failure of a man, then finding the home he’d abandoned and the wife he’d left behind? what else is john supposed to understand it as, if not a series of signs pointing him precisely where he was meant to go? of all the land he might have bought, all the roads he might have taken—what are the chances?
the next day, he takes that dead man’s ring down to the lake and tosses it in. he will buy another the next time the two of you ride into town.
and that night, after weeks of patience, of sneaking off to see to his own wants in private, kicking dirt over his wasted spend, he will finally make his move. he will employ that same slow tenderness he’s shown you from the beginning. he has no reason to believe you won’t welcome it. you won’t shy away. you’ve been alone so long, starved for company, and he’s taught you to reach for him when you need something, hasn’t he?
no, you won’t fight him one bit. you’ll understand better, too, when he’s got you on your back, cock buried deep, drool hanging off your lip—you’ll know that you’re both right where you belong. where you’re meant to be.
and with luck, by the time spring returns, there’ll be more reason for you to stay. maybe his baby in your belly and a new ring on your finger. that bargain of a single month so far behind you both that neither of you will remember there was ever supposed to be an ending to it.
loving never did me no good (so why am i lying now?) | simon x reader | +18
He calls, and you can't help but answer.
tldr: you and Simon have been separated for months by now, yet he refuses to take you off his emergency contact list. [ao3]
tags: explicit sexual content, fem!reader, depictions of physical injuries, emotional manipulation, forced caretaking, (dubious) consensual impregnation, not exactly breeding definitely babytrapping, simon calls himself "old man" meaning husband not in a fauxcest way
[Mar 12, 2.14 PM] (linked Google Calendar reminder)
[Mar 12, 2.14 PM] Please come sign
[Mar 12, 2.16 PM] Simon I'm so serious
[Mar 12, 4.43 PM] Stop having your shit sent here
[Mar 12, 4.44 PM] I've had to reschedule with the lawyer twice. Stop fucking bailing!!! And stop! Fucking! Having! Your shit sent here!!!
[Mar 13, 7.20 AM] I told the lawyer to send it to your email. Check it.
[Mar 13, 7.21 AM] Password $TWAT!5 i think
[Mar 15, 8.06 AM] simon for fucks sake i know you use your email check it
Divorce leaves you with an embarrassing amount of free time. Like many women on the other side of a relationship, you find yourself in desperate need of a hobby.
Call it perhaps naïve optimism, but decades of movie-induced psychosis had you somewhat convinced that after ending a marriage your life would fall into that frazzled chase towards the proverbial moving on. Your Bridget Jones-esque era, so to speak.
You're certain you've done all the steps. Bought a tape dispenser to pack your shared life into tidy cardboard boxes, called the notary, fixed the doorbell tag, endured the pity comments, drank the gifted celebration wine bottles (expensive), had the obligatory celebratory one-night stand (bad), and decided the backsplash had to go as it's only there because Simon liked it (he didn't. He positively did not care.)
You hate the backsplash tiles.
They'd been clearance stock from a hardware store, and when you'd seen the price, you had squealed so hard your husband had pretended to plug his good ear. His lips had thinned into that long-suffering line as your fingers curled around his elbow, tugging him towards the pallet. 'S ceramic crap, Simon had objected, tapping a nail against the PEI sticker. You'd rolled your eyes and had wanted to ask him exactly what he would know about tiling, but his hands had been already pulling the wallet out of his back pocket.
It took him two attempts and several YouTube tutorials he kept rewinding every ten seconds, but he got them up in the end. You sucked him off as repayment with your knees to the kitchen floor, tracing lazy circles across the white of his knuckles where they gripped the countertop.
They get stripped off in a manic yet satisfying fit of hysteria, and now instead of ignoring them, you ignore a sticky note over bare plaster reminding you to call the remodel company.
Hot pilates seems as good as any distraction, and your therapist's office sits between the studio and your house. It's convenient: you can waste an hour on some very pricey lies and then go shed the guilt along calories and sweat. You squirm on the love seat and nod along her words when it seems appropriate.
"I think it would help if it were a more... A cleaner cut," you stammer. Your tongue is dry but you've achieved what you think is the perfect interested-but-nonchalant posture and you don't want to risk it for the glass of water. "I still get all his stuff, you know. His medical records and his phone bills, it's... Confusing."
Your friends occupy every Thursday and Saturday night since last October. They sit criss-cross applesauce on the wood of your living room for movie night, swing by the day after potluck for their washed casserole bowl. You get passed from one hand to the other in the most absurd game of "who has it", a watchful eye forever on you and your spine of jello.
Around them, it's easy to forget you've lost the flock. You fall into step without thinking, borrowing their direction for a few hours. Let yourself be carried on the same current, trusting they know where they're going.
But when night comes, they rise up and rub their knees and the small of their backs and swipe open their phones. One texts her fiancé— leaving now, home in 15. The other traps the device between shoulder and cheek as she buttons her coat. Did you wash your teeth? Jaime, I'm going to check before your goodnight kiss.
Instagram fills your head with christenings and birthdays while you stack the dishes in the sink. The washer-dryer gets stuck on heavy duty. You take a shot in the dark.
[Mar 23, 11.06 P.M] [Attached image] ?
It makes you feel a little less pathetic that he answers immediately.
[Mar 23, 11.06 P.M] control lock on have to turn it off
[Mar 23, 11.15 P.M] nite pet
It should feel nice, that two can play the same game. You don't respond anyway.
The next morning, you check the mail before heading out for work. Wedged between letters and advertising flyers, you find another health record. This time there's a full STI panel in the summary.
[Mar 24, 7.03 AM] youre not funny
The call comes at 3 A.M.
Your car is on and out of the driveway before you've even fully realised what Price's voice is saying, streaming out of the speaker. They got the short end of the stick on the outskirts of northern Paris, and then had to get EVAC'd out of there because Simon almost bled out in a helo.
The team at Queen Elizabeth's Centre for Defence Medicine extracts two bullets from your ex-husband's side, nestled between his spleen and his pancreatic artery. A couple millimetres in a different direction, and you'd be getting a death notification instead of a call from the ICU.
You sit on the plastic benches just outside the OR block and stare at the linoleum until a woman timidly scooches over. She's waiting for her daughter, a ruptured appendix she tells you, and she cuts the biggest orange you've ever seen in slices to coax into your hands.
"Who are you waiting for?" She asks, and your eyes decide they no longer have the strength to contain the neurotic tears you've been holding in.
She pats your back awkwardly, a little maternal, and makes soft cooing sounds as you sob into your palms, pressing your nose and your mouth into your fingers.
You picture him lying there, on a steel anatomical table, the surgeon suctioning his blood into numbered plastic bags. You wonder if they've given him something for his head. His neck hurts, if he uses a pillow that's too thick. You hope they've found him a flat one.
For a moment, you imagine that he does die, and that you're relieved. You rub against the front of your throat when that makes your stomach turn until you feel sick.
The tears slip into your mouth, iodine and sweet juice.
"There, dear," the woman tuts, smoothing over your hair. "I'm sure everything will find its place."
You're not sure how to feel about it, that you couldn't answer her question.
The zipper of your bag leaves a red imprint like a scar across your cheek. You attempt to rub it away as the nurse leads you through the frigid corridor of the unit, shoes squeaking and cleaning agents stinging the lining of your nostrils. She makes you wear funny green covers for your shoes and hook a mask over your ears, showing you how to work the gel disinfectant into your hands.
Your bag slips off your shoulder as you peek through the gap, pushing the heavy door of the room open.
A wet laugh surges from you, completely involuntary, because Simon truly looks ridiculous. Sprawled out on a mattress somehow too small for him, cast leg propped on a metal sling, oxygen cannulas skewed over his top lip, away from where they're supposed to rest against his nose. They must've had trouble dressing him, because his gown is sagging down his arm, loosely tied behind his neck.
Half of it must be his own making given that he's leaning over the edge of the bed to smash his clunky fingers onto the screen of a beeping machine. He turns his head to look at you and you take a step back to rest against the doorpost. Your hands itch with the need to touch him, to check...
His chest heaves into a great sigh when he flops back against the pillows. "Sweetheart," he burrs, nodding his chin towards the equipment. "Giv'us a hand, yeah?"
You think about hitting him, but you're sure they'd throw you out.
He watches as you drag your feet towards the bed, letting your bag drop to the floor so you can inspect the monitor. His chin dips again with encouragement when your hand hovers on the side buttons, and the half-moons under his eyes have your heart give a pained squeeze.
"Simon," you start, hating how your voice turns wet. "Oh my God. Are you okay?"
Your ex-husband cocks his head to the side, like he's taking your measurements, and the line of his mouth softens. "None o'that," he tells you, patting the seat of the chair next to his head, "c'mon, you're breakin' my heart."
He lets you sniffle a little, stretching to the nightstand to offer you a tissue box as you start rubbing your eyes. You take one out of politeness, but there's really no need: they are so puffy and dry you'd be surprised if they'd manage to produce something. Still, you jam one end into your inner corner and hope at least to clear some crust from sleep.
"How long you been 'ere."
"Since four, maybe. What happened?"
Simon scans the room and you're sure he's fishing for a clock, but he winces when his eyelids flutter in the harsh lights and he covers one with a knuckle. "Ah, nothin'."
Some part of you must still have enough hope because you wait for him to offer up more. It never comes, predictably, and you wind your arms around yourself and drop your gaze as old resentment floods your mouth.
It makes him sigh again, a heavy noise that bleeds into a groan somewhere in the middle. "Not keepin' secrets, you wouldn't understand half o'it. Who called ya?"
"Price," you admit reluctantly, twisting the point of your shoe against the ground. You find the action immediately childish, so you stop by shifting in your chair and knocking your knees together. "I told you to take me off it."
The hand he had to his eye falls down over his barrel chest as it wavers up and down with his shallow breaths. There are scrapes there you didn't notice before, at the start of his wrists and up his forearms where the tactical jacket must've rolled up. He's more gauze than skin there, between the plasters and the IV dressings.
"Been busy."
"I've called the office. Says you didn't authorise it."
"Right," you scoff, primming your lips. Perhaps you don't make the best decisions in a panic. His team would've taken care of him, so there's no need for you to be here. What a clean cut you'll get if your hands keep trembling around the handle.
Your bag is halfway from the floor when his hand dangles off the bed, right in front of your face. His index hooks into the strings of the mask, nail scraping lightly against your temple, and then he's pulling it down until it rests on your chin. Your eyebrows knit together as you look up at him and his thumb smoothes over one of them, hair catching on the callouses.
He's staring at you with that complete impassivity that can only mean he's thinking very hard.
"You look nice."
Sometimes, it's easy to forget that out of the two of you he's the better butcher.
Taking him home isn't a planned thing, nor a welcomed one. He spends eleven days in the hospital and you manage to limit yourself to one other visit only, just to really assure your brain that he's out of death's grip so you can leave this whole thing behind and go back to dismantle what's left of your marriage.
It's sprung up on you. You ask him what's the prognosis and he clucks his tongue and rubs his nape until he feels like he's made you work enough for it.
They won't let him go back to his flat. The stitches on his side are still precarious and his broken leg hobbles him even with crutches, so for once in his life, it seems Simon isn't trusted to take care of himself. The medical team is still too concerned about the risk of infection and hemorrhage to leave him be without observation.
"I thought you said your spleen was fine." Your eyes squint while you help him arrange his lunch tray precariously on his knees. The dedicated support attached to the bed doesn't fit over the width of his thighs.
He sucks his teeth before using them to tear open the oil packet. "It is. Just nicked it."
The rest of his unit has been sent on action already, gone a day or two after his injury. It's protocol, but you stare at the way he tightens when he shifts wrong and think that he looks a bit like a toy someone has gotten tired of playing with.
He eats around his words, hunched over the food like a big animal of prey. He's not one to complain, but you catch the way his crooked nose twists when he gives the spare bed in the room a sideways glance. He tells you that some kid blew his fingers off like it's to spite him personally.
"Thought I'd get some R&R, at least," he grumbles, licking meat glaze off the knife. "Have to share wit' a wanker who can't keep the spoon still."
You know you shouldn't say it, but it comes out anyway.
"Do you, uhm..." Your brain tells you to backtrack, twisting your voice until it's all strangled. "Do you want to come stay at the house? I work, so it's not like we'd see eachother much and I can... Yeah, I can help you out."
It wins you a taste of the laser focus he's capable of. "Oh, pet," he croons, making your toes curl inside your shoes. "S'not a good idea, innit?"
You shrug your shoulders, prickly with vulnerability you've grown unused to. It feels a bit like rejection, and can't figure out why it hurts. The plastic covers of the meal gather into your palms, and you cringe when condensation dampens your skin.
Simon reaches for you when you try to move to the bin. His thumb and forefinger close around your wrist, feeling for your heartbeat.
"Don't want to take advantage," he adds, and you know him too well to ignore what swims in his eyes. You pretend not to see it.
"You'd do it for me."
He licks his lips, and the hesitant press around your wrist turns full, hand circling it completely. "Yeah," he agrees, "of course I would."
The fact that the divorce was your idea goes without saying.
It's unclear exactly which cog had stopped turning, but one day you'd woken up to the uncanny feeling that no time had passed since the day before. Simon had been somewhere in the other hemisphere, and you'd stumbled through the twenty-four-hour cycle of your life with an inexplicable anxiety.
You'd felt like one of those birds that smash again and again on a window they can't see, desperate for something beyond the glass.
Then Simon had come home, and time had resumed moving. It had scared you terribly.
You try to keep it from heading there, now. In the morning you leave for work and attempt to think of anything else other than where Simon will be once you return. At times you find him wandering the back garden, checking the tree roots' stability with the end of one crutch. Others he's at the kitchen table, typing clumsily on a laptop with Tesco-bought plastic glasses precariously perched on the tip of his nose. Most of the time he doesn't even bother putting them on correctly, with one arm going over the ear and not behind.
Taking care of something gives a direction to your life that's been missing. You like that he has to listen to you, now.
He doesn't object when you nag him about taking his meds and makes such deep, growling noises of appreciation for your cooking they go right down to your stomach.
His thank-yous come in service, always, so he fixes the wardrobe door that's been giving you trouble and checks all the lightbulbs of the house. You're reminded of how many things he sees that you don't: your car oil too low, loose window latch in the bathroom. The fact that your neighbour's garage has been broken into twice since Christmas.
He spends a Saturday afternoon replacing locks and tinkering with the security system. You're only informed when a new set of keys is delivered into your hand.
"You can't change stuff in my house without telling me," you try to admonish him, pretending to not be distracted by the rolled-up sleeves of his sweated t-shirt. "You know normal people just call someone for this, yeah?"
"Aye," he says around the cigarette dangling from his lower lip, "get ya a three-weeks wait and a half-arsed job. You need this done now."
This is what you've been missing: to not have to explain yourself. The few (try two) dates that you've been on since you and Simon split have failed for the same reason. You can't expect someone to know you when there's no history, but it's a hard adjustment coming from a long-term relationship.
There's no need to faff around with Simon. You don't have to explain why it's a grand thing, when you're late at the end of the work day and enter the house and tell him that your sister is pregnant. Due in September, after a third cycle of IUI.
He turns the toy you've picked up from the store on the way home in his hands. "You think 'bout it?" He asks, waits for the moment it takes for it to click in your head.
"What, about kids?"
Sometimes, you want to say, but it seems unfair to say it to him. Parenthood was always off the table, to your agreement as well. How does one raise a child when their father is across the globe half a year. The idea was shelved and replaced with something else, and for a while it had worked.
"Don't know," you're hesitant to respond, torturing the inside of your cheek. "Depends on who comes along, I guess."
He hums, stare never leaving your face. "Sounds about right."
Simon knows just when he has to push with you, and where. You're aware he lets you ramble so you're distracted when he tugs your feet into his lap, press his thumb into your socked arches. Because he knows you, you let him.
Your former uni roommate glowers at you over clementine martinis when you go out drinking. Your ex-husband has been stashed in your house for two whole weeks and you've yet to tell a single soul. It would've gone on longer, but after you'd called a rain check on your Thursday-Saturday meetups twice in a row, your friends were nearly committed to an intervention. You managed to de-escalate it down to drinks, hoping the alcohol would help, but perhaps a tête-à-tête hadn't been your brightest idea.
"It's just until the end of the month," you reiterate, sounding too much like you're justifying yourself.
There's no particular amount of affection that your inner circle holds for Simon, and you're quite sure it has decreased significantly since your separation. No need to fake appearances once a friend's insufferable partner is out of their life.
"I don't know, babe," she grimaces, stirring her drink with a straw. "It's kind of fresh, you don't even have the papers signed. I don't think it's the healthiest thing."
"It's practical. And, c'mon, what was I supposed to do? Leave him there? It's temporary and it's... It's fine, it's nothing."
"All I'm saying is, you don't make the smartest decisions around him," she points out. Not like you can get mad at her if she's right.
You swirl the words on your tongue while you drive back.
The lights are all off and you wander into the kitchen, pulling open the medicine cabinet to rummage around for a paracetamol. The weather is not quite hot enough for summer yet, but you feel stifled under your dress, fanning your face with your free hand to dampen the alcohol-fed licks of heat travelling up your spine.
A shadow shifts in the corner of your sight and you scramble, whirling around and pressing against the counter so fast you almost land on top of it.
Simon turns his head away to curl his lips in that nasty manner that means he's amused, standing a few feet away as if not entirely sure you won't bolt. Your palm slides away from your heart, and you award him a blank look.
"Fuckhead," you chastise him, low because the anger has already bled out of you. Quiet is not something he decides on anymore.
He gives you a canine smile and saunters closer, holding his arm out for you to see. "Patch's comin' off," he explains, picking the corner of the dressing with his nails to show you how loose it is, nodding his head towards the cabinet.
The help isn't offered nor does it need to be, because he angles towards you and waits until you reach behind your back for the disinfectant and the box of plasters. You murmur that you're sorry when the glue pulls at the straw hairs on his forearm, and he hums softly like he's conversing with an animal he thinks a bit dumb.
"I like the dress," he tells you after a while, and when you look up briefly, he's sizing the length of your body approvingly. Your hips shift in response, correcting your slouch as you clean the skin around the wound. "When 'ave you worn this?"
"I haven't," you swallow, hissing when your fingers fumble opening up the new dressing. "Got it after you."
The massive curve of his shoulders hunch, closing in, and you don't think he liked that so much, that there's an after you. You stick the plaster in place and prepare to bite the bullet.
"You smell good," he interrupts eagerly, and it almost makes you give in.
"Simon, can you sign the papers?"
His eyes are so weird. They shift like earth, at times, one moment the light, rich brown of soil, warmed by the sunlight. Now they deepen, the ground opening in layers, pulling you further by a magnetic core, bubbling in their tar pits.
"What papers, love?" He asks it along a deep breath, lips pulling at one corner, like you're revising some old shared joke and he's helping you set up the punchline.
"The divorce papers. I have them in the office, we can..."
Your mouth opens, and you curl your lips to wet them, squeeze some moisture out of your dry mouth. Your hand lets go of his arm, but he moves his behind you to rest on the counter so he can bend you in a more comfortable position for himself, shifting you until you face him directly. You have to tuck your shoulders inwards or you brush against the cupboard.
"You know wha' I think," he mumbles, swiping his nose over the crown of your head. "I think tha' yer a little drunk, pet, and you're not talkin' straight."
In a broader sense, you already knew this was going to happen, so it's not exactly shock that twists in your gut when his fingers hike the skirt of your dress up your thighs. They pinch the softness there as they go, mean enough that you squeak, and he chuckles with his mouth fitted to your ear.
You fear for his stitches when he hoists you up on the countertop, trying to swat his hands away, but he's clever and he hooks the gusset of your underwear in the crease of your pelvis. You've been wet since you noticed he was in the kitchen, and the groan that rumbles up his throat when he discovers it punches you in the solar plexus.
"Fuckin' knew it, I knew she missed me."
It seems like memory doesn't fail him, because his thumb traces the folds at the top before he caresses the length of your labia, finding the pool of slick at your opening and smearing it back up.
You can't help but clutch at his shoulders, digging into the muscle. The heel on your left foot bangs against the wood behind it and threatens to slip away, but when you try to spread your toes to keep it on, Simon gives your clit a good jiggle that has you doing the opposite.
"Speakin' a load of nonsense with a cunt leakin' for me," he huffs annoyedly, muffled against the spot on your neck he's lavishing. He doesn't warn you, just presses hard against your clit and plunges two thick fingers into you, bullying the rim apart until it stretches over the thick of his knuckles.
"Simon-!"
The gasp is out of you before you can reel it back, and he uses the opportunity of your open lips and cram his tongue into your mouth, with such an insistence you'd think there isn't enough space. You try to duck your head away a little, keep this from turning tender, but he palpates the hinges of your jaw and strokes quick little jabs against your front wall that make your lips slack.
You cum dizzyingly fast, moaning when you suck instinctively on his tongue the way you know he wants you to.
Simon grins like the cat who got the cream when he decides to let you breathe again, rubbing your cheek in a rough back-and-forth with his thumb. No more sounds seem willing to leave your body, so you're silent as he tugs your panties back in place, smoothing the dress over your legs.
Unsure of what else to say, you palm his side with a delicate touch. "Are you hurt?"
"No, darlin'," he's quick to respond, lowering his head so he can plant an insistent kiss over your mouth. "Feel fuckin' fantastic."
The following week, you celebrate your birthday. It falls on a Saturday, so you'll go out to that nice rooftop bar you've been meaning to try with your friends and you'll pretend it's all a surprise. But on Friday, Simon orders your favourite Indian and almost gets offended when you try to pay him back. It makes you so awkward that you let him stamp a peck to the side of your head before settling on the couch to watch a film.
When 9 PM comes, he taps your biceps with his fingers. "Pill," he clicks his tongue, and you're somehow shocked that he remembered.
The truth gets wedged in your throat on its way out. Admitting to it seems like dangling intimacy in front of his eyes that you're not ready to depart from.
"Yeah, sure," you hum, feigning severe interest in the movie. "In a minute."
"No, not in a minute. Now."
You think about getting up and swallowing an ibuprofen, just to get him off your trail. But why should he have that control over you?
"I'm, uh, not on it anymore." Hand reaching for a curry chip, you sniff and stuff it between your lips, deciding to focus on the spice burning the roof of your mouth instead of the intense look he gives your cheekbone. "Didn't really seem useful. Thought I'd take a break."
The rest of the evening is spent convincing yourself that you don't care about his opinion rather than worrying whether he thinks it's a bad thing.
You make your wish over chicken korma and pray he hasn't yet figured out how to read your mind.
By the time the last week of the month rolls in, you've half-forgotten Simon is supposed to leave eventually. If it's slipping from your mind, then he's buried the thought so deep it may as well not exist. Every time he leaves for a health check-up, you wring your hands and wait for him to come back and tell you that the time is up, that he doesn't need you anymore. What is supposed to bring you solace now fills you with dread.
Spring is drawing to an end and you feel a part of your life goes with it.
Over dinner he tells you that his medical downgrade will be lifted when May comes, and you're grateful that he pretends to ignore your fork clattering against the plate. You twirl it around your fingers, tapping the tabletop with the flat end of it.
Steam curls from the pasta between you. Simon decided to cook for once, and you'd come home just in time to bear the results. "Clean across 1500 meters", you'd said, enjoying having to evade his grabby hands, "and defeated by a timer."
Now he eats like he's still in a mess hall, elbow planted wide across the table, barely looking at his plate. He's always had that about him. This is mine, his posture says sometimes, come and take it.
"That's good," is what comes when you manage to metabolize it as the prongs skewer a limp maccheroni, and he watches your mouth open for it.
You're not sure if it's irritation or embarrassment that twinges at your nape when he snorts, tilting his head away so you're only allowed one side of his face, watching the way the line of his mouth bleeds into the scarred divot on his cheek. It turns his whole face into one long, pitying grin.
You've seen the place he's supposed to return to. A stuffy cubicle crammed into the side of a duplex, so narrow you weren't sure it was fit for rent. He hadn't seemed interested in decorating, because it had been lacking any furniture aside from the basics, all dull popcorn ceilings and vinyl plank floors. You'd found a pack of condoms in the hardboard sidetable digging for the things he'd sent you to retrieve; shame somersaults in your guts at the memory of throwing them away.
Another noodle makes it into your mouth, and you swallow it along with the image of him noticing just as he's about to fuck another woman. "Will you go back?"
"Back where?" Simon says, stealing the last piece of bread for himself.
You go to answer honestly, but you lose your bravado. "Field. Your team left," you reply stupidly, as if he possibly couldn't know, "a few days after your surgery."
"Aye, probably. Kind o' need-to-know stuff."
The chair creaks under your shifting weight as you adjust, curling a foot towards your chest so it rests flat on the seat.
"Have you packed anything yet?"
"Plenty o'time."
He says it like time is something he can afford to waste, like leaving is an inconvenience to be dealt with only when necessary. He clears the plates without asking, carrying the stack to the sink while you rinse the cutlery. Silence grows thick, cut only by scraping metal and rushing water.
When you wander to check the back door, he looks up from where he's polishing a knife. "What're you doin'."
"Making sure it's shut," you reply with your hand still on the handle. The door gives a good rattle as you try the latch, putting some of your weight into it. The door gives a good rattle as you try the latch, putting some of your weight into it. The lock clicks, firm in its place even when tested under a second, harder shake. His mouth twitches and it earns him a mean glance in response.
"Checked it half an hour ago."
"So?"
"So you're starting to sound like me."
You laugh, but the sound catches somewhere in your chest when you try to make it real. He shifts away from the sink, setting the knife on the rack, sighing when you don't offer anything else.
"Someone had a go at Ms. Cooke's place. Police came sniffin' round."
"What?" You gape, abandoning the door to move back towards the kitchen island. Your stomach goes tight and unpleasantly hollow, and you can't stop your hand from pressing over it, as if that alone could help it settle. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Was tellin' ya now." His shoulder sways in disinterest, like he's swatting away a fly, watching you with that unnerving patience he gets when he's already decided on something. "S'fine. We've got the alarm."
When the tidying up is done, you go upstairs and stew in your anxiety. The night seems to have an in on your thoughts, because every little noise acquires intent. Your shoulders jump as you undress when the boiler settles with a knock in the walls, and later your eyes wander from your paperback towards the dark glass of the window, wind worrying at the fence panels.
A car door slamming is what sends you out of bed, resigned that you can't bear it anymore. You stick your fingers in your mouth, gnawing at the nails, and take laps around the first floor to inspect the dark corners of your home, the phone flashlight gripped in your palm as a weapon.
By the time you descend the stairs, you're embarrassed by yourself. You find Simon exactly where you've left him, sunk in the edge of the sofa with a Stella hanging lazily off his hand. Blue-white flashes from an old football match ripple across his face. He doesn't turn, but greets you before your feet have even landed from the flight.
"Oi."
There's no rush for an answer on his part, yet he still sighs heavily when it doesn't come. His eyes studies you, moving over your face with a quiet attentiveness you've never learnt to evade. "Still thinkin' bout Cooke?"
Your expression must answer for you, because he rubs a thumb over the condensation on the bottle before he's speaking again.
"If they're worth half o' their salt, they'll have scoped the place already." His chin dips towards the window without looking away from you. "Not stupid 'nuff to try while I'm in the house."
You know, of course you do. You've spent months alone in this very same building, and haven't spent a night turning in your bed about it. For some reason, it doesn't stop your stomach from churning tonight.
"Need me to come up?"
You're not strong enough to pretend that his weight on the mattress is not a relief. The sheets have been kicked to the end of the bed, room too stuffy for them to be useful, and you anchor a hand to the edge of the bed to keep yourself from rolling in his direction, gravity wanting to move you towards the alcove of his body.
Somehow, Simon feels bigger than you remembered. His breath rumbles when he stretches lavishly with one arm over his head, knee popping as he hangs his foot over the bed's end. The sound reverberates through the fabric, pulsing where your skin meets the topper. It turns physical when a hand touches between your scapulae.
Makes you jolt, eyes darting over your shoulder, finding the humped line of his nose bridge. His arm is still over his head, and he stares up at the ceiling while using the opposite to drag his knuckles up and down your spine. You don't have time to ask what he's doing before he answers.
"Stiff as a board," he chuffs. The fat joint of his middle finger digs into a sore spot dead centre on your back, and you tilt backwards in protest. " 'am makin' you nervous."
"Always," you reply, and he chuckles like he thinks it's a joke.
"And here I was hopin' it was the break-ins."
You give a sharp jiggle of your shoulders to knock his hand away, still too touched by the fact that he's sharing your bed to reassure you to bed truly mad. You keep tight to your pillow so there's no chance that he sees you smiling when he snorts, and fall asleep with his fingers tracing patterns over your back.
His tug wakes you. Your eyes flutter open mid-motion, rolling with the pull until your face plants against his chest. His breath wafts in your mouth before Simon tucks you under his chin, seemingly more content to take long huffs of your hair than facing you directly.
You're probably the only one conscious out of the two, which is why you don't move away. You take the precious opportunity, wallowing in the instinctive comfort it offers.
It's his smell you realise you've missed. Saliva drips liquid-hot on the back of your tongue as you press your nose to his throat. Dried sweat sticks to the crook of the arm beneath your head and in the hollow between his shoulder and neck, catching the back of your nostrils with acridness. It makes you press your thighs together, too embarrassed to consider rubbing them like you want to.
The pleasant floatiness of half-sleep is ripped away from you when his hand fists the fat of your calf to drag your leg over his hip.
"Wot 's it, baby," Simon slurs against the top of your head, and you gulp down your doe instinct with his voice under your ear.
You have to work the words through the tightness of your vocal cords and pull back a little from him so you can speak. "Sorry," you start, "just woke up. Think I rolled over."
The hand on your calf travels up, palming the length of your leg. When it reaches your ass, he sinks his fingers there like the pyjama trousers between you are a problem.
"Yeah." He ignores you when that makes you whimper, slapping his palm over your cheek a couple of times. It's not a smack, more of a pat, like he's testing the solidness of you. He grabs it again, this time a little bruising. "Need some touchin', do ya."
The familiarity of it confuses you. Your brain is not sure, as his palm moves to your front and up your shirt, if he should be allowed to do this. He's your husband and he's in your bed, but he's not. He's your ex and he's plucking your nipple between two fingers until he can catch your panting in his mouth, but you can't help it when it makes you rub your pussy on the muscle of his thigh.
"Please." You convince yourself you're begging him to stop, head spinning, but Simon must hear something else in your voice because the pad of his thumb flattens against the peak of your breast, and he flexes his leg to give you something harder to grind against.
"Bloody hell. Alrigh'," he groans, a punched moan, and the forearm behind your head curls so he can weave his fingers into your hair. Prickles bloom at your nape when he pulls, forcing your chin back so he can kiss you. His spit slips into your mouth, syrupy. Waxy sugar over candied apples, stuck behind your teeth out of your tongue's reach.
Whenever you get shy and try to inch backwards, he forces you again on his leg, pressing you so hard to himself that the rubbing verges between pleasure and burning. You know you're obscenely wet because he drags two fingers over the crotch of your pants repeatedly, trying to feel the moisture that seeps into the fabric.
"Goin' to be nice to me, uhm?" He croons, pressing his forehead to yours. He's gotten you desperate enough that your hips continue working even when his palm leaves them in favour of guiding you to the tent of his joggers. The hot, thick shape of his forces whines out of you, tip of your noses bumping. "So sweet for your old man, yeah."
The fabric moves and he's in your hand, weighty enough that it makes your cunt clench at the memory.
He has a cock that makes you want to touch it. He makes you want to touch him. You've known this since the first time you've slept together: there's a deliciousness in circling your fingers around the shaft, feeling the soft give of the veins gorging, swelling with his arousal. It has you hot in the stomach, eager when you find the tip angry and leaking already, slipping between your fingers until they're slick. You stroke him from the upside of his length, trapping yourself between him and his belly so you can feel the coarse hair on his pelvis tickle the back of your hand.
You imagine he made less noise when they shot him. He tries to muffle it by smashing your mouths together, cupping your cheeks to keep you still when you struggle to breathe.
"Fuck, tha's it," he hisses, bouncing his thigh when it makes you sigh pathetic little oh's. "Good girl, stroking my cock so good. Makes you wet as rain, uh? Ahhhh, fuck-"
Your head spins again, and this time it's because he's easing you on your back. It takes the pressure away from your achy pussy, and you claw at the dark where he's supposed to be only to come up empty-handed.
"Simon-" you call, until the bedside lamp switches on. He's already taking his shirt over his head. His back casts broad shadows across the wall, shifting with his wingspan, muscles flexing at the bottom of his sternum where they disappear into the soft fold of fat over his lower stomach. The ink on his bicep jumps when he fists his length, so tight you're sure it must hurt.
You realise the light is less for you when his free hand yanks your shirt until it rests at your collarbone, baring your breasts. He sucks on his teeth and settles on his hunches between your spread thighs.
"Lemme see," he beckons with a nod, barrel chest heaving. You feel pinned by his gaze, like there's no place else for you to be, and the head of his cock bobs up and down when he resumes stroking it. "Play with yer tits."
You oblige, strumming your nipples until they perk and rosy, coaxing gentle ripples of pleasure that move your hips in jerky circles. Every attempt to close your legs is stopped by his free hand.
"Baby," you sob when you're at your wit's end. You must hit whatever nail he was laying right on the head, because the stoic line of his brow softens and he shuffles forward towards you.
"You poor thing." Simon lets go of himself, tip slapping against his belly right under the surgery scar, in favour of pulling down your bottoms and panties all in one. His thumbs hook under your knees, and you gape up open-mouthed as he guides them towards your chest. "Been a'bad husband, haven't I?"
Your sight blurs, and he notices and cooes. Precum beads and drips to land on your inner thigh. His fingers seem a bit apologetic as they nudge you apart, pushing inside your cunt to make you sigh.
You want to cum, and you tell him with your walls spasming around his knuckles, shivering from the warmth of the tears leaking from your eyes and the warmth of the wetness leaking from your pussy. He wipes the former away and gives you a third finger to stretch on.
"Gonna be good to you from now on," he promises as he rolls you on your front, detangling the clothes from your feet. Your arms attempt to push you back around but a rough palm on your spine holds you down against the mattress.
"I'm-"
The head of his cock slips over your entrance, too slick to gain enough friction, your skin pulsing when he uses his fingers to wipe some of your wetness away. Looking back, you choke on your spit as you watch him lick them clean.
Simon cages you in, a fence of muscles over you, settling his elbows around your head when he punches his length into you. It's a bit stilted at first because he's not at the right angle, and it burns, paper-cut sharp. He soothes you with a kiss on your nape and gives you the rest of it.
You feel yourself open up for him, a caving space that wants for his shape. Your cunt gulps around his shaft, suctioning, pulling him further while you struggle to catch up, pressing your mouth to your forearm. "Ah, Simon, please-"
"S'okay," he says through gritted teeth, like he's telling you more than he's reassuring you. A hand fists your hair to have more of the back of your neck so he can bite you there when his hips start pumping. "I've got ya."
The train of your thoughts gets woozy after that, brain too winded in keeping conscious. The buzz at the base of your skull grows with each sound smack of his thighs against yours, skin prickling. You'll be red there tomorrow, and at the end of your spine where his abdomen chafes. His cock pistons deep behind your mons, sending direct waves to your redden clit as it rubs on the bed.
"My wife," Simon growls when his maw leaves your neck, pushing your head down when it tries to lift up. Your field of vision is entirely occupied by his bicep, jaw slack. He presses his nose into your cheek when you thump your forehead against his arm. "My fuckin' wife... Comin' on my fuckin' cock. Mine, my-"
"Fuck, please. Right there, ah, make me come," you keen, fucking yourself back, lifting your ass to meet his thrusts. You think you could cry when he balances on one arm to sneak the other under you, stroking his fingers on your clit. "Yes, Simon, yeah-!"
It's a full body spasm, a rolling tide, growing and growing until your throat is tightening around your pants and you're near silent, mouth open in teary sobs. The ring of your pussy draws so strict that he inhales like it stings before he's rocking hard against you, making your teeth clack together.
Once you're sated, his pace changes from rolling plunges to short stabs that makes you search for his fisted hand, so hard they make it for your lungs to expand. It loosens just a second, only to snake around yours, constricting like a noose.
You feel his cock throb, pulse against your rim, and you swipe your thumb over his knuckles. "Pull out," you try, voice smothered by his weight, "pull out. Baby-"
The sound is harsh when he shushes you, lips pressed right over your temple. His arms lock like a manacle, elbows digging in the mattress, mouth parted over your ear when he huffs like a bull.
"Givin' it to you," he warns, and something scampers in your guts. Your shoulders try to shift, but you're rendered near immobile under him. "Ya need it, yeah? Somethin' to fuss over. Yours and mine, pet. Uhm?"
Objecting is a useless attempt, because the only things that come out when you open your mouth are feeble moans and wheezing breaths. He must take your silence as a yes, and his cock pulls back all the way, right down to the head, before it's slamming inside in a few desperate thrusts.
They're a repetitive drumming, laden, heavy shoves that have the entire power of the muscles of his back and thighs. Your second orgasm comes like a tumble, catching you underfoot as he spills against your cervix, making you shiver with the viscous warmth of it.
He stays there for a while, nudging the back of your head with his nose while you both catch your breath. You pant against the mattress and wince when your pussy doesn't want to let him go, seizing up when his spent sloshes out of you as he slips out.
Simon gathers you up in his arms, pulling you astride his hips, letting you rest your cheek against his tacky pectoral. He tilts your chin up with two knuckles and kisses you until you gasp for air, just to make himself laugh.
"I love you, sweetheart," he smiles when you frown at him, sealing the words with another press of his lips.
You feel like the price is already paid. Whether by you or him, it seems unimportant.
Pregnancy doesn't agree with you, but you're so content you can hardly pay it any mind.
The feeling is self-inflicted, though, because people smile at you in the grocery store, eyeing the gentle curve of your belly, and your friends twist their fingers in your hair every night out, checking the quality of the locks. God, so the pregnancy glow is real! Why didn't I look like this? You know Simon agrees because he seems physically incapable of sharing your twenty inches radius without cupping some part of your body.
The first two months you could barely roll out of bed, and when you would, you'd have to sway towards the bathroom before nausea had you bent in half. Now on the cusp of your second trimester, the stubborn thing growing under your ribs seems happier to grant you the occasional uninterrupted walk.
You take your breakfast by skirting the trowels, tile cutters and floats strewn across your kitchen floor, pinching your nose when the sharp smell of grout catches in the back of your throat.
"Out," your husband commands, swatting your ass with a loud smack. You'd think that having done this once already would be helping him somehow, but he seems to be struggling more than the first time. There's no rush: you know he'll get it how he wants it in the end. "Shouldn't be breathin' this in. Go somewhere else."
You retreat with your tea and the morning post, humming along to the weather forecast intro while you sort through envelopes. Bills. A wedding invitation. A card from your godparents congratulating you on the pregnancy. Can the baby hear you yet? Does it recognise the sound of your voice and Simon's?
When you're in bed at night, it seems that it can— it lands such kicks when its father presses his mouth to your abdomen to make silly noises for the pleasure of making you laugh.
A yolk-yellow paper clip slips from the stack and lands on the table. It takes a second to recognise it: the medical records from the night Simon was shot.
You push it aside to continue parsing through the remaining letters, but curiosity has you going back. The excerpt from the surgical record is nothing new. Two entry wounds to the abdomen (LUQ), no major arterial damage, minor damage to the splenic capsule. Patient underwent emergency exploratory laparotomy. Then there are the files from his hospital stay, the billing from the RXs and the reports of his blood work. The last page is his discharge notes.
Discharge destination: patient's residential address. Advice and caretaking: no heavy lifting 3mos, no contact exercise 3mos, see therapy section for pharmacy. No home care required.
The date stares back at you until Simon curses from the kitchen. You smooth the corner flat and slide it back beneath the paper clip.
"Simon?"
"Pet, c'mere. Come tell me how ya like it," he calls. You leave the documents in the foyer. You have so little time for things like this, nowadays.
queen of love and beauty (knight au!john price x f!reader, blurb)
ser john price with hair that goes to his shoulders, somewhere between midnight black and oak tree brown. any other knight and he'd be whispered about, any other knight and they'd say he cares more about his looks than his sword, but ser john price is not any other knight.
he is the mystery knight that the king wields like a weapon. he goes where other man won't, does things that would make other men weep. he participates in the tourney to celebrate the young princess' tenth birthday and wins with such ease the crowd wonders if it was fixed. but with the crown of flowers in his hand, he rides right past the little princess with her straight teeth and straight hair, her hems yet to be lengthened and crowns someone else the queen of love and beauty.
you.
you, the lady's maid standing in the corner of the royal tent, two steps too close to the nearest noble just so you could watch the men fight. you, always ready with a soothing word or brush of hair for the princess, the one who has to endure her tantrums with grace. the maid he's only seen once, doing the walk that is not quite a run when you were late to wake the princess up from her afternoon nap. frazzled eyes, hair cap strewn to one side, not even a curtsy for the man so above your station. you hadn't even nodded in his direction, too focused on getting to the princess' room before her father was aware of his lateness.
the crowd cheers when he crowns you, celebrating one of their own. smallfolk. you've never seen the view from this part of the dias, up close enough to smell the mud, but ser john price beckons you closer with a tilt of the head until the crown of flowers is laid upon you. somewhere behind is the princess, pouting that she did not receive her attention. the king, consoling her, knowing that he cannot punish the one man he so heavily relies on.
and him.
eyes brown and soulless, smirk just a bit too knowing. the helm shadows his gaze, but you can imagine it all the same. maids warn other maids, but no warning could've prepared you for this.
the same way you are not prepared hours later, stepping off the royal dias and descending into the feasting crowd. the princess has left her favorite ribbon in her room and now you must fetch it; a task usually left to a serving girl, but you are the object of ire today. quick slippers pad over cobblestones, and yet again you are so focused on your hunt you don't see the mass of leather before you until you run into it.
he smells of woodsmoke.
thick hands steady your waist, and then steady more than necessary. you're pushed into the stone wall before you can blink, and when your gaze finally rises, it is only him you see.
"where's your crown?" ser john price leans forward, his thumbs rubbing into your maid's gown as if you have been lovers for years. "the princess decreed i cannot wear it in her company," you answer instantly, too shocked to demand him to unhand you.
he hums, and the tone of it rumbles through you like the rush of a waterfall, not there and then suddenly all at once. your spine slackens against the wall, and ser john steps forward, until there is but half a hand between you.
"it was a gift. she has many crowns." he rasps it against the side of your head like a promise, like one that lovers would share. except you barely know this man, have never spoken to him, and yet you tilt your head to the side to expose more of your neck. stretching like a cat in heat, wanting something you cannot name.
"the man on the throne is but a man. he knows nothing of labor, my lady. but you do, aye?" you are not a lady. daughter of a schoolteacher and a baron's sixth daughter, he must know this. but you do not dare to correct him. you simply wonder who braided his hair this evening, and if he would let you run your hands through the slight waves.
his beard rasps against your cheek. your heart thuds in your chest. and then you are released between one breath and the next, and its like he was never there.
when the king summons you the next morning and informs you his knight has asked for your hand, you cannot do anything but smile.
Okaaaaay but Royal!Price who’s married to Reader for like two years and the entire time the court is breathing down your neck because you haven’t produced an heir yet.
And ofc somehow this becomes entirely your fault bc nobody questions Price or considers that the problem might not be you because he’s the king, he’s healthy, he’s strong, he’s already proven himself in every other way that matters to these people, so obviously it must be his wife who’s defective.
And you spend two years being poked and prodded by royal physicians and forced to drink disgusting tonic things and tracking your cycles and praying at shrines and enduring every older noblewoman at court giving you unsolicited advice while rumors about the “barren Queen” spread through the palace.
And Price doesn’t exactly stop them. Maybe in the beginning he tells you not to listen, tells you there’s still time, but as the months pass he starts treating your inability to conceive like a personal failure.
And ofc there’s this one woman at court who makes your life like absolute hell over it. Daughter of some powerful duke or neighboring kingdom or whatever, beautiful and fertile looking and exactly the sort of woman everyone whispers Price should have married in the first place.
She makes little comment about children whenever you’re nearby, brings babies into conversation just to watch you go quiet, maybe even starts getting increasingly bold because Price is starting to favor her. And you know they’re sleeping together long before he admits it. You just don’t have any power to do anything about it.
Then Price divorces you.
And he’s not quietly about it either and that’s the part that really destroys you because he could’ve found a dozen political reasons to dissolve the marriage, could’ve protected whatever dignity you had left and let you save face but instead he specifically cites your failure to provide an heir as the reason for the divorce. Has it entered into the official decree that the marriage produced no issue and that you’re presumed barren, basically stamping it into history that you failed in the single duty expected of a queen.
And to add insult to injury he marries the woman who spent the last two years tormenting you, who becomes Queen, and suddenly all those rumors about how she’d always been better suited for him become accepted fact.
Meanwhile you’re just… there. The discarded Queen. Technically still noble, technically still wealthy enough, but socially ruined because who is going to marry the woman the King publicly declared barren?
Except Simon, Price’s knight who’s his own kind of social outcast cause he’s scarred, disfigured, and everyone assumes will never marry anyway because nobody has ever exactly been lining up to become Lady Riley to a monster, you know.
So when Simon asks for your hand, you say yes. Maybe Price even allows it because he thinks there’s something almost amusing about it. His unwanted wife and his disfigured knight. Two things the court has decided are damaged being tucked neatly away together.
Except Simon doesn’t treat you like you’re damaged. And then the absolute fucking scandal when, before the end of the year, you start appearing in court with a very obviously rounding stomach.
At first everyone tries to pretend they don’t notice because surely not. Surely the former Queen who spent two years unable to conceive isn’t pregnant within months of marrying Ser Simon Riley.
Except you are and it isn’t even ambiguous after a while. You’re glowing with health, Simon is hovering around you like some enormous armored guard dog, the physicians confirm the pregnancy is progressing perfectly, and suddenly all those old whispers start changing direction because Price’s new Queen still isn’t pregnant even after and entire year.
Meanwhile you give birth to this enormous fat healthy Riley baby and suddenly the court has to reckon with the fact that maybe their discarded barren Queen was never barren at all.
Which means maybe the King publicly humiliated and divorced his wife, destroyed her reputation, married his mistress, and announced to the entire kingdom that she was incapable of giving him an heir-
when the problem had been him the entire fucking time.
also living in Harrenhal should make some of the inhabitants go insane like Soap should be one of the masons hired to rebuild the southern tower and starts hearing ghosts whispering to him through the walls to take the lord of harrenhal’s pretty third daughter and drag her deep into the castle where no one will ever find the two of them.
Or maybe she gets lost on her way to the Hall of the Hundred Hearths (because the castle maybe does move around when no one’s looking…..) and she turns a corner to find the mason that she’s eyed a time or two (forgive her, she’s young and he’s as handsome as he is charming) standing in the middle of the hall, looking just as lost himself until his eyes focus on her, widening as if he hasn’t come across someone in a while.
sources: l.e.s. by donald glover // this year by the mountain goats // maya hornbacher, madness // watchisjawdrop on tumblr // wuntrum on tumblr // kim kardashian // unknown // godblessryankent on tiktok // nayyirah waheed // unknown // lev st. valentine
shipyard l simon riley x reader au | 2.4k words | ao3
cw/tags: cis-female reader. alpine divorce type situation.
you're crying when you see him, a body standing on a dock, eyes furrowed, watching you slap at the water in exhaustion to get a little closer. but your arms are burning, are actually beyond the point of burning, and he sees it. sees you give up as you approach. he crouches down at a dock post, unfurls a loop of rope, and tosses it to you in your kayak. it lands fat and spooled in your wet lap.
"grab it," he commands. your hands can't clasp anymore, but you clumsily set your oar across the kayak, and pathetically hold your forearms and cramping hands down over the rope to pin it in place.
and then, blissfully, you are tugged to shore. to land and safety, food and potable water.
the kayak slices the water calmly and then you're being lifted out by big arms and carefully positioned legs, thick and sturdy.
you think he asks if you're alright, and you think you laugh when he does.
—
the familiar sensation of emerging from unconsciousness crawls over you, your body returning to you piecemeal until you've puzzled it out. you fainted when he lifted you out and you noticed you were standing in some industrial dockyard. specifically now, you're in some office stretched out above you from where you seem to be lying on a couch. everything burns and stings.
"alrigh'?" a thick, craggy voice from behind your head. you twist slightly and there's the man that helped you.
"i'm so sorry," you sob again, like the fainting only hit pause on your crying.
silence. "wot for?"
you don't even know. you're waterlogged and sunburned and you're pretty sure you can't lift your arms above your head if you needed to.
"my boyfriend left me out there," you try to explain through shaking breaths. "he had…everything in his kayak. the compass. water. phones. food. i think maybe he thought i still had my phone on me."
"wot the fuck 're you sayin'? your boyfriend wot?" then he finally pushes himself out of the wooden office chair and leans against the desk where you can see him better. folds his huge arms across his huge chest.
"no," and it's a laugh-cry. "he thought it was funny. wanted to see if i could make it back without his help. i tried following him, but he was too fast. then it came to a fork in the river and i didn't know how to get back."
the man's face is dark with something even beyond anger. it doesn't fit the mundanity of the office surrounding you; lists and certificates and handwritten notes tacked up everywhere on the cheap walls.
it feels good to see it reflected in someone else's face. "i didn't know where i was, or where to paddle. i just needed to find anything human. it's been…hours." and then your anger breaks open easy like yolk trapped under a thin skein to reveal the sadness underneath because all you really are are sad. a man you've been dating, let come inside you more than once, met your friends and your grandparents, left you out in the middle of a giant body of water with no means of survival.
you could've died and you can already hear his voice in your head: babe i thought you had your phone! how was i supposed to know you've put it in my bag? you should've said something. babe please you're really making something out of nothing. you're always saying how much you want to toughen up and get into the outdoors stuff with me. i came back to find you but you'd disappeared; you should've just stayed put and i would've found you. you made it into such a big deal. jesus.
sometimes, the worst part of seeing your partner as they really are is not what they say or do, but what you can very clearly hear them saying or picture them doing.
"you're in a shipyard, love. don' know where you started but i'm bettin' you've come a long ways."
you shrug. "we parked on the side of a two-lane highway. portaged in. i'm not from here, i have no idea."
"judgin' by the look of you, it's been a few hours at least." he pushes himself off the desk and shuffles through something out of sight. comes back with a first aid kit, and after flipping through the contents, what looks like cooling gel packs for burns.
"oh, no, don't waste that on me" is silenced by a rude look.
"can you sit up."
you do awkwardly.
"i'm gonna cut your top off. don't think your arms are gonna be much help." a pair of scissors is brandished and they look insanely small in his big, calloused hands, and he drags it through the fabric of your tank top unless it falls down to your waist, leaving your bikini top underneath. you think if you had your wits about you, you'd try to argue.
"move a bit." he softly uses his hands to shift you, then out of sight, you hear the packet ripped open. then a blissfully cold gel is being spread across the sun-scorched skin; over your shoulders, up your neck and tops of ears, with a gentleness that doesn't match those big hands, down your upper arms, and the top knob of your spine where your tank top had dipped low all day.
a shuddering breath is punched out of you as the gel seems to penetrate the top layer of skin left to cook under the hot august sun with no reprieve from cloud cover.
you're turned back around with his hands on your waist, facing out into this office. it must be one of those offices set up in a trailer. he crouches down in front of you, knee cartilage popping.
"better." he's not asking. declaring it to be true about you. he presses a cold water bottle into your palm, and that's when you both notice where your trail shorts had ridden up, revealing a patch of skin that got burned as well. a stupid rectangle across both thighs.
he rips open another gel pack with his teeth. you watch quietly as he smears it across your flesh, trying not to drag the skin.
"chin up."
more along your breastbone where the tank top didn't shield, up your throat, and you realize how large his hands really span when they're cupped around your trachea. tops of your ears. forehead. it feels so intimate and clinical at the same time.
"that bad, huh," you give out shakily when he's chucked the sixth pack to the side, used up.
he grunts. instructs you to sip the water slow, no matter how dry your mouth feels, how badly you want to tip it down your throat and let it sluice through your bloodstream.
"headache?"
somehow the least of your concerns all things considered, but yes. fetches you some pills from the first aid kit, watches you carefully as you swallow them.
"get some rest then. i'll take y'home when i'm done."
the realization that you don't have anything to get you home yourself is devastating and if you had moisture to conjure fresh tears, you'd surely cry again. trying to find a comfortable position is impossible, so you end up just reclining to the side, wedging someone's spare hooded sweatshirt under your head as a pillow.
shockingly, you must doze off sometime after you hear the man leave the trailer. when your eyes open, dry and achy, there's a flickering overhead light on and the sky's darkened outside. you look around and find a clock on the wall. you don't know when he hauled you in, but it must have been at least an hour of sleep.
you readjust and check out the burns on your forearms, and fall back asleep.
the sound of his boots hitting metal steps has you inhaling sharply out of hazy, discomfited sleep. you watch him enter, eyes trained on you over the desk.
"y'alrigh'?"
you nod stiffly.
"let's go." he helps you into the oversized sweatshirt that you used as a pillow. it stinks like cigarettes and body odour, but it helps protect your sunburn from being scraped against. you're grateful for the size of it, that it doesn't force you to move your arms much to be folded into it.
he has to slow and shorten his long-legged stride to match your small, aching ones across the shadowed shipyard, lit only by sharp white fluorescent overheads. he brings you over to a large black truck, gets you situated (with his help) into the passenger side, and then goes back to the yard to lock up.
when he returns, you're trembling slightly inside the big hoodie. dreading what has to come next.
"everything is at my boyfriend's," you nearly whisper, embarrassed and penitent. "my keys and…it's all there."
"right." he gets directions and doesn't bother tapping them into his gps, just steers the truck out of the parking lot and onto some dark highway.
"i'm really so—"
"no." he actually raises a hand off the steering wheel to emphasize the rough word. "you're not apologizin' for 'im."
—
the ride is long and silent, and you must doze back off in front of the blue-lit dashboard and the man, who introduced himself finally as simon, who smokes a cigarette out his window a few times. you feel too guilty to ask if he even lives close to the city, to gauge whether this trip is adding time to his own commute. you can only imagine it does, and it burns you hotter for it.
coming to under frequent lights of the highway carved through the city, minutes from your boyfriend's exit.
you direct him the rest of the way, softly. "this unit, yeah, right here."
"what's his name?" he asks while sidling the truck up behind your boyfriend's car. so he did come home.
"sam," you answer without a thought, and then he's out of the truck and locking it behind him, striding in double time up the steps.
you hide. you hate yourself for it but you shrink in the hoodie, pulling it up over your mouth anxiously as you watch the door open under a shitty porch light. then all you see is the massive shadow of this man, simon, with his arms stretched out and he disappears into the open door. the door slams shut.
minutes and minutes stretch. you keep your hand on the handle but you won't leave the safety of the truck cab.
he reemerges alone. he comes up to your car door and unlocks it with the fob. "this all of it? check."
your phone, purse and wallet, house keys, reusable water bottle, and random things like a pair of your pajama shorts, a couple books, toothbrush, skincare stuff, tampons. it's stuffed into one of you old duffel bags you must've lugged over there at some point.
"i mean…i think this is it?"
"don't guess. you don't wanna come back again."
has he broken up with your boyfriend for you?
so you check the bag again. "yes…yes, it's everything." anything else is a lost cause, you don't need to tell him that the hard liquor was all purchased by you.
he hauls himself back in the truck and you can see under the street lights, the split knuckles on his fists, smeared blood down some hairy fingers.
"thank you," you whisper.
his fingers ripple off the wheel in a "don't mention it" gesture. you tell him where your apartment is, and then fall silent.
—
you invite him up. for logistics mostly, because it hurts too much to lift the duffel bag by yourself. he stands beside you in the elevator, huge and bulky, silent on his own.
you feel his eyes flick around your space as you let yourself into the apartment. he agrees to a cup of coffee, despite the hour.
there's only the one couch. you're distinctly aware that the only other man who's sat here with you has been sam. by contrast, simon is huge, taking up space that makes the couch feel more like a loveseat. he's technically in the corner, but his big ass and legs has him nearly halfway to you.
"is this yours?" you ask, fingers picking at the large wrinkled sweatshirt swamping you. "i can give it back."
"nah," he says firmly, and you notice how absurdly small the coffee mug looks wrapped in his big hand and thick fingers. "looks better on you."
you set your mug on the coffee table nervously. "okay, so i get the sense that you don't want me to thank you, that you're not the type that would accept it even if i tried?"
silence tells you you're right.
"do you…are you seeing someone?" you shift slightly to look at him, watch his reaction.
"no."
you already know he wouldn't come up just to be nice. he's dragged a woman to shore and broken up with her shitty boyfriend for her and taken her home. he owes nothing to you.
when you lean over, disbelief seems to flicker over his still face before your mouth finds his. you feel the taut sunburnt skin stretch painfully under the hoodie, but his warm lips opening against yours is a hot distraction. you let both soft, warm puffs of air against him as you pull away and go for the skin of his neck.
this is when you remember that you woke up in your bed with sam this morning.
his hands fall at your waist, where the skin was safe from the sun, pulling at your hips with a soft hot sound behind his teeth.
you separate, both huffing.
"i think maybe that we should—"
"yeah, course." he says it too quickly.
you raise your eyebrow. "—wait til i'm healed. is what i was gonna say."
he's surprised. hides it fast but you catch it.
you give him your number. type it into his old phone.
his mouth tastes of cigarettes and coffee when you kiss him goodnight at the door. you don't brush your teeth at bed, choosing to savour the taste on your lips. you pull the hoodie up over your mouth and breathe in his scent, stale and kind of gross but safe, until you fall asleep.
So, in Tolkein lore, the world was originally flat, with most of the land in the middle (hence Middle Earth). But the Numenorians (men who were rewarded with their own Atlantis-equivalent island for service in the first big war against Melkor, but eventually Power Corrupts etc) tried to invade the uttermost west which was basically Elf Heaven. To put an end to that sort of thing, the creator of the world Bent The World and made it a sphere…but left elves able to treat it like a flat disk. So elves can sail west and reach Elf Heaven, but a man or dwarf or hobbit who sails west will eventually wrap around to the east coast of Middle Earth.
'A popular fanfic author stopped updating her fic because she said that the stress of being constantly falsely accused of using AI was a witch hunt and it was destroying her mental health to the extent that she needed to take a break from writing, leading to multiple online discussions defending her and debates about AI accusations and how You Can't Really Tell So Leave Her Alone, and then someone realised that there were Claude coding artefacts in her fics and that it was a super pervasive problem in that particular fandom, proven definitively by looking at the source coding of each work on AO3, and she denied it for a bit but then ultimately admitted that oopsie, she had been using genAI all along, and then she deleted all of her fics off AO3 and people got mad because they were being denied access to their favourite fics, even though they now knew definitively that they were genAI slop, and then it turned out that she'd actually stopped updating the fic on AO3 in the first place because she'd been shopping it around to agents and editors as an original work with the serial numbers filed off, and she'd been in conversations with a publisher which ultimately got dropped because she'd lied to them about her AI use' oh cool, so we're in Hell, then
driver!simon rescuing runaway bride!reader from the church where your wedding was supposed to take place. you’d left it all–your family, your phone, your responsibilities, your no-longer-husband-to-be–behind so you could sit in the back of simon’s cab and tell him all the reasons you ditched.
“he's just… he's boring. he likes to eat dinner the same time as our 74-year-old neighbor! he didn’t wanna go anywhere or do anything. he’d come home after all day at work, just to half-ignore me. doesn't believe in kissing for any longer than 0.7 seconds. and dear god–simon, is it? right?–the sex…”
simon lets you unleash it all as he circles in the streets, adding in his two cents here and there when you take a second to breathe.
“so a fuckin’ knob then, huh? too bad you got all pretty for’a bloke like that… y’sure he wasn’t the 74-year-old?”
that last one pulls a laugh from you that makes simon think about that pub on the other side of town.
half an hour later, there you are, in the pub. still in your gown and veil. simon’s arm wrapped tight around your side as the two of you squish against the wood of the bar.
surrounding you is a clamoring of happy drunks, who toast loudly to the assumed “marriage” between simon and yourself. for some reason, you don’t correct them. nor does simon, who instead holds you tight and shoves his tongue into your mouth after the tenth chant of kiss! from the rest of the pub.
you kiss him back, groaning at the touch that reaches to grip your chin. when you pull away, simon holds his breath at the tipsy grin on your face, a warm feeling running through his cock when you turn back to your glass and chug until the top of your lip is covered in foam from the second beer he bought you.
“alright?”
you bob a nod at simon’s question as he thumbs away the mess at your lip with dark eyes.
fourteen minutes later…
the pub bathroom is already small enough. feels even smaller with simon hanging over your shoulder and yanking you back by the hips. the fastening of your dress has been ripped well past your ass, buttons scattered under the sink you're holding onto for dear life. squeezing the sides of the porcelain every time simon pumps into you.
“f-fuck…” you whine, and simon digs himself deeper. “ah!-there-there…”
his cock is hitting deep. heavy. wet and stretching you out in a way the man you’d abandoned earlier. (what was his name again?) he even uses the veil still tucked in your hair to keep the view of your face nice and clear for him to stare at you in the mirror. the sight of you, groaning with running mascara, makes it easy for simon to imagine another world where you're his new, pretty wife.
mrs. riley. his missus.
“y’know… i’ll eat supper whenever y’want. kiss ya right. don’t quite like ignoring pretty things either,” he grunts in your ear, balls smacking loudly in between the slurred sentences. the wet peck he gives you under the side of your ear precedes a tragic pause of his thrusts. while you take the break to catch simon’s gaze in the glass before you, he pants with deep huffs.
god, you look a right mess. make up ruined. lips swollen. veil scrunched and the top of your dress tugged low enough for your nipples to show. simon looks over it all at the same time before peeling his front from your back so he can watching something else.
there’s a ring of cream at the base of his cock that’s still stuck halfway inside your pussy. your lips are spread wide, properly stuffed, and pulsate with a gentle rhythm.
“…you memorize your vows?”
you blink at the low question, trying not to squirm anymore than you already are. “uh. y-yeah? i think. why?–"
“go on, then,” simon directs, one of his arms wrapping around your front. with a tight tug, he stuffs himself the rest of the way, clenching his teeth at the way your voice cracks in the middle of a loud moan. scrunching his nose, he sniffs. then resumes fucking you.
slower.
harder.
like a proper husband should.
it takes you a while to sputter the first few words. simon is patient enough because the pay off is better than he imagined.
the recited promises are broken, but there. real-sounding enough just over the wet plaps that simon can flutter his eyes shut and pretend he’s the one you wrote them about. that you’ll always give yourself to him, to laugh everyday with him, to love him through it all.
the man proves himself easily, that much is obvious by how you end up squirting on his cock and down his dress; the way you sob his name and accidentally blubber out delirious i love you’s; how the three words you chant out like a prayer cause him to spill deep inside you as he makes sounds he’s never made for anyone else.
simon loves you back. feels like it, at least, when he comes with shaking legs and can’t think of anything worse than a future without you. he ends up sure of the fact when the first thing you utter, in a tired, hoarse voice, after finally finding your breath is–
“i meant to ask earlier… do you have a smoke?”
simon grins a bit, almost laughing. red stains on his teeth from how hard you made him bite his lip.
note: is this bad? pls don't let this be bad. anyways, runaway brides must be the new thing and i think @tojisteddy n i share the same brain :3
I havent a wrinkle in this brain of mine for plot, so have some porn without plot instead :)
Maybe it's because Johnny has you blindfolded, but he feels different. He's heavier on top of you and feels a bit bigger inside of you. It stings more than usual when he finally pushes his cock into your sopping cunt, swollen and tender from the four orgasms he took from you with his mouth alone. Your inner thighs burn as they stretch wider around his thick waist. When his lips meet yours, as your tongues entwine, he tastes of bourbon. He's quiet too, which is very different from the usual filth he whispers into your ear.
But when he starts rocking his hips, all thought fades, along with the ache in between your legs. His thrusts are long, pulling out until only the tip of his cock remains inside. Then he pushes forward steadily until he's pressed firmly against the entrance of your womb— making you wince slightly at the pinch. He does this tirelessly until obscene squelches emit from your cunt, that pinch deep inside of you turning into spine-tingling bliss. Your skin erupts in goosebumps when his head nudges against your sweet spot, a loud moan falling from your lips. He mutedly chuckles, his chest vibrating against sweat-slick breasts and the coarseness of his chest hair grazing your hardened nipples only heightens your pleasure.
You feel him move away from you until his cock slips out, only to vigorously grab at your hips and pull you to him. Your upper body rests on the bed, while he sits on his haunches and keeps your legs spread with his thick thighs as he slowly pushes back inside. But this time, it's not all the way. Oh, no. You know exactly what's about to happen.
"Wait-" but he doesn't. He fixedly keeps you in place at the angle he wants, the angle you need, and moves. His thrusts turn staccato— short, quick jabs— and he's hitting your spot, the one that has you going cross-eyed behind the blindfold. Your mouth is slightly open, drooling at the corner of it as you're rendered helpless against his onslaught.
The fire in your stomach blazes, every snap of his hips pushes you closer to the edge, the coil within you tightening, your body tensing. You can hear him spit— can feel a warm glob of liquid land on your mons, and dribble down to your aching, neglected clit. His thumb collects the saliva and swirls your bud under the pad of his calloused thumb rigidly.
Your spine arches off the mattress so sharply it pops as you climax, a choked scream ripping out of your throat. Your nails dig into the delicate skin of his wrists, no doubt leaving behind red welts. He doesn't stop the stimulation on your clit, his hips never falter in rhythm as he prolongs your mind-numbing pleasure.
Body going limp in his hands, you hiss in oversensitivity and swat at his hands. "Ow, love-" but he cuts you off with a searing kiss before flipping you on your knees, and to the edge of the lofty bed. You're rising to your hands when his big, rough palm pushes you down— his intent clear. With your chest on the bed, he sheathes himself to the hilt in one smooth stroke and the angle he goes in with is nothing short of devastating.
If you hadn't been wailing, you would've heard the deep, guttural noise that escaped his mouth. You can feel him in your sternum, replacing the air in your lungs. He swiftly picks up his left leg, positions it on the bed next to you, and sets a merciless pace. The force behind his thrusts rattles your very bones, leaves you breathless. You can feel the meat of your arse ripple with every slap of his hips— can feel the bruises forming in your skin under his hands.
You lift your hand to feel where he's splitting you open, fingers encasing his cock, he stiffens— swells painfully inside of you then he's coming with a snarl. His Cock twitches as it spurts his essence into you, stuffing you full and then some because you can feel his cum trickle down your legs. You try to lift yourself with quivering arms but again, you're manhandled and flipped onto your back, a squawk of indignation silenced with an all-consuming kiss. His lips move against yours feverishly, as if he's committing your taste to memory.
He finally relents, pulling away but you hold him in place with your hands cupping his face and murmur an 'I love you'. The only response you get is one you feel, as he tips his head in a nod, and then presses a kiss into your sweaty temple before moving away.
Later, when you and Johnny are in the shower, you notice that there isn't a single scratch on his wrists even though you definitely dug your nails into him. And that reminds you.
"Johnny?"
"Aye, bonnie?"
"Since when do you drink bourbon?"
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