⁎︎‧︎༚︎ day dreamin… COD, Charlie Swan, western themes, show girls, bikers, poetic erotica, ww1 analysis, ancient royalty, ww propaganda, old men, ect ect
⁎︎‧︎༚︎ runway obsession…. dior spring 1998
↬︎ works
captain john price- scapegoat/tucked tail you and your boss, smoldered under cigar ash and a horrible day, get trapped in an elevator.
captain john price - where the aster grows. in her absence, your grandmother leaves you a floral shop, the house above, and a neighbor.
johnny 'soap' mactavish- unraveling careful threads- johnny finds you where he needs you.
inspired wholly by this hard of hearing!simon by @ynstark — i’ve been plagued by the thought ever since
cw: suggestive
he hears the kettle just fine when it whistles, and he hears the front door when it slams with the wind. what he doesn’t hear, almost ever, is you.
“john,” you call.
you get nothing in return. he’s got his feet up on the coffee table, his reading glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, some dense paperback open in his hands.
“john,” you try again, huffing.
still nothing. the corner of the room he’s not facing may as well be another county.
you cross to the sofa and stop right in front of him until the shape of you finally registers and he looks up over the rim of his glasses, eyebrows lifting like you’ve appeared out of nowhere.
“what?”
“i called for you twice.”
“did you?” he asks, lips pursing slightly.
you’ve been dealing with this for a long while. over dinner, leaning across the table, repeating yourself, watching him nod at the wrong moments and answer questions you never asked. in the kitchen, talking to his back, getting no reply. in bed, breathing his name against his neck, not getting the same response from him you would’ve got a few years ago.
decades of gunfire and breaching charges and the thumping punch of helo rotors, year over year. by the time anyone thought to check, preserving it was out of the question because the damage was already there. the audiologist had been matter-of-fact about it. showed him the chart, the slope of it dropping off. he nodded along like it was someone else’s ear.
the hearing aids have been sitting in the dish by the bathroom sink for weeks, untouched. they’re good ones too. tiny things. they sit down in the canal, you’d have to be nose-to-nose with him to spot the little nub of them, and even then you’d have to know to look. nothing hooks over the ear or catches in the light.
he just wont wear them.
“i’m not seventy,” he’d said the once you really pushed it. “m’not puttin’ in hearing aids.”
“you’re wearing them, john. you already had them fitted.”
“i don’t need them,” he’d protested. “not day to day.”
which is how you ended up here, two weeks later, watching the back of his head while he reads and ignores the sound of you existing.
so you change tactics.
you don’t say his name again. you take the book out of his hands gently, dog-ear his page with your thumb, set it on the table next to his feet. and before he can do more than open his mouth you climb into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, settling yourself down onto him.
his hands land on your hips instinctually, his whole expression changing. the annoyance smooths out and something warm comes up slowly in its place, you can read his thoughts as clearly as if he’d said it out loud — ‘well, this is alright’.
“well, hello,” he says low, hands sliding up your sides.
he thinks he’s won something. he’s already tilting his chin up for you, lips looking for yours.
you reach into the pocket of your cardigan and pull them out, cupped in your palm where he can see, and his face drops.
“oh, you’re joking,” his shoulders sink with disappointment.
“hold still,” you grumble, leaning forward.
“i was comfortable,” he complains.
“john.” you get the first one in before he can turn his head, fingers careful at his ear, and he huffs through his nose like a dog that’s been told no. “other side.”
“this is entrapment.”
“mm-hm.” you fit the second one in, tucking his hair back where it’s gone astray. you sit back against him to look with your hands resting on his chest. “there,” you grin, satisfied.
“i was reading.”
“and you weren’t hearing a single word i said all night.”
“i can hear!”
“so you’re choosing to ignore me then?”
“i wasn’t— i just—,”
“you answered ‘fine’ when i asked if you wanted chicken or fish for dinner.”
his jaw works. he doesn’t have anything to say to that. “they itch,” he tries instead, pressing a finger against the front of his ear, rubbing the cartilage there.
“they don’t itch. you’re being dramatic.” you shift your weight, just slightly, settling in more solidly against him, and watch his breath catch. “tell me they itch now.”
he’s still scowling, but his hands have tightened on your hips. “i don’t see what hearing’s got to do with this…” he looks down at where you’re pressed to him.
you roll your hips down against him, folding forward, letting your mouth go to the side of his face, right up close to his ear, and you breathe out — soft, the smallest sound, half a moan and half a laugh because you can’t help yourself.
you feel him go still beneath you.
you do it again. rocking down against the shape of him through his trousers and let the noise come up out of you naturally, quiet and close and meant only for him, the kind of sound you make without thinking when his hands are on you. his fingers flex and splay and grip harder, his head turns toward you like it’s being pulled.
“there you are,” you murmur.
“…christ.”
“you hear that?”
he doesn’t answer. his eyes have gone heavy lidded and his hand’s come up into your hair and he’s turned fully into you now, chasing it, the small wet sounds of your breath against his ear, the catch in your throat when you press down and he pushes up to meet you.
these little intimate things he stopped hearing a long time ago and never noticed he’d lost because of how gradual it happened. this way you sound when you want him, the quiet things. the things you only ever say just for him, the things you’ve been saying into the dark for a year now with no return.
“say my name,” you breathe.
“…what?”
“in bed. i always say your name and you never—,” you rock against him and his breath stutters, “you never answer anymore.”
his hand comes up to the side of your face. he pulls back just far enough to look at you, and there’s something that’s gone serious under the want, something that’s caught up with what you’re telling him.
“m’so sorry, love,” he nudges his nose under your jaw, kissing the soft of your neck. “say it now. again,” he says, rough. “go on.” he’s gone hard under you, rolling his hips up, hands keeping your hips down. the seam of his zipper pushing through the thin cotton of your joggers
“john,” you breathe.
he hears you and you watch him — watch his eyes close for a second like it’s gone straight through him.
“yeah,” he says, his thumb moving slow against your cheek. “heard that.” then your name unfurls from his tongue and you kiss him before he can pretend he wasn’t affected, and his arms come all the way around you, and he doesn’t say a single word about the hearing aids again.
john wears them after that without making a fuss over it. just puts them in every morning before you’re up. you never mention that you notice. don’t wanna spook him.
western price…sorry? cw…sweat and friction kink? thigh riding. age kink if you squint really really hard.
afternoon heat in nowhere midwestern soil rows. spring is approaching, and the newest seeds need to be in place before it’s blooms hits the horizon. you and your husband always ensure the best of harvests.
ice water haven under the porch roof. it sweats on your palm, like it needed anymore. your knees ache, and the view is almost enough to keep you from thinking about the soreness in your back.
his colossal shoulders. pinned to them, like wings, are the muscles that pull and push and the soil beneath him. a great machine that doesn’t show its age; void of rust, or stutters. hands holding the earth like he came from it. sweat finds his runes, slow and melting. you find yourself counting how many drops slip to the dirt.
the farm is pretty too.
he comes to a kneel on his heels, and swipes his forehead. “too hot for leather gloves” he says- so dirt drags below his hairline, and your temper flares momentarily. he must’ve sensed it, because he looks in your direction.
he pauses, before shaking his head and laughing.
“sorry darl,” he calls. you suppress your smile at the plot that’s started to form. instead, your raise a brow, and use your finger to call him over.
he does as told, and in the time it takes for him to reach the porch steps, you’ve stood and grabbed a rag.
“sit.”
“darli-“
“price.” you warn.
his jaw clicks, but he entertains you. he takes a seat on the porch swing, which creaks under his weight. something other than sweat is forming on the inside of your thighs. the heat is getting to you, obviously.
you take a seat on his lap and find it’s gotten to him too. he grunts, you smile. he says your name like a warning, and you ignore it. you take the rag to his forehead.
“Y’know how I feel about the dirt, baby.”
“it’s hot.” he manages, “your shirt is proof of that.”
you eye him. his gaze is steadfast. “thought you got rid of that old thing.”
“it’s my working shirt.”
“it’s barely a shirt.” he says under his breath. you sit back, hands on your hips.
“you’re starting an argument over your wife wearing less clothes?”
“you started one over your shirtless husband covered in some dirt.”
your mouth quirks up.
it’s in the smallest gestures price takes his biggest leaps. a part of you know it has to do with his retired boots and violent middle chapters. but another, more selfish part, believes it’s because your tension is like glass. price just needs a crack to slip through.
he pulls your hips so they hover over his belt.
“you’ve been starin’ at me a holy hour from here, baby. ‘M gonna notice.”
you bite the lower part of your lip, and taste the sweat that’s collected there. the salt is a relief, albeit short, from the hot synapses that fire behind your eyes. “i called you over to clean you up. nothin else.”
price quirks one of his brows. “that right?”
one of the synapses breaks. your boldness has come with age, and the new idea makes you smile before you can even execute it.
you hum, and then lean your head down and lick up the side of his neck.
he grips the tight fabric of your jeans, and the bliss over your tongue is momentary. salt, soil, a well oiled machine. you taste all the age, and, beside yourself, moan under your breath.
it’s when his hand grabs your jaw, and forces your mouth to his.
the kiss is as messy as a new seed bed. ruined dirt and damp, salty. the seed is placed beneath it, and his other hands helps find it as he moves your hips across his thigh.
your breath stutters, and he pulls you away by the scruff of your neck.
“what you wanted baby? huh?”
“yes.” you sigh.
“what?”
you remember yourself. “sir. yes sir.”
his smile twitches up. “tha’s a girl.”
the middle seam of your jeans rubs between your folds, and you all at once understand your husbands fondness for thin underwear. you suck in a breath, and with it one of John’s lips. he groans and bucks his hips. it pushes your jeans further up and you yelp.
he smiles despite himself. “look at ya. jus’ needed a little,” he rolls your hips again and you close your eyes, “attention, hm?”
you nod, not enough for him.
“speak up baby.”
“yes sir. tha…nk you.” his pace is steady, and relentless. it’s chasing something thats swelling, and grows tired by the second.
your foreheads meet, and your hot breath fans across his face. he doesn’t mind.
he’s saying words to you, but they barely register. syllables catch on the inbetweens of you loosing yourself.
the heat starts to fester, and you try to pick your hips up to relieve it, but price is there when you need it most, so he pulls you back down from the clouds, and you’re cumming all at once.
you shake before leaning into him. he lets you ride out the after math. he pulls you back, this time gently, to look at your face. you can only imagine the state of yourself, but John must like it, with the way he smiles.
he licks his thumb and uses it to swipe your forehead.
genuinely feels so awkward being back after such a long time apart especially w the mutuals like hi oh my god sorry for dipping im gonna stalk your page to update myself if that’s cool.
widow of johnny x simon? grief is a complicated affair.
the “missing” eats you every midnight.
it’s always the small things, like the feeling of his hand resting on your stomach as he slept. laughing at his own awful jokes- that had you laughing, too. boot tracks on the porch- something you’d get mad about, make him clean.
wished you let it go, last time. coming home from his funeral was that much harder without the reminders that yes, Johnny McTavish hadn’t always been a dead man.
so like any grieving wife, you fill these spaces in the ways you’re familiar with. cooking, cleaning, working, but never talking.
and sometimes, it’s with men from the bar who look suspiciously, despicably, like him. the worlds favorite reminder to you, that Johnny still barely exists, in loud laughter and good sex.
recently, it’s been your husbands best friend, Simon. who takes his tea plain, who doesn’t talk about it, either.
the closest thing you’ll get to Johnny aside from his grave.
you begin to meet earlier, and for longer. you wrote your first letter to Simon on the 9th month anniversary of Johnny’s death. the response came a week later.
and simon knows what he is to you. knows, because he’s doing the exact same thing. keeping an ugly love for a dead thing alive in the soft thing that married him. that loved him, too.
knows that when you fuck in the morning, it’s like fucking a ghost.
simon watches the tea cups he got as your wedding gift shake on the counter. wonders if they were always going to become his again, anyway.
if he picked them out knowing that. hoping he’d end up drinking from them. with Johnny- with you.
the unspoken truth. the elephant in the room, that has the name of the sergant the both of you loved, lost, and can’t quiet let go.
for all of theses reasons, when you accidentally call Johnny’s name as you come, Simon lets you.
mmmm wifesharing!johnny who shoves his fat cock down your cunt after just calling simon to stop by. you push back, knowing you’ll be too spent for simon if johnny fucks you like he’s used to.
simon is the kinda man who dives straight into you’re cunt before anything else. eats like a man starved, as you beg him to feed his cock into your mouth. pushing your hands against the rough sheets, dragging your sore hips away from his ceaseless hunger. only for his hands to tug you farther on his tongue than before.
it’s even more cruel that from there he slips his cock into your drooling cunt. fucks you deep and slow while you claw and bite and moan because he’s forcing you to be the focus.
and just before all of this insanity swallows your mind, he pulls out, flips you over, and shoves his wet cock down your throat. fucks it ruthlessly, til the tears start mixing with the sweat on your brow. only then does he come on your gums.
you never even get a chance to share the spotlight. sore body, sorer ego, as he cleans your drooling cunt with a cloth, kissing your knee and promising next time he’ll let you suck him off properly.
or, maybe problem is aggressive. but when you’d wash the dishes, read on the couch, sleep in his arms, his eyes are there. a habit he never explained, but you grew accustomed to. complacent- receiving as his eyes trail wherever you went, and his body would soon follow. his gaze the precursor to action. the “I” before “I love you”.
or something like that.
you ask him, one day. “why are you staring?”
simon only blinks. “can’t help it, sweet’eart,” kisses the top of your head, and goes back to his coffee, “guess I just can’t get enough of you.”
reader w a bad habit. price, oral fixation (?) couldn’t tell you sorry.
you keep chewing the inside of your lip.
habit built from well ironed anxiety and stillness. can’t help it- teeth fixate on the soft, pliable flesh behind your lips like a dog would a bone. salivating, unconsciously, until the instinct is soothed by a swollen fold between your teeth.
it drives price up the wall.
tonight you’re watching a movie, curled in his lap like you always are. he catches your jaw working on that same spot it always does. and he decides then that he can’t fucking take it anymore.
so, naturally, he shoves two fingers into your mouth.
“stop that darl,” he coos, “chew this, instead”
you pause, making hesitant, shy eye contact. but he only shifts you closer to his chest so he can shove them deeper until your teeth knock his knuckles.
you do as told. tongue laving over the briny sweat the swelter between fingers. swallowing the distant taste of your slick from earlier today. teething gently on the new softness he’s offered you.
by the end of the movie, the tightness in price’s pants has become unbearable, so he flips you on your back to relieve it.
oh simon and your visible and invisible scars. x reader with a bad ending.
Gaz meditates, but you wouldn’t be able to tell with how quiet his breath comes out. Johnny, unironically, counts sheep- a trick his brother taught him for stormier nights. Price doesn’t sleep.
Simon, though, counts scars.
In his head, like he often is, before bed. Reserved for when the heater is too loud or the cement is too cold. When his sparse apartment feels empty, and the bed isn’t nearly uncomfortable enough to convince him he’s earned the right to rest.
Snaggle teeth on the back of his calf, a lightning bolt down his arm, tree grain over his chest. Each a distant reminder of a folly, a man, a death. He never touches them, afraid the tissue will catch on the end of his finger and spread to whatever he touches next. Midas, if gold was pain.
When he met you, he had fifty seven.
You adopted his habit, once you began burrowing yourself into his itchy covers. Sat in his lap, running your fingers over the puckered skin. He’s surprised that when they dance from arm to shoulder, the scars don’t follow. Then again, your hands are nothing like his, are they? Soft. Clean. Warm.
“You miscounted.”
“What?” His broken nose scrunches.
“You said fifty seven. But here,” your hand comes to hold the back of his neck, just before blonde meets winter pale, “You have one more.”
You pull away to kiss his forehead. “It's beautiful. They all are.”
That memory finds him bitter now. Almost a decade old, before the marriage, the son, the divorce. The weekend visitation, for the weekends he’s home. Before his son grew behind his back. Before you started looking at someone else the way he had once looked at you.
Before the empty bed got too cold, too loud, too uncomfortable for his back and his head.
Just before it all, you asked him if he’s collecting scars. He said he’d stop at one hundred. You called him a liar. Said he’d never stop. And you’re right. That's why you left.
Today, he is fifty eight years old. He sleeps alone.
a short fic about smoking that got away from me. all of them want you, so 141 x reader.
it’s like clockwork.
it’s 9:43 PM, with an early autumn breeze that still smells like summer breaking through poorly sealed windows. the sky is blooming in violets. there is barely anyone left in the office. it’s silent.
and then four pairs of heavy footsteps break it.
its always the same order, too. johnny’s first, hands in his pockets. his shoulders shrug as he braces for the cold. kyle follows. he always itches his knuckles before holding the door open for simon, who walks behind him silently. price, unsurprisingly, brings up the rear.
his hand always digs into his back left pocket before the door closes.
and you, every time for the past 2 months, have ignored them. but curiosity is a ceaseless, immortal creature, isn’t it?
it got the best of you, today.
it’s 9:41, you’re out for some air. stretching your legs on the balcony, that has a much less depressing view than your cubical. a city beginning to sleep. a sky that is bigger than feels right, even if it’s beautiful. keeps you company.
that, and your anticipation.
it bites when the door creaks open.
there’s a pause. you breathe three times, white clouds hissing from your teeth before you hear the first boot plant.
1 pair. 2, 3. a longer pause. two breathes. the 4th walks two short steps, before you hear the door close.
you finally turn. kyle speaks first.
“needed air?”
you nod. you’re at an awkward distance, that no one moves to close. all four of them stand a couple of paces away, like startled animals. “I needed a break.”
johnny nods. “aye, tats what we’re oot ‘ere for. seen us come’up- yeah?”
“no. didn’t know it was you’re spot.” you lie.
johnny smiles. he’s letting you. “mm, tat’s alright,” he glances over his shoulder to the men, who have not stopped looking at you, “we can share.”
you swallow as they turn away from you. you see price pull out a cigar, and kyle with a lighter. theres a click of steal on butane followed by the smell of expensive smoke. you turn around.
what else would it be? of course it was a smoke break. their 10 minute respite from cement sweat and checking their six. paperwork and chairs they don’t fit in. from you.
you’ve stepped on sacred ground. invaded territory. walked into their carefully crafted den to, for selfish reasons, figure them out.
the dynamic no one else can crack or join. a wall of force by interlocked arms. a brotherhood. a blood bond. a loyalty. in life, in death. in this brief moment, where they share a cigar and say nothing.
you’ve done the office equivalent to spitting on an altar. you should go. you need to g
“ever smoked?”
suddenly, you’re aware of how warm everything feels. how it smells like tobacco that belongs to luxury. how when you look forward, broad shoulders are in your periphery. you don’t move.
“s-sorry?”
its price, he’s next to you. “i asked if you’ve ever smoked, darl,” you look at him, with all your doubt and confusion and vulnerability, and he cracks a smile, “probably not, then.”
there’s pressure on your shoulder. you give in and turn around. simon stands in front of you, and between his fat, gloved fingers, is a cigar that looks above your pay grade. and your tolerance.
“open.”
“oh i-“ you shake your head, looking to any of them for a bit of leeway, “I don’t- I wouldn’t want to waste any-“
“price is offering, love,” says kyle, who is to your far left, “your chance to take it is now.”
initiation. welcome mat, made by smoke and grime and all the things that make them who they are. all the things you are not. at least, not now.
not without that cigar in your mouth.
you do as simon says and he places it to your lips.
“inhale.” he says.
you’re doing as your told until it itches. something in your throat burns. then your lungs. then it’s lingering in your chest until-
you’re coughing. you see grey cloud around your vision, and catch how white they’re teeth look when they smile.
strangely white, for smokers.
“good girl.” says price, “learning how to manage. takes a couple of times,” and his hand is on your chin, you aren’t coughing anymore but you’re certainly flushing, “but you’ll get there.”
“aye, we all got t’ere.” say johnny. he’s smiling too, next to simon, who is not. but he’s looking at you, and that feels more intimate.
“and we’ll help you get there, too,” price says, voice like his presence- warm in the way a fire burns, iron formed in its wake. it’s a middle ground between unsettling and comforting- a strange, dangerous place to be with your boss, “that right, boys?”
you didn’t even notice until now, but kyle’s hand rests on your lower back. it keeps traveling down.
