Thinking about "came back wrong" Price, but he's come back better. John is brusque when he returns home from deployment, monosyllabic, closed off. He barely looks at you, barely speaks to you, sits in his office by himself for hours, cigar smoke creeping out into the hallway while you sit by and wait to see if the man that comes out of the room next will be the sweet, smiling, attentive man that you fell in love with, or the Captain.
You keep your head down when the Captain's home. He only needs two things from you when he's like this, and you're prompt with dinner, and bend over uncomplainingly when he tells you to. It's just a matter of time before your loving husband returns. You just have to be patient.
But this time... He's just John as soon as he walks in the door, and he beams when he sees you, and kisses you like it's all he's been able to think about during the long months away. He pulls you away from the kitchen and makes love to you, and the only smoke that fills the house is the dinner that burns while he refuses to let you out of bed. And then he offers to take you out, or order in. His eyes stay soft, and he doesn't reach for the whiskey or cigars all night.
He's buried face-first in your pussy when the door bangs open, and the Captain comes home. This is the husband you expected, eyes as cold as the stormy Atlantic, tense and ready for a fight, mouth set in a grim line. The look he gives you is murderous before he focuses on the interloper, dragging John away from you roughly.
The Captain hesitates a moment too long when he sees his own face staring back at him. It's long enough for John to lunge at him, the two of them hitting the floor, growling and snapping like dogs. The Captain goes for his gun, and John knocks it out of his grip. It skitters across the floor and stops in front of your feet.
You snatch it up, hands shaking. You tell them to stop, and they both freeze.
"Shoot him," the Captain orders.
It's obvious that John is the pretender. You should have known. It was too much to hope that he would come home happy to see you.
You study them both down the barrel of the gun, meeting the furious eyes of the Captain, and John's soft gaze. He expects that you'll do what you're told and shoot him, and he doesn't blame you. The understanding there is enough to shock you into pulling back the safety.
Simon spots you across the bar. You're a long way from the little girl that used to torment him in primary, but that's alright. These days he's got a soft spot for beautiful men.
Contains: FtM!Reader, Reader bullied Simon in primary school, alcohol/bar mention, smoking, oral sex (Simon receiving), Reader has hair long enough to pull a little, Implied fibre arts, abrupt ending because I wasn't gonna get into all that. Maybe later.
1.1k ~ MDNI ~ 18+
It figured that you'd be gorgeous now.
He almost didn't recognize you. Probably would have missed you entirely if not for the long, searching glance you'd given him, like he was familiar too. Back then you were a skinny, mouthy little bitch that made his life miserable until you moved away, and now you were a handsome, self-assured man, filled out strong and a little soft. Standing with your friends, laughing. They obviously didn't know that you were a venomous little viper under that easy smile and oversized, hand-knit sweater with wonky cables on the front.
The lads noticed his silence and singular focus. Johnny started acting up some, like he always did when Simon paid too much attention to another man.
"Y'gonna talk to the pretty boy?" he asked, exasperated. "Or jest leer at'm all night?"
"If you don't, I might," Gaz said. "It's cold out these days and he looks like he's comfortable to have a lie in with."
"Fine. I'll talk to 'im." Simon stood and shouldered his way over to you, cutting a swathe through the crowd of people lingering by the bar, and put a big hand on your shoulder. "Wanna talk t'you," he rumbled. "Follow me."
"Hey, what the fuck," one of your friends said hotly. "Don't be rude."
Simon glared at her, ready to snap, but you quickly put yourself between. "It's okay. I know him."
Simon steered you outside and shoved you up against the wall. "Recognize me, do you?"
"Of course. Thought you were dead, though. Saw you here a couple months back. Kept coming back, thinking I had to be nuts." You tilt your head to the side. "I'm surprised you recognize me."
"Maybe I wouldn't've, if I'd ever seen you as a woman. But we were kids. You've changed, but I know you."
You had been the worst thing in his life, outside of his home. Quick to point out his hand-me-downs and his shaggy hair, to knock things out of his hands. If you’d been a boy back then, he would have just punched your lights out, but even then he knew better than to hit a girl. You were fair game for a fight now, as far as he was concerned, but he wasn’t really that interested in fighting. Especially when you were giving him that kicked puppy stare, regret written all over your face.
Regret was a powerful motivator, and he liked the idea of you trying to make it right. He liked the idea of seeing what he could get out of it too.
"I never got to apologize. When I heard-- Fuck, you've been through it. Apologies don't seem like enough." You look at him, big eyes and soft mouth. So fucking pretty.
"It's not enough. Don't want to 'ear it anyway. Want to make it up to me?" He waits for your nod, then reaches for his belt. "Suck me off. Right 'ere."
You look stunned for a moment. He expected to to stalk off back inside-- He didn't really want an apology, didn't think there was any making up for it, not really. Just wanted to push your buttons a bit, more than anything else.
But you dropped to your knees on the dirty ground, and waited, patient as a well trained dog. "Good boy," Simon grunted, pulling out his cock. He liked the way your big eyes got bigger, a gleam of want in them. You'd grown up to be a proper slag. He slapped his cock against your cheek, and you turned to catch it, sliding your lips and tongue along the side.
"This why you 'ad t'be such a cunt back then?" he asked, grabbing your hair to keep you from sinking your mouth down onto his cock. "Wanted me so bad an' couldn't say so?"
You glare at him from the ground. "Do you want the apology or the head, Riley?"
"Makin' me choose, are you?" He let go of your hair, however, his laugh turning to a groan as you sucked the head of his cock into your hot mouth, tongue lapping at his slit to taste the bead of bitter precum.
He was going to be more of a dick about it, but he couldn't get a word in. You worked his cock like you were made for it, working your hand over the shaft when you lapped at the tip, swallowing around him when you sank all the way down, taking him into your throat, bobbing your head back and forth, spit dribbling down your chin and his balls, messy, like you knew that was just how he liked it.
He managed to communicate that he was going to cum, enough that you let him pop free and pump his come onto your waiting tongue, purposely missing a little, his come glistening on your cheek and caught just slightly in your hair. You swallow, grimacing slightly at the taste.
"You ever eat anythin' that has a lick of nutritional value?" you gripe, using your fingers to scrape his come off your cheek and into your mouth anyway.
"Get your trousers off an' I'll eat your cunt," he offered, groaning again when you sucked him into your mouth again, cleaning off the mess. "If y’still ‘ave one. Christ. I'm takin' you 'ome either way." He lit a cigarette, glancing at the door when it pushed open, ready to bark, relaxing when he realized it was just Soap and Gaz. "Hey, lads."
You side eyed them, but you finished your job first, sitting back on your heels and wiping your mouth with your sleeve as Simon tucked himself away again. Gaz and Soap stood there, gaping like fish until you stood up.
"That's gotta be a record," Gaz said. "You haven't been gone ten minutes."
"Well, pretty boy knows what 'e likes." Simon dropped a hand on top of your head and pulled you close to his side before you could duck out of the conversation. "Don't go, pup. Figure you owe the lads an apology too. You're the reason I'm so mean, and they've 'ad t'deal with it all this time." He slid his hand down the side of your face and hooked his fingers into your mouth roughly. "What d'you think?"
You look at the other two. Gaz was trying to look nonplussed as he lit his cigarette, but there was no hiding the hungry gleam in his eyes. Soap wasn't even bothering to be subtle. He looked you up and down, palming himself through his jeans.
You shove Simon's hand out of your mouth, grinning. "Oh, he's been real mean, has he?"
Soap stepped in closer, his fingers hooking into your pocket to reel himself in next to you. "He's been a nightmare. Yeh gonna make up for it?"
"Can try. Riley's always been pretty determined t'be a cunt though. It's not all my fault."
“Need to say goodbye to your friends?” Gaz asked.
“Nah. It was a date. Didn’t really like them anyway. Felt like they were just looking for a compromise between addin’ a man or a woman to their failing marriage. Not really keen to get into all that. This sounds more fun.”
Simon chuckled. “Good choice, pup. Let’s get goin’.”
I've been rotating this thought in my mind since I read this fic by @/soapcloth about Soap being Reader's childhood bully. Read that, and then all the other stuff they've posted because there's some very fun stuff and I highly recommend their work.
Contains: Generic fantasy setting, Princess Reader/OC, OC: Sweetpea, Politicking, We are (still) learning to communicate, (I still miss the boys), Sweetpea is taking control of the narrative, Lots of talking, hurt and confused feelings, This is really not a good way to start a marriage, John
~5.1k words - MDNI
The din of clashing metal from the practice yard below you is enough to make reading impossible, but you welcome the distraction anyway, watching Farah and Knight Captain Keller circle each other. Captain Keller is an excellent swordsman, that much is clear even to your untrained eye. You’ve seen enough tournaments in your time here to know when someone shines, but Farah is leagues beyond even him. She moves like water, flowing around Captain Keller’s strikes. He constantly overbalances and corrects, turning to keep her in his sights, hardly able to parry her retaliatory strikes. When he swings his sword, she simply isn’t there anymore.
You knew Farah was a skilled warrior simply by John’s faith in her to keep you safe, but you didn’t know that she was this good.
“Can I sit with you?” Ghost’s familiar voice startles you. A man his size shouldn’t be able to move as quietly as he does. He doesn’t wait for a response before he drops onto the bench beside you, but you don’t mind the presumption. “Keepin’ busy?”
“Catching up,” you say. “There’s something that’s bothering me about these accounts, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is yet. I’m making notes, hopefully it all makes sense in the end.”
“You’ve got John in a right state.”
“You think I’m being too hard on him?”
Ghost chuckled. “No. It ‘asn’t even been a day, think ‘e can stand to sweat about it a while longer. Wouldn’t necessarily ‘old out for an apology, knowin’ John, but don’t soften your feelin’s for ‘is sake.”
“I just— I don’t think he respects me.”
“Probably not,” Ghost admitted, looking toward the practice yard in time to watch Farah disarm the Captain. “John dun’t respect anyone more’n ‘imself, and ‘e’s never been big on respectin’ women. Farah an’ Kate are exceptions, and…”
“They’re fighters,” you supply. “He respects them because they’re capable.”
Ghost hums in agreement. “That’s about the long and short of it, yeah.”
You sigh, your shoulders slumping the slightest bit before your well-trained posture corrects itself. “I’m not a warrior.”
“No. Leave that to us ‘andsome fellows,” Ghost said. You can hear the smile in his voice, and it makes you smile slightly too. “Give it time. If ‘e doesn’t respect you in a few months I’ll kill ‘im for you.”
“That won’t be necessary. I shudder to think of what our enemies would do if John was no longer in the picture. He’s held the wolves at bay for a long time, and for good reason.” If he weren’t a good king, you never would have agreed to this sham of a marriage to begin with. You’ll bear the disrespect, if it means security for your people. “I know what a silly little girl I must seem to you, but I was raised for this. I have a duty to fulfill, and John to see me for what I am, one way or another. I am no weakling, and I am no fool.”
Ghost shifts on the uncomfortable bench, leaning his arms onto his knees. “You’ve never been a silly girl. Always been serious, ‘aven’t you? The smiles and the laughter are for everyone elses benefit. You’re a thinker. Figure you’ll be runnin’ circles around John ‘fore he realizes it. You probably already are.”
“Well. No circles yet, but I don’t think he’s aware that I’m off to a running start either.” You open your notebook and flip past the notes you’ve taken so far. “Who organizes matters for John? A clerk or secretary or whomever makes his schedule. I know he’s not doing it himself.”
“That’d be Gary. Good lad. Want me to introduce you? ‘E dun’t talk much, specially around new folks, but ‘e’ll ‘elp you with whatever needs knowin’. Pretty sure ‘e was a junior clerk back when your old man was king.”
“Oh, Gary Sanderson?” you ask. “I’m glad to hear he’s still around. He used to sneak me books I wasn’t supposed to be reading from the library.”
“See, that right there is why you’re miles ahead of John. ‘E ‘ad to work to get folks to respect him, do what he wanted, but you ‘ad everyone doin’ you favours even when your father was hangin’ over their ‘eads tellin’ ‘em not to.”
“I am surprised to see so many familiar faces,” you admit. “Though maybe I shouldn’t be.”
“Seems to me that they were all just waitin’ for you to come back.”
“Maybe so.” You tap your nails against the blank page for a long moment. “Where do I find Gary? Ideally when he’s not with John.”
“Think ‘is office is the one right across from yours. Leave ‘im a note to come find you when he’s got a spare minute. Doubt ‘e’ll keep you waitin’ long.”
“You know where my office is? I’ve only had it since this morning, Ser Ghost, if I didn’t know better I’d think you were keeping tabs on me.”
“Course I am. Can’t keep my queen safe if I don’t know where she is.” He made an amused sound. “And, for what it’s worth, ‘eard the Chamberlain and the Steward talkin’ about ‘ow it’s not proper, givin’ you the office on the lower floor when you should have the big study. Both of ‘em agreed, but they seemed to figure you’d be more understandin’ about it than John.”
You press your fingers to your mouth to stifle a laugh. “I wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. John has a more forceful presence than I do, if I had to work out of it I’d never be able to think of it as mine and not my father’s. And between you and me, I think mine’s the nicer one. Or it will be, once I get things sorted how I like them.”
“Don’t like that it’s ground floor though. Too easy for a threat to get to you.”
“It’s an interior courtyard. Send Nox to lay out there, if you’re worried.”
“If I let you an’ Nox spend too much time together I won’t be ‘er favourite anymore.”
“Well, send Johnny then.”
“Maybe. Suppose you’re already ‘is favourite.”
“I don’t know about that. I’ve just heard you won’t let him into your bed, and I do.”
“Between ‘im and Nox there’d be no more room for me.”
“Perhaps you need a bigger bed.”
“Need a real wide one to keep Nox and Johnny from scrappin’ while I’m tryin’ to sleep.”
The practice yard goes silent. When you look to see what’s going on, your smile slides away as John walks into the space. His eyes find you immediately, a tell that he came here because of you. To show off, like as not. You know he’s a formidable fighter, and the desk work that comes with being a monarch hasn’t diminished him in any way. He’s a little softer around the edges than he was as a younger man, but you’ve felt the sheer power in his arms, the strain of holding himself back. Someone as fast as Farah might best him in a practice bout, but in a true battle her smaller frame would be a liability as soon as she came close enough to strike, putting herself in range of a bludgeoning blow from a shield or his pommel. Only Ghost would match him blow for blow, both of them viper fast despite their size.
“You look pissed.”
“I was beginning to calm down, but he made me furious again a few hours ago. I nearly shouted.”
“Never once ‘eard you raise your voice. What’d ‘e do?”
“He sent me flowers,” you grouse.
Ghost laughs out loud. “The monster.”
“He didn’t— Oh never mind, you won’t get it. I think I’ll go back inside.” You stand up, gathering your books, halting when Ghost touches your elbow. “I know you’re about to insist on coming with me, but I’d love a little while alone. I promise to go straight to my office and stay there.”
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, letting his hand drop. “Sure I can’t walk you there?”
“I’d prefer you not, but if you feel you have to insist I cannot stop you.”
“Alright. Go on. If you see me lurkin’ about the courtyard in a bit, I couldn’t stop myself from worryin’. Promise not to bother you.”
“I appreciate that.” You tuck your books into one arm and touch his shoulder lightly before you turn to leave, skirting through the stands and quickly heading down the stairs. You can feel John’s eyes follow you until you disappear from his sight, but you don’t look at him again.
The rest of the day is spent nose deep in the accounts, noting taxes paid and crop yields from each province, referencing a map to see where the roads were being maintained and where they weren’t, what taxes were being spent on and what went unaddressed. The accounting from the castle itself is somewhere else— You suspect Mrs. Fanshawe or the Steward have those accounts for reference somewhere, but you’re less concerned with the castle itself— There’s a noted record of what was allotted for running the castle, with larger sums following the years after the civil war for rebuilding areas broken by siege, and then the costs dropped again, to well below what they were when your father was king. John has many faults, but he doesn’t indulge in shows of wealth, and he and his knights are sober-minded men, not the louts your father kept close at hand, red-faced and loud from drink.
You only get through two more years, but now that you know what data you’re looking for, it should be easier to get through the rest. You make a list of who runs each province as well— You recognize some names from the ceremonies yesterday, those who came in person or by missive to pledge themselves to you. Many of the now Dukes were once Barons and Earls, elevated by John for their support in the war, as he deposed the houses faithful to the old crown. Only a few old families remain in the highest seats of power. the Blackmoores, who supported John, the Rosenthal’s of Iron Reach, and the Cotswalds in Regantha Run, who sat close to the Kastovian border, isolated from the civil war, and depleted from the many attacks made on their lands. The Karim family owned a barony in Regantha, one of the lowland regions hardest hit. Iron Reach was better fortified, wealthy from the mines there and able to defend themselves better from Kastovian forays, holding choke points along narrow mountain passes.
The Rosenthal’s sent a missive, with a promise to visit later, and an invitation to come to them, if you so chose, but the Cotswald’s came in person. The new Duke, Harry was the son of the previous, and rather mousy, towed along by his more confident wife Elizabet, though it was clear that after some years of bad weather and poor crop output, that the House of Regantha Run had suffered no great personal hardship. Both of them were dressed in the latest fashions, well-fed and adorned with jewellery. You remember the old duke well, and his person always seemed to change with the state of the region, thin during poor years, heavier during good, and particularly soldier-like during the war.
If you remember correctly, Harry was the second son, from the old duke’s second marriage. You’d have to ask around to see what happened to Roger, the elder brother. He’d been of a similar cut to his father, so it was not difficult to imagine that he got himself killed defending his people. It was much harder to imagine Harry defending anyone at all.
You sigh, looking out the window. The light has dimmed considerably, but you’d hardly noticed, the light in the crystal lamps conveniently brightening to keep the room from growing dark around you. As such, you’re hardly sure what time it is, or how long you’ve been sitting still. Your shoulders protest when you roll them back, so it’s been at least a few hours.
Ghost must have told Farah that you wanted time to yourself. You needed it, even though you’ve spent the whole time untangling the state of the nation rather than the state of your emotions. It feels good to apply yourself to a task like this— For so long, your only tasks have been trite, repetitive housework, mending, tending to your garden and collecting many coloured eggs from your fancy hens. Anything you let slide would be attended to in due course by Kate’s staff, and nothing would be said of the matter. Despite your insistence on doing work and keeping up some semblance of normalcy, it’s clear to you now that what you did was viewed as a lady’s eccentric hobbies rather than a truly vital part of the household.
It should bother you more than it does, that everyone but you knew that you were just playing at being an ordinary citizen. Kate and Michelle were humouring you, allowing you a chance to come into your own without the shadow of the crown hanging heavy over your head. You were always going to come back here, one way or another, but you’re grateful for the time away. If you had stayed John would have coaxed you into an agreeable shape and married you years ago, and you would never have had the confidence to stand up to him, to voice disagreement or allow yourself to rage at him, in your own quiet way. You would have been so grateful to be under a kinder thumb that you never would have thought that maybe you shouldn’t be under anyone’s thumb at all.
Someone knocks at the door, and you call for them to come in idly, glancing at the reflection in the window before you turn. “Ambassador, how might I help you?” you ask. There’s a castle guard lingering in the hall behind him, trying to make herself unobtrusive, only visible for a moment before Nikolai closed the door behind him.
“I wished to speak with you before I leave, and I do not think it fair to ask a newly wed woman to rise before the sun to see me off,” he says, taking a curious look around the still-barren room. “If I were John I would be keeping you up all hours— Although I heard that you did not spend the night in his quarters.”
You gesture to one of the chairs opposite your desk. “Castle gossip moves quickly, I see.”
“Strange, is all,” he says lightly. “If it makes you feel any better, the gossip was not intended for me, I just tend to… overhear things.”
“This is hardly the first political marriage, I doubt it will be the last. I chose to return to my own room so I would be better rested today. I have a lot to catch up on.” You indicate your notes and the ledgers stacked up haphazardly on the desks surface. “I’ve been away too long. I neglected to stay informed as I should.”
“Why not simply ask John?” Nikolai asks, tipping his head to the side. “Do you not trust your new husband?”
“Trust has nothing to do with it. I have an obligation to verify that things have been running smoothly in my absence. John has done good work, but he was not raised to consider matters of state. Things that slipped his attention are less likely to slip mine.”
Nikolai nods slowly, his dark eyes studying you with a new respect. It infuriates you that this man can see you as an equal more easily than your own husband, but you shouldn’t be so surprised. Nikolai had at least asked if you wanted to marry him, rather than pulling strings to corral you into it— Though he might have done the same if he was in a position to do so.
“Your people are lucky to have you,” he says. “And you’ll look so beautiful on the currency.”
You can’t help but laugh. It’s not something you’d bothered thinking about. “I don’t think it’s a priority.”
Nikolai leans back in his chair, hands folded together, looking pleased with himself for making you smile. “Do you have anything you’d like me to convey to your cousin when I return home?”
“Nothing in particular. Just that I appreciate his enthusiasm to liberate the kingdom, though as we can all see that will no longer be necessary. John has my full support.”
“Does he? There’s nothing that you’d do differently?”
“I didn’t say that. I think he’s done an admirable job in my absence, but I’ve returned now. If I see fit to change direction, I will do so.” You smile blandly at him.
“And if John disagrees?”
“Then he will learn an important lesson.” You keep your expression serene, pleasant, the strong words undercut by an air of sweetness. Nikolai sees through it, as astute as you are at navigating the waters of diplomacy. Your message to the Kastovians is clear as day, without you needing to say it outright.
Phillip’s claim is dead in the water. You’ve taken what has always belonged to you, and if anyone chooses to fight you, they will regret it, whether that be Phillip, the Kastovians, or John himself.
You’re the queen, and you’ll suffer no challenges to your authority.
“If you don’t mind, ambassador, I would like to prepare for dinner— Will you be joining us?”
“I believe so. Until then, your majesty.” He stands, taking your hand and bowing over it, lips brushing your knuckles lightly, his dark eyes twinkling at you with boyish mischief, despite his age.
You’ll never fully trust him— He’s been playing games of politics longer than you’ve been alive— but you can’t help but like him. You suspect that his warm feelings towards you are much the same. He knows that you are more than you seem, and he’s wary of that, but he has no interest in crossing you. He’s interested in seeing what you do next, and you get the feeling he wants to see you do well.
Despite the gap in your ages, he would have made a good husband, if the engagement all those years ago had not fallen apart.
You wait a few moments longer, letting your thoughts settle before you collect your notebook and a capped pen, and head upstairs, stopping to slide a note for Gary into the basket hanging on the front of his door.
After sitting still so long, you want to lay down to stretch the soreness out of your back properly. When you were at Kate’s you could do that outside in the grass, with no concern for the dirt or vegetation that might muss up your clothes, but you have to maintain a certain level of dignity now, and your room is the only place that’s truly your own. Tiphanie might think you strange for such things, but she wasn’t likely to think less of you for it.
There’s some commotion in the hallways upstairs, however, the doors to your room thrown open, some of the castle staff moving across the hall with armfuls of your things. Tiphanie stands to the side, shoulders somehow slumped and tense at once, unable to convince them to stop.
Everyone freezes when you clear your throat. Tiphanie moves first, rushing to your side. “I’m so sorry, majesty, I knew you would have told me if you wanted your things moved, but no one wanted to cross himself, when he gave a direct order.” Her eyes are wide with guilt and anxiety, as though she expects you to be disappointed in her.
You smile to reassure her, and pat her hand. “I know you did your best, Tiphanie. I don’t blame you.” You turn to the others, your smile unwavering. “I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding. I intend to keep my room— I don’t believe I conveyed my wishes to my husband, and he is just so proactive about these things.” As much as you’d like to vent your frustration, it is best if you and John don’t present too many differences of opinion in front of other. From the outside, there should be no visible gaps for an opportunistic enemy to wedge themselves into. I’m certain he was trying to make me feel more at home. I hate to ask you to undo all your hard work, but I’d very much appreciate if you could take everything back. Tiphanie will direct you.” Your cheerful expression puts everyone at ease, concern about crossing John evaporating as they all reverse course, eager to follow your missive. “Is John in his office? I’d like to thank him for being so thoughtful.”
You’d really like to slap him, but you try not to let your anger speak for you. A blow would hardly shake a man like John, and you’ve no interest in bringing violence into your marriage, no matter how your husband infuriates you or how satisfying it might be for a few moments.
You refuse to become like your father, thoughtlessly laying hands on others. Your size and inability to do real damage is not good enough reason to allow you self-control to lapse.
“Yes, miss— Ma’am. Majesty,” a young man says, correcting himself swiftly when an older woman levels a glare at him. “Sorry.”
“It’s quite alright.” You glance at the older woman. She’s familiar to you, the same woman that managed the staff and daily schedules when you were a girl. “Mrs. Fanshawe, yes? I’d like to have a word with you at some point tomorrow— I’ll likely be in my office most of the day, so please drop by at your convenience. I’m hoping to conduct interviews with all of the key personnel, just to ensure that everything is running smoothly from your perspective.”
“Of course, your majesty. I would be honoured to speak with you.”
“Wonderful. I will see you tomorrow, then.” You give Tiphanie another pat and make your way to John’s office. You don’t bother knocking— If he sees fit to disrupt your space, you have no qualms doing the same to him.
John looks up from his desk, eyebrows raised, though his expression changes to a smug smile when he sees you. “Ah, hello, Sweetpea. What can I do for you?”
You sweep around his desk and lean against it, forcing him to look up at you with a soft hand on his jaw, directing him with the lightest touch. “Let me make something abundantly clear, John,” you say, voice soft and sweet, despite your fury. “I will not allow you to push me around. Do not interfere with my space again. If we are to share a room, it will be my decision to do so. You will find yourself unable to force the matter, and I suggest, for your pride’s sake, that you not attempt this again. I will not always be so willing to lie on your behalf.” You withdraw your hand.
Surprise flickers in his eyes, and he quickly snags your wrist before you can move away, hauling you easily into his lap. “I want you to stay with me.”
“And I want to continue sleeping in my own room, in my own bed,” you reply placidly. “And you will find that conflicting directives will settle in my favour, if you attempt to circumvent my wishes again.”
“You said you understood why I did this,” he said, frustration biting at the heels of his words. He is not as apt as you are at hiding his feelings. “Why are you acting this way?”
“Understanding is not the same as accepting.” You settle one arm around his shoulders, your other hand resting on his chest, toying with the buttons on his tunic. “I might have come to agree with you, had you thought to have a conversation with me, instead of lying to my face.” You hold up a hand to stop him when he opens his mouth to defend himself. “Withholding the truth is not better than lying. I am not an unreasonable woman, John. You might know that, if you made any attempt to know me.”
He sighs, catching your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “It seems I’ve started things off on the wrong foot.”
“You have. Don’t expect to resolve this quickly. My first priority is catching up on what I’ve missed. I’d like to see what your thoughts are on the state of things, if you’ve some time tomorrow to discuss.”
“You don’t need to concern yourself with politics.”
“Yes I do. If you wished for a wife that would not take an interest in state affairs, you should have listened to me and found one elsewhere.”
“You didn’t even want to stay,” he protests.
“I was going to discuss staying on in an advisory capacity, after the speech of support I didn’t get to make. It was clear from how people reacted to my return that I was needed more than I anticipated.”
His eyebrows raise. “You were going to stay?”
“It was my intention, yes. If you’d had the slightest bit of patience, or even interest in my thoughts, you might have known that. Instead, you attempted to trick me into a marriage with no notice— No notice to me, anyway. Everyone else obviously knew. In fact, it seems that many are under the impression that you’ve been quietly courting me for some time.”
“Well, it’s a good story,” he says. He has the good grace to look the slightest bit sheepish. “I thought the one where you were captured by giants was a little far fetched.”
You laugh. “Far fetched? Or did you just not like that Ghost was the hero of the story, and not you?”
He laughs too, a little reluctantly. “I admit, I didn’t love that.”
You think of Ghost becoming Simon, the blacksmith’s terse apprentice, leaving everything behind just to keep an eye on you. “Strange to think he’d been in town watching over me for so long.”
John’s mouth flattens again, the spark of humour on his lips replaced with a bitter line. “He loves you, and I know you care for him more than me. If I weren’t such a selfish man—”
You silence him with the pad of your thumb, swiping it across his lower lip. “John. There’s no sense thinking about what ifs and should haves. I may be angry, but I still care for you. If you could stop acting as though you know better than I do, we could make this more than a political union.”
“It’s not political to me.”
“Oh yes it is. Lie to yourself if you like, but don’t lie to me. If I wasn’t who I am, you might try to charm me into your bed for a night or two, but you wouldn’t marry me.” You tip his chin up and kiss him, several beats longer than you intended. Your blood warms when your lips touch his, memory of the previous night reminding you of the ache inside you, the soreness in your hips and thighs, of the ways he commanded your body as easily as he commanded a battlefield.
When you’d snapped at him earlier, you’d half wanted him to take the bait, to push you down onto your desk and take what you callously offered. You’d wanted to hurt him, reduce what he did to you to such a crass word. It didn’t have to be fucking. You wanted it to be more meaningful than that.
You wanted it to be love, though you knew, regardless of what he said, that love was a fair distance away still, for both of you. He couldn’t truly love you until he saw you as his equal, and you didn’t want to love him until he did. It would tear you to pieces, loving someone that saw you only as an accessory, a necessary element to maintaining power, even if one that he was deeply fond of.
“I want it to be more,” you admit when you finally pull away. His fingers twitch tighter for a moment before he allows you to end the kiss, reluctant to let you go. “So please, stop trying to control me. I swore a long time ago that I wouldn’t let a man decide my fate, not ever again. Understand me, John. You did not force me to stay. I despise your attempts at trickery, and I will not forgive you easily, but I chose to walk down that aisle. I chose to make those vows. I am here, with you, by my own volition, because I think it’s for the best.”
Saying so out loud makes it feel true. You did have a choice, even if it was politically inconvenient. You had enough notice to run, and you didn’t.
That makes him frown, confusion clouding his sharp eyes. “I backed you into a corner,” he says. “Isn’t that why you’re angry?”
“No. I’m angry because you think so little of me. If you’d just talked to me, told me what you planned and why, I would have agreed with you. I understand the responsibility, what I owe to my people. I did not realize how deep my cousin’s ambitions ran until his assassin attempted to take my life. When I refused you, I believed that a statement would be enough, but I lacked context. I should have stayed better apprised of what was going on, and that was my error. It will not happen again.”
You stand, pulling fully away from his hands, though part of you wants desperately to stay there, stealing kisses until your anger subsides into a different passion. Every moment with John is a move in a game of chess, deciding the balance of power between you. He’s not yet aware of the battle, still moving thoughtlessly. By overstepping and trying to go around you on such a trivial manner, he’s put himself in a position where the staff will check with you before following his orders, rather than doing the work twice.
He might not fully realize the small power he’s already ceded to your authority, but you do want to warn him. The terms of truce, the line he has to toe if he doesn’t want to wage a private war against you. He already stands at a disadvantage, in your ancestral home where he has tied his power to yours so completely, unaware that you could snip the strings with a word. His knights may be loyal to him, but the people are yours. They always have been.
“Your mistake is believing that you have the power to force me into anything. I suggest you not repeat it.”
You sweep out of the study before he can muster a response.
Image credits: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 -
Divider by CafeKitsune - Flower Divider by Saradika-Graphi
Starting fresh after a divorce, Chelsea really only has one thing on her mind: Starting a family. But going through the process of dating and marrying another man that could very well be lying about wanting kids, just like the last one, she's determined to make her family all by herself. She only really needs a man for one part of the process, and she has a particular man in mind, her neighbour, one John Price.
Price has retired from Military life, and he's not handling the change well. But on the one year anniversary of him hanging it up, his boys bring him something special to help keep him busy. You.
Chapter One - The Perfect Gift
Next Chapter >
Contains: No Y/N (Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Stalking, Drugging, Forcible relocation, Generally creepy behaviour, Threats (open-ended), I guess this might count as human trafficking?, Dubcon everything because Reader is terrified (non-sexual), plus-sized reader, fem/afab reader, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real.
~3.2k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above
"I told ye, she's perfect," Soap said, eyes on the window across the street. They could see you puttering around your living room, wearing a pretty flower print dress as you tidied up. "Good with bairns too, met her when I was pickin' up the niece and nephew from school. She was workin' for some rich family, an' they let her go because the wife found a pair of her knickers in her husband's briefcase." He snickered. He'd been the one to put them there, although, in his opinion, he’d been pushing the bounds for a long while anyway. Sure he’d essentially cast you adrift, jobless and with no one looking out for you, but, well, they were looking after you now, weren’t they? So it wasn’t all that bad.
"Good job, pup," Ghost said fondly, ruffling Johnny's hair. "Captain's gonna love 'er."
"How do you lads want to play it?" Gaz asked. "Could go in tonight. Won’t take much to knock her out, pack up her things, take her to the cabin. Get her nice and situated for when Price gets back."
"No point in waitin', is there?" Ghost asked. "Nice she's on the ground floor. Makes takin' 'er things easier. I'll go round 'n' check the windows in a bit. Should wait till after midnight. Don't want to be spotted by the neighbours."
"No' much risk o' tha'," Soap said. "Knocked over a bunch of bins last I was here and the cunts didna even turn on a light. Just the bonnie thing worryin’ while the rest of ‘em sleep sound."
Gaz lit a cigarette, nodding thoughtfully. "Small apartment too. Is there much to move?"
Soap shook his head. "Nah, no' much. Sweet girl lives simply. I told ye, she's perfect for the captain. He'll be able to spoil the fuck out of her, once she's broken in, aye?"
"Know 'e'll like that. Man needs a wife to dote on. ‘e’s been goin’ a bit crazy, all alone. An' 'e can train'er up nice."
"Think he might share?" Gaz asked wistfully, exhaling a stream of thin smoke as he sighed. "Nice soft girl like that-- Plenty to go around."
Ghost laughed. "Thought we'd 'ave trouble gettin' Johnny to keep 'is 'ands to 'imself, and you're the one droolin'."
"Scuse me for having eyes, mate. Just think she looks sweet."
"We'll get to see first 'and soon.” Ghost clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on lads. Let's get ready."
You wake up on the hard metal floor of a moving vehicle, your pounding head cradled in someone's hands. That's what you notice first, and the thumbs rubbing circles against your neck soothingly.
It has the opposite effect. Your eyes fly open.
“Hi, bonnie,” a somewhat familiar face grins down at you, blue eyes smiling, but too intense, glittering in the low light that filters in from the windows at the front of the truck. “How’s yer head?”
You grimace, trying to make sense of what’s going on around you. The back of the van seems to be filled with boxes. “Aren’t you Finn and Rory’s uncle?”
“Aw, ye remember me? Knew ye were a sweetheart.”
You try to sit up, but Johnny puts a strong hand on your shoulder and keeps you where you are. Your head feels too heavy to try and fight him, your muscles weak. “What’s going on?” you ask. “What— Is this a kidnapping?”
“Tha’s an ugly word, bonnie. We’re doin’ ye a favour, really. Settin’ ye up with someone respectable. Captain’ll take good care of ye.” He pats your cheek. “Whyna get back to sleep? Still a ways to go, aye?”
Maybe it’s just a bad, weird dream. You do feel foggy, like you’re not fully attached to your body, and keeping your eyes open is a struggle. You’ll wake up back in your own bed, and have a funny story to tell if you ever bump into Johnny again. He’s definitely too nice to be a kidnapper, right? Like, people don’t really do that sort of thing. It has to be a dream.
“Okay,” you mumble, letting your eyes close again.
As you suspected, you wake up again in bed. The headache’s receded some, and there’s warm sunlight streaming in through the windows. You bury your face into the pillows, and then bolt upright. The pillow smells weird, like sweet tobacco and spice, and you don’t get morning sun in your bedroom. The window faces a brick wall across a narrow alley.
The room you’re in now is not your room. It’s sparsely furnished, just a dresser under the window and the bed you’re tucked into, and two doors, one that’s clearly a closet, and one that must lead out into the rest of the… house? Judging by the sound of birdsong outside, you’re out of the city.
You pad to the window and look out. There’s a van in the driveway, and three men carrying things in. One of them looks up and spots you in the window, waving cheerfully.
Not a dream. Fear grips you, ice sliding down your spine, shards settling in your stomach, needling and uncomfortable. Your sinuses prickle like you’re about to cry, but no tears come. You’re too dehydrated to summon them. It’s hard to tell how long you’ve been out— It’s fully daylight outside, but you have no idea what time. A second look around the room finds a digital clock sitting on the nightstand, 3:05 glaring back at you in red.
There’s a knock on the door, and it pushes open. The man who walks in is handsome, smiling at you so beautifully that your automatic response is to try and smile back, although you feel that it’s flimsy, unsure. There’s no chance that this man is here to help you, but you at least hope he’s not here to hurt you either.
“How’re you feeling?” he asks. His voice is as pleasant as his face is, smooth and cheerful, although it makes you wary about him on principle. “You hungry?”
You shake your head. It’s not true, but you can’t trust that there wouldn’t be drugs in anything they give you.
“Well, come on downstairs, hm? Get some water at least. Maybe a tea?”
Your stomach churns. “I might be sick,” you manage to squeak out. He quickly ushers you out into the hall and into a bathroom. You don’t make it to the toilet, but you do manage to make it to the sink. If you had a little more fire in you, you might have tried to vomit bile onto the pretty man’s shoes, but it’s hard to shake the instinct to be good, not to make any trouble, to hope that they’ll just let you go. You’re not even sure what they want. You have no family to ransom, you don’t have any money to speak of, you’re just a fat little ex-nanny still paying off an English Literature degree from a second-rate college.
You turn on the sink to wash away the sick, and rinse your mouth out. Your hands start shaking when you realize your toothbrush is sitting in the holder next to the sink, like it belongs there. Your makeup bag is sitting on the counter too, and when you look down, you realize you’re standing on your own bathmat, taken from your home and arranged here, as if effects from your own house are supposed to make you feel comfortable. You look at your reflection in the mirror, and then at the man still standing in the doorway, his brown eyes all concern, as if he wasn’t party to a fucking nightmare.
You straighten up, gripping the counter to steady yourself. “What the hell is this?” you ask, trying to inject some authority into your quaking voice. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”
“I’m Gaz. Nice to meet you. Johnny had lots of nice things to say about you.”
So that hadn’t been a dream either. You look around the room desperately, looking for anything that could possibly be used as a weapon, but Gaz seems to know exactly what you’re doing, and he steps into your space quickly to grab your hands.
“None of that. Come on. You’ll feel better after a tea, yeah? Then you can get ready to meet the captain.”
He leads you downstairs. Questions spin around your head, but you’re not sure if it’s worth asking. Gaz only bothered to respond to one of the three you’ve asked so far, and it wasn’t the one that you were most interested in an answer to. So you stay quiet instead, taking in the layout of the big room. A front door and a back door, and windows that look out onto a forest on one side of the property, and more forest on the other side, beyond a large cleared space with a neat garden and a few fruit trees. There’s a second building that you can just see the corner of from the kitchen window, more likely a garage than a neighbour.
Gaz backs you up against the counter and leans down slightly, his hands gripping your thighs. You panic, the touch surprising you, and slap him across the face. The sharp sound makes you freeze, like it wasn’t you that had done it. He takes advantage of your surprise to shove you up onto the counter and grab both your hands with one of his, all the friendliness draining our of his eyes in an instant as he points a scolding finger at you. You feel like you’ve done something naughty that you’re not fully aware of the implications of yet, a badly trained dog or a child. “I’m going to let that one slide, because I understand that this is a big change for you. But you’re not going to like what happens if you try that again, understood?”
You nod quickly, your own eyes wide. “I-I’m sorry,” you say, the instinct for appeasement rearing it’s skittish little head.
And then the smile returns, as pretty as before, storm clouds blowing away as though they’d never been there to begin with. “It’s alright, doll. Just don’t do it again. And definitely don’t try that attitude on with the captain.” He taps the pointing finger against your nose playfully, and lets your hands drop back into your lap.
The rules seem simple enough. Be good and sweet, and get friendly faces in return, to a degree. No matter how cooperative you are, you doubt they’re going to let you go home. Fighting back means consequences, and you’re not sure how far those consequences will extend. If you’re too much trouble, it’s not a stretch to imagine that they’ll just kill you outright and try again with a meeker woman. You don’t yet know if death would be the more preferable outcome.
You pull your sweater down over your thighs. The black zip-up hoodie isn’t yours (the word Riley is stitched onto the front of it), but it’s big, and even though it smells faintly of cigarettes, it affords you at least a little modesty and comfort, more than the tank top and the sleep-shorts you’re wearing underneath do. Riley must be the third man. Was he the captain? Or was there a fourth one somewhere?
Johnny comes through the door carrying your suitcases, and he grins widely when he sees you, the charming, boyish one that you’d thought was handsome before. It’s only unnerving now. “Didja have a good sleep, bonnie?”
“You drugged me,” you accuse.
“Weel, of course. You were no’ goan ta come all peaceable, and LT wouldna be patient if ye were cryin’ the whole way here.” He trots upstairs, and you can hear him drop the bags with a thump, before he’s clattering back down the steps and leaning against the counter next to you. “How’d’ye like yer new home, bonnie? S’a nice place, aye? Better than tha’ little shoebox back in the city.”
“I like my apartment,” you protest.
“Psh, ye’d say tha’. Puttin’ on a brave face since yer such a good girl. But it wasna verra safe, was it? No’ a single neighbour paid us any mind while we were loadin’ up yer things. No’ a good place for a single girl, aye?” He reaches out and puts a big hand on your knee, squeezing lightly. “Now ye’ll be taken care of, like ye should be.”
“I don’t want to be taken care of.”
“Nonsense. Ye’ll be glad, once ye get used to things. Already looks real homey in here, don’t ye think?” He gestures at the living room.
You twist to look, and your stomach sinks. Your throw pillows are on the couch, one of the afghans you crocheted hanging over the back of it. You recognize the titles of your books on the shelves. These men were nothing if not thorough, surgically removing your entire life and transplanting it to this house in the woods, with it’s wood panel walls and big, overstuffed leather couches.
He continues blithely, like he’s not delivering some of the most horrifying news you’ve ever heard. “Most of your furniture’s in the garage, ye can sort tha’ out with Price, aye? But we brought all yer clothes and decorations and whatnot in. Figure ye should wear tha’ pretty black sundress, an’ those long stockin’s with the clippy belt, ye ken the one? Cap’ll like those.”
They’d been through all your things. If you had anything left to throw up, you might’ve again. Gaz sets a glass of water on the counter next to you. “How d’you take your tea, doll?”
“Milk, two sugars,” Johnny answers for you. “Our sweet lass has a sweet tooth, aye?”
“How do you know that?” You can hear the quiver in your voice, and it doesn’t slip by either of them.
“Come oan, hen, ye ken I didna jus’ pick ye off the street. Did my research. Wouldna pick just anyone for the captain.”
“When he said he’d found the perfect girl, we didn’t believe him at first,” Gaz says, leaning against the counter on the other side of the kitchen while the tea steeps. “But Ghost and I knew he was right, soon as we saw you.” He nods at the glass. “Drink your water. You haven’t had anything since last night.”
“Is it drugged?” you ask flatly.
“No, want ye awake for when Price gets here. Yer a real cute thing asleep, but we want him ta hear yer pretty voice and see that smile, aye?” Johnny reaches past you and picks up the glass of water, taking a big swig to demonstrate it’s harmlessness.
You take a careful sip when he hands it back to you, and then another, resisting the urge to just gulp the whole thing down. The door opens again, and the biggest man you’ve seen in your life walks in, wearing a black t-shirt and a mask with the jaw of a skull printed on it, pulled up over the lower half of his face. He looks at you dispassionately, and then at Gaz and Johnny. “What the ‘ell have you two muppets been sayin’ to the poor thing?” he asks, his voice rumbling like an avalanche. “She looks like she’s gonna faint.”
“Figure she’s just peaky,” Gaz says defensively. “I’m making her tea.”
The big guy swats Johnny’s hand away from your knee impatiently, and cages you in against the counter, one huge arm on either side of you. “How’re you feelin’ bird? Be honest.”
“Terrified,” you admit.
He chuckles. “Sensible, considerin’. But you don’t need to worry, olright? No one’s gonna hurt you, so long as you’re good. And you want to be good, don’t you, bird?”
You nod. You’d thought Gaz and Johnny were big, but this one’s huge, broad and tall and even scarier. It’s clear why they started off introducing themselves to you in the order they did. If this man had been the first thing you’d seen after waking up you probably would have gone into hysterics.
“Use your words, pet.”
“I want to be good,” you say obediently, because you don’t see any other options, at least for the moment.
“Good girl,” he says, and there’s the slightest hint of a smile in his dark eyes.
Somehow, this is the most comforting thing that you’ve experienced all day. You won’t be hurt if you’re good, and you are being good.
He pushes back from the counter slightly, giving you more space, takes the mug of tea from Gaz, and hands it off to you. “Small sips,” he instructs. “And maybe a biscuit, if you think you can keep it down.”
“Are you the captain?” you ask nervously, gripping the mug with two hands.
“Hm? No. ‘e’s still about an hour out. I’m Simon. Ghost to these two.” He fishes an open package of biscuits out of the cupboard and sets them next to you. “Once you finish your tea, we’ll get you ready. Want to make a good first impression, right bird?”
“Not really,” you admit. “I’d like to go home.”
He laughs, at least finding your honesty amusing. “That won’t be ‘appenin’. If Price dun’t want you, I’ll keep you myself. But I’ll tell you right now, you’ll like Price better. If you’re good for him, he’ll be real good to you, understood?”
You bite your tongue. It won’t do you any good to point out that a man that would accept a person as a gift is probably not capable of being good to anyone. Good is subjective, and the three men in front of you are lunatics. Their captain probably has the slightest bit stronger a grasp on his sanity, or a consistent moral code, if not a particularly righteous one. So you just keep your mouth shut, and drink your tea, and eat two chocolate digestives while Gaz and Johnny start collecting things to make dinner.
As soon as you set your empty mug to the side Ghost pops you down from the counter and ushers you upstairs with a big hand placed a little too low on your back. He tells you what to wear (down to the lingerie), but blessedly doesn’t insist on watching you get dressed. He does sit on the edge of the tub and watch you put on makeup, however, requesting red lipstick and winged eyeliner. Your hands are still a little shaky, but you manage to do as he asks. His eyes smile at you just a little when you’re obedient. You feel pathetic for not making a fuss, but you’re not sure what you can possibly do, except something stupid that will make them angry enough to hurt you.
He helps you into a pair of strappy red heels that had been languishing in the back of your closet before they dug everything out, and straightens the seam of your stockings, running his big hands up your calves. It’s like you’re a doll, dressed just how he wants, something to look pretty and say less than nothing, a gift for some other man you’ve never met to keep on a shelf.
Or worse, to play with.
You hear Johnny and Gaz greet someone downstairs, their voices loud and excited, and your heart skips nervously.
Ghost rises to his feet, smiling so big you can see it even with the mask. “Wait right here, pet,” he says firmly, leaving you sitting on the edge of the bed while he goes off to greet his captain. “Want to introduce you proper.”
So you sit, and you wait, shaking and nervous, for what feels like eternity, until you hear Simon’s surprisingly light footfalls on the stairs again. He offers you a hand, and hoists you over his shoulder as soon as you’re on your feet, carrying you down into the living room.
“We all pitched in,” Gaz says, as casually as if he meant throwing in five dollars for a card. “But she was Soap’s idea.”
“Picked ‘er out special, Cap,” Johnny says. “She’s perfect for ye.”
“She?” an unfamiliar voice asks. “Don’t tell me you got me a dog.”
“Better than that, skipper.” Ghost laughs as he circles around the couch, and drops you carefully into the man’s lap, stepping into line with the other two. “We got you a wife.”
I've been low-key thinking about this concept since I read ohbo-ohno's Don't Leave Me Locked in Your Heart a while back (If you haven't read and you like a good dark fic, you should click that link, you may enjoy it). I think getting someone a person as a gift, or being given as a gift, rather, is a fun fucked up fantasy to explore. I'm not entirely sure where I'll take this but I promise to put in content warnings. Let me know if I miss something, I don't want anyone to be surprised by what they find!
