what's a bad miracle?; 2/2
John Price x F!Reader, 9.6k count, 18+ summary: this is forever chapter 2 of bad miracle. content: ex-wife!reader, possessive behavior, drugged sex, non-consensual somnophilia, breeding kink, forced orgasm, forced impregnation, forced cheating, physical punishment on reader, rape, dead dove: do not eat banners by @/cafekitsune
John had held you close against him while he snored beside you. You'd tried to slide out from beneath his arm when his breathing had steadied the first time, unable to sleep as you lay beside your ex-husband, feeling his cum dribbling out of you, following older paths down your thighs, but his fingers dug into the plush flesh of your hip, pulled you flush against him. You'd frozen, unsure and then sickened with yourself. Faced with the reality that you were trapped in the bed you used to share, you stare up at the slats of the ceiling, try to count them to force your brain to focus on anything else.
Horror was still icy tendrils in the back of your neck, down your spine, in the center of your chest as your thoughts rabbit through your head as fast as your heart, twisting with your guts. You know what's happened, you were there, but part of you feels different, detached in a way that you're afraid you may never fully recover from. Unable to fully come to terms with the fact that – that John had raped you that John had forced himself in you on you.
Even though it feels like every ounce of hydration in your body's been used up already, you find yourself sobbing. Silent, unable to even make the sounds with how hoarse you feel, but shaking as you gasp and cry. You’re so cold despite the burning heat of John’s overwhelming presence — beside you, around you, inside you.
You can’t even call what you do dozing, because it seems as if the moment you’re about to slip under the heavy blanket of exhausted rest your brain panics, forcing you to relive your night. A horrible, traitorous part of you is willing to blame his TBI, to point at something that isn’t your ex-husband despite the rather glaring willingness on his part, the look in his eyes after he'd made you face him, as if he’d been claiming you.
Every thought becomes a new exercise in self-reflection. You should have set clearer boundaries with him once he'd been dropped off, then he would never have done this. You should have just told him about Neil the moment he’d been brought back, there was no way he'd-
You should have stopped him when he'd touched you so familiarly, should have reminded him that you were divorced.
(Like he'd forgotten.)
You never should have said yes to taking care of him.
It’s too warm.
The waves are lulling you to sleep, though.
He’d put the promise of a trip together off for months but you were okay with it. You were okay with it, even if he’d only suggested it after you’d sighed when a coworker got married, took two weeks off to enjoy hiking through Europe with her new wife. It had seemed like such a lovely time even though your ankles would ache. John dropped the tickets to Hawaii on your lap after he’d come home from a brief deployment, startling you out of your book. Thought it was a joke, before he flashed you that smile and told you not to worry about packing, he'd get you whatever you wanted there. When you had felt like you hadn't seen John in months, works making your time together short. It had been the spark you'd been missing.
You'd been so lonely.
It was so humid but so lovely. Like your skin would never be better in your life, as you laid beneath a beach tent John had rented, new swimsuit beneath a cover, a little embarrassed by the skin it showed. (But John's eyes had darkened when you asked his opinion.) Kids were screeching happily in the waves. You couldn’t wait to have start your family… Well… Soon, you told yourself. It had only been two years. And with John’s work you wanted him to have time, had been told by Pam that it was important your husband be around.
You don’t remember getting on the boat but you must have dozed.
The water was so pretty, clear.
Maybe a touch too warm for you, just got the sun baring down on you.
Too warm.
Your guts hurt.
Seasick?
Hot breath fanning against the sweat on your neck.
It’s with a start that you find yourself staring into John’s blue eyes, brain sluggishly turning over in your skull.
Trying to understand.
He thrust his entire length into you, grunting as he buried himself, pain like a shock as your burning vulva was abused further. Tears welling in your eyes as the full extent of pain rushed through you, what had felt like pain last night twisted without the numbing of the drugs he’d given you. A sob hiccuped out from between your lips as you tried to push yourself away, heels pressing into the sheets for leverage. And he groaned before baring down, hips snapping faster. It was like he was fucking your cervix and each press against it was trying to batter you open.
You can’t stop yourself from crying at the pain, but if John noticed he says nothing, face red with exertion as his hips met yours.
A cry slips out, as his hands slide down your calfs to grab your ankles, to wrap your legs around his waist despite what you might want.
It’s too close.
He’s too hot.
It hurts.
His tongue laps up your tears as he works himself into you faster, harder, groaning into your ear when he pulls away from your face to bury himself against your neck, to pant into the hallow of your throat as his hips snapped faster.
It felt like a horrible joke that you knew he was close by the way his movement stuttered while he was rending you open.
His moan is deep, teeth burying into your throat as he cums inside of you, hot spurts bathing your insides.
It wasn’t fair that he could do this to you, that he could climax while he used you. While you hurt.
He pants atop you, finally loosening his hold on you and letting your legs free, still inside you even though he was softening.
You used to love when he held you afterwards.
You needed to get him off of you, your stomach churning.
“‘s wrong, luv?” His smoky voice is thick with sleep returning to it, like honey tipped over and seeping out of the jar.
You force your breathing even as you turn to look at John, to meet his drowsy, curious gaze despite the way your stomach twists into knots. “I have to pee, John,” the whisper sounds properly embarrassed, as close as you can get as you pray to whatever higher power exists that he'll believe you. Let you go.
John raises his arm, the iron bar keeping you weighed down, and you throw yourself out of the bed the moment you can. Freedom was too inticing. You even swallow down the cry that immediately starts in your throat as your cunt aches at the movement, feet touching the ground and sending a shock through your core. He groans as he settles back into bed but you don’t dare turn back.
Each step sparks the aching flame of pain between your thighs, the further exertion, but you make it to the bathroom, shivering as your bare feet carried you across the cold wood. You hadn't even thought to grab something to cover yourself with. It was such a silly thing to feel ashamed about, you know that, but you can't stop yourself, each new shame another rock piling in your gut.
When you close the door behind you, as softly as you can while every sound seems so painfully heightened to your frayed nerves. Only then can you take a moment, breathe.
Lock the door behind you, as you lean against the smooth wood.
Breathe.
Shuffling to the toilet, you have the sudden realization that your wedding ring was missing. The thin band had been on your finger since the moment you'd said 'I do,' all over again, the small oval ruby you'd chosen specifically when Neil had nervously said he wanted it to be perfect for you. Tears prick your eyes, but the realization that he’d known is barely registered as you sit there. At least that would make what's to come a little easier.
Your exhale is shaky as you brace for what's to come. In. And out.
In. Out.
Good.
You gently wipe, babying the tender flesh despite the sting of pain that follows.
Tacky cum was dried in your pubic hair.
A hiss escapes from between your clenched teeth, soft as you can as you slide your finger through the puffy rim of your entrance. You have to get it out. Even if some of it had been inside of you for hours. Teeth catch your lower lip as you force another inside.
You're desperately trying to dig as much of his cum as you can out, swallowing down the whines building high in your chest as you crook your fingers to reach as far as you can and the scrape of your nails against your tender walls.
You have to get him out of you.
It feels like your teeth are grinding to dust in your mouth, tongue pressed firmly against the roof of your mouth.
Was it lemon juice and aloe vera that you could use? You'd skimmed an article once because you'd been curious when Pam had joked about it in passing. Could always mix up a bit of aloe and lemon juice, should clear ya out, my dear. Was there a lemon in the house? Could you use vinegar?
A heavy rap on the door pulls you out of your spiral of despair as you try to steady your breathing and blink back the tears welling in your eyes.
“Sorry, John, could you repeat that?” You know your voice wavers as you tilt your hips, grimacing at the muck covering your digits, digust filling your belly. It wasn't yours. It wasn't all from you.
(But some of it was.)
“Asked if you were alright,” his response is slow, drawn out as he must be trying to pull apart your words.
A sob is bubbling in your chest but you force yourself to nod, an affirmative hum leaving your lips. “'m fine, sorry for worrying you.”
The latch rattles against the plate, and you can't stop your breath from quickening.
“Luv, why's the door locked?” Despite the light tone you feel yourself shiver at the question, more aware of the chill than you'd been previously.
This time you don’t answer, forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand.
You have to get him out of you.
The rattling continues only for a moment before a solid blow hits the door and this time you hiss, fear making the back of your neck feel like a frozen gust of wind had blown against it. Another follows, and you force your fingers as deep as you can reach, twist despite the pain, nails catching. A heavier sound is rattling the door and you hear John grunting, could already imagine his determined face, neck straining as he worked to open the door.
You were not a cheater.
There's a deep cracking as the wood near the handle gives away and John stands in the now open doorway, chest heaving and having not even bothered to pull a stitch of clothing on. His eyes darted around the room before they settle on your hands between your thighs, neck reddening as a dark look settled on his face, brows knitting together.
Even caught you try to get more out, even if it’s imaginary at this point.
“I do what you want 'n' this is the thanks I get?” The words are short, clipped, but his indignation is clear.
An unexpected squeak eeks out of you as you’re hauled to your feet, dragged along before being thrown against the basin of the sink. For a moment you don’t understand, brain still caught on what he’d said, trying to make sense of it. Then his hand strikes down against your bare right cheek, crack sounding like a whip through the tiled room.
You shriek, buck against the porcelain as you try to flail free. But a firm hand is on the back of your neck, keeping you bent over, thumb stroking the edge of your jaw. You can feel the brush of his thighs against the backs of yours, feet on either side of you to keep you inh place. Tears are welling as your breath quickens, grasping the edge as tightly as you can before trying to push yourself up.
Another crack as he brings his free hand down onto your left. It's instinctive that you cry out again, the blow sending shocks of stinging pain, and again you struggle to free yourself. But he' keeps you pinned.
”None of that, luv,” John growls down at you, heavy hand sliding up your spine until his thumb gently stroked the edge of your jaw as he takes a firm hold of your neck with his remaining fingers, “ten seems reasonable, won’t even make you count.”
Like it was a kindness.
You grit your teeth, brace for the pain and try to force your mind somewhere else.
You count, in your head, willing the time to pass faster so you focus on your goal of going home.
When the strikes continue, you can’t stop the way you’re breathing doesn’t seem to fill your lungs, quickly beginning to hyperventilate as you try to keep yourself from panting for air and to hold yourself as still as possible at the same time. The edge of counter top is digging painfully into your hips, silent tears streaming down your face as it feels like the bones were being bruised.
Of course he’d meant ten each side.
It feels like an eternity before John finishes.
“I’m sorry, luv,” his rough palm soothed against your burning flesh, thumb rubbing gentle circles against your jaw, making you whine softly as you lay in your tears trying to remember how breathing worked when your lungs weren't on fire.
When you feel the brush of his mustache against the sensitive skin above your shoulder blades, a shiver runs through you. In your ear his breath hitches, hips bucking against your sore ass.
Instantly, you freeze, limbs feeling heavy as lead as you go limp in shock.
“There’s my good girl,” he kisses a trail up your neck, “just needed a little reminder, and that’s alright, luv, we all make mistakes.”
You couldn't even begin to wonder what he meant by that. Mistakes. This had all been a mistake, hadn't it?
John's words lull against your temple, lips grazing against the skin so gently, the tickle of his beard making you shudder with each touch. “Stay just like that, and I’ll fix everything.”
He’s nudging your knees further apart, hand sliding down your neck to the base, where his palm lays firmly across your spine and shoulders like the overly snug collar of a dog. You can feel the tip of his cock nudge against the sore rim of your cunt, inflamed muscle protesting but being unable to reject the thick head.
No.
You don’t even realize the word has left your lips until the gentle push stops entirely.
The air is oppressive as you stare at the faucet, heart rabbiting in your chest as you desperately wish you could swallow the word back, gasping for air as tears begin to well.
A grunt echoes, as your air is forced from your lungs, inner walls burning at the length that had been unceremoniously shoved inside you to the base, stretching you open, ass hot and aching from where his pelvis snapped against it.
“I know, luv, poor girl’s been so lonely without me,” as he eases himself back out before just as suddenly fucking back into you, “but I’ll fix her right up.”
You try to grit your teeth and bear it, to tell yourself you’re going to leave once he’s back asleep. No need to bother packing, just had to get dressed and get out. Once you have your ring and your keys. You just have to get through this.
Just this moment and then you get to leave.
You repeat the thought like a prayer, mind spinning through ideas as he pulls almost all the way out before his hips slap against your sore ass, edge digging into the soft flesh of your belly painfully.
John chants into your hair, weight keeping you pinned down as he fucks into your aching cunt, pain and discomfort tangling into something else as his rough fingers slide against your folds, searching.
A whine ekes out of you as he finds what he's looking for.
Your climax floods you with a special brand of self-loathing, a hatred that you could do nothing as your walls squeeze him.
When he continues to strum your clit, like you hadn’t just spasmed on his cock, you desperately wish there was something you could do to stop him. Anything, because it’s too much. You’re overwhelmed, overfull, overstimulated. He’s fucking you harder into the counter top. Edge biting.
Everything hurts.
“Stop! Please stop, John!” You can hear your begging echo through the room, and he finally listens to you.
It takes you only that instant before you realize your mistake.
“I’m not good enough ‘s that it? I’m not fucking good enough to knock this cunt up anymore? You want that prissy little senior benefits analyst with a limp cock between his legs?” John snarls, hips snapping at a brutal, punishing pace as he fucks into you.
A sob tears free from you but you nod affirmative frantically, ignoring the wet sounds that followed each thrust.
“And you think he’s gonna still want you? After you cheated on him? Whored yourself to your ex-husband? Got yourself knocked up, bent over the sink like a dirty, fuckin' slag?“ The venom in his words stings, only made worse by his fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back roughly. He jerks your locks cruelly until you open your eyes, trying to grab onto anything to keep yourself grounded.
You don’t recognize the man in the mirror, teeth bared, scars red as he snarls down at you. Thankfully your tears cloud your vision, leaving you only with his words.
“He ever even heard your pussy when it sounds like this, all sloppy and fucked out?” This time he forces you to shake your head, making your teeth clack together in your mouth before you force your molars together. “No, didn’t think so. Shall we make him a little home video so he knows how you like it?”
All you can focus on to tune out the horrible words he’s saying is the way the edge of the basin is digging into your belly. You can already see how the mottled bruises will look in your mind, edge a sharp line, surrounded by a halo of discoloration.
When his other hand comes down on the fat of your ass you’re thrown back into the moment, already tender flesh burning with continued abuse. A shriek echos in the small room, vibrating off the glass door of the bath.
Another shake of your head knocks your unshed tears loose, facing you with the man you'd married once upon a time.
John't teeth are gnashed together as his lips pull back like a snarl, brows furrowed as he glares down at you. His thrusts become quicker, no longer bothering to pull more than an inch out to fuck against your gummy insides. You hate that you immediately know he's close, that you're relieved for that. “Fuck, love you, darlin'.”
Now each slap of his thighs against the sore flesh of your ass has you whimpering
“Say you love me.”
You must have misheard him, your brain must have been scrambled by his force of his shakes.
“Say it.” It’s a plea, tinged in a fevered desperation as John cants his hips faster.
You don’t want to say it. Part of you wanted him to fester in the pit he’d dug himself and dragged you into with him.
Your head lulls when he releases your hair, cool porcelain against your sweaty flesh as you gasp, catching yourself despite how boneless you feel.
”Darlin’.” It’s sloppy, begging, his weight bearing down across your back as his breath tickles the back of your neck, your ear.
John's hand settles on your jaw, heavy where his fingers rest across your throat. The pressure is immediate, force making the bones ache as he thumb presses.
Any attempts to alleviate the stress only has his digits digging further in.
Like he was going to break a molar with his grip.
”Love you!” It’s a sob, pressure instantly released as he bellows into your ear, warm cum deep inside you, like a rot.
You hate the woman staring back at you, the beast slumped bonelessly over her, heaving as he pants hotly. You want to break the mirror so you never have to look into it again.
This time after he’s caught his breath, he soothes his hands down your sides, lips tracing across your spine. Your mind likens it to trying to calm a spooked horse.
You don’t have the energy to fight his touch, still so sure and steady despite the fact that he’d just fucked you to exhaustion. His words are soft as he brings you into the shower’s warm stream. Though you can’t stop yourself from flinching as you try to relax.
As John’s calloused hands smooth over your body, gently scrub as your arms, back, sides, cup your breasts and hold you firm against him when you start.
You focus on your ring and keys, as the cold water sluices down your form, John’s fingers in your hair.
He had the decency to dress you in a shirt of his, smelling so strongly of him you couldn’t help but search your memory to try and determine if this had been the shirt he was wearing last night. With nothing beneath it.
You don’t care that his sweats are cozy, pulling them up your thighs and over your bare skin, before blindly pulling on a shirt that’d been folded neatly into the drawer above it. You don’t bother to grab more than your wallet, knowing you’d left your keys on your jacket and — and slowly swallowing as you realize you don’t know where John is, and if that’s changed.
It was now or never.
You have to get out of this house.
You’re careful with your steps across the hall, into the room you’d been staying in. You must have left it on the bedside table.
But no.
The only thing on the nightstand is a small lamp, you'd chosen for the guest room after you'd decided to change the set up one summer evening during your first year of marriage.
If you were John, where would you put your ring?
He’d always liked to keep things in their logical place, a place for everything and everything in its place. Just like his parents had hammered into him.
Important documents belonged in the home office.
His office.
Stepping over the squeaky stair, feet as light down the steps as you can will yourself in your descent, like that will keep your secret. It feels like your heart is in your throat, your skin tingling as if you'd touched a livewire.
When you reach the landing you almost wonder if this is real, if you'd truly made it down the staircase. It wasn't going to alert him of your intention. Of course you don't let yourself celebrate the victory. One sigh and you move, sliding down the hallway as you tried to listen for any sound. But there was… nothing.
It seemed wrong, a nagging part of your brain couldn't explain why, but that didn't matter.
You could accept that.
You had to.
His office is… spotless, everything in order. All you had to do was get your ring and leave.
The safe was exactly where you remember it.
Punching in the numbers, you hold your breath as turn the handle… and it gives.
The papers are neatly stacked, thin boxes atop. Everything in its place.
There is a ring box shoved into the back corner and your breath catches. Relief rushes over like a flood, and makes you painfully aware of how your everything aches. But there is a fluttering comfort at the reassurance your ring brings.
It's so easy to take the box, the solace practically palatable —
The gold is still freshly polish shined. Diamond still perfectly set on its bed of gold. Cushion cut, the girls at the office had sighed when you showed them.
His grandmother's wedding ring.
"Find what you were looking for, darling?"
It should have made you jump but all you could think of was your ring.
You clench your hands into fists as you stand your ground, fixing him with as hard a look as you can as you square your shoulders, ignoring the shaking of your body. “Give it back, John.”
“Give what back, luv?” His dark voice sends a chill down your spine, the urge to flee briefly flashing warning in your hindbrain.
But you will not be cowed.
Not about this.
“Give me back my ring, John.” You force out, nails digging into the soft flesh of your palms.
His steps across the floor echo in the small room. Still you glare.
“I will,” he agreed slowly, leaning so close you swore his lips touched your ear, “when you've earned it.”
All you can hear is the sudden ringing in your ears as you stare up at him.
The ring is so light in your hand, so different than how you remember it at the end, keeping you tied to him as you stared out the kitchen window. Alone. As you twisted it on your finger when you'd hesitantly brought up the topic of children. A baby.
When he cited his work.
Waved you off.
He smooths down your arms before placing his hands on your shoulders. His smile, like he was as explaining something to a person he thought of as an idiot.
Your pulse ticks hot in your forehead.
"Fuck!"
The prongs that held the diamond dig into his cheek with ease, instinct has him release you as he pulls away, both hands coming up to the wound. Staunch it? You don't care.
The hall wall slams into you as you fly out of the room, barely registering that you'd pulled the knob after you. But you swear you could feel his hands reach out, touch the back of his shirt. You don't care. You have to get out.
It's a mad dash to the entry, pulling on your coat with no further care as you shove your feet into John's boots.
He was close.
You didn't need to turn around.
You slam the door behind you, sure you can hear the stream of cursing that flows out of him.
Outside you can breath, despite the cold air immediately chilling the sweat on your brow. You should have had the bastard shovel.
Your steps are shaky, but of course his stupid bloody boots are heavy. Again, the promise of leaving is too strong to allow yourself to care about anything else. You were so close.
Just to the car.
You just had to get to your car and this would be over.
You chilling hands reach for the keys you'd always left in your pocket. You'd go to corner store, clinic, you'd tell N-
("You shouldn't get so comfortable in routine, darling, best to remember to add variety, just in case.")
The clatter of the door being thrown open kickstarts your brain.
You don't even realize you've started running towards the road until you've passed your car, swerving to go around John's truck.
The snow rushes up to meet you, and you shriek at the impact, the weight suddenly weighing you down. Your heart was in your throat as you continued to screech, flail. You can feel his boot begin to slide free and you slam your foot down in your one rational thought, a groan following the connection.
Of course it's John, the part of you that can think knows this to be true, and that makes you struggle hard to free yourself from his hold.
His hand knots itself into your hair as it forces your head down, neck aching and body going slack in an attempt to remedy the strain. Panting through your nose fills your airways with the freezing air that you'd begun to feel stinging the slivers of your bare skin, but you won't let yourself stop breathing.
He continues to snarl down at you, before taking hold of you and physically forcing you onto your back, and when your hands tried to grab at his wrists, you found yourself pinned again. A flash of panic beginning in your brain.
The scar on his temple is red.
The red is high up his neck, through his cheeks, as fog panted through his teeth and nose down at you. There's saliva shining in the light off his teeth, and it takes you a moment to realize he's saying something to you.
When his hands take hold of your shoulders, you can't stop the shriek, your attempt to recoil. He holds you steady, bones grinding beneath your skin as he gives you a firm shake.
"The fuck's gotten into you?" John's face is so close to yours as he snarls, teeth clacking too close to your nose. His teeth turn to a grind when you attempt to pull away from him, when he shakes you again, and your fingers dig into the snow. "This is what you want-"
"No!" You didn't think the hissed word would have any effect on him, if you were being honest. To see him still, eyes darting across your face, as if trying to translate a language he didn't speak.
You noticed this moment for something else, though.
An opening.
John must have realized the same moment you had, because the moment you rear back, preparing to smash his nose with your forehead, he jerks away from you.
You make contact with his chin, hissing pain between your teeth like a cat as you recoil.
Always bullheaded, even in the literal term.
You try to twist, but he’s back the moment the blow landed incorrectly, knee pinning yours to the snow, larger body encompassing you, and your air catches in your lungs.
Part of you had never fully grasped claustrophobia, never eager to enter a cave or too aware of your body to assume you might just be able to squeeze through spaces when they were open. But now your brain understood, some primal part that had laid dormant until this moment.
Panic poured through your veins, heart stuttering out a frantic beat as you… froze, limbs like lead, eyes unable to focus, trying to find something to put your attention on, something to make your stomach stop roiling and heart pounding. There’s a rumble against your throat. Bile is rising to meet it, burning in its ascent. There is only the rush of your blood in your ears.
You thrash, instinctively, your need to be free overwriting all other potential thoughts that could worm their way into your head. Fingers curl in the packed snow, clawing through the freezing cold as your foot finally finds purchase and you push off.
If asked, it felt like time had slowed, your freedom etched into your understanding of the moment. You were going home.
The horrible, wretched thing, however, was that when time slowed, it had the unfortunate consequences of slamming into the present without fanfare.
In an instant.
There's a sound like a gunshot.
You can’t stop the screech that leaves you, desperately trying to jerk your leg free from his grasp and only succeeding in making the barely forgotten pain to flare to life and burn like touching a white hot poker. You couldn’t repeat the flailing struggle that briefly let you escape him, the pain alone was enough to tell you that you couldn't run.
That you were here.
Like fox caught in a bear trap, unable to gnaw its leg off.
Your breaths are shuddering, fragile hope dashed into nothing just like that. Everything simply too much in that moment.
A scream erupted from you at the futility of your attempt, at the pain you were, your anger at yourself.
It seemed as if the snowy landscape swallowed it all down,
There's a rumble, like thunder.
John's hands startle you, taking hold of your arms to turn you how he wants, twisting you onto his lap. The rumbling is louder, against your spine as you finally realize he's speaking to you. There is a rhythm to what's being said, even if you don't understand.
You hate how your breath evens, how his words begin to soothe you as his thick arms hold you firmly.
“We’ve gotta get ya back into the house and check, that, luv, ‘m sorry,” you can feel the heat of his words against your temple, immediately sending tingles as you could feel your sweat hit the cold air.
But of course he was right, and if anyone could help you in this situation, it was John.
Your sob is instinctual as you consent to him carrying you back inside.
Why did you always let him push your boundaries?
“Alright, luv, wiggle yer toes for me.” You glare at him, gritting your teeth as you focus all your rage and pain into the instruction, but John isn’t even looking at your face. His gaze is focused on your foot, gentle in how his large hand easily tilts your ankle, pulling a shriek from you as you continue your attempt at movement.
“C'mon, just wiggle your toes.”
The hot pricking tears of anger slipping free, but you force yourself to try and do as he says. It hurts, you can’t stop the sounds building in you.Part of you worries that you're going to break a tooth as you clench them, trying to force your body to move. Despite this confirmation that the motion is lost on you, you repeat the attempt at movement, swallowing back your sudden wheeze of pain when you try to flex your ankle again. To move your toes.
John tuts, hand like a manacle to stop any further testing, and pulling a whimper from you.
Finally, he looks back up at you, blue eyes unreadable.
A warning bell goes off in your head. You try and blink the tears out of your eyes, fear like a shock down your spine. You open your mouth to beg, to placate, t-
The pull startles you, but John’s arms keep you firmly against him, enveloped by him so suddenly part of you feels dizzy.
“Don’t scare me like that, luv,” his lips press against your temple so gently, urgently, like he was saying a prayer against your skin. "I can fix this."
It was so gentle and loving.
It was suffocating.
Let me go, John.
He's fed you some pills with water that made the world hazy, your stomach churn, but your pains went away. Was that worth it? You accepted them at the offer of relief.
Relief.
But the haze came with the cost of making the world a blur.
I'm sorry, darling, I'm sorry, I'll make it better, luv. Let me make it better. I'm sorry, please, darling.
Thumbs brush away your tears.
Were you crying?
Lips brush against yours but your eyelids are so heavy.
You can’t stop the way you gasp, air forced from your lungs each time John bears down on you, as your mind briefly emerges, rocking you further up the mattress with the force of his thrusts.
Your nails slide along his arms, desperate to dig in and repulse him with the pain. His sweat and yours hamper your attempts. Your grip slips easily and the loss leads you to be speared further.
His mustache tickles your neck and you whine.
Fuck. Fuckin' hell, luv, almost there.
There's a ringing that you try to squirm away from.
Heavy hands clamp on your hips.
A heat envelopes you as your mind drifts back into the depth.
You wanted The Bear Under the Stairs for the shelf. William, and Paddington, and Winnie the Pooh.
Why were the best children's stories all bears?
You were being devoured.
The muffled conversation makes no sense to you. They’re not words you understand, you think dully, trying to find a rhythm in the speech. Some semblance of reality. Everything that had so soothingly become a slurry since the pain was beginning to become sensical again.
"-just set it quick, then you can give 'er the pills-"
Pills?
Your head feels stuffed with feathers, and your mouth is like cotton.
Get out, a remembered thought screams, get out, get out, getout, ge-
There's a man like a nightmare at the foot of the bed. Your blood rushes as you try to sit, to get away. Stop-
Your ankle is straightened with two pops, gloved hands pressing pieces together until finally they join.
Pain burns through your mind like lightning, igniting every receptor in your brain as you find yourself screeching. But his hold doesn't give, the pressure continues as you feel movement inside your skin, the shifting of bone. Arms are wrapped around you, keeping you from thrashing in your newest attempt at escape.
"Shh, shh, shh, darling, it's okay-"
But this wasn't okay, you hurt, something was wrong. Why were you in John's bed?
Another attempt to wrench yourself free is answered by an annoyed growl, the arms tighten. Your leg is pulled again and the cry of pain is high in your throat, thick under your tongue.
You can do nothing but cry, as the men talk above your head.
Pills are offered to you, and you can only shake your head vehemently as you try to force your breathing steady, to take stock of the situation.
And there is a sigh like you are an insolent child, like you were causing a problem.
"I wanna go home, John," the words rattling in your chest.
"You are home," his own response is short and dry, fingers winding in your hair to pull your head back, your mouth falling open to gasp as he forced the colorful handful inside. He grips your jaw with enough pressure you know you can't reject them.
Acrid fragments slide down your esophagus, dry and wretched.
Once you swallow, he prys your mouth open, fingers shoved against your gums, under your tongue, before a glass of water is offered.
This time you guzzle it greedily, desperately needing a reprieve from the taste.
Still it burns in the back of your throat.
They're talking again. But the world was quickly losing color. Your eyelids can no longer stay open.
There's no pain while you sleep.
Just nothingness.
You always loved lazy mornings in, nothing to do on the weekend but be together. And your husband loved your company. His thumb circles your clit and you whine, hips stuttering up to meet the touch. When his lips traced your throat you let yourself moan, eyelids fluttering.
The blue of his eyes was wrong.
Neil?
Pain shocks through you, fireworks bursting behind your eyelids and across your every pore connected with. Spots dance in your vision as you stare up at your ex-husband.
"Don't you dare fucking call me that," the venom is accompanied by another strike, and you cry out, attempting to twist away before a blinding pain burns through you.
His hand tightens on your ankle, pulling until a sob wretches free from your chest.
"Do you hear me?" His snarl is accompanied by more pressure, tears breaking free to stream down your face as you frantically nod.
"I asked if you heard me." Firm and unforgiving, his calloused thumb presses into the bandaged dip.
"Yes! 'm sorry!" You sob for extra measure, happy to show you belly if it would make him stop. "Please, John, I'm sorry!"
After another moment, your soft crying the only sound in the room, he sighs.
"You have to stop making me hurt you, darling, why can't you just let me be good to you?" His thumbs are so gentle as he brushes away your tears. "Please be good for me, luv, you can do that."
This time it wasn't a question but you nod again, as much as his grip will let you. "Yes, John."
He sighs, shoves off the bed, not saying another word as he leaves the room.
Alone, you're paintfully aware of the ache at the end of your leg, how your attempts to move spark pain. A groan leaves you as you try to find a position that's comfortable.
Again you start as weight shifts on the mattress, unsure when you'd dozed off.
The scent of freshly toasted bread has your stomach grumbling, suddenly horribly aware of how hungry you are. Blinking up at him, John raises a brow at you expectantly. You force yourself to sit up against the headboard, groan in your throat at the shift of your ankle as you wipe the sleep from your eyes.
Strawberry jam is smeared across the toast and again your hunger sounds. A smirk briefly flashes on his face, before he raises a slice. There's a moment where you think of saying you can feed yourself, but there's something in his eyes.
“‘m sorry, luv,” John coos, as he slides the slice into your mouth and you chew instinctively, too tired to deny this gentleness from a man you used to love.
His breath hitches as your tongue darts after the sticky jam on the edge of your lip.
You freeze once you realize. The back of your neck tingled.
"'s okay, John," you swallow, mouth opening as his hand remains raised, if only to bring this to a close.
What had been a fleeting moment of relief and little joy, had turned to ash, and you forced yourself to continue chewing. When the dry feeling was too much, part of you was relieved when he offered you a mug of tea. It's a task to finish the tray set before you, but you know you have to clear it.
He's voice is too melodic, your eyelids feel heavy as you reply to his questions. To the best of your ability.
Shame is burning you as John carries you to the toilet, as he helps you while you try not to look at him when he doesn't leave the room. You focus on the broken latch, splintered wood.
He helps you wash your hands, and you don't want to think about the last time you'd been at this sink together. There's a twisting discomfort growing in your core, as at the ease he supports you with.
The world feels a little hazy and you can't snap yourself out of that feeling.
Did you drug me? You'd ask him that, if you could make your mouth work right, to form words instead of the soft sounds you can just barely recognize as yourself.
"Easier if you let me fix things, luv, you'll see." With a puff of laughter, even.
I don’t like you, though your tongue is too thick and heavy in your mouth.
His huff fans his hot breath across your neck, your chest, sending a curious twist in your stomach that makes you whine. It was traitorous how he made you feel. How you felt about him.
Beneath the heavy duvet, you shift to turn away, to burrow deeper, the perfect little cocoon to keep you safe and warm. A heavy hand grasps your hip, keeps you still before ever so gently rolling you to lay flat on your back.
His words are a deep rumble in your blood, like a distant clap of thunder.
Your lids are too heavy.
Dream’s gentle embrace takes you, honey sweet, holds you so lovingly that to wake is disorienting.
Love you, love you, love you.
Panic weaves its cold fingertips through your hair as John’s body keeps you firmly against the mattress, held closely in the crook of your hips, tilted to offer him a perfect little vessel, seed kept firmly inside by his soft cock.
The knee that had been resting gently at the crook of your legs begins to press, separating your knees as he loops your leg up and over his. Your pussy throbs and a hiss slips between your lips as you try to shift your hips to ease the ache. His hardening cock nudging against the swollen rim of your cunt’s opening.
“N-no, John,” you try to plead your case, tears already welling in your eyes because you can’t imagine him fucking you again and it not hurting.
“And ‘m sorry for that, love, I know,” his deep voice rumbles, but he’s still notching his cock against the aching rim of your pussy, “we’ll just use the tip, promise, just to make sure you get a good fresh load in you so we can’t say we missed any opportunity to get you pregnant.”
You can’t help but cinch your eyes shut in a brace for pain as he begins to ease himself back inside of you, accepting that he won’t listen faster than you want to let your brain dwell on. A hiss slips past your lips as his fat cockhead begins to bully its way inside. Back when you’d started dating, when you finally got him in bed, you’d babbled that there was no way he was going to fit and he’d chuckled, obviously puffed up by your comment, before he’d eaten you out, using his beautiful thick fingers to prep you while he made you see stars.
There was none of that reverential preparation this morning, but John’s good on his word, stopping once he’s gotten the whole mushroom head tip of his cock into you, before the tell-tale sound of skin on skin begins.
You try to will your mind onto something else, to sleep.
“Feel so good, please, luv” his breath pants against your ear, cock sliding just an inch further into you before he starts to pull back.
You whine is cut of by his hand, and you to shake your head, to remind him that you ache, that he promised.
And after everything he’d done to you, why had you believed him?
A grunt slips through his fingers as it feels like the air has been pushed out of your lungs. Tears stinging at your eyes as you're forced open again. He's careful not to apply pressure to your nose. You wish he would. You wish he'd at least have given you something.
Between his pants and moans, John tells you how much he loves you. So clear in your mind, the words sear as his thrusts become erratic.
You couldn’t figure out why this blow had been so low, John had thrown your choice out the window the moment he’d done what he’d done, when he kept fucking you even though you’d begged him to stop, when he hadn’t let you go home. A sob was quivering in your chest, each rapid breath accompanied by the horrid realization that this was going to change everything, and you’d really never have an ounce of fondness for him again, betrayal too far, the pressure was too much.
It felt like your heart was breaking.
“You’re hurting me, John,” your entire body was trembling as the words left your lips, tears leaking free. Despite the sweat coating your flesh, you were freezing, chill running violently up and down your spine as you found yourself sobbing.
His hands smooth up your sides, cradle your face as his rough thumbs brush your tears away. John coos soft words into your ear until you can breathe again, held close to his chest.
It’s…nice.
The trimmed hair of his mustache tickles your temple as your breathing steadies, eyelids heavy.
You couldn’t begin to guess when you slipped from consciousness.
The wind is like wail across the house, startling you into wakefullness.
As your heart thunders, John pulls you back to him, instinct causing you to flail, attempt to jerk away, but there is no give. His arms wrap around you to keep you flush against his chest.
He keeps you still as your breathing evens, body relaxing enough only for the exhaustion to crash back down into you like a wave.
It was a relief to wake up, safely held. For the first time in a long time, you didn't feel stressed, still tired (despite getting the appropriate amount of sleep), or even with an already strong drive to not do anything today that might take more than the minimum effort required.
Of course it only lasts the moments your brain takes to wake up, to note the arm across your ribs and the scar stretched over the span of forearm. For discomfort to begin to knot coils low in your belly.
Your attempt to shift is rewarded, but the confusion that follows leaves you half-turned, hand splaying under your breast.
John groans in his throat behind you, lax hold remaining as you listen to the telltale signs of him waking up.
It's a strange feeling, to not have your heart hammering in your chest.
When he asks if you're up, you do nothing to hide the fact, murming an affirmative.
"'ll get breakfast started then, eh, luv?" The words are still tinged with sleep, as you push yourself up to sit, blinking your own sleep away as you nod, unsure what else to say.
His lips land on your pulse, and this time it races.
"Meds first, don't worry, didn't forget."
With a little more understanding, you stare at the pills when he returns with a glass of water. Yours, cradled in the palm of his hand with the bottle you'd picked up for him.
If you had to guess, you hadn't missed a day.
John's beard scratches against the tender flesh of your collarbone, hands smoothing down to your hips when you whine. "'s okay, luv, doing so good for me."
Finally, you grasp the headboard, nails briefly dragging across the wood, pulling a hiss from you. You leverage yourself a little higher, so John's hold on your hips as he uses you like an fleshlight doesn't continue to bash the head of his cock into your cervix every time he pulls you down it.
The first time John had done this to you in bed, you'd moaned yourself hoarse. Always thought yourself a bit too thick for any guy to be able to do that to you. This time it was like being fucked past the point of overstimulation. John's beard burns each time it rubs against your neck.
You try to pull yourself higher.
Only to be forced down so hard you lose your grip.
“That's it, love, gimme a ride.” He growls before leaning down to suck your right nipple into his mouth.
Immediately, he’s laving his tongue against the sensitive flesh, sucking greedily and you can’t help yourself. A moan rips free from your mouth as you grab his head, scratch your fingers against his scalp as you buck your hips against his. His rough thumb slides against your clit in the same instant his upwards thrust rubs against that sweet spot it seemed like only he had ever found in you.
“Oh god, there, John!” Your own voice is ringing in your ears. You’re meeting his movements greedily, knees pressing firmly against his outer thighs, like you’re trying to keep him in place despite the fact that both of you were moving.
“So fucking good for me, luv, taking my cock so good, gonna knock you up," he pants into you throat before his teeth press firmer into your flesh.
The flash of pain is what pushes you over.
You slump against him, orgasm snapping through you so fast you only feel disgusted with yourself. It would be easy to blame your medication, your cycle, anything, but you feel so sickened by yourself, climaxing on John’s cock like it was nothing.
The gnawing need to flee fills your chest, your belly, your bones, but any attempt to rise off John’s lap is squashed by his thick arms wrapped around you and keeping you chest to chest.
"Love you," as his lips begin their climb.
"Love you."
The instantaneity of your response, twists in you, as John's lips find yours.
Restlessness had begun to set in, unable to do much on your feet that might busy you. You return to reading, mind occupied with something other than the confusion of your life. What your life had become, seemingly overnight. Sharing a bed with your ex-husband John. Comfort.
Something is set down on the end table beside your cup of tea, pulling your attention away from the thick novel you’d buried yourself in. John stands, expectantly.
The box is so unassuming, despite the fact that your lungs feel like there's a weight on your chest. Your head feels so light it's like its a balloon is tied to it, keeping you afloat.
"I don't-" your tongue is so heavy, as tears pool, threatening to breach.
"Don't worry, luv," he soothes, "of course, 'll help you."
As if your growing distress was from your ankle — the ankle that had landed you in this position — and your inability to do anything on your own. Not the dread that your dream might be coming true in the form of a nightmare.
When you meet John's eyes, the plea on the tip of your tongue dies.
The door's been repaired, no longer sporting a lock.
You read the instructions together, a smile ticking the edge of John's lip up as he passed you the test. Set a timer.
Your stomach is in your throat.
"One to three minutes, but everything looks right, luv."
You didn't want to be here.
The second line appears.
You don’t fully remember what happens after that. You think you started screaming.
There are multiple people in the house.
Heavy footsteps move through John’s home, but never outside the door of his room, where you’re still in bed. You try and will yourself back to sleep, to control your breathing as you curl up tightly around yourself. You can hear John’s voice, two — no, three others, chatting somewhat idly as they move around. You hadn’t thought this was a rescue but the reality that it wasn’t leaves you feeling exhausted.
You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep.
When you wake up again, John’s back in bed with you, pawing gently at your breasts from atop your pajama top. A strange scent is in the air but when he orders you to go back to bed, you don't fight him.
You're able to walk unattended, and what does it say that you asked John to put extra honey in your tea.
The door to the room that had been your office is ajar. Your curiosity gets the best of you, or maybe it’s a nostalgic hope of the cozy home you’d made for yourself when you’d been married, seeing the warm teal walls that had reminded you of your honeymoon in Seville, the lovely built-in bookshelf that had taken your breath away when John had shown you for the first time. A different time to soothe the tumultuous slurry inside of you at your current circumstances.
You nudge the door open further before slipping inside, careful to not make a noise.
Any hopes of comfort die as a chill settles through you.
The walls have been repainted a soft lavender. A beautiful dark wood crib is slotted against the opposite wall of the shelves, already lined with the books you and Neil had made a list of wanting to read to your baby, books that parent bloggers swore by as essential for early childhood development. A rocking chair is settled in the corner like it had always been there. Bile is rising in your throat and you force it back down.
Turning to flee brings you straight into a barrel chest, warm hands steadying you so you don’t lose your footing as he turns you back around, slotting himself behind you like he belongs there. You feel like a marionette with its strings cut and John keeps you grounded, against him, despite your wishes.
“Wanted to make sure the surprise wasn’t ruined beforehand, but it’s just what you wanted, innit?”
You can hear the smile in his voice, as he raises your right hand. And you drop your gaze to watch with a dull curiosity. Anything to look away from the nursery of your dreams.
The ring slid onto your finger is familiar. His grandmother’s. You’d worn it every day of your marriage and given back without a fuss with your divorce. On a lower prong, blood was dried in the crease.
“John, I’m — I’m already married…” but the words are hallow, small even to yourself as he wraps himself around you.
He hums, amusement high as his mustache tickles the sensitive skin on your temples, lips tenderly following. “Of course you are. You’re my wife, and we’re finally gonna start our family, just like you wanted.”
Tears slip free from your eyes as you swallow down your scream.
His heavy hands settle low on your belly, firm but gentle as he nuzzles against the crown of your head. “I know, luv, I know, ‘m sorry it took me so long to realize you were right all along. Now that you’re home we won’t waste any more time. You ‘n’ me ‘n’ baby makes three.”