on the edge of thy blade | johnny mactavish x f!princess!reader
alternate universe: king of scots, johnny mactavish (16th-17thcentury) x princess!reader type: one-shot (14.1k) — AO3
cw: suggestive language and content, mature language and content, smut, unprotected piv, breeding kinks, cumplay, oral, graphic depictions of violence + gore + murder,, depictions of assault and bodily harm, dubcon, obsession, possessiveness, misogyny, historical inaccuracies, emotional abuse (not by johnny) 18+
You’ve had one foot in the grave for your entire life.
You’re not sick, nor sickly; you just matter so little to your family, that in the event they had to cut someone loose in order to survive, you’ve always known that the sacrifice would be you. Whether in life or in death, you’ve always known this to be fact.
You are a means to an end. That is all you will ever be. Your title matters little—you will never inherit anything that belongs to your family. In the unfortunate circumstance that all eight of your older brothers would die, your fortune would go to some second or third cousin, some prince in some lonely island off the coast of Africa. The only real value of your life, the only real value a man would ever bestow you with, is your hand.
In order to marry, your father expects to gain something after your dowry. Land. Money. Gifts. Titles. Since your sixteenth birthday, you have heard your father negotiating your hand with men of far places just to see what it is he could gain with your misfortune. The only reason you are still yet unwed, at your apparently old age, is because your older brothers pity you when you beg for a little more time. They have always been able to convince your father on your behalf that you were not ready, but now that you are reaching of an age to be considered too old to be desirable, they cannot hold him off any longer. Your eldest brother, naturally your father’s favorite, quieted your tears when he told you that your father’s decision had been made final.
“I’m sorry, bug,” he had murmured to you. His wife, who always hated you for taking up too much of her husband’s time, had sat in the corner writing in her journal, clearly annoyed. She wants you married most of all, so that you can be some other man’s problem, not her husband’s. You sulked in your brother’s arms, wet face buried in his chest. Your brothers had been more of father figures than your own had ever been. Marriage would be losing every man that had ever cared for you even a little in your life. Your autonomy is nonexistent. Your happiness is not a priority. Your very being is only worth as many children as you can bear, and with your mother bearing eight boys and one girl, your body is worth more than even lands and titles. Men will give their fortunes for your hand with the prospects that you will give them just as many boys as your mother had given your father.
When your mother died giving birth to your father’s only girl, you realized that determined your value. The end of his sacred line. The cut rope of his endless baby-making mechanism, the thing that stole the one person your father loved almost as much as his first-born son—you. A girl. As soon as you were born, it was already decided—you are a useless, worthless thing. Maybe the handmaids thought your father would love you so because you might be the only precious, delicate thing left in his life, but they were wrong.
You have spent your entire life trying to please him. Doing your best in your studies. Trying your hardest with your governess. You even begged your eldest brother to teach you how to fight, but after showing your father your newfound skills you had spent years perfecting on your sixteenth birthday, he scolded you for being the most unladylike girl he had ever known, stupid and wild and absolutely shameful. You think you cried for a week straight afterwards. You don’t really remember. You’ve been in a lull ever since, and you’ve been fighting for your right to stay single, childless, and terrible. You want to die this way. You’ve tried to perform to your best ability for this man since you could walk, and you don’t want to do it all over again for another.
Men are dogs. You want them to suffer.
Your father wants to speak to you today. It is an important enough conversation that when you wake up, there are a line of handmaids waiting at the foot of your bed, with dresses hanging on the walls and fussing to get you in a warm bath. You wince as they wash and braid your hair, and you eye the dresses warily. They are some of your loveliest ones, and you see a few new ones as well. In the colors of your country, a deep, violet purple accentuated by jewels of fine quality and golden accents and handsewn pearls. You see a few of the maids polishing your finest tiaras, and you blink as you look in the mirror, shaking your head.
“It’s today, isn’t it?” You ask one of them, the one who’s fitting drop-diamond earrings into your ear. She purses her lips and just sighs, but she gives you a subtle nod. Your eyes tear just a little as you look in the mirror, and you will your hands to stop shaking. You wonder who your father has chosen. You reckon he is probably ugly and large, a man who doesn’t bathe or clean his teeth. Maybe he already has mistresses, bastard sons who will treat you as the lowly girl they already think you are, or maybe his mother still lives with him and will make your life a living hell for not being good enough for her favorite son. When your maids tie your corset too tight, you don’t even flinch this time. You’re too numb everywhere to feel anything at all.
When you look at your ring finger in the mirror, you wonder how much it would hurt to just simply cut it off.
Your eldest brother comes to collect you. When you step out of your room, still weary and teary-eyed, he kisses you on the forehead and tells you how beautiful you look. Maybe he’s right—it might be one of the most beautiful dresses you’ve ever worn, but you don’t have it in you to be excited. You just clutch your brother’s hand tight and use him for stability as you follow him blindly to your father’s study.
The wooden door creaks, groaning as if agreeing with your melancholy. Your father sits at his large desk. There’s a map of Europe in front of him, and he lets out a deep breath as he stares at one island in particular—England. He hates this land and all of its people, every last one of them. He refuses the color red in his castle just so that he doesn’t have to be reminded of them. It is written in your country’s history that England has defeated your grandfathers for generations. You’ve been pushed to this side of the world on account of their aggression, and you take a deep breath when you see the scribbles of red and black where their kingdom lies. You notice your father has left out Scotland and its highlands to the north, but you don’t comment on it as your brother pulls out a chair for you and holds your hand as you try to sit in your many skirts.
“Well…” Your father smiles, but it’s dull. “Don’t you look beautiful.”
You say nothing as you stare at your father. You can’t move your head very much anyways with how heavy your tiara and headpiece is; it jangles as you straighten your posture, the jewels that hang clinking against each other. There’s a dark veil over your face that you are grateful for—you don’t think your expression is very kind on account of the frown pinched between your brows.
“Do you know why you’re here, my darling girl?”
You nearly tear the gloves on your hands from how hard you close your fists, but you just shake your head slightly.
“It’s been far too long,” your father tells you. “You cannot be…an unwed woman any longer, lest people think ill of us, and I’m tired of hearing you whine about it. Everyone in this family performs their duties, and I spoil you.” You say nothing, but you think about spitting on him. “But…I’ve decided to make this fun. I could really make something out of this. Out of you. With one contract I sign, I could make it something…historical. I could make you queen of some other country, can you believe that, my girl?”
Because you could never be queen of this one.
“In just a few hours, the many eligible men I've called upon are to arrive. We’ll be hosting them for a week, and they will participate in a…series of games,” your father explains. He grins wide, and this time he really smiles. He is happy about this. “The winner will have your hand, my princess.”
Your eyes flicker to the map on his desk. The X-marks that are scattered around it now make more sense. They are markers for the places that are sending their sons, and you swallow hard as your eyes roam over the the faraway places they are traveling from. Your headpiece jingles as you look away, towards your brother. He has a solemn look on his face, but he doesn’t protest on your behalf. You shake your head.
“I don’t…understand,” you say softly.
“Of course you don’t, princess,” your father murmurs. “Not to worry.” He motions for your brother to come closer, and you watch as he comes to stand behind your father, who points just north of England on his map. “They’re sending the King of Scots, my boy. He is unmarried, and he leads a fine army.”
Your brother shakes his head, “I don’t know, Father. We’re not a very rich country. He could marry better. I’ve heard he’s…something of a jester in courts. Likes to have a laugh. If anything, he’s coming to anger the English king and drink through our wine cellar.”
As proud as your father is, your brother tells it to him kindly. Your country is poor, shrinking, and barren. Your father has launched offensives on many fronts, but they always fail. For as intelligent as your father claims to be, his actions only show stupidity. He's not patient. He thinks small. Instead of playing the long game, he tries his luck for small victories, and they have only garnered you and your family embarrassment. You don't have the money for a dowry to a king that powerful. You don't have the pedigree for a family that old, that rich, that important.
“Well,” your father sighs. “I suppose that’s true. As beautiful as she is, she has nothing to offer,” he shakes his head. As if it is your fault that you are not a desirable match. “We have nothing to offer. Besides, she’ll only look this way a year or two longer, and then she’ll be—”
“They’re arriving this afternoon, are they not?” Your brother interrupts. Your father laughs, nodding, putting a hand over his large stomach and rubbing it as he thinks about the feast the staff has cooked up for tonight.
“Yes, my boy. Tonight. Which means, princess, you need to go have a lie down. You must look fresh for when they come, wouldn’t want to embarrass me by not looking your best, eh?”
You stand, reaching for your brother’s hand, and he takes it gently to escort you back to your room. He tries to reach for you again when you slip inside, but you shut the door before he can say anything.
Men are a means to an end. You love your brother, but he is no use to you anymore. You will need to find other ways to help yourself, and he cannot be it anymore, not with your father’s voice in his head now, incessant.
Your father is a rat you cannot trap. An insect you cannot swat away. Biting, nagging, chewing on the bits of you that linger, and your patience wears thin. It has been many years of trying to swallow these truths, but you will it down now. There is truth in what your father says—you are grown. You are old enough to know what it is you want and what it is that's worth fighting for. There is an elegance to matrimony, a strategy to it, that has only just occurred to you. There are things you have inherited from your mother that must remind him of her constantly, and now you must use them to your benefit.
A sheep no longer. A shepherd you must become.
The throne room is lively. There’s chandeliers filled with candles, and there’s a band playing wonderful music around large tables abundant with food. Cakes, pastries, fruits, meats, jugs of wine and water and juices. There are many people—those men who have brought their sons have also brought their families, and there’s even children dancing in circles and running around with sweets in their hands.
Your appearance makes the audience quiet. Your father sits at a grand table situated in front of his throne, and your eldest brother beside him. Your brother’s wife scowls when she sees you, and because of the veil you wear over your face, you scowl right back knowing she can barely see you.
Your father allowed a new dress to be sewn for you—in fact, you will be wearing a new one every day of the week. Tonight, you wear the color of swans; a delicate off-white, beaded with pearls and wearing a belt of fine gold and rubies. Your sleeves are long, your corset is tight, and your headpiece glitters spectacularly in the torchlight from the amount of crystals lining it. There is a veil that falls delicately over your face, stopping just under your nose. It is a custom of your people that the face of a soon-to-be bride could not be seen by anyone until after she says her vows, and then, only her husband can uncover her eyes.
Men flock towards you, bees to flowers. They reach for your gloved hand, as if you are as delicate and breakable as you present, and they kiss your rings with gangrene smiles and eyes much too starved. These men are not your friends. They are ugly and formidable, and you would loathe to be at their bedsides. They bring with them bounties written in blood; your father will surely vie for something most profitable.
When they are finished giving you their introductions, your father motions for you to come towards him. There’s an empty seat to his left, and just as you sit next to him, the wooden doors creak open again, and a great deal of yelling and noise nearly overtake the music altogether.
A couple stout men walk in holding large banners. A crowd of dark and tall broods follow them, laughing and jeering and wearing outfits of various patterns of plaid. Over their shoulders, they wear great furs and wield various weapons, and at the sight of them, your father adjusts in his seat, looking to your brother and nodding. This is who they've been waiting for all night—their unofficial guest of honor. Someone important. Someone formidable. Someone unreachable. An ally they must secure.
The last man to follow walks taller than the rest of his men. He stands big and broad-shouldered, and he walks with a confidence that unnerves you. The first thing you notice about him is his eyes. Bright blue, complimented by his dark hair and well-kept beard. Those eyes are accented by a scar that cuts from the middle of his left eyebrow down across to his other cheek, and the next thing you notice about him is his dazzling smile.
He lights up the room. Charismatic down to his very bones, and he has the face to make up for it—gorgeous man he is, and even under a shawl of elegant furs, you can tell he is nothing but muscle, scar tissue, and healthy fat.
He grabs a small cake for himself as he makes his way with his men to your father’s table. You watch from under your veil as each of his men bow to your father, giving him their thanks, some even dropping off chests full of gifts, and then it is this man’s turn to give his introduction.
Up close, you admire his hairstyle. He has beautiful dark tufts of thick curls, and they fall down the middle of his head, the edges shaved with a close blade. He wears some kind of soot over his scar like war paint, and he smiles at your father with teeth when he gets close enough.
“Och, ye ‘ave no idea how long I’ve been waitin’ to shake yer hand, Yer Majesty.”
His Scottish accent is heavy. He grins through it, looking eager to shake your father’s hand. Your father stands with a big, full laugh, clasping the man’s hand in both of his. They could not be any more different, your father and this man. You have read about Scotland and its Isles. You were taught much about his land when your governess taught you of world maps and alliances, and while your kingdom cannot afford to turn its head to England and their powerful navy, Scotland revels in its fight against them. They make a game of it.
Your father and Scotland are united in an equal hatred of a common enemy, and in that, they are already friends.
“It is a pleasure, Your Majesty,” your father beams. “Welcome, welcome! We are…so glad to have you, so happy you could make it!”
“Please,” the man shakes his head. “Call me Johnny. Dinnae care for all the titles and shite.”
Johnny shakes your brother’s hand next before your father gestures to where you sit next to him.
“And this is my daughter.”
Your headpiece moves with you in the soft light, and Johnny has to blink rapidly to make out your figure. The jewels you wear sparkle, the prettiest glitter in his gaze as he sets his eyes on you. He can see the curve of your lips, but your eyes are hidden by the shadow of your veil. Time sits still when you stand to curtsy. He sucks in a heavy breath—the dress you wear accentuates your figure, and he licks over his teeth when he sees the swell of your breasts over your corset. He cannot see all of your face, but he doesn’t need to.
Johnny did not come looking for a bride; but he decides in less than a moment that he will indeed leave with one.
You round the table so you can stand in front of him and curtsy properly. While other men only received a quaint nod from you, this man was royal, and custom implored you greet him more personally. Johnny hums when you dip your head and take a generous bend of your knee. He stops you before you can curtsy too low—he reaches for your hand and pulls you back to both feet, and your breath hitches when he all but falls at your feet. He takes a knee, thumbing over your knuckles, and you watch as he brings your hand to his lips and kisses each finger. His palms are rough; they are carved from experience, cut from battle, and though they’ve healed, you can feel what it has left behind.
“Yer the princess everyone will be fightin’ fer?”
“I suppose so.” He's being dramatic; a week of silly games, a distraction for your father to drag out your betrothal so he can squeeze out as much of an offer out of these men and their lands as he can.
“Might ‘ave ta ask ye for yer favor, then.”
“You’re going to participate, Your Majesty?” You ask, laughing a little.
“If it’s ye that’s what’s won, then how can I refuse?”
You pick up your head slightly, looking over at your father. His eyes are glazed over, starving. He nods his head at you, as if to grant you permission for such an embrace, and you look back down. Johnny's eyes are so much brighter up close—so blue, it nearly hurts to look at them.
“Good luck to you, then, Your Majesty.”
"'s Johnny ta ye, princess." He gets up off his knee, standing to his full height, and your head follows him until it is tipped back, neck craning so you can keep your eyes on his. He eyes the veil, in a way that you think he might remove it. Take it for himself, this privilege not meant for him, and steal it anyway. It wouldn't surprise you; he's a king, and he must be used to it. You think you see blood under his fingertips, and he smells like the grime of the ocean. There is nothing he is not given—no prize he does not collect. Whatever he asks for is given or it is taken, and there is a moment as you're looking at him that you realize now more than ever that this is what you are.
Property.
You will be bartered for. Men will play games, for fuck's sake, in a foolish attempt at proving their worth for your father's one measly daughter. A princess of no regard, a keeper of no tithes, you are only as valuable as the children that you can carry, and that is all. There is nothing else about you that is worth having, and the moment of hope and a little bit of wonder dies just as quickly as it comes. This king, as beautiful as he is and as kind as he presents himself, will not be the same one you meet once the veil has been lifted.
"Johnny," you echo softly, blinking up at him. He smiles at that. Teeth bright, smile wide, and he nods his head behind him.
"Yer plate is empty, princess," he holds out his arm for you, and you look towards your father. He gestures with his arm towards the table of food, and you take Johnny's arm reluctantly as he guides you down the steps towards the table. He shoves some men out of his way, hilt of his sword hitting them as they bump past, and you stand just at his side as he picks up a plate and begins to fill it with food.
"You don't have to do that," you say softly. "My lady can—"
Johnny tsks. When he shakes his head, his curls bounce, and you watch as he plucks a few sweets beside the food for you. Chocolate pastries and delicate fruits.
"Ah ken what ye need," he mutters. He walks, scanning the table, and you follow him. "Mmm. Try this one."
"Your Majesty—oh!" Your mouth closes as he shoves a small cake into your mouth. For a split second, his fingers are inside your mouth; just long enough for you to taste the dirt there, but quick enough not to be so improper. You swallow politely, fingers over your mouth, and when your tongue darts out to lick the crumbs off of your face, Johnny is smiling even wider, licking his fingers, all too satisfied. He meets your eyes somehow, even from under the veil, and he sucks a little too long on the thumb that was in your mouth for it to be anything but suggestive.
"Ah came 'ere ta meet yer father. Sent me plenty o'letters. Said this would be a party ta remember, said ye were gettin' married." Johnny shrugs, looking around the room. "Hate ta inform ye, princess, but no one will make an offer better than the one ah'll be makin'."
What a sickening sight to see. He's not wrong. There's no one with men more capable. There's no one with a kingdom as bountiful and rich, full of as much history as his might be. You can't imagine the kind of ancestors he must have, a lineage of great power and much fortune, and he displays their triumph in the very fabrics he wears, and he has their rage woven into him, in his blood.
You shake your head. You don't want that.
"I'm…" You clear your throat. "I'm very flattered, Your Majesty. But my family…" You shake your head again, "we don't have the kind of fortune that a dowry to you would require. There are much better arrangements for you to make. I couldn't in good conscience expect you to settle."
Practical. Matter-of-fact. Reasonable, even. If marriage is truly a transaction, you will give him your cost-benefit analysis; a marriage to you does not work in his favor.
He bends. Head tilted, getting closer, mouth close to your ear so you can hear what he has to say and not mistake it for anything else.
"I'd take ye for nothing, princess. If that's what yer worried about."
He leaves you with your father, pulling out your chair for you and setting down your plate. When he leaves, you're frozen to your seat—watching his large figure from behind as he joins his men again and begins to gather his own plate of food. It takes great effort to stop your mouth from curling into a scowl at the way he picks up a turkey leg and bites into it grotesquely; canines chewing meat with his mouth open and his greasy fingers wiping at his short beard. Your father reaches for you, a rough hand on your arm that tugs you close to him so he can mutter in your ear.
"What did he say to you, girl? Tell me."
You look down at your plate of food. Vegetables. Meat. The cakes. A balanced meal of good portions. If you could, if decorum allowed, you think you'd pick up this plate and walk right over to His Majesty and shove it right back into his face. Horridly, you almost think he'd enjoy that. Open his mouth wide to catch whatever you tossed his way.
"He's a beast, father," you murmur, resisting his touch. You try to pull your arm out of his grasp and wince when he digs his nails into your sleeve and keeps you near. The slight squeak in your voice seems to catch Johnny's attention. His head turns just slightly, and when he eyes the way your father holds you, the laughter leaves his eyes. His smile fades just a bit, and you think you see his nostrils flare. If you looked closely, you'd see his other hand nearly twitch as it reaches for his sword instinctively, but you're too preoccupied by leaning away from your father to notice. "A horrid example of a man. Let alone a royal one. Are you sure it's true? He stinks like an animal."
"Speak, girl," your father repeats. "I will not ask you again."
"There's nothing to say," you tell him. "He asked me about the games. He wants to play."
"For your hand?"
"That's what will be won, won't it?"
You think your father is about to strike you. He moves like he will, but then a shadow comes over the table, and your flinch is interrupted by your brother, who looks down at your father with a furrowed brow.
"I think it's time for her to rest," he says lowly. "If she's expected to be at the games all this week, she needs her sleep, don't you think, father?"
You won't be grateful for your brother for doing the right thing; but you are grateful anyways.
"Perhaps it will quiet her snithing tongue and make her a proper princess once more, but we're all praying for fucking miracles, aren't we?" Your father spits. When he lets you go, your chair is sent backwards from the force of it, and your lip trembles as you stare out at the sea of people still partying. This is what you're resigned to—a life of invisibility. There will be a day when you are not in the spotlight as you are now; when you are wed and underestimated and hidden behind a wedding ring that all but seals your lips shut. Your husband can hit you, abuse you, terrify you, but you'll only be noticed if you don't produce him an heir.
You squeeze your hands into fists to keep them from shaking as you stand, and you follow your brother out of the Great Hall. You don't speak to him, even as he asks you how you are. You say nothing, just keep your head high as he opens the door to your bedroom for you.
"Sister, I know that—"
"Have a good night, brother."
He's quiet when you shut the door, and he does not knock.
Your maids are silent and solemn as they help you undress. A few of them are filling a tub with warm water in another room. You did not want to bathe, but your oldest maid has insisted your mood requires one. They untangle your hair and take off your veil, and you refuse the mirror as they undo your corset and rid you of your skirts and undergarments.
You ask them to go as you soak. You lean over the edge of the tub, cheek resting on your arm, and you stare into the light of the fireplace that crackles. You think about how much worse you could have it; surely there are hundreds, thousands, of women that are in much more terrible places than you. Places that are cold. Places that are barren. Places that make them bleed, that make them sad, that make them hungry. Your birthright has granted you a place amongst a great house, has it not? Hateful father aside, what is it that you could ever want? If your resignation in life is to marry a mediocre man, surely your punishment fits the crime.
You were born rich and royal; you could not be granted all of life's great pleasures. The balance must be kept in some way, and this is your penance. You are simply an ungrateful girl. Spoiled princess.
Fucking awful—
You close your eyes when you hear the doors to the bathing room open. You don't want to see anyone. You don't want to talk. You just want them to leave you alone.
"Naseema," you sigh. "Please, I said I wanted to be left alone."
"Och, now this is the grand show I'd wanted tae be watchin'."
The water nearly spills over the edge of the tub from how fast you spin around. Your arms instinctively move to cover your chest, but you're grateful for the abundance of bubbles and oils in the water keeping you mostly covered.
There he stands, leaning against the edge of the fireplace. There's an apple in the palm of his hand that he bites into, teeth chomping into it and flashing as he chews loudly and smiles in your direction.
"You're not supposed to be in here," you tell him. "I…" You realize your face is not covered, and your eyes water. "You can't see my face, I…you need to c-cover your eyes—"
"Ah, right…I heard about tha'," Johnny points towards you as he thinks. "Thought tha' was just fer others."
"Only my brothers and my father," you clear your throat. "C-Can see me before the wedding. You need to go. You can't be in here."
Johnny unsheathes his sword, and you tense as he spins it in the low light before leaning it against the wall. He walks a little lighter without it, and he pushes off the wall so he can walk around the room and admire the decor.
"Yer husband can see ye," Johnny mutters, soot-covered fingers touching your robe. It's an off-white color that he immediately stains with his dirty hands. Lace and stitch-work tainted with his touch.
"You are not my husband." Your voice does not waver this time. You sit up in the tub, glaring his way, and he turns his head to look at you as if he sensed it. He looks eerily satisfied at your reaction, and he takes another bite out of his apple before continuing. He stops in front of the table that holds oils and perfumes and soaps. He picks one of the bottles up to smell them, closing his eyes briefly. "You are as ungentlemanly as they come. You're unseemly."
"Ye are quite the brat, bonnie."
"And worst of all, you're beneath me."
Johnny chuckles at that. He sets the perfume down, swallowing the bite in his mouth, and he licks over his teeth at the sight of you.
"Yer just makin' it worse, princess," he shrugs. "Reckon yer bite feels good, aye? Should we find out?"
You reach for a bottle of oil that is placed near you, and you pick it up and throw it as hard as you can. Johnny ducks his head just in time, catching the wall just as the bottle shatters where his head once was. You are only given a moment to revel in it before he's dropping the apple and coming straight for you.
You are about to scream, but Johnny catches your throat in time. Big hand wrapping around the delicate part of your neck, nearly lifting you out of the tub, squeezing as he brings your face closer to his. Your legs thrash, water splashing, but Johnny just shakes his head and tsks at the attempt to free yourself. You scratch at his forearms, but it only adds to the scars already littered there.
"I'd love to take ye," he says lowly, sighing. He sounds frustrated, but not with you. "Would love tae take ye right out of this very room, princess, and throw ye on the next ship out, but there's no fun in tha', is there?"
He presses his forehead to yours, thumb tracing along your jaw. You thump at his chest with your fists, but he doesn't budge.
"No matter," Johnny rasps. "Ye'll be queen of Scots by week's end. Ye need time, time tae think. Time tae reckon with yer God-given duty." You cry as he kisses your face, wet lips pressed to your cheek. "I'll be 'avin' ye, and I'll kill any right bastard that gets in my way."
When he lets you go, you cough as you collapse against the edge of the tub. You put a shaky hand against your throat, tears welling in your eyes, and Johnny reaches for his sword to sheathe it once more before he makes his way to the door. You meet his gaze just as he turns, and his smile is gone.
"Rest up, princess," is what he tells you. "We're a long way from home."
There is rust inside of the air. It's in the wind. It's curling around you, blowing through your hair. You breathe it into your lungs and feel it attaching itself to you from the inside-out. It tastes like rot, and it settles like a stone in your stomach. Dread fills you, as deep inside of you until it reaches your toes, and when your body finds your bed, you feel little urge to sleep.
There is a monster that dwells in the halls, and it has come for you. It will not leave until it has you, and you know even if you take away its weapons, it bears claws and teeth, as terrifying with its flesh than it is with anything it can hold to strike with. Your grave has all but been dug out.
Time to reckon with your God-given duty. Time for the inevitable. Time for what's coming, with no knowledge of how fast it will kill you. Morality is a construct, and time is a death sentence—they are abstracts that have been created by men that are nothing more than a delay for what has already been decided.
The death of your mother. The hatred of your father. The pity of your brothers. The wounds you carry inside, and the fragility of your birthright. The fear of what you are not, and the hope of what you might've become—it dies tonight, and when you close your eyes, you see nothing in your dreams like you thought you might see.
Only nightmares; and when you wake up, you cannot discern between the horror that you saw in your sleep to the one that you are living in now.
It was decided that you were not permitted to watch the games until the second-to-last day, much to your relief, and you do not see Johnny once during that time. Apparently, your father thought it best for you to stay hidden during the games instead—he thinks it will make you seem more alluring if you are only seen during certain times, so as not to spoil the vision of his only daughter's beauty.
For the first three days, highborn men competed against one another in a series of difficult games. Scores were given based on the rules of the games and also based on the favor of the audience, but a variety of them were played as a way for your father to not only have more fun watching men throw more and more money at him for chances to continue, but also to narrow down the pool to a select group.
Physical games are played—archery, games of spar, lifting of objects, throwing of them. These games were a way for your father to be rid of who he seemed weak and unmanly. Of course, he also approved mental games. Card games, board games, games where strategy and thought were required to continue between rounds and receive high valued scores. These games were meant for your father to cut out the stupid ones; if any kin of yours is to have his blood, they cannot be strong in only body.
The body deteriorates, is what your father told you. After it does, you will only have your head, and it must be a sound one.
Apparently, your father picked out your dress for today. You've never known him to be so particular about what you wear, but when you see the dress hanging in your bedroom, you grimace.
The fabric of the skirts has accents of plaid sewn throughout. Delicate flowers, lightweight tulle, and ornate handsewn pearls also accompany the accents of the red and green pattern, and your maids hand you a note written by your father as they start to ready your corset and undergarments.
Do not disappoint me today, dear princess. Much is on your shoulders, and I am counting on you.
You don't know what that means. You dread finding out.
Your maids busy themselves with your hair. You have two working on the strands diligently, and you sit there with a curious look as you watch them make distinct patterns that you're not familiar with.
"Uhm…what style is this?"
Your ladies look at each other before continuing.
"Your father asked for this, Your Highness," one of them replies. "He asked for…a more Nordic style to be done."
You laugh a little. "As in…vikings? Is he mad?"
Your other maid clears her throat. "No, Your Highness," she says gently. "The Scottish are; or—they used to be."
Your throat closes up a little, and you smooth out the skirt of your dress.
"His Majesty is still…playing in the games?" You ask softly. One of your maids squeezes your shoulder soothingly.
"Yes, Your Highness. He is the last of two."
The veil is the last piece to come, but it feels nothing but performative now that Johnny has seen your face. This veil has red tulle to match your skirt, and it has been sewn with a net of small crystals that sparkle in the sunlight. Your eldest brother is the one that comes to collect you, and when he sees you, he can only smile in an odd sort of way.
"You look beautiful."
"Let's just…get this over with," you whisper. "It's all but been decided, hasn't it?"
Your brother rakes his eyes over your dress in thought before nodding.
"The Scots have made a generous offer, sister. It would be…unwise to refuse. Especially considering…the political climate."
You purse your lips. "All of this, just to anger a more powerful country? I knew father was stupid, dear brother, but surely you have more sense than that. If England goes to war, we will lose."
"If England wants war, then you will have the most important job of all," your brother snaps. He frowns, stepping closer, and you jut your chin out, refusing to back down. "You will be the one that has to convince a Scottish court that we deserve their aid, and you will do it because if you don't, you are certainly correct. We will die. I will, our brothers will, our people—"
"Don't you dare try to incite some…some innate patriotism in me, brother!" You cry. You smack his arm away from you, fisting your skirt angrily and starting to breathe heavily. "I have never wanted this. I never wanted to be anyone except for your family. This…rift between us and others is your doing, and it's our father's doing, and it is because both of you think with only your cocks!"
"You watch your mouth!"
"And now, you want me to clean up your mess—by marrying the most foul, the most disgusting, the most abhorrent man on this God-forsaken earth because you fired a weapon and missed your fucking target!"
"Enough!"
Your brother's scream echoes along the halls. You pant, chest heaving now, and you whine when your brother's hand grabs for your arm and yanks you towards him. His touch hurts, and when you turn your head and flinch, you feel just as small as your father makes you feel. He's never looked more like him, and he's never felt more like him than right now.
"You will marry John MacTavish; and you will do what your king asks of you. You will do…what I ask of you. Now shut your fuckin' mouth, and let's go."
He sounds like him now; and you cannot discern between what is and what was.
Your brother pushes against your back as you enter the Great Hall, where your father is seated on his throne, cup of wine in hand and laughing with a group of his councilmen.
Johnny is here, surrounded by his own. Lads of differing ages, old and young, in different patterns of plaid that sit around him, but Johnny wears the most leather and iron, and his furs across his shoulders are the most ornate. He still looks just as handsome as the first day you met him, but you are intrigued by the cut along his brow that looks fresh. When you step into the room more clearly, his eyes find yours, a magnet, even when yours are invisible to him.
His gaze heats the moment he sees you. Lidded, his eyes look you up and down, already taking note of the matching pattern that you wear now that's been carefully added to your skirts. Your dress is a wonderful piece of artwork that melts together your own culture and his, and you look away, turning your head to get Johnny out of your view so you can focus on something else.
Anything else.
Your father has chosen a game of chance for the final game. There's a table in the center of the Hall with nothing but three dice sitting in the middle. There are three seats, one for a dealer, and two for the opponents, and when your father sees you, he motions for you to come over and take the empty seat beside him.
You settle in it with a small curtsy towards your father, who takes your hand in his and squeezes it firmly. He is in good spirits today; or perhaps it's just the mead. Either way, you're grateful, so you squeeze his hand back. For a brief moment, you look to your father, and you wonder what things would be like if he had loved you for even a second of your life.
Maybe he would have let you live just as you always were. Maybe he would have comforted you even if marriage was necessary. Maybe he would have allowed you, encouraged you, to marry for love instead of for fortune because it was the only kindness he could imagine for someone as precious as his only daughter.
Maybe he would have cried for you—mourned for you, as a woman's transition into marriage is most surely her demise. Maybe he would have done nothing at all, but you'll never know.
Your father does not love you; and he never will.
The Great Hall grows quiet as your father waves his hand towards one of his attendants. They take a seat in the dealer's chair, grabbing up the dice, and he motions for the men to take their seats for the game. Johnny sits with an air of confidence, and the man that sits across from him tries the same. He's a large man of tanner skin and darker hair, with clothes that have great patterns with beads sewn into them. Your father tells you he's from a land to the East, one that has great amounts of gold and mining reserves. You overhear him tell his advisor that if he wins, he has agreed to give your father a few reserves in exchange for your hand.
"Father, with this offer…the Scots can't be worth as much," you hear your brother mutter. "Why are we playing this game then? Perhaps the better choice is obvious, father."
"Because England draws near, my son."
"We can buy an army with that money."
"Perhaps…" Your father shrugs. "It isn't a bad offer; but it is personal with the Scots. They will fight for less, and with their hearts—" Your father pokes your brother in the chest, laughing lowly. "—war is not won by coin. No mercenary will be as invested as they would be."
You suck in a deep breath as the dealer shakes the dice in his hand. There is music playing, but it quiets to a low volume as the dealer begins to explain the rules.
"For each round, one has high, the other has low. We'll roll each die, best of three wins the round. His Majesty will pick who chooses first."
The dealer gestures towards where your father sits, and he grins wide, raising his arms.
"Our great Scottish friend can choose first. May luck be on your side."
Chance. Your father's way of letting the universe decide what matters more—vendettas or investments.
Johnny wins the first round. He chooses high, and the dealer rolls a four, a six, and a one. It is in the second round that you notice something strange—the manner in which the dealer rolls the dice. He has nimble fingers, and he twists them in one hand oddly, the hem of his shirt sleeve moving as he tosses them between his hands. You notice him move his head side-to-side, and when your father allows the other man to choose first, he eyes the dealer before choosing high.
The dealer rolls a six, another six, and a five.
Johnny sits back when your father offers for him to choose first. He shakes his head and holds out a hand to the man across from him, who looks at the dealer. The dealer moves his head from side-to-side, and when he chooses low this time, you look at your father incredulously, mouth hanging open since that is all that he can see.
"Father," you touch his arm. "Father, he's cheating."
"Shush, girl."
"But—"
The dealer rolls a three, a one, and then four. Just as you are about to grab for your father's jacket sleeve, Johnny makes a move—he slips the dagger from beneath his kilt and shoves it right through the dealer's hand.
You stand as the room erupts in screams and hollers. Your chair falls backward, and you put your hands over your mouth as Johnny grits his teeth and twists the dagger until the dealer flails out of his chair, screaming in agony. Blood spills across the betting table, his body shaking from his cries.
"Ye thought I would nae spot a game spoiled wit fulhams?" Johnny cackles, licking over his lips before spitting on his opponent. The thick glob of it sprays across the man's face, prompting him to yell. "The first rule of anythin' is tae learn about yer enemy. Tha' English shite isnae goin' tae work on me, ye fuckin' dobber."
Everyone goes quiet when Johnny reaches for his sword. He unsheathes it with ease, and you watch in horror as he kicks the table and sends dice flying, and he brings it down like it weighs nothing—right through his opponent's neck. The sword cuts like a hot knife through stiff butter, sharp edge bent for killing. The blood that erupts from the wound puddles underneath him as he falls to his knees, gurgling as he grips onto the blade and tries to move. His legs kick out from underneath him, and Johnny grunts as he brings the sword back towards him. It cuts through the front of him, and you stumble backwards when you see the man's insides break free from his body, falling out onto the stone floor.
The music stops. The yelling breaches, and the crowd starts to close in. Johnny points the sword towards your father, laughing maniacally as he comes closer. A line of guards forms in front of you, a wall between Johnny and your family, but you don't feel any safer with them there. Your kingdom has not seen battle in decades—your men would be no match for someone like him. You can see it in their eyes as they hold out their weapons in front of them; they'll fall like flowers under crushed feet, and Johnny will make it to you before his next breath.
"John, you're not thinking clearly," your father laughs. "You've made your point."
"I'll be takin' my prize," Johnny spits, running a hand over his face to wipe the blood off. It only smears it, war paint across his cheeks now as he keeps his sword up and pointed towards your guards. "I'm done playin' yer parlor games. Bunch of nobs, ye lot are, dangling 'er o'er us. Over me."
His voice rasps near the end, and you've never heard anything so threatening. You've never heard a man so easily talk of death at his hands before. Johnny takes another step forward, and every guard in the line lowers their swords towards him.
"And what does the great kingdom of Scots offer in exchange?" Your father goads. Your brother's head snaps fast to look at him; he is just as surprised at you are how stupid your father truly can be. He takes a seat like there is no danger around. Like he is negotiating a trade deal. Like there isn't a man whose familiar place is a battlefield holding a weapon out to him, like he's not standing on the edge of a cliff into nothing but the void. "What will you give me?"
Johnny lowers his sword just slightly, pointing right at your father with it.
"Yer life," he murmurs. "Ye can have yer fuckin' life, what's left o'it. Miserable pile of shite it must be ta be ye, but ye can fuckin' 'ave it, 'n tha's all I'm givin' ye."
"Not good enough."
Johnny strikes first. His men follow his lead, but they wait for his sword to break against another before they come up behind him.
They make quick work of your father's guards. You have always imagined battle to be bloody, but you never imagined it to be so visceral. Flesh gives way so easily to sword, and the insides of someone fall out so quickly. Guts and viscera on the stone floor just where you used to dance and eat meals, heads nearly decapitated from the body it once belonged to where you were given your first tiara.
You pick up your skirt when the blood touches the tips of your shoes. You loathe getting your dress dirty.
There are tears coming down your face that Johnny can see when he steps up to where your father sits. Your veil does not cover your mouth, and he sees the tears pooling under your jaw, but you are silent otherwise. You fist your skirt up with one hand, and the other shakes as it covers your mouth, and you can't will yourself to say anything.
You cry out, however, when your father grabs your arm and twists it, pulling you towards him. You're yanked in his direction, but he stops suddenly when the tip of Johnny's sword touches the front of your father's jacket, pointed right in the center of his chest.
"Let 'er go. Now. Dinnae fuckin' touch 'er."
Your father, thankfully, is not daft enough to disobey. He releases you, and you fall forwards, trying to find something to stable yourself with. You hold onto the nearest chair, but when your father reaches for you again, you hear metal fall through the air just behind you. What follows is the bloodcurdling sound of your father's scream, one that freezes you solid.
Your father's right hand rests at his feet now—cleanly cut off from the wrist down. You think you see his fingers twitch, even after being severed from its source.
"I said no' tae touch 'er, aye?"
It is something of a relief to watch your father writhe, fish out of water on the floor beside you. Your brother is on his knees, trying to calm him, but your father has been reduced to tears, screaming, yelling for help.
Your hands stop shaking, and you suddenly are able to find your footing. You stand still as you watch, breath coming out a little lighter. When the hem of your skirt finds blood and your shoes touch it, you barely notice. Your father looks funny from this angle.
Small.
You don't even realize you're stepping away until you bump into something. At your back, a hand steadies you, and when you turn, Johnny is there. Sword sheathed, hands stretched out like he's trying to seem like less of a threat, but the blood that paints his face and his body overshadow the attempt.
You hear your brother saying something. You think he might be calling out to you, but you don't turn around. The world is a little hazy, everywhere except for right in front of you.
Anyone that gets in my way. That was what he said. That was what he promised you.
Anyone. Anyone. Anyone.
His hand feels warm when it curls around your waist. When he tugs, he feels no resistance, and your feet shuffle closer. When your hand rests, just there in the middle of his chest, his own comes over yours, palm engulfing it as he squeezes gently.
Maybe he was right. Maybe he made a good argument. Time, maybe it was all you really needed. Time sweetens everything.
It rots.
You thumb at the fur across his shoulder. Fox, you think. You step a little closer, and Johnny understands; his hand leads your own to cover your ear, and when he presses your head against his chest, the world gets much quieter. No screaming. No yelling.
Just the thud of a strong heartbeat, and the rush of your own blood. You only hope that it stays inside of you.
You don't know why Johnny decides now to respect your people's traditions. He doesn't touch the veil or try to look underneath it, even though he already knows what you look like.
The ceremony is nothing but theatrics. A shaking Catholic cardinal that stands beside you and Johnny, making motions with his hands. You don't understand a word he's saying; it's all garbled Latin that means nothing to you, but Johnny still touches his forehead to yours and closes his eyes at one point which makes you think he must be saying something nice at least.
Something about until death.
When Johnny lifts your veil, you blink up at him. It feels like the wrong time to smile, but you try to. He does kiss you, but it's soft and short, a gentle press of closed lips and his fingers just under your chin.
You don't say goodbye. Not to your father, not to your brothers, not to your ladies. Johnny allows you a small number of things to bring, but even when you look around your bedroom, you realize there isn't much you want to take with you.
There's nothing about this place that makes you want to stay. Everything and everyone here will cut ties with you—if not because you are a woman, than it is because you are now a MacTavish.
You think it odd when Johnny offers his hand to you, but you take it anyways. He puts you up onto a horse, and though you think he will have you ride alone, you are pleasantly surprised when Johnny gets up onto it behind you. You sit side-saddle, legs dangling over, and he keeps his arms around you, hands on the reigns.
"Goin' home," Johnny mutters, leaning over the side of the horse to spit onto the ground.
You don't look behind yourself when you go. There is nothing left for you here.
It is winter when you see his home for the very first time. It was a long, grueling journey passing through highland country, with great mountains and valleys that his men knew well. The first snow began to fall just a week before you arrived, dusting the great plains of what used to be vast greens in a blanket of crunchy white powder. You neared his home surrounded by barren trees on the back of his horse, Nessie, and there was a large audience to greet you as you made it past the grand walls that surrounded his dwelling.
Dwelling—if you could even call it that. Johnny lives in a fortress. A castle of great structure and architecture, with high walls and many towers for defense and fortification; it is apparent the kind of country Johnny has found himself king of. His house is built for war because he must anticipate it often. There are places in the walls that look bent from outside force, but they have been formed to withstand it.
As you pass through the Forework into the courtyard, you're overwhelmed by the crowd that greets you. Johnny looks overjoyed as he slips off of the horse. He's greeted with great welcome by his men and others alike, but he doesn't linger for long before he turns to reach for you.
Your hands find his forearms, and you let him help you down. As soon as your feet touch the stone, everyone bows.
You're not used to this kind of attention. Your hand curls around Johnny's bicep, gloved palm squeezing there gently, and he presses his lips to the side of your head as he smooths out the back of your dress.
"Welcome home, bonnie."
In your books, you learned of Scotland and its lush green cliffs and vast waters, but they did not talk about its winter season. They did not tell you of the snowfall and the trees without leaves and how the lands seemed to stretch far into the horizon, a blanket of nothing but white and barren land. Underneath it, you think it must be beautiful, but as you squint into the horizon, you see only nothingness.
The weather forces you into the confinements of Johnny's home. You can't wander far because you don't know the land, and the cold bites when you walk too far. You can't walk to the other side of his estate, because one of his staff is always following you around, and it makes you easy to spot. If his breath is not hot down the back of your neck, his eyes follow you wherever you go.
On the journey back, your new husband allowed you your space. On his ship back to the north, you slept in your own quarters as long as you agreed to have meals with him. When you were back on land, he allowed you a tent if you rode on horseback with him. Johnny gives, but only if he gets something back—his generosity is not free, that much is evident to you.
Your new home is no different. You bargain for your privacy, but as the days pass, even you know that it won't be enough. You are a man's wife, and that allows him certain privileges—privileges that he's feels he can have simply for holding a title over you.
The ladies here are quiet around you. They are gentle as they take your hair down from their many braids; your new status means you have a new name, and they style your hair in intricate, twisted braids with fine cuffs and jewelry. You have seen the same decorations in Johnny's own hair—his curls falling in twists, small, sporadic braids styled with feathers and silver. Johnny may be royal, but he is not dormant. He doesn't hide behind his throne nor use his name to keep himself safe. You have seen him once or twice, on your many walks around the property, sparring with his men and showing off his undeniable skill. His sword is heavy, but you would never know it; he swings it like it weighs nothing in his hands, and there is no doubt in your mind, after seeing him best ten men nearly all at once, that Johnny is right where he wants to be.
His scars are not for show. He has bled, and he bleeds, and he will bleed, because that is the kind of life he will always chase. Peace does not suit him, chaos does, and maybe that's why he married you, too.
You can see him in the mirror behind you. Your ladies are taking your jewelry off when you notice him there, in the doorway, leaning against it as he watches with a lidded, heavy stare. As soon as the ladies notice him, they are dropping into their curtsies, whispers of his name leaving them as they give him their attention, and with a wave of his hand, they are flittering out in a hurried cluster, shutting the door behind them.
"You missed dinner," you say softly. Your hand reaches up to rub against the bare skin of your collarbone. You are in nothing but your night shift, a shawl around your shoulders and naked underneath it all. As he makes his way further into your bedroom, he drops his clothing. The furs around his shoulders. The leather around his torso and forearms, the belt adorning his kilt. When he stands behind you and wraps his arm around your neck, your head is forced back against his middle, his bicep flexing and keeping you head-locked there—all for him to look at. "Johnny, l-let me go."
"Most bonnie thing," he murmurs, meeting your eyes in the mirror. His eyes are a wicked shade of blue, and your lip wobbles as his other hand reaches around to trace along the neckline of your night shift. You suck in a shaky breath, shivering.
"John," you shake your head. "What…What are you doing?"
"Am I no' allowed ta admire my wife?" He asks. You lean away from him as he presses his face into your neck, and you let out a harsh breath.
"You stink," you mumble. "Like a dog."
He smells like sweat and dirt. Like dust kicked up and now it's stuck along his damp skin. Up this close you can see the scars that are littered across his face and against his chest. All he wears is his kilt, and you have a sickening feeling he truly wears nothing underneath it, like he was hoping he might find you like this, like he was hoping he'd see you just as you are now.
"Och, I ken what's got ye so angry, my love," he rasps. You close your eyes when you feel his lips against your jaw. He gives you a wet kiss, slobbering on your skin as he licks over the fresh oils your ladies spent time moisturizing you with, and he snarls when he tastes it, sucking at the bend of your neck and groaning. "I've neglected ye, 'aven't I?"
"John—"
"Aye, love—fuckin' wagging me tail when ye call me by my name, fuck—"
"You are a dog!"
"Want ta hear me bark?"
You scoot the chair back abruptly, shoving him off, and he stands like a heaving wolf behind you as you turn to face him. He licks over his lips, tilting his head from side-to-side, and you shake as you take a few steps back until you hit the wall and freeze.
"Stop it, John," you whisper, shaking your head. Your heart is beating out of your chest, and every hair on your body stands on end. "I know…I know what you did for me. I know it. Your home…it's beautiful." Your eyes water. "But it isn't mine. It never will be."
Johnny smiles a little. He looks around your bedroom, admiring the decor, before he moves to undo his kilt and drop it completely. Your eyes avert upwards. His nakedness, as quickly as you saw it, doesn't surprise you. He is pure muscle, pudge, heft, and you feel hot all over as he goes to fetch himself a drink from the cart on the other side of the room. He is solid. There is no give to Johnny, in any place—not in his chest, not in his belly, and certainly not in his cock that hangs heavy and thick.
"Ah have been patient wit' ye," he begins. You listen as he pours himself a full glass of mead, swirling it in its cup before taking a large gulp. The ceiling grows darker as you hear him pace, as if the moonlight itself draws away as your nervousness grows. His voice dips low, timber like ice though it strikes hot fear. "'ave I no' been a patient king, my love?"
"We're strangers," you say softly. "I don't know what your limits may be, but I am finding them short and ill-managed."
He laughs. Deep, bellowed, and your chin dips when he stands in front of you now. You do not dare look any lower than his eyes, and he stares at you over the rim of his cup as he takes another sip from it.
"Ah came ta y'r house ta jest, my queen," Johnny murmurs. His smile fades, and his eyes are nothing but black holes. "Ah share a common interest with yer da, but ye lived in a house of cards." He bends, shaking his head. "Y'r da is a right piece o' shite, and his daughter was mine fer the takin'. Ye are the most beautiful thing I've seen since I saw my first sunset, bonnie." You hear the clink of his cup as he sets it down, and then you feel the warmth of him as he steps just that much closer to you. "I saved ye from tha' wretched place—"
"You are not the hero in this story, John!" You cry. You put your hands on his chest to push him away, but he doesn't budge. His muscles flex under your touch, but he doesn't move, it's not possible. He's warm under your palms, thick hair around his chest that trails down his middle. Your nails scratch, and his pecs harden, and you feel warm tears come down your cheeks before you can stop them. "What—you save me from one fucking cell, just so I can sit in another? Is that it? Is that your redemption, my king?" You spit his title out like it hurts to say it, and before you can smack him off, his neck tilts, and your lips collide.
He is warm, and your body reacts. Your lips part when his do, and your tongues meet as his hands come to squeeze around your soft middle. There is only thin cotton that separates you and his bare hands, and it draws all the heat in your body low, to where your thighs quiver.
"Ah am no hero," Johnny mutters against your lips. You exchange hot breaths, and he drags you closer. Your feet follow, and you stand on your toes, his hands cupping just under your thighs as he gropes and squeezes you near. Your nipples pebble under your shift, and as he presses you to him, he feels all parts of you, and you him—he is hard and leaking between your bodies, and your hands find the sides of his face. "But I am owed."
You don't know if he loves you—maybe he thinks he does. You don't think Johnny knows what love means, or what it feels like. He takes you off your feet so easily; like you weigh nothing, gathering you up into his arms, lips against yours, crowding you away from the wall until you fall onto your back on the bed and invite him between your legs.
Your shift tears like paper between his hands. It falls in tatters around you, and Johnny wastes no time sliding his hands under your back and arching you up into him so he can put his mouth on your tits. He licks and spits on them like a hound, and your soft mewls only drive his hunger.
"John—"
Your words are swallowed by him. He kisses you again, wetter this time, hooking his burly arms under your knees and hoisting you up the bed until your head rests against the pillow and he can rut his cock between your legs. He's thick. Heavy at the base, full all around, and when the tip catches between your folds, you squeak at the plapping sound that follows the movement of his hips. He's too eager, uncontrollable, and just when you think he's about to push inside of you, he shakes his head, breaking your kiss.
"Ah…" He pants into your mouth. "Ah won't last." He grins. "Yer too pretty."
"Fuck you—" You gasp, and he shakes his head again.
"Dinnae worry," Johnny breathes, and you shriek when he throws your legs up over his shoulders, bending until he can press his nose just under your belly-button and take a deep breath. He's sick—but all you want is more. "Ah'll make a proper queen of ye yet, aye?"
Oh, he eats you as if you are the supper he missed. Thick fingers spreading you apart, pushing back the hair that keeps you hidden from him—when his tongue touches that first soft part of you, when it flicks over where you are most tender, you cry with relief, with pain. It hurts, but it hurts good, and you stare up at the same ceiling and lose yourself when his tongue slips inside of you. You're leaking, wet and sticky, and you fear it only encourages his insatiable nature. Your words mean one thing, but your body does not lie. It betrays you. You want to not want this, but it isn't true.
He's truly the dog that no one can tame. Too hungry, too eager, too much energy, and he feeds on you, and you hate him and you love him all at once. No one has ever paid such attention to you in your life. You have always been forgotten. The last thought. No one has ever put you above anyone else, and your feelings have never mattered. You are the last in a line of many boys. You are the thing that killed your mother. You are the woman that was never meant for anything except to be done away with—the only value you have ever been in any man's eyes is the object of many fortunes, generational and transactional.
It bleeds from you now, this hard truth that is no longer. It drains like an infected wound, and Johnny sucks it straight out of your cunt. You are beneath no one. You belong to no one except for him. You are a MacTavish now, a sister no longer, a daughter no more; you are a queen of great country, and you will understand that, and you know from the way he laps at your pussy that he'll keep doing this until you learn this new truth.
You know, however, that even then, he will want you.
His mouth is so hot. He adjusts you in his arms, moaning between slides of his tongue as he swallows hard and smacks his lips together. He pulls away to take a deep breath, brows pinched together as he squeezes your soft skin and nearly whines as he rests his cheek against your inner thigh.
"Ye close?" He asks, and you whimper as he flicks his tongue across your hole. Your insides pulse and tighten, wanting for something that he hasn't give you yet. Whatever this feeling is, you need him, and you wish he wouldn't stop. You want him to keep going. He can see your hole squeezing around nothing, and he grins, too satisfied with himself.
"C-Close?"
"It feels good, aye?" He murmurs, and you reach with your hand to pull on his hair, making him chuckle. "Ye've never come, my love? Never touched this wee bonnie cunt, tha' what I'm hearing?"
"Johnny, please—!"
"Whatever yer feeling—" He smacks his lips together, "—chase it. Dinnae stop until I tell ye."
You do. You do chase it. You can't help it, anyways, not with the way Johnny has you in his mouth. The way he spits on your cunt and has his way with it, kissing the soft parts when he needs a breath and sucking between your folds when he gathers it. His eyes are watching you, lidded, fluttering, and it brings him the upmost satisfaction watching you writhe in his arms. His pretty girl, a queen if ever saw one.
You see white behind your eyes. You cant your hips, rolling them up and into his mouth, and he seems to enjoy the way you react. Your pleasure is his pleasure, and it makes you feel so hot, so intense. You've never felt so out of your body before, and just as he wraps his lips around somewhere soft and pulsing, you cry with it as your thighs shake and he hinges his jaw open to catch something that he wants. It comes out of you sticky and warm, and you whine as he flattens his tongue and swallows it up.
The come-down is soft. Your body sags as it hangs in his arms, and you whimper when your back touches the bed. It dips under your weight, and you feel suffocated as Johnny pushes your legs apart and lays over you. His forearms settle by your head, and you blink up at him, mouth falling open as he uses one hand to hike your thighs up around his hips and grins down at you.
His face is wet. His short beard is shining with you, and he licks over his lips before he bends and presses a sloppy kiss to the side of your mouth.
"Most bonnie thing, I tell ye, love."
"I didn't…" You sigh deeply, and you can't help it when your hands slide up his sides and hook over his shoulders. "I didn't realize…"
"Yer governess might 'ave told ye one thing about…how husbands love their wives," Johnny murmurs against your cheek. You close your eyes, back arching into him as he grinds his leaking cock between your folds. "Ah'll tell ye another."
"You don't love me."
"Ah love yer cunt, bonnie—"
"That's not love, John."
"Give it time."
He's a dog when he's inside of you, too. Pushing into you for the first time, he shutters against the skin of your neck, finding your hands so he can intertwine your fingers and squeeze them tight. The whole room feels smaller as he pulls out just enough to shove right back in, and your thighs lock around his hips with the force of it. His cock pulses, just grazing the deepest places in you, and you want so badly for it to be the worst experience of your entire life, but it isn't.
For all the love Johnny doesn't have, your body will never know it. He fucks you like you're the wife you really are, and it hurts to know it. It hurts to understand it. He kisses so sloppy, but when he looks into your eyes, he sees you. He sees you for what you are, and that is his wife, and your eyes water at the realization of it because you've never been anything so precious.
Not a wife like other wives. You're not invisible like you know your mother must have been. You're not forgotten like you used to be. You're not misunderstood because no one will listen to you—every time your cunt tightens around him, Johnny moans into your mouth and tells you how beautiful you are, and you hate how much you love to hear it and try so hard to get him to say it again.
It is dirty and freeing at the same time. When your eyes find that ceiling, it fades behind your closed eyes, and with every thrust of his hips, you feel new again. His hands fall, one burly forearm wrapping underneath you while the other cups under your knee, and the next kiss you share is hot and wet and breathless. You follow him when he pulls away, and your hips cant when his pull back, but it's when your hands touch his face again that he falters. He comes without warning, too fast, his stomach tightening as he buries himself deep. Your neck tilts back against the pillows; you feel so full, like the spaces inside of you that have always felt hollow are right where they've always wanted to be.
Your face is damp with your tears when he pulls away to look at you.
"'ave I hurt ye, my love?" He whispers, and you shake your head, because you don't think he could, even if he tried. You are so frustrated. You are so angry. You hate yourself for it, you hate what you feel inside because it betrays the things you have always felt were the truest parts of you.
Men are simple. Men are cruel. Men are dull, stupid, and driven by nothing but their own selfish desire—but they've also never looked at you the way Johnny does. Maybe he's as stupid and hard-headed as his cock, but those eyes don't lie; they can't. They're not capable of it.
"No," you whisper, and you close your eyes as you press your cheek against his. His stubble scratches against your face in such a way, and you nuzzle against him, your arms wrapping around his neck. "W-Will you promise me something, John?"
"Anything."
You feel different when he pulls out of you. You press on his chest gently, guiding him upright, and you follow him. You settle in his lap, fingers brushing back the curls along his hairline. The moment is terribly intimate, and your eyes are shining like stars. He touches his forehead to yours, and you nearly crumble on the spot. You hate the way he makes you feel. You hate how much you adore it.
"P-Promise me you'll always tell me the truth. Even if you don't think I will want to hear it."
"I promise." Johnny speaks like a king, and your breath shakes. "Ye can cut me own heart out if I lie ta ye, bonnie. Ah'll no' be angry. Ah won't hold it against ye. We won't meet in heaven, my love, that much I ken, so in this life—" He picks up your hand and holds it over his panting heart. It beats like a drum under your palm, fast and unhindered and alive. "—what's mine is yers."
You falter. For all you speak of your bravery, you break like glass at his tenderness. Your mouth finds his again, and your hand slides up the length of his cock. He groans, nearly sobbing at the feeling, and you hide the smile that comes over your face at how easily he succumbs. When your thumb rubs over the tip, he whimpers, and when your hand cups just under, squeezing his balls, he spills between your thighs like it was the first time a girl ever wet his cock. You giggle when you feel it, webbing between your fingers, but you stop laughing when his own hand slides over his cock and then slips into you, two fingers deep until your mouth falls open and you look as stupid as you feel.
Johnny can be wise when it matters. As you stare at him from the other end of the tub, you realize he isn't all that he seems. He's a brute in body and mind, but he isn't blind. There is something innocent in him, even if it's hard to notice it. He isn't impressionable like other men; if he was, he would not have batted an eye when he saw your father put a hand on you. He would have taken you the very evening you wed, he would have drowned your screams into the very blankets of your marriage bed.
For all his severity, Johnny is a lover by nature and a fighter by necessity. There were women in his life that he must have loved once, and he has been chasing the security of it ever since. He did not find it in those around him, but he recognized it in you, and so he had to have you. The manner in which he takes—you won't say you understand it—but you are unfortunately grateful all the same.
It is a few months later when there is a letter on Johnny's writing desk with the seal of your country stamped on it. The paper is wilted slightly, crumpled, and when you open it, Johnny sits patiently at your back, an arm secured around your waist as you read its contents. The penmanship is shaky. The cursive is afraid.
It is a cry for help. Your brother tells of your father's constant illness and the threat of England that he cannot keep at bay any longer. You set the letter down with a grimace, and then your hands smooth down your front, just over where your belly has just started to fill out firm and round. Johnny's fingers follow, cupping just under your belly-button. He fixates on this spot often now, and you look at him intently before standing from his lap to make your way to where the hearth blazes with warmth.
"What are they asking for?" Johnny asks.
"It doesn't matter."
You bend, tossing the paper, and you watch with wet eyes as it burns. The edges of it catch on flame, and then so quickly, it's eaten by fire. You're still staring at it when Johnny is at your back, a hand along the nape of your neck as he presses his lips to your temple.
"If ye asked it of me…I would give it ta ye," Johnny murmurs. "Ye ken?"
You look up at him from over your shoulder, frowning, and he grimaces when a few tears catch on your cheek.
"No."
"They'll die, my love."
"I don't care," you whisper. "You reap what you sow, Johnny. As true as it is in children's stories, it is for men. Y-You won't make me feel sorry that there are consequences to their actions—you won't."
He lays his hand against your jaw, and his kiss is soft. You don't need to convince him of the woes of men. He is familiar, and he doesn't care either.
Maybe it's selfish of you. Maybe it's cruel. Maybe you are motivated by what's best for you, and not for them. Maybe you are thinking too much about the individual and not of the common good. Maybe you should be more motivated by duty and honor than on your thoughts, your feelings, your emotions.
No—no. If that is what God wanted, he would have made you a man.
Right?
The last of the letter burns, and you with it. You are a MacTavish now.
Nothing else really matters.
