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leftshoeuntied · 2 days ago

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Part 5 of Men at Work!!

Content: mentions of previous injury and reference to past torture.

You stare at your hand in a complex mix of awe and trepidation. Or, well. Not your hand exactly. You’re gawking at the thing in your hand. It’s much bigger than you expected, and heavier.

“Why is it so warm?” you mumble, thumb caressing a hard ridge.

“Because it was in my pants, bienchen.”

You flick a nervous glance at Krueger’s amused expression and shift, a fine tremble in your fingers. You didn’t think it would make you this nervous.

“It’s… not going to go off is it?” you ask, wrapping and rewrapping your fingers to get a feel.

“Only if you keep playing with it like that,” he chuckles.

You jolt, nearly drop it altogether, but he barks a laugh and catches your hand between both of his. Your eyes dart down again, enraptured by the roughness of his palms, how much bigger they are around yours. Stronger, more confident.

“I kid! It’s not loaded. See?”

He guides your wrist to the side, gentle but firm, and pushes a smooth button at the bottom of the trigger guard. He catches the magazine as it ejects, showing you an empty clip.

“And then, just to be sure…” He pushes the magazine back in with a movie-perfect click, then braces your hand while he pulls the slide back. “Nothing in the chamber.”

He releases it, letting it spring back into place.

“Even if it was,” he taps the side of the gun again, showing you a little switch, “it is not live. The safety is on - and it stays on unless you intend to shoot. Understand?”

Assured of everyone’s safety, fascination crowds out the trepidation as you hum an affirmative.

“Red means you’re dead, right?” you muse.

He chuckles. “You watch too much fake crime, but yes.”

“I saw it in a YouTube video,” you explain, “when I was first doing research. They never talk about how heavy these are.”

“It is why getting hit in the head with them hurts,” he explains.

“Pistol-whipped,” you supply turning the handgun this way and that.

You note how the lights catch it, how the grip feels against your naive skin. The scent too - you realize you’ve smelled it all over your neighbors’ house, all over your neighbors. Gunpowder.

You kick your feet in the open air, let your heels tap against the cabinets beneath you. Shithead is standing on the counter next to you, just at Krueger’s elbow, head cocked curiously to observe.

“Why does it say HK?” You ask. “Your initials are SK.”

He laughs again, but you recognize this as his more genuine (you dare say even charmed) chuckle.

“It is the brand, Heckler and Koch.”

You make a noise of understanding, flipping it around the other way to inspect it from the other side.

“There’s no safety on this side?”

“It’s right-handed.”

“There are guns for different hands?”

Krueger settles in closer, his hip pressed against your knee.

“Nikto has a left-handed one. We will have him bring it for dinner, hm?”

You nod. Tentatively press the button to eject the magazine again. You turn it this way and that, then try to put it back - with no success.

“More force, little one. Mean it.”

You bop the heel of your hand against the bottom and get that satisfying movie noise.

“Can you shoot it one-handed?”

“I can. You might have some trouble. Four pounds of pressure to pull the trigger.”

You perk up, make grabby hands for your notebook, abandoned on the other side of the counter when Krueger offered to let you hold his gun. Eyebrow cocked, he brings it to you, gently nudging Shithead’s paw away when she bats at the ribbon bookmark.

There’s already a bullet list of facts and statistics listed out from his initial explanation. You scribble out the new additions with one hand, balancing the notebook on your thigh with Krueger’s help.

“Do you guys ever decorate your guns?” you wonder.

He clicks his tongue. “Konig does. Like a schoolboy.”

“With what?”

At some point, he gently takes the gun from your cramping grip, tucking it back into his waistband while you continue scrawling details. He doesn’t move away. If anything, you’re vaguely aware that he’s leaning closer, inspecting your messy handwritig. His voice goes lower and quieter the closer he gets to your ear, a pleasant rumble that you try (and mostly fail) to ignore.

“What does it feel like to shoot it?” you ask finally.

“Like shooting a gun.”

“That’s not helpful.”

In the corner of your eye, he shrugs.

“Well… well could you take me to try it?”

He grunts. You can’t discern an answer from that, so you tilt your face towards his. He’s somehow even closer than you expect. Eyes you now realize are gunmetal gray smoldering as they trail down to your mouth, a sweet slow burn.

“You want to learn to shoot?” he asks, slower and rougher than you think the question warrants.

“I just want to know what it’s like,” you mumble, cheeks warm.

“No.” He twists until he’s facing you, crowding you. Not between your knees, but hipbone pressing against one. He taps your chin with an index finger, expression simmering with something that makes your heart stumble. “You learn proper. You do not try. It is not for fun. It is a tool for killing.”

“Oh.” You feel stupid and childish. Tears of embarrassment prick at the corners of your eyes. “Sorry.”

He huffs quietly, the line of his brow softening. He curls his finger along your jaw, unexpectedly comforting. “Do not be sorry. Learn. We want to teach you.”

“We?” you breathe, momentarily distracted.

“Konig has been whining about teaching you for weeks and Nikto thinks you need protection.”

You stutter for a second, caught up in the warmth of his gaze, and the revelation that they talk about you when you’re not around, and that those discussions include teaching you to shoot guns. And that they want you to be safe, they want you protected.

It’s all enough to make a poor romance author swoon.

“Well?” he prompts, arching one of those sharp brows again.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay?” He teases.

You blink. “Please.”

He grunts, pinches your cheek gently. “Anything for our sweet little bee.”

You roll your eyes to hide the steam that must be coming off your face by now. You’re so flustered you’re damn near sweating and there’s not a thing you can do about it. Not when the cause is still looming over you, one big hand planted tantalizingly close to your thigh.

“Now then.” He reaches over and past your head, and you’re overwhelmed by the metal-gunpowder-cologne scent of him. “We start on dinner, yes?”

It’s Konig’s turn to help with lunch. Well, technically he’s helping with a part of dinner - kneading dough for the homemade bread rolls to accompany some nice steaks - but you digress. Konig’s in your kitchen, all six-foot-something of him, sleeves scrunched up and gloves gone, big hands in a bowl of dough and making you think sinful thoughts at noon on a Wednesday.

“What about that one?”

“KA-BAR knife. I was protecting my neck.”

You take another slow sip of punch, eyes perusing the uneven tan lines and spackling of scars that decorate his skin.

“And that one?”

He twists his wrist to glance at the outside of his arm, half hidden by flour.

“Bomb shrapnel.”

He says it so casually. Like he scraped his knee roughhousing or something.

“You got blown up?”

“Nein, or I would not be here for you to interrogate.”

He shoots you a sideways grin, assurance that he’s just poking fun and not actually annoyed. You didn’t think otherwise, but it’s sweet that he wants you to know.

You huff. “Yeah, I’m sure this torture.”

He hums, eyes on his work so he thankfully doesn’t see how the sound makes your eyes flutter. Christ, you must be ovulating or something because you should not be this affected by that rich, warm voice echoing in that thick chest.

“I would know,” he agrees.

Wait, what. “You would?”

He clicks his tongue as his sleeve slips down his arm, threatening to get in the dough. You automatically reach to fix it, rolling up the fabric so that it won’t come down again.

“Danke,” he says, “Will you do the other?”

You round to his other side, get distracted by the tiniest sliver of… ink?!

“You have a tattoo?!”

He glances down, as if he could have forgotten it’s there.

“Oh. Yes. Krueger’s idea.”

You coo in delight, tugging gently at the fabric hiding it. You’ve seen Krueger’s tattoos of course - flaunting them about shirtless and sweaty as he does. (Not that you’re complaining either.)

“Can I see?”

“I don’t think the sleeve goes up that far,” he replies, pausing to let you try.

It doesn’t. You’re teased by dark lines, the bottom of what might be… feathers? You’re terribly curious, but you can see Konig’s face steadily flushing darker the longer and harder you look.

“What is it?” you inquire finally, not quite to the point of demanding he take his shirt off. (Even if you want to.)

“You will have to wait and see,” he replies, turning back to the bread.

You frown. “Wait for what?”

He winks at you (despite the bright pink at the tips of his ears) and it shouldn’t be so endearing but it is, so you spin on your heel and busy yourself with the last of the lunch items.

You don’t stop thinking about it, though.

“How many do you have?” you ask as you pour him a lager.

He slides you a half-amused, half-exasperated (yet still so fond) glance. “Three.”

“Where?”

“You will see.”

“Well, that’s ominous!”

“Mm. Watch your head, Biene.”

You poke your head around his elbow as he’s cutting chicken.

“Did they hurt?”

He shrugs those big shoulders. “Some. I have had worse.”

You hop up to sit on the counter, waiting for things to finish cooking.

“Do you plan to get more?”

His lips twitch with amusement. “Maybe.”

“Where?”

He steps closer, giving you a put upon sigh. Even sitting up here, he’s just a little taller than you, head tilted indulgently at your antics. You stomach flips and lands low in your abdomen. (It reminds you too much of Krueger teaching you about guns.)

You make your expression as guileless as possible until he breaks on a chuckle.

“I see where the bubchen gets it from.”

You glance at Little Guy, who is indeed giving Konig a similar expression in the hopes of getting scooped up. (Nevermind that he’s been threading between Konig’s legs since he came through the door, and was making “biscuits” on the counter in solidarity while you were asking about scars.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

He clicks his tongue. “Krueger has them too, you know. Why do you not ask him?”

You scrunch your nose. “Maybe I will.”

He narrows his eyes in amusement, opens his mouth - just as Krueger and Nikto enter. With you distracted, Konig scoops up Guy and escapes.

“Sebastian, how many tattoos do you have?”

“Many.”

“Will you get more?”

“Eventually. Why? Do you wish to give me one?”

You blink, dangerously intrigued by the idea. “What?! No!”

He grins wickedly as Konig shakes his head. “I could get your name right over my heart, hm?”

“Absolutely not!”

But he does tug the short sleeve of his shirt up so that you can inspect the crossed daggers on his tricep.

“What’s the 2-8 for?”

“My unit when I first joined the KSK. This was my first tattoo.”

You trace a finger over the simple outline, noting how the ink looks slightly faded, almost bluish now. You thumb the 8, mostly just enjoying the excuse to touch.

You turn to Nikto, currently trying to hold Shithead at bay without disrupting Rasputin’s perch on his shoulder. “What about you?”

“I did.”

You frown, about to ask but think better of it as you remember the glimpse of his face he entrusted to you. Right. You can put two and two together, no need to ask and possibly bring up painful memories.

“Why this sudden interest, bienchen?” Krueger asks.

“I noticed one of Konig’s but he’s being mean about it.”

Krueger glances over your shoulder (presumably at Konig) then barks a laugh.

“Ah, you see the truth of him now. He is a sadistic bastard. Not nearly as sweet as old Sebastian here, hm?”

You drop your hand from his arm. “Nikto is my favorite.”

“You little—”

First | Previous | TBC…

Masterlist

#ugh just love this story it’s so good #your honor I love them #könig x reader #nikto x reader #krueger x reader

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leftshoeuntied · 3 days ago

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I bet if you asked Price about his love language he’d say English

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leftshoeuntied · 3 days ago

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*on a date* Ghost: You look pretty cute dressed up without your tactical gear Y/N: Yeah? What do I look like with the tactical gear? Ghost, eye twitching: Hot as fuck

#ghost

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leftshoeuntied · 4 days ago

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Get Her a Dog (She'll be Happier For It)

Part Five | master list | taglist | MDNI

Soap x reader, Price x reader, eventual PriceSoap x reader

series cw: cheating. dubcon. angst. cuckholding. pet play.

chapter cw: angst, cheating, dubcon, breeding kink. john gets slapped

reader is fem and fat

He comes home with a puppy some weeks later, timed perfectly to coincide with your house finally starting to look like a home; no boxes left to be chewed up, as if he were really trying to be considerate. A puppy was not discussed but you're helpless against its charms, infatuated from the moment it first teethes on your fingers. You name him Gilbert because it makes Johnny laugh the hardest, though it gets shortened to Gil within the hour.

You've heard that one of the biggest tests a couple could go through was a move, but clearly that statistic was measured among couples who tackled these issues together , as the move goes through surprisingly easy, even despite the stress of handling most of it yourself. Not to say Johnny doesn't help where he can, touring houses with you and signing paperwork without a fuss. It's just hard to wrangle him when he's suddenly needed much more often around base so you shoulder the brunt of the work and clap excitedly each time he praises you for a job well done when you make progress, traversing the unknown terrain of legalese and open houses with no aid besides an (admittedly very helpful) realtor. Johnny calls it your solo mission, makes it into a bit of a game for you. It's sweet, fun. Everything you've been missing about his company, and despite all the apprehension the ambitious project had instilled in you, you end up feeling closer to your husband than you have in years. It's nice to feel like a team, and you wonder if maybe this is the exact reason he spends so much time with his own. Hard to be mad at him when you think of it like that.

He's with you when you attend your final open house, broad shouldered and strong in the oversized kitchen; the only man among those assembled who can fill it out, make it seem homey instead of austere. You make out like teenagers in the master bath when you both decide this is it, the one . Johnny lifts you onto the counter with a heavy grunt as you whisper against his lips about putting a baby in you, fueling him on as he rips his belt off and rucks up your skirt. He only shushes you when your begging gets too loud, afraid of being caught, though it's almost rendered meaningless with the way you whine when he pulls out, painting your belly. Johnny tells you you should wait until after the move to avoid stress on the baby and you can't deny he's right so you put on a happy face for the rest of the tour, keep it in place through the whole hair pulling process of finalizing the sale. It's not hard to fake, pleased as you are with Johnny's initiative to move, and it's still in place on moving day when the two of you collapse, exhausted but relieved, onto the mattress that still sits on the floor of your new bedroom.

It finally breaks that first night, when Johnny's got you on your back, heavy weight bearing down on you where he leans against the backs of your thighs, pinning you in place underneath himself. He's worked himself into a sweat, breath coming in heavy huffs which spill hot as a bellows across your cheek. You're useless but to clutch at his thick shoulders, moan your encouragement. He answers in deep grunts, synchronized with the slap of his full balls against your ass. You don't beg him this time, don't think you need to with the way his eyes are locked on the sight of your cunt clenching around him, trying to keep him buried deep.

You know something is wrong when he pulls out to jerk himself off over your tits, but he's so sweet afterwards that you let it slide, allow yourself to be lost in the warmth of his embrace, at least for the night. You weren't ovulating, anyway.

Gil is a handful, the best kind of trial run - one you're not sure you can give your husband the credit for considering you're not entirely certain he had the foresight necessary to assign you a trial, though one you're committed to rise to regardless. The dog's a quick study, breezing through potty training within two weeks, though the chewing takes a little longer to break. He trains you just as much as you do him, molding you into the perfect dog owner in record time. You coordinate vet visits with practiced ease, spend an inordinate amount of time reading dog psychology books (seriously, you never realized how developed the field was), and walk him religiously - a practiced balance between just enough for exercise and not enough to hurt his fragile little joints, meticulously calculated based on vet feedback. Johnny becomes enamored with him just as quickly as you, though he's not quite as strict about adhering to the rulebooks as you. (Another perfect insight gained into your upcoming trials as new parents. You were learning so much already.) There are some days you don't know who has more puppy energy, Johnny or the dog, Gil often collapsing into a small, fluffy heap long before Johnny would clamber to his feet, complaining about his bad knee. When you tell him he could be helping burn off Gil's energy by training him to play fetch properly, he interrupts before you can prattle on about what your books say about the benefits of fetch by reminding you that wrestling is how puppies play with each other, so that's what he will be doing.

"Besides," he affirms, scooting Gil's supine form along the kitchen tile with a heavy hand planted on the pup's bloated, exposed belly as the beast gave half-hearted nips to his owner's thick fingers, "it's good. Teaches him how tae handle rough pats and stuff, jes' in case."

"Like, in case an overeager baby pokes him too hard?"

You tell yourself you're imagining the way his shoulders tense, thick delts creeping up toward his ears. "Aye, exactly."

***

The idea for the housewarming party comes up after Gil's first obedience class, when the trainer comes around your car at the end of class to ask how you've liked it and Gil barks his head off at her from the backseat. You're shocked, having never seen him behave this way but the instructor just smiles, unconcerned.

"Do you have many guests around the house, Mrs. MacTavish?"

It takes you by surprise, realizing that you haven't really, not since the move. Behind it comes an odd sense of pride in your husband, ashamed you hadn't realized before that moment how far he's come from needing to be with the boys nearly every night. "No, not often lately."

"I see. This is pretty normal behavior for a puppy. Just a little territorial. It should be an easy fix with proper socializing, given how smart Gil here is. I'd start with having some guests over and make sure you calm that -," she motions to Gil's anxious whining from the other side of the glass illustratively, "- reaction before allowing your guests inside. I don't sense much aggression in his behavior, probably all bark and no bite," she laughs, "but do you think you'll need help?"

Ego flares hot for a second, undeserved and unaccounted for. You'd blame the strange way you've equated raising this dog with proving you're ready for a baby if you stopped to think about it for more than three seconds but you don't, too busy biting out a positive response.

Johnny takes to the housewarming party idea enthusiastically, probably happy to have this strange self-inflicted embargo on visitors lifted. You treat it all very officially, happy for the distraction amid dog walks and dog parks and dog grooming and -.

It starts with handwritten letters instead of texts, though you can't admit to yourself why until you're thumbing through your contacts list for P.O. boxes and your thumb hovers over John's name too long, the urge to call him hard to combat. You don't need the back and forth, the memory of how you'd almost kissed him still far too fresh despite how you've tried to bury it deep. You leave his invitation short and impersonal, even managing to make yourself laugh when you picture yourself spraying it with your favorite perfume like some lovesick teenager. But the invite is sealed unsprayed, and it's shuffled off into the post just as unceremoniously as the rest of them, and when John texts you days later to confirm he will be there, you note it just as mildly as the rest as well, and you lay yourself down that night with some sense of pride.

Even if you're ovulating now and your husband definitely shouldn't be letting you drift off to sleep with any dignity.

***

Years of hosting the boys for dinner should have prepared you for an evening such as this, but friendly gatherings around the tiny kitchenette of the old apartment were one thing, and the first proper dinner of your forever home was another beast entirely. It didn't help that in all your excitement of fancy proper invites you'd managed to invite Kate and her wife, though the severe woman had shown up stag and you can only imagine that meant she'd been in town on business, a fact that lends itself to the intensity with which she stands in your kitchen now, probably thinking to be congenial but only serving to make your hands shake as you pull a bread bowl from the oven under her watchful eye. You can hear Johnny greeting yet more guests in the other room, his loud boisterousness infectious enough to have the newcomers laughing with him before they'd even properly stepped through the door. You keep an ear out, asking Kate if she'd like to go say hi to the new guests when you detect the light lilt of Kyle's latest fling because you were determined to pawn her off on someone before she watched you - disinterestedly, scathingly - ruin the whole dinner because you were not made out for the cooking reality show lifestyle and you couldn't handle the pressure of her very presence.

"He'll come to me," she says mildly, sipping on her wine so elegantly it didn't even stain her teeth and you curse when she proves herself right, Kyle filtering in mere moments later as if paying respects to a mob boss. His easy charm loosens Kate incrementally, but you attach yourself to his date, Maddy, regardless, throwing yourself into her company for as long as she offers it, your little gaggle growing when your cousin joins some minutes later.

Gil trots around happily, the mild concern you'd had about his approachability dead and buried after the first guest's arrival had prompted only a singular bark before being reprimanded with a water bottle, rewarded for being calm on the second greeting with trainer treats. He'd been nothing more than a vibrating bundle of excitement ever since, wagging his tail with each new guest and chewing on the end of your aunt's ugly scarf only once. You coo at him about being a good boy whenever he deigns to approach you, but for the most part he's just happy enough to mingle, weathering clumsy pets with a dignity better suited to a much older dog. Johnny catches the impressed way you watch him at one point, nodding smugly as if he alone could take credit for the dog's behavior. The peck you press to the corner of his lips after draws hoots from his teammates when he can't let you go without a proper kiss.

John comes uncharacteristically late, though you're aware of his arrival from the moment Johnny answers the door for him like a neighboring planet with which you are locked. Orbital resonance, affecting each other before you even lay eyes on him. From the kitchen, you pretend not to listen as he greets his boys each in kind and you wonder how quickly he notices your absence, if he's calculating the appropriate time necessary to wait to come through and greet you with just as much care as you. For all the restraint you'd shown while sending his invite, now that you can hear the rough scratch of his voice in your home again, you suddenly remember it wasn't always near-misses, and you want your friend back. Want him to scoot Maddy and your cousin off to the side so he can help you put the finishing touches on the meal, or maybe distract Kate who is still having a hard time mingling with the other women .

He does neither, instead distracts himself with Gil for as long as the dog lets him, commenting to Johnny about he wasn't aware the two of you had adopted.

You nearly slice through your own finger when you hear Johnny's answering laughter over the sound of cutting chives, the way he says it was at John's own behest.

It irks you, more than it ought to. You'd joked to yourself from the beginning that you didn't believe Johnny had an idea like that in him but still, Gil has been the highlight of your days ever since Johnny had brought him home and you didn't much relish attributing the idea to John at this point, especially not after…

'John's own behest.' Where did he get off anyway?

You move through dinner with a practiced detachment - though, one you've never had to use on most of the assembled before. When he does finally come to greet you, John is put off by your careful reservedness, though he seems to be the only one to notice it, blessedly. Johnny sets the jovial tone for the night with ease, the assembled crew following after his general cheer easily. You even see Simon loosening up a bit, playing with Gil when he thinks no one is watching him. Determined to have a good time with your friends and family, you allow yourself to be carried along as well, settling in between Johnny and Kyle at the table when dinner is finally served. It's nothing terribly formal, an overflow of guests having taken up residence on the couch in the adjoining living room. When you look around you see plenty of people already eating, the din of laughter having abated a few decibels seeming to confirm that at least everyone seems to like the food enough to keep them from chattering too much, a point Johnny seconds when he doesn't sit immediately, instead deciding that was the moment to thank everyone for attending.

"Okay, sorry, this'll only take a sec, but ah jes' want tae thank everyone for coming tonight. Ah ken it's a wee bit of a trek outside the city now, afterall." Johnny pauses to allow the small crescendo of polite laughter. He seems slightly embarrassed, the apples of his cheeks ruddying under so much attention, but he did it to himself and you're not about to share the spotlight so you let him flounder, ever the better under such circumstances out of the two of you. "Honestly, though, everyone here tonight is very important tae us and I ken I speak for both me and the missus when ah say we love each'a ye's and thank ye fer always bein' there fer us." He plows over the small collection of coos from your family evidently unable to weather the storm. "An' a special thanks tae ye, cap. Wit'ou' ye talkin' some sense intae me, there never would'a even been a new house tae warm!" He holds out his glass as if to give a toast. You see a handful of people follow suit, but Johnny only has eyes for his captain, watching expectantly as the older man struggles to bite back the grimace the sergeant's words brought on. After a slight pause, John raises his tumbler stiffly and Johnny grins, seating himself with a small, pleased smile.

John avoids your eyes, long enough that the moment stretches while everyone waits to see if you'll take up the reins, or if Johnny will follow through on the toast he'd started. Distracted, you tuck your hands into Johnny's arm as if to portray the doting wife, but you remain seated, as if confused. Your voice is thin and brittle when you tell everyone to please dig in. The tension swells and ebbs, a tide brought in by a collective shrugging on shoulders, let out with a handful of awkward chuckles. Johnny seems oblivious, tucking into the spread with a borderline indecently appreciative moan. His hand finds your leg under the table, squeezes to gain your attention so he can compliment the chef. You feel vapid and airy when you tell him it was nothing really, as if you've become untethered from the scene around you. There's something you're missing, or rather something you haven't missed at all but which you refuse to look directly at.

Diagonal from where you sit, John refuses to look directly at you.

***

Without the distraction of wrapping up the meal, you're actually expected to host. A terrible development considering you're two Scottish expletives away from filing for divorce. Irritation eats at you, has you peeling absently at hangnails with too much abandon. After your second trip to the bathroom to staunch some mild blood flow and contemplate your financial standing without Johnny, you emerge to find John waiting for you in the hall, his face stern and grim, yet dire. The same expression you'd nearly kissed off of him.

You pass by him without a word when he goes to reach for your elbow.

The worst part is that none of it is even John's fault. You don't know the circumstances under which he told your husband to get his head out of his ass, but he's not to blame for the fact that it was necessary in the first place. Effect, cause. There's a whole song about it. But you don't want to be mad at Johnny for once, not after how well the two of you had been doing. Finding out Gil had been John's idea was bad enough, but that wasn't an issue in the same way knowing your husband would have been content to live the rest of your days - raise a kid - in some cramped York flat was. All the ways Johnny had changed, all the maturity he'd shown. All the reasons you'd been feeling so much more positively about your marriage as of late.

All because of John.

You're becoming less adept at hiding your frustration as the night drags on. Kate is among the first to leave but she lingers in the door, eyes hard and scrutinizing as you ramble farewells, for once too unconcerned about putting on a good face for her. It's not your smartest decision, as Kate - who has likely known something was wrong since the moment she stepped through the door - chooses then to show her hand, parting with a cryptic, 'He's no better,' before making her exit properly and the thing is, is that you know that, but without lense of Johnny's would-be recent growth to obscure them, all you can focus on are all his massive shortcomings the last few months.

He'd called buying your forever home together your solo mission, for Christ's sake. And you'd thought it was cute.

By the time the party has dwindled to the small collection of regulars, Johnny's mates, you've had just about enough of playing your role, wandering off to the kitchen without so much as an excusal. There's a version of tonight that ends with you making too much noise while cleaning up, a passive aggression that would draw the attention of the other team members who'd then filter out the same way Kate did earlier, with small, meaningless words of advice that will also go unheeded. It's hard to decide what you do want when the list of things you don't seems to go on forever, but a fight with Johnny when you're so very wound up is not a good idea and even you can recognize it in the moment.

Though there's another option, left of center.

Where before your dance with John was oppositional, it was too graceful, coordinated to be adversarial - more polar, fixed and measurable. Whatever it becomes as the night drags on is too pointed, an aggression gauged by the lack of it. John yields when you linger, follows when you need space. Peripheral presence, stalking.

So you let yourself be herded into the laundry room and you hiss and you spit but he doesn't weather it for once, instead using every opening he can find to lay blame at your feet, tell you you should have been more outright with your wants from your husband all along. You demand to know how he can say that when he of all people has known your building frustration with Johnny's disinterest in listening to your desires, and he turns it back on you by suggesting you never should have told him in the first place, should have spent all your energy learning to communicate with the man you'd said your vows to.

You surprise yourself, how low you're willing to sink. "Oh and I should take your advice on that, should I? Did you learn to listen before or after she left you?"

To his credit, John barely flinches. Or maybe he does, in his own way, such tells trained into unrecognizable ticks. John draws himself up to his full height, lets himself drift half a step closer into your space so his next words seem uncharacteristically menacing. "Your welcome for the house. Your welcome for the dog, " he snarls - sarcastic and cruel. A side of him you've always known existed but which has been carefully kept from you.

Bait is easy to spot, harder to resist. "Where do you get off, anyway, suggesting we get a dog? Afraid I can't handle a baby? Think I need some sense talked into -?"

"Of course not. I think you'd make an excellent mother. " Though his words are reassuring, his tone still falls over you like a rock slide, threatens to crush you under his frustration. "But it was either a dog or nothing because that man -," his fist clenches hard where it hovers by your ear, pointing over your shoulder in the vague direction of the living room on the other side of the wall, "- was not going to give you a baby. And I know you're lonely, so I -."

Slap.

Through the stinging in your palm, you have a brief moment of satisfaction, noting the way John indeed does flinch as you scowl up at him. "Some substitute."

If you had thought about the way you pictured this route going before setting upon it, you suppose you would have pictured a moment of stunned silence, storming past John's shocked expression, perhaps knocking your shoulder into him just to watch him sway on locked knees. But you hadn't thought it through, because you're impulsive and a fool for thinking you've known John well enough to predict him. But there's that other side of him, that side you've never seen before tonight which can call even your reckless husband to heel, out there in whatever hells they toiled under. It's that part of him who stands before you now.

John is confident where you'd expected confounded, decisive where you'd expected dazed. Your hand doesn't even make it back to your side before he's grabbing you by the wrist with a firm, callused grip and spinning you until your back rests flush against his chest, his arms wrapped around your front so he can pin you there, keep a hand planted over your mouth when he leans in to huff harsh breaths over the shell of your ear. "You're a spoiled little brat, you know that? Soap's a good lad, just needs some guidance. But you're so bloody impatient you can't wait for him to grow into it."

Protests fall flat from your tongue, get swallowed up by the firm hand which remains clamped across your jaw. John shuffles forward and you're forced to move with him, your steps clumsy and tangled with his own until he gets you hinged over the dryer, his body still flush against the back of your own. He presses close enough that his knees worm between yours, heavy boots knocking your stockinged feet aside to make room for himself. When his free hand paws across your hip to the apex of your thighs and just grips you there, your breath stutters through his fingers, heavy and humid.

"Got you a house, woman, christ , what more do you want?"

When his grip changes on your jaw, you seethe. "You know what I -."

"Yeah," John's fingers slip through your folds with slick ease when he pushes the gusset of your panties aside, his fat digit testing your cunt with barely any preamble. "I'll get you that, too."

It's rushed, skirt thrown over your hips and a few fingers to make sure you're wet enough. John's not quite as thick as your husband (a relief when you think about what it had taken to accept Johnny's fat cock in that open house quickie), but he seems to feed into you forever, forcing a place for himself so deep within you that you were certain he'd take all of you with him when he left it, all your soft vulnerable bits pulled right along behind him.

Lucky he doesn't seem to be going any time soon.

For all his rush to get inside you, John takes his time about bottoming out. Takes even longer after , pressed up flush against you with his fingers circling your clit carefully, just enough to keep you from tipping over that edge of pain. His other hand cups your breast, seems to take its measure with a satisfied huff. You wonder if he's imagining them all full and swollen, and pull a curse from him with the way your cunt flutters at the thought.

"John, we can't -."

"Really shouldn't," he agrees, but his hips have finally started moving, and he leans you further into the dryer, the hard metal biting into the plush flesh of your thighs. Your hands brace against the top of it, send some of Johnny's folded t-shirts tumbling to the floor.

"I mean it."

"'S'what you wanted, sweetheart." His next thrust scrapes along the entirety of your back wall and you can feel the way your cunt grips to keep him close. "Want this pretty pussy bred, yeah? I've got you."

Your voice is too whiny to be taken seriously when you try again, the thin sound of his name too desperate.

John's hand trails down to your belly, holds you there just as reverently as he did your tit. "Tell me you want it, sweetheart. Tell me you want to filled with my fuckin' seed."

It's not worth it to respond at first so you let yourself be carried by the slow tide of his movements, entire body rocked up and back with how deeply he fucks you. Your panting by the time the rigid line of your spine loosens with it, your head lolling back onto his shoulder so he can brush a whiskery kiss against your cheek, trailing up to your mouth. His lips are more chapped than you'd expected, his beard softer. You don't think about what it means that you'd had expectations. He tastes like smoke and burnt tea, heavy and bitter because god forbid he add any sweetener to anything. You want to sit him down at your kitchen island and make him a proper cuppa. You never want to see him in your house again.

"Don't cum inside."

A low grumble builds in his chest, like an avalanche against your back. You can hear the echo of it in his voice when his lips glide against yours, deceptively soft. "No? Don't want my baby, sweetheart?"

"John, I'm married, " you plead, though the ring you actually bothered to wear today feels more like a leash than anything now - a flimsy mark of ownership, easy enough to slip.

There's no masking the snarl in his voice this time. "Yeah, I'll fix that too."

#😦 the ending ugh so good oh my god #pricesoap x reader #price x reader #soap x reader #ahhh i love this story so much

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leftshoeuntied · 5 days ago

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Hesh x reader 2

4k | fluff, confession Who would win, a treat or one crispy fry? (part 1)

Hesh failed to hide his grin when he cracked open the Tupperware in the mess hall.

“Brought your own lunch, kid?” Merrick asked, rounding the table to sit across him.

Keegan set his tray down and took the place next to the captain. “Looks damn good. When did you start cooking?”

The lieutenant only beamed up at them. That morning, you’d told him to swing by your place to pick up the lunch you made before he left for work.

“He doesn’t cook…” Logan said, sitting next to his brother. He tilted the lid towards him, reading the sticky note.

Have a good day! you’d scrawled.

“It’s getting pretty serious, isn’t it?” He patted Hesh’s shoulder with excitement. “Good for you!”

“I guess…” he mumbled, the heat rising up his cheeks as his heart fluttered.

As he took a bite of his burrito, he might or might not have been kicking his feet under the table.

Ever since the nugget trip, a night stroll at the park became a regular occurrence. At first, he’d tell you when he was heading to the park if he got home at a reasonable time, and you’d meet him there if you hadn’t taken your pet on his walk. Eventually, he’d meet you at your building before the walks. Sometimes you’d have dinner at your place followed by a movie on the couch with you in his arms.

Between that, he took you out on dates on the weekends (he liked to think they were dates, but he didn’t dare to clarify). But you still held his hands, and he’d kiss you on the cheek at your door. He figured it was at least not platonic.

He forgot the last time he had his loaded hashbrown craving.

This went on for over a month and Hesh almost forgot his deployment was approaching. He didn’t tell you, but the dread of leaving you crept in and loomed over him, growing heavier as the day inched closer.

On Tuesday, his last night in town, he asked if he could take you to a nice restaurant at the other end of town. But you reasoned he better rest up instead of spending too long on the road, and you cooked him dinner.

He didn’t know what it was, but being with you always calmed him. Next to you, he was all smiles, even when he was just washing the dishes as you dried them.

“David?”

He turned to you, a plate in hand, mid-rinse.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes. Holy shit-“ he said under his breath, placing the plate in the sink with a thud. With a grin, he snatched and kneaded the hand towel. “Yes, of course. A thousand times yes.”

You laughed, leaning in. His tentative hands found your waist, tightening as he melted into your touch

Oh, he’d thought about this for so long. He’d imagined how soft your lips would be, how sweet you’d taste, too many times. Having his daydreams come true made him sigh and grin against your lips. Could you tell he was squealing internally?

When you pulled away, your smile mirrored his. How could he resist that kind of smile? So he leaned in again, and you fisted the front of his shirt with a giggle.

This time on the couch, you paid no mind to the movie. He preferred to look into your eyes as he held you between the kisses he peppered on your pretty face. He tried not to think too much about having to leave, but you seemed to sense his nervousness. It was something he always cherished, how perceptive you were or his mood, even when he didn’t always understand his feelings.

“You said you can still text and call, no?” You played with the hair above the nape of his neck.

“Yes, but two weeks without seeing you?” he whined.

You smiled, tracing his strong, fuzzy eyebrows. “I’ll be right here when you’re back.”

When he kissed you goodbye at your door at the end of the night, he tried to not to look like a kicked puppy as he dragged his feet to his building.

On deployments, privacy was a luxury. As he’d expected, Hesh didn’t get the chance to be on his phone often, but when he did, he’d have your text waiting, telling him how your day went. It always brought a little smile to his face.

It took too many days before he had the chance to talk to you on the phone, and even then he really shouldn’t have because of the time difference. But outside of the safehouse, he looked up the dark sky, head resting against the chipped brick wall.

“David?” you answered in a sleepy voice.

“Hi,” he breathed. “Hi, sorry I can’t call more often, and it’s always so late.”

“It’s fine. I’m just happy you called.”

The pause lingered. He basked in the comforting sound of your gentle breathing, knowing that you were there with him despite the distance. “Riley misses you.”

“I miss him too,” you cooed, and he could imagine the sweet smile that accompanied it. “And you. I miss you too.”

Your confession made his cheeks flare. “I- I miss you. Very much.”

You let out a small laugh. “I can’t wait to see you guys. Get back home safe, okay?”

You never made a fuss about his job, but it made him feel better about leaving you when you were this supportive. He too couldn’t wait to see you again and wrap you in his arms.

When the Ghosts arrived back in town, Hesh was the first one out of the base that evening, almost sprinting to his SUV. At your door, you greeted him with a big hug and he awkwardly bent down to kiss you, making you laugh. He’d do anything for the sight.

A delicious scent welcomed him into your apartment. You’d cooked for him, he discovered, as you made him wait at the table and brought out a plate of fajitas. Could you be any more thoughtful?

After dinner, with the doggos napping at your feet, Hesh cuddled you on the couch. He sighed into the crook of your neck, inhaling your comforting scent as his eyelids grew heavy.

“David?” You pulled his arm closer around your waist.

“Yeah?” he rasped.

“Do you want to stay?”

Did you really need to ask?

And that too became a routine. Once or twice a week, you’d make him lunch which he’d pick up before work. Sometimes if his schedule allowed, he’d pick you up from work. On the weekends, he’d stay over, and you would at his too sometimes. You said he could leave his toothbrush.

Growing up, Elias used to tell his boys about their mum. About how they met, the dates they went on and how it was always so easy with her. That there were no games, and he never had to wonder what he meant to her, or where he stood. He said it didn’t take him long at all to know, which was how they got married so soon and had Hesh when he was only 23.

While Logan never seemed to be very invested in the sappy stories, Hesh would always listen with stars in his eyes. These fragments painted a heartfelt mosaic of who his mum was, allowing him a glimpse of love, kindness and generosity. It brought him a lot of comfort, but most of all, his dad too, he imagined.

He wanted something like that: to have his rock, his peace no matter the chaos outside. When ODIN happened, it was as if that hope was extinguished as destruction consumed his life, but the past few months… With you, he realised the spark was never really gone.

Hesh wondered if this was what his dad experienced too, what he had always tried to describe but couldn’t.

In the rec room one Friday morning, Logan dragged his feet with a groan as he approached his brother.

“My neighbour is having a party tomorrow night. They said they’ll be done by 12, but I might as well crash at yours. Miss cuddling with Riley too.”

“Oh. Uh… She’s supposed to stay over, but yeah. Okay, I’ll can go to hers and leave you with Riley.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you embarrassed of me?”

“Will you embarrass me?”

“You know you can’t hide me from your girlfriend forever, right?”

“She’s… Not.”

He blinked. “Oh- Well, I mean if you guys are casual, that’s cool too. I don’t judge.”

“What? No, we’re not.” He added quickly, “At least I don’t think so.”

“Does she think the same?”

“I… I don’t know,” he mumbled, eyes dropping to his cup of coffee. “I hope not.”

“It’s been, what, four months? It’s probably time to talk about it, if you care about exclusivity.”

His gaze cut to him. “Of course I do! She’s the only one I want to keep seeing… But how?

“Just tell her how you feel.” Logan shrugged. “Tell her what you want with her and ask if she feels the same.”

With how disinterested the younger Walker seemed in relationships, it was starting to get uncanny how good he was at giving advice on it.

Thinking of a potential rejection was unnerving, but that evening, as usual, Hesh waited in front of your building with Riley as he fiddled with the hem of his shirt. He heard Colin’s boof first, making him turn to you. You approached with a wave and he could almost forget his unease as he smiled back. He greeted you with a kiss before taking your hand in his, holding the leash of both dogs as you headed to the park.

You talked about your day, resting your head on his shoulder every now and then with a smile. It only made him sweat more. Stop making him so nervous!

But at this rate, if he kept putting off the conversation, he’d probably end up dehydrated.

He swallowed. “I uh- I just want to say… I really, really enjoy spending time with you, and I don’t want to see anyone else.” He stole glance at you. “I want to keep seeing you.”

You placed a hand on his forearm and his gaze snapped to you.

“I don’t want to see anyone else either. I like you.”

“I like you too.” His smile mirrored yours. “A lot, actually.”

You laughed, wrapping an arm around his neck for a kiss.

When you pulled away and continued walking, he couldn’t fight the heat creeping up his cheeks as he cupped the back of his neck. “And… Logan is staying at mine tomorrow night. Is it fine we stay at yours instead?”

“Yeah, of course. I don’t mind.”

“I was wondering if you’d like to meet him too. If you want. Totally fine if not, of course.”

You didn’t have to look so pretty smiling because he couldn’t help but steal another kiss.

On Sunday afternoon, you met Logan in front of Hesh’s building. Hesh introduced you to his younger brother, while the dogs greeted each other with a boof and wagging tail.

“Nice to finally meet you.” He smiled at you before crouching over to the doggos. “And who’s this? Seems like they’re good friends!”

The Rottweiler growled at the proximity.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed with a jump.

Hesh chuckles. “It’s okay, Colin, he’s my brother,” he said, patting him on the neck which calmed him down.

“Sorry, he’s not good with strangers,” you grimaced. “Boy, be nice and let him pet you.”

Logan looked at you, then his brother and back to your dog who was now sitting and glaring up at him with his signature stoic expression.

“Yeah, no, thanks. If that’s his ‘nice’, I don’t want to find out what his ‘mean’ is.” He swatted his hand in dismissal. “He stares like Keegan – Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.

Hesh roared out a laugh. “He’ll warm up to you. Eventually.”

“Was he this way with you too?” he asked exasperatedly. As a dog lover, it must have bruised his ego to be rejected by one.

“At first, yeah. But we’re buddies now, aren’t we, Colin?” he scratched under the Rottweiler’s jaw, making him boof.

“Come, Riley, I’ll just pet you,” he huffed, a tinge of dejection in his voice. The K9 leaned onto his thigh, earning him scratches behind the ear.

The drive to the burger joint wasn’t far. You seemed a little shy as you chatted with Logan, but Hesh was just happy you finally met one of his closest people. His grip tightened around your hand.

After placing your orders, Hesh picked a table outside and looped the dogs’ leashes around the chair legs.

As you ate, the sergeant stole curious glances at Colin, who rested his head on Hesh’s thigh, ogling the fries he was munching on. Riley, on the other hand, was more subtle in his approach as he waited patiently next to Logan with his tongue out.

“You can give him one,” you encouraged.

“Hey, Colin,” Logan called, making your pup straighten up. “Here.”

He tossed a small fry which the Rottweiler chomped down on without missing a beat. He looked up at Hesh as he panted and swayed his tail, but when his gaze shifted to the other Walker, the friendly demeanour dropped, replaced by his deadpan expression again.

Logan pressed his lips into a thin line, making his brother cackle.

“He was far worse with David, being a stranger and all. At least this time he knows you’re with him and Riley.” You smiled. “So maybe the next time we meet.”

“Okay,” he said, smirking at his brother, as if pleased by the fact that he didn’t do as bad.

Little shit.

But Hesh didn’t dwell on that as he turned to you. You were thinking of next time? Was he supposed to feel this flattered at the suggestion? You smiled when his hand reached out to yours under the table.

After lunch, you headed to the nearby pet shop. Hesh decided his K9 needed more toys. Riley’s tail wagged at high speed as he led Logan to his favourite aisle. There, he diligently sniffed the rows of toys, looking for his favourite.

Hesh gestured at your dog. “He should pick one too.”

“Thank you, but you’ve spoilt him too much lately. His toy box is pouring!” You laughed, placing a hand on his forearm. “Actually, I might as well get him more food while we’re here.”

When you were out of sight, Logan pretended to dry retch. “Ugh, the way you guys look at each other is disgusting.”

He grinned. “Envy is a disease, bro.”

“Hi, welcome,” a man spoke nearby. “That’s a badass Rottie. Got a healthy coat too.”

You chuckled. “Thanks.”

“Anything I can help you with today?”

“I’m just getting dog food.”

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it was hard to not hear the exchange from the next aisle. He could even see you from the gaps of the curtain of pet leashes on the display rack.

“You already know what you want? I’ll help you carry it to the check out.”

“It’s just that one.” You pointed. “Thank you for your help.”

Your pooch sniffed the stranger, pressing his nose against his thigh, making him chuckle.

“Colin, down, boy.”

“That’s okay.” He produced a bag of treats from his jean pocket. “Can I give him a treat?”

You nodded. The man held the treat out which your pet eagerly took as his butt wiggled. He panted as his neck was scratched.

Hesh let out an offended gasp, pulling the leashes aside as he hunched over to get a better look.

What a traitor! It took him three meets before Colin stopped giving him the stink eye, but he let some random dude pet him in the first minute because of a damn treat?!

“What? What happened?” Logan followed suit, shoving his face next to his, not wanting to miss out on the scene. “No- that can’t be better than fries!”

“I’ll give you another one. Just because your smile is as gorgeous as your owner’s.”

You laughed, and Colin got another treat.

“You know, we offer free delivery in the area. But if you live a little further, you can text me and I’ll make an exception.”

Who the hell did this dude think he was, saying stuff like that when Hesh was right there!

“Thank you. That’s very kind, but don’t think that’s necessary. I live near the park.”

“No way, me too! Well, maybe I’ll catch you there one of these days. Seems like Colin wouldn’t mind us going on a walk together.” He popped another treat into the Rottweiler’s mouth with a chuckle.

It was Logan’s turn to gasp as he gripped his brother’s shoulder, inadvertently dropping Riley’s leash.

“Alright, buddy.” He tucked the treats back into his pocket and made his way over to the pile of dog food bags. ”Don’t want your pretty owner to wait too long now.”

“That’s it. You can’t be taking that!” Logan whisper-yelled. “Go assert your dominance!”

Colin, wanting more treats, barked as he tapped his feet. At the sound, Riley scurried over to his bestie with a toy in his mouth.

“And who’s this?” the staff asked, turning to the pawsteps. “Yours too?”

“Ah, this is Riley.” You picked up his leash on the floor. “He’s my boyfri- um, my friend’s dog.”

Oh?

Hesh’s stomach flipped as he barely masked his grin. He rounded the corner to the staff trying to get a good grip on the 50 lbs bag.

“Is that the one you wanted? You could have asked me to help.” He made his way towards the staff, a hand on the small of your back as he passed you. “Thanks, man. I got it,” he said, clapping the man’s back before hoisting the bag onto his shoulder in a swift motion.

He blinked. “Oh-“

The lieutenant turned to you. “Ready to go?”

You smiled, taking the arm he offered.

When Riley had picked his toy, you insisted on paying. Hesh’s hand rested on your hip, thumb caressing you mindlessly. Logan only peered at him with a shit-eating grin, perhaps a dash of pride too in his eyes. His brother had never looked so thrilled shouldering dog food to his SUV.

Riley held his new potato chew toy in his mouth the whole drive to your building. When you suggested a short walk at the park, Logan decided to tag along for some lemonade from Hesh’s favourite food truck before he headed home.

As you waited for your drinks, Colin barged between Logan’s leg, tongue out as he looked up at him with big brown eyes. The younger Walker turned to you and Hesh, brows shot up and mouth open in what could only be described as equal parts of delight and surprise. You handed him his leash with a chuckle.

He led the way back through the park with a spring in his step as he muttered something about ‘Logang’ to the panting doggos, while you and Hesh trailed behind him.

He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but under the warm sun, ice cold lemonade in hand, your reassuring hand on the crook of his elbow, surrounded by the people who mattered, it finally felt… Alright, like everything was in the right place. That despite the worst, things could be good again.

He sighed, looking ahead at the park. Green grass continued to conquer patches of soil, no matter how barren and dry. It was inescapable, like how the sun would always bless every inch of the earth with its golden glow.

It was the epitome of life - humanity, to make something out of what you had, even if only scraps. To overcome and prosper, to keep expanding and flourishing despite what stood in its way.

Your head rested on his shoulder. He smiled and kissed the top of your head.

As long as he breathed, there was still hope, no matter how tiny.

In front of Hesh’s building, you bade your goodbyes.

“Thanks again for lunch, Hesh.” Logan stooped to wrap his arms around the doggos before fist bumping them. “Colin’s my bro now. Let me know if you ever need a dogsitter,” he said to you as he straightened up. “See you around!”

As he turned to the parking lot, you headed back to yours.

Hesh rubbed your upper arm. “I hope you had fun.”

“I did. He’s funny, and you both look so much alike.” You smiled. “And I’m impressed how fast Colin warmed up to him!”

“Well, I had to start from scratch.” He shrugged.

“He still likes you better though, I’m sure,” you teased, bumping your hips against his.

“You too, I hope.”

You laughed and his heart raced again as he thought of the exchange at the pet shop.

Did you really say what he thought you said or were his ears playing tricks on him? Was that a slip of the tongue, or did you only mean to say it to get the man off your back?

Shit, he should have confirmed with Logan. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself, but the itch only worsened.

“Hey, uh…” He scratched his neck. “At the pet store, I’m not sure if I heard correctly-“

“Oh God. You heard me?” Your hand clasped over our mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I just- I mean we never talked about-“ you rambled. “It will never happen again!”

“No! That’s not what I meant.” He stopped and turned to you, meeting the panic in your eyes. His gaze dropped to his feet. “I want that. I want to be your boyfriend.”

The silence that followed only lit his face on fire – he wanted to pull his beanie over it, but when he finally dared himself to glance up, he met your soft eyes. You wrapped your arms around him.

“I hope that’s positive?” he offered.

“Yes, of course, you silly!”

“Sorry. I’d been meaning to ask, but didn’t know how. I didn’t want to be pushy or anything.” He pulled you closer. “I was trying to figure out how to ask to kiss you too, but thankfully you beat me to it.”

You pulled away, looking unconvinced. “Is there anything else you want to ask?”

“No.” He grinned.

You laughed. “Well, I hope you never have to be too shy to ask for anything again!”

“I promise.” He pressed his forehead against yours before giving you a chaste kiss.

Hesh helped with the dog food to your apartment and Colin nuzzled his stomach in thanks, earning him a chuckle and pats.

You’d changed into a more comfortable attire. When you helped him take his beanie off and handed him a change of clothes, he’d only realised how much of his stuff was there too. Including Riley’s. Two food and water bowls lay on your kitchen floor. Half of the toys in Colin’s box belonged to the German Shepherd. Behind the door, dangled a spare leash, next to his beanie you just hung.

Was this what his dad had always talked about?

Hesh thought he finally knew. About how seeing you felt like turning on a light when he got home after a long day, when he could drop his heavy bags at the door and just breathe – warm, cozy and familiar. Like the soft glow tucked deep behind his ribs.

On the couch, you laid against his chest as you both read in the comfortable silence. On the floor, the doggos busied themselves with their toys, occasionally growling in annoyance as they bounced to the other side of the room.

He placed a hand over yours. “Actually, there’s something else I want to ask.”

You tipped your head up to him expectantly.

“Are you a treat? Because you got my heart doing tricks when I see you.”

You busted out in laughter while he could only watch you with a toothy smile.

Yeah, he’d waited too long to use that line on you.

Masterlist

@tiredmetalenthusiast @eve-lie @velvetrabbitsfoot @leftshoeuntied

#oh this was so cute I loved it 😭🫶🏻#needed to read some fluff today and this was perfect #hesh x reader #david hesh walker #hesh walker #cod hesh x reader #cod hesh

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leftshoeuntied · 5 days ago

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simon riley who you meet at a bookstore, almost running into him in the narrowed aisles as you both round a corner at the same time. you start to apologize before realizing you literally have to crane your neck up to look at the man you all but crashed into - only to be greeted with a black skull mask stretching across his face. of course, you had to pick the one man in the building who looks as though he could snap you in half with his pinky finger.

but he's terribly nice about it. points to the book in your arms - a thriller, dean koontz classic - and tells you it's one of his favorites. you have to compliment his taste as well, smiling as you notice a familiar title in his hand, one that you happen to have a well worn copy of in your bookshelf at home. simon, as he introduces himself, follows you up to the register as you gush about the novel and how much you love to revisit the all too familiar words every now and again. he insists on paying for your book, lightly tugging it from your hands as you stammer about it not being necessary. maybe it's because he's been nice enough to listen to your enthused rant - or more likely the way he looks down at you with his molten copper eyes - but you don't put up much of a fight.

simon riley who walks away from the shop with your phone number scrawled inside the cover of his new book. he promises to message you soon, the corner of his mouth lifting into a devastating smirk as he turns to stride down the sidewalk. you can't help but watch after him as he leaves, somewhat in awe of the seemingly perfect man who has all but dropped from the heavens into your life. it's hard to stop yourself from smiling for the rest of your trek home. you've never had much patience for 'meet-cutes' and cheesy romance novels, but maybe - just perhaps - they may have some some verity to them.

(simon has never read a dean koontz novel in his life. he hasn't even picked up a book in years, but if that's what it takes you get you to smile that warmly at him again he'll gladly read the entirety of the british library. such a pretty thing. you couldn't have been sweeter, chirping at him excitedly about how happy you were to meet someone with such similar taste. he makes a mental note to study your bookshelf more carefully the next time he drops by, maybe write down a few more of your favorite titles to look into. it's just hard with your curtains always blocking the way.)

#oh-#oh this was so good oh my god #simon riley x reader #stalker!ghost #ghost x reader

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leftshoeuntied · 6 days ago

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just got summoned for jury duty

#leftie rambles #its fine ill go but I won't be happy

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leftshoeuntied · 6 days ago

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take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 20 / epilogue)

masterlist

Black trees against a yellow sky at evening time.

It’s late when you finally reach home. Dark enough to almost be night—a full day longer to return than it took to leave, but then you hadn’t ridden as hard coming back, too sore and sleep-deprived to manage the same pace. Even the meager sleep you got on the road was hardly sufficient.

Then the shape of your house appears on the horizon and you nearly break down in tears. The sight of it fills you with such relief that you nearly lose your balance, your head slumping forward. Too long. Days that felt like weeks, your body and mind weary from the long trek home. Against the gold of the horizon light, it appears like a boat arriving at port.

You throw yourself off your horse and to the ground before John has even had a chance himself to dismount and come help you down. He stomps over when your foot nearly catches in the stirrup, nostrils flared and mustache twitching with his scowl.

“Don’t go breaking your leg before I’ve even gotten you home,” he growls when he reaches you, fitting his hand around the nape of your neck and giving it a squeeze. You’d shiver, but your body is too exhausted for your libido to manage more than a half-hearted twitch. Instead you nod, head bobbing like a baby doll.

John takes the horses to the stables while you clamber up the stairs on wobbly legs, headed straight for your bedroom, passing out the second your head touches the pillow. Your growling stomach will have to be addressed in the morning.

You aren’t conscious for when John comes up to join you, but you swear even in sleep you can sense his presence in the room. Certainly when he curls himself around you, the wall of warmth at your back briefly making your eyes flicker open before sleep claims you again and they slide shut.

In the morning, you eat a big breakfast before letting John rub a liniment onto your inner thighs and bandage the cuts on your hands and face. The doctor he takes you to see after breakfast for the shoulder that Graves dislocated prescribes bed rest and light stretching for recovery and laudanum for any lingering pain.

“What did you tell him?” you ask when the two of you head out for a light lunch in town before heading back home.

“Told him you fell off a horse.” He shrugs. “Not that uncommon around here.”

All you can do is roll your eyes.

Still, it’s as good an excuse as any. No one questions your story when you tell it to them over the following days, when your shoulder is still too tender for you to move it too vigorously. Only Kate lifts a brow knowingly, all but cornering you for the real story when you finally get a moment alone.

“That sonuvabitch,” she hisses when you finally break and tell her what happened.

“It’s fine,” you insist, shushing her. “John… Well, John handled it.”

She nods approvingly, then looks like she might say more before thinking the better of it. Silence falls between the two of you.

“He—” you pause in the middle of your sentence, unsure of how exactly to say it. “It wasn’t so bad. Telling him, I mean.”

Kate must catch the slight inflection in your voice because she stares at you expectantly, waiting for you to say more. “…I’m happy to hear that.”

You inhale as if gathering your breath to say more, but nothing comes out. You know what it is you want to say, but it’s getting it out that’s the tricky bit. What you want to tell her is that your trust wasn’t misplaced in the end; all of your fears that the truth would shatter the affection and trust that had finally been shown to you after a lifetime of nothing were unfounded, proven ultimately wrong.

“Was there something else you wanted to add?”

You chew your lower lip.

“No. Nothing else,” you say in the end. There’ll be a time someday to tell her that her trust wouldn’t be misplaced with John or Kyle either; perhaps that day will come sooner than you expect, but for now it remains on the distant horizon. It’s not your place to lecture or admonish; your place in her life is to offer the same feeling of security and companionship as she’s offered you.

Today, you loop your arm through hers and join her for lunch.

In town, people greet you like you never left. Only one person asks you about the man you were walking with the previous day, and Kate covers for you when you stumble over your answer, throat constricting in your panic. There’s no suspicion in the question, but still you anticipate it because life has conditioned you to expect pain as a response to any action or inaction.

You are surprised when pain doesn’t come this time. But still, you are wary.

When you get home, John fills the tub with hot water for you and lets you wash up on your own while he tends to the horses, the third now unofficially his. You lean your arms over the side of the tub and drift in and out of your daydreams, ears attuned only to the sound of his voice and the owls calling from the trees just beyond the house. Eyes fluttering shut until slipping deeper into the water kicks you back into wakefulness.

“You falling asleep in there?” he asks when he stomps back inside, the door slamming shut behind him and nearly giving you a heart attack.

“No,” you deny, discreetly wiping the rheum from the inner corners of your eyes. “Just resting my eyes.”

“Of course,” he snorts. Amused as ever by seemingly anything that comes out of your mouth.

A telegram comes in to the sheriff's office some weeks later asking about a missing bounty hunter, and though you pitch forward in your chair when John tells you this, he’s quick to remind you that as far as anyone else knows, Graves moved on after his first visit a month or so back.

It takes time to reassure you, but slowly your hands unclench from the edge of your seat.

Still, you make yourself scarce for a week after that. It takes some time for you to feel safe again. You spend those first few days after hearing about the telegram constantly looking over your shoulder, plagued by the worry that you’ll be found out. Sharing your worries with John doesn’t go a long way towards alleviating them because his confidence never wavers. It’s almost infuriating.

“Would it kill you to just pretend?” you huff, cracking an egg into the skillet.

“Nobody’s gonna come looking for him here. ‘Far as anyone knows, he made his way west a long time ago,” he says, dismissing your concerns while clipping his fingernails at the kitchen table. You scrunch up your nose when you glance over your shoulder.

“You better not think I’m sweeping those up.”

He barks out a laugh at that, shaking his head at the same time.

True to his word, the front door stays shut. No one comes knocking looking for an errant bounty hunter. Perhaps that is a lesson that you can take away from all of this—that there is no reward for isolating oneself. Your safety has only ever been assured in community, in putting your trust in others and safeguarding their secrets in turn. Only love has ever held out its arms for you to fall into.

And now the days pass like clouds in the sky.

Tranquility hovers on the periphery of your life with every intention of calling out your name. It’s waiting for you with open arms.

In the evenings, John takes you upstairs to the bedroom and pries you open enough to fit himself in. His mouth blazes a trail across your body, sucking your nipples until they’re beaded, wetting his beard with the essence of your pleasure, and bringing you to the brink of completion time and again before pushing you over.

After a while, he leaves a piece of himself behind.

Weeks pass and the seasons change. The changes you notice in your body are physical as well as emotional. At some point since coming home, you must have started to unwind. Shoulders loosening up, knots melting down your back. Is it just you, or does the air smell fresher too?

You pin the laundry up on the clothesline and wait for your husband to come home. The sun sets earlier these days with autumn just around the corner. Already the leaves have begun to redden and brown, some breaking off from the branches altogether and floating to the ground where you know eventually they’ll rot and dissolve into the earth, starting the cycle of death and rebirth all over again.

Winter is fast approaching and you know this one will be tough with a little one on the way. You’ve already started preparing for the winter months—canning and storing corn and potatoes and other root vegetables harvested from your garden, making preserves from the fruits of autumn—apples and pears sealed in jars of thick syrup—and filling the cellar with barrels of salted and cured meats. In town, you visit the seamstress for clothes of thicker material and leave with an armful of wool flannel petticoats, fur-trimmed bonnets, and corsets of a heavier cotton coutil.

You rest a hand on your belly as you stare off into the distant mountains. Even the sky darkens earlier these days. When all of the laundry is pinned on the line, you pick up the wicker basket resting by your feet and bring it back inside, shuffling into the kitchen to get started on supper.

There’s still much that needs to be done before winter arrives. Firewood to be chopped, furs and blankets to be hung on the walls, the fireplace to be swept, and more. Enough to keep you busy and your mind occupied when you aren’t bent over a book because that’s also your reality these days. The librarian in town now knows you by name and knows to set aside a few books a week for you to pick up when you pass by with Kate.

You don’t think much of the knock at the door at first, absent-mindedly thinking that it must be a neighbor come to visit. Only when you open the door to an unfamiliar face do you pause.

It’s a woman, not too dissimilar in looks from you. A bit taller, but otherwise if someone were to describe you from looks alone, they might be tempted to use the same words for either of you. She stands on your porch with a suitcase held by her side, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead from the short trip from town. She dabs her forehead lightly with a handkerchief before pocketing it again.

“Hello there,” she greets, a bright smile on her face. “I’m looking for John Price. I was told he lives here?”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at her nonplussed, not understanding why a strange woman might be at your door asking for your husband in such a familiar way. It takes a moment for it to sink in. Then the light goes on and your confusion shifts to disbelief with a twinge of rage.

“We’re engaged to be married,” the other woman hurries to explain, taking a step closer, foot wedged in the door almost as if intending to barge right in.

Her gall nearly makes you lose your temper. Months ago, you might’ve welcomed her arrival, eager to prove to John that you weren’t the woman that he mistook you for so that you could be on your merry way. But that time has long since passed. There isn’t anywhere else in the world you’d rather be than here. You’ve put roots down, entrenched yourself in every way.

Your lips pull into a hard line, face set in stone. “You must be mistaken. He’s already married.”

She blinks, uncomprehending. “That’s…—are you sure? We’ve been corresponding. I know I’m a few months late, but I was held up back in—”

You cut her off by sticking out your hand, topaz ring shining bright on your third finger. “I’m sure. But thank you for stopping by; I’ll let John know you send your apologies.”

And with that, you shove her foot out with yours and shut the door on her face. On another day, you’ll allow yourself to feel guilty for your rudeness; for now, this is your happy ending to enjoy.

And savor it, you will.

#ahhh so good!!! loved this ending #felt like a perfect wrap up to their story #price x reader

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leftshoeuntied · 6 days ago

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☾ VICE ☽

A love triangle between König x Simon Riley x You

I kept you as my secret…you kept me as your oath

MDNI ta xox

- The prologue

- In the beginning

- Bruises and blood

- Truce

- Friendship

- Aria

- Devotion

- Our Second Honeymoon

- London

- Bloodhounds

- Our Love is a Game I Lose.

- A Slow Death

- Hunted

- Score to Settle

- Epilogue

Inspired by this ask

The vibe

The playlist

For discourse look at the tag vice spoilers

The sequel; Vow

#read this series today and oh my god #so good i was so invested #like I don’t think I can even put into words how much I liked it but prepared for heavy angst #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #könig x reader

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leftshoeuntied · 8 days ago

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dilf gaz? dilf gaz.

#pls I love him #gaz #kyle gaz garrick #firm believer he would be the best all around dad

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leftshoeuntied · 8 days ago

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I'm having thoughts about graves with a small dick!! im just. imagine this cocky bastard, always intimidating you with his height and built, always acting arrogant around you, telling you that he'll fuck you so well once he gets his hands on you.

and when he finally does? it's tiny. he's fucking reluctant to actually take his pants off and show you what he's got. he's all red and embarrassed when he sees the look on your face, he knows he's been acting far too cocky about everything. and now here he is, you sitting on his bed with a suppressed smirk.

#no you’re so right #I agree w the prev tags that it’s not even a big deal #or an issue but I can picture it being such a big deal to him #graves #graves x reader

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leftshoeuntied · 8 days ago

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take me home, country road

[ao3]

masterlist

A blood-orange sun hangs low in the sky.

You might think it ominous on any other day, but not this one. What more adversity could stand in your way?

Instead of sharing a saddle with John, you ride the same horse that Graves rode out of town. Days spent on horseback have finally caught up to you, pain radiating up and down your legs, a soreness embedded deep in your inner thighs, the skin positively chafed from the constant friction. At least you no longer have the handcuffs digging painfully into your wrists, the metal cuffs long since unlocked using the key in Graves’ pocket and discarded, now lost some acres back for the coyotes and the hares to prod at and sniff.

You drift in and out of conscious awareness, coming back into your right mind every mile or so, losing track of time along the way. Sometimes you blink and trees disappear out of sight, already ten miles back. Scouring the landscape for something familiar only to come up empty.

Recent events lour over your conscience. It’s difficult not to let it get to you. So much has happened in such quick succession that part of you still thinks you’re dreaming in the abandoned shack with Graves sleeping just a few feet away.

A distinct sound scrapes against the inner recesses of your mind and eardrum. If you were to look behind you, you’d find the source of it wrapped in a shroud and dragged behind John’s horse. Drying blood stains the fabric. The head, obscured under the fabric, jostles from side to side as it passes over rocks and undergrowth.

It’s beyond you now though, the future shuttling forward at an unfathomable speed and taking you with it, willing or not. The world hurrying on to repeat its past mistakes.

So you don’t look behind you.

“Won’t be much longer,” your husband murmurs from beside you, speaking just loud enough for you to hear him over the influx of thoughts in your head, which rapidly empty out at the sound of his voice.

“We can stop for a break after?” you ask, turning your head enough for your eyes to land on the hard, bristled line of his jaw. He nods.

“Just gotta get this part out of the way.”

He says it so casually, like a bit of unpleasantness that has to be dealt with; no way around it. Unfortunately, a body isn’t something that can be just swept under the rug. No matter how much your muscles beg for a moment’s reprieve, you won’t get it until all the loose ends are tied up.

“How do you know the land around here so well?” you ask as John leads the two of you deeper into the plains.

“The boys and I have been out here before. Grew up in this county anyway; been wanderin’ these parts since I was born.”

You can’t imagine John as a young boy, uncertain of his place in the world. He seems like someone who emerged from the womb ready-made, already able to skin a deer and build a bushcraft shelter by hand. But he must have been young at one point.

Finally, he comes upon a suitable place to bury the body.

Deep in the wilderness, he digs a shallow grave with the short shovel strapped to his horse, sweating up a storm before the hole is big enough to bury the body. You dismount your horse and wander off while John handles the burial.

This is the part where you have to turn away and pretend it isn’t happening. You stave off the urge to plug your ears and close your eyes. Dogear any page in your life except this one. This is the only memory that you want to fade into obscurity, pretend that it never happened, that this was some bad dream that you only half-remember twenty years from now.

You glance back only once to find John breathing heavily at the edge of the hole, having just hauled himself out. Sweat slicks his brow and drips down the side of his face near his temple, a dark flush spreading over his cheeks from exertion. Even his shirt is damp with sweat under the pits and around the collar.

You force yourself to look away. Now is not the time for your libido to trouble you.

Graves’ body lands with a dull thump when John rolls it into the makeshift grave. You bite your lip and let your eyelids slide shut. Then he starts the process of covering the body, shoveling the dirt back into the hole. It takes a while. An offer to help hovers on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t quite make yourself say the words.

A half hour later, it no longer matters, the hole covered until the only thing demarcating the grave is the layer of upturned soil, slightly darker than the dirt in the surrounding area.

“That’s it,” John announces, making his way back to you with the shovel slung over his shoulder. You can smell the ripe scent of sweat wafting off him even from a foot away. “Let’s head out; we’ll wanna make camp before it gets dark.”

You don’t answer. Not verbally anyway. The guilt almost makes it hard to breathe. In all your stupidity and poor decision-making, you’ve inadvertently made John an accomplice in your crimes; forced him, in fact, to commit one as heinous as the one that had started this whole debacle.

You travel the next mile in relative silence, scouring the landscape for a neat patch of land to set up camp. The sun plummets towards the ground at a faster and faster pace until it’s tugged below the horizon, vanishing with a green flash. Then it’s too dangerous to keep going, the way back far too dark to keep traveling down.

John builds a small fire after tying up the horses for the night. The temperature drops exponentially as the sky darkens, the cold sinking low to the ground. You help with gathering the kindling, mostly twigs and clumps of dry grass, then take the packs off both horses to use as makeshift seats by the fire, unrolling the sleeping bags as well.

It comes as a relief to finally sit down after the fire is struck. Rest is a double edged sword though; the longer you sit with Graves’ old pack propping you up, the more the pain has time to sink its claws in deep.

In the hours since he shot Graves, neither of you have spoken more than a few words to each other. You certainly haven’t brought it up. The memory of Graves revealing the truth of what you’d done back east to John looms over you. It’s inevitable that you’ll talk about it eventually though. It’s heavy in the atmosphere, almost oppressive; the weight of everything said and unsaid. You can’t take back what Graves revealed to John. At some point you’ll have to face it.

At what point will you have to beg for forgiveness? It sits on the tip of your tongue.

The small fire crackles in front of you. Red tongues of flames lick at the darkness, the light extending out in a circle around the two of you. You’re grateful for the warmth though, particularly after spending the previous night in the cold. ��

“Nothing to eat, m’afraid,” he says apologetically, brow creasing. “I didn’t exactly pack before coming after you.”

You shake your head. “That’s fine. I’m not hungry anyway.”

In a few more hours, you might work up an appetite again, but for now, you couldn’t be further from it. All you want to do is lie down on your bed back home and sleep through to the next day.

“Yeah,” John sighs. “Me neither.”

He picks up your hand and holds it in his for a time. It’s strange how such a small gesture has become such an immense comfort for you. You wish you could thread your fingers through his and bring his hand up to your lips to kiss all over, but you’re too tired for a gesture of that magnitude.

When he lets go of your hand, it’s only to transfer it to your face. His thumb runs over your split lip, pulling away when you wince. “Looks like it’s healing on its own.”

“That’s good,” you mumble. “…It hurt a lot more yesterday.”

John’s nostrils flare. The fire reflects off his eyes in such a way that, for a moment, it almost looks like it’s coming from within him. “I’d kill him again if I could.”

Your stomach clenches at the ferocity behind his words.

“You—you shouldn’t have done it in the first place,” you croak. “Not when he was—” right, you don’t say. Right to haul you out of town by your hair and drag you back to the scene of the crime, back to pay for what you’d done.

“Now I ain’t gonna hear you go spoutin’ that horseshit,” he growls, clasping you by the back of your neck and tugging you to his side. It’s so sudden that your butt skids across the ground, raking up a small mound of dirt with the weight of your body.

You look away, unable to meet his eyes even as he pulls you forward until you’re nearly nose to nose. “It’s not—”

“Yes, it is, darlin’. That shit weren’t none of your fault. You ain’t done a thing wrong by keeping yourself safe.”

It’s almost hard to hear. It’s taken you months to scrub the dirt from your soul, which until recently was raw to the touch and pained you to even think back on. And the hopelessness. And the longing, the irreversibility of it; irreversible in the way that you couldn’t turn your pain inside out. You could never go back to the way things were because the only way out was to keep on trudging forward.

Like rain in a drought, you’ve been missing someone’s mercy. You’ve been waiting for someone to come and forgive you for your sins; someone to absolve you of them.

You lean forward, burying your face in his neck. Not making much of a sound except for a harsh exhale, your throat quavering with something unsaid.

Then you grip him by the back of his shirt and pull him to the ground with you.

Out in the open like this, John doesn’t dare remove your clothes, but he does reach beneath your dress to pull off your underclothes. He’s silent through it all, eyes fixed on yours. Never wavering or dropping your gaze. It’s intoxicating to be stared at with such a fierce intensity. Vaguely overwhelming, the sensation creeping up your chest and lodging in your throat.

The light of the fire he built for the two of you flickers across his skin, illuminating his face in shades of orange and gold.

He holds your gaze when he rucks the skirt of your dress up and crawls down the length of your body until his mouth is level with your center, slick already dripping from your sex. Your breathing goes haggard, anticipating his mouth before it’s suddenly there between your thighs, planting a gentle kiss on your inner thigh before dragging his lips over your sensitive skin until they brush your clit. Your mouth opens to a soundless gasp. Electrical impulses travel up your spine, your arching back following their trajectory.

He pulls back to stare at your dripping hole. “Missed me, my love?”

You’d answer if you could form words, but then you realize who he’s talking to and your mind goes blank.

When he runs his tongue up the seam of your pussy, you jolt, legs slung over his shoulders kicking at the air. He eats you out with gusto, with reverence, sighing into your pussy that it’s been too long, that he’d worried himself nearly half to death over you.

Rough hands hold you by your waist and pull you down onto his face. Long, crude licks of his tongue, rubbing the flat of it over your clit until you’re a roiling, twisting hotbed of pent up arousal.

The urge to suppress your noises is almost overwhelming. When you twist your head from side to side, there’s nothing but miles of land; trees and shrubbery and a deep, impenetrable darkness. Not another person around for miles. It makes you shiver when you stare out into it.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—” you gasp, chest getting tighter and tighter until you expect it to burst but it doesn’t. It stays all pent up, all itchy and scratchy and you can feel the sweat slicking the small of your back and the blood furiously rushing to your cheeks, heating you up from the inside out. Sweat-laden and flustered.

Your toes curl in your boots, throat tightening up the closer it gets. All it takes to push you over the edge is John cupping his hands under your butt to tilt your hips up, licking you from hole to hole. The impertinence and thrill sends a rush through your body, the coil in your belly twisting and releasing, core pulsing around nothing. Your body gives a violent jolt when he gives your clit one last wet, suckling kiss.

“Are you comfortable like this, darlin’, or should I wait until we’re home?” John asks when he positions himself over you again, beard still wet with your desire and a big hand cupping the front of his trousers. You stare down at the hair dusting his knuckles and the bulge straining against his pants.

The shadows make it seem even larger than usual. Your throat goes dry the longer you stare down at where he fists his length through his trousers.

“Darlin’?” he repeats, drawing your attention back up to his face.

“Oh?” you ask, cheeks heating. “I’m, um…I’m quite comfortable.”

It seems absurd to have such a conversation when your husband’s hand is reaching into his trousers to pull out his cock and fuck you with it, but the nervous tickle in your belly is far from unpleasant.

He’s so careful with you, cognizant that your muscles are already sore and aching from days of being on the road and the abuse Graves put you through. Gentle hands maneuver your legs around his hips and move your hair from your face. Again your belly flips.

Your grunt is involuntary when he first pushes in, walls stretching around the head of his cock. It hasn’t been long enough for the blunt intrusion to be painful, but it’s overwhelming all the same. You wince and grimace through it all.

“Easy does it. You’re alright,” John shushes when you whimper, rough hand cupping your cheek. It sends a thrill down your spine, but doesn’t lessen the intensity.

He stays like that for a time, hovering over you and stroking a thumb over your cheekbone until you relax around his girth, gradually finding your breath again. In and out; one after the other. When he pulls his hand away, it’s to plant his forearms on the ground beside your head and grind his hips forward, taking your breath away.

“Oh Lord,” you wheeze, then brace your hands around his neck.

“You’re doing great, darlin’. Just hold on; I’ve got ya.”

It’s nothing like the times before; your arms link around his neck and your breath goes shallow, hitching with every measured thrust. It’s too much and not enough. You feel windswept and battered, bruises smarting now that you’ve had time to feel them, but still you need more from him.

He works himself into the wet flex of your pussy with slow, heavy thrusts. Taking his time. Not rushing it just yet because though the threat of you being taken from him still looms over his head, he’s sated his bloodlust. His reassurance now comes in the form of your legs spread to receive him and the fat head of his cock fitting snugly in you.

The heels of your boots press firm against the flesh above his buttocks. Taking him this way with your clothes still on feels debaucherous, filthier than usual; like you were so desperate to have your husband inside you, that you couldn’t even be bothered to remove your garments.

He must feel the way that thought heats you up because he rasps, “Need a lil somethin’, love?”

Before you can even answer, he’s reached a hand down and tucked it between your thighs to strum the tight bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex.

“John—”

Your fingernails must dig into the back of his neck because he grunts. Serves him right, you think, digging your nails in all the harder when grinds a knuckle against your clit and you briefly see stars.

You’re splintering down to the root, coming apart in his hands like clay; when he says your name, the darkness fades and for a moment, you’re in the light, a shaft of it haloing your face. Chasing it no matter how fast it runs. A hare in a snare, a shadow captured in the palm of your hand.

It comes fluttering down from somewhere beyond sight. Gasped out in another voice, a truer voice. From the depths of you, true as stone and air.

“I love you.”

Give it time and it’ll come naturally. Now, it comes as a gut punch. Even John stills over you when he hears the words, and you can feel the shudder that runs through him under your fingertips. There’s no time to sit and talk about it though, not with the frenzy that comes over him, blue eyes glazed over by a manic glint.

He braces one hand on the top of your head and surges forward, so rough with you that your teeth clack together, eyes rolling back in your head.

“Say it again,” John growls, leaning down until his mouth is right next to your ear.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—”

Then it hits you. A wall of heat. Your belly rolling and cheeks burning, walls squeezing around John’s cock, tighter with every thrust. You yelp when he lifts himself off you to yank the skirt of your dress up higher and presses his hands to your inner thighs, spreading your legs wider for him. Bullies his cock into your channel even as you try to squeeze him out, pounding into you until the lurid torrent of words spilling out of his mouth go slurred and his release floods into you, his hips slapping against yours until he’s emptied the last of his spend into your womb.

It’s a while before either of you can move after that. Your energy melts into the ground like rainwater, purifying the earth. Maybe life is already germinating beneath you, grass seedlings about to burst from the dirt, flower buds curled up in tight coils until they’re ready to bloom.

Your hands shake when you lift one up to wipe the sweat from your face.

When he finally pulls out of you, the feeling of his come leaking down your inner thighs makes you fussy. You lift your thighs just enough to let him pull your drawers back up before lying back down, no energy left in you to do more than that. You only scrunch your nose a little at the feeling of your combined juices already wetting the gusset.

Time seems to come apart and then piece back together. You roll over onto your side and nestle up against John’s chest, staring up at him wordlessly. His eyes stay shut for some time until he feels your stare on him and they peel open, the color of his irises barely discernible in the flickering light.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” he asks in a tone so devoid of accusation or condemnation that you’re almost thrown by it. He says it like it’s just another day, like something horrible and monumental didn’t just happen.

It takes you a while to find the words. Even when you do, they come out jumbled and disjointed. “How long have you…—when did you find out?”

“‘Bout what happened back East?” he clarifies, blunt as usual.

The question makes you swallow impulsively, anxiety secreting from you again. “Yes.”

John looks up into the dark sky, quiet for a spell. “Not until recently. The arrest warrant drifted across my desk probably around the time Graves first stopped by. Wasn’t hard to put two and two together after that—you showing up in a tizzy around the same time as the warrant was issued. General description matched as well.”

You feel a bit foolish in retrospect, certain that you were getting away with it all this time.

“You know my name.”

“I do.”

“My real name.”

“In a manner of speaking. Got yourself a new last name since then though, didn’t you?”

Your lips pull up at the corners involuntarily. “Yes. I guess so.”

You can almost hear it now. The penultimate note of the overture writhing against convalescence like you might stay this way for a second longer. But it isn’t right to keep feeling the same old pain. At some point, it has to heal.

“Hey,” John says, giving your shoulder a little shake to draw your attention back to him. The look in his eyes is serious. “This is as far as the story goes, alright?”

You stare up at him silently until you nod against his chest.

“You’re my wife. End of story. The rest ain’t anyone’s business but ours.”

Off in the distance, an owl hoots, and its call hits your ear as a distant evocation to sleep. You press one last kiss to his chest before rolling off him, letting him put the fire out before the two of you turn in for the night, and then drawing a blanket over the both of you.

And then, you go to sleep.

#price x reader #ugh so good i love them 🫶🏻🫶🏻😭😭

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