ryuzakemo128

[ryuzakemo128]

LOW COUNTRY | SPLIT RAIL

johnny mactavish x reader

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18+ | am i making you feel sick?

Neither of you speaks a word about what happened. 

The air between you is thick with it—heavy, like something unspoken but undeniable. It hangs there like the warm aftershocks of a lightning strike—soft crackles that continue to illuminate the sky. Neither of you needs to say anything to feel it. The space between you, once too wide and too stiff, has shifted somehow. That awkward distance, the quiet tension that used to feel like a constant hum in the back of your mind, has melted away. It’s replaced by something softer, something so effortlessly natural that it’s almost jarring.

After the storm, everything changes between you and Johnny. Not in some dramatic, earth-shattering way, but in a quieter, more intimate manner. It’s like the two of you were holding your breath for too long, and once that storm passed, you could finally exhale. 

Johnny’s hands are everywhere now. At first, it’s subtle, almost imperceptible if you didn’t know him and all of his quirks as well as you do. The first time you really feel the change, it’s the same evening as the kiss. You're standing by the counter in the kitchen, reaching for a cup in the cabinet. As you straighten up, his hand gently lands on your hip, steadying you. It’s the kind of touch that could have been casual, that could have been accidental, considering he’s always in the kitchen with you. But the way his fingers linger just a moment too long tells you it’s not. You glance at him, and there’s something there, something that wasn’t there before. His eyes don’t leave you like he’s waiting for you to catch him, like he wants you to notice. And you do.

Then, the next day, you're walking past him in the barn as he grooms Scout, carrying a bucket of grain for the horses. You stumble over a stupid crack in the floor that you could’ve sworn you fixed. You almost eat concrete when Johnny’s hands find your waist—just a brief, gentle pressure there, holding you up without so much as a second thought. His instincts are shocking, but you don’t say anything, and he doesn’t either. Still, the action speaks volumes. His touch is always close now—hand on the back of your chair when you sit down to eat—your thigh if he’s feeling rather libertine. Fingers gently massaging the back of your neck or  shoulders after a long day. Little things, but they feel monumental.

You start to notice how often he’s in your space; how often he’s just… there now. 

After a long day of tilling and rooting in preparation for the colder weather, you decide to haul up in the crop barn. The tractor, rusty and dilapidated, has been sitting there for what feels like half your life. It’s a relic, and you’ve always meant to get it working again. But truth be told, it’s always been a little too much to tackle on your own. Still, you figure it’s about time to get it running so you and Johnny won’t have to keep fighting over the one good tractor you share.

You know enough about maintenance to get by, but that doesn’t make it any easier. The thing is heavy—every wrench you turn feels like a battle. Hours pass, and nothing much changes. It’s frustrating as hell, and the sweat dripping from your forehead feels like a reminder of just how hard you’ve been working. You take a step back, wiping your hands on your jeans, and look over the mess of metal and parts.

And that’s when you hear it—a slight creak in the barn door, barely audible over the hum of the evening air. Before you can turn around, you feel it: a pair of arms sliding around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. Johnny’s chin rests on your shoulder as he breathes you in, his lips pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your neck.

You let out a breathy laugh, shifting slightly. “I smell. Like really bad. Like oil-and-diesel bad,” your voice light, but tired.

He chuckles softly, his grip tightening just a little as he presses another kiss to the nape of your neck. “I love it,” he hums, his tone low and warm, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You roll your eyes at his reply but can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

Johnny pulls back, finally letting you go, and you turn to face him. He rounds to the front of you, slipping his arms around you with ease. You rest your head on his chest, your arms wrapping around his torso, holding him close. You close your eyes for a moment, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“How was your day? The animals?” you ask, voice soft, as you feel the steady rhythm of his breathing against you.

“All fine, lass,” Johnny murmurs, his hand coming up to rub your back in a gentle, comforting motion. “But I’ve been missing ye, won’t lie.”

You feel warmth spread through your cheeks at the simple confession; the way his voice always seems to carry that quiet need for you. You laugh softly and look up at him, “You’re always missing me, Johnny,” you tease, the words feeling almost like a reflex.

Johnny pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, “Yeah? Well there’s a lot worth missing,” he tilts his head with that signature smirk. “Ye missing me too, pretty?”

Your heart stutters in your chest, the way he looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars—it makes you melt. 

“Day and night, hun,” you murmur as you slip your arms around his shoulders, tugging him down to your level, pressing your lips to his.

The kiss is slow at first, the chastest kiss you’ve probably shared to date. But in Johnny™ fashion, it deepens infinitely, his hand skating its way to the scruff of your neck, pulling you closer, and suddenly the tractor, the oil-streaked mess of metal, the dull ache in your muscles from hours of work—becomes second place in your mind. Johnny has a way of making everything come second. Becoming your number one. 

His other hand slithers down your back, pulling you flush against him, and you don’t think twice about it. Every inch of space between you disappears. And in that moment, nothing else matters—not the tractor, not the work, not the world outside. 

You’re just as bad as he is when it comes to the touching— the way you can’t seem to peel yourself off him. The first time you really notice it, it hits you like a damn freight train. You’d always stared at him before, but always bashfully and never longer than a few moments. But now, you’re sitting on the back porch, the brisk humidity hanging thick in the air, watching Johnny work with the horses out in the pasture. The man’s a goddamn sight—sweat beading down his back,  broad shoulders and back muscles rippling with every movement. 

You tell yourself you’re just admiring his work, like you usually do, but deep down you know that’s a load of bullshit. You’re not even pretending to be subtle anymore. Your eyes follow his every movement, drawn to the curve of his biceps as they shift, the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest. Your breath catches in your throat, and your fingers twitch, wanting nothing more than to touch him.

Heat spreads across your cheeks, creeping up your neck, and you fucking hate how much you want him—how it’s impossible to ignore it now. The urge is burning, primal, and you’re trying to fight it, but you know it’s a losing battle. Every second you watch him, the harder it gets to resist.

Johnny’s presence is a constant now, a part of every step of your daily routine. It’s quite sickening, actually.

You fall into a quiet rhythm together, your lives tangling in ways that feel both effortless and inevitable. Mornings start the same—brushing your teeth side by side at the sink, nudging each other with sleepy elbows, and sharing the mirror as you get spiffed up for the day. You pass him a clean shirt while he buttons his jeans, and he smooths a hand over your hair when you grumble about it being tangled. It’s domestic, almost too easy, but you don’t question it.

Chores are no longer a solitary effort. You help him with the animals, trading the milking pail back and forth, while he lends a hand in the berry fields, listening as you rattle off the different types you grow. He takes it seriously, too, nodding along and repeating their names under his breath like he’s committing them to memory.

“I ever tell ye ‘bout the time I ate the wrong berries?” he asks one afternoon, crouching down beside you as you inspect the bushes.

You glance at him. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” He grins, plucking a berry between his fingers. “Accidentally ate somethin’ poisonous, hallucinated my way through an entire mission. Thought my team was speakin’ in riddles the whole time.”

You laugh. “Did they know?”

“Oh, they knew. Had tae carry me out before I walked straight into enemy territory.” He shakes his head, tossing the berry back into the dirt. “Simon never let me live it down.”

Evenings are spent in the kitchen, where you’ve taken it upon yourself to teach him how to cook. Properly. Pa was a lost cause after Ma passed—barely knew how to do more than fry an egg—but you refuse to let Johnny suffer the same fate.

“Alright,” you say, standing behind him, guiding his hands as he kneads dough for bread… He’s doing less kneading and more—stabbing. “Loosen up a bit, you’re strangling it.”

He huffs. “Feels like I’m doin’ surgery.”

“Well, it’s not that serious,” you tease, resting your chin on his shoulder. “But you’re getting better.”

In exchange for cooking lessons, Johnny gives you glimpses into the life he left behind. Some things you already knew or would have guessed—his military background, the dangerous things he’s done. But other things take you by surprise.

Apparently, he was a big deal in his line of work, the kind of soldier that people whispered about. He knows a hell of a lot about bombs, casually dropping knowledge about explosives while you’re stirring stew, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, all while you stare at him like he has a third head.

And then there’s his family.

“They’re still back in Scotland?” you ask one night, sitting cuddled up on the porch with him, a cool breeze rolling through.

Johnny hums, staring out into the distance. “Aye. Not that they’d care if I was here or there.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

He shifts, rubbing at his jaw. “Unofficially disowned me after I left to support Iraq in the war.” His voice is quieter like it’s something he doesn’t talk about often.

You see the way his shoulders go tight, the flicker of something pained in his eyes. Instead, you just reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

He squeezes your hand, offers a small, tired smile. “Nothin’ tae be sorry for, lass. Just how it is.”

You asked him how he got here—not because you weren’t curious, but because his lips quivered and pressed into a firm line at the mention of his family, and you didn’t want to push him into something that hurt.

It works, though. His expression shifts, the tension easing as he huffs a small laugh. “Here-America? Or here-here?”

“Both.”

“I just couldn’t see anythin’ else for myself back there,” he admits, rolling a toothpick between his fingers as he stares out at the horizon. “Back home, it was all I knew—army, war, the next mission, the next fight. There wasn’t any out for me; not really.”

You watch him, the way his jaw tightens, his gaze distant.

“So you left,” you say softly.

“Aye. Medically discharged—nothin’ physical, just… head wasn’t right anymore.” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Knew if I stayed, I’d end up goin’ right back, findin’ some other way to keep doin’ what I was doin’. I needed distance. Needed tae be somewhere new, somewhere quiet.”

You picture it—Johnny boarding a plane with nothing but a duffel, fifty bucks, and the weight of his past pressing down on his shoulders. The kind of loneliness that must’ve followed him across the ocean, the uncertainty of it all.

“But you made it work,” you say, nudging his knee with yours.

He glances at you, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Aye, I did.”

You tilt your head, giving him a knowing look. “And you found your way here.”

His smile softens. “Aye.” He brushes a loose strand of hair from your cheek. “Found my way here. Tae ye.”

Your chest tightens, warmth spreading through you.

“I’m glad you did,” you murmur.

“So am I,” he says, gently stroking his thumb over your thumb.

You don’t need to say anything else. Instead, you nuzzle into his shoulder, letting the night settle around you, the crickets filling the silence where words aren’t needed.

It’s the dead middle of October. The nights are cooler now, around 50 degrees, if you’re lucky.

It’s late, much later than you realized, and after a long day of work, everyone’s finally winding down. Pa’s already long gone to bed, the old geezer always hitting the hay right after dinner, his heavy snores echoing from his room across the house. You’re in bed, the cotton t-shirt you threw on barely covering your body, just enough to keep you decent as you sit cross-legged, scribbling out a grocery list for Johnny to pick up from town tomorrow. The soft hum of ‘Can’t Stop The Thing We Started’ by Bryan Adams plays faintly in the background, coming from the cassette player in the corner of your room.

You glance at your little analog clock on the nightstand, ‘10:24 PM’ glowing softly in the lamp light. It’s getting late, and you know it’s time to call it a night. You stand, stretch your arms above your head, and make your way to the door, deciding to brush your teeth before bed. 

You open the door and across the hall to the bathroom. You put your hand on the doorknob, but as you move to turn it, the door flings open. 

Right there in front of you stands Johnny, fresh out of the shower, a towel wrapped low around his hips. His skin glistens in the low light, drops of water still trailing down his chest, and all you can think about is how the hell you’re not supposed to give him a reason to take another shower.

For a second, neither of you speaks. He’s just standing there, water dripping from his hair, looking like he belongs on the cover of a magazine, while you’re standing in your underwear, caught between the shock of the moment and the overwhelming urge to just... devour him.

“Shit, sorry,” Johnny mutters, voice rough as he adjusts the towel. Droplets of water slide down his chest, catching on the faint trail of hair at his navel leading… south.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you say, but your voice betrays you—too breathy for your own good. Your pulse hammers against your ribs as your eyes rake over him, drawn in like a moth to an open flame. You should look away. You don’t.

He shifts his stance, and the towel dips just enough to make your breath hitch. Heat licks down your spine, a slow, creeping thing, pooling low in your stomach. Johnny notices, because of course he does. The ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips, and when he cocks his head, water-darkened strands falling into his eyes. It’s almost like he’s daring you to keep looking.

You step back a little to give him room to move, but he just follows you, stepping into the hallway. 

He’s dripping all over the hardwood, but neither of you care. His chest rises and falls, slow and steady, and you can’t stop your eyes from following every drop of water that glides through the valley of his abs. But when your gaze flickers back up, his eyes are shamelessly locked onto your underwear—like a schoolboy catching his first glimpse of a shoulder and forgetting how to blink—memorizing the way it hugs your hips, and the softness of your thighs all on display for his famished eyes.

His tongue darts out, swiping over his bottom lip like he’s suddenly parched.

“What’s the plan, then?” Johnny drawls, eyes still audaciously drinking you in. “Ye gonna stand there all night, or were ye hopin’ I’d make it worth yer while?”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly arid. “I— I was just gonna brush my teeth…”

He knits his eyebrows, twitching with a feigned frown like he feels bad for you. “That so?” He leans in just a fraction, voice dropping to something dangerous. “Looks tae me like ye want somethin’ else in yer mouth.”

That does it. You grab him by his obnoxiously large shoulders and pull him toward you, lips crashing together as he smirks like he was banking on this happening. He places one hand on your waist, pulling you closer, his body warm against yours. His free hand cups your neck, thumb brushing your pulse, making it hard to think straight.

You pull him by his towel, your fingers gripping the soft fabric as you lead him back toward your room. His kiss deepens once he realizes what you’re doing, the pressure of his lips insistent, demanding. You move with him, hands running over his chest, feeling every muscle tense beneath your touch, his body now fully pressed into yours. The sound of your breath mingles with the music playing in your room as you enter.

You tug at his hair, pulling him closer as if you could get any closer than you already are—noses smushed so close it nearly hurts the both of you. But it feels like you could just keep pulling, keep kissing, keep getting lost in him forever. Johnny’s hands move down to your waist, gripping tight, fingers digging into your skin as if to make sure you’re real.

And when he pulls back, just enough for your lips to part, he looks at you like he’s finally found what he’s been searching for. His eyes are darker, filled with something deeper, something more than just hunger. When he sees that you want it just as bad as you do, everything else disappears.

Johnny’s hands are on your waist, gripping tight, and then he picks you up. A surprised gasp slips from your lips, but he doesn’t give you time to react before he’s striding straight into your room, quietly shutting your door, and tossing you onto the bed like one of those hay bales he throws around all day.

The mattress dips beneath you as he follows, caging you in, his body warm and solid above yours. His hands roam, tracing over the soft fabric of your shirt, pushing it up just ghost the calloused tips of his fingers over your soft tummy. His lips find yours again, ardent as ever. You can feel the heat rolling off him, the want, the frustration of waiting.

But then, just as his hands start slipping lower, your breath hitching at the way his fingers graze your hip, you pull back slightly.

“Wait—” you whisper against his lips, and he stills immediately, blue eyes flicking up to meet yours.

You swallow, trying to steady your voice. “Do you have a condom?”

The way his face drops is hilarious. He exhales sharply, pressing his forehead against yours, shoulders sagging like you just told him Christmas was canceled.

“No,” he mutters, voice thick with frustration. He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face before flopping onto his back beside you, arm thrown dramatically over his eyes.

You can’t help but giggle at how defeated he looks.

He peeks at you from under his arm. “D’ye think if I run tae town right now, the shop’ll be open?”

You snort. And you thought you had it bad. “Johnny, it’s nearly midnight.”

He groans, falling back against your pillows, but when you curl into him, resting your head on his chest, his whole body seems to relax. His arm comes around you, pulling you in tighter, his fingers running slow, lazy circles over your back. You can’t help but silently gawk at the massive tent in his towel, your mouth suddenly salivating.

You do have it bad.

You look up at him, “... What if you pull out?”

He chuckles, his lips brushing against your forehead in a soft kiss, “‘S been… A while, love. Not gonna trust my game.”

You let out a small laugh, the tension between you easing just a little. It’s been a while for you too, longer than you'd care to admit, but you don’t press the matter further. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice soft, almost like you’re thinking out loud. 

The conversation fizzles out, but the air remains comfortable. His body presses into yours, warm and firm, and you can't help but let yourself settle deeper into him. He holds you with such ease, as if this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Your fingers trail idly along his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your touch. His hand slides down your back, fingers brushing the curve of your spine, grounding you further in the shared quiet. The comfort of it all is enough to make you close your eyes for a moment, just breathing him in, feeling the weight of his presence settle around you like a blanket.

Neither of you says anything for a while. There’s no rush—just warmth, just him. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, the soft, rhythmic thump-thump-thump lulling you into something dangerously close to sleep. 

Johnny shifts slightly, exhaling a long, tired sigh as his grip on you loosens just a fraction—not because he wants to let go, but because sleep is creeping in, pulling you both under. His body is warm, radiating heat like a living furnace, and between that and the slow drag of his fingertips, your muscles start to go slack.

You shift just enough to press your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. His scent is familiar, safe—soap and fresh air, a lingering trace of something woodsy from whatever he washed his hair with.

“Mmm,” Johnny hums, the sound low and drowsy, vibrating against your temple. “Could get used tae this.”

You smile sleepily, pressing a lazy kiss to his collarbone. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm.” His voice is rough around the edges, thick with exhaustion. He shifts a little, pulling you in closer until your legs tangle together, until there’s not a single inch of space left between you.

You barely manage a response before sleep drags you both under, wrapped up in each other, warm and safe in the quiet hush of the late-night air. Right before you slip under, you make a mental note to add condoms to his grocery list in the morning

You don’t remember the last time you went a whole day without feeling the warmth of his hand on you. Every glance he gives you feels like it’s full of pure adoration. You’d even go as far as to say love, but it’s a scary thought. Genuine, unadulterated love. 

 But you want him more with each passing day, and he clearly feels the same.

The hours you spend together feel like they’ve been written in the stars, as if this was always meant to happen. And yet, it’s so new, so raw, that you feel like you’re just learning what it means to be together. It’s a sensation unlike any you’ve ever known. Love.

Johnny ran out to town for you semi-often—maybe once a week when the house needed something, or when someone got a craving for something special for dinner. He’d take Pa’s old pickup, rattling down the long stretch of road that led into town, about thirty minutes out.

Usually, you’d have handled it yourself, but he loved doing it for you. Loved the open road, the way the wind poured in through the cracked window, cooling the warmth of the sun beating down on his arm as it hung lazily out the window. His other hand sat at twelve o’clock on the wheel, the radio humming some old country tune he didn’t know the words to but listened to anyway. The road stretched ahead, straight as an arrow, past golden pastures and sleepy fields where horses flicked their tails and cows grazed, unbothered by the world.

He’d half expected the truck to smell like Pa— cigarettes he’d sneak when he knew Ma wouldn’t be able to chide him, motor oil, and dirt—but it didn’t. It smelled like you. Like a lingering trace of your shampoo woven into the fabric of the head rest, or the faintest hint of something sweet—maybe vanilla—from the lotion you used. Little things of yours were scattered throughout the truck, remnants of your presence. A hair tie wrapped around the gear shift. A worn flannel you’d left in the passenger, now carrying the sun-warmed scent of you. 

It made his heart thump harder in his chest. Even when you weren’t beside him, you were still there. Always with him in some capacity.

So, he goes off to town, picking up the things off the list you wrote for him—your pretty, perfect handwriting making him flush red like a damn teenager. He runs his thumb over the curve of your letters before folding the paper up and shoving it into his back pocket, shaking his head at himself.

Navigating town isn’t hard anymore. It’s small and he’s been here enough times on errands for you to know his way around. Even the locals have taken a liking to him, and he them. He stops by Crazy Al’s first for beef, knowing full well the old man will slide him the best cuts if Johnny humors him with a few words about last night’s baseball game. He doesn’t even have to watch—Al’s already digging into the good stock, nodding along while Johnny throws in a comment or two about the score, despite not giving a single damn about baseball. He didn’t know that Al was also the town butcher, as well as the resident bar/diner/cafe/pawnshop owner. He’d rather not question it.

Next, it’s Miss Patty’s for paprika, thyme, and fresh basil. Predictably, she groans about something breaking—a loose door hinge, a busted chair leg, a lightbulb too high for her to reach. He knows the old woman just likes to watch him work, but he fixes it anyway, rolling his sleeves up as her keen eyes track the muscles in his forearms. He can’t even be mad about it—it reminds him of the way you stare at him when you think he doesn’t notice. But he does. Birds will be birds.

His mind is always on you. Sure, he plays along, humoring the locals, nodding and chuckling, but he’s always thinking of you.

Like when he spots your favorite iced tea in the fridge section of Bill’s Supply & Hardware and grabs a couple without thinking. Why there’s a fridge section in a hardware shop is beyond him. He even debates picking up a bouquet of flowers from the stand by the register—just because—but then thinks better of it. 

He also doesn’t know why a hardware shop sells flowers. It’s just the way it is here, he assumes.

Instead, he settles for throwing an extra candy bar onto the checkout counter, the kind you always steal from his stash and think he doesn’t know. It’s the little things, the ones you don’t even realize he notices. The ones that make him feel like he’s got a place here. Like he belongs.

He steps out of Bill’s, grocery bags in hand, and heads back to the truck. The afternoon sun beats down, warm against his back as he loads everything into the passenger seat. Once everything’s settled, he climbs in, the old pickup groaning as he turns the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling to life beneath him.

Settling into the seat, he fishes out the small square of paper from his pocket, smoothing it out against his thigh. With a pen from the glove compartment, he scans the list, ticking things off one by one.

Beef—check.

Spices, basil—check.

Supplies—che-

His eyes land on the last item, and a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"Condoms ;)"

He huffs out a chuckle, shaking his head. Smart girl. 

Folding the list neatly, he tucks it back into his pocket, puts the truck into first gear, and eases out of the parking spot. There’s a gas station on the way back home—he figures he might as well stop there.

The stop had been quick. He’d grabbed a pack, tossed it on the counter, and endured the knowing grin from the old cashier without a word. Just gave her the cash, took the bag, and left before she could say something cheeky.

Now, as he turns onto the long dirt road home, the truck jolts over the uneven path, spitting dust into the fading light. The farmhouse rises in the distance, steady and familiar. The sight of it—the only place that’s ever felt anything close to home—fills him with warmth, with a quiet kind of peace that settles in his chest, easing something he hadn’t even realized has been wound tight for years. 

He pulls through the property gates and rolls to a stop outside the garage. With a slow exhale, he rakes a hand through his hair, then grabs the grocery bags and hops out. The scent of earth and grass greets him immediately, mingling with the faintest traces of something sweet—maybe from the berry fields, maybe just from the thought of you.

Balancing the bags in his arms, he nudges the front door open with his shoulder, stepping into the quiet house. The TV murmurs from the living room, Pa’s shadow stretched across the wall as he settles in his chair. The house is warm, comfortable, but noticeably missing you.

Setting the bags on the kitchen counter, Johnny takes a moment, glancing at the clock—quarter past ten. You’re still out working. He exhales through his nose, rolling his shoulders before getting to work unpacking.

He moves methodically, placing the meats in the fridge, the spices in the cabinet. It’s a mindless routine, one he doesn’t mind. He’s halfway through when footsteps shuffle behind him.

Pa doesn’t say anything as he heads straight for the cupboard, rummaging for those damn cookies you made the other night. It’s a silent understanding between them—no need for words, just the sounds of home filling the space.

Johnny shifts to grab another bag, cradling it in his arms as he steps toward the fridge. And then—

The bag slips.

The paper tears.

Groceries spill across the floor, rolling in every direction—potatoes, the candy bar he bought you, a can of beans, and, front and center, as if the universe itself wanted to play a cruel joke on him—

The condoms.

Of course, the noise catches Pa’s attention. Johnny barely has time to react before the old man turns around, peering over his shoulder. Johnny, still crouched on the floor, huffs out a sharp curse and reaches for the damn box—only to freeze when a heavy, dust-worn boot plants itself right on top of it. Firm. Intentional. Like Pa’s about to line up for a free kick.

Johnny lifts his gaze slowly, following the scuffed leather of Pa’s work boot up to the faded denim of his jeans, then further to the unimpressed furrow of his brows. There’s no real expression on his face, just that signature, unreadable stare. Johnny swallows.

Neither of them say a word. The kitchen clock ticks. The refrigerator hums. The distant sound of the TV drones from the living room. Pa squints down at him, then at the box beneath his boot, then back at Johnny. His mouth pulls tight, expression flat as a plank of wood.

“What in the ever-loving fuck is that?”

Johnny opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Nothing comes out. His brain just stalls, like an engine choking on bad fuel.

“Uhhhhh—uhhhhhhhhhmmmm,” he manages, voice cracking like a damn teenager.

Pa exhales sharply through his nose. Not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff—somewhere in between, teetering dangerously on the edge of unimpressed. “Boy, you better give me a real good explanation as to why those are in my house and why you got ‘em.”

Johnny stares. His mouth moves, but the only thing leaving his throat is the sound of his impending doom. “Uuuuuuuuuhhh.”

He’s fucked. Properly, royally fucked.

Johnny swallows hard, moving to sit back on his heels like he’s staring down the barrel of a loaded shotgun. His brain is running on fumes, searching for a way out, but all he can do is watch Pa’s boot press down a little firmer on the box like he’s pinning a venomous snake.

“Boy,” Pa says again, slower this time, like he’s speaking to a dumb animal. “I asked you a question.”

Johnny licks his lips, shifting where he kneels on the floor, heart hammering in his chest. He could lie. He should lie. Say they’re not his. Say he picked them up on accident. Say they’re… hell, they’re Pa’s and he was just putting them away for him—

No. That’d get him killed even faster.

His throat bobs. “I, uh—” He clears his throat, forcing his voice not to crack. “They’re mine.”

Pa doesn’t blink. “That so.”

Johnny nods, slow, measured. "Aye." His fingers twitch at his side, itching to snatch the damn things and run. His body screams for action, for movement—muscle memory honed by years of high-stakes missions, of split-second decisions that meant the difference between life and death.

He’s been under pressure before. Bomb defusals with sweat dripping into his eyes. Gunfights where the air was thick with smoke and blood. Enemies so close he could hear their breath, feel the heat of their gun barrels. He’s trained for all of it. Thrived in it.

But this?

This is different. No battlefield, no bullets flying, no countdown to zero—and yet, his pulse hammers. Because nothing, nothing, could have prepared him for dealing with his girl’s angry father..

He’s frozen in place, debating whether or not he’s about to commit grand larceny over a pack of fucking condoms.

Pa’s silent for a long moment, eyes still locked on him. Then, finally, he speaks.

“You got needs I should be knowin’ about, son?”

Johnny damn near chokes. “Jesus, Pa—”

Pa doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t crack a smile. Johnny feels the weight of his gaze as he looks up at him, the way the air shifts between them.

“You think I don’t notice?” Pa’s voice cuts through the stillness, low but cutting, like a blade’s edge. “You think I don’t see the way she looks at you when you’re out there, working the fields? All starry-eyed like she’s a kid and you’re fuckin’ Superman?"

Johnny opens his mouth, but no words come.

Pa crouches over, hands on his knees as he gets in Johnny’s face, his boot still perched on top of the box. “And don’t get me started on the damn footsie. I seen it, Johnny. I saw how she’d brush her feet against yours when you thought no one was lookin’, how you’d smile like a damn fool and let her.” He sneers, shaking his head slowly, like Johnny’s some kind of idiot. “Thought you were slick, huh? You think you can fool me? You ain't as clever as you like to think you are."

Johnny swallows, his chest tight. He wishes he could crawl out of his own skin. Pa doesn't let up.

“And don’t even think I don’t notice the way you touch her. You grab her rear when you’re walkin’ together. Fingers lingerin’ on her when you think she ain’t lookin’. I see you. Both of you.” Pa’s voice grows darker, the words slow, deliberate. “She’s my daughter, Johnny. Not some girl you get to lay up with, not some plaything you get to press your hands all over when you think nobody’s watchin’.”

Johnny’s hands ball themselves into fists, knuckles turning white as they press into the floor. His mind races, trying to find something to say, to just fucking stand up for himself, but the words don’t come. He’s like a deer in headlights.

Pa cocks his head, eyes burning with a fury that Johnny can feel in his skull. “You think you’re somethin’ special? Think just because you managed to get by, to make it through whatever hell you’ve crawled out of, that you can come here and try to get close to my little girl?”

Johnny’s chest caves like a house with its beams ripped out, the weight of it all pressing in until there’s nothing left but splinters. He can’t breathe, can’t think—just wants to sink into the floorboards, let them swallow him whole.

“You ain’t the first to try, boy. But you ain’t the kinda man who’s gonna win my daughter’s heart. You’re just a washed-up, broken-down soldier bankin’ on us for a place to hide. You ain’t nothin’ to her, just a damn distraction. And I’m damn sure not gonna let you drag her down to your level.”

Pa stands up straight again, taking his time, letting the words hang in the air. “You wanna play house with my daughter? You wanna pretend you’re somethin’ more than just another fuckin’ dog with his mitts in places they don’t belong?” He takes his foot off the squished box of condoms, his voice dropping into something colder. 

“You better make damn sure you’re ready for what comes after.”

November arrives, creeping in like a thief in the night, its cold breath freezing the space between you and Johnny, thick with the weight of something unnameable, something that neither of you can shake.

The once familiar warmth in the house now feels hollow, the silence between you two almost suffocating. He stopped greeting you when you walk in for lunch, not even a glance, just a slight tilt of his head as if he’s miles away. During dinner, he doesn’t say a word. Not a single one. He moves about the house too quietly for comfort, too distant. You watch him as he sweeps the floor, as he dries the dishes. He still does everything he used to, but his movements are robotic, automatic, every action punctuated with an uncomfortable, palpable space between you.

You constantly try to catch his eye. Nothing. He’s there, but he isn’t. His words are few, if any. When he does speak, it’s nothing more than a hum, a noise that could’ve come from the fridge for all you know, not from Johnny. It’s foreign, and it stings deep in a place you didn’t know could hurt like this.

The days stretch on like this, and it starts as a small, nagging thing. A look not quite met, a hand that’s not quite brushed against yours, the absence of his usual warmth. You tell yourself it’s a phase or something, but as the days fade into one another, it becomes clear that it’s not a phase at all. 

Nothing is like before—like the quiet moments you shared on lazy afternoons on the porch, your voices weaving in and out, sharing inside jokes and memories. He isn’t seeking you out, isn’t looking for your company the way he used to. Instead, he spends hours out in the pasture, playing with Dixie like it’s his only tether to the world, only source of enjoyment, his only escape. And you watch him from a distance, unsure if you should intrude, unsure if you can intrude.

After a long, cold, and abnormally quiet day, the stable doors groan as you both enter from opposite sides on horseback, the soft echo of hooves on the dirt floor filling the space between you. It’s one of those moments where everything seems to slow down—your eyes lock with his for a fraction of a second, wide and unsure, before Johnny’s face hardens and he quickly looks away.

It felt like a lifetime ago when the two of you would have greeted each other with a kiss, a hug, maybe a laugh. Now, there was nothing. Just the sound of hooves, the rustle of hay, and the quiet hum of the barn.

You dismount off of Shimmer and open her stall door with a soft creak, your fingers tightening around the handle as you try to shake off the weight of the silence. You take your time getting her tack off, trying to focus on the simple steps, unbuckling the saddle, removing the reins—but every movement feels heavy. 

Johnny is across the aisle, doing the same with Scout, but the wall between you doesn’t  feel metaphorical anymore. 

You glance over at him, his back turned to you as he methodically removes the saddle from Scout’s back, carefully removing his tack. It was the same as always, but not. His movements were stiff as if he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible, as if he can't stand to be in here with you

“Johnny,” you call out meekly as you step out of Shimmer’s stall, facing Scout’s. His shoulders stiffen, his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t respond, not even a glance in your direction.

“Johnny, what’s going on?” you plead, your voice breaking as you walk closer, your boots scraping against the floor with each reluctant step. You don’t want to sound desperate, but the way his back stays turned to you, his focus solely on the stallion. It claws at your throat, a raw, burning pressure that begs to be unleashed—a scream bubbling up, desperate, violent, ready to tear itself free.

He takes a long breath, and then begins brushing Scout’s coat, each stroke slow and methodical. The brush moves in long, fluid motions, but it doesn’t feel like he’s really caring for the horse. It feels more like an excuse. An escape. Something else to do with his hands other than reach out for you. 

“Nothing,”  he muttered, not even sparing you a glance.

“You’ve been like this for weeks, what’s going on? Did I do something?” You mutter, the frustration leaking into your voice.  

He pauses for a moment, the brush hovering in midair. You hold your breath, hoping he’ll  say something, anything—but instead, he just resumed brushing Scout. The silence stretched on for a few moments, before he finally spoke, his voice low

“Nothing’s wrong,” he reiterates, but the words feel empty, hollow. You knew it wasn’t true.

You want to reach out to him, to hold him like you used to, scratch his nape the way you know gets him melting, but the way he's been shutting you out so consistently, and the coldness that radiates off him now stops you.

You aren’t sure when it happened, when that wall between you became a solid,  impenetrable barricade.

“I don’t believe you,” you say incredulously, stepping closer. “You’re not the same. You used to… you used to want to be around me. To want me…”

He sighs heavily like he’s tired of the conversation. “Things change,” his voice is too calm and too painfully detached. “People change.”

The words hit like a hammer to the chest, knocking the air from your lungs. For a moment, it feels like the ground beneath you has split wide open—a pit yawning, waiting to swallow you whole. “People don’t just change,” you whisper, the lump in your throat tightening like a noose. “You’re just—” Your voice splinters like an old oak under the bite of an axe—sharp, sudden, fractured down the middle. The weight of it all cleaves through you, splitting at the core, jagged edges exposed. Your breath stutters, the raw sting of it lodging deep like a shard of wood beneath the skin.

“You’re just being… mean, Johnny.”

He doesn’t answer. He just goes back to brushing the fucking horse, as if he were trying to bury everything with the rhythm of his hand against the horse’s coat. He was throwing it all away. He was throwing away everything that made the two of you—well—you.

Your heart hammers in your chest, the ache sinking deep, heavy like a stone. You want to shake him, take his head in your hands and make him understand just how much this hurts, but all that escapes is a strangled breath. Before you can gather the words, Johnny stands, finally turning away from the horse.

“I’ll finish up later,” he mutters, his voice low, avoiding your gaze, not daring to meet the one tear thats slipped past your lashes, trailing down your cheek. “Got some stuff tae do.”

And just like that, he shuffles past you, his broad shoulder brushing yours with a force that isn’t quite deliberate but still leaves you reeling. You stand there, speechless, a flush creeping up your cheeks—not from fluster, but from the sting of the tears that had finally fallen. The door to Scout’s stall hangs open in his wake, and you’re left alone in the dim light of the barn, the sound of your labored breaths filling the air, broken only by the soft, rhythmic crunch of hay as Scout chews.

What happened to him? The man who once pulled you close, the one who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders with you by his side? Now, he’s a shadow of himself, fading like sand slipping through your fingers.

You feel it in your gut—twisting, burning, a pain you haven’t felt since Ma. He’s fading in the rearview, a blur getting smaller with every passing second. There’s a brick on the gas pedal, the brakes are beyond worn, and you’re still in the driver’s seat, trapped and unable to stop the car, even as everything you know slips further out of reach.

You gently shut Scout’s stall door behind you, the soft click of the latch somehow deafening in the thick silence Johnny left behind. Your hands tremble slightly as you turn and cross the aisle, shutting Shimmer’s stall just the same. It feels like muscle memory at this point—close the door, lock it, move on. But this time, moving on feels impossible.

Dragging yourself out of the stables, you push the large doors shut behind you, the weight of them nothing compared to the heaviness in your chest. Your breaths come slow and uneven as you wipe at the stray tears slipping from your eyes, frustration burning just beneath the surface. You hate crying. Hate that it’s over him. Hate that he still has this hold on you, even when he’s doing everything in his power to push you away.

The sun is sinking lower, bleeding orange and pink across the sky, casting long shadows over the rolling fields. A breeze picks up, tugging at your hair, cooling the tracks of your dried tears as you stand there, watching. Watching him.

Johnny lugs himself down the hill the stables sit on, shoulders squared, head down, like he’s carrying something too heavy to bear. Maybe he is. Maybe it’s the same weight pressing into your chest, making it hard to breathe.

He doesn’t look back. Not once.

And that, more than anything, is what hurts the most

It’s November 17th—a cold, gray day when even the fading light seems unwilling to warm the world. Two long, bitter weeks have passed since that night in the stables, and the distance between you and Johnny has only grown thicker. His once-familiar warmth has evaporated, replaced by silence and avoidance. He barely speaks unless absolutely necessary, and when he does, his words are clipped and distant, as if everything that once sparked between you—every charged moment, every tender touch, every lingering glance—never happened at all.

Tonight, dinner is served. The kitchen is filled with the rich aroma of slow-cooked meat, roasted potatoes, and seasoned vegetables—a meal meant to offer comfort and warmth on a chilly autumn evening. Yet, even as the savory scents mingle with the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant creak of the old house settling, the ice between you and Johnny remains unbroken.

With a practiced hand, you ladle the braised skirt steak onto the plates, carefully portioning the sides. 

You’re not cruel; you wouldn’t let Johnny starve. 

But you are petty. 

And that pettiness finds its mark in the way you deliberately give him the worst cut of steak out of the three available. It’s a piece that’s a bit overcooked and tough around the edges—a silent, spiteful jab meant to sting, even if he never acknowledges it.

Johnny takes his plate without a word or a glance, and he sits at the farthest end of the table he can manage, as if putting distance between himself and you even now. You watch him, feeling the bitterness churn inside you, the loss of what once was tearing at your heart.

Fine.

Let him.

Pa sits at the head of the table, his belly protruding slightly from the bottom of his worn shirt, his eyes twinkling like he hasn’t a care in the world. You sit to his right, your shoulders stiff as you stab at your veggies.

You’re in the thick of it. Each stage of grief hits like a poorly timed joke. You tried to pretend everything was fine, it was just a phase, that’d it all be alright in a few days time. And now? Now you’re deep in anger, like a toddler who’s had their candy snatched, only with more cursing and far less dignity.

Johnny, on the other hand, is a world away, down at the far end of the table with his eyes trained on his plate like it’s the most interesting thing in the room.

The silence is smothering. Even the clink of forks against plates feels louder than it should, like every bite, every scrape of metal, and every exhale of breath between you two is magnified under the weight of the tension. His movements are slow, his gaze fixed downwards, avoiding yours like his life depends on it. 

Pa never seems to notice. He’s too busy running his mouth with the biggest grin on his face, saying stupid shit that he thinks passes for entertaining. He talks about the cows, about some local neighbor’s farm he thinks might be in trouble, and, of course, about baseball—always baseball. It’s the same tired routine that’s always been his way of filling the uncomfortable gaps, but tonight, it’s even more grating than usual.

“Did you hear, ‘bout old Bill down the road?” Pa says between bites, his voice brimming with excitement as if it’s the most riveting news. “He’s been workin’ on fixing his barn for weeks, but I reckon it’s still leaning a good two inches. Might need some of Johnny’s handiwork, eh?”

Johnny doesn’t flinch, doesn’t respond. He just keeps eating, focusing entirely on his food, as if he can’t hear Pa’s attempts to get him involved. You can feel the way your muscles tense involuntarily. Pa’s words are like little daggers, each one aimed to prod, but Johnny’s silence remains unbroken. You don’t know if it’s the anger that gnaws at you or the yearning that bubbles below, but your hand grips your fork tighter, the metal pressing into your palm.

Pa goes on. “Hell, I'm sure, you’d have that barn fixed in no time, wouldn’t ya, boy? Reckon you have a lot of spare time on your hands.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, a charged silence. Johnny’s eyes flicker briefly to Pa, but he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. He just keeps eating, biting down into the overcooked steak you gave him, barely chewing.

You can feel the weight of Pa’s cheerfulness pressing down on the room, the difference between his carefree attitude and the radio-silence between you and Johnny becoming almost unbearable. As if on cue, Pa finishes his meal, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and stands up, stretching out as if the evening’s work is already done.

“Well, I’m gonna head to bed,” he says, his voice loud and bright, like he’s ready for much more exciting things than hitting the hay. “You two should clean up.”

Johnny nods, but Pa doesn’t even wait for a real response. He walks out, and just like that, the tension crashes back down over the table ten-fold. You’re left with Johnny, his eyes still fixed on his plate like he’s doing everything he can to pretend you aren’t there. His jaw tight as he shovels the last of his food into his mouth like it’s some kind of chore. His eyes are downcast, his shoulders hunched.

You let out a frustrated sigh and take a long sip of your drink before speaking, voice sharp but just a hint of bitterness in it.

“Would’ve been nice if you’d told me you were so good at pretending,” you hum, an air of casualness to your words that doesn’t match the hurt you feel. The silence is thick now, and it lingers even as you drop your fork onto your plate with a soft clink.

Johnny’s eyes flicker toward you for a split second, and for just a moment, there’s that flash of something—anger, frustration, maybe regret—but you don’t wait for it to settle. 

“Must be nice. To just… not care,” you lock eyes with him for the first time in a month. “No need to make things messy with words. Easier just to… act like strangers, right?”

You shove your plate aside, the sharp scrape of ceramic against the table only adding to the tension.

Johnny’s nostrils flare, his face hardens like a rock, and he stands up, slamming his chair back with enough force to make the legs screech across the floor, white scratches in the hardwood.

The motion is sharp like a slap to the face

“Shut up,” he spits, his voice low and cold. "Just shut the fuck up.”

You can see the anger in his eyes, the frustration that’s been boiling under the surface for weeks now. He just storms toward the back door, shoulders tense, fists clenched at his sides. 

The door slams behind him so harshly that it rattles the house. Your heart pounds  in your chest, the sting of his exit burning in the pit of your stomach. The silence returns, but now it’s even heavier. More suffocating. You stare at the door, your pulse racing.

Fuck it.

You stand, the chair scraping back with an angered screech, and without another thought, you storm out the back door, throwing it open with a snap that echoes through the silence. The air is colder than you expected, the chill biting your cheeks as the evening sky dips into twilight, painting everything in shades of pinks and purples. You don’t care. You don’t care about the cold, about the dark creeping in.

You’ve had enough of his angsty-teen bullsit.

Through the blur of your breath, you see him—his broad figure trudging off toward the old abandoned barn, cutting a path through the tall, whispering grass. His boots press heavily into the earth with each step, but still, he doesn't look back.

Your feet move on their own.

The wind kicks up, pulling strands of hair across your face, stinging your arms. But you push forward, faster, until you're almost running. Every step you take feels like a weight lifting off your chest, but it’s not enough to shake the anger that’s built up inside you, festering since he shut you out.

By the time you reach the barn, he's already inside, his figure a dark silhouette against the dimming sky. You push the door open with a force that rattles the wood, the creaking sound slicing through the night. The air in the barn is thick with dust, the old scent of hay and timber, the same as it’s always been. But something is different tonight.

You step inside and slam the door behind you, the noise echoing around the empty space. He’s pacing now, his boots scuffing against the floor, restless, angry—just like you. He doesn't look at you, doesn’t acknowledge you.

You move fast. Your heart's pounding in your chest, fury bubbling up like lava. You don’t care about the consequences, not anymore. You grab him by the shoulder, spinning him with more force than you thought you had, slamming him into the worn wooden beams. His eyes flash, startled for half a second before they harden, but it doesn’t matter.

“Why are you doing this?” you growl, your voice sharp as broken glass, the words spilling out of you in a rush. “You’re so damn good at pretending, huh? Acting like you don’t give a fuck, like I’m nothing to you.”

His jaw tightens, lips pulling into a thin line. But you’re not backing down now. You’re not letting him get away with it.

You keep your grip on his shoulder, but now it’s less about holding him in place and more about keeping yourself from falling apart. His eyes lock with yours, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s standing still, caught between a fragile thread of tension.

“You’re not getting away with this.” The words feel like a challenge, like a promise. “So go ahead. Say something. Or  try to keep pretending you suddenly hate me. See how far it gets you.”

You’re a foot apart, the air between you electric, charged with months of silence and frustration. Johnny stands there, jaw clenched, his fists clenched even tighter by his sides, like he’s trying to keep it all together, like he's trying not to explode. He doesn't say a word and it pisses you off more.

“You don’t like me anymore? Is that what this is?” you spit, voice tight with disbelief. The words leave your mouth like they’re poisonous. “You think everything we had was stupid?”

Johnny’s gaze falters for a split second before he hardens, glaring at you. “It was a mistake, Ye were a mistake,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “Ye never meant anything’.”

You scoff, laughing bitterly, “Bullshit,” you sneer, stepping closer, closing the space between you “Don’t you dare tell me that.”

Johnny’s face tightens as if he’s trying to choke back whatever’s welling up in him. But it doesn’t stop you. 

“Everything you told me about your parents,” you keep going, your voice rising, ricocheting off the barn walls, “your life in the military, about your unit you lost touch with... Hell, the way you kissed me, touched me—” you pause, shaking your head. “That was all a joke? Was all of that just fake?”

Johnny exhales sharply, “Don’t,” he warns, voice low, strained, like he’s holding something back.

“Don’t act like I don’t know what you wanted,” you growl, your voice sharp with bitterness. “You wanted me and I wanted you, Johnny— I still want you! And now you’re pretending it never fucking mattered?”

He pinches his nose bridge and steps back like he’s trying to distance himself from the truth. But it doesn’t stop the words from spilling out. “I never wanted ye like that,” he says again, this time his voice louder, more defensive. “Didn’t fuckin’ matter in the long run..”

You pause. The barn is deathly silent now, the kind of silence that stretches, swells—pressing in on your ears, filling the space where his voice should be. It’s deafening in the wake of all the shouting, a void where anger once burned hot. The only sounds left are the distant creak of wooden beams,  and the shallow, uneven breaths you’re both taking.

You ignore the way your mind races, the way his words still hang in the air, tugging at your heartstrings like a song you never wanted to hear.

“You said, ‘you’ve been it since the first time you saw me,’” you throw at him, your voice quieter now, but still steady, still sharp. “You remember that? Or was that just another fucking lie?”

Johnny freezes, his eyes widening, like he didn’t expect that. But he recovers quickly, giving you a sharp glare. “It was all a lie, okay?” he snaps, his voice rougher now, louder. “Wake the fuck up. None of it was real, just heat-of-the-moment shite.”

“You’re lying, Johnny! Ugh! It’a clear as fucking day—just admit it!” just like that you’re shouting again, though not a question but a statement. Your fists ball at your sides, and your eyes are burning with anger.

Johnny’s face is unreadable, but his chest heaves with every breath, like he’s trying to control the storm raging inside of him. He opens his mouth to speak but you immediately cut him off

“You wanted to fuck me, Johnny,” you press an accusing finger to his chest. “And you know it wasn’t just to get your dick wet. So don’t stand there and act like it was nothing. Don’t stand there and tell me it was just the ‘heat-of-the-moment’.”

Johnny stares down at you, his jaw grinding so hard you think his teeth might break. “Doesn’t really matter now, does it?” he spits, accent thicker with the frustration. “It was just one fucking night— ye can’t hold onto that—”

“ I’m not holding onto it, you asshole,” you snap, your words venomous.

Johnny glares at you, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes flash with something close to regret, but he’s not backing down. He’s trying to hold onto his pride, his walls.

You don’t care.

Before he can react, you move swiftly, reaching down, feeling the unmistakably large bulge in his pants. The gasp he lets out is sharp, and he tries to bite back the groan that follows after. He's been caught and he knows it. You just smirk, your hand still firmly cupping him as you look up into his eyes.

“Is this ‘heat-of-the-moment,’ hun?”

Johnny’s breath hitches as you taunt him, your voice dripping with biting sarcasm that cuts through the tension like a knife. He grunts, a strained ‘fuck’ leaving his throat, and you smirk, knowing you’ve struck a nerve. He’s all fired up, and you can feel it.

“Fuck whatever game you’re playing, Johnny.”  you sneer, your voice low, sharp. 

He stiffens, his jaw tightening, and then it happens. In an instant, he’s on you. His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist with enough force to make you gasp. His grip tightens and before you can react, he flips you around, slamming your back against the rough wooden beam of the barn. The suddenness knocks the breath out of you, your chest heaving with the shock of it.

You barely have a second to regain yourself when he crowds into you, his body so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. He’s in your face, lips barely inches from yours, breath coming out in short, rapid bursts. There’s fury in his eyes, but something else too—something darker, something dangerous.

“Ye think I’m playing games with you?” he growls, his voice thick with anger, his teeth gritted. “Ye think this is a joke?”

You don’t back down, even though your pulse is racing. The space between you is electric, it crackles with intensity.

“With the way you’ve been acting, I’d say you were the goddamn jester of the cour—”

He doesn’t give you a chance to finish. His hand shoots to the scruff of your neck, pulling you toward him. You feel his lips crash onto yours, hot and desperate, taking control with a raw hunger that sends shockwaves through you. The kiss is frantic, teeth clashing, the intensity almost painful. But it’s exactly what you need.

His hands slide down your body, gripping your thighs, and in one smooth motion, he lifts you off the ground. Your legs instinctively wrap around him as he holds you against him, instinctively grinding against his bulge as he holds you flush. You can feel the heat of his chest, the muscles in his arms flexing as he supports you, his grip tightening. 

The malice, the anger—it starts to fade away. The bitterness that was between you two only minutes ago slips away, replaced with something else. Something nostalgic, all the affection you still shared deep down.

But the passion—that doesn't change. It only intensifies. The kiss grows deeper, needier. His hands slide beneath your shirt, his fingertips scorching your skin, and you shudder as he pulls you even closer, if that’s even possible. The heat between you is unbearable, suffocating, and all that matters is him and you.

You smile before grabbing him by the neck and pull him deeper into you, kissing him like you’ve never kissed anyone before. Johnny picks you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, his hands moving down your back, cupping your ass to pull you closer.

The last vestiges of sunlight, strain through the gaps in the barn's planking, illuminating you both. Johnny pulls away to look at you, really look at you. There’s something soft there, the Johnny you once knew. His chest rises and falls with each pant, and you can feel his pulse racing against yours.

His breath, hot and ragged, ghosts across your lips as he whispers, “Tell me what ye want, lass.”

Your own breath hitches, your heart fluttering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The words, raw and unbidden, spill from your lips: “I want you, Johnny. God, I want you.”

The admission was a spark to timber. His hands, calloused and strong, move with a newfound urgency. He lifted the fabric of his shirt to reveal the taut muscles of his torso. His skin, warm and slightly damp, felt electric beneath your fingertips. You traced from his shoulders to his jaw as you kissed him , the rough stubble there a sensual rasp against your skin.

He groans, a low, guttural sound that resonates spreads like honey through your belly. His lips move with yours, a bruising, desperate kiss that spoke of so much longing. His tongue tangles with yours, a reclaiming of lost territory.

His hands move lower, helping you grind against his clothed cock. The hard ridge of him presses against your cunt, a stark reminder of the hunger that gnaws at you both. He shifts, his hand sliding beneath the waistband of your jeans, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your hip bone.

You shudder, your body arching involuntarily. He pauses, eyes searching yours, silently asking if he can continue. You nod, your gaze unwavering, and he resumes, his touch sending shivers of anticipation down your spine.

He sets you down, the rough denim of your jeans a fleeting friction against your skin as he pushes them, and your panties, down in a single, smooth motion. His gaze, unwavering and intense, holds yours captive, a silent promise hanging in the air. He sheds his own jeans and underwear, the denim pooling around his ankles before he quickly steps out of them.

A wave of heat washes over you, a visceral reaction to the sight. You can’t help but gape, your breath catching in your throat. You knew he was all hard lines and pure physicality, but this, this was something else entirely. His cock, thick and heavy, hangs between his legs. It's not that he’s exceptionally long, but it’s the sheer thickness of it. He’s cut, the ruddy, glistening tip already slick with pre. A low thrum vibrates in your core, a primal urge that makes your mouth water and your body tremble. The thought of him filling you, stretching you out until you feel him in your throat, sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You want him, every inch of him.

He seems to be thinking the same thing, as he drinks you in, near drooling as he lifts you once more, his hands firm but tender under the fat of your thighs, as though you're both something fragile and something fierce. His grip on your waist is solid, secure as he guides you to a soft patch of hay. The hay beneath you settles softly as he sets you down, the straw poking gently at your skin, but it’s a comfort against the otherwise cold air that has your nipples pebbling.

He hovers over you, his breath warm against your face, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. His eyes, full of adoration and pure lust, never leave yours. The distance between your lips is less than a needle, but every second that passes feels like an eternity. 

“So beautiful,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion, a low rumble that vibrates against your skin. He leans down, his lips brushing against your neck, feather-light pecks that send a jolt of electricity straight to your core, making you slick. His hand, warm and strong, cups your cheek, tilting your head as he searches your eyes.

“Ye want this? Want me tae make ye mine, love? Stretch you out nice and good?” he rasps, his voice thick with desire, and all you can do is nod vehemently, the anticipation making you quiver, your wetness pooling. 

“Yes—” you breathe, the word a desperate plea. “Yes, please—”

“Tell me ye want it, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers swiping through your folds before slathering his cock with your slick.

“I want you,” you whisper, your voice thick with need. “Want you inside me.”

He groans at your words and he moves then, guiding his blistering cock to your entrance. He pushes into you slowly, near painfully stretching you, filling you completely. You gasp, your body clenching around him, the sensation overwhelming as he nudges against your g-spot, a sharp intake of breath that echoes in the quiet room.

 “That’s it, love. Take it,” he murmurs, his voice rough. 

“Oh god,” you moan, your hips bucking instinctively. “J-just like that, Johnny—”

He pauses, his body still, giving you time to adjust, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort, a flicker of concern in their depths. His hand moves, thumb finding your clit and rubbing soft circles to get you to loosen up. “Ye alright?” he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing caress. 

You nod, biting your lip as your nails dig into his shoulders. Your cunt flutters around him as he plays with your clit. You’re already so close to cumming from just the anticipation.

“Tell me how good it feels, darlin’. Tell me how much ye need it.” 

“So fuckin’ good—,” you preen, your body already writhing beneath him. “I need you so bad.” You nod, a soft whimper escapes your lips as he begins to thrust, slowly at first, then with increasing rhythm, each press of his hips a delicious, agonizing stretch. “That’s my good girl,” he breathes, his own rhythm quickening. “Let me hear you, love. Let me hear you beg.” 

“P-lease,” you whine, each of his thrusts fucking the air out of your lungs, your voice a slew of broken whispers. “M-More, n-need more—”

He obliges, his slow thrusts giving way to a frenzied rhythm that fills the room with the sounds of your shared pleasure. His hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, ensuring every inch of him fills you with each powerful stroke. A low growl rumbles in his chest as he plants messy kisses anywhere his lips can reach.

Each thrust is deeper, harder, pushing you closer to the edge. The sounds of his skin hitting yours echo and makes everything feel all the more real. “So tight, baby” he rasps, his hands gripping your hips, bouncing your body in tandem with his thrusts. “So wet. So fuckin’ perfect.” He drags against your g-spot again and again, sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body. You cry out, your nails digging into his back as the pleasure builds, becoming almost unbearable.

 “So full...so good.”  you mindlessly pant, your words fragmented by the way his hips smack against yours.

He leans down, his teeth nipping at your earlobe, sending shivers down your spine. “Let it all go, lass. Cum all over my cock.”

The friction builds, each thrust shoves you closer and closer to your orgasm. Your body trembles underneath him, a wave of heat building deep in your stomach, spreading to your core and your legs. “‘M close,” you moan, your nails digging deeper into his shoulders. “S-so close.”

“Let it happen, love,” he whispers, his voice a low, encouraging rumble. “Let me hear ye scream my name.” 

And you do. A cry rips through the air and your cunt clenches impossibly tight around him, spasms of pure ecstasy rippling through you as you cum. He follows soon after, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he spills inside you, his body shuddering with the force of his release. He collapses against you, his breath hot against your neck, his heart pounding in unison with yours.

For a long moment, you lie entwined, the aftershocks still reverberating through your bodies. The silence is broken only by the sound of your ragged breaths.

Finally, he pulls back slightly, his chest still rising and falling with the remnants of the moment, and he turns to his side, his gaze softening as it locks with yours. His eyes search yours, as if he’s trying to read every flicker of emotion there. A soft, almost reluctant smile plays at the edges of his lips, but there’s something more tender about it now, something that says the anger, the frustration, the heat—it’s all been left behind.

He reaches up, his calloused fingers brushing the strands of hair that have stuck to your sweaty forehead. The touch is gentle, careful, and it sends a warmth through you that feels like a homecoming .

You can’t help but smile in return. Your eyes drift to the little gold cross that dangles between his chest, the faint glint of it catching the light. It’s almost a reminder that, despite everything, there's a sense of grounding, something solid about him.

Without thinking, you reach up, taking his hand in yours from where it hovers by your cheek. His fingers are still warm from holding you, and you bring them to your lips, pressing a gentle, reverent kiss to his knuckles. The softest of gestures, but in this moment, it feels like everything—like a promise without words, a bond without explanation. His hand tightens slightly around yours, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand as if he’s holding on to something more than just the present. At this moment, this connection is something he never wants to lose.

He exhales, long and heavy, then pulls you into him, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. You don’t fight it. You melt into him, pressing your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall as his heartbeat thrums against your ear. The barn is quiet now, save for the wind rattling against the old wooden beams and the slow, calming sound of your breathing falling in sync.

For a while, neither of you speak. The moment lingers, thick and unspoken. But then, in the smallest, quietest voice, you ask, “Why?”

Johnny tenses for a second. You feel it before you see it—the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly on your back, the way his chest lifts with a deep inhale like he’s bracing for something. His hand moves up, fingers slipping into your hair, as if trying to ground himself in the softness of you before he gives you the truth.

He sighs, and then he says it. “Pa saw.”

You pull back just enough to look up at him, confusion creasing your brows. ‘Saw what?”

He looks down at you, eyes tired, worn down. “Us. Everything.” His voice is quiet, but the weight behind it is unbearable. “He told me if I don’t back off, I’m gone.”

Your stomach drops. You sit up entirely.. Your mouth opens, but no words come out at first. You blink up at him, processing, before you finally manage, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Johnny just shakes his head. “I tried, I really did. Thought maybe if I pushed ye away, if I made ye hate me, it'd be easier for both o’ us. At least I could still be here for ye.” He lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. 

“But it just made me feel like hell. Couldn’t sleep for days after that night in the stables. Kept hearing ye crying all night—” he swallows hard, shaking his head. He takes your hand in his, your eyes meeting. “Never wanted to make ye cry, lass. And I swear to ye, I will never do it again.”

Your heart clenches at the sincerity in his voice, at the way his fingers tighten around you like he’s trying to make up for all the ways he let go before.

You take a slow breath, nodding against him. “It’s okay,” you murmur. And it is, in the sense that he’s here, and he’s telling you the truth. But deep in your chest, you are seething.

Johnny exhales, pressing his forehead against yours, his grip on you unrelenting. “Don’t want tae lose ye.” His voice is rough, barely above a whisper, but the weight of it sinks deep into your chest.

Your fingers slide up into his hair, nails scratching gently the nape of his neck as you shake your head. “You won’t.” The words come easily, because they’re true. No matter what Pa said, no matter the month of silence, he’s here now, holding you like you’re something precious, something worth breaking every rule for.

He studies you for a moment, searching your face for any doubt, any hesitation. When he finds none, he kisses you.

It’s slow at first, nothing like the desperate, angry kisses from earlier. It’s softer, deeper, filled with something neither of you will say out loud just yet. His lips move against yours with a quiet reverence, like he’s memorizing you all over again.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close, his nose brushing against yours, breath fanning across your lips. You swear you feel him smile, just the smallest bit, before he presses another kiss—gentle, lingering—to the corner of your mouth.

As the silence stretches between you, warm and heavy, Johnny shifts, pressing one last kiss to your temple before tucking you back against his chest. His hand drifts up and down your spine, slow and steady, like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you.

Outside, the wind howls against the old barn, rattling the wooden walls, but inside, it’s quiet. Still. Safe.

You should be furious. You are furious—at Pa, at the month of needless distance, at Johnny for ever thinking he could push you away. But right now, with his arms around you, his heartbeat strong beneath your palm, all you feel is the steady, certain weight of him.

“We’ll figure it out,” you murmur, more to yourself than him.

Johnny sighs, his lips brushing against your hair. “Aye, we will.”

[ryuzakemo128]

Something something neighbor!Price who just so happens to also be retired…

Has his dad bod absolutely perfected. He is still fit, with some definition but he’s gotten a bit softer in some areas. A little extra pudge on the tummy. *chefs kiss*

Sees this pretty little bird moving into the small house down the road from his, while out on one of his walks. Notices you struggling with a heavy box.

“Need help there sweetheart?” He asks, his voice smooth - yet some how still deep, gravelly.

“Oh, it’s okay - hmmph,” you groan, as you try to heft the box out of the back of your car, “I’ve got it!”

Independent. Capable. But oh so soft.

Yeah…Price was done for.

He gave a soft chuckle as he moved closer, one hand grasping a side of the box. “Please let me,” he gives a genuine smile, “only the neighborly thing to do, help a pretty bird like yourself,” he says with a cheeky wink.

You blush, but relent, letting him take the box. Heaving it into his arms with ease (what a yummy looking snack those biceps are…). You follow him in with a much smaller box, directing him where to put his.

John stays to help you finish unloading your car, maintaining it was no bother. It really wasn’t, he was finding that he liked your presence. Soft, and kind, but with enough fire to put John in his place.

You invited him inside to cool off when you both finished, offering a cool glass of lemonade. Sat at your small dining table, he slowly drank his lemonade. Taking in your small home and the way you carried yourself. He couldn’t help but think…

Darlin don’t get too cozy, you’ll be moving again in less than a year. This time it’ll be just down the road into his place, as his girl.

[ryuzakemo128]

[ryuzakemo128]

Simon Riley signs his death sentence.

cw: cheating/infidelity; angst/hurt; cussing; open ending

♰ [back to black | masterlist]

Simon glances up when he hears the shrill doorbell, frowning a bit. He knows he’s not expecting anyone, never is. It’s a Monday evening, and he’s spent the day working on the broken bike in his garage, trying to drown his thoughts and feelings with working on machines.

His eyes travel to the clock on the wall, noting the late hour, and he sighs. It better not be some bloody salesman trying to sell some shite to him. He makes his way to the front door, pulling it open unceremoniously. What he sees makes his blood run cold.

“What are you doing here?” he asks brusquely, his gaze hard, expression closed off.

“I need to talk to you,” you answer curtly, yet there’s a hint of mystery to your words. “It’s important.”

You’re dead to me. To Tommy. Your words from months ago ring in his ears again.

He eyes you suspiciously for a moment, and then steps aside to make space, gesturing you inside with a wordless invitation. “Olright. Come in,” he mutters, closing the door behind you.

Clutching the black folder to your chest, you give a small nod of thanks as you walk past him, further inside his small flat—surroundings that used to be so warm and familiar to you.

Simon glances at you in passing, noting the tight grip you have on the folder in your arms. He motions to the sofa in the middle of the living room, gesturing for you to take a seat while he drops into the armchair across from you with a rough exhale.

He drums his calloused fingers restlessly on the armrest, tawny eyes drinking you in vigilantly as he waits for you to speak.

Taking a seat on the couch reluctantly, you force yourself not to let your eyes roam around his flat nor let it linger on him for too long. It took everything in you to find the courage to come here in the first place; to bottle up your emotions enough to keep a level head. Clearing your throat, you take out a pen from the inside pocket of your coat and open the folder before sliding the documents over to him on the coffee table.

“I’m getting married,” you announce eventually, right when the light catches on the delicate diamond ring on your finger.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

There’s a ringing sound in his ears, and the room seems to spin for a second, like he’s been thrown off an edge and is falling fast. He almost can’t breathe, and his knuckles go white as he clenches his grip on the armchair, trying to keep control of his body as he glares at the expensive looking engagement ring on your finger, the reality slowly sinking in. It’s mocking him.

“You’re gettin’ married,” he repeats hoarsely, his voice betraying the pain that’s churning inside him. He snorts humourlessly. “Congratulations.”

“Yes,” you answer slowly, ignoring the biting sarcasm in his words as you avoid his gaze; keeping your focus on the documents, on my future—rather than your painful past with him.

The room feels tense all of a sudden, and you force yourself to stay calm, to stay seated.

“So... these are–” You clear your throat again. “These are adoption papers for Tommy, but I need approval from his biological father before my–my future husband can adopt him officially.”

Simon looks at you for a long time, his expression hidden behind a stone-cold façade. He’s trying to hold it together, but every word you speak feels like a jab, hitting his gut and stabbing deep into his heart.

“You’re–” he repeats again, his voice almost a whisper, “you’re getting married.” His mind is racing, trying to wrap his head around the idea of you marrying another man, of another man being a father to his son.

You inhale a slow breath when he repeats it for a second time, and you can read the shock and desperation in his eyes despite him trying to hide it behind his cold façade. “Yes, Simon,” you repeat once more, feeling like you’re explaining something to your toddler son, who happens to be the spitting image of his father at nearly two years old.

“I’m getting married.”

His jaw clenches like he’s preventing himself from saying something—anything—and his body goes tense. He looks at the documents spread across the old coffee table, his eyes scanning the information on the pages. He understands what and why you’re asking, and he knows he has no right to refuse. He’s lost that right months ago, and now he's facing the cost of his own actions. Choices have consequences—his own bloody words that he foolishly refused to live by.

“And... and the bloke, the bloke you’re marrying. He’s... He wants to adopt Tommy?” he asks through gritted teeth.

You nod slowly but firmly, blinking slowly as you hold his gaze bravely.

“He’s been a great step dad to him for –” You stop yourself, kissing your teeth as if you almost spilled a secret before speaking up again: “He wants to marry me and he wants to adopt Tommy officially.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. The thought of another man, a bloody stranger, being a father to his son, taking his place in his family, is like a sledgehammer to his already shattered heart.

It feels like he can’t breathe as the reality of the situation fully sinks in, and the weight of it threatens to swallow him whole. His knuckles turn white as he clenches his hands, the effort of holding back the words—these feelings—almost physically hurts. He can feel the familiar anger rising up in his chest, blending effortlessly with all the pain and desperation and regret.

His eyes are glued to the diamond ring on your finger, the symbol glaring back at him, adding insult to injury. His emotions are like a storm raging inside him, tearing him apart, but he grits his crooked teeth and forces himself to look away, tearing his gaze from your hand.

“And... he’s a good lad, aye? Treats you right?” The words taste like acid on his tongue.

“He is a good man, Simon,” you answer truthfully, heaving a sigh as you bite back the harsher words on the tip of your tongue; telling him that it’s none of his business anymore.

“He’s good, and kind, and generous, and above all... he’s loyal.”

Simon goes quiet at that, the stinging comment hitting him hard. He knows he has no right to feel hurt, to feel betrayed. He has no right to feel anything at all. He was the one who screwed up, the one who caused this entire mess. He cheated on you, destroyed your trust, ripped your relationship apart, broke your heart, and left you alone when you’d sent him away instead of fighting to pick up the pieces. He messed up.

But knowing that you found someone better now, someone who’s going to take his place—it feels like someone is tearing his wretched heart out.

When he goes silent again, you push the documents towards him with more urgency.

“Please... don’t make this harder than it already is,” you whisper eventually, feeling your chest tighten as the bottled up emotions threaten to break free. “I just want Tommy to have a chance at a normal life... to have a father and for me to finally have some safety.”

He can sense the suppressed emotions radiating from you, and it breaks his heart even more. Simon picks up the documents slowly, his hands betraying the turmoil inside, the tremors he can’t control no matter how much he tries. His voice is barely a rough whisper when he speaks again, thick with emotion: “I... I know I don’t have a right to even say this, but–

Can I ask a favour?” he presses out, trying to keep up the mask of numbness but failing miserably. He’s crumbling.

“No, you can’t,” you reply gently yet firmly. It hurts. God, it hurts so much, but he did this. It’s his fault. He’s a bloody cheater.

The sharp, flat answer hits him like a bucket of ice water. It doesn’t surprise him though, but it still stings. He clenches his jaw, forces himself to keep his expression under control, knows he has no right to expect anything from you after what he did.

He stares at the documents in his hands for a moment longer, before nodding slowly. “Olright,” he says eventually, his voice rough and strained. “I’ll... I’ll sign the bloody papers.”

You expected him to rip the papers to shreds, but now you’re watching with bated breath as he puts his signature right above the necessary line with an uncharacteristic unsteady hand and your heart clenches suddenly, your vision going blurry.

He’s signing away his son’s life, and it’s tearing him apart on the spot while his face betrays nothing. He’s signing away the right to be Tommy’s father, the right to be in his life, to hold him, to watch him grow up, to be there for him. He’s signing away the future he’d secretly dreamed of, of a family with you, the only thing that ever really mattered to him.

It feels like he’s signing his own bloody death sentence.

He feels like he’s drowning in guilt and shame. All the while, his eyes stay trained on you, taking in every small movement, every blink, and every shaky breath.

“So... uhm... How’s–” You swallow thickly, bile rising in your throat as you wipe at your glossy eyes frantically to try and keep your composure. “How’s Emma?” you manage to ask, trying to change the subject, to remind yourself why this happened in the first place.

Just when he thought the knife couldn’t dig any deeper, you ask about her, and he’s hit with an even more intense wave of shame.

The memory of her—the way she looked, the way she felt, the way she tasted—flashes through his mind, and he has to swallow to keep himself from gagging.

He looks away, avoiding eye contact as he shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Fine.” He croaks, his voice betraying his discomfort.

“Oh.”  You nod slowly, processing his curt answer as you kiss your teeth again. “Good... that’s... good.” He's lying. You can tell that he’s lying, and yet you can’t stop. You’re too bitter.

“I’m glad to know that you–you found happiness with her. That you’re–” You exhale through your nose. “That you can–” You feel another wave of nauseous overcome you, and you’re forced to take another deep breath. “That you’re faithful to her.”

Your words hit him like a kick to the gut, and he’s left gasping as his heart constricts painfully. He can hear the pain in your voice, the bitterness in your tone, the pain that still runs deep.

The truth.

The truth is, he’s not happy. He’s not faithful.

If there’s one person he belongs with, it’s you—you, with your quiet bravery, your stubborn determination, your endless loyalty.

You, with the eyes he could lose himself in.

“I’m not,” he finally rasps, voice hoarse with emotion as he finally finds the courage to look you in the eye again. “I’m not happy.”

He takes a shaky breath, his voice cracking with raw honesty. “I’m not happy, and I’m not faithful. Not to her, because I–I think about you and I think about Tommy... every fuckin' day for the past seven months.”

His words are like a confession, a desperate plea for your understanding.

“I made a mistake,” he continues, “I made the wrong choice, and every day... every god damn day I’ve regretted it, baby.” He’s tearing up again, the guilt and shame and pain overcoming him, and his vision swims before he pushes his palms against his eyes harshly, exhaling a ragged breath.

“Simon,” you say firmly, hoping he truly listens this time. Your spine goes rigid with tension and restraint. You want to yell, to lash out, to curse him, but you won’t. Not again.

“You cheated on me twice... and I was stupid enough to give you another chance after the first time. We have a son together, but that didn’t stop you from fucking Emma. This is your own goddamn fault, so–”

“I know it’s my own goddamn fault!” he snaps, his emotions getting the better of him. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see that every day?” His eyes are burning with unshed tears, his chest heaving with barely controlled fury.

“I know I screwed up, I know I... I destroyed us! I destroyed our family! I destroyed you! But–But you have no fuckin’ idea what I’d give to take it back, you have no bloody idea!”

“That may be, but there is no taking back,” you reply coolly, not even flinching at his outburst as you keep a level head.

Finally, you take the signed adoption papers from him and put them back into the black folder; snapping it shut with finality. “Just know that–” You let out another deep, shaky sigh, fighting tears. “Know that Tommy will be fine. He’ll be happy and very loved, and he’ll be a decent man someday–” Your voice cracks at the end, and you stand up from the couch at once, still trying your best not to fall apart in front of him.

His heart breaks all over again, and it’s like a combat knife twisting in his chest as he watches you put the documents back into the folder.

Simon stands up too; his body tense as he fights the urge to reach for you, to pull you close and hold you tightly. He doesn’t deserve to hold you. He doesn’t deserve to touch you. He should’ve never touched you in the first place.

He takes a step towards you, a last attempt, his gravelly voice barely a whisper: “I don’t know how to live without you.” The words spill out of him, raw and unfiltered, his voice shaking with emotion.

And he takes another slow, heavy step closer. “I tried, fuckin’ hell, I tried to forget you, but I can’t. I can’t move on. I can’t let go. You’re under my skin, you’re in my bloody head, you’re in my heart, you’re in every goddamn dream I have. And the idea of losing you, of not having you and Tommy in my life... it’s killing me–”

“Then why did you cheat on me?”

The question comes out involuntarily, spilling over your lips for the first time in nearly three years since it happened the first time.

“If you love me and Tommy so bloody much, then why the fuck did you cheat on me, Simon?” you ask, voice rising in volume and pitch, taking on an edge of desperation as you glare at him with the protective strength and fury only a mother can muster.

“Why?!”

He’s reeling, the memories of his betrayal slapping him with brutal force. His broad shoulders sag, defeated, as the weight of his actions crashes down on him. He can’t look at you, tawny eyes filled with shame like a little boy who’s been scolded, his gaze fixated on the floor as he tries to put his thoughts into words.

When he finally speaks, his voice sounds hollow, devoid of any emotion: “I can’t explain it,” he whispers, the words barely leaving his lips. “I wish I could, but I don’t even know my damn self.”

You allow yourself to look at him for another moment; deep down expecting more, expecting a better explanation, but nothing comes and your face twists into a pained grimace as you glance down at the folder in your hands. At a brighter future for you and your son.

“That’s not good enough, Simon,” you rasp out before forcing yourself to gather the last shred of strength you have left, straightening your shoulders.

“Take care.”

“You too.” He feels hollow, empty.

All the fight and anger drain out of him in a split second, leaving him feeling cold and lifeless.

He should grab you, hold you, and plead for forgiveness, but he stands rooted to the spot in his living room, unable to move, too damn scared to reach out for you.

As the door of his flat falls shut behind you, you clutch the folder to your chest with one hand as you rush down the staircase, slowly falling apart at the seams as you stumble forward.

Outside the apartment building, you swiftly seek out your fiancées sleek black Mercedes car in the parking lot, swallowing down a sob as you pull open the passenger seat before slipping inside and closing the door—mindful of your toddler son still napping in his car seat in the back.

“Everything okay, darling?” John glances over at you from the driver's seat as you clench your teeth, trying to keep it together. He can tell that it’s not okay, that something went wrong. The look on your face telling him all he needs to know.

“Are you... alright?” He asks as gently as his gruff voice allows, looking at you once again, concern filling his steel blue eyes.

“I–I think so,” you answer shakily, clutching the folder to your chest like a lifeline as you tremble in the leather seat. Then, you feel the heavy, warm weight of his hand come to rest on your thigh.

John Price.

Simon's captain and superior, who has been there for you even through your pregnancy after your first breakup with Simon.

John Price, who's swept you off your feet with ease, when you’d sent Simon away for cheating again barely seven months ago.

Glancing over at him, you cup your own icy hand over his on your thigh while your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage.

“Can you–Can you please take me home?”

Hiii and sorry about this :) Anyway—

[ryuzakemo128]

Don't let Republicans distract you with gimmicky culture war bills. Republican policies are making Americans' lives shorter and worse in every conceivable way.

[ryuzakemo128]

(john price x reader, cw: one mention of violence but it’s not between john and reader)

John Price who is smitten with you from the very first day he moves into your quaint little town; he is walking beside and behind you every step like a dog desperate for every scrap of affection; offers to man the grill at every block party, tong in hand and those strong forearms flexing and his eyes scanning the crowd to make sure you are there so he can feed you the first plate; toolbox always ready to fix every leaky faucet and wobbly table leg; biceps muscles shifting as he insisted to carry everything for you.

He was always there. Even when you still hesitated, scars from an old relationship still too fresh, he was still there and not once did he make you feel pressured.

The same could not be said for the man he was suffocating with his own bare hands at the moment; John adores you so, can understand why so many others would adore you just as much- but that doesn’t mean he has to simply accept others eyeing you.

Tomorrow, he’ll drop by your house and fix those curtain tracks. He enjoyed having an easy way to look at you going about your day, but alas.

Your protection mattered more.

[ryuzakemo128]

Simon Riley is your nemesis.

cw/info: 18+ | time skip; cheating/infidelity; smut; cussing; open ending

♰ [back to black | masterlist]

He’s here.

Standing on the opposite side of the field by himself under the old chestnut tree, his heavy gaze is glued to the lush grass of the soccer field. He looks slightly different than he did the last time you’d seen him a few weeks ago—a little more put together and somehow even bulkier. Strong.

He’s watching you, observing the way you walk over to the sideline, settling down next to the parents and waiting for the game to start while his heart is nearly bursting through his chest, sweaty palms stuffed into the pockets of his worn jeans.

Meanwhile, you could sense his presence before you could see him—you somehow always do—and after greeting the other parents currently present to watch their kids play, waiting for the game to start, you politely excuse yourself and make your way over to him.

It finally stopped raining three days ago, and now it’s a surprisingly warm and sunny April spring day; warm enough to wear one of your new dresses. Tommy, who turned five just last month, has a soccer match and while John is running errands with Annabelle, having a daddy–daughter day, you stayed to support your son.

The moment you start walking over to him, Simon straightens his broad shoulders; trying to keep his nerves at bay. He didn’t expect this to happen. You haven’t much as spared him a glance since your wedding.

He’s filled with tension, a mix of anticipation and trepidation building up in him as you approach, his eyes trailing over your curves, your new hairstyle, the way the sun dances off your dewy skin—

Bloody hell. You’re still the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid his eyes on.

He clears his throat, looking slightly awkward, as you come to a stop right in front of him.

“Hey,” he manages, a hint of uncertainty lacing his gruff tone, muffled by his mask.

“Hey,” you greet back, slightly less awkward as you take off your expensive pair of aviator sunglasses to get a better view of him.

Even in this weather, he dresses in thick jeans, combat boots and hoodies. His skull balaclava secured in place.

“If you wanna keep a low profile, I suggest leaving that bloody mask at home, Riley.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a half-smirk beneath the black cloth as he shrugs unapologetically. “Can't help it, pet,” he replies with a quiet chuckle, tucking his hands deeper into the pockets of his trousers.

It’s been some time since he’s seen you this up-close without any disturbance, and he uses the moment to study you closely, his gaze taking in every inch of you, lingering on the way your summer dress hugs your curves; how the colourful floral pattern on the crème-coloured fabric accentuates your complexion.

Seeing you dressed like this, all loose and free, makes his heart twist painfully in his chest. You’ve changed some since having your second child and his fingers itch to touch as his eyes flicker down to glance at you ample bosom.

For a brief moment, he wonders if you’re still breastfeeding.

“Mhm, sure.” You kiss your teeth appraisingly as you give him another once over before crossing your arms. “You came to watch Tommy play again.” It’s a statement, not a question, and you can't blame him for being here and trying to see his son grow up—albeit from the shadows.

You’ve been wondering how he knows when and where Tommy has his matches, he certainly didn’t ask John, but then again, it doesn’t surprise you at all that he keeps himself informed.

“That obvious, huh?” he mutters jokingly, lifting one corner of his mouth in a slight smirk. His gaze drifts off to the side, watching the kids running onto the field and warming up, their parents cheering them on. He knows Tommy is one of the fastest, never afraid of the ball, a bloody Liverpool fan—thanks to Price.

He lets out a quiet sigh as he looks back at you, his expression turning serious, but you caught that flicker of longing and sadness in his tawny eyes.

“I can’t stay long,” he adds, his voice low. “Just... jus’ wanted to see him, y’know?”

And despite everything, you can’t not worry about him.

Your stomach churns and you hug your arms around yourself tighter as you gaze up at him, squinting against the bright daylight without your sunglasses. John didn’t tell you about a new upcoming assignment, and the news don’t fail to piss you off.

“Where are you going?”

His gaze locks with yours, and even through the balaclava, you can see the slight frown on his face. Simon hesitates before answering, debating whether he should tell you the truth or not; he can tell that you don’t know about it yet. Finally, he heaves a heavy sigh and looks towards the field again, avoiding your gaze.

“Special Forces business,” he answers simply. “Can't say more than tha’.”

You let out an involuntary snort, a rather whimsical sound, before cupping your hand over your mouth and nose. “Sorry.” You make a dismissive small gesture with your other hand. “I just–”

Composing yourself again, you continue: “Uh, nevermind.”

You don’t want to mention John right now and how he usually always tells you where he’s going whether he’s allowed to or not.

However, Simon can practically read the thoughts running through your head, and another pang of guilt hits him.

“Listen…” he starts slowly, taking another careful step closer to you. “I–” he pauses, fighting the urge to reach out and touch your face, your arms, your hair. He wants to feel you again, to hold you, to pull you close, to be near you. It’s been years since he last held you—his woman.

Your lashes flutter as he murmurs your name and suddenly, the warm air around you seems to fizz with tension. Dangerous tension, but you stand your ground; refusing to flee despite knowing better.

“What?” you rasp, tipping your head back to gaze up at him with bright doe-eyes.

“Use your words, Simon.”

His heart is pounding in his chest at the sound of your voice saying his name so sweetly, at the way you look at him, eyes practically sparkling in the sunlight. He can almost feel the electricity crackling around you, and he feels like he might go insane from it. He steps even closer, practically towering over you now, chest to chest, invading your personal space. His dark eyes are fixed on your face, drinking in every feature like he’s never seen you before.

His throat feels dry when he swallows thickly, his voice is gruff, raw with the emotions he’s holding back as his words rumble from his chest: “You know what, pet.”

The wooden door to the storage room falls shut behind you with finality; the sound echoing through the empty club house building while everyone is outside, watching the soccer games on the fields, enjoying the nice weather.

You should feel utterly ashamed about this—how easy it was for him to coax you away from the herd of your flock like the big bad wolf he is—but you cannot bring yourself to think about anything else but him right this moment.

It’s dark and dusty and you can barely see him except his large silhouette, thought you sure can feel him—big hands, once so familiar, groping and roaming over your body with urgency while you’re slowly backed up against the nearest wall.

Your breath gets caught in your throat at the feel of his hands on you, at the way his body towers. His touch is rough, desperate, fingers digging roughly into your hips, your waist, and your thighs as he presses himself against you, pinning you against the chilly wall.

His forehead drops down to rest against yours, and his ragged breathing mixes with yours.

“God, I missed you,” he whispers gruffly, voice rough with need.

The words are stuck in your throat—I missed you, too,—but you swallow them down and focus on his presence instead, the here and now.

A brief indulgence, it’s what this is.

“Take your mask off.” Your hands are fisting into the front of his hoodie, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away for good.

And yet, you find yourself standing on your tiptoes like a lovesick schoolgirl to nudge your nose against his clothed one: “Kiss me.”

Simon takes a shuddering breath, his fingers gripping your hips tightly over your dress, his body trembling with the effort to not lose himself in you, to not fully give in to the desire coursing through his veins like molten molasses, but your voice, the way your fingers curl into his hoodie, the way you ask him to kiss you—it’s his breaking point. He doesn’t hesitate a second as his mask hits the floor carelessly. Fuck, he’s missed this.

He cups your face with both hands and his lips crash onto yours. God, you taste just the same.

The kiss is rougher than anything, all teeth and tongue; both of you drowning in your shared passion. It’s been so long, too long, and that knowledge makes him kiss you even harder, his tongue pushing into your mouth with a possessive need while he cups your jaw and squeezes to make you open up wider. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place against the wall, while his body presses you into it, trapping you there.

It’s like a shockwave to your system as his lips connect with yours for the first time in years.

Shock and awe, because this isn’t supposed to feel this good, this bloody right, and you should put a stop to this, but his chapped lips mould as perfectly to yours as they used to; his tongue licking into your mouth so eagerly that it’s taking your breath away; tasting of cheap cigarettes and peppermint gum.

You can feel your pussy throb and slick up within seconds while he sighs into your mouth; toying and nipping at your lips as playfully and feral as ever.

And it’s a losing battle. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak—

“I–fuck–” Holding his face steady in your hands while your breaths mingle and his forehead rests against yours, you can feel your brain short-circuit. “I need you.” I want you.

He’s drunk on you, on the taste, on the feel of you against him. Your ragged breaths, the feel of your fingertips, the little sounds spilling from your throat—it’s all driving him insane. His hand sneaks under your skirt, his calloused knuckles grazing your quivering inner thigh. So bloody soft.

Your words are his undoing, the ones he was never meant to hear again. He knows he doesn’t deserve this.

“You have me.” You bloody own me. The words come out guttural and raw, more of a growl than anything as his fingers dig into your flesh. A shuddering breath leaves your throat as the pads of his fingers slowly rub along your clothed slit, and he groans when he finds the cotton damp already.

Reaching out with a shaky hand, you cup his crotch in retaliation and feel a familiar bulge straining against his jeans, large and warm, and too big for your palm.

Simon lets out a deep, ragged grunt at your touch, his heart fluttering wildly in his chest as he feels your hand on him after so much time of neglect. He’s been outright starving for you, for the feel of your hands on him, the way your supple skin feels against his, and he grinds his shaft into your palm, his body trembling and his cock weeping into his boxers with need. His eyes are closed, and his forehead is still pressed against yours.

“Fuckin’ hell, I'm losin’ my bloody mind here, love.”

Cupping the back of his head with your free hand, you swiftly ruck up his hoodie and undo his belt before unzipping his jeans with your other hand. He doesn’t stop you, only breathes hard, and when you finally slip your hand inside and past his boxers, you slowly start stroking his throbbing cock, earning a deep exhale of relief from him.

There’s so much you want to say, but you keep biting your tongue and let your eyes fall shut as you touch and explore him, drinking in his reactions while you feel his thick shaft throb in your grasp.

Simon leans into you, his hips rocking instinctively into your hand as his cock twitches and leaks precum into your palm, the feel of your touch igniting a blazing fire within him. He’s been craving you so badly, his body aching for you. He’s drowning in the sensations, his brain short-circuiting as badly as yours.

Both his hands are roaming over your body under your dress skirt, exploring the curves he remembers so well, his lips leaving a trail of heated kisses on your neck.

“God, I–” he breaks off, his voice rough, “I’ve missed you so fuckin’ much.”

“Yeah,” you rasp, brows furrowed in a pained frown as you keep rubbing his length almost reverently, stroking back his smooth foreskin until he hisses at the sensation. “Me too.”

Simon can feel the heat pooling low in his gut at your touch, your quiet admission, and he fears he might finish in his boxers at this rate, his breathing coming out ragged and harsh. He presses his hard, muscled body against yours, pinning you to the wall as he buries his face in the crook of your neck; inhaling your scent, the familiar smell of your skin sending a wave of emotions through him.

“I need more.” He breathes against your throat, chapped lips dragging over sensitive skin, teeth grazing over your pulse point while his hands grope your plush thighs.

“Then take it.” It’s all you can reply as a myriad of emotions threatens to choke you.

And when you give him permission, you can feel the rough pads of his fingers teasingly caress over your upper thighs and hips before he pulls and slips your cotton panties off your legs while his face never leaves the crook of your neck; shaky breaths puffing against your flushed skin. He gropes your ass cheeks with a string of muttered curses and chuckles at your squeak of surprise, when he squeezes them hard enough to make your pussy lips spread.

You swat at his biceps with a soft hiss, but that only spurs him on, and he rucks your skirt up before gripping the backside of your thighs and lifting you up effortlessly to wrap around his hips as he pushes you up against the wall.

You’ve almost forgotten how playful and passionate you tow used to be with each other, and for a split second, an almost carefree smile ghosts over your lips.

There’s a tense moment, a brief pause, where he’s holding you there, his fingers stroking the flesh of your thighs as he rubs the sticky tip of his cock through your slick folds. He takes a deep breath through his nose, his lips pressing against your forehead, savouring the feel of you against him.

“You're so wet for me,” he murmurs, his voice gruff. “For me, right?” He sucks in a breath. “Say it.”

You let out a small whimper, a pathetic noise in the dark of this dusty storage room. It’s a surreal moment; teetering on a nightmare and yet you’re clinging on to it. To him.

“For you,” you obey softly. “All for you, Si.”

The nickname slips out and then his cock slides in without any trouble, like he’s never left, like he’s been stretching you out every night like he’s supposed to. You gasp and groan in unison and your spine arches at the intrusion; toes curling inside your ballerina shoes as he bottoms out while your whole body buzzes deliciously.

You’ve gotten more sensitive since the pregnancies, and for a split second, you worry he might not like what he’s feeling, but then he lets out the most wanton moan—loud enough for you to swiftly clamp your hand over his mouth to muffle it momentarily.

“Fuuuuck.”

He’s truly losing his mind now as it spins with the feeling of you around him, his eyes rolling back in pure bliss as he feels you silken walls ripple around his rock hard prick. He’s home. There’s no better way to describe it. He’s missed this, missed you, the way you move, the way you feel, the sounds you make. He has to take a deep, grounding breath, his grip on your thighs tightening as he tries to calm his racing heart. “I’ve dreamt about this.”

He’s possessed, desperate and hungry; needing to touch every inch of you, to touch every place he’s been craving and longing for so badly. His lips find yours again, his tongue driving deep into your mouth. It’s a possessive kiss, raw and hungry, and he can’t get enough of you, of the taste, of the way your body fits against his.

“Touch me,” he murmurs against your mouth.

Your legs wrap tighter around his waist while your dress is tucked under your armpits, keeping it out of the way. Your whole lower half is bared to the warm air inside the stuffy storage room, rear pressing against the cool wall as he starts thumbing your rapidly swelling clit while you moan into his mouth. His admission that he’s been dreaming about this, about you, makes your pussy clench and flutter around his thick shaft buried deep inside your sopping walls.

And then, you obey him as you drag your shaky hands over his buff chest, feeling the fabric of his black hoodie under your palms. He must be sweating bullets and your mouth waters at the thought of your tongue licking over pale, scarred skin—lapping up his salty taste.

When you cup his face tenderly, you lean in to capture his lips once more; deep and passionate, eagerly swallowing his low moans.

He can’t get enough of you, of the feel of your skin against his, of the taste of your lips on his own. His body responds instinctively, his hips starting to rock slowly, the movements rough and desperate, like he can’t get close and deep enough.

“Love ya,” he grunts, his words raw and ragged. “Been so goddamn cold without you.”

It’s a confession filled with pain and regret, the words spilling out before he can stop them. He’s vulnerable, he’s broken, and he’s desperate as he presses you against the wall, his body trembling with the effort to hold it together, to not let the emotions he’s been bottling up tightly swallow him whole.

“Need you,” he breathes against your lips, his voice rough and strained. “Need ya so damn bad, love.”

You bite your tongue in return, unwilling to reciprocate his love confession yet. He doesn’t deserve to know that you never stopped loving him; that you never quite stopped being his despite the name Price engraved on your golden wedding band—the bloody ring that seems to be searing the skin around your ring finger in reprimand.

In your lust-filled frenzy, you’re tempted to take it off and throw it into the darkest corner of the room.

“Then fuck me like you mean it,” you retort instead as you wrap your arms around his neck to stay close, to breathe with him. “Our son is outside playing soccer with his friends and I don’t have any fucking time for this.”

His eyes darken at your words, a low, primal groan escaping from his throat. He obeys, because he always has; because he’ll do anything you ask of him, because he still has no damn dignity when it comes to you.

Simon grips you more firmly, his blunt nails biting into your flesh as his hips start to snap upwards. “Like this, huh?” he snarls. “Want me to make ya feel me, love? Make ya feel how much I fuckin’ need ya, how goddamn much I missed ya?!”

“That right?” you manage to grunt, still holding his face as you keep your forehead pressed against his, sweat now starting to make your skins sticky.

He’s holding onto you, desperate to keep you close, to make you feel him, make you feel and remind you how much you’re his. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breaths ghosting over your skin, and his words are almost a reverent prayer: missed you, missed you, fuckin’ missed you.

His fingers dig into your thighs, his grip tight and possessive, as his hips angle you towards him just a little bit better before he practically bounces you on his cock like a ragdoll; biceps bulging with the effort underneath his hoodie.

Soon enough, you can hear how embarrassingly wet you are while he pumps his hips and fucks you with deep, powerful strokes that leave you gasping and mewling for him.

“Fuck, baby,” you whine, lips brushing against his temple while his fingers dig into the plush fat of your ass.

Baby. It’s just one word, but it tears through him like a bolt of lightning. He loves you so goddamn much, he always did, and now, he’s drowning again, concrete weights pulling him under. He can hear the slick sounds of your body taking him so well, the way you whimper and whine against his ear. And he wants you to say it again, wants to hear that word spill from your lips again and again.

“Don’t call me tha’,” he grouses with a huff.

“You called me love,” you hiss in return, nipping at his cheekbone. “I’ll call you whatever the ah! f-fuck I want.”

He lets out a low growl at your defiant words, his powerful hips snapping into you with more purpose now; grunting and cheeks flushing at your comment, because you’ve always known how to get under his skin. He grips your thigh, pulling you down onto him rougher, his cock driving into you with determined, punishing thrusts.

“You,” he grits his teeth, “are goddamn infuriating.” Simon wants to shut you up, to make you focus on him, on the way you feel, on how good he makes you feel.

He wants you to say that you’ve missed him, that you’ve craved his touch, his presence. Something, anything to hint that you still love him, that you still need him.

The pleasure is almost unbearable and you go limp in his arms; too overwhelmed and too focused on your strange feelings at the same time. You can feel your orgasm readying to break you apart in his embrace, though you know Simon is right here, all too eager to catch you as soon as you fall.

As you bury your face in his neck to muffle your cries of pleasure, you suddenly feel your throat tighten and your eyes well up with fat tears.

Meanwhile, Simon can already feel you coming apart in his arms, can feel the way you tremble and clench around him. He knows the bloody signs; has studied them during his time with you. It’s everything he wants, everything he’s missed, and it almost undoes him. He clutches you close, one hand wrapping around the nape of your neck to hold you tight against him, and his movements become even more desperate, borderline frantic as the harsh sounds of skin slapping skin fills the small room.

Simon can feel the tears building up, too, feel the lump in his throat grow bigger until it nearly chokes him. He doesn’t quite know what cocktail of emotions he’s currently experiencing, but he’s too lost in it all to care. He’s struggling to contain himself; struggling to hold back his own sobs as he buries his face in your hair, his body shaking with the effort, his muscles tight. His whole body is taut with tension, getting lost in the way you’re making him feel.

He can’t hold back the words anymore; they come out in broken whispers against your skin: “I love you. God, I love you so fuckin’ much, I missed you, I love you, baby. I love you,” he utters like a mantra as his eyes squeeze shut, causing his tears to spill.

His words push you over the edge and rip you apart at your carefully mended seams, cracks and holes where he’s trying to sneak and settle in again.

And you’re too weak to deny him.

You cry out in pleasure and pain as you hold on to him; arms wrapping around his muscular neck tightly while your tears soak into the fabric of his hoodie, and you cream around his throbbing cock like your needy cunt has a mind of her own.

As if your body knows how to take him despite years of not having him; of being depraved from the man you love.

Simon can feel you, he can feel every inch of your body as it clenches and tightens around him, and it’s too much, too much, too goddamn much.

He can’t speak anymore, can’t do anything but cling to you, like you’re the only thing keeping him together. His hips are stuttering, losing their rhythm, and he’s so close, so damn close; trying to hold on, to savour this, but it’s too much, too much, and he’s breaking, he’s breaking, he’s breaking—

“Say it. God, baby, please jus’ say it,” he groans, begs, demands, his voice a ragged, desperate gasp. “Say you miss me. Tell me you miss me as much as I miss ya, love.”

You grit your teeth until your jaw aches, muffling your pathetic mewl as he fucks you to the brink of overstimulation. With your eyes squeezed shut, you whimper against his neck: “Come f'me, baby. Just, please... come–”

The sound of you, the words you’re panting into his neck—it’s not what he wants nor needs to hear, but he’s willing to take whatever you offer him, and it pushes him over the edge at last. Simon gasps out your name, his body shuddering, his vision going white. His balls draw up tight; his cock throbs violently as he fills you up with his needy load. He holds on to you, his bulky arms wrapped around you like a vice.

All spent, his body trembling, his head spinning, he keeps grinding his hips, desperate to keep his sensitive cock nestled against your womb. It’s intense, and yet he can’t stop the words that spill from his lips once more, as sincere as they are raw: “I love you. Oh, God, I love you. I missed you so much, loved you every day... every fuckin’ day.”

He’s losing himself completely, but he welcomes this madness if it means he gets to keep you at last. He can’t let you go, can’t bear to feel you slip away again.

He presses his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged, and his chest heaving with the exertion. With a hoarse, broken voice, he rasps out the words again, pleading, begging you: “Please... say you still love me.”

Your heart is thudding so harshly in your chest that you fear a cardiac arrest for a second while your brain is filled with cotton, only slowly processing the moment—what just happened, what you’ve done.

Slow tears are still running down your burning cheeks as you pull pack to gaze at him, sniffling softly, and in the semi-darkness of this random storage room, you can barely make out the shape of his features, the blackness of his eyes.

When you cup his cheek with one shaky hand, you feel wetness beneath the pad of your thumb, causing your breath to hitch and your heart to shatter as you realize that he’s crying, too—yet you can’t bring yourself to say it.

“Why... Why does that even matter, Simon?” you croak out. “This won’t happen again. It–It can’t.”

He can hear it in your voice, the way you’re already pulling away, already shutting him out again.

It’s like a knife to his wretched, rotten heart.

He tightens his arms around you, refusing to let you go, refusing to let you slip away, and refusing to pull his softening cock out of your warm, welcoming cunt. His eyes are dark, his expression fierce, even with the tears streaming down his rugged face.

“Because it matters,” he says his voice rough with emotion. “It matters, dammit!”

He pulls you closer against his chest, his grip so tight it’s borderline painful, like he's afraid that if he lets go of you, even just for a second, you’ll disappear into thin air like a rainbow bubble that gets popped, and he won’t let that happen—won’t let you slip through his fingers like drift sand.

His grip is unyielding, his body tense as he holds onto you tightly, keeping you pressed against the wall. His heart is pounding in his chest, his breathing ragged as he tries to control the maelstrom of emotions that are surging through him.

“Please,” he whispers, “Please don’t push me away again.”

Your nimble fingers tangle in his hair roughly while you caress your other hand over his broad back soothingly, and you feel the damp, heavy fabric of his hoodie as his sweat soaks through it.

It’s so hot in the room at this point and the weight of what you two have done is starting to push down on your chest, making it harder to breathe all of a sudden.

“I’m married to John,” you weep into his neck, nails digging into his skull. “We have a baby together now and Tommy... Tommy calls him daddy, Si–” Your voice cracks and you hold him tighter, trembling in his arms.

“And I can’t forget what you’ve done to me.” To us.

His heart is clenching painfully in his chest as he listens to the words you’re saying, each one a stab to his gut, though he can’t hold back his desperate response nor the fresh wave of tears spilling over and dripping onto your skin.

“I know,” he says, his voice thick with regret, with guilt. “I know, baby, but I regret it. Every day. Every fuckin’ day I regret it.”

He frantically blinks away his tears as he trembles against you, and he knows how pathetic he must be sounding right now, though he cannot bring himself to care.

“I’ve never stopped loving you. I will never fuckin’ stop lovin’ you.”

If you vote, please consider reblogging, liking, or commenting! Thanks :)

[ryuzakemo128]

You want to call your House rep now and tell them Trump needs to be impeached immediately for defying a Supreme Court order (re: Kilmar Abrego Garcia), which functionally voids our constitution and means no one in America has rights anymore.

I am not exaggerating.

As of now, anybody can be disappeared, no due process, no recourse. Trump is openly disregarding a Supreme Court order and says he’ll send US citizens to El Salvador.

This is not a drill.

Call your House rep and tell them they must impeach. Tell them if they cannot bring themselves to impeach, they must resign. A more open and shut case to impeach is not possible. Trump and his administration are saying openly, in public, that anybody can be kidnapped by ICE, even in error, and disappeared permanently.

Call your senators, too, and tell them to support impeachment (it goes to them once it passes a majority House vote).

[ryuzakemo128]

thing with john is that when he finds out that his neighbour's been emotionally cheating on his wife, the very same woman that plague's john's dreams, he takes that as his invitation; what were friendly, toeing the line of flirting, banters are now full on attempts at seduction. pretty bird is wasted on his neighbour, after all.

[ryuzakemo128]

Why he sad? Wrong answers only

[ryuzakemo128]

this is in the "141 and john price's wife" universe. still gn pronouns. i also don't think price texts that much- old man syndrome.

the 141 absolutely have a group chat dedicated to pictures and information (porn) about their little wife.

it starts, as many silly things do, with johnny and a picture of you asleep on the couch. cuddled into the armrest covered in the tortilla blanket he'd gotten you as a gag gift, and it was just too good not to share. (although he only sent one of the thirty he actually took, he's gotta keep as much of you to himself as he can.)

then it was kyle with you in the yard, laying in the grass after cutting down branches in the sweltering heat (something john would never let you do if he'd know about it, but he appreciates the flush of your cheeks and the angle of the photo makes it seem as if you were under him doing another strenuous activity.)

and it continues like that for months, cute little pictures of you gardening with price, walking with simon, watching tv between kyle and johnny- just sharing the daily life of their pretty bird.

but the real nature of the group chat doesn’t start until simon sends a picture of you bent over, putting something in the oven, in the tiny, red daisy duke shorts that are only just long enough to be considered inappropriate for the public.

sr: fuckin' lucky that shit only takes 10 minutes to cook or we'd be in the kitchen all day.

soap: fuuuuuuuuckin' hell

kyle: don't rub it in simon, we'll be home in two days

sr: don't worry, i'll warm 'em up for you

price: Behave yourselves.

and it all just unravels from there.

john's the next culprit. he has loads and loads of less than decent pictures of you, perks of being the first husband, but he's not reaching into the stash for this one. he has a point to make: if anyone's getting off to pictures of his wife, he's gonna be the one sending them.

it's barely two hours after the other three left that something is sent into the chat. face down, ass up, cunt dripping with cum as price uses his thumb to keep your pussy open to the camera, the rest of his hand palm down on your ass, the ring on his finger glistening in the flash.

sr: fuckin' filthy captain

soap: BRING ME BACK, PUT ME IN CAPTAIN

kyle: tell 'em i said thank you

it's not surprising that the minute he comes back, johnny's on you. methodically placing the camera, making sure it captures all of you and his face buried between your thighs. it wasn't the first video sent into the chat but it's definitely one of the best ones.

your head thrown back, hands in his hair, gripping what you can so you can grind your pussy on his tongue. his phone is just close enough to hear your small pants and groans as he sucks on your swollen clit.

soap: i could spend the rest of my life right there

sr: you let 'em fuck yer face like that?

soap: lt i'd let 'em gag me

soap: then step on my dick

soap: then leave me on the floor to rot

*kyle, price, and sr disliked three messages*

soap: like you fuckers wouldn't

and kyle is not a man to be left out, but he is also not as keen on sharing his private time with you as johnny is. so there aren't videos coming from him, instead he has 4k close ups of your tits after he spent almost an hour sucking hickeys into every part of your chest he could reach.

and kyle is like an artist, he makes sure your hair is splayed out perfectly, and that you're just fucked out enough to give him a bright smile. he also makes sure that the locket they gave you, the one that's has their names engraved on the inside, sits perfectly above the swell of your boobs. and goddamn is he proud of his pictures. (it's not hard for you to look pretty in pictures because you're already pretty but kyle thinks he's the best at actually capturing it).

soap: another two things i would put my face between until i suffocate

*sr, price, and kyle disliked a message*

soap: go fuck urselves

and simon is just mean, fingers peaking under your panties, finding your clit just to sit there, finger pressed on your bud, only moving for a few seconds before falling still again; his other hand hold your hips down so you can't do anything but wait for him to move again. and he does it the entire length of the manchester game until your panties are completely soaked through.

soap: stone cold, lt. stone cold.

but before he can do anything, he has to take his picture so the other fools can remember what a whore you are for him. and because it's between games he'll let you sit on his dick and grind into him during commercial breaks. maybe he'll even film in and send it to the guys, let them see you drip all over his lap whole stretching to fit him in your cunt.

but whether his team loses or wins, he'll flip you over and fuck you into the couch cushions, so at least you get that!

then they're all away on a mission, and you know about their little chat (it's hard not to when suddenly they have a camera out every time you're in their vicinity.) so you take it upon yourself to give them their fix. and why not play around with them well you're ar it?

it starts when you go shopping merely three days after they left. they tear up your bras and underwear so obviously you would need to buy more eventually. but usually when you go shopping one of them is with you to share their opinions, but since they're away, you just have to send pictures instead!

a whole catalog, in facts. you've got angles, dressing room lighting, and a whole lot of time on your hands.

*you sent 22 photos to 'the bird house'*

you: i can't choose :(((

you: help me out?

kyle: give me 6 hours to fly home and i'll help you with anything

price: Looks great. But I can't tell from the pictures, you'll have to try them all on again when I get home.

soap: licking the screen isn't working, captain i think i need to go home.

*sr saved 22 photos to Camera Roll*

kyle: smooth riley, real smooth.

and of course it doesn't end there. you have a chance to torture them a little bit with zero consequences and you're going to take it.

but it takes a while for you to send videos, usually you send  your outfits, or the tiny bathing suit top you wear while tanning, even one of you in the kitchen in nothing but your tiny apron. (it's the only one that john does not appreciate, popping a boner between briefings as a captain is not hie proudest moment.)

but as the months go longer and longer, you get more and more desperate. your toys are reserved for times like this, a small bullet vibrator and a thick 8-inch dildo. it's nowhere near as nice as fucking your men but it'll have to do for the time being.

and you know them being away is not their fault and they'd be home in an instant if they could choose to be; but if you have to deal with your pent-upness, so do they.

so you set up your phone, leaning it on the lamp that sits on your bedside table, so it captures your entire body, covered only by sheer light-blue lingerie and your locket, as you sink down the length of your dildo, vibrator pressed to your clit. you send four different videos, one for each of them, in the order they came into your life (you think it's cute, they're one picture away from firebombing the whole country they're in and flying home).

you: just something to hold you over until you get back!

kyle: so good for us babe.

soap: yer evil bonnie.

soap: my arm can't keep up with this

sr: birdie thinks it's real funny now

you: i do

sr: not gonna be so funny when we get home, yeah? might have to give you a refresher about what happens teasing birds.

price: 6:30am tomorrow, get everything you need in order because you aren't moving for the foreseeable future.

*you loved a message*

[ryuzakemo128]

husband john price who goes to the end of the earth when his wife gets captured by an enemy group for leverage. husband john price who is still haunted by it, even when you’re back safe in his arms.

He doesn’t hear you come in.

Not over the silence. Not over the creak of leather beneath his elbows or the slow crackle of the fire in the hearth. The study is dim — warm, yes, but not alive. A space that once held meaning. Now it just holds him.

You don’t say a word. Just pad across the hardwood with gentle steps. His eyes are cast toward the fire — half-burnt logs, amber glow flickering across the hard line of his jaw and mingling with the smoke of his cigar. He hasn’t shaved in days. Not since long before he got you back. Hasn’t even thought about it. You know, because you counted each time he moved.

Three. Each to the kitchen, then back.

You pause for a moment, watching the grief calcify in his silence.

He looks like he’s been carved down to bone by fear and sharpened again by rage. The kind of rage only a man like him could carry. Cold. Surgical. The kind that doesn’t explode. It eats.

There’s a bottle of whiskey on the table next to him, half gone. You wonder how much of it he poured into the hollow that had your name carved into it. How many nights he drank your ghost down just to keep breathing.

You stop in front of him. No words yet.

Just you — bare legs, one of his dress shirts curtaining your frame, sleeves rolled up past the elbows. It smells like him. Cologne and smoke and something older. The scent of a man who nearly lost his world and hasn’t quite figured out how to let it back in without crucifying himself with the hurt.

“John,” you murmur softly.

He looks up.

And Christ — you weren’t ready for the way he looks at you. Not because he’s crying. He’s not. He’s past that. But because his expression is starved. Hollowed out. Like he spent every second of your absence chewing through every scenario that didn’t end with you in front of him, wearing his clothes and looking at him like you never left.

“I’m here,” you whisper. “It’s okay.”

He sets his cigar down, hand reaching out — rough palm sliding along your thigh like he’s checking for something, proof maybe, or pulse. You step between his knees without being asked, fingers finding the back of his neck, thumb brushing scruff made coarse by time.

His forehead presses to your stomach. Just rests there.

You can feel the breath he drags in — shaky, uneven, filled with everything he hasn’t said in the seven days he spent chasing hell to get you back.

“I should’ve gotten there sooner,” he says. His voice sounds like smoke and splinters. “I—”

“You got there.” You trace the age on his skin. He holds you tighter for it. “You found me.”

“Not a goddamn thing would’ve prevented that.”

You don’t answer that — just hold his head in your hands, willing your fingers to grow roots. Like the only thing you can offer now is proof of life.

He doesn’t ask you to forgive him for the days it took to reach you. Doesn’t apologize over and over for something he knows you'd never ever blame him for. It’s military. You know the job. The risks that often reap the rewards. And you — you know better than to tell him you’re fine. Because fine is the word people use when everything inside them is still bleeding. And besides, he isn’t really asking if you’re okay.

He’s asking if you’re still his.

So you climb into his lap, straddling his thighs. Not to fuck — not to forget. But to exist. With him. Inside the silence. Inside the ache. Inside the echo of what might’ve been lost if he hadn’t fought like hell to get to you.

“I had plans,” he murmurs, curling his lips into your neck. “For after. For now. Thought about what I’d say when you walked through the door. About how I’d ask if you wanted to get out of this life. Find something quieter. Something that doesn’t strip the good from our skin.”

You shift, press your forehead to his. Let the smoke on his exhales stick to yours. Let the ache burn through your throat.

“And now?”

He kisses you. “Now I just want to feel you breathe.”

[ryuzakemo128]

This is an appreciation post for the fanfic authors who aren’t included on rec lists

For the fanfic authors who don’t get art of their fics

For the fanfic authors who can’t get to 1000/500/100 hits

For the fanfic authors who don’t get comments/reviews

For the fanfic authors who write for small fandoms

For the fanfic authors who write rarepairs or gen fics

For the fanfic authors who get hate for the ships/characters/fandoms they write

For the fanfic authors who write in English despite it not being their first language

For the fanfic authors who don’t write in English

For the fanfic authors who don’t think anyone reads or likes their work

For the fanfic authors who aren’t big name fans

For the fanfic authors who don’t get requests in their inboxes

For the fanfic authors who can’t write stories that are more than a thousand words

For the fanfic authors who only write one ship

For the fanfic authors who are just starting

For the fanfic authors who have been writing fic for years

For the fanfic authors who use fanfic to practice writing

For the fanfic authors who write self-insert fics

For the fanfic authors who write about their OCs

For the fanfic authors who write to vent or cope

For the fanfic authors who are just waiting for their big break

Keep creating, I love you ❤️

[ryuzakemo128]

Price x f!reader

Thinking about Price going fishing with a shirt saying "Women love me, fish fear me", a stupid gift his team bought for him as a joke.

He didn't even know why he was wearing it, probably didn't think twice about what he was wearing since he'd be spending the day fishing alone anyway.

At least that's what he thought.

Until he saw you, a pretty thing that he thought only existed in fairytales. Your delicate face glowed under the sunlight, soft skin glistening with the sea’s embrace before fading into shimmering, iridescent scales.

A mermaid.

As he was busy thinking if Johnny put anything in his cigar and questioned reality, you blinked at him and giggled, eyeing the words on his shirt.

"So.. should should i do half and half, or?" You asked cheekily.

What a way to meet his future wife..

[ryuzakemo128]

Fruitful Peaches

Hybrid Poly!TF141 x Pregnant Human!Reader

*After your ex left you due to you getting pregnant, you turned to your friend, Kyle, for help. *Warnings: pregnancy trope

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Previous-Next

|-----------------------------------------------|

You sat in front of your friend, Kyle, at a small cafe. You hadn’t seen him in a while and the both of you had much to tell each other.

“It’s great to see you again, Kyle.” You rubbed your thumb along your glass. “But, um, I need some help.”

“Help with what?”

“I’m pregnant, my ex walked out, and I don’t know what to do.”

Well, that certainly stunned the man. Humans were rare in this world of hybrids and, as such, the government banned them from getting abortions unless medically necessary.

“He left? Does—“ Kyle pinched his nose bridge— “he even know that you’re pregnant?”

“Yeah, it’s why he left. Kyle, please. I need help. I don’t know how I’m going to manage work and a baby. Plus I need a place to stay since he kicked me out.” You bit the inside of your cheek. “I know I’m asking for a lot.”

The German Shepherd sighed before grabbing your hand gently, humans were so fragile compared to his kind. “You can stay with me. I’ll ask my mates.”

“Mates? As in lovers?”

“Yeah. I was hoping to introduce you to them anyways.”

“I see… are they dog hybrids too?”

“Hybrids, yes, but not dogs.” He pulled out his phone, showing you a picture of him and his mates. “John is a brown bear, Johnny is a ferret, and Simon is an owl.” His tail wagged as he showed you them.

“Where did you meet all of them at?”

“Work.”

You stared long and hard at the man. “Okay, you know what? I’m not even going to question it.”

Then you went on to tell him about your relationship with your ex. It wasn’t abusive per se, but it was toxic. You tried discussing boundaries and what the two of you would do if you did end up pregnant— he told you to just go on birth control to avoid it, which you never did, not like it would have been 100% protection anyways.

“You have awful taste in men,” Kyle finally commented.

“What? Like yours is any better?”

“Yes. They’re much better.”

“Guess I’d have to see for myself then.”

Long story short, Kyle’s taste in men was better. They were welcoming, understanding. While Simon was essentially a brooding shadow, John was more than welcoming and Johnny was very energetic.

“Dinnae worry, we’ll take care of ya.” His tail fluffed up as he helped set up your room. He practically bounced around you and Kyle, only for Kyle to lead him away whenever he got too close to practically jumping on you.

"Thank you, again, for helping me."

Kyle placed his hand on your shoulder, slightly rubbing you with his thumb. "No worries, stay as long as you need to."

Kyle very quickly left your side when Johnny tried picking up the dresser to move it.

"You're still healing," Kyle hissed out. "You are supposed to take it easy."

"Ah'm fine."

"No, you're fucking not."

You watched as Kyle struggled with Johnny, trying to get the ferret hybrid to rest. Kyle eventually pried him away. “Why don’t you show y/n around? I can rearrange the room.”

Reluctantly, Johnny did so, mumbling about being treated like a fragile princess or something. John and Simon had left earlier to go and grab some stuff for you, mainly crib. Which you did promise to pay back later, but they told you not to worry about it.

The house was big, not in the sense of a lot of rooms, just that everything was huge. Not that you were surprised though. Hybrids were bigger than humans, so majority of things that weren’t human-made were big.

“Was yer ex human or a hybrid?” Johnny suddenly asked.

“Human, thankfully.” You were always weary of getting into relationships with hybrids due to how they often craved having offspring and how birthing hybrids’ children were hard on humans. Just too many complications, really.

“Lucky.”

The front door creaked open and Simon and John walked in. Johnny very happily greeted them as they carried a boxed crib inside. You thanked them again after they putted the crib together.

John smiled at you, the corner of his eyes crinkling. “It’s no problem, lass. You’re a friend of Kyle, so you might as well be ours.”

Oh, boy, how you didn’t know the true meaning behind his words.

[ryuzakemo128]

XOXO | cw: 18+ mdni, daddy kink (but it’s icky), meanie!simon, age gap (mid twenties reader, early-mid thirties Simon)

Ghost, who can be an absolute annoying fuck.

And it’s right when you least expect it, well you kinda expect it, because it’s his routine to tease you at some point throughout the day. Whether he sees you or not.

You can envision that dumb smirk on his face under his skull mask, the ends of his mocha brown eyes crinkling as your hauling ass out the car, or walking away in the other direction, or getting off of his lap.

Ghost’s loud enough just for you or any other passerby to hear him, “Easssy baby, don’t forget to give dad a kiss.”

And you can feel the heat reach your cheeks and blow out of you like train blowing steam. Ghost knows you hate when he calls himself that because he wasn’t your dad. You didn’t even look remotely alike. Old enough to be your dad? Slightly off, but still no. Ghost— was that other category. The big man in your life. Daddy. Pa. Not ‘Dad.’ But he likes to see you squirm with embarrassment, get all flustered, and irritated all into one. See your eyebrows knit together but your thighs squeeze together too. His cute little thing.

One, two.

And you’re minds already racing because no way he just said that for everyone (well kinda, just 2 or 3 people) to hear you. There’s always the option to just go about your day like you didn’t hear his words— his instruction— you whine, “B-but pa-“

“—Kid, it’s just a goodbye.” He sing song voice, taunting every fiber of your being.

Three, four.

The other option was Ghost “punishing” you. Was it actually a punishment? More like a little edging, forced to do his side of chores— fuck, mowing the lawn (which he’s surprisingly a stickler about.) Damn it, damn, damn, damn, damn it.

Five.

With a huff, you’re pulling his mask over his nose with swiftness, putting your plump lips on his.

It’s always just for a small peck. But Ghosts dragging you closer by his tattooed arm, large hand coming pushing your head so you keep your lips on his as he slips his tongue in your mouth. Intertwining the two and getting a moan out of you, slow. Fully enjoying the sound of you too swapping saliva. It was ritual to give his baby girl a sweet snog, didn’t care when or where or who was watching, didn’t care that it left you in brain a little foggy— like it was now— his eyes would be low as he’d pull away.

Ghost loved that dumb look you’d have on your face, give you another peck for good luck and hum, “what’d’ya say?”

“Thanks Daddy.” Shit, he never wants to send you off after that. How could you be so fucking cute, looking up at him with those big brown eyes, blissed out without a care in the world but him. But Ghost sends you off, because you’re a big girl and have your own shit to handle, opening your car door as you slowly snap out of whatever haze the big blonde put you in. You hop out the truck, and Simons reaching out of the drivers seat to give you a pat on the ass.

“Be good,” he grunts as you close the door shut, he adjusts himself, pants a little tighter. Taking in that gorgeous face and curves one more time.

“Always.”

a/n: Song rec for this: Sunday by The Cranberries.

most recent masterlist more meanie!simon

[ryuzakemo128]

international women's day

john "soap" mactavish

tags: smut/pwp, pussy worship, sloppy eating out/fingering, praise kink, hair pulling, johnny is a feminist, explicit femme reader

johnny loved your pussy, there was something about it that just drew him in. not to say that he didn't love all of you, that he did as well. he loved every inch of you. the smell of your hair, the brightness of your smile, how your spoke, your hobbies and interests. it all pulled the sweet john mactavish right in.

but your pussy was simply the cherry on top. it was the type of pussy that your worshiped, adored, made animal sacrifices to in the hope of rain. it was holy. and johnny couldn't get enough.

international women's day came around on a saturday and while you would have been content with seeing all the silly posts online while you and johnny went about your weekend routine. you woke up to the feeling of strong hands across your thighs.

you whimpered as your eyes slowly opened and you felt the shiver of a lack of blankets on you. but you were being warmed by something else. someone else. you yawned and reached for the figure on top of you. with a tug at his mohawk, you said, "johnny, what time is it?"

"time for breakfast." he chuckled lowly before he leaned to kiss your stomach. your soft, warm skin under his lips made him excited. you felt so warm. fresh from sleep, laid out under him. it was perfect.

and while he would have loved to have his cock between your softer thighs. right now, he had to pay tribute to his woman.

"johnny, fuck." you moaned, still sleepy as he got your pajama pants down your thighs, along with an old pair of cotton underwear. before they got too far down your legs, johnny pressed his nose up against the crotch of them and inhaled.

smelled just as he liked it and he licked his lips in anticipation. he felt the thrum of excitement run through him as he eyed your cunt. he liked it hairy, said a man who liked a waxed cunt was less of a man. as he spreas your thighs and kissed your pussy lips, he proved that he was all the man you needed.

he groaned and rubbed his cock up against the bed under him, "she smells good, hen. like the summer sun and all the pretty fuckin' flowers." his voice was low, accent hung heavier as he continued to kiss as your slit.

you held onto the covers for a moment as you woke up. you moaned and felt your back arch a little. johnny ate you out often, but every time it still made you hold on for dear life. talented tongue on the scotsman.

"hen." he said, "don't be scared, give my hair a tug."

you exhaled a swear as you reached for his short dark hair as he started to tease your clit up against his tongue and lips. there was something about it that left you feeling incredibly excited. he was near panting against your pussy as he only got it more soaked.

one hand on your plush thigh, the other between them as he pumped his fingers inside of your hole. his attention split across your pussy. he wanted to have you squirming.

only the best for you. after all, it was your day. he teased up against your clit. his movements were efficient and it made you see stars. it wasn't a shock that johnny was the first (and only) man to ever make you cum. no one else compared to the smart-mouth mactavish. he was everything to you, especially when you held onto his hair.

"please, fuck, johnny."

he chuckled between your thighs, "love how you say my name. sounds perfect on your tongue. just like how your cunt feels good on mine." he then licked across your clit and felt you tense up, "a beautiful woman. a smart woman. fuckin' perfect."

you tensed up a little more and clutched onto his hair a little tighter. your head still felt hazy as he orally pleasured you,it wasn't hard to get lost in the feeling. johnny had that way of him. you were everything to him, you knew that from the moment you met. even now, after all these years together, he still loved you as deeply as the moment he said those words.

he groaned against your cunt and continued to finger you, "look at you, all laid out for me." he licked his lips, tasting your wetness, "happy international women's day baby." he said cheekily.

you rolled your eyes playfully, "shut up." before you dropped your head back into the pillows.

"you don't mean that, hen."

he continued to kiss at your pussy some more. the pleasure grew in you. one hand in his hair and the other in the covers, you rolled your hips up against him. it only spurred him on more. his pace moved quickly, his laps against you got messier. it felt amazing in your body.

pleasure mounted in your core. you held on tighter as you panted heavily between heavier moans. you swore under your breath as he continued to orally pleasure you.

"mmm, baby." he cooed, "feel like a dream around me. you taste like heaven and fuck, hen, i love you." he kissed your clit before he dragged his tongue across it. you only moaned louder.

"johnny, that goddamn tongue on you." you held onto him tightly, you yanked on his hair and he rubbed himself up against the bed further.

he was getting needy for you, he needed you more than anything. with his face buried between your thighs. your own pleasure was nearing its climax and he held onto you tighter with one large hand. he felt your thighs squish his head as you reached your peak.

"johnny!" you whined as you came against his tongue and fingers. a slew of curses left your lips as you tensed up. the feeling rushed through your body. it felt amazing and left you out of breath.

when he pulled away from your cunt and looked up at you. his the pupils of his eyes fully blown out like a mad-man. he licked the slick across his lips and grinned at you.

"oh, hen. oh, baby." he said, "can i have some? anything, just need you. i know it's your day, but let me feel up that fuckin' amazing body and let me have every inch of ya today. what to say? celebrate the special day letting me worship you."

you were panting and could only smile lovingly at your lover. you said as you dropped your head back into the pillows, "well then, johnny, show me how you treat a woman on a date like today."

johnny beamed and got on top of you, "of course, of course." <3

a/n: happy (late) international women's day - yay women