hugmeimtouchdeprived

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

ichor tongue; salted wounds

simon ghost riley x fem!reader | warlord x servant | masterlist

Chapter Two: mouse

tw: non-con groping, dub-con, nudity, bathing, mouth kink, minor spit play

You stare at your palms the entire way to the bath house. 

Indentations still plague your skin, nettling deep into the thick tissue where it saves the memory of the brush you clutched in your hands. Sturdy wood and bristles thick enough to shed long rotting skin. You attempt to recall the last time someone had ever got your hands to curl, either out of indignation or panic, yet nothing comes to mind; not much phases you these days.

Ghost is sure to change this, you think. The tips of his toes nip at your heels as you lead him through the palace, and you’re certain you feel his breath huffing on the back of your neck. He looms. Lowering clouds kissing the horizon, promising a flood, promising lightning and destruction. You’d feel the wrath of the sky if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s already fallen upon your city. You see it in the changing of banners in the corridors; pristine white and silver cloth like wispy clouds are now replaced with red and gold, and an unfamiliar crest—the symbol of barbarians, of your new leaders. The storm has come and passed, and you’re wading through the aftermath. Through the lingering destruction that lies at your feet.

There is a detached bath house that lies away from the palace, past the garden and just before a steep trail that leads down to a placid cove. The building winks in your periphery as it stands outside the windows while your feet carry you further down the corridor. It is one that’s saved for servants and soldiers. Anyone expendable. Anyone deemed not important. Communal, and with a single pool, it’s a great source of socialization where people sit among the curved stone, lathering each other’s backs, or diving into the depths of the water. 

It is a place free from prying eyes. Free from judgement of the superiors, of the aristocrats, of the kings one step below the gods themselves. 

Once, you attempted to use the same water as the others when rain had punished your city for a near week straight. Voices echoing off of the stone walls, wet skin glistening in the shrouded sunlight, they all fell silent the moment you entered. They questioned what you were doing there knowing full well you could not answer, only point in the water that they shared with one another, but refused to share with you. 

I’d rather share water with a pig. 

Caenis. That was the name of the servant who spat at you, sneering at the way your feet uncomfortably tapped at the marble floor knowing there was nothing you could do to spit back. No one has ever been kind to you since you lost your tongue and your parents, but no one has been quite as cruel as her. Pristine skin left unmarred, laying with soldiers to get favors, living as an underground princess beneath Emperor Shepherd’s very nose, she always gets her way. 

But you do not take Ghost to the same place the servants bathe—to the very place where you were made a fool of—instead, you bring your new lord to the same chambers Emperor Shepherd used when he still drew breath. Private. Quiet. Held with the decorum expected to be given to a ruler.

It is a small room adorned with stone nestled far back in the palace, well away from foot traffic and echoing conversations. A round hole cuts deep into the floor with stairs to lead to the bottom, and a lipped ridge to sit on. It reaches deep enough to kiss your hips, and is wide enough for you to stretch your arms, but not much more. Private. Not meant for sharing. A hand lever pump that joins directly to the aquifer stands towards the back of the room, waiting to fill the carved tub to the brim. Grandiose, this bath is one of the single greatest wastes of drinking water, second only to the ever flowing fountains that peasants sneak sips out of when soldiers aren’t looking. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost murmurs. Stepping around you, he marches to the side of the tub, curiously eyeing the craftsmanship. Engraved in the stone are various creatures of the sea. Clams, gulls, schools of fish and animals from ancient stories—krakens, ship eating squids, merpeople luring unsuspecting men to shore. “All this artistry for a man who starved his people.”

Now, it’ll be wasted on you. A wretched and unkind way to think, but it springs to mind. The blood that taints his skin. The scrapes on his arms. How many civilians did he cut down for this one spoil? For a bath soiled by another wretched man? 

Ghost looks to you as if expecting an answer, but you instead direct him to a wooden table against the wall behind him that holds all of Emperor Shepherd’s old oils and soaps. There are countless ones with various scents, consistencies, and medicinal effects crafted by the best artisans. He only scoffs at them. 

“Need me clean and smellin’ like a pansy?” he grumbles. 

Still, he offers you reprieve in distracting himself as you work on filling the tub. Ensuring that the metal plug is in place, you begin to pump water from the spigot, allowing it to gush and wet the stone at your feet. You are grateful it is not designed like a regular pump. It flows long after you’ve stopped working it, water still gushing from the pressure, spilling and babbling as if it were a waterfall. What should take you hundreds of pumps only takes you fifty before it’s full enough to bathe in. 

Not bothering to wait for your direction, Ghost removes his chiton with a stiff grunt while his shoulders pop. Now that you no longer look at him in terror, you take note of all the wounds he’s gathered from the battle. There’s nothing of importance. Nothing that would take his life now or later when the wound goes bad and rotten. He shamelessly struts before you, flaccid cock swinging between his legs, broad shoulders swaying and knees groaning as he steps into the water, hissing at the way the frigidness kisses his skin, smoothing over each injury. 

When you realize he hasn’t pointed out a preferred soap, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe out your frustration before approaching the table yourself. Lavender. Lemongrass. Mint. Yes, mint will do. You grab the bar before you kneel at the ledge of the pool just next to Ghost, hands dipping in the water and lathering it as best as you can. 

“I don’t think you’ll be able to clean me from there,” Ghost deadpans. Pausing, you turn your attention to him. His elbows are on the ledge, head tilting to the side to look at you. “I’m a big boy.” As if to prove his point, he stretches his legs just as he rolls his hips. You try not to let the distorted image of his cock through the water distract you. “Gonna be hard to reach all of me if you’re sittin’ pretty by that ledge.” 

You freeze. Prey caught in the sights of a predator. If he wanted to, Ghost could gralloch you right here with his bare hands—nails digging through your navel, splitting you open, turning his bathwater pink. You clutch the bar of soap so tightly it nearly slips from your hands, and you opt to hold it against your stomach instead. 

“C’mon then,” he urges, not impatient but rather intrigued. “In the water, little bird.” 

Knowing better than to deny a powerful man his whims, you stand to your feet and pitifully trudge to the stairs. Ghost watches you like a vulture licks its beak over carrion, waiting to peck and tear flesh—to devour something rotten and whole. But you are a defiant creature to an extent. With no tongue to sing with, you hold onto what little power you have left. You do not shed your chiton before descending the stairs, cotton turning wispy in the algid water, hugging your body tight and tangling around your shins as you wade towards your relaxed warlord. The cold has your nipples hardening through the cloth, but you pay them no attention as you keep your chin high and your lips tight. 

He’s chuckling by the time you’re standing in front of him. Thick fingers tap against the stone at his back as he watches you wordlessly begin to wash him up. You start with his hands. His knuckles are split like grapes that are too ripe, but he doesn’t hiss at the sting. Meaty palms nearly devour your own hands, fingers and all, and you try not to pay too much attention to the way he seems to linger against you as you swipe the grime out from beneath his fingernails. 

Tendons pull taught in his forearms once you begin moving up. There are countless scars to trace. Deep ones that deform his skin, to lighter, silvery ones. Your knees knock against the sitting stone as you lean forward, reaching further along him, body bending at your hips. 

“D’ya always make things so difficult for yourself?” Ghost questions. Pausing, you look at his face for further explanation, brows nearly furrowing, but he seems to be waiting for something. On someone. For you. When you don’t respond, he sighs—then, he grabs. Hands slicing through the water, fingers digging into your hips, he pulls you towards him until your legs are spread wide around his thighs, rump resting in his lap. You gasp at the sudden movement, and a smirk pulls at his scarred lips. “Better?” 

Mind still spinning from the sudden movement, you attempt to distract yourself with your task only to realize that the soap has slipped from your hands. It floats along the surface, half buoyant and ready to sink, drifting further from your reach. You point at it, finger trembling too viciously to truly follow, but Ghost grabs your face. Thumb and forefinger digging into your cheeks, he turns your head towards him before releasing you. 

“I don’t care ‘bout the soap, little bird,” he says. His fingers drift from your face, down your neck, and to your collarbones. You pray to the gods that he cannot feel the way your heart thunders in your body. “Don’t care ‘bout the bath either. Just wanna hear you sing.” 

Dipping between your breasts, his hands grab your chiton and then pull. Thread yanks apart, linen ripping down your sternum, bosom on full display as the remaining tatters slip down your arms. Another gasp from you has him humming with pride as you look down at yourself, hardened nipples dancing with each shuddering breath you exhale. No one has ever exposed you like this—so scandalously on display before your lord like a whore.

“This is what you wanted, yeah?” Ghosts questions. His hands are on your chest now, palms cupping both your breasts, swallowing them whole with the ever growing cavern in his eyes until he drifts up to view your befuddled face. Despite the water, he’s warm. Too warm. Sweltering against your skin, the mixture of hot and cold threatens to undo you. “Or are you really expectin’ me to believe that a pretty thing like you would waltz into my room to serve me so willingly? Watched me conquer your city, now you want me to do the same to you, is that it? C’mon, pretty bird. Sing.” 

Ghost pinches you where you are soft and tender. The ripening bud of your nipple screams as he squeezes it between his finger and thumb, and it’s as if the sky is angry. Billowing clouds. Cracks of thunder and lightning rippling throughout your body. Your mouth opens enough for a squeak just as your body jolts, and he relents. Pauses. Eyes darkening, head tilting—Ghost looks at you with a fading smile and pursing brows. 

Then, he demands; “Open your mouth.”

The softest part of you. Ripe flesh around a peach pit. Teeth like brittle sand dollars waiting to crumble. You obey. You always do.

Lips parting just enough to open, Ghost hooks his thumb into your mouth without warning where he finds purchase behind your bottom teeth, then pulls. Jaw wide open, you stare at him as he peers into your mouth, and you note when he sees it. You. How you were marred beyond recognition. Humming, his thumb dips lower into the space that would harbor the soft tissue beneath your tongue if it were still here. A phantom tells you that you feel it; him. Prodding beneath the wet muscle. A bitter memory of what you once had. 

“I see.” He fits two fingers into your mouth and rides them along the ridges of your teeth. You feel him count each one. He presses against the edge. Each point. Enough for your jaw to ache. Nearly enough to draw blood. “You’re no bird. You’re a little mouse, yeah?” 

Soft palate now. Dragging forward. Hard palate. Incisors. Then, cheek. Hook and drag, saliva gathering on the tips of his fingers, running over the smooth skin and the indentations left from your teeth. 

“I’d ask who did this, but I have a feelin’ I already know. It was that bastard Shepherd, yeah?” Ghost questions with a hum. With his fingers still in your mouth, you nod. “Dirty cunt. This isn’t fresh either.”

He pushes further towards the back of your throat where the mangled remnants of your tongue lie. A branch cut too short on a tree, too much scar tissue and no reach. The nub pushes against the back of your throat as you swallow, skin melting beneath Ghost’s gaze. 

This is the most bare you’ve ever been in front of someone. Breasts spilling from ripped cotton, mouth open, lips wrapping around a stranger’s fingers as he pokes and prods at your greatest source of shame—of the hellfire and scorn wrought upon you that still lingers as embers and the smouldering remains of your past. 

Eventually, Ghost retrieves his fingers from your mouth, pulling them out slow and steady, prodding at your front teeth before his own lips part. Then, they’re in his mouth. Tongue lapping at your saliva, humming content at the flavor you can no longer taste—a sapor long forgotten. A shaky exhale fans across his face as you watch his eyes dilate. He has kind eyes, you think. A stark difference from the ruggedness strewn across his body, scars like mountains, bruises like valleys. They are soft. Warm like the rocks you sunbathe on after cleaning yourself with the brine of the ocean. Warm like the heated iron used to cauterize your tongue. 

“This city was bequeathed to me,” Ghost says, fingers popping free from his mouth before placing his hands on your hips. His thumbs wander. Rubbing, repetitive and soft against your waist, sending water singing around your bodies. “Everythin’ here belongs to me. Includin’ you.” 

Perhaps in another life his words would make your stomach churn, but the prospect of being owned by yet another ruler does not phase you. It’s something you require, now. Someone to take care of. Someone to serve. His words prompt you to nod, but his fingers squeeze against you and you freeze—a rabbit ensnared, a doe catching scent on the wind, a little girl kneeling before a man playing god. 

“But unlike Shepherd, I take care of my things. I don’t go destroyin’ things that could be easily fixed or corrected. And you—” Ghost pulls you closer, body dragging across his lap and chiton bleeding around you in the bath, forcing your hands to brace against his shoulders to steady yourself as water sloshes around you “—might just be my favorite possession yet.” 

For the first time you can recall, something besides fear or contempt swells in your chest. It is not pride, nor flattery, but something deeper. A beast with its maw opened wide, waiting to swallow something—but what? You? Unsure of what to do—here, in your city’s usurper's lap—you nod. You cannot name if it’s because you are saying you understand him, or if you’re agreeing with him. 

You tell yourself it’s the latter, but each beat of your heart strangely sounds like yes please, let me be something, anything more than this, something of importance, let me be useful, please let me mean something. 

Either way, Ghost chuckles before he taps your hips, legs stretching out behind you. The added buoyancy of the water allows him to move you easier, weightlessness taking over your body as if you’re caught in some sort of dream. 

“C’mon, little mouse,” he prompts. “No prized possession of mine will walk ‘round wearin’ rags like these. I like to rip through somethin’ of substance before I eat.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

*full story is currently up for early access, updates will be posted every sunday night (may be a different day depending on time zones)

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

kiss the skin that crawls

john price x fem!reader | the surrogate au | masterlist

Part Five: actionable request

tw: smut

The bed is cold when you wake up, but your chest isn’t.

Overflowing with bubbling mirth, you’re warmed from the inside out as thoughts from the previous night overwhelm your senses. You still feel your head on John’s chest—shirtless, coarse patches of hair tickling your cheek as his hand traces your spine, dancing along each vertebrae. Memorizing each and every curve you hide under. When his touch doesn’t lull you to sleep, his whispers do. Soft nothings, lips against the top of your head, free hand hooking beneath your knee to pull your leg over his body until you melt into him. 

Now in the waking world, you lay flat on your back with your hand over your sternum as the ceiling displays the sun’s gentle art for your viewing pleasure. Rays strewn across eggshell white in long bars—pillars of light to ignite your life. Your heart is beating too fast. Hopped up on adrenaline and a desire you know you could name but are too scared to. There is a tightness inside of you that coils and writhes; an angry snake waiting to strike. 

You think back to your conversation with John before you brought him to your bed and you do your best not to cringe at the memory. Your gauche nature will be the death of you one of these days. Awkwardly making sex so transactional, like you’re a bitch to be bred, or he’s a show stallion only meant to pummel you then vanish when the deed is done. 

What’s even worse is that you think that if he were in this bed with you right now, you could do it. After all the fanfare of being a timid creature with guarded walls, you want it. You want John Price and the way his waist tapers down his latissimus dorsi and the curve of his lips and the gentle touches on your back. 

Instead, he is in the kitchen. Far away from you. Enough that your dreams remain farfetched fantasies you can’t quite grasp. You hear the sizzling of food on cast iron pans and smell freshly warmed bread in the toaster. He is a guest in your home, which makes you either the worst host in history, or him the most chivalrous gentleman you’ve ever brought to your bed. 

Forgoing the headache of deciding what clothes to wear, you strip naked and wrap yourself in your bathrobe instead. The plush white cotton helps to ebb the emotions swarming beneath your skin, but all that work seems to be for naught the moment you wander into the kitchen to find John plating food. 

Though his dark hair is mussed, his clothes are clean—new. Not the same attire he wore last night for your date, but something comfortable. A charcoal grey shirt and sandy trousers complete with a chestnut belt. Not too far from his feet lies a bulky backpack adorned with several patches—SAS, O POS, an insignia you don’t recognize enough to name, but enough to know the parent. 

Ex-military. 

“Morning, love.” John’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts as he glances at you from over his shoulder. His scapulas dance beneath the fabric of his shirt as he plates breakfast. “Was just about to come wake you up.” 

Wandering to the counter beside him, you cross your arms over your chest as you ignore the warmth inside of you and how it only seems to broil worse with each syllable he speaks. 

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you tell him. 

“Force of habit,” he chuckles. “Was up before you and lazing around didn’t feel proper.” 

He clicks the stove off and the gas dies with a hiss which frees up his hands enough to hand you your plate. He’s gone all out with a near decorous breakfast complete with eggs, sausage, toast and jam. The china is warm in your palms and the aroma is almost enough to clear your head of the thoughts mudding your vision. 

“I guess you would be one to struggle with that, sir.” You lay your teasing on thick with a facetious tone and a cheeky smirk. John raises a brow, prompting you to nod towards the pack still sitting in the corner of the kitchen. “Military, right?” 

“You’ve got a keen eye,” he notes. 

Humming, you lean your lower back against the counter as you begin to shovel food into your mouth. Pepper flakes bite the tip of your tongue as you devour your eggs, and the creamy yolk smothers your mouth until it’s hydrated. 

“Is that where you retired from?” you question. 

“Discharged nearly six months ago,” John nods. 

“What rank were you?” 

“Captain.” Pausing, John looks at you with his chin tilted down and brows raised in playful warning. “But it’s just John to you, darling.” 

A loud simper paints your lips at his teasing, and you decide not to push the boundaries of fun too far before your full attention is on your food again. Neither of you bother to wander to the dining table. You’re embarrassed at the thick layer of dust that coats it from lack of company—besides, you’re more than content standing here anyway. 

As you eat, you find your eyes wandering throughout the house, unable to stop the way your brain mentally files away work for you to do later. The chimney still glares at you from the soot covered hearth, and you haven’t noticed how grimy the windows have gotten until you look out at the yard and note the way the sun catches on the glass, displaying each speckle of dirt and dried rain clear as day. 

Noticing your mental meandering, John picks up the conversation—small talk about any and everything to keep your brain distracted. His voice is canorous, rolling over you like warm, lazy waves in a crystalline lake. He watches you intently as you speak, devoting his full attention to you—must be the military in him, you tell yourself. You’re not sure why it makes your thighs press together—the idea of concentration; of someone being immersed with you. 

You don’t realize just how far John’s fixation with you goes until you bite into your toast and you find he’s no longer looking into your eyes, but rather your lips. Teeth digging into golden food, strawberry jam coating your tongue like a pure taste of summer—you freeze when he reaches out for you. Eyes wide open—a doe that’s enthralled with the new world—you watch as he swipes his thumb at the corner of your mouth to gather a stray drop of jam.

Instead of wiping it off on a napkin, he shoves his thumb in his mouth to clean it with his tongue instead. 

It isn’t until his thumb pops back out of his mouth that you recognize how exhausted you are. Stricken with enervation with the wasted energy of pretending that John Price isn’t what he is—a downright handsome man. Gentle and kind enough to get you weak in the knees with a voice like honeyed velvet; something that gets your sex trembling between your too-tight thighs. 

You are tired of denying yourself the human desire of intimacy, of letting your stilted nature get in the way of what’s been slowly brewing between the two of you—of what’s bound to come sooner or later. Forgetting about your breakfast, you set your plate on the counter next to you before you let your hands wander towards John’s chest. He pauses as your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, and though you know there would be very little in the world that could ever make a man like him budge, he follows your lead when you pull him closer. 

“Thank you for breakfast, John.” Your voice is low—soft. Hidden deep in your throat as if too timid to fully show its face. 

“My pleasure, darling,” he hums as he sets his plate next to yours. 

Neither of you have finished your meal. 

Then, there is gentle connection. Warm lips pressed to yours as your hands smooth over strong collarbones until you’re reaching firm shoulders. John’s hands find your waist before he’s kissing away the remaining essence of jam from the corner of your mouth. You think about how you got the jam at a farmer’s market from an old lady—if only you had known it would be the catalyst to this. 

Embers to flame, flame to roaring fire—it isn’t long before your hands find the tie around your waist. All it takes is a simple tug to get your robe to fall open. Circulating air eagerly kisses your bare skin as your chest displays itself, nipples already perking against the soft cotton of his t-shirt. 

When the robe slips down around your shoulders, it’s all over. 

John’s on you like a well trained dog finally given permission to eat his treat—lips crashing into you, hands gently pawing at your bare skin, he keeps you grounded with the right amount of intensity. A strength that keeps you pulled down to earth without the chance of your brain whisking you elsewhere. The lingering heat from the stove warms your hand as you place your palm on the counter to steady yourself while he nuzzles his face into the side of your neck, trailing kisses along your shoulder until his knees are near buckling and he’s kneeling before you. 

“Dessert already?” he murmurs. His hand is slipping behind your thigh now, hiking your leg up until you’re squeaking, hips leaning against the counter for stability as he places you over his shoulder. He gives you a cheeky smirk at your breathlessness. “You’re too kind.” 

Your sassy response dies on your tongue the moment he buries his face into your cunt. Tongue out and eagerly slipping into your sex, languidly rubbing over your clit, fingers curling into your hips to hold you steady as he eats—you groan. The back of your head thuds against the cabinet as your fingers weave into the messy strands of his inky hair, and the way he hums at the feeling leaves your eyes rolling. 

It’s electric. Neurons firing in your brain, cortex rumbling like a content kitten just as John works you open onto one finger, then two. He’s precise. Unabashed in searching for what makes you tick and then assaulting those buttons until you reward him with a moan and trembling knees. 

“Oh fuck, John, t-that’s good, that’s…” Breathless; hardly coherent, you mumble as he works. Fingers curling, your clit hardens against his tongue and he growls in response. He likes the chase. Likes how he can taste it. He doesn’t want it getting away from him now that his maw is wet with its sapor. 

You come undone with a delicious keen that leaves your thighs twitching and knees nearly buckling. You can tell by how long it takes John to slow that he doesn’t want this to end yet, but his mouth leaves you the moment you whimper. Then, it’s all heavy breathing and quiet smiles as he continues to gently pump his fingers in and out of you without rush or worry. 

“There’s more where that came from if you’re still hungry,” John muses as he presses a kiss to your lower stomach. 

John doesn’t hesitate to take you to your bed the moment the request leaves your lips. Robe left on the kitchen floor, you’re splayed out on top of your mussed duvet as you watch John relieve himself of his own clothes. Soft chest and stomach free from his shirt, trousers shoved down his legs where powerful thighs sport dark streaks of thick hair—then his boxers. 

You don’t know why you’re surprised at his size. John’s a tall, powerful man; it only makes sense that the rest of him matches. Dark curls around the base of an uncut cock, a lovely vein protruding on the left side that ebbs and flows as he takes himself into his palm to steady the swinging weight as he kneels into the bed between your legs. 

“Goregous thing you are,” John murmurs. Using his free hand, he caresses your chin and the side of your jaw with the pad of his thumb. “Laswell and Lottie did a fine job choosing you, love.” 

His words stoke a fire in your stomach—or maybe it’s just the way he’s slotting his cock against your entrance. Back arching, you feel yourself melt beneath the pressure as he begins to split you open. You reach up to hold the hand still pressed against your face; your breath stutters as it leaves between your lips. 

“Didn’t do too bad with you, either,” you say, mustering as much of a sultry tone as you can manage. “You’re gonna make a good dad, John.” 

Your slip up shames you, and the heat it brews in your chest sears out all the feelings of desire and want that you had before. Wide eyed, you stare up at John with your apology half formed on your tongue but you don’t get the chance to let it spew out before his hips are snapping forward, filling you up to the point your breath leaves and your lungs are starving. 

“Yeah?” John prompts. His pace is slow and leisurely—enough that he has time to hook his arms beneath your knees and press them forwards; as close to your chest as your body will allow. “You’re gonna make a good mum, aren’t you? Can’t wait to see you like that, love. All plump with a kid with those cute dresses you’re always wearing everywhere. I think that’d look so good on you.” 

This dirty fantasy devours both you and John whole—a little secret between the two of you. Kate and Lottie don’t have to know the gritty details of what’s said here as you’re fucked into the bed. Right now, all you can focus on is John and the way his chest darkens with a flush of red the more he thrusts into you, pace slowly creeping up as your hands rest on his arms. You get lost in the way his muscles bulge beneath his skin with every morsel of movement, and the sound of his grunting, and how he hisses through his teeth until he’s nearly whistling. 

“Gonna be there through it all. Each appointment, every ache in your body; you’re gonna let me be here, aren’t you darling? Gonna let me kiss it all away?” Unable to get a response out through your moans, all you can do is nod as you take what he gives you. “Yeah, I’ll get you glowing, love. You’ll look so beautiful.” 

It builds. Strong and fast. This tight chord fraying inside of you, pulling tighter, taut string vibrating with each pluck until your muscles are melting everywhere but your stomach. John feels you clench around him, and he’s hissing as his forehead greets yours, hips refusing to change their pace now that he knows what gets you ticking. 

“Can’t give that to you until you come for me, pretty girl,” he says. 

“I’m so close, j-just—right there,” you stutter. 

“Doing so well, come on darling, just one more time, that’s all I need from you,” John rambles. “I can feel it, you’re so close, just a little more and I’ll fill you up nice and pretty. I’ll give you that baby you want so bad.” 

Somewhere between his lascivious muttering and the strong head of his cock hitting right where you need him to, you unravel. Legs quivering, back arching—your fingers curl into John’s arms as you try to keep yourself steady. He praises you throughout it all, pace slowing just enough to let you catch your breath for a fleeting moment before he’s plunging back in full force. 

His murmurs are hardly coherent now, just mindless strings of words half formed but emotion so thick you can feel it brewing in his skin. Child, mum, full, mine. John buries his face into the side of your neck just as he comes, and you gasp at how you can feel him fill you. Cock rhythmically twitching inside of you, nestled right against your cervix, cum flowing right where it needs to. 

Then, there is the gentle let down. Breaths slowing until panting wanes, bodies separating until he’s laying next to you and pulling you into his arms, heat dispersing until the sweat lining your skin nearly has you shivering. The morning sun is lazing into the afternoon as your fingers trace the curling pattern of hair on John’s chest like trails on a map. A content buzz coos inside your cranium, lulling you into a heavenly state of in-between. 

Neither of you speak about your slip of words or how it seemed to fuel John—in fact, neither of you speak at all for a long time. You’ve nearly fallen asleep by the time he moves, gently resting your head on the mattress as he props himself up to kiss you. 

“You broken?” he asks. 

“Never better,” you grin. 

John returns the smile as he sits back on his haunches to look at you. You curl beneath his gaze, knees bending up as your heels dig into the duvet and arms curling over your chest as if suddenly timid. He only looks at you as if you’re silly for your bashfulness as his hand slots between your thighs. 

A steady stream of cum has leaked out of you, making a mess of your legs and the crux of your ass. Wordlessly, John wipes his fingers along the trail, gathering it up until not a single drop remains. 

“Oh, I can grab a rag, don’t worry about that,” you dismiss. 

Without warning, John’s then pressing his fingers back into your cunt—slow but with a goal in mind. You gasp as your hips jut upwards, and he can only smile at you as he makes sure you’ve taken every drop like you ought to. 

“Can’t afford to be wasteful, darling,” he reminds. “Would hate to disappoint the Laswells, now wouldn’t we?” 

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

teamwork

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

Just sketches!

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Fourteen: dissonance

tw: minor gore, angst, nudity

“My necklace.” 

It’s the first thing you’ve been able to get yourself to utter since the commotion downstairs ensued. Fingers tenderly prod at your clavicles where your mother’s cross is supposed to be sitting, bright and proud among your pristine Sunday best. There is nothing but empty space. A gap where gold should be but only flesh remains.

“What’s that, darlin?” Lottie asks. She’s still got an arm around you as she leads you down the hallway, your bath looming ever closer. Despite her proximity, the silage of her perfume isn’t enough to drown out the cruor cooling behind you. 

“My necklace. It’s gone,” you mutter. 

She hums, but makes no effort to stop or turn around. Lottie’s been given her task, and she seems intent on not straying from it. “I’m sure it got lost durin’ the fight. We’ll look for it after things get cleaned up, okay?” 

A response attempts to bubble up in your throat but it doesn’t quite roll off your tongue. It dies. Crumbles into a powder that leaves you parched. 

The bath is a stark contrast to the last time you were in there. There are no candles to illuminate the room in a buttery glow, nor is there steaming water in the tub with swirling rose petals. Lottie has to flick the electric lights on in order to see anything in the otherwise tenebrous room and when she brings you inside you can only note the long sour stench of lilac rotting into the wallpaper. 

Lottie delicately helps you peel off your overdress once the door is closed before carefully laying it out on the floor. You stare down at the disembodied cloth and your stomach turns at the blood that soaks into the gossamer lace of your bodice. It’s fresh. Bright red and oxygenated. The body it came from is still warm. 

“Come on now,” Lottie redirects when she notices you’re staring for too long. “Have a seat.” 

There is not enough room in your chest for shame to plague your heart when you shed your chemise and let it crumble to the floor. Lottie helps you into the tub where she turns on the spout but doesn’t plug the drain. Algid water splashes onto your bare skin, prompting gooseflesh to ripple along your muscles, but you ignore it as she begins to rinse the gore from the side of your face.

It’s near impossible to get your hair clean. Sticky blood, thick flesh, bone shrapnel—an ended life, the brain of a human stuck to you; all memories, feelings, and desires snuffed out in an instant. It was John’s bullet that did this. He saved you. Again. He’s always saving you, and you’re always bearing the scars from it. 

Once you’re deemed free of the remnants of a silenced life, Lottie helps you dry off with a towel before wrapping it around you and having you sit by the vanity. She sheds her own clothing before rinsing the blood off of her hands and hopping into the tub herself. A shrill giggle cuts through the air as she splashes her chest, breasts aglow with droplets of water. You’re not sure how she can laugh after such violence, or how she can muster a smile at all, but you’re too exhausted to question her on it. 

The sabbath is soaked in blood—white cotton turned red. 

Neither of you put on your soiled overdresses when Lottie’s finished cleaning herself up. You drag your chemise up your body with numb fingers as you stare at yourself in the vanity. Dewy skin from your sponge bath. Chapped lips. Sunken eyes. You’re not sure what to make of this life away from your father. It was supposed to be better, yet so much blood has been spilt you’re not sure it’s worth the endeavor. 

Lottie helps lead you to your room once everything is squared away, leaving behind your bloody Sunday best to rot on the floor. She promises to find you a replacement dress once things have calmed down, but you catalogue this pledge as one given only to tame the rapid beating of your heart and nothing more. 

Your room is silent. No, this whole building is. The lively bar below you has turned into a morgue, and even the concerned patrons speak only in hushed tones. Even drunkards know to respect the dead; to not disturb their final resting places. Lottie keeps up with this ideology as she softly suggests you slip into bed while drawing the covers back. You know full well you will not be able to rest after what you’ve just seen, but you’re too exhausted to argue, so you crawl upon the plush mattress and allow her to draw the blankets over your body as if you’re a child again.

“There, that’s better,” Lottie hums once you’ve settled in. “Alright darlin’ I’m headed back downstairs. I’ll have Katie or John come check on you later, okay?” 

Too enervated to respond, you simply nod as your cheek presses further into the pillow. She stands at the side of your bed for a long while, her presence oozing pity all over you. Then, she leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. 

“Try and get some rest,” she says sweetly before exiting. 

For Lottie’s sake, you try but fail miserably. Stuck on your side, back turned to the door, eyes staring at the rosy wallpaper before you—there is a dissonance inside your brain that refuses to halt. A saturnine cloud suffocates you, forcing back the memory of a gun against your ribs, a bullet whizzing past your face, the high impact splatter of blood across your skin. 

It’s worse than any slap on your jaw, stick against your knuckles, or verse quoted with seething rancor.

Time doesn’t seem to exist as you lay in bed, so you have no gauge to tell what time it is when a knock sounds at your door. It’s well past lunch. Long enough for your stomach to be growling yet there are no such pains plaguing your stomach. The afternoon sun beats against the windows, but they’re smothered by the curtains, plunging the room into scarlet. Faded red. Like you’re stuck on the inside of a womb. 

“Lamb?” 

The door opens when you don’t respond. It creaks behind you, slow and careful, as John’s voice washes over you. The tone of his voice is strange. As his booted feet clomp towards the bed, you try to pin the feeling. It isn’t until his body sinks into the mattress behind you that you realize he’s here to expiate. 

“You’re not hurt, are you?” he asks. 

“I’m fine.” Short, piercing, and to the point. Your frustration is nameless, and yet it rears its ugly head within your throat all the same. 

John does not allow silence to linger. “I know that can’t have been easy for you.” 

“But I’m sure it was for you.” There’s a snap to your words that doesn’t quite land over the dullness of your tone. A maw without teeth, jaw clenching taut flesh between wet gums, unable to break skin. “After Blackpeak, this must’ve been a walk in the park for you, John Price.” 

He audibly inhales, his frustration nearly devouring him, but you feel the way he prevents himself from snapping the way wolves so often do. A held breath, bitten words—his weight shifts on the mattress. 

“Lamb, I would never hurt the people of Blackpeak,” John says, nearly pleading. 

“I don’t believe you,” you quip. 

“I wouldn’t.” 

“Is that why there’s that nice little poster of you plastered all over the city?” you snap. Your fingers curl into the blanket as you keep your eyes pinned to the wall, desperate to not look at him lest you begin to crumble. “Every town you’ve brought me to, you’ve ended up hurting someone. First that rancher, then those men in Little Wood, and now here. You are a violent man, John Price, and sometimes I worry that you use that gun—that tool—of yours too much.”

For once, you’ve managed to stun him. At least, you think you have. His breathing is so quiet you can’t hear it, and you can’t note a single bit of movement. 

“Upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed,” John quotes. “Please, love. Just let me explain. Lamb... Darling, look at me.” 

For all your father’s anger—the brutal acidity that has tainted you since the first time he struck you—your mother’s benevolence always shines through. Carefully, you begin to roll until you’re flat on your back, head and shoulders propped up by the provided pillow so that you’ve got a perfect view of John. He’s sitting on the edge of your bed in nothing but plain trousers. His vest has been removed, leaving him with the half buttoned mess that’s become of his white half-collared shirt. Without his hat, his hair runs free—trimmed inky locks mussed with sweat. 

“The moment you say anything heinous, I’m kicking you out of this room,” you promise. 

John’s chuckle comes tense as his head lowers. “I’ll hold you to that, darling.” 

He leans forward, almost getting too close for comfort, but you don’t say anything when he takes your hand into his. His touch is warm—near clammy. You try not to think too hardly about how much blood has soaked them. 

“The boys and I used to be deputies back in Blackpeak,” he shares. The look on your face must betray your emotions because John’s tittering again. “I know. Doesn’t seem like we’re the type, does it? Most of the locals weren’t too happy with us either, since we’re English. But we were given badges and we took oaths, and we did our jobs well.” 

Images flood your mind of John Price working for the law. Somehow, it seems to fit. A shiny deputy star pinned to his vest, clothes neat and tongue just as sharp, ready to wrangle up outlaws as if he’s wrestling cattle. It’s a stark difference to who he is now—a cynistic man who sees the world in a terribly dark shade of grey. 

“I didn’t hurt those people in the coal mine, Lamb. None of us did,” John continues, squeezing your hand with assurance. “I remember that day well. The explosion could be heard all the way from the office. Kyle and I rode out as fast as we could towards the smoke and screaming. We pulled as many people from the wreckage as we could manage, but it wasn’t enough. So many people died that day, and there isn’t a single moment that goes by that I don’t think of them. 

“At first, everyone thought it was an accident. A misuse of dynamite, or some sort of gas that had been ignited. Then the survivors started talking about masked men who entered the mines with explosives. As soon as that rumor got out, the sheriff tried to shut it down. He didn’t want unrest in the town. That didn’t sit right with me.” 

Finally gathering the courage to partake in the conversation, you swallow. “You went out looking for them?” 

John nods. “I did. And I found them, too. They’d been right under our noses the entire time. Sheriff Shepherd had hidden correspondence with a man named Vladimir Makarov. He’s a very wealthy man from Russia who owns a few coal plants here in The States. A very wealthy, greedy man. Made an offer with Shepherd saying that if they got the old company out of Blackpeak, there’d be something in it for him. So that’s exactly what he did.” 

A wretched dissonance strikes through the base of your skull as you attempt to keep all the pieces of John’s story straight. When it comes to anything outside of Penmosa, you know remarkably little. Each word he speaks sounds like a different language, yet as everything begins to fall into place you find the pit in your stomach unbearably heavy. 

“You’re saying the sheriff did it?” you ask in disbelief. 

“I’m not saying he did it, he did it. Found the letters myself,” John corrects. “I put the papers in the bank where I knew they’d be safe, and I made a plan to meet with the judge in order to bring Shepherd to justice. But I guess word got out somehow, and next thing I knew, my name was plastered all over town with the blame for the explosion and the boys and I were being hunted. We hardly got out of there alive. 

“Those men downstairs? They’re part of Shepherd’s Shadow Company. Led by his protege Philip Graves. They’ve been tracking us halfway across the country just to kill us so that word doesn’t get out about Shepherd’s crimes. We won’t be free men until we get back to Blackpeak and set this straight, and neither will anyone else in town, either.” 

A part of you doesn’t want to believe John. You don’t want to believe that there could ever be so much evil in the world. That so many lives could be slaughtered for such vainglory. But you know he does not take lives so flippantly—at least, not in his mind. When he killed that rancher, it was to protect you, and same with the man downstairs. He is violent to an end, but you’ve seen the tenderness that lurks beneath his exterior. 

John Price does anything for his people, and you think that ideology extends to the citizens of Blackpeak, too. Besides, you always wondered why the papers switched up so suddenly between the explosion being an accident, to it being caused with malicious intent. 

“Earlier, before that gunfight broke out, you were trying to ask me to help you in Blackpeak. What were you going to have me do?” you ask, taking a small detour in conversation. 

John’s eyes soften at your question, and you feel his grip on your hand tighten as he leans forward. “Lamb, you’ve had a rough day, we don’t have to talk about that right now.” 

“I want to know,” you insist.

Here she is—your mother’s daughter—seeing something broken and yearning so desperately to fix it as if your hands were the one that caused the damage in the first place. John’s head lowers for a moment as he looks at your hand. Somehow, this feels natural. The way he holds you and caresses your scarred knuckles with his thumb. 

“The correspondence between Shepherd and Makarov is still in my safebox at the bank. It’s the only thing that will convince a judge of our innocence and bring justice to those workers. I still have the key, but I’d get shot if I went in to retrieve it myself. Same goes for the others, too. But you’re a new face. You wouldn’t have any trouble.” There’s a long pause where neither of you speak. He looks up at you. “You don’t have to do it.” 

“What other choice would you have if I say no?” you question. 

The wide muscles of John’s shoulders tense with a shrug. “Robbery. Sneak in at night. Incapacitate the guards. Apologize to the judge when morning comes and present the papers to him in person.”

“You’d really resort to such a thing?” 

“I’d rather be hung for something I did than something I didn’t.” 

There’s too much adrenaline coursing through your body for you to be laying down as you are now, yet John’s hand has ensnared you, keeping you still. A lamb on wobbly legs, staring up at a butcher. 

“When would you leave?” You’re not sure why the questions continue to pour out of you—the thought of sincerely debating assisting him in such a thing makes you woozy; almost more woozy than the idea of staying behind and doing nothing. 

“If things had gone our way, we would’ve left at the end of the week, but since we’ve been paid such a bloody visit, we won’t be able to linger any longer than we already have. We’ll hit the tracks tomorrow.” He speaks cautiously. Low and slow. Azure eyes study your face, reading the lines in your skin, each divot, every curve. He shakes his head. “I don’t want you to make a decision about this right now.” 

You’re not even sure if you could. Head crammed with new information, the truth coming to light and nearly blinding you in the process; you can hardly see the full picture. Ever since you left Penmosa, you’ve been preparing yourself for John’s departure. For your lives to separate. Yet, this entire time, it’s as if you’ve been practicing for a wound. To mar yourself. The thought of splitting yourself open terrifies you more than you’d like to admit. 

“I was so furious with you,” you carefully confess, words nearly toppling off the tip of your tongue. “I thought I knew why I was so mad. I thought you were a killer; a real killer. But more than that, I think I was so upset because I know you’re better than that. Better than what I thought you were.” 

John’s scoffing titter is poorly hidden, and his fingers loosen against you. “Oh darling, I’m not a good person. You know that. And I’m not much better than any other bastard who comes wandering along.” 

“I think you are. A good person, I mean. I think you just love differently than most; in a way that scares people.” 

For once, John does not have a quip. There is no joke at the expense of your intellect, or anything said to degrade himself; there is only you, him, and the way he holds your hand, delicate, as if it were a petal. Then, the connection breaks. Fingertips leaving you, his hand diving into his pocket instead. You nearly reach for him the way you snatched up your mother’s necklace from her body when you were a child with the word mine tearing at your throat. 

His hand isn’t hidden for long. Pulling free from his pocket, fingers curled into a fist, he presents it to you and carefully unravels them until the remnants of your mother’s necklace is revealed. Your eyes widen. The tenuous golden chain lies in several pieces, swinging freely as if they’re strings caught in the wind. A rock settles in your stomach at the state of it—fractured beyond repair—but the cross sits just as proud as ever in the palm of his hand. 

“I caught the chain trying to drag you over the bar,” John admits as if he had broken it intentionally. “I think I got all the pieces. There should be a jeweler who can fix it up, or at least get you a new chain. I know how much this means to you.” 

Tender fingertips extend towards the charm where you trace each arm of the cross. The grooves are still correct. Your mother still lurks beneath the gold. It’s just as you remember it, and for some reason it makes your bottom lip tremble. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

John only nods before he sets the pieces in a neat pile on the nightstand next to the bed. Then, he mutters something about trying to get some rest, and shares his hotel room number in case you need anything from him. 

Suddenly, there’s nothing but blue. A cloudless sky piercing through you. Deep lake water swimming with life. John leans forward, and for a terrifying moment, you think he might kiss you—for a terrifying moment, you think you might let him. His body curls forward, shoulders stooping, hands leaning against your pillow, creating soft divots until his lips are on your forehead. His trimmed facial hair scratches against your skin, yet you almost can’t feel it over the delicateness of his embrace. 

It is the last thing he leaves you with before departing and shutting the door tight behind him. His footsteps hardly fade down the hall before you’re crying. Knees curling up to your chest, the side of your face buried into the pillow, the spittle of John’s kiss soaking into the sheets—grief overwhelms you in an unspeakable way. In the way only trees who have seen forest fires know. It lingers in the whisper of the wind that still carries the songs your dead mother used to sing, and in the lilies that still miss her caring hands. 

You come undone the way you always have—quietly and palatable. 

Some stretch of time later, you manage to sleep your pain away. You dream of Mr. Beckett’s verdant field with overgrown, lush grass and the sun high above you. Your mother is out to play, dwelling in the full moon that manages to glisten brighter than the rest of the sky, beaming down at you as your giggles drown out the cicadas. 

The ewe and her lamb from Grand Hollow play with you—or rather, around you. Chasing one another, feet kicking up pits of dirt, bleating at one another as their wool darkens with each step. When the lamb trips, falling forward on its face as its knees buckle beneath the impact, you lean down to help the poor thing up before it’s bounding off once more. 

Someone calls your name. When you look up to Mr. Beckett’s porch, you don’t find the town’s sweet bartender, but rather the unruly preacher—your father. He stands with one hand on the railing and the other gripping his undone belt. Tanned leather bends like a loop, fingers gripping the buckle as if it’s his lifeline. He does not speak any further, but you know why he beckons. Pious girl turned miscreant. You need to be set back in your true ways like a doctor would set a fractured leg. 

Instead of following his commands, you look back down at the ewe and lamb. They stare at you with their teeth bared. Instead of flat, herbivore teeth, they bear razors like wolves. 

When you wake up, the sun is still up. There is food in the air, but hunger does not pull at your stomach. There is only sweat. 

Sitting up in bed, you glance over at the nightstand where you find your mother’s necklace still sitting quietly on the corner, awaiting to be put back together again. You reach for it, caressing the design once more, and for the first time since your mother was nearly buried with it, it’s frigid to the touch. 

Swallowing down the tart aftertaste of your dream, you toss the covers off of your body before slamming your bare feet against the floor. You’re not quite sure what happened to your shoes, but you pay no attention to it as you dart towards the door. Rug cushioning your steps, you march down the hallway until you reach the end where a small cubby sports an evening chair and a bible lazily perched on the armrest. 

You knock on John’s door harder than you intend to. The sound it makes is horisont, and leaves your knuckles aching as if they’ve split after another gnarly lesson. He answers the door quickly, but his eyelids are heavy when he swings it open, and you note the multiple cowlicks on the side of his head, sticking up as if he’s been skewered with locks of hair. 

His greeting doesn’t even make it halfway out of his mouth before you’re interrupting him. 

“I’ll help.” 

Lethargy pulling at his features, he tilts his head to the side as his eyes narrow. “Help?” 

You nod. “I’ll come with you to Blackpeak.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

Imagine soft!Simon that opens his arms without opening his eyes when you decide to take a nap with him. Once you’re settled he’s immediately fallen asleep again.

(I firmly believe that Simon uses every opportunity to take a nap when he’s on leave)

Simon's one of those people who'd probably scare the shit out of you when he's asleep. Not intentionally, mind you, but let's say you two are asleep, you're in his arms, and he's snoring loud enough to wake the dead like always. Say you move, change positions, maybe find yourself out of his arms, and just as soon as you do that, the snoring stops. Like suddenly. Some real horror movie shit lmao.

Then you hear him mumble sleepily, "Why'dja move, luvie?" and you're back in the arms of your eepy blanket gremlin.

Which brings us back to the nap. He's snoring away, and his Missus senses are tingling, which means you're near. Cue the snores stopping, his arms opening to receive you, and yes, you fall into them without a moment's hesitation. And he's back to snoring; you can feel the reverberations as you rest your head on his glorious tits.

Aren't y'all cute?

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

mandatory bedrest. always better in pairs ❤️✨

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

kiss the skin that crawls

john price x fem!reader | the surrogate au | masterlist

Part Four: on hold

The only thing John tells you to do for this weekend is dress comfortably. 

It’s too open ended for you to feel at ease, and it leaves your mind grasping for his definition of the term. Closet torn wide open, dresses, shirts, and pants strewn across your bed; you stand half naked as you assess your options. Your matching bra and panties had already been decided the day you and John planned this date. The rest of this should be easy. Still, you’re standing there for so long that you’re still bare when John sends you a text notifying you he’s on his way. 

By the time he arrives, you’ve settled on a creme sundress patterned with delicate daisies, and you’re pleasantly surprised to see that it matches his off-white button up and blue jeans. He greets you with a kiss to your knuckles, but you’re left gawking at the thick patch of hair that plays peek-a-boo from underneath the undone buttons of his shirt. As he helps you into the car, you note the way the zephyr carries his cologne—vetiver and tobacco.

His redolence follows you all the way to the restaurant, a quaint sit down place bedecked with paintings from local artists where soft music plays through oversized speakers. The perfect mix of casual and proper eases your nerves as you’re led through the room and to a private two-seater table tucked in a quiet corner with hardly any foot traffic. John sits with his back to the wall, leaving you with no distractions. There’s just him, the dull sconce above his head, and the quiet smile that always seems to pull at his lips whenever he’s around you. 

“Get whatever you like. My treat,” he tells you as you thumb through the menu. 

The prices are moderate. Something done on purpose, you suspect. More than nice enough for a date, but nothing too extravagant that would make you feel guilty for eating. You send your order off with a smile to the waiter, and though your jittery hands beg you for a glass of wine, you opt for a water instead. 

Truth be told, you are terrified about tonight. 

Possibilities swirl in your brain, violent enough to stupefy you, rendering you nothing but an anxious mess who’s damn near sweating through her dress. You think about messing things up; being your awkward self and ruining the mood as you’ve done in the past. You need a plan. A straight, ironed out plan that you can count on. Steps to follow. But there’s nothing. You’re scrambling for purchase.

(Are you going back to yours, or John’s after this? How will sex be initiated? What happens if you don’t enjoy it? Are you supposed to spend the night? Or will he? How far does he live? What about pregnancy tests afterwards, and appointments, and—)

“You seem tense, love.” 

Everything fades back into focus as if a coin has dropped and snagged your attention. John’s sitting across from you, comfortably leaning back in his seat as he looks at you, but he’s far from disengaged. He’s enchanting in this light, and it siphons all the moisture from your mouth. Golden rays hitting his hair just right until it glistens, cerulean eyes studying you as you wipe the sweat off your palms and onto the skirt of your dress—you’re an open book. Spread wide with a cracking spine, unable to close and keep your secrets. 

“Was it that obvious?” you say in an attempt at humor. “Sorry, I’m always an anxious person. Guess there’s a reason why I work from home.” 

“Don’t like the crowd?” John asks with a raised brow. 

“I guess not,” you concede. 

“What do you like, then?” 

His question makes you pause. It’s not something that you’re asked often—not legitimately anyway outside of small talk. Usually your answer is locked and loaded with something simple like your favorite color or a hobby that you hope sounds interesting, but John seems to be more stubborn than that. Though you’re about as opaque as cellophane, most people don’t bother to dig deeper than what you give them, but John seems like the type of man who likes to get his hands dirty. 

“I like the outdoors,” you start. 

“Is that why you took the cottage?” he asks. Engage, push—his active listening has your brain nearly restarting. 

“Yeah,” you say with a nod. “It was passed to me when my granny died. My ultimate goal is to get it all fixed up so it’s nice and comfortable. Somewhere I can read and work.” 

Humming, John sits forward. His hands are folded together, fingers interlacing as he rests his elbows on the table. “You’re always mentioning work.” 

“It’s a big part of my life at the moment while I’m saving up,” you sheepishly admit. 

“What about outside of work?” 

You swallow. “I like… music. And animals.” 

“What kind of animals?” 

“Oh, all kinds. I think I’d like to get chickens someday, and maybe a cat. I just think about seeing a happy, fat cat warming up in those old windows while I make bread from the fresh eggs I picked that morning and it makes me… content. It’s quiet, away from the city, away from people where I can live my life as a happy recluse and just… be. Be myself without being…” You pause. He’s looking at you. Staring. The weight of his gaze suddenly feels crushing, and you backtrack. “Well, I’m rambling.” 

John tilts his head to the side with a smile. “Isn’t that the point of answering questions?”

Your smile breaks. There’s too much sweat on your skin. The skirt of your dress sticks to your thighs and you feel the way your rump nearly adheres to the seat. Shifting, your brain scrounges up anyway to save you from your gauche nature. 

“What about you? What do you like to do—erm—outside of work?” you press. 

“Technically, I’m retired,” John sighs. His thumb rubs over his knuckles as if they’re tense and yearning to be cracked open, but he refrains. “Recently retired. These days I’m trying to throw myself back into the thick of it.” 

Humming, you sit forward, words leave your mouth before your brain has time to screen them. “You seem too young to be retired.” 

His lips curl, first a quiet smile, and then into something larger—a closed-lipped Cheshire Cat grin. “Oh, flattery will get you everywhere with me, darling.” 

The remainder of your evening passes by within the blink of an eye. Conversation leaves your tongue easier now that John has softened it, and it flaps until the sun dips below the horizon with a heavy belly, leaving behind streaks of periwinkle and lavender in its wake. Your own stomach has grown heavy with food and drink, though you know nothing will compare to the weight it will bear if tonight goes the way you know it will. 

Back in John’s car you let the dull crackle of his radio lull you into something comforting as the wheels kiss the road. It seems he’s decided you’re going back to your own house—that near dilapidating yet so well-loved cottage in the forest. You think it’s for the best. When you inevitably make a fool of yourself, it’ll be much easier to hide your shame in your own home alone rather than spending an awkward car ride in close quarters, or shamefully calling for a taxi. 

As you expect, he opens the door for you and follows you inside. Or, maybe follow isn’t the right word. He does not slink after you like a dog begging for scraps, maw watering with the promise of a treat. There is something more mature about the way he opens the door and smiles at you as you flip the lights on. Crepuscular animals skitter about on the environs of your property—cooing owls and crying frogs. 

You suppose there will be more than just them singing tonight. 

“Well?” John’s standing in the midst of your living room, eyeing over your fireplace as you grab his attention. His neck twists, azure eyes piercing the distance to see you. “How should we go about this?” 

John’s smile pours over you like warm honey—sticky and wet on your body, adhering until the warmth permeates through your skin and into the bone. He approaches you slowly, as if you’re a skittish creature he can’t afford to scare off, wide palms swallowing your hands into his. 

“You’re nervous,” he states. 

Your brows furrow. “Should I not be?” 

He chuckles. He’s always tittering in some way, though never malevolent with it. “Preferrably not.” 

You shift beneath his gaze. Once more, you’re spread open. Pages pinned open. John’s reading between the lines. 

“When we fuck, I want you to be comfortable. I don’t want you damn near trembling in those flats,” he continues. Strong fingers squeeze your hands, grounding you back in the present as you look at him with a spinning brain. “I know this is just a job, but I still want it to be enjoyable for you.” 

When we fuck. “Wait, so you’re saying that we’re not gonna…” 

“Not tonight,” he finishes. 

Suddenly, you are a child again. The last one left to be chosen for sports teams. A quiet creature haphazardly shoved to the side in favor of something more interesting. You made your friends with the trees, whose branches always waved to you. Even now—glossed over in work meetings, camera always blocked and microphone always muted, and a smile well versed in silent apologies—sorry for being me. 

“I’m comfortable,” you say in an endeavor to convince him. 

“I don’t believe that for a second, darling,” John says humorously. 

Your mouth opens, then slams back shut so fast you nearly chomp the tip of your tongue off. Swallowing, you collect your thoughts before you exhale with a huff. “John, if you wait for me to completely let my guard down, I fear you’ll be waiting on me forever.” 

“That’s quite alright. I’ve torn down larger walls before.” 

Patience. John’s assurance weaves through the wrinkles in your brain before settling at the base of your skull, purring warmth down your spine. So many people have marched up to you before with pickaxes and hammers, ready to wield them in a way that would send you crumbling. Large chunks tossed aside and forgotten. None of them have bothered to stop to read the lettering etched into the stone. Fragmented poems slaughtered, beauty left to rot. 

Unlike the others, John arrives with bare hands. Nothing but short nails and calloused palms. Tender hands. Hands ready to bleed. 

“We’ll take things slow. As slow as-”

“Kiss me.” 

Wide eyes with quirked brows settle on you, and for a split second you see John’s lips part as if ready to convince you otherwise, yet he pauses. Pupils dilating, he soaks up as much information on your face as he can gather—they’re black holes. Not even light can escape their gravity. 

Then, he breaks. 

Neck bowing, he presses his lips against yours, tender like bedding warmed by fireside. You feel everything. The pulse throbbing in the tips of his fingers. Rough facial hair rubbing against your chin and upper lip. His nose kissing your cheek. He tastes like the steak he ordered for dinner, and the smell of ichor and vetiver fills your nose like intoxicating fumes ready to render your brain useless mush. 

When he pulls away, you don’t allow him to stray far. You’re leaning closer, hands slipping out of his until you’re clutching his arms as if you’ll fall through the floor without his support. 

“Stay the night with me, John,” you tell him. 

Hesitation buzzes just beneath his skin—almost as bad as his desire. “You sure?” 

You nod. “I want you here.” 

John dives in for another quick kiss, one that doesn’t seem to want to leave your lips. “As you wish.” 

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

📣Guess who officially got their bachelor's degree today📣

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

helping hand

SingleDad!Johnny x Neighbor!reader, fem!reader

Neighbor!reader noticing that SingleDad!Johnny hasn’t left his apartment in Edinburgh all day. His new little baby boy sick and screaming in his arms for hours as he panics about not knowing what was wrong. His mother and sisters not picking up his countless phone calls since they were on a girls' trip together.

Opening the door looking haggard as the red faced babe’s wails spill into the hall. You standing there with a warm, concerned expression as you hold a casserole dish with the dinner you made for him. Having heard the little one’s cries through your adjoining wall. The two of you only ever speaking a few times when grabbing your mail or passing pleasantries when coming or going at the same time.

You softly offering to come in and pop the meal in the oven for him or put it away in the fridge. You end up helping Johnny, taking the small, crying boy so he can go have a shower and five minutes to himself. Johnny returning to a quiet living room, headache lessened and the panic of the day washed down the drain.

A warmed wet baby wash cloth is pressed to his son’s head as he lays passed out curled up on your chest. Head tucked under your chin, cozy with one of his little tartan blankets over top of him. Little fists grasping your shirt as you rub the bairn's back tenderly. The tv quietly playing some period drama romance show on. The instrumental soundtrack soft and soothing to even his own exhausted state. The smell of something delicious, warm and savory, wafting through the apartment.

The perfect scene for his weary soul after the difficult few months he’s had on leave once finding his son on his doorstep with only a note and custody papers already signed over fully to him. The lamp by his couch casting you in an almost angelic glow. That mild crush he's been harboring on you now pounding in time with his wild heart as he knows it now only beats for you and the babe sleeping soundly in your arms.

Johnny deciding then and there that he’s going to marry you. His sweet neighbor becoming his bonny wife. Looking after his son as she’s round with their second. Thinking MacTavish sounded rather good next to your first name.

Author Note: I kept rereading this in my drafts and finally decided to share it!! Might make it a longer oneshot or mini series later but for now please enjoy!! Let me know if you would like to see more!!

Likes, comments, & reblogs welcome :)

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

This is funnier in my head

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

Post-OP crash out rkgk

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

werewolf!gaz will spend that weekend with your injured ankle draped over his shoulder while his cock eases into your soaked pussy. don't mind that his nails are digging into your hips or that his teeth seem sharper. he promises that he'll control himself not to eat you... that's a lie. he'll bury his face in your cunt and eat as much as he wants.

since he wants to give you more than just his hospitality, he puts you in a mating press and gives you something else to make sure that you'll never leave.

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

werewolf!gaz spending the weekend at a secluded cabin in the woods and hearing a scream in the dead of the night. and it seems the gods have blessed him because when he goes to see what it was, he finds you, a hiker who wandered too far from the woods and found herself stuck. a sweet thing with your leg caught in a bear trap.

it's as good as an offering, a reward. and who is he to deny a goddamn gift from the gods?

you thought the kind stranger who took you in would let you leave as soon as you're well and able but no. things took a sharp turn when he stood behind you, shutting the door when you attempted to limp out of his cabin. his breaths prickling goosebumps down your neck, chest hairs rubbing your back, a kiss on your shoulder.

"let's not be too hasty, love." he bites your lobe. "there's no fun in chasing down a wounded bunny."