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itsagrimm · 15 days ago

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a most pleasant marriage (john price x f!reader, minor simon x john x reader)

medieval arranged marriage au, SMUT, reader is a virgin, i did no research i fear, 4k wc

victorian marriage fic

The emerald grass below your window, stories high and nearly minuscule, sways as you wait. And wait. And wait.

He was supposed to come two days ago. Your new husband, a foreigner, promised to you by your father in exchange for help to gain his own lands back. Greed begets greed, and while your maids help you change for your nightgown to a favorite dress of light blue, your stomach churns at the thought of the kind of man who would make such a promise. Your father has refused to educate you in any sort of war strategy, but you’re wily enough to know that promises can easily be broken. That the sagging stone buildings of your kingdom, small and unimportant to bigger ones that stomp on it like a bug, are no prize to be won. Why would your future husband want to help such a land when he could just as easily take it?

And so you wait outside of the arched slits of your stone window, your stitching in your lap as you halfheartedly nod to the chattering gossip of your ladies. After tea later in the day, sugar and butter heavy in your stomach, you nearly doze to their droning in your chair.

The clattering of horses wakes you right up.

A band of knights on horses, dressed in the black and white colors of your husband’s household, climb the winding hill that leads to your castle. You drop your stitching on a side table and gather your skirts, nearly running down the hall as your ladies follow you gleefully, taking another way about to the entrance hall. Worn stone and fiery sconces pass you in a blur as you skip down curved staircases, apprehension flooding your veins. What if he’s cruel? What if he breaks his promise to your father? What if-

A wall of muscle cuts off your next step, and thought, as you ram right into someone. You can tell it’s a man by the scent of musk and sweat, heady in the center of his torso. Your face hits stretched fabric as pain floods your nose. Strong hands grip your waist, a place no man’s ever touched, and stop your momentum from causing further destruction. Your hands, heavy from the stylish long sleeves that widen at your wrist, grip at stern shoulders as you steady yourself and your rapid breathing.

“I apologize, good sir. It was not my intent to run into you, I merely did not see where I was going. My deepest apologies.” You remove your hands to gingerly touch your nose, effectively blocking your view of him as you try to ensure no permanent damage was done. Remembering yourself, you step back until his hands leave your waist, coldness seeping in after. A terrible position to be caught in, especially with your husband’s men and potentially your husband himself in this very castle.

“Not to worry. I should hope I’m able to withstand an act of violence from a princess after my years of warfare.” Satisfied your nose is not broken, you remove your hands from your face slowly. A man stands before you, seemingly unruffled from your run in. Strong legs, horseman’s legs, build into a wide torso, the kind made for an armored chest plate with shoulders broad enough to bear it. He wears black and white and the insinuation of it sends a shiver down your spine. At last, you take in his face. His eyes are less kind than you thought they’d be based on his voice, the dark blue of a cruel river stream, fast enough to drown a child. He wears a beard in an unusual shape, one you’ve never seen on any man. His hair, brown as an oak tree, is thick enough to run your fingers through.

The thought is traitorous.

“If you call that an act of violence, you must not give accidents any berth to be what they are. Just accidents, that is.” The words escape without thinking, your hands flying to your mouth to stop the onslaught of thoughts spilling from your mouth like a waterfall. It’s then that you notice other things about the stranger. The quality of the fabric he wears, noticing that the black is actually a deep indigo, a rare color you’ve only heard of from whispers in court. Metal chains of gold encircle his neck, showcasing his wealth through lapis and rubies. Such a man must be rich beyond your wildest dreams, and certainly beyond your father. Your heart drops at the realization.

“You knew I was a princess.” You murmur before he can acknowledge your earlier sentence. “Yes.” He takes a step further, no honorific in his words. Any man who’d have the gall to not acknowledge your title must have a reason to. Realistically, he might be able to tell your status based on the jewels that adorn you, but something bigger itches at your brain like a hound pawing at a closed door. “How?” You whisper, eyes trained on his shoes. Something drops on the floor, and only when your trembling fingers touch your skin do you realize your nose is bleeding.

“Your father showed me your portrait before I agreed to the marriage agreement.” His feet, clothed in indigo as well, come into your field of vision as he steps into your space. A callused hand raises your chin up, his thumb swiping at the blood under your nose. He removes his hand almost immediately, his thumb slick with your red blood nearing his mouth. You watch as his pink tongue swipes at the blood, then track as he wipes the rest on the white of his tunic. A claiming, a forbearance of what’s to come.

“King John.” You curtsy as another drop of blood falls, staining the fabric of your sky-like gown. Out of the corner of your eye, the king grins.

“A pleasure to meet you, Princess.”

You officially meet a few hours later. It seems that King John didn’t mention your illicit meeting to your father, and after staunching the bleeding of your nose and changing into another gown, you didn’t either. The gown is a deep blue color, and you couldn’t help but think of King John’s eyes when you picked it. You plead a headache as to why you return early, and your ladies are eager to fill the silence with gossip of the men King John brought with him. One who wore the mask of a human skull, a Scotsman, and another who made so many flirtatious overtures half of the women fainted. All you can think of are warm hands on your waist, gripping you like a God-given right. Though, you suppose it is.

When you make your entrance into the throne room, it’s surprisingly empty. No courtesans, though your kingdom has few already. Instead, King John converses with your father at his throne, towering over the man by pure stature. You curtsy and scurry further when your father calls your name, already confused at the unusual silence of the room.

“King John, may I present my eldest daughter. I trust she is to your liking?” There is no warmth in his tone, just the promise of retribution sparkling in your father’s eyes, the same color as your own. You turn to King John and curtsy again, keeping your eyes lowered as you stand demurely afterwards. “Your Grace,” you murmur. He’s silent, eyes burning into you as he appraises you. He hums, a low sound that goes straight to your core. You hope he noticed the color of your gown.

“She is. Her portrait does not compare.” Your cheeks warm as you keep your gaze lowered, years of etiquette classes holding back your reaction. Father grunts, clearly not wanting to spend more time than necessary praising you when they could be discussing how to win your lands back. “Yes, Your Grace. As we discussed, the ceremony and exchange of dowry will take place tomorrow.” Your heart thunders, blood rushing in your ears. You knew it was coming, of course, having packed most of your things and done dress fittings as your mother planned the wedding itself. Hearing the confirmation out loud is a different beast. This is your new life.

You hope he will be kind.

They converse about the dowry but do not dismiss you, leaving you to stay frozen in place as they discuss how many gold coins and jewels you are worth. Finally, you are dismissed with a reminder of the welcome feast tonight.

If this is the feast before the wedding, you fear for the antics of the one after. King John’s men, a horde of knights with almost no holy men to be found, are rambunctious as they drink your wine coffers dry. You sit at the seat of honor tonight, usually only reserved for your brother, the heir. King John sits on the other side of your father, mainly conversing with the man in the skull mask as you pick at your meal. Your father is reddened by drink, a young maid who is not your mother seated in his lap as he raves about his last conquest years ago. Your ladies titter beside you, your other sibling and mother having been sent off to bed an hour ago.

“Daughter!” You jolt as your father slaps the table to get your attention. “Yes, Father?” You answer meekly. “Practice serving your husband. His cup should never be empty.” He plucks a flagon of wine out of a passing maid’s hands and shoves it towards you. You rise and take it from him, hands shaking as you uncork it. When you round his chair, his gaze back on the woman on his lap, King John’s men stare. And stare. One of them with eyes like lightning nudged the handsome one beside him, whispering something that makes them both laugh. The skull-faced one, sitting closest to King John, is silent, his eyes dark as a demon’s.

You wrench your gaze away from them to land on your future husband’s. His cheeks are pinked from wine and he sits with his legs spread, wide enough to fit a barrel of ale between them. “Go’on.” You pour, your full focus on the jeweled cup as you feel his full focus on you. When the glass is nearly full, you place down the flagon and stand uncomfortably, waiting to be dismissed.

He does not dismiss you.

Those same hands from this afternoon grab your waist again, pulling you harshly into his lap. You make an unladylike squeal, immediately looking over your shoulder to see if your father noticed. Thankfully, he’s gone, probably off with that poor maid. “Your Grave, I don’t think this is appropriate.” You plead, hands gripping the fabric of your skirts so hard they might rip. He shifts you so you sit on one of his thighs, your feet in the space between them while the side of your ass is practically on his…

“You’ll be my wife in the mornin’. And I’d slay anyone makin’ fuss.” You gasp at his sternness, turning to see the truth of his words written on his face. One hand cups the front of your thigh, searing like a cow’s brand, while the other steadies your hip, keeping you in place. “You would, Your Grace?” You ask, eyes wide. He nods, straightening a bit so you fall further into him. Your hand reaches out to brace his chest, your fingers tangling in gold chains, and you keep it there, drunk on the power beneath you. Your father has never made any claims in your name, content to push any duties of propriety onto your mother.

“Call me John,” he implores. He nods his head to the skullfaced man who’s been watching your exchange, no turning in his chair to give you a sense of privacy. “Sir Simon, my right hand. Garrick and MacTavish are off somewhere in the crowd, his seconds.” You nod in your best imitation of a curtsy while affixed to your future husband’s lap. Beneath your thigh, you feel something harden. You freeze as the warmth in your core. John makes no comment, pressing circles into the velvet of your dress above your hip.

“They call you the Ghost, Sir Simon.” It seems wine has loosened your tongue as well. Thankfully, he grunts in a way you think might be a chuckle. “They do, sweetheart. He scare you?” John murmurs, his words losing any royal tone. Nervously, you nod minutely. John chuckles, shaking you awake like a bath gone cold. “He’s not the one you need to be scared of. C’mere.” He scoops your skirts and legs over his other thigh, closing his own to make an overwhelming lap of strength with tree trunk thighs. John grips your chin, a memory of this afternoon, and turns you this way and that. Sir Simon leans forward, close enough that his legs brush your own. “Pretty.” Sir Simon concludes, leaning back out of your face as his chair creaks. “Agreed. And plenty to handle.” He squeezes your thigh for emphasis. You clamp them shut, afraid he’ll take you right there on the table if you give him any leeway. It’s a complicated mix of fear and something you can’t quite name, close to the anticipation of a new dress but all encompassing. Below your stomach, butterflies flutter in places reserved for your husband. For John.

“Go to bed, princess. I’ll see you in the morn’.”

The morning disappears like lemon cakes on a spring morning. The formality of the religious ceremony carved itself into your bones, the same way your father carves your name on the decree of your marriage. Then it’s a parade through the town square, sitting in an open carriage and waving to the crowd as John holds your hand. The sun is sweltering, but you don’t know if that’s from the layers of white fabric you wear or John’s insistence on being next to you at all times. Then it’s back to the castle, the exchange of the dowry getting packed into the carts John’s men brought.

It all leads up to the feast.

This time, you are directly next to John at the place of honor. So many toasts are made you start to lose your voice, placating it with hot broth from the kitchens. Hours later, the crowd drunk on its own congratulations, your father stands with his goblet in his hand. “It is time.” He announces ominously. You lose John’s grip as your father guides you down into the crowd.

Hands, everywhere. Men of all ages lift you above their heads and tear your clothes off at the same time, making their way to your Royal Chamber for the night. All you can do is close your eyes as the smell of fermented wine rolls off their tongues, greedy hands grabbing what they can as they get you up the stairs. Thankfully, it’s harder for them to be coordinated, abandoning the struggle against white fabric as they bring you to the chamber door.

John arrives just after you, a gaggle of women behind him. He’s not as undressed as you, with only a tear in his tunic. You frown and he senses it, his eyes immediately turning stormy. “Out.” John orders. The women leave, but the stupider men stay. One lord speaks up, a slimy gleam to his face. “I beg your pardon, but we need to watch the consummation, Your Grace.” You almost retch at the thought of them watching you be intimate with a man you barely know. “Out.” John says again, fire in his voice like a dragon. They take the hint and fumble their way down the stairs. You gasp in air, breathing out a sigh of relief.

“Wife.” He greets you, appraising your torn state of dress. Your skirts are ruined, turned into strips of fabric. The lengthy sleeves have turned into scraps, exposing the top of your chest, but nothing more. With every breath, you can feel the dress start to rip even more. “Husband,” you reply breathily.

He opens the door for you. The fireplace quietly warms the room, but there’s no light other than that, making everything past the bed hard to see. You start fidgeting as you walk in front of him, taking a seat on the bed as you fiddle with your hands. “We need witnesses for the consummation. If I’m not with child right away, they’ll say it’s my fault or annul it or say you’re-“ He stops you with a thumb to your cheek, the rest of his fingers squeezing the side of your neck. “Look in the corner.” You squint, scanning the room for whatever he’s looking for. Suddenly, you hear a masculine grunt from the darkest corner of the room. When you whip your head towards it, you catch graphite eyes and the silhouette of a warrior.

“Sir Simon.” He tilts his head in acknowledgment, almost like he’s bored with his role. Your palms sweat and you rub your thighs together to stave off the strange feeling in your stomach. “Don’t look at him, wife. Look at me.” You follow John’s orders immediately, locking onto his intense gaze. “What have you been told of this?” Your cheeks warm, remembering the short lesson from your religious teacher and an even shorter one from your mother.

“I shall lay down and let my husband use my body to complete our marital duties.” John sits down beside you with a grunt. Instead of responding, he runs a finger down the length of your exposed shoulder. You shiver involuntarily. He leans forward, and you stiffen as he kisses your shoulder. The last time you received a kiss was years ago, after a harrowing fever where your mother sat next to your bedside for a fortnight. “Is this…part of the marital duties?” You ask, voice trembling as he makes his way to the side of your neck he previously held. “Yes.” John murmurs into the hollow of your throat. He licks at the skin there and you jump, almost hitting your jaw against his head.

“Steady now.” Simon’s voice is raspy, like a dry paintbrush against blank canvas. You follow his orders immediately, willing yourself to calm down as John comes off the bed and in front of you.

And then, he kneels.

A King kneels before you, his rough hands dragging your tattered skirts up your legs, revealing parts of your skin that have never seen the sun. You freeze as he makes his way to your thighs, the skirt sitting around your waist. Your underskirts are made for using the chamber pot easily, so there’s no fabric around your cunt. John groans again, close enough that you can feel his breath cool the wetness beneath you. “Y’know what that is, princess?” He murmurs, spreading your thighs with ease. You shake your head, confused at the butterflies in your core. “Slick. Wetness. Arousal for your husband and his second, hm?” It seems rhetorical, so you stay silent as his fingers near your cunt. He kisses your inner thigh and you immediately snap your thighs shut. John looks up at you, violence in his eyes. “Stay open.” You try to, forcing your thighs open as he nears again. One large hand steadies your right thigh as his other strokes the slick between your thighs. When his fingers get close, your thighs snap shut again of their own will.

“Simon.” He appears in an instant, stony eyes peering down like he’s reading a text. “Hold her other leg open.” A scarred hand clamps down on your left thigh, wrenching you open almost to the point of discomfort. This time, John rubs his fingers at the slick between your folds and all you can do is sit there and take it. His thumb dips into your hole, and the intrusion is frightening, but he’s gone before you can even notice. He moves it up a little and there.

A loud moan escapes your lips, a sound you’ve never heard before. You clamp your hands to your mouth in embarrassment, remembering your mother’s lessons about staying quiet. “There she is.” John murmurs, seemingly uncaring of your break of expectations. He rubs again and again, then changes the angle so the heel of his hand rubs while he teases the entrance of your hole. Your breaths are heaving and Simon’s hand is hot on your thigh, sure to leave marks tomorrow. The top of your dress, already crumbling, breaks under the weight of your panting just as John presses his palm hard. Your nipples scrape against the dress fabric as your tits escape from the confines of your dress while Simon squeezes the soft skin of your thigh. It’s a funny feeling, a little like peeing, as you release into John’s hold, whining as he holds his palm steady.

“What just- I don’t know- did I do something wrong?” You pant as both men look at you with sparkles in their eyes. “It’s called an orgasm, princess. A release. Necessary for your marital duties. You’re being perfect.” Your heart calms at his praise, and it’s only when you nod do you realize your tits are bouncing of their own accord. John stands, ripping your bodice before you can even think to process. Simon tugs the fabric out from under you as John pushes you back, scanning you like a hunter after a deer. “Hands on your tits, wife.” You follow his instructions, laying your hands confusingly across your chest. John opens your thighs with both hands this time, his mouth wet against your curls. Simon leans over you and you realize this whole time, he’s removed the skull mask with only a black handkerchief covering the bottom half of his face. Those same scarred hands cover your own, showing you how to squeeze your nipples until you understand on your own.

The movements send sparks down your spine, making your hips buck against John’s face. He doesn’t complain, sucking hard at your cunt as you squirm. Simon's stare is as intense as a full moon on a clear night, making you feel like the center of the room. Even as a princess, you've never gotten such attention without it feeling transactional. There is no pain like how your maids whispered, just sheer pleasure, better than any honey cake or sweet wine stolen from the kitchens. Lightning sparks down your body, and the pressure of John holding you down while Simon knows your body better than your own. Your cunt is sopping, the sheets under you wet from your slick as you convulse when John adds a finger inside you. You gasp at the sensation, one becoming two quickly as he finds no resistance. He crooks them towards himself, like he's telling his pretty wife to come here. You come again just like that, thrashing into Simon's hands until you melt like a spring snow into the bed.

John strips off his clothing harshly, revealing a masculine figure you've only seen in carvings or glimpses from the men practicing at their swords in the yard. Hair all over, bearish in appearance, but you're learned enough now to not close your thighs. "C'mere," he orders, and you scramble forward, losing the warmth of Simon's hands. He guides your soft hands to his cock, letting you explore it with questioning touches. It's heavy in your hands, velvety but hard as stone. He grunts when you do an exploratory tug, and you drop your hands, afraid you did something wrong.

"This may be quick, wife. I'll rectify it in the morn'." You nod, brows furrowed as you were told it was always quick, no matter what. John climbs out of you as Simon steps back, but you can see his own silhouette of his cock through his trousers, backlit from the fireplace. John lays his weight on you, his forearms bracketing your head, and you sigh at the comforting feel of him. There's no fear anymore, your senses pliable from two orgasms. He nudges open your legs and you feel an intrusion of where he was before, but it's smoother than you thought it would be as he slides in. "John." You moan, mouth open as fullness grows inside. "So sweet, princess." He murmurs into your ear, pushing further until the hilt. You whine, squirming until Simon presses a gigantic hand on your stomach, keeping you in place as John finds his bearings.

He thrusts once and your breath hitches, your arms wrapping around his muscular shoulders as you sink your claws into his back. John tucks his face into the crook of your neck, and it feels like so much more than duty as he finds a pace. Simon's hand stays there, and your stomach feels fuller than the biggest feast. John's thumb finds your cunt and you start squealing at the overwhelming feeling. "John, I'm- cannot again I-," and he just chuckles, thrusting over and over. You share the same breath, your eyes finding Simon's at every other moment. If this is marriage, you think, it is nowhere near a prison. It's the rough hair of John scraping against your torso, his sweat gliding against yours. That spark builds again, not as bright as before but still powerful, and you clench again when he hits a specific spot. John, slippery with sweat and panting murmurs, follows after, warmth flooding between your thighs as he slows.

"I apologize, I cannot last as long as I used to." John confesses, still inside you as Simon takes his hand back. Your head is cloudy and sugar sweet with no room for reason. Your hands are still on his shoulders, and on instinct you move one to slide into his thick head of hair. "Nothing to apologize for, husband. It was pleasant." Simon chuckles, and you wonder if you've done something wrong. “Pleasant, she says.” John says to Simon, letting you gasp as he slips out of you, his cock leaving a trail of white on your thighs. You tighten your grip against John’s scalp as you watch Simon return to his seat, practically unaffected despite his arousal.

“Did I please you, husband?”

“Yes, wife. This shall be a pleasant marriage. Now rest.” And you do, John trapping you with his body and Simon trapping you with his eyes.

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itsagrimm · 16 days ago

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the courtship (john price x f!reader)

victorian london ish, SMUT, virgin reader, breeding kink, historically INaccurate, 5k wc

medieval marriage fic here (similar ish)

“lord, er, captain price.” you duck your head as you curtsy, inwardly cursing your fumble. the earl of a grand estate outside of london has returned from two years of war to attend the first ball of the season and here you are, words drying in your mouth. you met him once, in your first season out three years ago, and subsequently never again as he was called away. the rules of society are fragile and webbed as you try to not contemplate the propriety of him approaching you when you were barely acquainted so long ago.

when you tilt your head, you realize he’s already greeted you by name and seemingly asked a question, coffee brown eyes crinkling as you open and close your mouth. “i’m sorry my lord, would you mind repeating that?” you ask meekly, a gloved fist tightening against the periwinkle fabric of your dress. a new one, your first in two years, your mother’s attempt to make you into an appealing single lady and not a resigned wallflower.

“i remarked how surprised i was to see you still unmarried.” he comments tactlessly, his voice a dagger that aims at your deepest insecurities. you’ve resigned yourself to certain spinsterhood, but his tone is almost a jest of the circumstances you find yourself in. you straighten your shoulders and drop the demure tone you acquire whenever you step into a ballroom.

“i have yet to find a gentleman to my standards, my lord.” his eyes twinkle like he’s in on a private joke. unlike men of his age, at least a decade older than you with riches that would buy them a pretty wife whenever they desire, his body is as thick as a strongman. the gentleman’s clothes he dons feel like a farce, battling with his muscled stature despite their expensive tailoring. when lord price steps forward, all that mass inching towards the hem of your skirts, you inhale a breath.

something underneath your stomach flutters.

“and what might those be?” your eyes find your mother’s across the room, her urging clear with how her grin is stretched almost manically. lord price steps to the side, blocking your view until it’s only his crystal blue eyes. he inclines his head, an encouragement to answer his question, and the sparse greys in his beard sparkle in the chandelier light.

“someone kind and inclined to intelligent conversation. a man who can see over the hill of his own self importance. most crucially, he-“ except you don’t get to continue, because in your few minutes of conversation, word has reached the Mothers of the season that lord price has returned and is still wifeless.

“my lord, how good of you to return!”

“my lord, you must remember my oldest, she was not yet out when-“

“my lord, how valiant your actions have been. may i-“

swaths of fabric, chiffon and lace and silk, drown your vision as they descend. you find yourself being moved back to the wall by pushy elbows and inked fans, the crowd seemingly forcing you back into your wallflower cage. you lose lord price’s gaze as he’s surrounded, and after waiting for twenty minutes, there’s no opening to talk to him again, short of shoving yourself through the fabric.

your dance card remains empty, bar one pity dance from lord garrick, the son of your father’s close school friend. when you dance, a waltz where garrick remarks on who he’s going to court this season, you swear eyes follow your movements the whole time. but when you turn, the gaggle of mamas and lord price is gone.

the carriage ride home is silent, your mother’s disappointed gaze following you all the way to bed.

in the morning, you force yourself to swallow any disappointment. rumors have abounded as to the restrained ferocity of lord price, and he is not the kind of husband you desire. neither gentle nor calm, someone who would give your freedom without much demand. yes, you are much better off without any thoughts of lord price floating in your head.

after your maid readies you for the day, in an older dress that your family can’t afford to replace, you plan the day ahead. perhaps you’ll ask to shop in town with one of your sisters, not yet out, or take a turn in your garden, ignoring your mother’s curses when you get dirt on your hem. as you descend the stairs, you think of the novels in your father’s study. maybe you could steal a new one today, something to chase away any thoughts of-

an explosion of color stops you in your tracks. multiple bouquets, a rainbow of scents and shades, stand on the table in the middle of your receiving room. your mother stands in one of her usual day dresses, muttering about the language of flowers and the cost of them, nearly not recognizing your presence until you clear your throat.

“mother? what’s all this?” the manic grin is back as she tugs you into her side. “now, you may not lose this chance, dear. and you must wear the new walking dress we bought for you. you must smile and nod and do not make that ghastly noise you just did.” you blink in confusion at the barrage of etiquette comments. “mother?” she huffs like you’re stupid.

“lord price has asked you for an afternoon promenade in the park today. a little forward, i might think if you were in your earlier seasons, but he could’ve presented you with a daisy from our very own flower bushes and i would’ve agreed. i’ll chaperone, of course, so we must break our fast and get changed.” the day passes in a whirl of nibbled food, your stomach too fluttery for a proper meal, and pampering, your hair done in a fashionable style while your maid prepares your dress. mother convinces father to allow you the carriage to deliver you to the park, not wanting her pristine preparations to go to waste by walking. the hours fly like a dream and too suddenly you find yourself on the way to the park, the most popular area for a promenade.

the carriage stops at the entrance, and you inhale sharply at the sight of lord price already waiting. your mother pinches your thigh as a reminder to her etiquette lessons and you get moving, taking lord price’s hand to help you out of the carriage. “good afternoon, my lord.” you murmur, eyes cast down as to concentrate on not falling out from the carriage. but of course, your toe catches in your too big walking shoes, a hand me down from your older sister, and you stumble immediately, almost planting yourself in the grass.

firm hands grasp your waist over your corset, catching you before your tumble. lord price plants you firmly, his grip as warm as a brand. you stand there for a moment, eyes squinting in the sunny day as you try to discern his features. your mother’s voice cuts through the air, a remark about the weather, and you step out of his grip, inclining your head in thanks.

“do i intimidate you?” he asks as you take his arm, your mother keeping pace a few yards away. you jerk at his words, unused to such an indelicate question. “i, well, perhaps a bit.” you answer, focusing on the trail you walk and not the overwhelming scent of man next to you. he hums contentedly, seemingly satisfied with your admission. the cynical, spinster part of your brain marks that as a point against him, his effect on you clearly predatory.

you ignore the alarm bell that blares.

“you danced with lord garrick yesterday.” he remarks. your brows crease in confusion, then quickly smooth as your mother’s voice rings a reminder about delicacy in your head. “he’s a family friend. i’d like to consider him an older brother.” lord price doesn’t respond, his eyes searing a hole into your head. how infuriating, his expression completely unreadable.

“you seemed to dance with every young lady in the country.” it comes out as a bite, startling yourself as much as lord price. you sigh, sure to have ruined your one chance out of spinsterhood.

he surprises you with a chuckle, loud enough that it vibrates in your skin.

the other couples and groups around you turn in interest. you’ve never seen lord price have a full smile, let alone a laugh, and you practically glow in the satisfaction of it. “every moment i handed one off, another appeared in its place. my feet were aching more than a day on the battlefield.” you grin, then drop your smile as you realize how toothy it is. how improper. however, his response emboldens you.

“then why ask for a walk today, my lord?” you wonder aloud, almost self consciously. he doesn’t acknowledge how you’re fishing for a compliment, simply tightens your hand in the crook of his elbow.

“i’d like to court you.”

you nearly stumble in surprise, quickly recovering before anyone notices. “truly?” it’s not a polite response, but you can’t help the wonder in your voice. no one has ever spoken those words to you, ever lady’s dream.

“i was rather hoping the flowers made my intentions quite clear.” all you do is nod, blinking rapidly. he resumes a note of conversation, some tale as to how he’s acquainted with lord garrick, and though lord price does not check any box on your list of husband qualities, you find yourself quite liking the idea of a courtship.

the next weeks pass in a blur of opera visits and museum invitations and dances, lord price’s humongous hand in your own. at the edges of it, something frays. he is kind to footmen and valets, but disregards many of the peerage. your father highly dislikes him, his accomplishments unseemly for a peer, but your mother is just glad to finally have a prospect for you. he’s friendly with viscount riley and mr. mactavish, a scottish embassy gentleman, but every other gentleman seems to despise his presence.

you have the distinct feeling that to be his wife would force you into the same dislike as well.

a month into your courtship, the rumors start.

a new conflict brewing in france. troops being called in, a patriotic worry in the air. when you ask lord price over tea in your family’s singular parlor, he doesn’t elaborate on any details. he sweeps you into a conversation on french versus english philosophers, much to the chagrin of your mother in the corner, and you can’t help but get lost in the discussion of how the indian philosophers are much more advanced, any thoughts of lord price leaving falling to the wayside.

it’s the next ball when you find out. you’ve arrived earlier than lord price or any in his group, and the ladies of your age have taken advantage. suddenly everyone wants to be your friend, wants insight on the three single men lord price holds kinship with, their looks appealing to all eligible ladies. lord garrick with his charming smile and honey-dripped words, mr. mactavish’s humor and his unimaginable wealth that comes from war equipment, and even viscount riley with his mysterious scars and hulking manner.

they’re there, too, to investigate your courtship. they poke at any cracks and disappointedly find none, sighing when you reference the newest yellow roses lord price’s had delivered to your home only two days ago. your happiness is evident in the brightness in your eyes, and of course the vultures cannot resist but to peck.

“and do you think he’ll propose before he’s deployed next week?” miss madeline graves, a niece of lord phillip graves, asks with a smirk on his face. your heart drops to your stomach as you gape at her words. “pray tell, whatever do you mean?” she blinks like she’s surprised at your confusion, smiling demurely at the other girls before leaning in. “i overheard my uncle in his business talks yesterday. lord price and his entire division, including lord garrick, are to leave for three months by the end of next week.” she pauses for effect, head turning like an owl’s as she takes in your shocked expression. “you didn’t know?”

you flee immediately, pleading a headache as you gather your skirts and head for a nearby sitting room to catch your breath. deploying for three months? he hadn’t mentioned it last night, dining at your family’s table without a care in the world. was this all a minor dalliance before going back to his true home on the battlefield? have you just been entertainment, see how far he can make the wallflower attach herself to him before he leaves? and you’re left here, to sheer social ruin.

in your haste, it’s no surprise that you bump into a body. hard muscle is like a stone wall, but steady hands catch you before you can flail backwards. “sweetheart?” his new name for you hits like a vial of poison, and you can’t stand to look into his eyes. “leave me be.” you attempt to push him away, but he holds your wrists in one hand, unyielding. not wanting to make more of a scene, you tug him with you into the corridor. the nearest open door reveals a study and you march through it.

“when were you going to tell me of your deployment, my lord? waving from the back of your military carriage?” you spit venom, reeling around so he drops your hands. lord price is unbelievably handsome tonight, his beard almost soft in the light. his face doesn’t change at your accusation like he knew of your complaints before they’d been voiced.

“you aren’t invested in this courtship.” he replied, not even addressing your point. lord price steps forward and you follow with a step back, the two of you in a silent dance until your back hits the desk in the study. light from the hallway floods in, a reminder that the door is slightly open, but you barely notice in your rage.

“i haven’t been invested? you’ve been playing with me like a child’s toy, my lord.” to your horror, a tear slips down your cheek. lord price steps forward again, his feet brushing your skirts. “i’ve told you to call me john, sweetheart.” your traitorous heart thumps at his words.

“and i’ve told you that’s improper. my mother-“

“i don’t care about your mother. say it.” his hand, dusted with hair and scars, grasps your chin lightly. lord price, john, tilts your head upwards until you can’t escape his gaze. “john.” you breathe, and his nostrils flare like a wild animal. his thumb brushes your skin, and you practically curl into it.

“you didn’t tell me you were leaving.” you mumble, another tear falling. his thumb moves to wipe it off your face. john removes his grip to feed his thumb, wet with your tears, into his mouth. he sucks hard like a candied almond, and removes it with a pop.

you’re speechless.

“marry me.” john demands. he grips your torso, uncaring of the weight of your body and skirts combined, and lifts you onto the desk. he steps forward into the cradle of your hips, the fabric of your skirts stretching to accommodate him.

you don’t want a husband like this. pushy and belligerent when he doesn’t get his way. too frank for his own good with no regard for social rules even if he is an earl. he handles you like he owns you, hands still on your waist. and he still hasn’t acknowledged his own deployment.

“no.” you sniffle. john grins like a cat who’s got the cream, settling his weight further into you. to your horror, a feeling practically permanent with this man, john leans in to nuzzle your neck. gentle lips brush the skin there and you shiver at the feeling.

“you’re an absolute brute, johnathon price. i won’t have you as my husband.” you demand resolutely, inhaling sharply as john kisses your jaw. your first kiss and it’s like this, hidden away in a baron’s study. “tell me more, sweetheart.” he murmurs into your earlobe, biting it as the words leave his mouth. your hands settle at his shoulders, a perfect position to push him away, but they lay limp. “you’re a liar.” he tugs at your ear with his teeth. “with deplorable social skills.” he licks the skin of your neck and your hands tighten around him. “you didn’t tell me you were leaving.” his tongue drags upward, catching another tear on your skin. his beard is rougher than you though, like a scratchy towel against freshly bathed skin.

“i’ve had to fight off every lady for your attention.” john kisses your cheek, your nose, the side of your mouth. his hands tighten around your flesh, almost like he’s irritated with the barrier of your corset. “you don’t want me. i’m a spinster you’ve been playing with to pass the time.” the truth finally spills out.

john captures your lips hungrily, like he’s been deprived of all food for weeks. he’s insistent, his lips rough and demanding. teeth pull down your lower lip and a whine escapes your throat, a sound you’ve never heard before. “i want you as my wife.” he rasps as his hands trail upwards. despite your layers of fabric, he finds the outline of your hardened nipple. callused thumbs rub at both of your tits, a vibration becoming increasingly urgent in the bottom of your belly.

“this is improper, my lord.” john deprives you of his mouth, tugging it away to trail down your neck. over the fabric of your dress, a pale pink that matches the flowers in your hair, john captures you nipple in his mouth. he’s sure to leave a wet spot, even as he switches from one to the next. your hips start to rock against the desk, needing something you can’t even name. your fingers find john’s scalp, tugging him up until he’s captured your mouth again.

“you will marry me, sweetheart.”

“you are incorrigible and intolerable-“

“dear me.” a low voice rattles through the room, and you freeze under john’s lips. they cock in a smile, so small you think you’ve imagined it, and quickly leave your skin.

you have to blink to register the moment. viscount riley stands with lord garrick and mr. mactavish, who has the widowed lady laswell tucked into his grip. the viscount is expressionless, as is lady laswell, but mr. mactavish is holding a playful grin. your eyes find lord garrick, pleading silently to your childhood friend, but he winks and your skin goes cold.

“lord price, explain yourself.” lady laswell demands, her brows not moving an inch. you jump in before john can. “please, you saw merely a lapse in judgement. can we all agree that nothing untoward happened?” the group is silent. viscount riley shakes his head an inch and your stomach drops.

“what my fiancée meant to say,” john squeezes your waist as to emphasize the point, “is that we were celebrating our recent engagement and got carried away. isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

fiancée. engagement. sweetheart. you’ve been a rabbit this whole time, unknowingly walking into a fox’s den like you were blind. captain john price, lord and gentleman, always gets what he wants. the courtship was nothing more than him playing with his food.

you’re a spinster. you hate him a little but you admire him more, and he laughs at your terrible jokes and doesn’t reprimand you for speaking of jane austen and her novels. he’s completely torn up your list of husband qualities you demand.

and in his own primal way, he cares about you more than any other person ever has.

what more could you want?

“that’s exactly what i meant to say, fiancé.” you peck his cheek for emphasis. he squeezes your waist like a reward. the group simply smiles and nods. john helps you down from the desk and captures your lips in a short kiss, uncaring of your captive audience.

“shall we share the happy news, sweetheart?”

a week ago, john applied for a marriage license for your union in the heart of london’s st james cathedral. you find out this fact on the morrow after he hammers out the details of your dowry with your grim faced father, more displeased to lose his money than his daughter. your mother faints from shock when john announces your wedding to be a week from the day, a mere two days before he is to deploy.

the next week comes in flashes. wedding gown fittings, only the best for the earl’s new bride. john’s meetings with his soldiers that go on all day. you only see him once in seven days and you worry that he’s forgotten you at all.

“how are you?” his thumb finds the gentle skin of your hairline, tracing down the line of your face. you’ve convinced your mother to let you talk unchaperoned in the parlor, reminding her of your impending marriage in two days. “you’ve barely seen me.” you mumble, grumpy and displeased from the business of wedding preparations. john yanks you onto his lap, skirts and all, so fast you can only blink.

“you’ll need to practice for when i’m gone.” he reasons, smirking when you lean your head into his chest with a frown on your face. “i can’t believe you’ve compromised me and now you’re leaving.” his hand covers your own, stopping you from picking at the wrist of your sleeved dress. “you’ll know when i compromise you, sweetheart. in two days time, to be precise.” terrible, terrible man who refuses to comfort you. you tuck your head into the crook of his beard and rub against the bristles there, content as he hums. he holds you, occasionally kissing your forehead as you wonder how you’ve gotten into this mess.

in two days time, you are trussed up like a pig with an apple and shoved into layers upon layers of wedding fabric. the day passes with a morning ceremony, john’s hands gripping your own as you promise devotion and servitude. he laughs at that line, like he already knows you plan to lash back against any restraints he tries to put on you. the feast is a breakfast of pastries and meats and you can’t focus with his hand on your thigh at every opportunity, a reminder of the ring on your finger.

and suddenly, you’re alone. in the apartments he owns for the london season, with a plan to return to his country estate the next day. afternoon light streams through the windows of his bedroom, all military with its precise cleanliness and lack of decoration. john looks at you like a hunter, wild with hunger. “turn.” you follow, turning to face the enormous bed in front of you. steady hands clasp your head, freeing you from the pins in your hair. after that comes the hundreds of buttons that start at the nape of your neck, his fingers deft and sure.

he leaves only for a moment to drop the pins, then comes back to free you from the gown. he loosens your corset expertly, faster than your lady’s maid, and you can’t help the thought that escapes you. “you’re quite adept at corset loosening.” your shoulders slump at your own stupidity as his hands freeze. john spins you until you meet his eyes and the sternness there.

“any person before you does not matter.”

you exhale sharply, then nod.

he finishes the corset that way, pulling at the laces with more force than necessary. he pulls it over your head and throws it somewhere on the floor. your shield of clothing is gone, your chemise the only fabric protecting you from his gaze.

john starts on his military dress, unbuttoning his jacket and tossing it to a nearby chair. he does the same to his pants and boots until he’s naked, everywhere.

you can’t help but to stare. at the bearishness of him, the dark hair speckled on his hands that expand to the rest of his body. his beard now seems like a concession to the wildness of his chest hair that leads down to his cock, standing proudly. your husband is a predator in a human body, standing confidently as you peruse his looks. “sit.” you do immediately, feet dangling from the massive height of his bed, a luxury you’ve never seen covered in pelts and furs like a caveman.

john crouches and catches one of your feet, still encased in your white wedding shoes. he frees your foot, then kisses the arch of it. john licks your ankle bone, then works his way up to the hem of your chemise where your thighs tremble. before you can stop him, he goes back down and does the same with your other foot.

you’re shaking, with both nerves and excitement, when he reaches your chemise again. “what have you been told?” his fingers duck under the fabric, lifting it up slowly to lay on your stomach. “from my mother, duty.” he chuckles, one thumb running down the seam of your cunt against the hair there. “as usual, your mother is incorrect.” john presses his thumb down right at the top of the seam and you gasp, a heady friction rubbing against your nerves. “it’s pleasure. bliss. making love.” his thumb drags down and pushes inward, his eyes on you as he watches for a reaction. you bite your lip as your nipples peak and sensitivity makes itself known in your bones.

“are we making love, my lord?” you punctuate your question with a whine as he starts moving his thumb in a circle, pleasure quickly building. “yes, wife. we’re making love.” he leans forward, thumb still moving, and kisses you. you wrap your arms around him immediately, having been deprived of him for the past few days. your body follows its instincts as your legs wrap around his torso, the angle even better with his movements. “when you’re gone, will you do this with anyone else?” you ask, needing the answer before the deed is done. before you fall into this endless abyss he’s pushed you into.

“no. i’ll show you what i’ll do with my cock when i’m away and what you can do with your cunt, yeah?” you nod vigorously, your kisses turning wet with spit as you finally allow yourself to show the affection you’ve been wanting. his fingers move at a steady rhythm and your stomach tenses. “john, what’s-“ you moan as he continues, his unoccupied middle finger pushing into your seeping hole. “that’s an orgasm, baby. can feel your walls fluttering. just let it happen.” you do, letting your stomach relax as pleasure rushes out of you. he keeps going as you pant, bones liquid as one finger becomes two and wet sounds echo in the bedroom.

just two fingers makes you feel like your body is expanding. his cock is red and angry and you know from visiting the zoo how the rest of this goes. “you’re not going to fit, my lord.” he grins against your skin. his head drops to your chest, where your chemise still hides your tits. he mouths at your hardened nipples, turning the fabric see through with spit. john does the same to other, and that familiar spark makes itself known in your stomach. “john, i’m going to- going to-“ he bites your nipple and you whine, clawing at his muscled shoulders as your heels dig into his back.

“you’re going to come, baby.” he tugs the chemise down with his teeth so he can properly bite at your nipple. his fingers, filling your cunt with their beckoning motion, brush against a spot deep inside you. you come again, more

prolonged than the first time, squirming in his arms as you ride his fingers. he adds a third and you protest until he kisses you again, your body limp and defeated.

john tugs off your soaked garment and frees you from any remaining fabric, stockings ripped somewhere on the floor. you don’t care, obsessed with how his hairy chest rubs against your nipples as you buck and writhe. john’s hand leaves your cunt to grip his cock, the other hand petting yourself face gently as he murmurs. you’ve never heard of a man using the word baby in such an intimate fashion; you want to curl into his skin and live there forever. he chuckles as you kiss his neck, nipping at the muscle on top of you.

your husband, your husband.

“let me fill you up now. give you a baby., sweetheart.” you nod, opening your legs wider as you feel his cock rub through your folds. he notches it in and pushes slowly, bending one of your legs near your face to open you open. it’s an uncomfortable stretch but it doesn’t hurt, much like your mother said it would. you can’t imagine how it would with your slick coating your thighs and john’s hands. your husband finds a rhythm, rocking gently until you’re aching for more. you run your hands through his hair as he pants, thoroughly how undone he looks by your presence.

john promises you sweet words, that he’ll make you come on his cock the second time. that he’ll lick you once he’s done, once he’s sure it sticks. that he’ll give you a baby before he leaves, that you’ll fuck in the carriage to ensure it. you run those four letters over your teeth, having only heard them when passing the pubs of london once or twice in your carriage.

john comes with a grunt, warmth flooding your cunt. you sigh at the feeling, tugging him down onto your body. to live like this, utterly attached and connected. “how often may we do this?” you hear yourself asking, running your nails down his broad back, then up to the nape of neck. “every moment of the day.” he grumbles, kissing your sweaty shoulder. “that leaves no time for reading or conversation.” you argue with a smile on your face. “you can do both sitting on my cock, sweetheart. i’ll teach you.”

john shoves a pillow under your ass, tilting your hips with his cock still inside you. “i’ll make it take.” he promises, and you curl further into him, all soreness and sweat. the new countess price, ruffled and warm in your husband’s hold.

before he deploys, john shows you how to make love in every possible manner. on the carriage bench, bent over his study desk, the floor of his parlor, outside on the grassy grounds of his estate.

you wave him off from the front door of your new country estate, the largest earldom in england. one hand rests on your stomach, and although there’s no way to know, you’re sure you’ll have a present to greet him with when he returns.

i have been reading a lot of lisa kleypas historical fiction and this is scratching my itch

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