Chapter Text
It’s times like these that John truly, for once in his God-forsaken life, believes that he just might be the luckiest man alive.
“As much as I love your smile, John, it ain’t gonna stay there for long if I mess this up,” says his wife ( and God, he’ll never get sick of using that phrase) from above him. Her warm breath tickles his cheek, causing his stray hairs to flutter softly against his skin and stick there from the dampness of the steam filling the bath room.
He hums gently in acknowledgement, afraid of betraying himself if he opens his mouth. The open blade at his throat doesn’t do him any favors, either. The hypnotic scrape of metal against the lingering stubble on his skin is oddly soothing, and he’s doing his best not to fall asleep.
“You shoulda let me do this earlier,” she admonishes, a laugh trickling into her drawling voice. “If I knew it was gonna be this bad, I woulda dragged you in here days ago. Thought you’dve learned to shave proper by now.”
She leans past him to swish the razor in the bowl of hot, soapy water drawn up for the occasion, clinking softly in the glass as she does so. The angle allows him to pick up on a hint of her scent, all black coffee and sweet hay from the day’s chores. The tang of firesmoke still lingers in her dark braid, and he soaks it all in.
“Are you listening to me?” She chuckles, earning him a splash of warm water on his face. That gets him to open his eyes up at her, losing himself in her chocolate gaze, crinkling as her dimples deepen with her smile. “You silly man.”
He peers up at her through thick lashes, dopey smile still plastered on his face. “Darling,” he utters, rolling the word out like marbles on this tongue, “I’ll be anything you want me to be, just as long as you keep doin’ whatever it is yer doin’.”
He registers a slosh of water as she retrieves the razor from its watery resting place, and feels her give his shoulder a light squeeze. “Well, in that case…”
Her body passes on his left, casting a slight shadow across the room as she settles in front of him, a warm and mischievous glint cast in her eye that he can only describe as fox-like. She barely gives him a moment to register before she is settling her free hand firmly on his shoulder, resting the other one against his chest as she clenches the razor tightly in her fist. She straddles him in one fluid motion on the chair, and his world becomes small and magnificent.
“I’ll have to make sure yer gettin’ a full lesson, hm?” She smirks mirthfully, and god , he wants to kiss her until he can’t anymore. “Now, hold still.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, relishing the warmth spreading between them. He knows she feels it, too, if her barely audible breath is any indication.
Her strong, calloused hand is gentle as rain as it glides up to meet the junction of his throat, holding him in place. Her fingers smooth themselves over the roughened skin there, red and worn from a noose long since cut. He shivers underneath her, breathing heavily through his nose.
“Good,” she whispers, quiet excitement and admiration heavy in her voice. “That’s good, John.”
She’s so careful in her motions, he hardly notices the blade shearing against his skin, save for the small hiss of hair being shed by the sharpness. He’s too lost in her eyes, the way her pupils are blown and intent on her ministrations. The orange glow of the candles she’d lit dance and glimmer against the walls, casting an amber halo around her as she works above him.
He isn’t prepared for the way her legs tighten around his thighs, trapping him even further beneath her. The heat of her digs deeper into his own, and he can’t stifle the groan trapped between his teeth as she drags herself deliciously across his lap. He feels like the flames have found a home in her, and she’s trying to smother them against him.
“Shit, Abigail, ” he curses quietly, his hands coming to rest at the heft of her hips. The soft give of them is tantalizing under his fingers, and he kneads them with the meat of his palms in an attempt to drive her closer.
He doesn’t miss the playful smirk tweaking her lips as she lifts herself off just enough out of reach, and he hisses at the loss of contact. Forgetting where they are, what it is they’re still doing, he stops only when he recognizes the familiar sting of a nick on his throat.
“You’re really goin’ to be the end of me, woman,” he rasps breathlessly, heartbeat stuttering a rapid pace beneath his flushed skin.
The laugh bubbling from her at that sends heat straight to his core, and he tightens his grip on her as she places the blade back in the bowl, a final clunk sounding out as it settles at the bottom, disappearing into the suds.
“You know what they say, JM,” she whispers as she comes back down, settling on his legs.
“ ‘Til death do us part.” At that, she finally ( God, fucking finally-) crooks her neck downards, until their lips meet in a plush collision.
He moans into her mouth, and she catches it with her tongue, swallowing him whole. She never was one to do anything by half measures. Neither of them were. It was all or nothing, blazing hot and searing cold. And he was drunk on all of her, all of the time.
The hand she’d kept rested against his throat gives a small squeeze as she tilts her head to deepen their kiss, and he swears that stars dance across his eyelids. He breathlessly lets his head go slack against the back of the chair-rest, savoring the way she chases his mouth hungrily. She’s just as gone as he is, her breath coming in rapid succession as her hips begin to slide almost lazily across his burning length.
“You drive me crazy, John,” she gasps against his lips, hot and warm against his rapidly blushing face. “You ain’t got the faintest clue, you know that?”. The pad of her thumb caresses his marred cheek, and he leans into the touch with a heady sigh, nuzzling into her palm and kissing her heart lines.
“I’ve got an idea,” he growls warmly, pulling their hips flush together in one sweeping motion, smiling as the wind is knocked out of her in an instant. It’s her turn to act surprised, a stuttering gasp pulled out of her at the pressure. John swears he feels a dampness grow where they meet, and he pulls her towards him until their feverish foreheads rest against each other.
They’re both panting, their ragged breathing the only sound bouncing off the walls, shaking in each other’s arms from the rush. It's John that breaks the silence first, his hands grabbing Abigail’s wrists until they break away from his chest. “Your turn,” he breathes, gracing her lips with a short peck as he forces himself to break the seal between them.
“You bastard,” she grumbles with no heat, laughter sparking in her eyes as she slowly manages to unseat herself.
“I know,” he responds in the candlelight, as he begins to unbutton the front of her dress. She looks up at him with all the threatening posture of a kicked puppy, and he smiles despite himself. “But s’gotta be done.”
She huffs in jest as she shakes her head and turns around to face her back to him, and he works at the knots in her apron, in her dress, in her chamise and - good Lord, the layers separating him from her are insufferable. It’s a miracle he can undress her at all- not that he hasn’t had any practice.
With all of the bulk of her dropped to the floor, he takes a moment to marvel at the woman at his fingertips. Her pale chest, freckled and dotted with moles, is flushed from exertion, her breasts lifting ever so slightly with each breath. She’d been overly conscious of herself ever since having Jack; he’d had to convince her time and time again that her body still pulled him in like the moon to the tide, her softened sides and striped thighs all the more enticing. Because it was her , it was always his girl.
Even now, he sees her struggle to keep her arms from crossing over herself at his gaze, and she flushes an even deeper pink. Before she gets a chance, he takes her hands softly in his own, feeling the way their callouses catch and slip against each other, slotting his fingers into hers, giving them a gentle tug. He brings them up to his lips, not missing the way her mouth parts and her eyes flutter shut at the lightest touch. Her shoulders stoop slightly as she relaxes, and he begins to lead her to the side of the wash basin.
She releases one of her hands to grasp the edge of the tub, the other still clinging to his own as she steps foot into the steaming water beneath them. He doesn’t let go until she’s stepped entirely into the’ basin, and she slips into the water with a heaving sigh.
“Ohhh, my God,” she lets out in relief, steam curling around her neck and face like a long lost friend. “You’ve outdone yerself this time, Marston.”
“Not yet, I haven’t,” he replies, taking his place behind her as she settles in. He kneels on the plush rug beneath them, and his knees squeak and groan in protest. He shoves their complaints somewhere else as he puts his mind on the task at hand.
As Abigail rests her head on the back of the basin, he softly takes hold of the knot of her thick hair twisted on top of it. As he twists and turns, just like she taught him to as to not wrench her head around, the dark waves begin to fall towards the floor. He doesn’t miss another soft sigh as it leaves her lips, and he begins to massage his fingers into her scalp. It’s a wonder she doesn’t purr.
“Christ, John,” she murmurs. A lopsided grin tugs at his mouth as he bears down into the meat of her skull, pressing deeply into the thick cord of her neck muscles. They’re (too) tight under his fingers, and he aims to rectify that.
“Just lean on back, I gotcha,” he promises. He shifts his stance to lean into her, meeting her at the basin’s edge. She groans heartily as he works at her aching muscles, her head turning limp under him. Her eyes remain shut, brow creasing as he digs his knuckles into the taut skin.
“Wish my hair looked like that,” he admires softly, as he pauses his kneading to run his fingers through her mass of hair. Its thick, dark form was growing more wavy with the growing humidity of the bath, curling beautifully between his fingers as he gently convinced the knots to smooth out from his touch.
“It’s not yer hair’s fault that it soaks up all the dirt and grease from miles away,” he hears her rumble from just slightly above the water. “That’s purely a choice, ya know.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he hushes, placating her as he begins to form three separate strands at the top of her head, weaving them over and under, over and under. He’s gotten much better at this since they’d first been together, and now it felt weirder when he didn’t plait her hair at the end of the night. He didn’t always do it; she was too prideful for that. But on the night’s she was too sore or tired to care, she’d let him take her head in his hands and braid as he saw fit. After their sessions had ended in more tangles than not, she’d taken to showing him how to do it properly. The rest was history.
He admires his handiwork after he’s wrapped the tie at the end, letting it hang loosely in the air. He loses himself for a moment in the rocking motion, before turning his eye back to her. Abigail’s eyes are shut, and he wonders for the smallest moment that perhaps she’s fallen asleep in the tub, again.
“John?” she questions, and it’s so soft that John barely hears it above the din of his heartbeat.
He pauses as he leans closer to the side of the tub, and a slick hand reaches up to grasp his face, her hand like liquid fire against his sensitive skin.
Her eyes are wide open, drinking him in as she strokes her thumb along his softly chapped lips, marveling at the sensation. He leans deeper into her touch, until he’s liable to fall in if it weren’t for his knees planting him to the ground.
“Take me to bed,” she pleads huskily, and he bares his teeth to her in a hint of a wolfish smile. She runs her finger along the edge of his canine, wanting to feel the way he’d sink them into her, one way or another.
He smooths a free hand over the side of her head, trapping her baby hairs against her skull. He plants a heated kiss on her forehead, breathing in the musky sweet scent of her.
“I thought you’d never ask.”