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sillyrabbit81 · 1 year

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Scars

Prompt: Intense & Angry, Bath or Shower Sex from @livesinfantasyland (x) Thank you!

Pairing: Evan Marshall x Female Reader

Word Count: Approx. 2.1k

Warnings: Smut with Angst, arguing, p in v sex, m dom vibes

Authors Note: As always I need to thank my amazing mates and readers @nashibirne and @amberangel112, your thoughtful and honest comments are always appreciated.

This is my first time ever writing Evan. It was a tough one for me to attempt with Evan because it isn't the prompt I would have picked, but I enjoyed writing a new character and had fun with it. Once again, this is longer than I initially planned and I hope you enjoy it.

Edited by me, there will be errors.

Dividers by me.

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Celebration Masterlist

“We need to talk.”

You don’t need to look up from undoing your boots to know who has barged into the women’s locker room and spoken. You’d know Evan’s voice anywhere, you’ve worked with him on and off for a few years now.

“I think you said enough on the ride back here,” you say, trying to stay calm.

“Not nearly enough,” he says, “You still don’t think you did anything wrong.”

You stand up, still not looking at him and start undoing your overshirt. “Would you have given the same instruction to Larry?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Would you have given the same instruction to a man?”

“Oh Jesus Christ, here we go,” Evan says, looking to the ceiling and clenching his fist.

“Or did you only try and stop me from doing my job because you used to fuck me and now you feel guilty?”

“It’s got nothing to do with that!” Evan shouts, punching out at the row of lockers across you.

You take a step back from him, your eyes wide. Evan has always had a slight temper, but for him to physically lash out like that isn’t something you would expect. He notices your reaction and his face softens. You consider letting it go, you’ve made your point and don’t need his apology. It isn’t as if it was ever serious between you two, it had only ever been a casual thing. However, this conversation has been a long time coming and you need to have it out.

“It has everything to do with it,” you tell him, “You changed. Since you disappeared for weeks last Halloween, you’ve changed. I know things wouldn’t be the same after we stopped hooking up, but I didn’t expect you to be so fucking cold.”

“How am—”

Evan cuts himself off with a strangled curse as your hand rests against his chest.

“Don’t touch me there,” he says without seeming to breathe and his face twists with fury.

You withdraw your hand and the two of you stare each other down. Evan opens his mouth to say something but then clenches his jaw closed so hard his teeth clash against each other audibly.

“Fuck it,” he mutters and abruptly turns and walks away.

“Come back! This isn’t done,” you call to him.

“Fuck you,” he says and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

You stare after him, trying to smother the rage that boils deep in your guts. You don’t know how long you stand there with your eyes closed and fists clenched, breathing deeply through your nose until your fury simmers.

But it doesn’t.

If anything, the longer you stand there the angrier you feel. Your mind starts to work over every interaction you’ve had with him since he came back. Every rejected advance, every cold comment and every frosty glance plays over and over like a best of compilation in your mind switching from one to another until you can’t take it anymore. Without being aware of what you’re doing until you're pushing the men’s locker room door open, you follow him, and stomp your way to the showers.

The sight that greets you makes you gasp. Evan stands under the shower naked, gloriously so. His chiselled face is so handsome that you sometimes forget he has the body to match; tall, athletically toned with the bare minimum of fat overlaying his sinewy muscles. He’s thinner than the last time you saw him, and that isn’t the only thing that has changed.

Beneath the rivulets of steaming water that run down his chest and amongst the hair that grows across his pecs is a scar. It is new, it hadn’t been there before. You’ve seen enough stabbing and knife attack victims to know the scar isn’t from a fight. It looks purposeful, like it was done by design; the lines too straight and too much like a symbol to have been done by accident.

You raise your eyes to Evan's and the unasked question is written all over your face.

“I can’t tell you,” he says, simply, “don’t ask me to.”

You step over the tile lip and into the shower space. Warm water seeps into your socks, but you barely notice. All you can see is the frigid intensity of his once warm eyes.

“Just tell me you’re okay,” you say, advancing slowly, drawn so powerfully towards him you can’t stop yourself until you’re under the spray with him, completely indifferent the way your undershirt quickly dampens and sticks to your body.

Evan’s brows draw together and he blinks rapidly but doesn’t answer.

“What can I do?” you ask in a whisper.

He flinches like your words are a slap. Then his face hardens and a grim determination settles in his beautiful but bleak blue eyes.

“You don’t want any part of this,” he says. “Or any part of me.”

“Is that why you’re acting like this?” you ask. Gingerly, you lift your hand to his chest and trace the edge of his scar, careful not to touch it. “You think I wouldn’t want you?”

Without warning his hands are on your cheeks and his mouth is over yours, the edges of your lips are grazed by his short whiskers and you feel a tingle work its way across your skin. You recover quickly from the shock, encircling his neck with your arms and running your fingers over the wet and velvety hair on his head. You move in closer, pressing your sodden clothed body against him.

It isn’t enough. You want to feel him, you want to feel his humid skin all over you. He must have thought the same thing because he breaks the kiss with a groan. His hands work on your belt and you pull your undershirt off over your head, letting it drop to the tiles with a splash you barely register.

His lip curls as he drops his head to roughly capture your breast in his hand and close his mouth around your nipple. You shiver as he sucks on you through the cotton of your bra, the heat of his mouth is so much hotter than even the water that sears at your skin.

You let your head fall back and you close your eyes as you relish the feeling of his mouth on you. Your knees start to feel weak as his hand works its way determinedly into your panties, his fingers working to separate the thick sodden work clothes away from your skin. You grab hold of his shoulders to steady yourself and feel pure muscle rippling under his sweltering, smooth skin. You run your hand down his back, following the path of his spine, until your fingers encounter hardened and raised skin.

Another new scar.

Quickly you snatch back your hand and your eyes snap to Evan. He looks up at you with stormy, fierce eyes and grazes your bud with his teeth before he releases you. A tremor of fear runs down your spine.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, in a quivering voice.

He nods, takes hold of your waist and guides you to turn around until you're facing the tiled wall. He presses his body against you from behind and you can feel his hard cock against the small of your back. His arm wraps around your waist holding you in place while his other hand slides your sticking pants down your thighs.

“I know.” Evan’s lips brush against the shell of your ear as he speaks in a low voice that leaves no room for argument. “Put your hands on the wall.”

A heady rush of heat hits you between your legs and nearly drops you to your knees.

Evan notices and tightens his arm around your waist. “I’ve got you, baby. Hands on the wall. Now.”

“Yes…” you whimper, reaching your shaking hands out to the large square white tiles. Your skin is so electrified and sensitive that even the rough texture of the grout under the pads of your fingers threatens to overwhelm you.

His velvety hot tongue runs a thick strip up your neck as he latches onto you and sucks on the thin skin beneath your ear. Your whole body thrums deep within you, you feel close to orgasm and he hasn’t even really touched you yet.

This was a far cry from the way he had always been with you before. It wasn’t that sex wasn’t good with Evan in the past, it absolutely was, he had always been generous. But he was never what you’d call dominant at all and he was straight up vanilla, almost reserved. You don’t think he’d ever even taken you from behind.

His teeth sink into your earlobe as he tilts your hips and slips a foot between yours to inch your feet apart.

“Stay just like that for me,” he instructs, huskily and you moan, hoping he takes the warbling sound of your voice as agreement.

Soft, hot skin presses against your pussy, forcing your lips to part. You gasp in shock, but it quickly morphs into a gasp of pure pleasure as the thick tip of Evan’s cock rubs against your slick and swollen hidden skin.

“Are you still on the pill?” he asks.

You nod, turning your head towards his.

“Good. I’m going to cum inside you,” he says.

He enters you in one swift and hard thrust. You both cry out and he breathes hard into your ear as he holds himself deep inside you and gives you a moment to get used to his size.

“Evan,” you whine faintly, leaning your head against his shoulder.

He kisses your temple gently. The tenderness makes your eyes widen, but it's a short reprieve.

“Hang on,” he says.

He moves, slowly dragging himself from your core. Then his fingers dig hard into your hips and he pumps hard into you, using your hips for leverage. With each powerful drive, Evan pulls your hips back to meet him and you can’t stop yourself from crying out as he fills you. Your bodies slap hard against each other, the sound mixing with your cries and his grunts of effort. Together the cacophony echoes lewdly through the steam of the shower and bounces off the tiles.

Your head drops and you lean it on your outstretched and locked arms as you brace yourself against his brutal but oh so fucking good onslaught. Then he leans forward until his chest covers your back. One of his hands snakes its way from your hips to between your legs and his fingers slide over your sensitive and throbbing clit.

“Need you to come with me,” he rumbles through his groans.

It’s the kind of thing you’d usually roll your eyes at, but Evan knows your body; he knows just how to touch you to get you over the edge. His mouth latches on your neck, licking, sucking, and grazing his teeth over your vein, while his fingers dance over your clit and he never lets up the primal, fervid pace of his fucking.

“Come with me,” he demands with a guttural growl into your ear.

Your body trembles as your orgasm threatens with such force that your legs give out, and your hands slip from the wall.

“I’ve got you,” Evan assures you as he brings you both to the floor. He pauses just long enough to get you comfortable, slipping your shirt under your knees. “You’re so close, baby. I’ve got you.”

And you are, the brief interruption no match for how aroused and good Evan is making you feel. You reach your peak with a cry and an undulation of your hips that he knows so well. He follows swiftly after, drawing your body so close you can barely breathe and you can feel deep inside you the swelling of his cock with each pulsing release.

As you come down from your high, you concentrate on the sound of the water rather than the ragged breaths of Evan against your ear. Your instincts say you should move, you should run, pretend this never happened, or maybe yell at him some more.

Then his hands are on your cheeks, turning your face to his and wiping away the water that runs into your eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice full of sincerity and concern.

His tone makes you really look at him. For the first time in months there is something in his voice of the Evan of old. You turn your body towards him and reach for him, not even aware that your hand is resting on the centre of his chest, right over the scarred symbol.

Evan's eyes drop to his chest. You wonder if you should move it, but as he raises his eyes, his hand covers yours and holds it close to his heart right above his new scar.

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction #rabbitsmilestone23 #henry cavill characters #evan marshall #evan marshall fanfiction #evan marshall fanfic #evan marshall x reader #blood creek #blood creek (2009)

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write-r-die · 10 months

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By Tomorrow - Part 13

Masterlist

A/N: Here we go, another chapter! I have the climax and ending of this story all planned out, I just need to figure out how to get there. Don't worry though, this isn't ending any time soon. Thank you all for reading!

Henry was relieved that made it back to the cottage before Sybil did. He wasn’t sure what he would say to her yet, and he would need the headstart preparing the bath for her. It was important to him that he do this for her and do it properly.

Henry had just finished when Sybil swung the door open and yelped in surprise, clutching a hand to her chest. “Oh. Forgive me. I did not think you would be here.” She struggled to regain her breath, her hand still pressed against her chest as if to keep her heart from pounding too hard.

“Does that disappoint you?”

“What? No, of course not. This is your house as much as mine – more so, actually, considering you’re part of the clan by birth. I simply wasn’t expecting you. Expecting you here and, I mean. I thought everyone would be gone at least one night hunting that stag, and you know how easily I get surprised.” Sybil finally ran out of words and concentrated on gnawing the dry skin from her lips and looking anywhere but at her husband. Surely there was more she could say to fill this awful silence.

She’d only come back to retrieve a piece of embroidery she wanted to show to Catherine, but Henry was now directly standing between her and it and she had no clue how she was to get around him, grab the garment, and slip back outside. So she lied.

“You know, I’ve quite forgotten what I came in here for, and you’re clearly preparing for a bath. I’m terribly sorry for interrupting. I’ll go back up to the keep so you –”

Henry said, “I thought we made progress. Getting accustomed to one another. To your life here. Has that been undone now?”

The air seemed to go out of her. “No,” she said unconvincingly. A moment later she added, “It’s something else to get accustomed to.”

It was his turn to eye her. Something was wrong – something more than their disastrous coupling – but he couldn’t guess what it was. “Is something else the matter?”

“No,” she said again.

Henry shut his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to cast off his frustration. “I can’t fix what troubles you unless you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

It took everything in Henry’s power not to slam his head against the wall. “Come closer, then, if nothing is wrong.”

She took a single step in his direction.

For the love of God.

He took another deep breath. “Please come here.”

There. He said it. He said please. And he’d apologized to her after bedding her, too. He could feel his masculinity slipping through his fingers.

He took yet another deep breath and softened his face as she stepped up to him; he meant to set her at ease, not add to her troubles. Then he wordlessly held out the lavender sprigs.

Sybil carefully took them from him.

“Lavender?” she asked softly, staring down at his gift. She hardly noticed that she’d begun crying.

Henry nodded once, keeping his gaze on the dried flowers in her hands because he was too uncomfortable to meet her teary eyes.

“Thank you,” she managed, sniffling. “This is very kind.” She was surprised that he remembered her ever even mentioning lavender, and the fact that he’d actually gone out and gotten her some –

“If you don’t stop crying I’ll toss them in the fire.”

She smiled, her gaze still focused on the blooms; Henry’s throat constricted. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands and grinned up at him. “I will stop crying then.”

This was his apology for hurting her, for making her rush into something she clearly was not ready for, and it was the kindest apology she could have asked for. She had the urge to kiss him as she did whenever she wanted to thank him for something without words. But could she still do that?

He must have seen the trouble in her eyes. His voice was whisper-soft when he spoke. “The bath is for you, too. You alone, I mean. I don’t want you to think I expect anything after what we did. It will be as before: We will do only as much as you’re comfortable with.”

He remained perfectly still as she rocked up on the balls over her feet to kiss his stubble-roughened cheek, and continued to remain still even after she returned to her feet.

She did not have to thank him aloud.

***

Henry took a seat outside the cottage near one of the windows to give Sybil privacy as she bathed. The linen curtain over it was drawn closed of course but he could hear her shuffling about.

She hadn’t mentioned that she was supposed to spend the night with Catherine; honestly, she’d forgotten.

Henry leaned his head back against the wooden wall and had started to doze off when there was a yelp from within.

“Sybil?” Henry called.

She gasped in surprise, slapping her arms over her chest to shield herself despite the fact that she had no idea where his voice was coming from. “Henry?”

“I’m outside by the window,” he explained. “I heard you make a noise; are you all right?”

“Oh. Oh yes I’m fine. I stubbed my toe on the edge of the bathtub.” Suspiciously, she added, “You can’t see me through the window covering can you?”

“I haven’t looked. I just heard you.”

“Right. Yes. Well. Thank you for asking. I’m perfectly all right though. Just clumsy.”

She climbed into the tub and settled herself in the water. She took a deep breath, savoring the smell of the lavender, and sighed contentedly.

“Are you still out there?” she asked after a moment.

“I can go elsewhere if you like,” he replied. “Leave you to yourself.”

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary – unless you would like some time to yourself, that is.”

She could almost hear him shrug. “I’m comfortable where I am.”

“Oh, yes, well, it is a lovely day after all. I’m sure Finn will be out with the horses until sunset. I think his father is with him – I hope so, at least. I know he’s the best rider in the clan, but Finn still worries me a bit. I saw him stand up on the back of a horse last week and I nearly fell over! You don’t do that, do you?”

He nearly smiled at her babbling. At least she was back to acting normally around him. “No, nott since I was very young.”

Sybil was uncharacteristically quiet for a long moment.

“Henry?”

He grunted loudly to be sure she could hear him and know that he was listening.

“When you were young . . . who cared for you?” She wasn’t afraid that he would get angry with her for asking these questions; she just didn’t want to push him to discuss something he didn’t want to, especially when he was being so kind.

“Many people,” he said after a moment.

Arran’s wife, Clara, had adopted a somewhat maternal role. Her first child died a few months before Henry was born, and caring for her nephew was both a heartbreak and a comfort. It was many years before she had another child, but she was blessed with three at once. Any other woman giving birth to three children at once would likely have died, but she was delivered safely by the grace of God.

Her interest in Henry quickly waned once she had sons of her own to attend to. Henry remembered overhearing Clara’s arguments with Arran about his care. Husband and wife were not overly fond of each other in the best of times, and Clara’s rejection of Henry, whom Arran regarded as his son, only drove them further apart.

Clara was tending to her ailing father in the lowlands now, and likely would be for some time. Her brother, a fool by all accounts, would need her help when he eventually took over the clan – assuming their uncle, the dying laird’s younger brother, was not chosen to lead instead.

Clara would stay with her family for as long as she could either way. She was happiest living separately from Arran. He was too good of a man to admit it, but he was relieved she was gone, too.

“Uncle Arran was very interested in my upbringing,” Henry continued. “Uncle Patrick, too, but he was more easily distracted.” There was a long pause. “My grandfather died shortly after my mother. Arran took on the responsibilities of laird, but he still spent an hour with me every day. So I’ve been told.”

Every day, despite the fact that Henry would not have known or cared at that age. Despite Arran’s avalanche of responsibilities, despite his wife’s resentment.

Sybil cleared her throat. Henry’s voice was too low, too thoughtful. She didn’t want him to get trapped in his thoughts. “I like Arran very much,” she said brightly. “He lets me talk for as long as I want.”

A wide smile broke on Henry’s face. “Is that your only criteria for liking someone?”

“Certainly the most important, but not the only one, no.”

“What are the other requirements, then?” he asked, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “I want to be sure I meet all of them.”

“That’s not necessary,” she said. “I already like you.”

It was silent for a moment. Sybil cursed herself for saying something so embarrassing, so stupid; Henry felt as if a weight had been lifted from him. She still liked him, even after their awful coupling.

He would never admit it to himself, but he wanted her to do more than just like him; this was at least a start.

He frowned in thought and asked, “Do you like many people?”

Sybil was unfailingly friendly, but she seemed to have dealt with more than her fair share of unpleasant people in life.

“I don’t like everyone but I don’t dislike anybody, either,” she said. “Except for Elizabeth and Lillian,” she amended. “They’re twins. And I’m not overly fond of Joan, either. Actually, I don’t particularly like any of my sisters now that I think about it, though I haven’t seen Madeleine and Demelza since they were sent to live at the convent years ago, so I can’t be sure if I would like them now but I think I would not. Does that make me an awful person, Henry?”

Henry wracked his brain for what she’d told him about her family but there was so much information she’d dumped on him and so many siblings to keep track of. She had . . . Six sisters? Seven? How was he ever to remember all their names?

“No, I don’t think so,” he replied. “Sisters are difficult, I think.” He wasn’t basing that statement on anything, as the only girl in his family, Catherine, was the best sister to Finn that anyone could possibly be. “What about your brothers?”

She had seven or eight of those, if his math was right. He’d never be able to remember all of their names, either.

“I don’t mind them, more or less. I liked Garrett very much. Royston and Gilard are at terrible ages where all they want to do is wrestle and shout at each other and make the younger girls cry but I hope they’ll outgrow it.” She stopped to breathe. “Your cousins must have been a handful around their age, especially since they’re triplets, but they all seem to have fine heads on their shoulders now. I must get to know them better. Alistair is very quiet and William doesn’t speak English, but I actually think I know Hamish fairly well. I must better acquaint myself with your friends, too.”

“You must?” he repeated dubiously.

“Well I should, shouldn’t I? They’re important to you. The whole clan is. And everyone seems to think that you’ll be laird one day which means I will be lady, and a lady ought to know her people.” She received only silence in response; it unnerved her. “Have I said something wrong?”

Was she being too presumptuous about the laird-and-lady things? Did he not want her getting closer to other people – men, in particular – the way her father did not want his wife or mistresses to?

“No,” Henry finally said. “I’m only thinking.”

She swallowed hard. “What are you thinking about?”

You, he thought. But he didn’t say it aloud.

“You’ve told me about your brothers and sisters,” he said, “what about your parents?”

“Oh. Well my mother seemed very tired all the time.” Sybil’s father said she was naturally weak, and the midwives were surprised she didn’t die in childbirth. “But after Samuel was born she caught a fever and did not recover.

“I like my stepmother though, I think. She doesn’t much like spending time with us children, even the older ones. I think she still misses her first husband, the twins’ natural father.”

It was both very romantic and very sad. Sybil knew she was naive for wanting that same sort of endless love that not even death could blunt, but it meant she would be in pain when it inevitably ended, leaving either her or her partner heartbroken.

“And what about your father?” Henry finally asked.

“What about him?”

Henry was surprised by her tone. It wasn’t rude or sharp, exactly, but it wasn’t as pleasant as usual.

Sybil shivered, her teeth chattering slightly. “Thank you for the bath, Henry. I appreciate it very much – I don’t want you to think that I don’t – but I’m quite cold now and I would like to get out but I don’t want to injure your feelings by doing so.”

“You won’t injure my feelings,” Henry assured her. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“You may come in now,” Sybil said a few minutes later. “I’m decent.”

She was wearing one of her English gowns when he came in, not the plaids that the other clan members wore. “The plaids you gave me are in poor condition at the moment,” she explained, “and these gowns are easier to put on. I needn’t worry about getting the pleats right.”

She smelled lovely and inviting. Her cheeks were pink, her wet hair unbound. She had a blanket pulled around her shoulders like she’d just woken from a nap.

“The bath is still a bit warm,” she said. “I just get cold very easily. Which you already knew. And it seems cruel to make you bathe in freezing water after going to all the trouble of drawing a warm bath for me.” Usually an entire family would bathe in the same water, one after the other, since lugging and heating and filling a tub with water was such an arduous task.

Henry just nodded. He took a step toward the tub.

“I can wait outside like you did,” Sybil said quickly. “Or go up to the keep. Give you your privacy.”

“You don’t need to leave,” Henry said slowly. “I would like it if you would stay and talk with me more.”

Her breaths were shorter now, her lips parted slightly as if to make an excuse. She was afraid to be alone with him while he was undressed. And considering what happened last time she was with a man while he bathed . . .

“I . . .” Her throat was closing fast.

“You’re free to go if you want. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable,” Henry said. “But I would also be happy if you stayed.” He added, “I told you, I don’t expect anything from you.” He was going to court her properly, he’d decided. He would earn his place beside her in bed.

She was still quiet.

He took a deep breath. “Sybil, it doesn’t have to be any time soon, but . . . I would like another chance to take you to bed. To show you what it should be between us. How it will be.”

She didn’t say anything for a long time. She kept her eyes on his chest, not daring to meet his gaze.

“Will you say something?”

“Not anytime soon . . .” she repeated to herself. “Henry, it still frightens me. I think it will for some time. But if you say it will be better, then I believe you.”

And then he broke another one of his rules, because he didn’t know how else to express how much he valued her trust. “Thank you.”

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