Going Through It

you didn't share many mutual friends by then, and nobody that would feel comfortable passing a message along from john to you. everyone knew the minefield that lay between the two of you; no one was going to navigate that to relay a message past enemy lines unless they lacked some common sense.

fortune has it, john runs into one such friend that's always been a bit of a gossip. he remembers you griping how you could never share anything personal with them, as it'd inevitably find itself right in the hands of the person who shouldn't be told.

he relies on this still being the case.

no, please. don't tell her. i wouldn't want her to put her in an uncomfortable position. she's been through enough because of me, y'know? just glad to know she's doin' well. thanks. cheers, mate. good runnin' into you, too.

—

two weeks. an email from a different email address, one he's never seen you before.

» sorry to hear about the diagnosis. hope you take care of yourself, john.

he imagines your voice bitter like parentheses between the words: (but i begged you to stop smoking for years and you hated me for it) (hope you regret ever turning it into a fight) (i was right all along)

when he's alone in the house, he likes to remember how your voice sounded in each room. snappy and sour when he'd piss you off. low and jagged when he'd get you under him.

takes him a bit to decide what to reply, unsure if it'll go through.

» just a matter of time like you always said. thought you should know you're still the beneficiary. never got around to changing the paperwork after all was said and done.

eventually:

» please remove my name. you had informed me you were going to be transferring it to the new one.

» realized too late that whatever's left of me should go to the one who got the worst of me.

—

he knows he has you when you eventually switch over to text. you reply infrequently, but it's a step closer.

» is someone bringing you food?

» don't worry about that. you've done plenty of that already. delivery is just as easy.

» john

» promise you (sweetheart, he almost adds), i'm up for it. no trouble at all.

three days later, you're on his doorstep with homemade freezer meals and meds for nausea. your hair is now lit up with kinked grey hairs and your face is softer than before, rounded by the years since he last saw you. your eyes haven't changed one bit — bright and hard like a bird's — and it gives his stomach that familiar jolt when they pass over him.

you look like shit, john.

when you stand in the sun-sweet kitchen that used to be your domain, your seat of power, his prick gets hard. it's just right, seeing you there like that, lit up and glowing.

what happened to your mates? they don't take care of you now that you're not their boss?

he protests, defensive, but you ignore him and walk around, eyeing the spices he keeps on hand for himself. check what's in the fridge, make a sound of disgust, clip it shut.

pathetic.

he pushes back. it's just me and my appetite's not what it was. can't be arsed to do much more, darlin.

you leave after he says that, silent and queenly.

—

his appetite improves when you bring over home-cooked meals. depending on the day, you might dine together in the kitchen like the old days, or he'd take supper in bed while you washed up.

he begins to listen to you; first time for everything.

when you chuck out his cigars, he smiles fondly at you. you tell him to get some sleep and he does. you tell him to rest and he does. you encourage going for walks and he asks if you'll accompany him. he doesn't go into his office, leaves that room shut for once. he'll sit at the kitchen table, or the nearby living room armchair, and chat about your day while you putter around the kitchen, seeking things to fix and organize and reorder.

in crumbs, he learns that your new marriage isn't a happy one, that you've been discussing divorce. you don't want to be divorced a second time, but at least there are no kids involved again. besides, you're looking forward to retiring in a few years, single and free to travel as you like. you're making the best of it; always have.

it takes you weeks until you sit down while he's got the tv on. weeks longer for you to sit beside him like you used to, your feet kicked out onto his lap. his hands are still strong, knowing your heel is your soft spot, loosens nearly your entire body when he grips it tight. still gets a moan out of you after all these years.

—

the sex is tender and strangely slow and a bit teary. you treat him like he's fragile and he hates that. but it's proper lovemaking, like married couples do, so he'll take it. take anything.

happy to make you feel good again, whatever it takes.

willing to wring himself dry to get you back.

—

you don't come with him to his appointments; he's old-fashioned, man prefers a bit of privacy to discuss things with his doctor. you have loads of questions, but back off when he's just happy to sit with you without having to think about it at all.

don't like it mucking up a nice day. aren't we havin a nice day, sweet'eart?

you make him feel better by telling him he still looks healthy as a horse.

wouldn't know you're sick at all, honey.

—

takes you longer than it should; canny woman you are.

—

simon and kyle and johnny come by in a cluster to visit a few months later. you'd emailed them and said john'd be up for company.

arriving to the house and noticing right away that your stuff's been moved back in. a woman's touch, pressed back into place over the house that john built.

you kiss their cheeks and welcome them in; been years since you've seen them. johnny and kyle are subdued, but happy to see their old captain in such good hands. privately relieved that the latest ex-wife tossed herself to the side; she'd never have had the mettle to endure a situation like this, like you have.

simon watches you quietly, always. eyes slowly moving from you at john's bedside to john laid up in bed, a fond smile fixed on your face.

he's having a good day today.

it's polite, is what it is, because their former captain looks like dog shit: flat glazed eyes, pale mouth, and a smaller body under his blankets. makes simon look away, anywhere, out the window.

johnny and kyle've always been good about keeping spirits up. they chat and update the captain on the goings-on, nothing that'll get him goin' but enough to keep him fed on old business.

he starts to flag and you stand up, patting his hand. the lads stand in unison and march downstairs.

at the door, thank you so much for coming by. you don't know how much this means to him.

—

upstairs in your shared bedroom, you crawl into bed with john. take his hand in yours again, feeling its warmth and a trace of its former strength.

that was nice, huh. sweet of them to come by.

he squeezes your hand and turns his head to stare at you, eyes flitting from the smile on your lips to the bright sharp look in your eye.

tired, huh?

you plant a soft, affectionate kiss on his dry mouth. you look at him with the most loving expression, an echo of a time long passed.

ready for your medicine? i made some stew to go with it.

his hand squeezes yours.

aren't you so sweet for me now.

-

“Those pants of yours make that ass pop.”

“Bloody hips on ya, fucking sinful.”

“You look bloody breedable right now love.”

You hate it. Obviously. Who wouldn’t? Despite the way your cheeks flush and body betrays your mind. You would’ve filed a complaint by now if it really bothered you.

You’re ovulating.. and avoiding him tonight due to the way those stupid comments of his make your cunt weep. Tucked away safely in your quarters as you finish paperwork late at night. Finally finishing the last file and planning to leave it on Prices desk.

Though, when you knock and are allowed entry into the old shits office, you’re met with a sight that is permanently burned into your brain.

Price, sat at his desk, an old playboy spread out in front of him as he fists his cock lazily. Cocky smirk on his face as he takes in your wide eyes.

“You gonna finally put that mouth of yours to work or just stare all night?”

“Playboy? Seriously? You know the internet exists, right? Christ, you are old.”

“f’course I do, doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy print.”

He looks over your whole body in a way that makes you squirm and heat pool between your legs. You toss the files on his desk and leave before you do something you’d regret in the morning.

You avoid him the next morning until he corners you in the mess hall at the coffee pot.

“Somethin botherin you, love?”

“No? Why would you say that?”

“You’ve been looking anywhere but me all morning. When all you should look at is me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm. Daft brain of yours too occupied on what you saw last night?”

“What? No—“

“You’ve gone red, love.”

“Shut up. You- are impossible.”

“Because I’ve got a stack of skin mags older than you? Thought you youngsters were hard to embarrass.”

“I wasn’t embarrassed.. just, surprised.”

“By what, exactly?”

“That you use them.”

“Nothing wrong with appreciating a woman’s beauty. Like yours for example.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“I prefer the term old fashioned.”

“Right. Thats one word for it.”

“And yet, you havent walked away.”

Which is how you’ve ended up here.

Folded in half until your knees hit your chest and your ankles rest on his shoulders, being split in half by his cock. Poor cunt weeping at the harsh pace he’s set.

Embarrassed by the way you clench over the cocky things he growls in your ear as he ruins your cunt for anyone else.

“Bloody perfect cunt.. made to be filled.”

“That’s it.. whine for me.. goood girll.”

“Gonna breed this cunt proper.. you’ll look best swollen with my kids.”

You’re fucked dumb already, mind too hazy to deny his words because they make your orgasm tip over the edge and crash over you like a tidal wave. Cunt clenching around his cock as his pace stutters and he buried himself deep, pumping load after load into you.

Cocky bastard pulls out but keeps your legs up to keep his cum inside.

“Making sure it takes, love.”

You were pinching the bridge of your nose, too tired to deal with this nonsense. Of course, Mike Webster had to come to you with notes, again, in the middle of the practice, and of course, your discussion got heated again. When it started, you felt quite embarrassed in front of other parents, and maybe even a little intimidated.

Mike towered over you, both with his frame and his experience, and you weren’t actually a real soccer coach either; you were just there to make sure a bunch of six-year-olds were having fun and not hurting themselves during the warm-up, and sometimes when they played as well. You were great with kids, and they loved you as much as you loved them, this particular group especially, but the parents… And especially Mike, started to make it hard for you to come to your second job with the enthusiasm you knew the kids needed.

“Off the field, Mike,” you looked him right into his deep blue eyes, his glasses glued to his forehead. “Now!” you shouted, noticing his hesitation, but not before you grabbed that paper with notes off him.

Turning away, you spotted a tiny bundle of equally blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair staring at you.

“Webster junior,” you sighed, “not you too?”

“Nah,” Tommy responded in an adorably serious tone. “But you know he likes you?”

“Oh, no, baby, he really doesn’t,” you couldn’t help but chuckle, resetting his laces. 

“No, no,” his sweet voice interrupted you before you could even offer an explanation, “he talks about you all the time. In a normal voice,” Tommy whispered, nodding the whole time.

You were literally speechless, but sure as hell wouldn’t be explaining to the little lad how much his dad despised you and your practices and your way of teaching, which he made sure to let you know immediately after practice.

“You’re babying him, you’re babying them all! They can lace up their cleats! You are too gentle, too nice!” Mike followed you around the parking lot after handing over Tommy to his mother. Although they had split custody, Mike insisted on attending all practices and all games, so much so that just a sight of him would make your head throb in most unpleasant ways.

“They are kids, Mike. I just warm them up, run a couple of drills, and help with the games. I am not doing any of the strategy, don’t teach them any of the techniques, and yet, you won’t get off my back!” you hoped your little outburst would finally make him see how ridiculous he was being, constantly bothering you but not raising the same hell with other coaches. 

“Because you’re too soft! You need to drill them harder, meaner!” Mike waved his arms around, a red flush creeping up his neck, his stupid baby bangs sweatily glued to his forehead. “Maybe your son needs softness, Mike, ever think of that?!” It was too far and too mean, and you knew it, but it just slipped. Your head was throbbing already, that disgusting pulsating pain spreading towards your eye, and you just wanted to get your meds and get home.

“Don’t you dare tell me what my son does and doesn’t need,” his voice dropped dangerously low, something dark rising in his glance.

“I’m not, Mike! I’m just trying to get you to shut the fuck up!” your voice broke under the exhaustion and the pain, and you could feel the stream of hot tears rolling down your flushed cheeks. “For months now you pick on me, and for what? Train them yourself then, Mike, because I can’t anymore, okay?” you scrambled to open your pillbox, but your hands were trembling too hard, and you couldn’t quite grip it.

Mike didn’t say anything, just stepped closer and calmly opened it for you, swallowing hard. He had no idea of the hurt he had caused you, staring at you, completely dumbfounded. He was just trying to help. Surely you must understand that?

But as he watched you struggle to swallow a couple of sips of water, your whole body a shivering mess, Mike realised he had let his temper get the best of him.

He felt his heart speed up, a terrifying realisation spreading through him: you despised him. You truly, deeply despised him. Mike never dated after a divorce, never even liked someone enough to look their way twice, until he saw you smiling in the field, surrounded by two dozen five-year-olds who were excitedly kicking the ball and trying to pass it to each other. 

And now you were crying in front of him. Because of him. 

“Wait,” he muttered, the sound of you opening your car boot bringing him back to reality. 

“Just leave me alone, Mike!” you cried out, slamming the door and driving away.

Mike had no idea how long he had been standing there, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He couldn’t sleep that night, constantly replaying the events of the evening. 

He wanted you badly, and he managed to colossally fuck it all up. Mike knew, somewhere deep down, that he didn’t really have a chance with you. You were younger, and although perhaps not controversially so, you still had so much more to experience in life instead of being dragged down by a grumpy old man. Still, being the sole cause of your tears was eating away at him.

If he could, Mike would do it differently; he wouldn’t be yelling, and he wouldn’t interrupt your practice. And even if we were, he’d console you afterwards. He’d apologise and hug you, hold you close, tight. 

Right. Apologise. Easy enough thing to do, right?

Well, you didn’t show up for any of the practices that week, other coaches excusing your absences, telling Mike you were sick. He grew restless, anxious.

So when he lingered in the parking lot after practice one time to take a call and saw you, all smiles and in a good mood, not fucking sick at all, he knew. 

It wasn’t that you were laughing at a probably lame joke said by that other coach, a fucking moron, and it wasn’t even how you stopped dead in your tracks when you saw Mike staring at you. No, it was the realisation you were avoiding him, and avoiding him made you feel happy.

“What do you want?” you dragged yourself to him, watching as Mike’s eyes went wide, that famous flush creeping up his neck again. 

Except he looked so defeated, leaning against his car, his hands behind his back.

“I thought you were sick,” he mumbled, avoiding looking at you. He knew he wouldn’t be able to take it, that newly disconnected, bored gaze you were sporting. 

Sick of you, you thought, but bit your tongue.

“Mhm,” you muttered instead, your eyes burning a metaphorical hole in his forehead. 

Mike was aware that this was his last chance, but his mind was blank. He watched you roll your eyes and let out an annoyed groan before turning away from him.

“Please come back,” he blurted out, like a schoolboy with his first crush.

You turned around, shocked. You opened your mouth, then promptly closed it again.

“For my son,” Mike added in a panic. “He keeps asking about you all the time. Look,” he reached for something in the car, rummaging through his glove compartment. He quickly pushed a piece of paper into your hand, a handmade “get better soon” card, with a drawing of you and Tommy holding hands; Mike was drawn with angry eyebrows in the background, holding a ball.

You nodded, drowning a sniffle.

—

“Miss Coach, Miss Coach,” Tommy’s excited voice carried all the way to you just as the practice was ending, “can you please come to my birthday party this Saturday?” He gave you a tiny invite card adorned with a bunch of footballs, smiling ear to ear.

“Dad says it’s okay! Mum too! My little sister will be there as well!”

You looked at Mike, who curtly nodded, then continued to stare at his phone.

“I’d love to come, honey,” you smiled back at Tommy, watching him beam as he hugged you.

Saturday couldn’t come fast enough for Mike. He changed his shirt three times and control-freaked around even after kids and their parents arrived. He wanted Tommy to have the best time, but he also wanted to impress you, despite you not really confirming you’d come. Surely, you wouldn’t think he used Tommy as a ploy? It wasn’t even his idea; he only said yes after Tommy already convinced his ex-wife to agree as well.

And then he saw you, in a lovely pastel yellow sundress, already standing in his garden, sipping some pink lemonade. You smiled at him, a polite smile but a smile nonetheless, and Mike felt that hot flush creeping up his neck again.

He stared for a beat too long, taking in your figure, mesmerised. 

You stayed after, helped him tidy up a bit. Although the birthday party was held at his house, he didn’t have Tommy for the weekend, who went home with his adorable little sister, carrying her little plush llama around when she’d drop it.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” Mike mumbled, pouring you another glass of Sauvignon Blanc; you refused the red because it was giving you migraines. 

“It’s no bother,” you replied, flashing another faint smile, leaning on the kitchen island opposite him. He looked nice, you thought, in dark slacks and a tight, unbuttoned polo. It was nice seeing him in something other than football kits and exercise clothes, and you had to bite your lips to remind yourself not to ogle.

Mike had no idea how to act, feeling guilty that you were treating him so nicely. He wanted to kiss you so badly, splay his hands around your waist, and pull you close, play with your hair and bury his face in the crook of your neck. So instead, he swallowed and looked away again.

“Do you want to watch something?” he finally asked, feeling the tips of his ears burning.

He felt stupid the moment he said it, wondering what you were thinking of his clumsiness.

“I’d love to, but it’s already quite late,” you replied somewhat disappointedly.

Mike perked up.

“You can stay the night, it’s not an issue,” he blurted out again, suddenly realising how it sounded.

“Oh, is that how it’s gonna be?” you teased back, chuckling, sipping some more wine.

“No, no, no, I just meant,” Mike swallowed hard again, clenching his jaw, “that, that if you want to watch something, we could, and obviously, I have a guest room and a guest bathroom too, completely virginal as well…” he trailed off, staring off into nothing, his whole face a shade of a strawberry. He took a deep breath, glancing at your amused face, ignoring your continued chuckle.

“What I meant, is that I have a guest room that has never been used before, and that you’re welcome to it. Yeah.”

“How much did you have to drink, exactly?” you couldn’t help but tease him some more.

“I wish I could use that excuse,” Mike forced a laugh, “but this is only my second glass.”

“No worries Mike, I was just pulling your leg. You’re being awfully nice, but I know how you really feel about me. Thanks for trying, though,” you flashed that smile again, bigger than before, and Mike could swear he felt lightheaded.

And then you closed the distance, pressing a quick peck to his cheek.

“Goodnight, Mike. See you Monday.”

He walked you to the door, just nodding along. Your lip gloss left a little of a sticky residue on his skin, and Mike wanted to taste it, to taste you.

“You should open the door now,” you laughed out after a couple of moments of you and Mike just standing there.

“No,” Mike said slowly.

“No?”

“No, you don’t know how I really feel about you.”

“Okay? So you hate me more than I thought?” you tried to play it off, but your face noticeably dropped. You hoped that your coming here would help straighten your relationship out, not to something friendly, but at least tolerable, and Mike telling you off so seriously made you feel so sad. More sad than you would ever admit to anyone but yourself.

“I don’t hate you.” You rolled your eyes now, irritated to the bone. You had a crush on Mike once, or Tommy’s handsome father, as you called him, which went away as quickly as the first time he yelled at you. Sure, he was hot when he yelled, and you were entertained for the first two or three times, but when it continued, you pushed that attraction somewhere deep and locked it away. 

Mike closed the distance this time, gently stepping into you, his lips finding yours with a striker’s precision.

He slid his hands around your waist, pulling you into him, tasting the cherry of your lip gloss. The kiss was exploratory, gauging, so when Mike pulled back a little, you followed that little string of spit between you two, leaning in, he finally exhaled the breath he was holding in for the whole day.

The second kiss was much more passionate, Mike’s hand finding your neck, his long fingers gently coiling around it as he pressed his lips harder, nudging you to open your mouth, his tongue slowly exploring around yours. 

You could feel butterflies in your stomach spreading through your whole body, your hands finding their way to Mike’s buffed chest, sliding upwards to his neck and further, tangling in his hair. His kiss was deliciously sloppy, and you pressed yourself against Mike, feeling how hard he was already.

It drove him wild in an instant, his head dropping to your neck to press a hot, wet kiss there, sending heat directly to your pussy. Mike had to control himself not to start fucking moaning, tasting your skin, his fingers playing with the bow of your shoulder strap, the other hand sliding to the curve of your ass. 

A tiny moan escaped your lips, and Mike grabbed your ass with both hands, picking you up with ease; you wrapped your legs around his waist, a new wave of heat and want spreading through you.

“Fuck me,” he murmured, carrying you towards the couch.

“That’s the general idea,” you kept kissing him, licking his neck, pulling off his shirt when he finally sat down, you perched on top of his lap.

Mike didn’t respond, completely lost in you and your kisses and your scent; he untied both of your straps, pulling your dress down, burying his head between your tits, his huge hands playing with them, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucked on the other one, drawing another long moan out of you.

You rolled your hips, feeling his hard cock through the fabric, watching as his whole body tensed up in anticipation. You were so wet and so horny, unzipping his pants and pushing your hand inside, feeling his fat cockhead under your thumb, leaking and red. Mike unzipped your dress, clumsily pulling it over your head, immediately regretting the loss of your touch, even if it was only for a couple of seconds. 

You got up to help him get the rest of his clothes off, but Mike knelt in front of you, slowly pulling down your panties. He kissed you just above your clit, and then licked a long strip between your folds.

“Fuck, Mike,” you moaned, trying to hold steady by tangling your hands in his hair, pulling a bit hard.

Mike continued, licking and sucking, introducing a teasing finger that only rubbed at your opening as he sucked at your clit, his tongue flicking across it, sending more jolts of pleasure through you. You couldn’t stop your moans anymore, your hips rolling at his mouth, Mike’s fingers slowly pushing their way into your wet, aroused pussy.

You pulled harder on his hair, and Mike chuckled against your skin, his hot breath sending more pleasure through you. You were close, desperately so, to come on Mike’s tongue and fuck him already, feel his big cock spread you as you fuck yourself onto it.

The thought was enough to unravel you, your body shaking as Mike held you steady, still lapping at your clit. He looked up when you released his hair, licking at his lips and wiping his chin, greedily licking his fingers too. He sat back, guiding you to sit on top of him, lining up his cock, stroking it just a little.

Your mouth salivated at the sight of it, and you eagerly tried to take it all in in one move, but it was impossible, the stretch too big, too painful.

“Shhh, slow down baby,” Mike cooed, his hand on your waist, the other tangled in your hair just above your neck. He watched as your pussy impatiently took half of him, squeezing him, trying to drain him already, and kept sinking, trying to swallow his whole cock. “Breathe, baby,” he instructed just as you leaned your hands on his chest, arching your back in pleasure.

Mike couldn’t resist, sucking at your nipple again, mindful of the gush of wetness his tongue caused your pussy, and you finally sank down the whole way, feeling how hard his cock was, throbbing inside you.

Impatiently, you started rolling your hips, finally drawing loud, unrestrained moans out of Mike, whose hands immediately braced your hips, helping you fuck him. But it wasn’t enough, just sliding your pussy that way, no, you decided you really wanted to bounce on it, to feel the fatness and the length of it. 

“I can’t do this for long,” you moaned out, listening to the joint squelches and skin slaps your bodies produced, “but I don’t want it to stop.”

Tears of pleasure formed in the corners of your eyes as you clawed at Mike’s chest. 

Music to his ears, your words and your moans, and Mike gripped harder at your hips, meeting your movements, thrusting harder into your now still body, fucking your pussy in a way he had been imagining for the past year. 

“Please, Mike, don’t stop,” you spurred him on with those pretty words and even prettier moans, your head falling back.

“I can’t do this for long either,” Mike managed between his moans, already trying not to come for the past couple of minutes. He was gripping your hips with a bruising intensity, but you didn’t complain, and he really didn’t want to let go.

“Don’t,” you moaned, “just fill me up. Fill me up and then fuck me again, Mike. Please.”

Mike didn’t manage more than one more thrust before he did just that, spilt his hot cum deep inside your fluttering pussy, with a lot of groans and fucks spilling from his lips as well.

“Fuck you’re perfect,” he finally muttered, trying to catch his breath. “Fuck, baby.”

You laughed, giving him a long kiss, still tasting yourself on him. 

“So, about that movie…” you teased, drawing an honest laugh out of Mike, who playfully slapped your ass.

“I have a TV in my room, so…"

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