Fisher's Light(9)

His hot breath against the back of my neck is something I’ve dreamt about for sixteen months, something as familiar to me as my own reflection. Fisher feels the same and smells the same, but nothing about what is happening right now is anything like him. He’s different every time he comes back from the war, but this is like nothing he’s ever done before. He always talks to me when he gets home, says my name over and over, tells me how much he loves me and how much he missed me. He holds me and touches me lovingly and I always feel cherished. This time, I feel wanted. I feel craved and I feel needed. He’s taking me like an animal and I want more. I want it harder, I want it faster, I want to know without a shadow of a doubt that he’s been dreaming about this, dreaming about me while he’s been gone and needing me as much as I need him.

I arch my back and tilt my hips to meet each of his thrusts and pull him in deeper. I remove one of my hands from the wall and push it between my legs, sliding my fingers around where we’re joined and bringing the wetness up to circle around my clit. Bracing my feet against the floor so I don’t fall to the ground with the force of him f*cking me, I rub my clit with the tips of my fingers. I want to moan and scream at how good it feels, but my breath gets caught in my throat each time he slams into me. I wish I could turn around and see him. He must look like a wild beast rutting against me, and as crude as that sounds, that knowledge makes my sex throb and causes my orgasm to explode out of me in a rush of heat and pleasure. I come against my fingers with my face pressed against the wall while Fisher f*cks the hell out of me. It’s not even f*cking at this point, it’s taking. He’s taking me, he’s owning me and he’s punishing me with his body and his cock. I want the punishment. I want the pain. I want to hurt for all the months I forced myself to shut down and turn off my emotions so I wouldn’t go crazy with worry for him. I want to wake up tomorrow with pain between my thighs reminding me with every step I take that he kept his promise and he found his way back to me.

He’s unrelenting as he f*cks me, never slowing down, never easing up. He’s racing to the finish line and I can feel the sweat dripping down his face and onto my shoulder. He slams into me roughly one last time before holding himself still while he comes inside of me.



We’ve barely spoken two words to each other in a month. I look at my husband across the dinner table and I feel like I’m looking at a stranger. This is my husband, my love, my Fisher. He’s the man who leaves me every once in a while, but always, always comes home to me. He loves me, he takes care of me and he does everything in his power to make me smile.

Except lately.

The last four weeks have been filled with one-word answers and grunts when I ask him a question. We’ve haven’t had sex since that night in the kitchen and every time I’ve tried to touch him, he gets up and leaves the room. I feel like I did something wrong, but I have no idea what it could be. I need to hear his voice, I need to know he’s still the same man who named all of my freckles, even though I hated it, and sings Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds in a loud, off key voice whenever he says my name. I won’t pretend to know what kind of demons he’s trying to chase away, and I won’t pretend to understand what’s going on in his mind. All I can do is let him know that I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

I don’t say anything when I see him grab a beer from the fridge or pour a glass of whiskey from the cabinet above the dishes. It’s been happening more frequently during the day, but who am I to say something to him about it? He goes off to war, fights for our country and then he comes home to me and works his ass off around the inn. I can’t pick a fight with him just to get a reaction out of him, even though I want to. I want to see something spark behind his eyes instead of the cold, dead stare he seems to always have lately. I want to smack him across the face, push him so hard in the chest he stumbles. Something, ANYTHING to get some kind of emotion out of him. I want the man back who took me in the kitchen the night he came home. The man who needed me so much he couldn’t even say one word before he buried himself inside of me.

His nightmares have been getting worse lately. Almost every night, he wakes up covered in sweat and screaming. He’s always had bad dreams when he gets home from a tour and he’s always let me hold him, run my hands through his hair and do whatever I could to calm him until he was able to go back to sleep, telling me I was the only thing that could make it all go away. Now, he jumps out of bed and goes to the spare bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind him. I’ve never felt so alone, even when he was halfway across the world. I’m living in this house with my husband and I get to see him every day, but it feels like I’m living with a ghost. He’s been honorably discharged due to permanent nerve damage from some shrapnel he took to the shoulder during this last deployment, an injury I didn’t find out about until after he came home. I’ll never forget the fear that clawed at my throat seeing those scars on his back, realizing how very close I’d come to losing him. Even then, when I’d broken down in tears and raged at my husband for refusing to allow his commanding officer to contact me when he’d been injured, Fisher showed absolutely no reaction. The man who couldn’t stand to see me cry was totally and completely blank, walking calmly out of our home as I sobbed.