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jubealea · 6 days ago

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heavy, dirty soul

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ After a long mission, John is exhausted, bruised and distant. You take care of him. ✦ 3.7k words ✦ tags/cw: hurt, comfort, emotional intimacy, intimacy without sex, nsfw but no smut, nudity, injuries, showering together

He looks like hell.

Grimy, worn out, and the kind of tired that settles in a man’s bones and makes him older than he is. His shoulders hunch beneath the weight of his tac vest, stained from whatever hellhole he clawed his way back from. Dirt crusts the hem of his sleeves, and a dark smudge clings stubbornly to his jaw, half-hidden beneath the unkempt mess of his beard. His eyes – those deep, sharp blues – barely flicker when you step through the door.

You set the takeout down and say nothing.

The scent fills the office quickly: warm rice, spiced meat, a trace of soy and citrus curling up from the sauce. Something hearty. Something grounding. The kind of meal you knew he’d need after a mission like that. You’ve seen it before – how he gets afterward. How he forgets to eat, to breathe, to let go of the op and come back to himself.

The room is dimly lit, blinds half-shut to keep the afternoon sun from glaring off the tablet screens scattered across his desk. Papers are messily stacked, half of them likely reports left untouched. The takeout’s aroma gradually overtakes the faint smell of cigar smoke.

He sits across from you, staring at the food like it’s the first real thing he’s seen all day.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t even shift in his seat.

You pull the container open for him, the heat unfolding slowly. Your fingers brush against the flimsy plastic cutlery as you fish out the fork, which bends slightly in your grip as you spear a piece of chicken, dripping with sauce.

His gaze follows the motion, but his body stays slack and unmoving.

So you lean forward, holding the fork right to his face.

“Seriously?”

His voice is low and dry, scraped raw from disuse – or maybe too much yelling. There’s a rasp to it, the kind you’re used to hearing when he comes home after long briefings or training days that stretch well past what anyone else would consider reasonable.

His brow twitches, eyes flicking up to meet yours with something close to disbelief, though it’s dulled at the edges.

“Eat, John.”

It’s not a request.

He stares at you for another second, then exhales hard through his nose. A faint smile tugs briefly at the corner of his mouth, but it dies quickly as he leans in and takes the bite.

You hold the fork steady as his lips close around it. He chews slowly, jaw tense, like he doesn’t trust that the first real food he’s tasted in days will stay down. He swallows. Licks the corner of his mouth, where some of the sauce clings.

“Good?” You ask, softer this time.

He nods but doesn’t look up. Instead, he pulls the takeout container closer and starts eating like a starving animal, like his body just remembered it needed food to survive.

Something in the way he moves tells you he hasn’t eaten properly in days. Like feeding himself was too far down the list.

You move around the desk without a word, crouching beside him, hands already going to the buckles of his vest. He doesn’t stop you, just tilts his head slightly to give you better access.

You slide it off his shoulders, careful not to tug too hard where you know he’s probably sore. It slips free with a bit of resistance, then drops to the floor with a heavy thump.

Underneath, his shirt clings to him like a second skin: sweat-darkened, stretched too wide at the collar, the fabric worn thin in places. There’s a patch of blood on the sleeve – old, maybe his, maybe not. You don’t ask. You never do.

Your hands move to his shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the muscle there, working over the tight knots hidden beneath the surface. His body responds slowly, with a slight shift and a barely-there sigh, but his eyes close, and he leans into your touch with the kind of trust that always takes you by surprise – that quiet, unspoken surrender.

And somehow, that’s what nearly breaks your heart.

Not the blood. Not the bruises. Just that – how rarely he lets go, and how much it means when he does.

“That tough?” You ask, even though you already know the answer.

And the silence answers for him.

So do the little things – how his head dips forward slightly under your hands, his fingers curl into fists, and he breathes a little deeper with every slow pass of your palms over his shoulders.

This is routine. Nothing new.

You’ve done this countless times. Brought him food when you heard they were back on base, sat beside him in silence until the weight of it all began to slip off his shoulders, piece by piece. You don’t mind. Not for a second. Because he lets you see him like this. Because he trusts you with the aftermath.

And that means more than anything ever could.

Then his hand comes up slowly and covers yours where it rests on his shoulder. His thumb begins to rub slow, lazy circles into the back of your hand, and the movement is so gentle, so unlike the man you imagine he has to be out there. There’s no pressure, no urgency. Just a quiet ‘thank you’ – a wordless gesture of gratitude.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, your fingers trailing down the nape of his neck, massaging in slow, steady circles. The skin is warm, a little damp. His hair is ruffled from his hat, sticking up in odd places, flattened in others. You smooth it without thinking.

“Don’t remind me,” he murmurs back, and there’s no bite in it. Just exhaustion.

Your hands skim lower between his shoulder blades, thumbs pressing in, and you feel him unravel slowly, like a spring wound too tight, finally loosening.

You pause, resting at the hem of his shirt, toying with the edge. “John,” you say softly. “I’m serious. You need to get out of this. All of it. It’s disgusting.”

He hums low in his throat. “You volunteering?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you strip the shirt over his head and drop it to the floor, revealing the full expanse of his back.

You suck in a breath.

His skin is a patchwork of bruises, old and new. Faint yellow blooms along his ribs, a fresh violet welt at his side, a jagged scrape near his shoulder. There’s dried blood near the collarbone, a rough streak of grime trailing down his spine, and the smell of smoke still clings to his hair. You’ve seen him like this before – battered, filthy, freshly returned from god-knows-where – but somehow, each time still cuts a little deeper like a bruise under your own skin that never quite fades.

“I hate seeing you like this.”

He exhales hard, and it almost sounds like a low and shaky laugh. “S’not as bad as it looks.”

“You always say that,” you murmur, your palm brushing lightly over the discolored skin, dusting off some dirt. “You need to get this shit off you.”

“I’ll shower later.”

“No,” you say, firm but not harsh. “You need to shower now . There’s blood on you. You reek. You’re not just gonna sit in it.”

He stares at the takeout box, jaw tight, like he’s weighing whether to push back or let you win this one. You ease closer, fingertips brushing his forearm, voice dropping with it.

“I’ll come with you.”

That makes him glance up. Something loosens, not in surrender, but in trust. That’s what this has always been with him. Not letting go because he’s weak, but letting you in because you’re the only person he lets see past the grit.

He nods, barely more than a breath of movement. But it’s enough.

You don’t say another word as you reach for his hand, and he takes it without hesitation. The trip down the hall is silent, his steps just slightly heavier than yours.

Inside the single-use washroom, he stops just inside the door while you lock it behind you. His shoulders slump in that particular way he only lets happen when no one else is watching, like the last thread holding him upright has finally snapped.

You step toward him, hands going to his belt. You make quick work of it – there’s no seduction here, not meant to be – just the firm, practiced touch of someone who’s done this before, who knows he’s hurting and wants to get him out of his own skin before it closes in on around him.

You open the belt, unfasten the button, and guide the zipper down. The fabric is stiff with dirt and sweat, heavy as it slides from his hips. You crouch to help him step out of the cargo pants and briefs, easing them over his bruised legs, and you try not to wince when you catch the red-scraped line along his thigh.

He says nothing. Just lets you do it.

You undress after, folding your clothes on the bench. His eyes are already on you when you straighten, not with hunger, but with that same wide-eyed exhaustion. Like you’re the only still point left in a spinning world.

You reach for his hand again and step beneath the warm stream of water.

The water flows down between your bodies, hot enough to sting, to chase the ache from your joints. It splashes off his shoulders in thick rivulets, soaking the floor at your feet and catching in the creases of old scars and bruised muscle.

You move slowly, your hands gentle as they glide over his skin.

You start at his collarbone, lathering some soap until it turns slick between your fingers, then work your way down, tracing over muscle, bone, scar. You now know each line of him – the ridge of his sternum, the subtle rise and fall of his ribs, the old scar that curves beneath his pec.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t need to. His eyes are closed, lips parted, breath steady but slow, so deliberate, like he’s trying not to miss a single second of it. Like if he keeps still enough, this moment might last longer.

You ease your hands to his waist and turn his body gently until his back is to you.

And there it is.

The map.

You know it by heart now. The constellation of healed-over bullet wounds, the pale ghosts of shrapnel near his lower ribs, the raised, silvery slash across his left scapula – the one you first traced with trembling fingers months ago, when he finally let you see it in the daylight.

But there are new stars on the map tonight.

A black-purple bruise like a boot print blooms over his lower back, raw around the edges. Two smaller, thumb-sized bruises sit along his left flank – grip marks, maybe. His right shoulder bears a scrape that looks half-healed, dirt still stubborn in the raw skin.

You press your palm lightly to his spine, just between the old scars, grounding him.

He doesn’t flinch.

Your fingers skim over every mark, cataloguing them silently. You don’t ask what happened. You already know. You’ve learned the language of his body, the different hues of pain, the quiet story written in scars and skin.

You dip the soap in your hands again, rich lather clinging to your fingertips, and move down the line of his back. He’s quiet, letting you tend to him like he’s something sacred. Like he knows he can’t hide anything from you here.

You drag the suds across the worst of the bruises, careful not to press too hard. Your hands work lower, over the curve of his hips, the muscle of his thighs. You handle him like someone would a broken thing. Not because he’s fragile, but because he’s been through too much to be treated with anything less than absolute care.

“Turn around for me.”

He does, slowly. Steam curls around the line of his shoulders as he faces you. His eyes open – heavy-lidded and damp – tracking every motion you make, gaze quiet and unreadable.

You take him in like this: bare, open, bruised and battered, and beautiful in the most brutal way. His chest rises and falls with slow, steady breaths. The water sheets off his skin, trailing down the ridges of his ribs, catching in the hollow beneath his throat, darkening the thatch of hair on his chest.

You lift the soap again and step closer.

Your hands move over his chest, gliding through coarse hair and the slick heat of his skin. You know this terrain just as well as his back – that faint scar under his right pec from a close-range shot, the shallow dent near his collarbone where bone once broke clean through.

You drag the lather lower, across his abdomen, the ridged muscle beneath softening under your touch.

He just watches you. Jaw slack. Eyes impossibly soft, like he’s still trying to understand how this moment is real.

You lather the soap again and reach between his legs.

Your touch is slow. Careful. Not teasing. Not meant to arouse. This is different – gentler than anything else, more intimate than sex. You wash him the same way you’ve washed every other part of him – thorough, tender, respectful. Like this is just another part of him you want to take care of. Another place where the world left its mark, and you’re here to make it clean again.

His cock rests heavy against your hand, softened by exhaustion and heat, twitching only faintly when your fingers glide down the shaft to his balls. You cup him delicately, run the soap through every crease, every fold.

His breath catches once – barely a sound – but it’s not from pleasure.

It’s from the way you hold him like he’s something worth cherishing.

When you rinse him, your fingers guide the water with the same reverence, making certain nothing is left behind.

No blood, no sweat, no grime.

Nothing of the outside world.

Only the clean, worn-down man standing in front of you.

You glance up at him, and the look he gives you guts something inside you.

He’s looking at you like you’re the only person who’s ever touched him like this.

Who has seen him like this.

And loved what you saw.

You reach for the sprayer again, adjust the angle, and wash yourself. He doesn’t look away. His eyes follow every motion, how you drag the soap across your chest, over your hips, down your thighs. You scrub briskly, working through the fatigue now also settling deep in your limbs, but his gaze never strays.

He watches like he’s memorizing you all over again.

With nothing but awe.

Like the steam has made everything holy. Like he’s standing in a church, and you’re the only thing on the altar.

You rinse clean, slick and glistening under the dim light.

When you step out, you grab the towel and wrap it around yourself, water still trailing down your legs. Another towel is pressed into his hands. He takes it without a word.

The silence between you now is different. It’s heavier. Thicker.

Full of everything you haven’t said. Full of everything that doesn’t need to be said.

He dries off slowly, watching you the whole time. His hands move a little clumsily, like he’s not entirely sure how to be in his own body anymore – like he’s still trying to catch up to the tenderness he’s just been given.

When he’s done, you cross the small space between you and place your hands on either side of his face. Your thumbs sweep gently beneath his eyes, brushing away the dampness there. It’s not really tears.

But something fragile. Something honest.

You press your forehead to his. For a moment, neither of you move. The world narrows to this: damp skin, quiet breathing, the pulse beneath your fingertips.

Then you kiss him.

A slow, careful press of your lips to his.

He doesn’t pull you closer, doesn’t deepen it. He just lets it happen – like he understands exactly what it is. Like he knows it isn’t meant to spark anything but stillness. A stillness he can’t give himself, but craves all the same.

Without a word, he hands you one of his sweatshirts, and you pull it over your head. It swallows you, the sleeves brushing your fingertips, the scent of him baked into the fabric – clean laundry, cigars, and something warm beneath it all that’s just… him.

It’s comforting. Familiar.

Something that makes you feel closer to him, even when exhaustion has pulled him somewhere distant and quiet inside himself.

You followed him back to his office under the pretense that he forgot something – the tension already rebuilding in his shoulders. Each step is heavy, like he’s pulling against some invisible chain, drawn back into the familiar orbit of responsibility he can’t seem to escape, no matter how many bruises or wounds he carries.

You almost don’t believe what you’re seeing.

Like a machine, he walks back to his desk, as if the shower never happened. As if your hands hadn’t just touched every broken inch of him, hadn’t washed the blood and dirt from his skin with reverence. Like none of it reached him. It was as if the threshold to his office reset him, and all it took was one look at the desk for the weight of the world to settle back on his shoulders.

He sinks into his chair with a sigh, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight, and immediately reaches for the paperwork scattered haphazardly across the desk.

“John,” you say quietly, gently, but not without an edge of warning.

He glances up, meeting your eyes briefly before he sighs, already anticipating your next words. “Don’t start,” he mutters, turning his gaze back toward the paper. “This won’t take long.”

“Right,” you scoff. “We both know you’re lying. You’ll be here all night. Again.”

He huffs, trying for irritation, but it barely carries any weight. “You’re relentless.”

“Only because you’re stubborn,” you counter. You tilt your head, watching him carefully, aware of every lingering bruise beneath his clothes. Your voice softens, concern seeping through. “Come on, please? Lie down. Get some rest, or I swear to God, I’ll drag you to bed myself.”

That finally makes him look at you properly, a flicker of amusement surfacing behind the exhaustion in his eyes.

“Bet your team would pay good money to see me try,” you add, a grin forming despite your seriousness.

He snorts, shakes his head, a smile tugging briefly at the corners of his mouth. But his shoulders remain stiff, and his voice drops again. “Can’t yet. There’s still work –”

“Bloody hell, John, that can wait,” you interrupt. “You’re barely awake as it is.”

His jaw tightens briefly, that familiar flicker of pride flashing in his eyes before giving way to weary resignation.

“I’ll stay if you want,” you offer, meaning it. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Absolutely not.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes and reaching for his hand across the desk. “John –”

“You never sleep well here,” he says, voice rougher now, protective frustration bleeding through. “Those bunks are shite, and you always wake up sore. It’s not happening.”

You laugh softly, stepping closer. “I don’t care.”

“I do,” he says without hesitation. The fierceness in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“John,” you murmur again, just his name – but it’s enough. A soft plea, steady and warm, tugging him toward you even as he tries to hold his ground. “I’m staying with you tonight. And if you don’t move right now, I will drag your stubborn ass down the corridor.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, but the look in your eyes seems to drain the fight from him, replacing stubbornness with reluctant acceptance. He sighs deeply, head bowing slightly, and finally allows you to tug him gently from his chair.

You lace your fingers tighter with his, feeling the calloused warmth of his palm pressed against yours, and lead him out of his office into the empty corridor outside.

It’s late enough that nearly everyone has left for the night, and the low buzz of lights overhead is the only sound accompanying you both as you slowly walk toward his quarters. Beside you, each step John takes feels heavier, slower – like the exhaustion is finally catching up to him, dragging at his limbs, weighing him down with every breath he takes.

When you finally reach his quarters, you push the door open and guide him inside, flipping on the single lamp beside the bed. The soft yellow glow spills gently over the sharp edges of his tired face, brightening the deep shadows beneath his eyes.

You lead him silently to the bed, nudging him down until he sits at the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the floor like he’s not quite sure how he got there.

“Lie down,” you demand, your voice soft as your hand presses gently on his shoulder. He lets you guide him, shoulders easing back until they finally meet the pillow. The mattress dips beneath him, but his body remains rigid, like he’s waiting for something. A call. Another demand, another battle. An alarm that never stops ringing in the back of his mind.

You climb into the bed and shift toward him slowly. You barely fit onto the mattress beside him, so you let your arm slide carefully around his waist. Your chest is pressed against his side, and your head finds that familiar spot tucked perfectly against the curve of his neck.

His muscles remain locked tight, like part of him doesn’t believe he’s allowed this. You.

You sigh softly, pressing closer, and lift your chin to kiss the line of his jaw. A familiar gesture, one you’ve done countless times when words weren’t enough to reach him.

It’s a promise: I’m here. You’re safe. You’re with me.

And the moment your lips touch his skin, something in him finally breaks.

He exhales – long, deep, a breath dragged from somewhere buried. The sound carries the weight of the entire day, or maybe, of too many days. His arms come around you slowly, then fully, wrapping you in a firm, unspoken need.

“Thank you,” he whispers, the words carrying more than simple gratitude – they’re heavy with trust, with love, with quiet awe at the simple gift of your presence.

You smile softly against his chest, pressing closer still, your fingers drawing slow, soothing circles along his side.

And only then, with you wrapped safely in his arms, your heartbeat anchoring him, does he finally, quietly, drift into sleep.

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jubealea · 6 days ago

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Your fauxcest content is AHHHHMAZING and I love it so much. The idea of Price holding you open so the boys can patiently poke and prod at you, guiding them-- "Gently, that part is sensitive. See how Mum is getting nice and wet down there?..." ughhhh the mental image!! The amount of control over you. Chef's kiss.

Does the reader ever flip the script and discipline her boys, do you think?

It's hard to stand up to 4 men with both the means and inclination to keeping you under their thumb. You can hardly keep your head about you when they seem so keen on taking whatever they want from you whenever they want. You try though, threaten to have Price spank them when they won't take your threat of it seriously, and end up over your husband's lap yourself.

"Good mother should take her boy's punishment, don't you think?" He asks you, his fingers prodding at your cunt between spanks. "Your own fault for not raising 'em right."

You try discipling them other ways, claiming to Johnny and Ghost (who are never anything but rough with you, leaving you aching for days afterwards) won't fuck you until they learn to be as sweet as Kyle, and it only ends with you held open for special lessons in gentleness. Kyle murmuring that the other two are going to make mum leave if they're not careful with you, wringing orgasm after orgasm from your overworked cunt only to turn you over to the wolves for them to try the same thing.

Taking your concerns to your husband is a fruitless endeavor, "boys will be boys" and all that. You attempt to pit them against each other once and end up with two thick cocks stretching out your poor pussy, your sergeants grunting about snug fits and forgetting you entirely in each other's mouths. Ghost scares you too badly to try and punish, the fat cock between his legs too often used as your own punishment for acting out against father dearest.

No, you're sufficiently outnumbered, and finding that "mama's boy" doesn't mean they listen to anything but your whimpering and whining.

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jubealea · 7 days ago

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Poly 141 concept cw: peeping tom (tom's in this case)

Getting fucked by John Price in his office as the rest of the 141 team stand on the otherside of the door tugging at their dicks as your sweet moans leak out from under the gap in the door.

The desk squeaking across the wooden floor boards with each thrust of John's hips. Papers littering the office floor as a result of John sweeping the desk clean before hoisting you up onto it and spreading your legs.

John knew the guys were on the opposite side of the door as they didn’t keep their infatuation with you very secret. He knew they all seeked you out when you came down to the base, wherever you were, the guys were close behind. All of the ogling at you, practically drooling at the sight of you. So, it’s why John made a point of fucking you on his desk, where he knew everyone would be able to here.

Your moans bounced off the office walls as John plowed deep into you, his dick hitting depths deep inside of you. The guys were going mad on the other side of the door, with Johnny most likely being told off for trying to open the door, his excuse being that he just wanted a peak.

Whilst you continue being fucked silly on John��s desk having no idea that theres a group of guys outside the door desperate to join in, desperate to have their hands all over you body grabbing and pinching, whilst their mouths suck and lick all over you. The boys weren’t sure how you’d react to them joining in, which is why they’ve held themselves back from bargaining in and filling your mouth with someone's cock.

It wouldn’t have been the first time they’ve all had sex with a woman at the same time, but it’s not something John had gotten round to talking to you about, and until then they had a strict rule of no joining in.

But they were desperate, they had been chasing you around base for months now in hopes that something would naturally happen between you and the guys but you were loyal to John and only John. And until their intentions were brought forward by John, they believed it would stay that way. Yet they couldn’t help themselves from cracking the door open the tiniest bit, just so they could get a glance at what they all so desperately craved.

From the small gap they were able to see you spread out on their bosses desk, legs spread, tits free, nipples hard and perky, bouncing with every thrust of their captains hips, and your face had the most fucked out expression plastered on it. Just the sight of you had the guys close to finishing in their pants.

John gives the guys a quick smirk with a cheeky wink before planting his grip on your hips and driving into you, desperate to have you finish so he can fill you to the brim with his cum. His grip is bruise inducing as he bends to suck at your nipples, his tongue tracing the pebbled skin, nipping at it gently with his teeth before moving on to the other one to give it the same attention. John was a generous man, what can I say?

Your legs shake around him as his dick hits deep inside of you over and over again, sending you spiralling closer to your orgasm. Locking your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck you let your head hang back as you wait for your approaching orgasm to hit you. It’s only then that you realise the door had been opened and not only that but there were three sets of eyes staring directly at you.

The realisation that people were watching had you clamping down around John’s cock, your orgasm suddenly seeming much more powerful than before. And as John finished deep inside you, you couldn’t help but stare at the men on the other side of the door. The sight of them watching you as their captain fucked you had unlocked something deep inside of you, something you never knew about.

Masterlist

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jubealea · 8 days ago

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task force with chubby reader who tries on dresses and they’re just being feral losers 😇

Feral Guard Dogs

Pairing: Poly Task Force 141 x Chubby!Reader

Warnings: Flirting, suggestive comments, protective/possessive behavior, these men being absolutely down bad, mild swearing

Author's Note: I’m sorry for pushing out requests/stories out later than normal! I’ve been so sleepy this week I legitimately forget to upload

Summary:A simple shopping trip turns into absolute chaos when your team realizes just how good you look in your new outfits. Now, they’re acting like a pack of guard dogs—territorial, dramatic, and utterly feral.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

You were just trying on dresses. That’s it. A simple, innocent outing. You never expected to walk out of the fitting room to find four grown, lethal men acting like absolute idiots over it.

The dress was snug in all the right places, accentuating your curves, and you felt good in it. The color complimented your skin tone, and you had just turned to check yourself out in the mirror when you heard a low whistle.

You turned to see them—Simon, Johnny, John, and Kyle—crowded around the fitting room entrance like a pack of wolves that had just spotted their next meal.

Johnny let out a low whistle, arms crossed over his chest as he grinned. "Well, damn, bonnie. That’s illegal."

Kyle sucked in a breath. "Yeah, you’re never wearing that in public without one of us with you."

Simon—who usually maintained some level of stoicism—stood with his arms crossed, his fingers twitching like he was physically restraining himself from doing something reckless.

John, ever the gentleman, cleared his throat and rubbed a hand over his jaw, but even he wasn’t immune. "That’s dangerous, love."

You raised a brow, fighting back a grin. "Dangerous?"

Johnny gestured wildly. "Aye! You’re lucky we’re the only ones here, or else we’d have a fuckin’ problem on our hands!"

Kyle nodded solemnly. "And I mean real problems. Like ‘burying a body’ problems."

You scoffed, turning back to the mirror with a little twirl. "You guys are ridiculous."

Simon let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "We know."

But none of them looked away.

And when you picked out another dress to try on, they were still waiting right outside the fitting room like a bunch of guard dogs, ready to rip apart anyone who so much as looked at you the wrong way.

Because, let’s be honest—your team of elite, highly trained operatives? They were just a bunch of feral idiots for you.

By the time you finally left the store, bags in hand, the sun had already started to dip toward the horizon.

Simon carried most of your bags. Not because you asked him to—no, you barely even got the chance before he snatched them right out of your hands like some kind of possessive caveman.

Johnny, meanwhile, carried the rest, because he made the poor choice of laughing when Simon did it and got voluntold for backup duty.

"This is bullying," he had muttered as he adjusted the bags in his arms.

"This is life," John had replied, sipping his hard-earned coffee.

Now, as the five of you walked through the parking lot, you stretched with a content sigh, feeling satisfied with your purchases. "That was fun."

John snorted, giving you a side-eye. "Glad one of us had fun."

Kyle still looked like he hadn’t fully recovered. "Fun? That was a fucking battlefield in there."

Johnny let out a dramatic groan, shifting the weight of the bags. "Aye. I’ll be havin’ flashbacks for weeks."

Simon, still eerily quiet, walked beside you—stoic as ever. The only sign of his absolute ruin was the way his grip on the bags tightened every single time you adjusted your jacket, or your shirt, or breathed too close to him.

You fought back a grin. "You guys are such babies."

Kyle gestured at the bags. "We just dropped half a paycheck on making sure you dress like a fucking goddess every day. You think we’re just gonna walk away normal after that?"

Johnny nodded aggressively. "Aye, ye ruined us."

John rubbed his temples. "Us? You mean Simon."

You turned to Simon with a teasing smile. "Simon, are you ruined?"

Simon didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look at you.

Just kept walking, silent and dangerous.

Which was funny—because you could see the tips of his ears burning red beneath his mask.

Johnny, absolutely thriving on the chaos, grinned. "Aye, he’s ruined, alright. Properly fucked, this one."

Kyle smirked, nudging John. "Think we lost him for good?"

John just shook his head. "Poor bastard never stood a chance."

You hummed, pretending to consider it. "Guess that means I should put on a little fashion show when we get back?"

The reaction was instant.

Johnny nearly dropped the bags. "Oh, fuck no."

Kyle grabbed John’s sleeve like a man on the brink of collapse. "You gotta stop her, Captain. We won’t make it."

John just sighed, looking up at the sky like he was praying for patience. "Love, if you do that, I don’t think Simon is gonna survive the night."

You grinned, turning to the man in question. "What do you think, Simon?"

Simon finally turned his head to you.

Stared for a long, tense moment.

Then, in a voice so low and certain it sent shivers down your spine, he murmured—

"Do it."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Johnny’s eyes bugged out of his skull. "Mate—"

Kyle gasped, clutching his chest. "He’s gone."

John downed the rest of his coffee like it was whiskey. "That’s it. I’m done. I don’t know any of you."

You just laughed, skipping ahead of them toward the car. "Guess you’ll have to wait and see, then!"

Behind you, Kyle groaned into his hands, Johnny whooped, John sighed, and Simon?

Simon just walked faster, catching up to you without hesitation.

Because ruined or not—he was all in.

And that fashion show?

It was going to happen.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

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jubealea · 8 days ago

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pretty little panties - simon r. simon wanted something that reminded him of home. he was tucked away in latvia near the russian border. it was a pretty simple mission, but he missed his honey, his dove, his everything.

you were all the way back home, he bet at that very moment with the time differences and everything, you were probably tucked under the covers in your shared bed. under that fleece black and white blanket you loved so much. your face pressed against the stuffed animal he bought for you before his deployment - a little reminder of him. he bet you were nice and cozy. and that gave some ease of mind. after all, you were what was he was fighting for. making sure good in the world stayed good. it let him rest easier between missions.

but it also gave him a raging erection.

simon didn't ask for many things. he was a hard person to get gifts for as a result. but when he got a rather small, thin care package from you. he was delighted to find a hand written letter that smelled like you and inside the folds of paper were a pair of pretty pink panties.

at the end of the letter it read, "take good care of them, i want them back when you come home." and simon could have kissed you on the lips at that very moment! he snuck them into his pocket for later.

it wouldn't be for a few days till he was able to really feel the soft fabric between his fingers. your panties spent most of the time in his tactical vest. the knowledge that it was there felt good, like when he had your picture in his helmet. felt like a little piece of you was with him. he couldn't wait to get his hands on you, feel you in his grasp once more. you were such a pretty sight to see and feel, and while the panties were pretty and smelled like you. they weren't you.

alone in his room for the night. he tried to get comfortable in bed with his green shirt and casual pants on. he leaned back into the few pillows he had and started to palm his cock through his pants. he got the panties out of the pocket. they had been his little good luck charm since they arrived. he brought them to his nose and deeply inhaled before he got his cock out of his pants.

he spat in his rough palm and started to stroke his cock. it really wasn't the same as your more delicate hands. hands not cracked from war. they were soft with next to no callouses. they felt like heaven on his cock, your mouth was even better. it didn't take long before he wrapped the panties around his hard cock and continued to stroke himself.

he imagined you where he was. at the base he was at. tucked away for a little visit. you wouldn't fit in at all on the base, obviously standing out as a civilian. but simon would make sure you got anything you needed. he protected his little dove. the love of his life, after all you gave him such a little present. pre-cum stained the pink cotton, but he kept stroking himself. the pleasure was built up in his body. he'd make sure that you'd both fit in the tiny bed he currently slept in. even that meant him having to sleep on the floor. your comfort was the most important.

his dark eyes closed and he continued to stroke himself quickly. thoughts of you plagued his mind. he tensed up a little and more pre-cum spilled out. he thought about all the things he'd do to you. how your pretty body would move up and down his cock when you rode him.

he'd wrapped his strong arms around you and bounce you on his cock. he'd finish load after load in you. give you messy kisses. he wanted to feel his angel again, you were just perfect for him. he loved you so very much. he wanted those hot kisses and those gentle cuddles. how you'd trace patterns across his skin and snuggle in his arms.

he loved you.

so it didn't take much longer for him to cum all over the panties. the cotton was ruined with his thick cum. he knew there was no way to save them. but yet he kept rubbing his oversensitive cock with them. he couldn't help himself. it just felt so good.

he knew the next time he got the chance to message you. he'd apologize for ruining the pretty pair you gave him, and ask very nicely for another one. that he'll definitely treat nicer. <3

inspired by recent events

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jubealea · 9 days ago

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𝑯𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝑰𝒔 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑨𝒓𝒆

John Price x Wife! Reader

Synopsis: Price, a skilled soldier who has lived most of his life by a strict routine, finds solace in the quiet, early mornings spent with you, his wife.

Genre/ warnings: domestic, slice of life, price lowkey holding you hostage, soft moments in ur marriage, fluff, no warnings this house has been blessed by the lord

Note: I need a man like price to keep me in bed for longer

John Price was no stranger to early mornings. Years of military life had ingrained the habit deep into his bones. But these days, it wasn’t duty that made him rise with the sun—it was you.

The soft light of dawn filtered into the room, gently waking you from sleep. You carefully slipped out of bed, intent on starting the day quietly. But before you could take more than a few steps, you felt a warm, familiar hand slide around your waist, pulling you back.

“Stay here, luv ” John’s voice, still thick with sleep, rumbled against your ear.

“I was just going to make us some coffee,” you whispered, but he had already coaxed you back into the bed, his strong arms enveloping you from behind.

“Coffee can wait,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “Stay here with me a little longer.”

You couldn’t help but smile, leaning back into his embrace. The bed was warm, and his presence was comforting. He shifted slightly, tucking his head into the crook of your shoulder, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing against your back.

Instead of attempting to get out of bed again, you decided to give in to the quiet morning. You turned to face him, brushing a hand through his tousled hair. “You’re clingy this morning,” you teased, though you couldn’t deny how much you enjoyed it.

“Just making sure you don’t run off,” he replied, a playful glint in his eyes. “Can’t have you escaping before I’m ready to face the day.”

“You make it sound like I’m planning a great escape,” you chuckled, tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“Not on my watch,” he said, his tone half-joking, half-serious. He pulled you closer, his hand running down the length of your back. “I’m holding you hostage in this bed for at least another hour.”

“And what’s your plan to keep me here?” you asked, eyebrows raised in mock challenge.

John smirked, his hand moving to your hip, squeezing gently. “... I’ve got a few ideas,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “But first, I think I’ll just enjoy having you close.”

The two of you settled back into the pillows, the early morning light casting soft shadows across the room. You let out a contented sigh as you nestled against him, feeling his heartbeat steady under your ear.

Outside, the world was starting to wake, but here in the quiet of your shared sanctuary, time seemed to stand still. There was no rush to get up, no urgent need to start the day. All that mattered was the warmth of John’s arms around you and the peaceful stillness you rarely got to share.

“Guess everything else can wait,” you murmured, closing your eyes and letting yourself drift, knowing that as long as you were with him, you were exactly where you needed to be.

It's like I'm chained to the bed ...but it's his aura instead ✨️

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jubealea · 9 days ago

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"Talking about ...you"

“Do you see ...her?” he begins, his voice low, almost reverent, as if afraid his words might shatter the moment he gestures toward her, where she stands with her back to him, the soft curve of her shoulder catching the light. “Look at her. Everything she does—it’s not just living; it’s art.”

He exhales slowly, shaking his head as if the weight of his feelings is too much to hold inside. “You don’t get it. It’s not just about the way she looks, though God knows she’s breathtaking. It’s… everything. The way she tilts her head when she’s thinking, the way her laughter sounds like it was made just to pull me out of the darkest corners of myself. Every time she smiles, it’s like the world pauses—just for her.”

He glances at him then, his eyes bright, his tone more insistent. “I’ve memorized her, you know. Every little thing. The way she brushes her hair behind her ear, the way her hands move when she talks, the way she says my name. She doesn’t even realize the power she has over me. I crave her, not just physically, but... spiritually. Her existence—it’s everything. She could be across the room, or on the other side of the world, and I’d still feel her. Like she’s tethered to me, like every breath I take is because she’s somewhere out there, breathing too.”

He looks back at her, his expression softening, his voice quieter now. “You think I’m exaggerating? That I’ve just romanticized her into some unreachable thing? You’re wrong. She’s as real as it gets. Flawed, messy, and human—but that’s what makes her perfect. She’s not just someone I love. She’s the reason I believe love exists at all.”

He pauses, his jaw tightening slightly, his words filled with an almost desperate honesty. “I know it sounds like too much. Like no one could be that important. But when you find someone like her—someone whose very existence makes you feel like the luckiest man alive—how could you ever let that go? She’s everything I never knew I needed. And I’ll never stop craving her. Not in this lifetime. Not in the next.”

The man: Sylus, Ekko, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Nikto, Keegan, Nanami Kento, Higuruma Hiromi, Gojo Satoru, Erwin, Levi Ackerman, Zayne, Xavier, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Dabi, Katsuki, Halsin, Aemond Targaryen

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jubealea · 10 days ago

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does anyone else like the idea of simon yearning for them or is it just me…?

everyone has their own ideas of yearning, but when i think of it i think of him looking at you when you’re at your best, and what you may define as your worst with nothing but adoration in his eyes.

not keeping his hands off of you even when you’re at the grocery store or doing laundry. and i don’t mean in a sexual manner. his hands would just sit at the dip of your hips or the small of your back, offering a hand when you’d ask.

his fingers dipping into the strands of your hair while you ramble about something. and trust he is eating up every word you’re saying.

it’s all eye contact, understanding nods, and a few words from him here and there. there’s two of you in this tango. not just you and a brick wall.

simon dries you off when you step out of the shower, even brushes your hair afterwards. massages your moisturizer and lotion into your skin.

this man would get on his knees to tell you how much he loves you, would slip a poem that reminds him of you between the pages of one of your books.

it isn’t all rough and sharp around the edges. there’s love and joy between the two of you. even if it took a lot of healing to get there.

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jubealea · 11 days ago

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Weaknesses 11: Indisposed

cw: lil bit of dubcon/noncon ideation

Gaz loves it when you’re sore. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. This man will use any excuse to give you a massage. Doesn’t matter that you’re probably sore because of him. Don’t think about that part. Just let him treat you, let him work out those kinks knots in your muscles. He also kinda likes how being sore makes you whiney. How you ask him to get things for you because getting up and walking to them sounds like agony. Because then he gets to tell you to say please with that grin on his face.

Soap loves it when you have a fever. Please know that any time you get sick with a fever, it is inevitable that he does too, because he cannot keep off of you whatsoever. Not with your pussy boiling his dick like a 7/11 hotdog (theprophetdub, 2022).

Ghost likes it when you’re fucking exhausted. Like, can barely keep your eyes open, keep yourself upright. He likes you helpless. He likes that he could treat you like a doll when you’re like this. That you don’t have the strength or wherewithal to do anything. If he wanted to, that is. Usually he’s just content to imagine it. Usually.

Price likes when you’re a little nauseous. A bit of a stomach ache. There’s something about the desolation of a woman who has tummy hurties… it’s just so darling to him. And if you need him to hold your hair back when you get sick? He’s thinking about getting in the practice for your inevitable pregnancy.

König likes it when you’re on your period. More than anyone else. He likes the idea that it’s something a bit shameful and embarrassing, that you’re worried about him finding it gross. He could never think that about anything that has to do with you, to be honest. Just let him fuck your cramps away.

Nikolai likes it when you’re overwhelmed. So much so to the point of tears. Because that’s when he feels a great sense of purpose. He’s quite proud that you feel safe enough to let it all spill over in front of him, finally, after trying to hold it together. He loves that you need him.

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jubealea · 11 days ago

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Hi I love your writing and I want to personally thank you for turning me into a Nikolai girl. The dubcon one awakened something in me… can we get some more headcannons with Nikolai and his big girl 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

Brother. I was put on this earth to show people the light. The truth. And that truth is hairy older men with groping hands.

I’ve said this before, and I’m going to keep saying it: Nikolai loves dressing you up. Not just costumes, he loves just coming up with outfits for you. Buying you new things and making you do little fashion shows for him while he basically catcalls you from his seat. Every time he’s about to come home from time away, he tells you exactly what he wants to see you wearing when he gets through the door.

And maybe this is just my own mentally ill hot take, but I think he wants you cute. Ruffles, lace, pearls, ribbons. Kitten heels, Mary Janes, ankle boots.

You used to protest at him buying you so many clothes— that you hated going to places and trying things on just to see yourself and…. Sigh.

It’s all about training. And he’s training you out of those lines of thought and so many others.

When he’s about to leave on work, he’ll take on of your ribbons and keep it tied somewhere on him, like his wrist or the zipper pull of his jacket. He says it’s good luck.

And speaking of good luck, he 100% insists on having you in his lap wherever gambling is concerned. That a beautiful woman is always the best good luck charm at a poker table. Truth be told, he’s an excellent player— but he still gives you all of the praise for every win.

One of his favorite things to do is bathe with you. He loves soaking in hot water, and he loves being able to look down and see your soft, gorgeous body— and you not having anything to hide it with. He washes your skin reverently.

I firmly believe that Nikolai beheld the Venus of Willendorf with an open mouth the first time he saw it. It’s stuck with him ever since. And he’s been chasing the image ever since.

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jubealea · 11 days ago

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simon loves it when you get your nails done. it’s a simple thing, really— a frivolous indulgence in pinks and sparkles, something that might not mean much to anyone else; but to simon, it’s everything. the moment you step through that door, the world slows just for him, and his gaze snaps to your hands, a hunger in his eyes that doesn’t belong in a man like him. it’s the gleam in your nails that pulls him in, drawing him closer than anything else ever could. (moth to a flame, with the exception being, a flamingo inferno)

he’s kicked back in his chair, uncouth danger, and akimbo angles, looking like a man who’d crush you in his arms without a second thought. his build, thick and powerful, is like steel; unbending. but you? you walk in with the sweet glitter of freshly done nails, and in an instant, the walls around him crumble.

he rises from his chair—abruptly, like he can’t stay seated another second—and your smile catches in his chest. his large hands, usually so firm, so purposeful, tremble just a little when they reach for you. he holds your hand like it’s something sacred.

"let me see 'em," he grumbles, brogue deep and gravelly, more of a plea than a command. he wants to drink you in, to trace every inch of those nails, because he knows each tiny detail was chosen by you. he doesn’t say it, but he adores how they glint with the tiniest hint of rebellion— your rebellion, soft yet fierce, glittering beneath the surface. reminds him of all the times you'd sassed him, sweet-tone bent with a laughable stamp of attitude.

your nails are a galaxy of pink, gemstones catching the light, each shimmer a reason for him to love you more. but it’s that one, that one sweet "s" on your ring finger—pink and delicate, like it’s been kissed by the very breath of spring— that makes him lose his mind. he studies it like it's the most precious thing in the world, his brows furrowed, jaw tight, a low rumble rising in his chest as he presses a kiss to it, reverent.

"..that’s mine," he mutters under his breath, as though it’s the most sacred truth he’s ever spoken. there’s a possessiveness there, sure, but it’s tender, wrapped in a softness you never expected from a man like him. the world could burn around you both, but in this moment, simon riley only has eyes for the pink "s" that reminds him you’re his. completely, utterly his.

he brushes a thumb over your ring finger, over the little "s" that makes his heart beat faster, and his voice drops lower—softer now, filled with something that feels almost like reverence.

"you’re mine, yeah? no one else’s. just mine."

yeah. yeah, you're his.

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jubealea · 11 days ago

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the thought of price being all cocky and smug with you during foreplay because he’s got you a cumming mess. dirty talking right up to the moment he sinks into your cunt then suddenly doesn’t know how to talk at all.

“How’s that— (jaw clenching) fuck.”

“Take me so— (head falling onto your shoulder) yeah.”

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jubealea · 12 days ago

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I'll Be Your Shield, Your Shelter From the Storm

Simon Riley x reader

Content warnings: depressing thoughts, mentions of past abuse, death, military shit, un beta'd and the first thing I've written in years so it's all over the place. Probably more character analysis than fic idk

Minors DNI

Not me processing via fanfiction 🫣 Apparently getting hurt makes me write, who knew 🤷‍♀️ Maybe I should torture myself more often (please no)

He was a protector, a role he'd placed himself into from an early age, putting himself between his father's fists and his mum or his brother. The physical threats he could handle. He'd made sure he'd never be weak again, never have to watch the people he cared about be hurt.

But how was he supposed to protect you from something that wasn't physical? What was he supposed to do when the enemy to protect you from was your own mind?

He was familiar with those kinds of thoughts - I wasn't big enough, wasn't strong enough, wasn't fast enough - I wasn't enough. He'd lived with them for most of his life; every time there was a new bruise, a new hole in the wall he cursed himself for not being enough. When he'd joined the army he'd done so with the purpose of never feeling that way again. He'd never be small or weak; he could be the protector he wished he'd had as a child. And for a while, it had worked - he'd fulfilled the role he'd set for himself, he'd gotten his family out, he'd fixed it, fixed them.

And then - Roba.

And all the years of hard work, of the person he'd built himself into, crumbled around him. He'd failed, so completely that there was nothing left for him to come back for. He couldn't protect, and he couldn't fix - he wasn't enough.

He'd never truly dealt with the thoughts - he just pushed them to back of his mind, focused on the here and now, the job, the target. He knew he was good at his job - the proof was in the body count, the successful mission reports stacked high on his desk. He didn't need to process his trauma or whatever bullshit the military-ordered psychologists spewed - he just did. He put everything he was into fulfilling the purpose he'd failed his family in, to being a protector for the weak, to keeping the world clean as his captain would say - even if he barely believed it anymore.

The only thing he had left was his sense of justice - he would find those like Roba, like his father, and he would make sure they never hurt anyone else again - for all those like his mother, for all the Tommys and Beths and Josephs. And for all those he couldn't protect, he could at least avenge.

But then he'd found you.

The only spot of sunshine in his otherwise grey existence, someone who made him want- want to hold, want to talk to, want to be around and want to care. It was like the part of him that had died in Manchester, buried alongside the last people he'd cared about, had been resurrected, and for once he didn't want to fight it.

But the threats to your wellbeing weren't physical - the demons stalking you didn't carry guns or raised fists. They brandished words like knives, cutting into your mind and carving away at your happiness, at your light. And he whilst he'd never allowed himself to dwell on his own thoughts, he saw how they festered away in you, and he wanted to fight them for you. Wanted to tear them from your skull, to smash them to pieces and force them to tell you that they were all lies, that you were enough.

That you were more than enough, that you were everything, the only thing good in this world and the person who turned his life from existence to living.

But if he couldn't force your own mind to tell you this, he'd just have to do it instead. He would spend every moment he had reminding you of everything that made you special, that made him eager to return home to you, of how kind and beautiful and cherished you were, until you managed to believe it.

He didn't know how to fight the demons in his own mind, but he could learn how to fight yours for you.

And perhaps he'd let you do the same for him.

---

I've been doing a lot of introspection recently so of course I had to torture my blorbo of the month by giving it to him, then fix it by making him and reader learn together. Ignore how all over the place it is, I rambled it out in like an hour

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jubealea · 12 days ago

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The scent of you lingers—soft, sweet, utterly misplaced amidst the steel and stone that make up his world. Jasmine and rosewater, clinging to the heavy hush of the corridor, weaving itself into the fabric of his being, staining him with something he will never wash away.

He should not breathe it in, should not let it settle in his lungs like something vital, like something he could not live without. And yet, here he stands, motionless, a knight undone by the mere presence of his queen.

You are close. Too ... close.

The space between you is a fragile thing, thin as the lace that drapes over your arms, as delicate as the breath that catches in your throat when his gloved hand twitches at his side, as if longing—aching—to reach for you. The flickering torchlight casts golden embers against your skin, makes a halo of your hair, tricks his mind into thinking you are something divine, something holy. And perhaps you are.

Lace whispers against cold metal as you lift a hand, fingers tracing the ridges of his armor with a familiarity that should not exist. A tenderness that should not be his to claim.

"You stand before me, silent as ever," you murmur, tilting your head, your gaze searching his with something unspoken. "Tell me, my love, has your tongue forsaken you?"

A slow exhale. You are toying with him, as you always do—sharp and knowing, your power lying not in the crown you bear but in the way you speak his name as though it is something sacred. He should not indulge this, should not stand here beneath your touch, should not let his resolve fracture like glass beneath your fingertips. And yet, he does.

"You tempt fate," he says finally, voice low, reverent.

A confession. A warning.

"And yet, it is all I have left."

His breath catches. The weight of your words settles heavy in the space between you, a truth neither of you wish to name. The world will take everything from you—has already begun to. The court has spoken. The match has been made. Soon, you will belong to another, to some noble born into a name that carries weight, to a man who will sit beside you on the throne that he himself has bled for.

Yet you reach for him.

Your fingers brush the worn leather at his shoulder, linger where armor meets flesh, as if you could undo him with a touch alone. And God help him, you can.

"Tell me you do not love me," you whisper, voice steady but for the way your fingers tremble against him. "Tell me your heart belongs only to your duty, and I will go. I will leave you to your honor, to your kingdom, to whatever lies ahead without me."

His jaw tightens. He sways, barely perceptible, as if your words have struck him like a blade to the chest. It would be the right thing to do, would it not?

To let you go? To be the man honor demands he be?

But honor has never known the way your voice softens when you say his name. Honor has never felt the warmth of your hand in his, delicate and desperate and pleading. Honor has never stood in the shadows, torn between love and duty, between a kingdom and the only thing that has ever truly belonged to him.

"No," he breathes, bowing his head, his voice raw with everything he has refused to say. "No, my beloved. My heart is yours, now and always."

A queen must wed. A knight must serve.

And yet, in this stolen moment, he falls to his knees before you—not as a knight, not as a man sworn to duty—but as the only fool who has ever loved you as you deserve.

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jubealea · 13 days ago

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Keep me, please ( I)

MDNI

Part 1

John price x reader with a cheating husband

Price finds a pretty little thing, only to learn that she is married, the caveat being her husband is cheating on her.

Cw: cheating (not between mc’s), unprotected piv, rough sex, possessive sex, daddy kink (😝), Freeform-AFAB, loads of smut lol.

An accident, a crash, you come out of the car frantically apologetic, hysterical, he is fuming at first, but soon placates himself when he sees a pretty little thing crying big wet tears.

Then he see’s a glint on your ring finger.

Which, predictably doesn’t stop him from coercing you to a bar, “come on sweetheart, you need to calm down, just a drink” . You go, shaken,frantically explaining yourself , little apologies sliding off your tongue, when it slips.

“I don’t know what to do, we were highschool sweethearts you know”

The little hitch in your breath when he places his hand on your shoulder—the most benign, platonic touch—big wet eyes looking up at him, sealing your fate.

It all starts with a lunch.

He knows you are a good girl, that you won’t stray (at least for now), too caught up in your own morality, the ideals of right and wrong, the chimera of the kind of woman you think you should be.

John could end it all immediately if he wanted, a silencer, a gunshot wound right in the middle of his forehead, salt on your face as he comforts you. But he is all too aware of the fact that the gift from death is forgiveness— grieving even after being wronged, for remembering the good times, the love once had— and the idea of your grief, love , memories , a single thought being reserved for anyone but him makes his blood curdle, turn red hot.

Besides, he is nothing if not patient, so he invites you to lunch again and again and again, and you go again and again and again.

It’s nothing really, casual conversations, a pretty lonely thing talking his ear off as he chews a piece of his steak, he doesn’t talk much which he assumes gets you to open up. Once you tell him all misty eyed about feeling disposable, worthless that I know it’s not my fault but I still feel that way, which fuels the barely confined homicidal urge in him. Actually many things fuel it these days, like you sleeping in a bed with another man, he wonders if you still let him fuck you, pretty little cunt on display as you spread your legs apart for your husband on your marital bed. The image alone would make him turn the world to ash.

Except— the self conscious little touches, his shoulder, forearm, your face in his chest as you,arms wrapped around his middle, a quiet farewell, “goodbye John, thanks for listening to me”, the little inhale, taking him in, the smell of stale tobacco, his musk, his cologne, eyes that linger on his a little too long, the quiet longing, the conflict. You tense when he touches your lower back as he greets you, the look you give him when his hand wraps around your nape, near your car, “take care of yourself love”. The missing ring , the next time he sees you.

He invites you to dinner, you go like you always do.

A quiet ,” he not here this weekend”, as you take a bite of your ice cream. It would amuse him if it didn’t make him seethe so much. But, that was the plan after all, to make you think that you chose this.

It’s you who kisses him first as he leans against his car, all teeth and tongue, standing on your tippy toes, blunt nails digging in to his nape, your other fist curled into his shirt. It’s rough, jagged, full of anger, full of longing, you kiss him like you want to scream “why didn’t you do it first!”, he kisses you back with equal fervour, one arm wrapped around your waist ,iron grip , the other palming your head, fingers fisting your hair.

————————

The car ride back to his place is quiet, dead silent besides the hum of the engine, he doesn’t look at you, his knuckles blanched white on the steering wheel.

He gets out of the car , briskly walking to your side and opening the door, closing it with a loud thud, he strides to the front door without as much as sparing you a glance. You stumble after him, unnerved by the sudden shift in his demeanour, his coldness makes you tremble, also makes you follow after him like a stray kitten.

Lounging on his leather arm chair, a throne of sorts, he just looks at you, while you stand in front of him. His gaze is scorching, blistering hot, searing through you like you are a bioluminescent sea creature, a jelly fish, all transparent and gelatinous. His fingers dig into the arm rest of his chair, forming little dimples, he is still, eerily still, molten lava, under the surface.

“Please, John” you plead, standing before him, fiddling with the hem of your dress which just reaches your mid-thigh, you barely even know what you are pleading for, So in your daze, you climb into his lap, thighs spread wide around his tree trunk thighs,palms rested on his shoulders, sopping pussy, covered by the damp fabric of your underwear, right on top of his metal zipper.

The tension is palpable, it clings onto you like second skin, you always thought he was intimidating, but there was a tenderness, a softness, which you naively thought was reserved just for you, missing. So,you nuzzle into his jaw, pressing little kisses, kitten licking the soft right under his ear, humming into him,tasting the brine his skin, trying to placate the beast.

Your cunt is hot, blistering hot , leaking onto his pants, the closeness, his scent all heady and masculine, the scorching heat he exudes, how big he is under you is all too much to bear, you grind onto his zipper, littlest undulations, you know he is hard you can feel it under your pussy, you gasp into his neck, begging, pleading , “please John, need you, please touch me”.While grinding into him ,rolling your hips, breathing wet hot gasps into his neck ,little hands fisting his shirt, you are close , so close , when you stop.

His hands, scorching hot on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you so tight , that it hurts. You whine, as you look up at him all misty eyed, almost betrayed, his eyes boring into yours. “You want me bad sweetheart, don’t you” you nod frantically, trying to unsuccessfully roll your hips against his grip, all empty and achy.

He clenches his jaw, eyes boring into yours , bruising grip on your hips.

“When was the last time he fucked you ?”

“Uhm, be-before I found out…met you”

———————————

“Fuckin’ soaked” he groans more to himself, his eyes dark, sitting on his haunches lightly running his thumb over your seam . You lay before him, wet transparent panties sticking to your pussy, fingers hooked under your knees, keeping your legs spread for him.

“John, come on now, please ” you whine, arching your back ,panting, spreading your legs further, knees pressed against your chest, presenting your cunt to him like a pretty present.

The need for him to touch you, to fill you up is overwhelming, all consuming. When he finally tugs your panties off, warm palm pushing your inner thigh till it’s flat against his bed, you moan. There is a wet squelch as he spreads your lips apart, thick fingers playing with your clit, circling your fluttering hole, when he finally slides his middle finger in.

“Where do you want me to, baby”

You clench around his thick finger, almost involuntarily, he huffs “inside your tight little cunt huh?” You nod, gasping, pushing your hips into him.

“it’s going to hurt you sweetheart ‘ave to stretch you out first, ok?”—

Your mouth trembles, belly all tense when he adds another thick finger, the stretch hurts, but also feels so , so good, he hooks his fingers, sliding them in and out of your fluttering hole,putting pressure against the little spongy part, grinding his palm against your clit, you gasp, as you roll your hips against his hand.

“Come on baby, let it go now” —he rasps, fucking you with his fingers, you spasm, gasping for air, clinging onto him as if you were drowning ,nails digging into his bare shoulders.

He is kissing you , as you come, eating up your gasps, hitched breaths, holding your trembling body down with his bulk. His are fingers still inside you.

“Fukin’ hell, strangling me love ” —he grunts into your neck, sucking the soft skin, leaving his mark, sinking his teeth so hard that it is bound to bruise, he leaves another mark right under it , little blood vessels bursting underneath your soft skin, tainting, marking your body.

The bulk of him on you—the heady scent of tobacco, stale sweat and a tinge of whiskey, the fur on his chest matting against your tits,his sweat on your body, his teeth in your neck— Its all encompassing, omnipresent. You are lulled into a daze by the intimacy, the closeness that you so deeply craved, it’s not just lust which is being quenched but an innate human need to feel skin on your skin, to be touched, to feel wanted.

In your daze, You don’t notice him slipping his arm in between your bodies and slotting his engorged weeping head, against your hole.

“Shh, shh baby, come on , let Daddy in”—he rasps into your sweat slicked, tear streaked cheek.

Daddy daddy daddy

You wince, whimpering around the thick of him. The burn, the stretch, is overwhelming, hypnotic, pain and pleasure all wrapped up, intertwined into one.

He is gentle. Licking your tears away, peppering your face with tender little kisses as he fits his cock one excruciating inch at a time, slowly, so slowly, trying to be as gentle as possible (a futile pursuit really), splitting you apart, carving space into your little cunt that didn’t exist, shoving his cock in so deep that it knocks the your wind out of your lungs. He finally bottoms out, nudging the plug of your womb.

“Tightest little cunt, baby” —he groans, eyes dark, dripping with hunger, his fat balls pressed against your ass, cock so deep inside you that you can barely breathe,your cheeks blistering hot as you cry big fat tears. He doesn’t move, for a while , letting you clench around him, commit every thick vein , every rivet to memory, feel the stretch through little wet gasps exhaled in the crook of his neck.

“ Good girl, Made for my cock ain’t you, knew wanted it bad from the start.” His strained voice reverberates through you, rattling your bones. His thrusts are shallow, only moving a few inches out before ramming his cock back in, fingers digging into the bottom of your knees, pushing them up right next to your ears, as he grinds his cockhead against your cervix, your hole grips him, pulling him in deeper with every thrust.

“Pretty girl, shh now, you can take it sweetheart, yeah take whatever Daddy gives you” —he coo’s, as his thrusts speed up, slick drenched balls slapping against your ass.

daddy daddy daddy daddy, the very word makes you clench around him, makes your cunt throb and pulse, makes you cry big fat tears, makes you cream his cock, nails digging into his shoulder, hole fluttering around the thick of him. You have never felt so full before, never have been touched by hunger, need this bad, so it slips.

The littlest sound, barely a whisper—

“Ye-yes Daddy ,will….will take any-anything you give me”

He pauses for a second, sweat peppering his temples, eyes boring into yours,wild,dripping with want so thick that it threatens to suffocate you, his grip bruising, tight against the bottom of your knees—

“yeah—“ , he snarls—

He speeds up, bruising, angry thrusts pounding your little hole, cock ramming in again and again, against the plug of your womb, battering you into the mattress. It’s too much, you feel bones rattling with each thrust, thick angry cock reaching parts of you which were previously untouched. Syrupy pleasure drips out of your pores, cunt clenching, gripping his cock, gasping his name, whimpering into his neck “daddy please”.

He wraps his hand around your jaw, eyes piercing into yours, sharing the same breath, he growls—

“My fucking cunt baby, it’s mine to fuck, mine to fill— I am going to fucking keep you”

“Keep you”—the word, the very idea pierces through your brain right to your cunt, you clench around him hard, the pressure unspooling,trembling,hysterically crying, chanting.

“Keepmekeepmekeepme,please,please,please”

He cums right after, cock pulsing inside your bruised hole , hot spurts of cum right against the plug of your womb, filling you up.

You are boneless, limp under him, as he pushes the sweat matted hair out of your face, kissing your forehead, your tear streaked face, tasting the salt on your skin, knowing they are all for him, just him , his cock softens inside of you leaking out a bit of his cum.

His gaze is still as intense, still as drenched in want, but somehow tender, as he looks down at you— half lidded tired eyes, swollen bitten lips, little bruises forming all over your neck.

“Going to take care of you baby, you know that right?”

You lazily nod, “yes Daddy”.

He purrs.

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