jubealea

[jubealea]

simon riley is a munch it’s canon

simon “ghost” riley was absolutely obsessed with you—specifically, with your cunt. it was an addiction, a fixation, something primal that he couldn’t shake. he didn’t care where you were, what you were doing, or if you were even ready. the man would drop to his knees without hesitation, like he was born for the sole purpose of worshiping you.

—

you could be at the counter, chopping vegetables for dinner, humming to yourself as you moved about. simon could be supposed to be setting the table, but instead, he’d be standing behind you, staring at the way your ass swayed with every movement.

“you expect me to just sit here and eat dinner after this?” he’d ask, his deep voice thick with hunger.

before you could respond, his hands would be on your hips, and he’d be tugging your shorts and panties down in one smooth motion. you’d gasp, but simon wouldn’t give you a chance to protest.

“let me have a taste, love,” he’d murmur, sinking to his knees and spreading your cheeks apart. his hot breath would fan over your folds, and you’d tremble as his tongue darted out to lick a slow, deliberate stripe up your cunt.

“fuck, always so perfect,” he’d growl, his lips pressing wet kisses to your clit. “could spend hours here. don’t need anything else.”

your hands clutch at the counter for support, your knife long forgotten, as simon devoured you like a man starved.

—

you could be curled up on the couch, lost in your favorite show, when simon walked in. you might not notice him at first, but the second he’d see you—legs tucked under you, wearing one of his t-shirts—he couldn’t help himself.

he’d sit down beside you, his hand sliding up your thigh as he leaned in close. “you smell so fuckin’ good,” he’d mutter, his voice low and rough.

“simon, I’m watching—”

“don’t care,” he’d cut you off, already pulling at your panties. “need you right now.”

before you could protest, he’d pull you down the couch, spreading your legs over his broad shoulders as he settled between them. his lips could brush against your inner thigh, and he’d look up at you, his eyes dark and hungry.

“gonna talk to you, love,” he’d murmur, his voice a mix of reverence and lust. “gonna tell this sweet cunt how much i love it. how fuckin’ perfect it is.”

and then his mouth would be on you, his tongue circling your clit, his lips sucking gently as he moaned against you. you could feel him rutting against the couch, so worked up just from the taste of you.

—

it could be early morning, and you could still be half-asleep when you’d feel him stir beside you. you’d think he was just shifting, but then his lips would be on your thighs, trailing slow, lazy kisses up to your center.

“simon,” you’d mumble, voice heavy with sleep.

“shh, love,” he’d whisper, pulling the blankets down to expose you. “just need a little taste. promise i’ll be gentle.”

you’d barely have time to process his words before his mouth would be on you, his tongue slipping between your folds with practiced ease. his hands could grip your hips, holding you in place as he worked, his groans vibrating against you.

“this cunt,” he’d mutter between licks, his voice muffled and desperate. “could fuckin’ die happy right here. don’t even need to be inside you. this is enough.”

and it would be true. simon wouldn’t care if he got off or not—just having you like this, tasting you, hearing your moans, would be enough to send him over the edge every time.

[jubealea]

i managed to indoctrinate one of my irls into soap mactavish supremacy and she agrees that soap would be a switch.

and its been on my mind how johnny would beg like a dog for pussy, like a good boy 🥺

NSFW — minors dni!!

(brief mention of a mommy kink LOL)

“yer killin’ me here,” johnny grumbles quietly as he watches you dress in front of him. thick, child bearing hips on display for the entire world to see as your hands reach up to mess your freshly curled hair. your quite literal little black dress made you look like a goddess, and it was killing your boyfriend with how hot you looked. “yer gunna be the death o’ me.”

“it’s only for a couple’a hours, johnny.” you coo, reaching down to cup his stubbled jaw in your soft hands, pressing a gentle kiss to the bridge of his nose. he whines, pouting like a lovestruck puppy from where he was sat on the edge of your bed.

it had been a few months since you last had a girl’s night out with your besties, when was the last time you got to let loose and have some fun with them? you loved johnny, but you reckon it’d do you some good to get out the house and let your hair down.

“see you later, babe.” you wave him goodbye, grabbing your keys as you make your way out. still moping around with a face like a slapped arse, john reluctantly lifts his hand to wave goodbye.

“see ye, hen.” he mutters quietly, still pouting.

a few hours pass, and you stumble through the front door with weak legs akin to a newborn fawn. “fuck,” you huff out as your toss your keys into the bowl by the front door, eager to kick off your heels and get out of the god forsaken tight confines of your dress.

the dress that really made the blood of passers by sing as their eyes bore into your cleavage spilling from the cups of the dress. how your thighs seemed to pool out underneath your weight as you sat down, tender skin just dying to be gawked at. it’s like you knew how good you looked.

“johnny—!” you sing aloud, pottering through your small apartment with your heels in hand. “joooohn— you asleep?” you hum, peeking into your bedroom. he wasn’t there.

“hmm. takin’ a dump or somethin’—“ you squint, taking a look over your shoulder to your en suite. nope, he wasn’t in there either.

“fucks sake, john william mactavish, where are you?” you whine out, chucking your shoes and bag down as you begin to attempt to reach around to unzip your dress. frustrated huffs and shouts erupt from your throat at your desperate pawing at the finicky little zip, dying to set yourself free.

“need help?” a voice leers from behind you, almost knocking all the air from your lungs as you squeak with surprise.

“yes—“ you murmur, throwing your head down as you shuffle back towards johnny. it felt like you were standing there for ages, just waiting for him to unzip your dress. confused, you turn around, eyebrows furrowed. “wh— what’s taking you so long?” you pout, cheeks flushed from your night out on the town.

and that’s when you see him, hungrily glaring down at you with those innocent blue puppy dog eyes that serve as a stark contrast to the anticipation that runs through his veins. his breathing is steep, you can hear the faint exhales as he continues to stare right through you. holding onto his thick forearm for support as you drunkenly sway side to side, your eyes widen as you spot it.

a thick, aching throb pressed so harshly against his grey sweatpants.

fuuuuuuck.

and then it all makes sense. his childish whining and pouting, the hesitation to unzip your dress. the poor scotsman is so hard, it’s teetering towards painful. unbeknownst to you, the poor thing was tight fistedly pumping at his furiously red cock, hunched over on the edge of the bed as soon as you left. thinking about how he’d die happily if you let him crawl over broken glass just to lap away at your gorgeous pussy, how he would die a proud man if you just let him worship you the way god intended when he put the two of you on earth as soulmates.

“oh… johnny,” you whisper out, a hand absentmindedly reaching low to gently graze the pads of your fingertips against the cockprint in his joggers. a hushed hiss is sucked through his teeth, his eyes narrowing at your touch. oh, how you relished in how he melted against your touch.

now, that wasn’t to say you didn’t love it when he was furiously rutting into you with his large hands splayed across the small of your waist, his thighs slamming into your voluptuous ass at a maddening pace.

“so… fuckin’… mmh— all mine, yeah? yer all mine, aye? say it, say yer all fuckin’ mine. fuck, lass— need ye to say it—“

“all.. yours— mmh—! fuck, love-“

but there was something about having johnny, your 6ft boyfriend with burly muscles and a thick scottish lilt, on his hands and knees begging for you to fuck him.

and this evening was no different.

with a wicked grin growing on your lips, you can’t help but push yourself onto him. “poor, poor baby. so hard, hmm?” you crooned as you stroke against his erection, his body shivering under your touch. he pouts once more, hands either side of your hips as he feels his cock stirring. your fat tits heave against his lean chest, eyes innocently blinking up at him as though you had no idea why he was so turned on. it’s just a little ol’ dress, after all.

“fuck, hen. yer— fuck,” he barely breathes out, trembling as your small hands press against his hard cock, making him whine even more. it turned him on even more as you grin up at him, knowing how wrapped around your finger he was. he would die for you without hesitation. even more so if he got the chance to fuck you one last time.

“use your big boy words, baby,” you hum, a frown on johnny’s lips as you pull away— leaving his poor cock twitching for more.

“please— let me fuck you— please-“ he chokes out as his hands reach down to squeeze and paw so lazily at the mounds of plump fat that drape so beautifully around your curvaceous body. his pleading is akin to a mantra, repeatedly rolling from his tongue like the most steadfast and devote man kneeled before the altar.

you swat his hands away from your body, chuckling as he winces with a childish pout. oh, this was gonna be fun. almost like clockwork, johnny falls to his knees— his messy head of hair burying against your groin as he presses kisses to your thighs. he can smell how delicious you taste, if only you’d let him lavish your flavours. still, he’s repeatedly begging like a dog for you.

“please, by all that's holy— I need a taste of ye so badly, bonnie lass."

his hands are desperately pawing at the roll of fat at the bottom of your ass, crooked fingers grazing the sensitive skin between your thighs. it makes you tense, feeling that bubbling anticipation that coils in your lower abdomen. you swear you can feel a bead of wetness slowly drip from your cunt already.

“baby,” you breathe out like a confession, your hands reaching down to gently hold his cheeks, thumbs rasping against his stubble like a timeless ritual. his puppy dog eyes are peering right up at you, now pleading wordlessly for you to just give in. to put him out of his misery. that look makes you almost cave in right then and there. how touch starved and desperate he looks on his knees, his fingers still shaking against your delicate skin.

with a nod, you gasp at how quick he is to pull you into his lap, panting like a dog in heat as he practically rips the zipper right off of your dress. you slap his hand, huffing with furrowed eyebrows. “careful! it’s new!” you whine out, splaying your chubby thighs out as you straddle your boyfriend.

like a dance as old as time, you suddenly find yourself bare against johnny, stifling your groans as you’re milking his aching cock with a tight fisted grip. his eyes are focused on your tits, how they jiggle with the maddening pace you’re pumping him with. he’s choking out, breathing in bounds and leaps as you keep on edging him so wonderfully.

“please— fuck, yer gonna—“ he grunts, his knuckles whitened as he grips your fat thighs so tightly, you know it’ll leave dark bruises when you both wake up.

you had a strict no touching rule when it came to his begging. he could look, but he couldn’t touch you.

he could watch at how the blood rushed to your perky nipples, tits swaying and heaving. his eyes could only longingly stare right at your drenched cunt, the dim lighting of your bedroom making your slicked folds all the more appealing to his hungry mouth.

“gunna…. cum—“ he pants out so needily, his hips furiously bucking up to meet your white fisted shafting. and just as you feel the muscles in his cock strain in your hand, churning ropes of cum from his swollen balls— you stop. johnny groans aloud, his lonely cock left twitching angrily.

“fucks sake, lass. please, am fuckin’ beggin’ here—“ he groans once more, head resting against your shoulder as he lazily presses kisses to your neck.

“please.. let me cum, i’ve been so good— waitin’ like a good boy. tried tae wank earlier but it wasnae the same—“

his words are like music to your ears. his fingers creep between your thighs once more, eager to touch you. all the air in your lungs evaporate as his calloused fingertip gently swipes against your swollen clit, your hands raking through his mohawk with a tightened grip. “fuck, johnny—“ you sigh out, allowing him to touch you after so long. “such’a… good— good boy for me—“

“aye. please, i need tae fuck ye so badly, lass. please— need ye to ride me—“ johnny sighs out, his aching member throbbing against his abdomen as he lets his fingers dip into your cunt, almost succumbing to an orgasm at the sensation of your thick, warm juices just running so deep inside of you. you needed him just as badly as he needed you, and it was very evident in how you grabbed his wrist, your other hand pushing him onto his back.

how beautiful did johnny sound as you slowly sank down onto his girthy cock, tears in his eyes as your cunt fluttered against his sensitive tip. “oh, fuck— fuck,” he gasps out, his big hands gripping onto your hips as you began to bounce so greedily on him, obscene wet skin slapping against each other echoing around the four walls of your bedroom.

“mommy needed this so badly,” you splutter out, your voice hoarse with pleasure as you let johnny rut up into you, frantically panting like a mad man whilst he reaches to thumb at your clit. “such a good boy, yeah? fuck, gunna—!”

and just like that, johnny growls as he feels your cunt tighten against him. with a loud mewl, you throw your head back as you’re pushed past the precipice of a gut wrenching orgasm— trickles of squirt spreading out over his happy trail as johnny continues to buck his hips up into you.

“gunna cum— oh, fuck—“ he cries out, eyes clenched shut as thick ropes of cum spill up inside of you, a sigh of unbridled relief escaping his lips. oh, it felt so good to finally cum— never mind the fact that he got to cum inside of you. he swore he could see stars as he let you ride out your high on his pulsating shaft, sucking air through his teeth as you both fall silent.

“jesus christ,” johnny groans out after what feels like forever, gently patting your hip with a boyish grin. “i meant what i said, ye know. yer gunna be the death o’ me.” he chuckles, sitting upright as he presses a gentle kiss to your lips. with a content sigh, you lean close, allowing him to wrap his arms around you to draw you closer.

“loved yer dress, by the way. couldn’t keep ma hands off’ae ye. hell, couldn’t keep ma hands off maself after ye left.”

what a charmer.

[jubealea]

Task Force 141 headcanons ; ass or tits

Trying to post somewhat consistently, so have this!!

Warnings: afab!reader , butt stuff (oral , fingering , plugs) , impact play , praise & degradation , brief mommy kink (I’m not sorry) , dirty talk , all the good stuff!

! NSFW under the cut !

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley - Tits

Simon is a man that definitely enjoys larger breasts, but ultimately he’s a ‘boobs are boobs’ guy. He’s addicted to the way your plush flesh spills over the cups of your bra (he bought it for you) that fits just a little too small for your taste (he did that on purpose).

Low-cut shirts are Simon’s favourite, he takes them almost as a challenge to see how long he can stare before his dick is hard and he’s all over you. He can never last more than a few minutes, eventually shoving his large and cold hands beneath your shirt to paw at your “perfect fuckin’ tits, dovey. Can’t help but touch ‘em.”

Titty slapper. 100%. Does it as a form of punishment if you were being particularly bratty that day, starting with firm taps to get you riled up before fully administering the punishment. He’s not entirely gentle with it either, slapping until your tits are red and you’re looking all sorry ‘n teary-eyed at him. Even then, Simon doesn’t budge. If anything, he gets crueler, now pinching and pulling on your sore nipples. “C’mon, y’can take it like a big girl, can’t ya?”

Cpt. John Price - Ass

Has a thing for buttplugs, especially if they can vibrate. The first time John turned it on while deep in your pussy, he felt his entire spine tingle and was emptying his balls into you in seconds. Was hooked ever since but never uses it often. Likes to press down on the base with his thumb when it’s buried in your ass, gruffly chuckling when your hips jerk away.

John is a simple man, he sees you with a skirt on and he’s sauntering over to slip his rugged hands beneath the flimsy fabric and grab a handful. Not wearing any panties underneath? Even better, makes everything easier for him. He fondles your ass like it’s nothing but putty, looking over your shoulder to observe how malleable you are and groaning in your ear the whole time. “Hope you weren’t goin’ anywhere looking like this, love. Can’t have anyone lookin’ at what’s mine.”

Similar to Simon, John uses spanking as a punishment. However, he’s not easing you into it like Simon. As soon as his patience is tested, he’s bending you over his knee to teach you a lesson. Don’t expect to leave his lap until his handprint is welted in your skin, angry and red and just the way John likes it. “Maybe next time you’ll be obedient and listen to your Captain, yeah?”

Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish - Ass

Johnny’s an ass eater, I gotta say it. He adores the soft squeal you make when his tongue strays from your drenched pussy to instead prod and lick at your asshole. He’s absolutely filthy with it too, slurping and huffing like a starved animal because the taste of you drives Johnny absolutely mad.

He will slip in a finger or thumb while he’s hitting it in doggy, it always makes you clench so much tighter around his cock and Johnny swears he goes dumb for a second when he feels it. “Christ, bonnie. Y’like me playin’ with your li’l ass, huh? Greedy li’l thing.”

Wear yoga pants/shorts around this man and you’re not leaving without him getting a good feel. Comes up behind you and presses his already hard dick into you, grinding against and delivering a sharp slap to your ass. His hands are merciless, groping and squeezing your pliant skin all while murmuring under his breath about how you’re “just askin’ to be fucked, walkin’ around like tha’.”

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick - Tits

Kyle would live between your boobs if he could, no matter the size. As long as he has something to latch his lips to, he has zero complaints. He could spend hours just kissing and sucking your tits if you’d let him, thinks it’s so intimate feeling how your nipple pebbles against his tongue and your heart hammers against his lips.

Push-up bras are Kyle’s bread and butter, they get him so hard and if you pair it with a low-cut shirt he’s cumming in his pants the moment his eyes find your cleavage. He cannot stop staring either, watching every delicious jiggle of your perky boobs as you do mundane tasks around the apartment. “Fuck, babe, you’re drivin’ crazy. I swear you’re doin’ it on purpose.”

Kyle is his most vulnerable when he has your tits in his mouth, and he’s not ashamed to admit that. Having Kyle in your lap, stroking his weeping cock and whispering soft praises into his ear as he sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, gets him closer to heaven than anything else. “You have the prettiest tits, momma. Love you so much.”

© aizawaz on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[jubealea]

smut rambling and john price because it always comes back to him

there is something about price, who is the ‘dominant’, for the lack of a better word, in your relationship slipping into a more ‘submissive’ role when he’s pussy whipped. how, when he’s eating you out, he becomes a mess — whining into your cunt while rutting his cock on the mattress for any pressure, and you’re not used to this enthusiasm. to having a partner devour you and thank you at the same time, because what is john’s submission if not his offerings of gratitude?

it happens in an accident. you drag your nails across his scalp and tug at his hair, mid-moan, only to feel john break. you feel his mouth go slack, his body buckling, and the pressure off your clit makes you pause so you look at john, confused, and he—

he looks drunken. he looks ruined and elated, like he’s just… cum.

oh. oh.

you croon, reaching forward to cup his cheek. he blinks in slow bursts, his mind still splintering, and you giggle because, “you love this pussy so bad, don’t you, john?”

he honest to god whimpers, his soul snapping back to his husk before his eyes meet yours.

“please,” he gasps out like he isn’t between your legs, breathing into your cunt, and fucking into you just minutes ago. but you know better now — that is not just what he’s asking for.

“go on,” you murmur. “fill me up, won’t you?”

you expected him to surge up in his desperation but john just. he kisses the inside of your thigh, so reverent it makes your breath stutter, and stares up at you with his darkened eyes.

“thank you,” he rumbles, all flushed and beautiful. “thank you, sweetheart.”

[jubealea]

The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, casting faint, flickering light across the bedroom walls. Outside, the winter winds howled, clawing at the windowsof the inn like a restless spirit, yet within these walls, everything was still. Simon lay on the bed, your steady breaths against his naked chest a comfort he didn’t think he deserved or will ever deserve.

And then he dreamed.

The other version of himself, a man he didn’t want to acknowledge as real, stood coldly at the edge of the grand dining table. That Simon was distant, detached, and unfeeling. His eyes swept over the figure sitting at the far end- you- your dress, not from him, crumpled, your face drawn with exhaustion. You were speaking, but your voice was hollow, words whispered into a void he couldn’t reach. The Simon in the dream didn’t even glance at you. His attention was elsewhere, his mind consumed with matters he thought were more important.

Simon didn’t think anything in the world would ever be more important than you, their precious and lovely Duchess. He didn’t understand his other self- didn’t want to ever have that careless view of you.

When you rose to leave, Simon’s nightmare-self didn’t stop you. You’d excused yourself so quietly that no one could have accused you of disturbing the silence. You left, head bowed, retreating to the dark halls of a cold, lifeless manor this Simon couldn’t relate to John’s lively manor.

Yet that Simon didn’t care. He returned to his work, to his whispered conversations with John, to the loving, fleeting glances exchanged with Kyle and Johnny.

Why did you let her leave?

But you- you grew smaller with each passing day. The halls that should have been filled with your laughter were silent. The dresses this Simon had carefully chosen for you did not exist, and thus you were left in dresses old and patched and unfitting, untouched by his hands. You faded, retreating into yourself, and the whispers of the staff about the “mad Duchess” grew louder.

The staff would never talk about you like that. Why did you let them, Simon?

Simon saw it all. He saw the way you flinched when no one looked at you. He saw the way you hesitated to enter a room, unsure if your presence was welcome. He saw you stop eating, stop dressing, stop existing.

The nightmare was a world of suffocating gray.

Simon stood in the grand halls of their shared home, but it wasn’t the home he knows. The walls were stark and barren, the warmth of family portraits and soft candlelight replaced with cold, lifeless shadows. Dust lingered in the air, undisturbed for weeks, maybe months, blanketing everything in the same muted despair.

There were no portraits of you, beyond the singular one of your marriage to John. Your face had been ripped off it.

He searched for you.

Room after room was empty, yet his heart pounded with dread. The dining table was set but untouched, the once vibrant dishes left cold and congealed. In the study, his desk was stacked with neglected lettersa some from you, written in a trembling hand, pleading for his attention, begging for his care. Each word burns itself into his mind: “Am I so unworthy?”

Your bedroom- no, your prison- was the last place he searched. He was afraid of what he’d find, yet he couldn’t stop his feet from carrying him forward. The room was dim, curtains drawn tight as if the light itself has abandoned you. You were there, curled up on the grand bed, your frail frame dwarfed by the heavy, oppressive canopy above.

You looked… so small. So still.

Simon’s heart ached.

Why did you do this to her?

“Love,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he knelt beside you. His gloved hand reached for your cheek, but it was cold. So cold it sent a jolt of terror through him.

You stirred, just barely. Your eyes fluttered open, dull and glassy, but there was no recognition in them.

“Simon?” Your voice was hoarse, barely audible. “What… are you doing here?”

The question was a knife to his chest.

Why wouldn’t I be here? What has my other self done to you?

“I’m here for you, sweetheart,” he choked out, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. You were too cold; Kyle would never leave your room this freezing; Johnny would never let you go to bed hungry and bereft of warm food. “I’m here now.”

But you pulled away, weakly but resolutely, as if his touch was poison.

“You’re always too late.”

The words echoed in the cold, empty room. He tried to protest, tried to pull you into his arms, but you collapse against the pillows, your breath shallow and fading, fading like smoke until-

And then you were gone.

The weight of it crushed him. The silence was unbearable, suffocating, and all he could do was scream your name into the void that took you from him.

Simon woke with a start.

The gasp tore from his throat before he could stop it, his hand flying to your side. You were there- warm, breathing, alive. His chest heaved, sweat beading on his forehead as the remnants of the dream clung to him like cobwebs.

You stirred, your soft murmur of his name breaking through the haze of fear. You sounded soft, groggy- so full of life it nearly brought him to tears. “Simon?”

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, so close that your sleepy protest was muffled against his chest. “Go back to sleep, love.” He whispered, voice rough. But even as he said it, he knew he wouldn’t be able to.

Hours later, when the sun began to rise, Simon was still awake. He had been watching you, his thumb brushing against your knuckles as he memorized every detail of your face. The soft curve of your lips, the way your lashes rested against your cheeks, the warmth of your skin beneath his touch. You were alive. You were loved. You weren’t-

The dream wouldn’t leave him.

In the morning, when you were fully awake, you made no mention of how tight Simon’s arms were around you. You made no mention of how he asked you again and again if you were warm, full- his arm around your waist in a gentle hold that felt like it was more for his comfort.

You said none of it; but you made sure you kisses him enough until that fear in his eyes slowly dissipated. You and him had come to this inn for a bit of break, and you didn’t want to return to the manor with any sadness clinging to you or Simon.

When you returned to the manor, Simon still made no mention of it.

He didn’t speak of it, though John noticed how Simon hovered closer to you than usual. He didn’t bring it up during lunch, though Johnny commented on how quiet Simon had become, his usual sharp wit dulled. Kyle, perceptive as ever, caught Simon lingering in the halls outside your favorite sitting room, his eyes clouded with something between guilt and sorrow even though looked no different than usual.

But it wasn’t until late that evening, as you sat before the fire with a book in hand, that Simon finally broke.

You didn’t hear him approach at first. He was silent as a shadow, and when you glanced up, startled, he was already kneeling before you.

“Simon?” you asked, concern flickering across your face. “What’s wrong?”

His hands found yours, cradling them as though you might disappear if he let go. For a long moment, he simply looked at you, his gaze tracing every feature of your face. And then, in a voice low and strained, he said, “I saw a world where I lost you.”

Your brow furrowed, but he didn’t let you speak.

“You were there, in the manor, but… no one saw you. Not properly. Not me. Not John. Not Kyle or Johnny. You were alone. Lonely.” His grip tightened on your hands, though he was still gentle. “You withered away, and we didn’t even notice until it was too late.”

The raw emotion in his voice took your breath away. “Simon, it was just a dream,” your voice was soft, though your heart ached at the pain etched into his face.

“No,” he said fiercely, jaw tight. “It wasn’t. It… it felt too real. Like a warning. Like something I could let happen if I wasn’t careful.”

You leaned forward, cupping his face in your hands. “But it didn’t happen, Simon. It won’t. You’re not that man. None of you are.”

His eyes closed, leaning into your touch like a man starved for warmth. “I won’t let it happen,” he murmured. “I’ll never let you feel like that. I’ll make sure you know how much we love you. Every single day.”

You smiled, brushing a kiss against his forehead. “I already do, Simon. You don’t have to worry. Stay with me for now, alright?”

And he did; he would not deny you of anything.

[jubealea]

Call of Duty Men Comforting You

No matter the reason, I hope you have a better day

Price, Gaz, Soap, Ghost, Alex Keller, Konig, Alejandro, Rudy, Keegan

Captain John Price:

Sometimes it’s really embarrassing, I mean come on, he’s a very busy Captain always dipping in and out of combat. He seems to be on a dangerous mission every other week. His life is so much more troublesome compared to yours you feel. So why should you trouble him with your silly little emotions and your silly little fits. It feels ridiculous to even think about discussing it with him so you simply push it down and pretend you don’t feel it around him. But unfortunately for you, John is a perceptive man. He catches on to your dismissal almost immediately and of course he can’t just let it slide. Our beloved captain gives the most exquisite bear hugs. He’ll wrap you up tightly against his chest, sheltering you from whatever ails you. He plants kisses against your temple and rubs your shoulders and back while you’re cocooned against him. Words are not exchanged, John knows that he doesn’t need to speak to make you feel better. He may ask about it later when he feels you’re up to it but for now he’s content to sit with you in silence. He holds you like that for as long as you let him and even if you do try to pull away you don’t make it very far before he’s snatching you up again. You see, whenever he comes home and finds you in a state of upset, it sets him off kilter and he’s uneasy about leaving you alone for any period of time because he finds the thought of you in pain hard to stomach. Comforting you comforts him. You can also count on him being attached to your hip for the remainder of his stay too. He’ll cook dinner with you, rot on the couch with you, shower with you, and eventually curl up in bed with you too.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

Kyle is such a sweetheart and he’s so empathetic, he once cried simply because you were, though he’ll never admit it. He tunes his emotions to yours because he wants to understand you. He often feels that there’s this disconnect between himself and the rest of the world because of his occupation. You are his best influence of normalcy so he finds it necessary to know what you’re feeling. He goes about it in a manner that soothes you, careful to not make it seem like he’s trying to one-up you. He also tends to be very mellow around you. All this to say that his presence alone, the sound of his voice over the phone or the sight of him sitting next to you, is comforting. Partially because he knows that being vulnerable makes him relatable and partially because he’s Kyle. He likes to lay down with you, talk it out if you’re up to it, or just let you rest against his chest. He’ll comb through your hair and work the knots out of your shoulders. Sometimes he even coaxes you into a nap and he’s right there when you wake up, fingers still working through your hair. He likes to talk things through over dinner. Sitting across from each other, boxes of takeout strewn across the table. To be honest, he’s just trying to check all the boxes of things that could be adding to your distress. Hunger, sleep, quality time. In the back of his head he has to be reassured that all your physical needs are being met so that he can isolate the problem and make things better.

John “Soap” MacTavish:

Johnny dearest, spreads cheer like dandelions grow. It’s infectious. But when it comes to you being upset beyond the remedy of a few jokes, Johnny takes on a tenderness that’s tooth-rotting. “Oh lass, don’t cry. Things will get better in time, love.” He’s so gentle and soft that you almost don’t recognize the man in front of you. He also gives good hugs, but where Price lifts you up to cradle you, Johnny will flatten you into the sofa cushions or the bed. He’s a big fan of kissing. He also loves to nuzzle you, nose to nose, your cheek, your temple. He’s surprisingly good with words in these moments, but opting out of humor and going straight for the emotional connection. I guess I should say he’s good at reading the moment and figuring out what you need from him and making it easy to communicate with him. He’s also an expert at erasing any trace of judgement. There’s absolutely nothing to feel uncomfortable about discussing with him because he would never belittle you or make you feel like you didn’t have a reason to be upset.

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

Simon finds himself struggling a bit because he’s not very good with his own emotions so he’s got no clue how to help you with yours. That being said, Simon is on his knees for you. He’ll do anything to make you feel better. He starts with sitting you down and taking a knee in front of you. Then the mask comes off. He’ll cup your cheeks, thumbing away any tears, and try to read your eyes. Are you angry? Is this sadness? Maybe even just frustration? Whatever it is, he's determined to fix it. “Tell me what I need to do, love” If you reach for him, he’s scooping you up and rocking you gently in his lap. If you just want to talk he’ll wait for you like that on his knees the entire time. He’ll press his forehead to yours, his arms dropping to your waist. It’s intimate and in the moment it only makes you closer. Simon figures he hurts enough in silence for the both of you so he’s like Price in that aspect of you also hurting being unbearable. And imagine with me for a short second, if Simon could carry a tune. Just picture it. Imagine being tangled in his arms, he’s got no idea what to say, so he hums a soft melody instead, maybe even sings a few words. His chest vibrates with the deep sound, his lips moving against your cheek. He doesn’t give himself enough credit for how comforting he can be.

Konig:

Oh the big man, good for cuddling. He’ll be knocked out on the couch, head tilted back at an angle that surely can’t be comfortable. You climb onto his lap and lay your head against his chest; his arms are curling around you before he’s even awake, set on holding you no matter what state of consciousness. “Süße?” He grumbles, confused. His chin comes to rest on the top of your head and as soon as he realizes what’s going on he replaces it with his cheek. “Long day too?” One of his hands trails up and down your back protectively. He’ll kick his feet up and recline with you, letting sleep drain the stress from both of you. If the situation requires more care, Konig will literally cradle you in his arms. He kisses your forehead and tries to coax an explanation out of you. He just wants to know how best to help you. Konig reminds of Simon in the sense that he is also pretty helpless in these instances. Konig is made for war, and before you that was all that he did. Now he is trying to grow accustomed to a new gentleness that having a relationship requires. So excuse him if he’s awkward about it at first. He really does try and the effort is very obvious. Now hear me out, Konig has amassed a good collection of poetry and short stories. He's got a loud and horrifically exciting job so he likes to come home and sit down with a good poem and just ponder for a bit. (He also uses it to study English). He’ll read you some of his favorites from time to time. He’s got an excellent narrating voice, especially with the short stories. You’ll lay against his chest while he reads to you, the sound of him lulling you into a doze. After a while he looks down at you and sees you struggling to stay awake. He’ll cup your head and kiss your nose before covering you with a blanket and picking up where he left off.

Alex Keller:

Mr. Keller, ever the saint, comforts like a dream. He just always has the correct hunch about what you need from him. Let’s say it’s been a rough go for you and you come home somehow after him, and you’re at the end of your rope. Dinner is on the table, and there’s dessert too. And Alex is fresh out of the shower and he just looks so good and then he’s hugging you, “I know, baby, I know.” He says as plants a kiss on your forehead. You could cry then and there. “Let’s get you something to eat, yeah?” Before you know you’re sitting across from him and walking through your day with him. He asks all the right questions. Has all the right answers. It’s honestly just so relieving that he seems to know exactly what to do. You wonder where he learned it. You don’t get a chance to ask because as soon as the last bite of dessert is in your mouth he’s wrapping you up in a blanket and snuggling up to you on the couch. You talk some more as he turns on one of your favorite shows. And then things quiet down for the evening. Now if there are tears, if there’s a break down happening, just know that you’re never getting this man off of you. You practically get mummified in his hold. He’s arguably the best at helping you calm down. “Take a breath for me honey. Atta girl–” He holds your hands, his thumb rubbing circles into the backs of them as he defuses your emotions. Once you catch your breath, then he’s all over you.

Alejandro Vargas:

Alejandro strikes me as emotionally intelligent to a level that’s almost scary. He handles any sort of emotional flare either you or life throws at him with grace. It’s almost irritating. If you get angry and fly off the handle, he’s calm as a cucumber. Grief never seems to weigh him down. That being said, he’s so well put together that it almost makes you feel childish to be emotional. You try to keep a cap on it this time around and of course he notices. It does not fly. Alejandro wrangles you into a hug and sways gently back and forth, “It’s better if you tell me what’s wrong before I have to make you talk.” He teases. You answer him with a grunt. “C’mon, you can tell me anything, you should know with how much I love you that I would never let you go on like this.” You slump against him, resigned to let him help you. He also gives exceptional advice and can coach you through a lot of things. But he also knows when you need him to listen. A good and proper therapy boyfriend. He’s got several of his mother’s recipes that he keeps on hand too. Comfort food that heals the soul. He also tells a riveting story and will chat at you while he cooks for you. He also loves a good drive to cool down and if you’re up for it the two of you will cruise all over. Sometimes he drives until you fall asleep in the seat next to him, or you park on a hilltop and stargaze, or sometimes it ends with the both of you singing to the songs of the radio. But it only ends when you’re finally refreshed.

Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra:

Ever the loyal one, Rudy finds it hard to leave your side at any given moment let alone when something has upset you. In this case, it was him being prepared to burn to death while chasing Hassan. He knows he can’t not do his job, but seeing your tears absolutely rips him to pieces. “You almost died, Rudy.”

“I know and I’m sorry.” He reaches out to you but you just stand there, it breaks him even more.

You chew your lip and fold your arms, “I know you’re dedicated to your job, and I love that about you but was that really worth your life?”

Rudy takes a deep breath, reaching for you again, “If it keeps you safe, then yes, always.” This time you let him reel you in. It makes you feel even worse to hurt him but seeing the bruises he got from getting shot in his vest, the blood caked in his hair, the rasp in his voice from the smoke, it was all too much. You always worry and he always does his best to reassure you, but actually seeing the evidence of bullets hitting his body really rocks your world. Any sense of reassurance you had for his safety is gone when you realize just how easily he could slip through your fingers. Warm hands cup your jaw. You meet the intense gaze of Rudy’s glossy brown eyes, feel his breath fan across your lips. “You are always my priority, and in my line of work, sometimes that means paying with either my life or my conscience. Know that I love you and that is why I do what I do.”

Keegan “Bova” Russ:

It may seem like Keegan would be annoyed with you for being upset but more than anything, Keegan is very flattered when you express emotions around him. He will get salty if you try to hide it from him, not salty at you but at himself. He knows he can sometimes be condescending and he gets angry at himself when it makes you shy about things. His remedy is to be unusually soft with you during this time. Imagine laying down, staring at the ceiling in careful contemplation. And then Keegan’s weight drops onto the mattress beside you. You lay in silence, arms folded, and just stare for what seems like eternity. Keegan reaches out and wedges his fingers between yours. Your palms fit perfectly together. “Wanna talk about what’s going on?” His thumb rubs soothingly over your knuckles. “No.” “Alright, what can I do for you then?” When you look over at him, he’s already looking back. You’ve always thought his eyes were unbelievably pretty, especially now when they’re filled with tenderness. You roll towards him and like a magnet he reaches to take you in his arms. He tucks you protectively into his chest and massages your nape. “I’ve got you.” He whispers. Keegan runs warm and the contours of his body perfectly mold to you. It’s almost like he was made for this.

It’s another thing when you cry. It feels like someone is squeezing his heart in their fist. It feels like torture to him. Everything he does out there, out in the field, on missions, everything is so that this does not happen. So you don’t get hurt. Yet this entire situation is unpreventable. There’s nothing he could have done to stop it and he hates feeling so helpless. A tentative palm comes to rest on your cheek. A shaking thumb brushes from the soft inner corner of your eye to the rise of your cheekbone. Keegan swallows hard, teeth worrying his lip, and tries to figure out what to say. In the end it winds up the same way, Keegan sheltering you against his body because that’s all he really knows how to give.

Dear Reader,

Hello and thank you for reading this post. If you enjoyed and would like to see some more please feel free to drop by my ask box. Have a nice day,

-the author

[jubealea]

Johnny talks a lot, but in this moment, watching your face as it basks in the blue glow of the tank, he’s stunned to silence.

There’s words on his tongue, laying flat and heavy as he watches your mouth pop open, teeth poking out into a small, excited smile when a particularly large shark floats by.

It’s the way you look so innocent, so pure. Though you’ve seen unimaginable things, lived through indescribable pain, your features relax into joy, your shoulders lose tension, and he’s mesmerized.

“Johnny,” Your voice is a whisper, quiet and shy, he sees your chest heave, and his own stops moving.

He’s scared to breathe, to blink, terrified that the closing of his eyes would make you disappear. He needs to see this, to look at how ethereal you stand.

Like an angel, a halo of colors warping at your feet, over your clothes. It casts you in this dull light, peppering your cheeks.

“Johnny look,” He feels you tug his sleeve.

His angel.

“Look, here it comes.” There’s this breathless excitement in your words, and he knows it’s close by the way you shimmy your knees in anticipation, backs of your fingers covering perfect lips.

His gaze should be fixated on the smudged glass, analyzing the creature that has you so enamored, and he knows this, but he also knows he can’t. The mere thought of shifting his eyes to look somewhere else is a burden his shoulders aren’t capable of carrying.

Your hand reaches out, mindlessly finding his wrist, and you squeeze, making him shiver. Not for one second does he want to lose this.

“Oh baby,” You set him on fire, make his skin tingle. The work of a seraph. “it’s huge.” The whale shark practically glides in the water, spotted fins creating shadows that make you move forward.

He watches again, lips opening into a grin he’d never felt them make before, and yet, he’s still fixated on you.

This smile should be for the creature in front of him, for the wonderful opportunity he’s been gifted, that is, to stand here on stained carpet and watch one of God’s greatest gifts as it shuffles by, but it’s not, how could it be when you look so beautiful?

“Johnny, look.” You gasp, and he catches this glint in your eyes, a childish gleam that he’s yet to pull from the depths of your soul, but this did it, and he swears there’s tears in his eyes.

What did he do to deserve something so good?

“I think it’s looking at me.” He watches you reach up your hand, fingertips brushing the glass as tenderly as you touch his face.

You pull him closer on instinct, hand clasping as tight as you can, as you let out a laugh worthy of the stars.

You turn to look at him, finally, meeting his watery eyes and rugged smile. “Do you see this?”

He can only nod, watch your eyes crinkle up and nose follow suit. “I do.” It’s soft, accent-laced, and a prayer.

I do I do I do. Forever.

You make him move his hand too, lace yours over it and press it against the glass. As though he’s touching it, just like you had before.

“It’s beautiful.” Your voice is a whisper, drowned out by the excited laughter of the people around you as they watch the scene unfold.

The creature is still there, face-to-face, and Johnny looks at it, sees the way it watches you.

He nods, catches the thing’s eyes. It’s staring at you the way he does. Utterly mesmerized, utterly stunned.

He thinks they understand each other. They’re speaking, talking.

“It is.”

She’s beautiful, is what it says, and he sees the familiar curiosity blaze through the reflection of him.

He draws his hand into a fist, feeling the way your palm perfectly molds over his own, then he lightly taps his knuckles, dropping his arm until lands around your waist.

“I know.” Johnny mutters aloud. He shakes his head once more, watches as the creature maneuvers itself to continue gliding throughout the water.

You sniffle, and he’s back in reality, a haze of euphoria gliding over his mind and making him lax beside you. “Know what?”

You’ve come back too, back to this existing life form, limbs warm and lively. He feels your body migrate into his side, cheek landing on his shoulder and breath fanning along the part of his neck peeking out from the scarf.

He doesn’t know what to say. His mouth wants to open, words want to pour out like a waterfall, but he just pats your hip, kisses your head, finds solace in watching kaleidoscopes of fish light up your figure.

The whale shark knew, and he bids goodbye, guiding you toward the jellyfish.

“Nothin’ wee lamb, nothin’ at all.”

goes back into my cave to hide

[jubealea]

Princess Treatment w/ John Price

His workaholic habits do not stop after he leaves base to come home to you...

We already know he's opening up every damn door for you. He has the magical skill of knowing when doors need a push or a pull so he never fails to laugh when you pull a push door. "Tha's why you shoulda left it to me, love. Stubborn thing, you are." He'll reach over your head to push the door open for you, plopping a kiss to your hair while he does.

His masculinity does not get in the way of holding your purse for you whenever you're out together, his big bear hands wrapped around the handle of your little black purse.

He refuses to let you carry your own luggage, doesn't care if it takes him multiple trips to get both of your bags into the hotel or rental house. He'll get all exasperated if you insist on helping. "You had a long drive. Lemme handle it, pet." (even though he's the one that drove...)

There's nothing he loves more than ordering for you at a restaurant. His voice is filled with an unreasonable amount of pride when he says "And for the missus..." before telling the waiter your order.

Speaking of food, if you ever eat anything that needs cutting or even doctoring up, expect him to jump in. "Now, now, doll, you know tha's my job." He'll tsk and gently take the knife from you to cut your steak into bitesize pieces or to butter your roll. Yes, he will go as far as to bring the fork up to your lips and feed you if you don't put up a fuss.

He will absolutely pay for your manicure and then coo when you offer him your hand to show off your new nails. "Real pretty, love... Don't go chippin' 'em now. Come sit."

Price always sets up a nice place for you on the couch or bed, blanket at the ready and pillows right where you like them. "Come on now, Mrs. Price." He'll pat the spot next to him like one would for a dog. Of course, he likes it best when he can be your pillow and personal heater (that man is always warm, always) but sometimes he's got to find a way to coax his little love into his arms and away from chores.

Naturally, he will swat your hands away when you bend down to tug on your heels or tie your sneakers. He'll crouch down to place your foot on his bent knee, patting your calf firmly and leaning in to press a kiss to your ankle once he's done.

If you nick yourself while shaving, he'll level you with a disapproving stare and then insist that he do it for you next time. After all, he has plenty of experience with keeping his facial hair so tidy. "Can't have my woman hurtin' herself, now can I?" You bet your bottom dollar he's using his fancy razors and shaving creams on you, extra delicate to make sure he doesn't mar your skin.

He's terrified to smoke around you after you coughed one (1) time and now he only will take his cigars out on the back porch or in his office with the window open. If you come in, he'll snuff it out asap and usher you out of the room, shushing your protests.

I'll probably eventually add a part two cuz soft Price is everything to me hehe... Can you tell my standards are ridiculously high?? Also, does anyone have an accent writing guide for TF-141?? I am painfully American.

[jubealea]

141 + Love Languages (giving and receiving)

Characters: John Price, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley

Warning(s): none (but still, as always, MDNI)

John definitely prefers acts of service in terms of giving. For the one he loves, he's always going to open doors, pull out chairs, do things without being asked, and just...Help however and whenever he can. In return, he will ask for nothing...Except for you to spend some quality time with him. Your presence alone is a reward, and all he wants. So please, drag him to that place you want to go to, no matter what it is. Bring him anywhere and everywhere, or just stay at home with him. He won't care...Just be by his side, that's all he asks.

Kyle's love language in terms of giving is quality time. When he's home, he just wants to spend all of his time with you. Expect a lot of dates. And he'll listen to you talk for hours on end, either engaging in the conversation actively, or letting you ramble while he just gives you the most adoring looks. As for receiving, he's definitely just the inverse of John...Since he loves acts of service. If you cook his favorite meal, drop everything to help him, or just do something so he doesn't have to...He's falling in love all over again. Especially after missions...If you tell him to relax so you can take care of everything, he'll propose on the spot (even if you're already married).

Johnny is a physical touch guy for sure. He is like a dog all too excited to pounce and get his paws on you whenever you're in close proximity to him. You'll wake up with him cuddling you, face buried in your hair. The day is spend with his hand/hands on you in one way or another. The nights? That's right, your limbs are tangled together and he is not getting up or letting go anytime soon. And as much as he loves physical touch for giving and receiving...He loves receiving some words of affirmation. Compliment him and he is yours. The compliments could be on anything and everything. Same with encouragement and praise, Johnny is a BIG BIG praise guy. Hearing it from your lips is all he needs.

I could see Simon as the type to love giving gifts. If Johnny is like a dog, then Simon is like a cat...Bringing you little gifts and presents (thankfully none of his gifts are dead mice or birds). If he notices you longingly looking at something long enough, he'll decide its yours. The price is not a factor, he's getting you whatever it is. You might even forget what it is you said you wanted three days ago...But he didn't. He ordered it immediately. As for receiving...Physical touch. Simon is not the type to let just anyone touch him. In fact, he hated it for the most part...Until you. Any and all touches from you, he melts into it. Particularly loves your nails gently scratching his scalp if you're petting his head or messing with his hair. And if there's proof of your touch, like lipstick stains or hickies or scratches from an intense night, he's NOT hiding it. Wears them with pride.

[jubealea]

rosewater

You’re the loveliest person Steve's ever seen, making him forget everything—even his own damn feet!

tags: steve rogers x you; established relationship; tooth-rotting fluff; SIMP ALERT!! SIMP ALERT!!; mr. steven grant rogers is a total goner for you.

warnings: none! no gendered language used for the reader.

word count: 729.

a/n: pictures used in header are from pinterest. dividers used here are by @saradika-graphics. mcu and its characters aren't mine. likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!! hope you'll enjoy reading this!! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

The morning air is crisp, with winter's soft chill still lingering even as the promise of a warmer day peeks through. Steve walks beside you, his boots scuffing lightly against the pavement, each step unhurried. His vacation isn't over yet, and this week after New Year's feels like an extra gift. Borrowed time, he thinks, and he’s intent on savoring every moment of it—especially when it means moments like this: walking you to work.

You’re chatting away, your voice weaving a story about your family’s Christmas get-together, the one he missed while he was away. He listens intently at first, catching bits about your cousin’s infamous baking disaster and the hilarity of a chaotic gift exchange. Your laugh dances in the air as you recount your aunt accidentally unwrapping someone else’s present, and Steve finds himself smiling, warmed by the sound.

But then… he gets distracted.

It’s not anything else that pull his attention, but you.

The way the morning sun plays in your hair, turning it into a soft halo. The faint flush on your cheeks from the cold, a shade that deepens every time you laugh. The way your scarf sits a little crooked, like you’d rushed to put it on but didn’t care enough to fix it. Your breath puffs out in tiny clouds as you speak, your eyes bright and sparkling with joy, and suddenly, Steve feels his chest tighten.

God, you’re beautiful.

So much so that he doesn’t pay attention to where he’s walking anymore. He doesn’t notice anything but you. And then, his foot catches—on nothing.

Steve stumbles, his balance tipping for just a second. He catches himself quickly, but the movement startles you, and your hand shoots out to steady him before he fully rights himself.

“Steve!” you exclaim, your voice filled with worry as your hand stays on his arm. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he answers quickly, his voice just a little higher than usual. He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze as heat rushes to his face. “I, uh… just got distracted.”

Your brows knit together in concern. “By what?”

Steve hesitates, looking down at you. You’re standing so close now, your hand still lightly resting on his arm, and that crease of worry between your brows tugs at something deep in his chest. He could brush it off, laugh it away—but no. Not when you’re looking at him like that.

“You,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re just… really cute, you know that?”

Your eyes widen, and for a moment, you’re completely still, your breath catching in your chest. Then your cheeks take on a soft, glowing warmth, a color that feels as though it could melt the winter chill, and you duck your head, letting out a flustered laugh.

“Steve,” you mumble, half-embarrassed, half-scolding. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not?” he asks, the corners of his mouth twitching into a soft smile. He tilts his head, trying to catch your gaze, his earlier stumble forgotten entirely.

“Because…” You falter, your words trailing off as you press your lips together, clearly unsure of how to respond.

Steve watches you, utterly captivated by how adorably flustered you are. His heart feels like it’s swelling in his chest, overflowing with affection, and he knows without a doubt that this—you—is his favorite kind of moment.

But before he can tease you further, you reach out and grab his hand, your fingers lacing firmly through his. “Come on,” you mutter, your voice quieter now. “We’re going to be late.”

Steve lets you pull him along, his hand enveloping yours as though it belongs there. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, content to watch you as you walk ahead, your blush still lingering, your head tilted slightly away from him like you’re trying to hide it.

But he doesn’t miss the way your grip tightens, soft and warm.

Steve gives your hand a gentle squeeze, a soft grin tugging at his lips as warmth floods his chest. He doesn’t need to say it aloud again—not yet. He’s too busy soaking in the sweetness of this moment, of you—

Because you don’t just look cute.

You’re everything lovely wrapped into one, and Steve thinks to himself, not for the first time, that he must be the luckiest guy in the world.

if you've enjoyed this fic and would like to be tagged in my future fanfics, please drop an ask into my inbox! thank you so much for reading this!! <333

[minors and ageless blogs will not be tagged in the nsfw fics, by the way! i'm sorry!!]

steve rogers masterlist || general masterlist

[jubealea]

The “Shared wife” trope and you’re John Price’s darling little housewife. The light of his life. His precious angel. The home he keeps in his house.

You are truly the best thing that has happened to him; all soft smiles and sweet words, a warm embrace he can melt to and shed all of the sharp edges he must bear whenever he’s deployed and carries the weight of the world across his shoulders.

The same world outside your little home was a cruel one, one where John had made more enemies than he cared to count. Each mission, each order barked into a comms unit, and each bullet fired carried a price- one that weighed on him more heavily than the tactical vest he wore.

But there was you, and he’d do it all again if it means having you safe and sound.

His darling. His beloved. The soft warmth of your hands, the sweetness of your smile. You were his sanctuary, his reprieve from the shadows of his work. And because of that, he could not- would not- allow anything to take you from him.

It wasn’t just him anymore, though. They were always there, watching. Protecting- for you belonged to John, and so did they, but you weren’t sharpened like them and you didn’t have to be; they’d be sharp enough for you, too. Guard dogs, their leashes held by John.

Especially when John tugged on those leashes and had them stay with you while he was away on a different mission. As if he’d ever leave you alone, all by your lonesome.

Kyle was the easiest to adjust, his role almost seamless. He lingered in the background, watchful but not intrusive and never forceful in joining your space, his easy charm disarming to anyone who might venture too close. He’d follow John’s orders without hesitation, his voice steady over the phone and comms after Price sent him to patrol the property’s edges.

“It’s quiet out here,” he’d murmur, voice a low hum in the radio. “No sign of trouble. As it should be.”

Soap, of course, tugged harder on the leash. He had energy to spare, bounding about the property like an overzealous hound. But it wasn’t just his sharp instincts that made him invaluable; it was his ability to diffuse tension with a grin and a joke, to make you feel like the safest person in the world, and coax you back inside while distracting you from whatever lingered outside.

It shouldn’t be for you to worry. All you needed to do was stay your lovely, content self, curled up all warm and cozy in your favorite spots like a particularly cherished kitten.

“Dinnae worry, lass,” he’d say as he hefted a bag of groceries from your car, muscles flexing under his shirt. “Nothin’ gets past us. We’re like the bloody Buckingham Palace guards- but more handsome. What are you making for lunch? How about I show you a family recipe, eh?”

And then there was Simon.

Ghost was quiet, his presence as much a shadow as his name suggested. But you always knew when he was near, the subtle shift in the air around you as his dark eyes followed your every move. He was the one who lingered just a little longer after everyone else had gone to bed, his massive frame nearly invisible against the darkened walls and only showing himself just so you wouldn’t get frightened.

“You don’t have to do that.” You’d tell him softly, catching sight of him through the kitchen window as he circled the house, even though you were so sure John was overreacting and these men needed to calm down. “Si, please. It’s cold tonight, too.”

But he would only shake his head, low and unyielding. “It’s my job to keep you safe. Don’t worry about me. Let’s get you back inside, Price’ll have my head if you catch a cold.”

And John truly kept them in line, orders sharp and precise. It was a dynamic they understood instinctively, honed from years of serving under him. He was their captain, their leader, their handler, and when it came to you, his commands were absolute.

But you were the one who softened them.

It started small: a hand on Kyle’s shoulder when he seemed tense, massaging the knots out, a gentle laugh at one of Soap’s outrageous jokes with his hand on your lower back, a quiet “thank you” murmured to Ghost as he handed you something you hadn’t even asked for yet ended up needing. They responded to you as if they were attuned to you, sharp edges dulling in your presence until they were handing you the leashes themselves.

Soap once joked about it- how they were like a pack of loyal dogs, their ears pricking up whenever you entered the room.

“You’ve got us all wrapped around your little finger, love,” he’d teased, earning a gruff “Shut it, MacTavish” from Price. Because they stayed, even when John returned. Because they belonged.

But it was true.

They followed John’s orders without question, but when you asked something of them, it wasn’t obedience- it was devotion. Ask them for the world, and they will drag it to your doorstep bleeding and heaving. Ask them for the sun, and they will tear it out of the sky to present it to you on burnt palms.

“Simon, will you check the garden gate for me? I think the latch is loose again.” You’d say, and he’d rise without hesitation, broad shoulders brushing the doorway as he left. And then he’d return, and patiently wait until you’d kiss his cheek.

“Kyle, do you mind grabbing the mail? It’s pouring out there.”

“Anything for you, darling.” Gaz would reply, already pulling on his jacket, and when he’d return he’d make sure you wouldn’t get wet while he leaned down and stole a kiss on your forehead.

“Johnny, help me with this jar, will you?”

“Aye, lass, but only if you kiss me.” Soap would tease, though he’d already have the jar in hand, his grin softening when you rolled your eyes. Still, he’d obediently lower his head for you to peck.

And John watched it all with quiet pride. They were his men, and he trusted them with his life. Now, he trusted them with yours. Because they were his, and you were his, and all of you should have been together from the start anyways.

You were worth protecting. Worth loving. Worth the world itself, because you were one and the same to them.

The first time you teased him about it- about how he seemed to have the entire Task Force at his beck and call- he simply pulled you into his arms and kissed you until you were clinging to his shoulders, breathless and warm.

“They’d do anything for you,” he murmured against your hair, then. “Same as me. You’re ours to protect.”

It was possessive, yes, but not in a way that stifled you, not like shackles that bound you to a prison. It wasn’t a cage; it was a fortress, each of them a stone in the walls that kept you safe.

And you, their sweet, lovely little wife, were the center of it all. Safe, cherished, and loved beyond measure.

[jubealea]

(In which you are a witch living in the woods, and yet the crown’s knights, rather than bringing you to be executed, have taken to protecting you in exchange for your services)

The forest had always been a place of mystery, its ancient trees and thick undergrowth concealing stories older than anyone alive. Deep within its heart, where sunlight filtered in golden beams through the canopy, stood your cottage. Ivy curled up its stone walls, and a garden thrived in the clearing. Wind chimes, crafted from bones and stones, tinkled softly in the breeze, their melodies laced with protective enchantments.

You were a witch, but not the kind whispered about with fear and suspicion. The knights of the realm knew you well- not as a threat but as a keeper of secrets, a healer, and a source of quiet, unassuming power- a companion to turn to when things got rough. You gave them charms and potions, warded them against misfortune, and offered refuge when the weight of their duties grew too heavy. In return, they brought you herbs, rare ingredients, and protection from the crown.

And now, that very same forest seemed to hold its breath as Captain Price approached your cottage, his figure blending seamlessly with the shadows of the trees. You felt the subtle hum of your wards shifting, recognizing the familiar presence and allowing him to pass. By the time his knuckles rapped softly on the door, you were already reaching for the latch with an eager smile.

“Evening, Captain,” you greeted, as warm as the crackling hearth, and stepped aside to let him in. “Come in before the chill settles.”

He nodded in thanks, ducking under the low frame of your door. “Evening, love,” he murmured, setting a small bundle wrapped in cloth on your table. “Brought you some chamomile and wild mint. Picked it near the south clearing on patrol and thought you’d probably have better uses for them than me.”

“Always so thoughtful,” you unwrapped the herbs and inhales their fresh, earthy scent, while John simply watching, a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “These are perfect! Thank you, John, truly.”

Your fingers moved with practiced ease as you began sorting the herbs, placing them into jars and tying some into small bundles to dry. The rhythm of your movements seemed to ease the tension in Price’s shoulders as he sank heavily into one of the wooden chairs by the hearth, his eyes on you and only you.

“Tea?” you offered, even though you were already reaching for your collection of loose leaves. You bustled about, waving a hand with a glittery, starry shimer left in the wake of your movements; teapot and teacups toddled around in formation, going to their stations.

“Aye, tea sounds nice. Thank you, love.” He said, removing his helmet and setting it on the table.

You chose a blend of lavender, chamomile, and a hint of rosehip, brewing the mixture in the pot that had seen countless evenings like this. As you poured the steaming liquid into a cup, you murmured a soft incantation under your breath- just a touch of magic to soothe his weary spirit and exhausted body. A soft ting! came as the spell took hold, and for a split second, wispy hands curled around the cup before disappearing.

“Here,” you hummed, handing him the cup. “For peace of mind.”

Price sipped the tea, his gaze fixed on the fire crackling in your hearth that waved at him. The silence between you was comfortable, filled with the unspoken understanding that had developed over years of quiet visits and late nights spent together.

“Long day, John?” you asked gently, breaking the stillness. Your brows were furrowed, leaving creases in the skin of your forehead.

He nodded, hand curling around the cup, and sighed. “Long patrols, longer nights. The crown’s getting twitchy, and it’s falling on us to keep the peace.”

Your face softened. “And yet you still find time to bring me herbs. You’re too good to me, John.”

He glanced at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve done more for us than you realize. The men sleep easier knowing you’re out here, keeping watch in your own way.”

You looked away, focusing on the charm you’d been crafting earlier in the day. Made of braided black thread and adorned with tiny iron beads, it hummed faintly with the protective magic you’d woven into it.

“I made this for you,” you said, holding it out. “It’s for endurance- to keep you strong during the long days ahead.”

Price extended his arm, letting you tie the charm around his wrist. “Thank you, love.” He said, his voice low and sincere. His eyes lingered on yours, a quiet warmth in their depths.

When he stood to leave, you followed him to the door, pausing as he adjusted his armor. As easy as breathing, he tilted his head down as you stepped closer, pressing a kiss to his temple. The bristles of his beard brushed your cheek, and he stilled, letting the moment stretch.

“Take care, John.” You whispered, your hand lingering on his arm.

He nodded, his expression unreadable as he placed his hat back on his head. “I’ll make sure no one stumbles too close,” he said, tone firm- a promise he’s repeated many times, and never once broken. “This place stays yours, and no one will ever know.”

As he disappeared into the trees, the wards around your home seemed to settle, reassured by the promise of the man who had always been your quiet protector. You returned inside, the faint scent of chamomile lingering in the air, a reminder of the steady presence that kept your world safe.

It was not just him, of course, and you eagerly awaited the visit from the other knights who have kept your secret.

Masterlist.

[jubealea]

Give

King!John Price x Fem!Reader

A/N: It's FINALLY here holy shit y'all. sorry for the delay, it was just slow going mainly bc i got stuck on the smut lmao. SO, i just decided to post the bulk of the story now and then post a second smutty part later. I hope you all enjoy, and as usual I love to hear what you guys think!! Comments, reblogs and such are greatly appreacited. Also: this fic was inspired by the song Give by Sleep token as well as the song Kingdom of cards by Bad Omens! Word Count: 7.6k (oops) Warnings: Arranged marriage, mentions of past abuse to reader, reader's father is abusive, hurt/comfort, soft john price, mentions of consummation, fluff, just so much fluff.

The room is eerily silent, the complete opposite of what you expected on a day like this.

Your wedding day.

Your mother had stepped out once the handmaid that was provided to you had finished helping you with your dress - panicked when she couldn’t find the veil that she was passing down to you. Your father had entered as soon as your mother had left, and you dared not break the silence first. You know what will happen if you do. 

But you can’t stop the way you fidget, wiping your hands down the front of the bodice of your dress, tugging at the fingers of your silk gloves. You hate wearing gloves, they itch and they are too warm - but your father insisted, hand raised threatening above his head when you almost muttered a complaint. 

So. You’re wearing the gloves -

“Stop fidgeting,” your father bites, standing abruptly from the armchair in the corner to storm over to you. 

The flinch that jolts your body is instantaneous, shying away from the storm of a man approaching you. The only reason you don’t shield yourself is because even you know he won’t do anything. Not today at least. 

Can’t risk marking up the wares. 

But it doesn’t stop him from gripping your arm like a vice, his nails digging into your skin beneath the delicate fabric of the ornate gown. You choke down the whimper, but fail to hide the fear you know is present in your gaze as you stare up at your oppressor. 

“You will not ruin this for us,” he all but hisses. “I understand that decorum is a foreign concept to you, but if you so much as think about sabotaging this - me - I will-”

“I found it!” Your mother calls from the other side of the door, her voice shoving your father away from you like a storm would a willow branch. 

She breezes into the room with an elegance you could never hope to match, a beauty you could never achieve - at least according to your father. She smiles at you, and you don’t fail to notice the way she takes in your shrunken appearance, the tense in your shoulders, before her eyes flicker to her husband. 

She knows. She’s known the whole time - for she bears the scars too. 

Her smile becomes tight, but she doesn’t say anything, just comes to you with the veil raised in her hands. It’s floor length, the back so long it trails even past your dress train, the lace details so intricate you can’t imagine how long it took the original creator to tailor it. it has a front piece as well that drapes in front of your face, falling to just above your collar bone where it will stay until your future husband unveils you. 

The king. 

You have to fight the shudder that threatens to run through you at the thought. You’ve only met him once, and at the time neither of you knew you would end up wedding one another. The King rules over the land, but there are many territories, many clans - his the most fearsome of all. You’d heard whispers through your childhood of the ruthlessness of the capitol city in which the King resides. Its citizens were born and bred to fight - knights and soldiers trained to kill. 

Your father’s words ring in your ears as your mother fixes your veil to your head, fussing with the fabric. 

‘If you even think about sabotaging me…’

Any sane person would. They would probably try to run for the hills when they found out they were to wed the ruthless King, a king that has never lost a battle, a King whose Kings-guard have a reputation of gutting those who dare defy him.

But not you. Little did your father know that you would do everything in your power to escape him. 

For even death must be a better sentence than your life back home.

——

Every woman you’d spoken to back home always talked about their nerves on their wedding day. Some from fear, some from joy or just pure excitement. Some of them talked of the way they got sick just before walking down the aisle or the way their hands hook or their palms sweat. 

You don’t feel anything. 

It’s just pure numbness. As if you are outside of your body watching as the doors to the massive temple open wide, all in attendance standing immediately. You can see the King, your future husband standing on the dais in front of a priest, the incense from the thurible curling around them both as your father all but marches you down the aisle. 

You can’t feel your feet or your hands, you can’t even register your intakes of breath. The only thing that runs through your panicked mind is that at least your future husband is handsome.  You remember having a similar thought when you met him all those years ago at a kingdom wide celebration here in this very city. He was easy to spot, sitting above the jousting ring, crown atop his head, surrounded by his three kings guard. 

He takes up the whole room even now, commanding it with his very presence as the priest introduces him to the crowd - to you.

“King Johnathan Price, third of his name, King of…” you zone out again, instead focusing on the very man being heralded.

He lacks the armor he usually wears, exchanging it instead for rich garments of silk and other fine fabrics. A long purple cloak, the collar adorned with fur of what appears to be a wolf, hangs from his shoulders, held together with a heavy golden chain decorated with the sigil of his house. 

The crown still sits atop his head, golden and gleaming, each crevice and gemstone polished to perfection and nestled amongst chestnut colored locks. Only when you approach the dais do you notice the grey starting to pepper his temples and beard. 

This is also the moment that you seem to come back to yourself, your soul being sucked back into your body as you and your father come to a halt at the bottom of the stairs and piercing blue eyes capture your own despite the veil. 

He smiles, a soft gentle thing that makes your lips turn down in a frown, the action only further deepened when the priest says something about your father relinquishing your hand and soon two strong arms wrap around you too tightly for a loving embrace.

“Remember what I said,” he says lowly, and to onlookers it looks like a father telling his beloved daughter goodbye. But you know better. 

“Do not disappoint me.”

And then he’s placing a kiss to your glove covered knuckles before placing your hand in the much larger calloused one before you. 

The steps up the dais are a blur until you’re standing face to face with your fate. The priest rambles on as the king takes your other hand in his own, holding them between your bodies and all you can think about is how warm his hands are and how much larger he is up close. Your ears are ringing so loud you almost miss the prompt from the priest to say the scripted words, but your father’s threat echoes loudly in your mind and you speak the words automatically, your voice mixing with the rumbling baritone of the man before you as you recite them together. 

The priest then sprinkles a fragrant oil on your joined hands, waves the thurible around as the crowd chants some vague prayer to bless your union. And then the words you didn’t realize you were dreading until the moment they are spoken into the air. 

“You may kiss your bride.”

A hush falls over the crowd as the king releases your hands to reach for the edges of your veil. He lifts slowly, and you swear you stop breathing as he places it delicately over your head, finally revealing you to him. 

And he gives you that soft smile again, the one that’s so contradictory to the stories whispered in your ears. His eyes crinkle gently at the corners as his hands come up to cradle your face, again touching you like delicate porcelain as he dips down to press his lips to your own. 

His lips are soft, softer than you ever imagined, and his hands are so warm against the skin of your cheeks, and you feel something jump in your chest and-

It’s over so fast. 

The crowd erupts in cheers as he pulls away, giving you one last reassuring smile before you both turn to face the crowd and his hand drops to take your own before raising them both above your heads in rejoice as you both descend the dais. 

Rice and flowers and the like are thrown your way as you leave the temple, and once again your body works on it’s own set of instructions, following the kings lead and the attendants ushering you both through a maze of hallways until soon your seated at a large table in an even larger dining hall and the celebration has truly begun. 

Food, more than you’ve ever seen in a place at once is piled onto the tables, music floats merrily through the room, entertainers flooding the center of the floor to vie for their King’s attention. Only when the food has been served, the wine poured, and people start eating does anything manage to catch your attention. 

And once again, it’s those damned hands. 

One comes to settle atop your own that sits rigid in the table, fork held tightly between your fingers as you have yet to even touch the food set before you. 

“Are you alright?”

His voice is like a siren song, yet also reminding you of rolling thunder, a comforting lull that soothes the nerves that must have come crashing down upon you as the weight of today’s actions finally catches up with you. 

You turn to look at the king - no - your husband, and you have to fight the burn at the back of your eyes. 

Bright blue stares back at you, brows creased with worry as he gazes at you, and you’re suddenly aware of another set of eyes on you. You can feel them burning into the back of your head, and you can’t help but steal a quick glance, only to see the seething gaze of your father looking back at you as he gestures silently to your plate. 

Oh gods…you look down to your plate, then to the kings, and you’re just now realizing his Kings-guard is also sat at the table with you, two on your side and one on his left, and they’ve all finished at least Half their plates and you haven’t even touched yours-

“Forgive me, my King,” you rush out, sitting up straighter, and immediately moving to pick up a piece of fruit - you think it’s a strawberry but you can’t be sure, not past the buzzing in your head. “I did not intend to appear ungrateful. I’m merely…nervous that’s all.”

His brows furrow further, and that must have been the wrong thing to say.

“I just meant…I’m excited, the nerves stem from joy I assure you-”

Soon the King is abandoning his utensils all together, reaching over to take your hand in both of his own, as that concerned look never leaves his face. 

“It’s alright,” he says softly, that smile coming back to his face when he sees you relax slightly at his words. “And please, call me John,” he chuckles a little, “We’re married after all. No need for the formalities.”

You nod, “Of course, my King - John-”

“Aye, dinnae listen to him, lass,” an accented voice speaks from your right, and you startle slightly when the guard next to you leans in ever so slightly, blue eyes gleaming with mischief. “He’s full’o himself, call him ‘my King’ all ye want-”

A rough shove from the man on his right stops him in his tracks, and you can’t stop the way your eyes widen at the pure casualness of the interactions. 

“Cut it out MacTavish,” the man grumbles, leaning forward to address you now, “Apologies, your majesty, but this one-” he jerks a thumb towards the one you now know as MacTavish, “never knows when to shut his mouth.”

You go to speak, only to be cut off by John.

“Leave my wife be,” he says sternly before turning back to you. “Sorry about them,” he apologizes needlessly, “they’re…” he trails off and this time it’s you who gives him a smile, a real one. 

“It’s alright, I…” you pause, “thank you. For checking in with me and…thank you.”

You turn back to your meal before John can respond, missing the way his brows furrow again at your words as you finally start eating, trying and failing to ignore the way his earlier words made your heart stutter and you can’t tell if it’s good or bad.

My wife. 

——

The celebration went on for what feels like days, music and more entertainers and more gifts from more lords and ladies than you could name. They served dessert, and then the dancing began and John had even asked you out to the floor for a dance. It was one you knew the steps to, thank the gods, and by the end of it both of you were smiling so wide even you couldn’t deny the way the earlier trepidation seemed to melt off of you. 

That was until the night started to draw to a close. It was slow, but soon guests were retiring, coming up and giving their well wishes and goodbyes before leaving. With every guest that left it felt like a second closer to your perceived doom. 

You aren’t a fool - you aren’t some naive maiden - you know what happens on one's wedding night. You know what’s expected of you as a woman - as a queen now. And that thought is made all the more terrifying when your father and mother come up to bid their own farewells. 

Your mother is first, and John is chivalrous enough to give you some space, although he never quite leaves your side, just steps a few paces back as your mother envelops you into a hug. You can’t stop the tears in your eyes as her arms wrap around you, as you know this will be the last time you see her for a while, your fathers territory being many months away. 

“I love you more than the entire world, my star,” your mother whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek as she pulls away, hands coming up to cradle your face in her gentle grasp. “You will make an excellent queen.”

You pull her into one last hug before your father is impatiently tugging at you, though not in an obviously rough manner - he must keep up appearances after all. Even the large smile he wears as he pulls you into him is fake, full of deep seated hatred and loathing for a daughter he only ever saw a nuisance, a means to an end. 

His grip is crushing, and you don’t miss the way his fingers dig into your sides again, his breath disgustingly warm against your ear as he pretends to whisper his goodbyes, but instead whispers words you would never dare repeat. 

It feels like an eternity before he lets go, and he only does so because another hand settles on your shoulder, tugging you gently. 

“I fear it’s time for us to retire for the evening,” John says, voice tight as he gazes at your father in a way that makes you suspect he isn’t as stupid as all the others your father has fooled in the past. 

Your father bows, all reverence and kind smiles and posterity. 

“Of course, my King.”

And then you’re gone, being whisked away from the only life you’ve known into an all new and terrifying unknown one. 

——

Your footsteps echo loudly in the hallways as you follow John through what feels like a maze. This castle, just like the capitol itself is massive, larger than any you’ve ever been in. If it wasn’t for John, you feel like you might get lost in the twists and turns forever. You try to remember where he’s leading you - this is your new home after all, you will need to learn your way around. But with each turn and door your pass through it just gets more confusing. Did you turn left or right before or after the door-

“Don’t worry,” John speaks up, breaking the tense silence that had befallen you both, “you will learn your way faster than you think.”

You turn to him then, surprised that he caught on to your internal intentions. But he’s perceptive, that’s at least one thing you know about your new husband. 

You try to return the small smile he gives you as you nod, looking around once more. 

“I have no doubt I will learn my way eventually,” you agree, letting out a small sigh, “It’s just so…big. I’ve never seen a palace so magnificent. I can’t even begin to imagine what all the rooms hold…”

A small chuckle meets your ears, the sound surprising you slightly as you turn to look back at your husband as he speaks. 

“Well, I would be happy to give you a proper tour tomorrow. I have a feeling you may enjoy the library the most,” he says, eyes twinkling in the dim light of the sconces lining the hallway. 

You do perk up at that. “A library?” 

John hums, nodding. “Yes I…” he clears his throat, and if you didn’t know any better you would think that he appears almost…nervous. “I noticed the multiple trunks of books among your things as the servants were bringing it in this morning. I’m almost worried that our selection of books might be too small compared to your own.”

You shake your head, another real smile tugging at your lips. “I highly doubt that,” you say softly, “And I…I will be most happy with anything you deign to show me. You are most kind.”

John only hums again, and another silence envelops you, this one much more pleasant. Only when you take a few more turns does he speak up again. 

“Here we are,” he says, gesturing to a large wooden door a few paces away at the end of the hallway. There’s another door that you passed a few steps back, both of them having a guard posted outside of them. The same guards that shared dinner with you earlier. 

As you approach the door John directs you too, the guard standing outside stands straighter, nodding gently to you and the John, “your majesties.”

John smiles at him, returning the gesture as he addresses him, “Garrick,” he reaches up placing a hand upon his armored shoulder, “Go join MacTavish will you? Make sure he doesn’t need any help patrolling.”

The guard hesitates for a moment, eyes flicking to something behind you both before John speaks again. 

“Don’t worry,” he assures him, “Ghost is back there.”

The guard, Garrick, you try to remember nods, offering a curt bow before taking his leave and walking in the direction you and John came from. The clink of his armor fades until it’s just you and the King again, and you only realize you’d lost yourself again when gentle words greet your ears, this time in the form of your name. 

You look up from where your eyes had fallen to the ground to see John standing in the doorway to the room, holding the door open and looking at you gently. A clear invitation to enter. You clear your throat, offering a small apology as you enter, eyes flitting about the space.

It’s a large bedchamber, clearly your own if your things placed neatly about have anything to say about it. The four poster bed is larger than any you’ve ever slept in, gauzy fabric draped prettily from the ceiling and down around the tall wooden posts. Furs, dozens of them adorned what was no doubt a feather mattress, made up to perfection. A fire roars in the fireplace across the room from the bed, a table and two chairs sitting off to the side of it near a stained glass window. A yewer of  wine and two glasses sits atop the table, and if your stomach were roiling you’d make a beeline for the substance. 

By all accounts the space is warm, welcoming even, leagues better than the single hard mattress in the tiny room of your old home. But all your eyes can seem to focus on is the bed, and the towering presence behind you. And as the solid wood door clicks shut behind you, it feels like the tolling of the bell, the final nail in your coffin as your spirit seems to leave your body once more. 

You can hear John talking, voice soft as he rambles about how he tried to have the servants place your things in the best places, have them organized. You think he also mentions something about how the nights here get cold so the fires were always going. He eventually walks over to the table by the fireplace, pouring two glasses of wine, all while you struggle to breath, your eyes only leaving the bed when he calls your name again, somehow even softer this time as he offers you the second glass. 

You walk over instinctively, taking the glass in your gloved hand, giving a wobbly smile as he taps his glass with your own before taking a small sip. 

You follow his actions before you take a sip of your own. But the wine is good - it’s slightly spiced and warm and if you are to face the coming moments then you need all the courage you can get - and before you know it the wine is gone and you're turning back towards the bed. You notice a small dressing table off to the side of the large armoire and walk to it on unsteady feet. 

John is speaking again, but you can’t hear him, not over the rush of blood in your ears or the breath stuttering in and out of your lungs as you reach up to pull the veil from your hair. You drape it across the table delicately, hands trailing over the fine embroidery before your hands fall to the laces of your dress. 

Let’s get this over with.

You’re just thankful the dress laces in the front, at least you could do that by yourself. But as you tug at the strings, you find you can’t - your hands shake and the damned gloves…

You yank off the delicate silk, ignoring the raised white scars that glare back up at you as you try and manage to succeed this time in tugging the laces loose. The bodice of the dress loosens around you, the weight of the gown pulling it down slightly, the only thing holding it up being the sleeves on your shoulders. You reach up, still shaking to pull those down next, when warm calloused hands stop you. 

He’s calling your name - he’s been calling your name but you couldn’t hear him over your own panic. But you hear him now, and the sound of it falling from his lips along with the grounding warmth of his hands holding your own brings you back to yourself. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, and you notice now that he’s standing before you, having turned you away from the dressing table to face him, blue eyes swimming with confusion. 

But you’re the confused one, your brows furrow as you look up at him. “What am I…?” You pause, looking down at yourself and then back to the bed behind you. “The…the consummation. I thought-”

Strong hands squeeze your own, and you look back to the man before you. He’s still dressed, you finally notice, and he’s looking at you like a delicate piece of glass, that you might break at the gentlest breeze. 

And maybe you would.

“Do you want to?” He asks, question sincere, brows raised slightly as his thumbs brush over your knuckles. 

The question startles you. Never had it even occurred to you about wanting this or not. Of course you didn’t want this. You just met this man - this man who is constantly contradicting every horrible thing you’ve heard whispered about him. This man who is a stranger but has been so kind. 

You’ve never been asked what you want. 

You shake your head, convinced this is a trick. Like one of the cruel ones your father would play on you - asking you a question that only had one right answer and then punishing you when you got it wrong. 

“I…” you trail off, fighting with yourself. You want to tell the truth, something screaming inside you that you can trust him while the other, the years of experience tells you otherwise. 

The latter wins out. 

You swallow thickly, eyes falling to the floor, unable to look him in the eyes as you lie. 

“Yes, of course. It’s my duty to-”

He squeezes your hands again, this time dropping one in favor of reaching up to cup your cheek, urging you to look at him once more. 

“Love,” he breathes, voice gentle, “You’re shaking like a leaf.” 

He takes a deep breath, as if stilling a rage inside of him as he takes in the sight of his broken bride before him. 

“I didn’t ask about your duties,” he practically bites the word. “Do you want this?”

Gods, you can’t do it. You can’t look at him and his kind eyes and remember his soft smile and feel the way he holds you so gently and lie to him. Your lower lip wobbles, and tears burn at the back of your eyes as you internally prepare for the consequences of your next words. 

“No.”

It’s whispered so softly that if he weren’t standing so close to you, there’s no way he would have heard it. But he does, and his hands are pulled from you so quickly that your eyes slip closed, prepared for a strike or a harsh word or something. 

But it never comes. 

Instead a tense silence falls over the room before his hand is taking one of yours in his own again, and your eyes open ever so slowly. 

“That’s it then,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I’ll send for your handmaid, she can help get you ready for the night.”

You can’t stop the shake of your head, mind refusing to accept that this is it. That he is just going to leave you be. 

“I don’t…I don’t understand.”

John smiles, and you don’t miss the flicker of sadness in his gaze. Pity, maybe?

“I won’t start our marriage off by forcing myself on you. I don’t…” he looks away then, “I’ll wait. until you’re ready.”

You speak the next words before you can think. 

“And if I’m never ready?” 

John smiles, leaning down to place a gentle kiss to the back of your hand, either ignoring or choosing not to acknowledge the multitude of scars adoring the skin beneath his lips. 

“I’ve waited this long,” he says simply, “Forever doesn’t seem like much longer.”

And then he’s gone, slipping from your bedchambers just as a handmaiden takes his place. 

——

The same handmaid as the night before is the one to wake you, Ilora if you remember correctly. She says that the King has requested you join him to break your fast, as she’s already searching through the armoire for something for you to wear. It's a somewhat silent affair as she helps you get ready, tying your corset, brushing your hair. She even offered you a pair of gloves when she sees you staring at the ones from yesterday, but you decline. 

He’s seen them anyways, and if he hadn’t it was bound to come out at some point. 

Maybe the conversation will come easier over tea and sweet rolls. 

You follow Ilora as she leads you through the still winding passages of the castle until you eventually come to a door that opens into an open courtyard. It’s still confined by the castle walls but the ceiling is open, allowing sunshine to pour down onto the cobbled pathways that wind between a multitude of flowers and bushes and even fruit trees. 

It’s like a tiny paradise hidden within the walls, sequestered away from the grim stone walls of the building itself. Birds chirp happily, flirting from one branch to the next; and you even spot a butterfly, bright blue and fluttering so prettily in the air before you. It makes you halt in your steps, watching the rhythmic beat of its wings as it floats in the gentle breeze around you. 

You reach up before you can stop yourself, fingers held poised as you reach for the small creature. It flutters about for a moment before settling onto your offered hand, and you can’t stop the smile that splits your lips as its wings beat lazily against your knuckles. 

Soon, another presence joins you, and a familiar hand reaches up to mimic your own, a calloused finger tracing the delicate wing of the insect. Your eyes leave one color of blue only to find another, surrounded by familiar crows feet at the corners of his eyes as John gazes softly at you. 

“Pretty as a painting,” he murmurs softly, his words making the butterfly take flight, continuing on its earlier journey. 

“It was beautiful,” you agree, watching the winged creature until it’s out of sight. 

John only chuckles, reaching over to place a hand lightly on your back. 

“I wasn’t talking about the butterfly, love.” 

His words and the meaning behind them make heat rush to your cheeks, and you look at him in surprise before dropping your eyes to the floor when you catch his playful grin. 

“Come on then,” he says, breaking the tension, “let’s eat,” he turns back to your secret, “Thank you, Ilora.”

Ilora offers a small bow at the dismissal and takes her leave as John leads you a few steps further into the courtyard to reveal a stone table laden with food and only two chairs. Once again you’re slightly taken aback by the abundance of food. Yes, you were a daughter of a noble house, your family was wealthy, your father a lord of some land. But you never saw this side of that life - the life of luxury. Your father made sure of that. 

John must take your hesitance for nervousness rather than curiosity, because he smiles that warm smile and places that familiar hand on your back to urge you closer. He doesn’t force though, never pushing you if your feet did not want to go. He merely encourages, like trying to placate a scared animal. 

Maybe you are one. 

“I figured you may want to break your fast away from the prying eyes in the dining hall,” he says simply, moving to pull out your chair when you finally concede to his invitation. 

You nod politely, eyes still scanning the vast array of food before you until John takes his seat in the chair across the table. “Thank you,” you say softly, eyes flitting to the attendants that seem to come from nowhere, pouring your drink, placing silverware, and even placing a napkin in your lap before retreating once more. 

A silence befalls you both then, and you can’t help but want to shrink under the awkwardness of it all. It’s as if neither of you know what to say - what do you say to your husband or wife that - until less than a day ago - was a stranger to you. 

Thank the gods John speaks first, your throat to dry with anxiety to do so.

“Do you like blueberry tarts?” He asks, hand already reaching for one of the flaky pastries in the center of the table, “they’re our baker’s specialty,” he chuckles as he leans to place one on your plate when you offer no refusal. “If you don’t, I’m sure you will after you try this.”

You snag the olive branch offered to you, smiling as you pick up your fork. 

“I do,” you say, cutting into the delicate treat, “They’re…They’re my favorite, actually. But we…”you trail off, remembering how once your father found out your affinity for the tarts, they had all but disappeared from the tables during meals. 

You clear your throat, “the ingredients were hard to find where I’m from,” you lie smoothly, avoiding  John’s gaze. “So they were a luxury.”

You look up when he doesn’t respond right away, and find the usual upturn of his lips absent in place of a scrutinizing gaze. Not a harsh one, but one that made it clear he was studying you, watching for…something. 

But it was gone as quick as it came, that pleasant warmth back in full force. 

“Well,” he says, placing a pastry on his own plate, “I’ll make sure there’s never a shortage.”

And on the meal went. 

Conversation flowed easier after that, John picking up on when you were unsure of a particular dish or food, explaining it to you and watching in utter amusement for whether you would like or dislike a particular one. He’d let out a particularly hard laugh when you’d tried a rather odd looking dish, promptly trying and failing to spit it out in as ladylike a manner as you could. 

Blood pudding he called it - making you let out a disbelieving laugh at the withheld information, playfully tossing your napkin his way. 

He’d caught it easily, offering you a much sweeter fruit to wash the acrid taste from your mouth. 

It felt like the morning lasted forever, and truthfully, you never wanted it to end. It’s…nice, talking to someone without the fear of reprimand or a strike for saying the wrong thing. And John he…he listens to you. Truly listens and seems to enjoy the things you talk about. He asks you questions about yourself; your favorite food, your favorite color, things you like to do to pass the time, places and things you wish to see.

And he listens to all of it, seemingly absorbing every word as if he’s a man in the desert dying of thirst and you’re the oasis he’s been searching for.

It goes on like this for the rest of the day, the rest of the week, and soon weeks bleed into months and it seems like your past gets further and further behind you as this future you and John start to build gets closer.

He shows you the library like he promised, and it’s where you find yourself spending most of your time when separated from John. The first few weeks you both are nearly inseparable, claiming he wants to spend time getting to know his wife. But a kingdom cannot run itself and eventually he has duties and things to tend to, which you respect. 

It doesn’t mean you don’t miss him though. 

It’s a shock when the feeling first hits you. It’s the third day in a row of only  seeing him in the morning to break your fast together. It’s late, and you are as usual, sitting in the armchair you claimed in the library. You’re reading a romance novel, one that you confessed guilty to John early on that you enjoyed reading. Most people back home (your father) hated them - claimed they were undignified, unfitting for a lady to fill her head with stories that would never come true. 

John had hundreds of novels shipped in over the next fortnight. 

The one you’re reading now is a short one, a cliche about a knight and a low born woman. But it’s sweet, and when you get to one particular part, you find yourself looking up from the page, chuckling lightly to yourself and wanting to share it with John. 

But he isn’t here. 

And as you look up and notice the darkness outside the windows, the only light being the fire a few feet in front of you, you feel a pang in your chest. A longing you’ve never felt before, never thought you’d feel in your lifetime. 

You miss him.  

And on this night, it appears as if he misses you too. Because, like a siren's call, as soon as you stand, marking your place in your book to retire to bed, the door to the library creaks open. You expect one of the guards, probably Kyle, as he too seems to be fond of the library, having found him in here on several occasions when he was off duty. 

So, when you look up from where your book sits on the side table, you are surprised to see John slipping into the room, hair tousled, and looking as if he had just come straight from the stables. Riding boots caked in mud, light armor still adorning him. When he spots you, it’s as if the world itself falls from his shoulders, he sags beneath the relief and walks to you with sure even steps until he’s less than an arms length away. 

“John, what are you doing?” You ask, looking down at his muddy boots and back up to the weary expression on his face. “What’s…is something wrong?” 

He pauses for a moment, a flicker of something flashing in his eyes before it's gone, and those piercing blues are softening and crow's feet appear at the corners as he reaches for you, taking your hands in his own gently. 

“Nothing, love,” he says, that nickname that’s become more frequent making your heart flutter. “Just missed you, is all.”

His admission makes warmth spread through you, like warm honey on freshly baked bread. And you can’t help but lean into him, relishing in the way his hands move to wrap around your waist. 

“I…I missed you too, John,” you tell him softly, as if the words will scare him away. 

But they do the exact opposite, they make the man beam brighter than before, fingers squeezing your sides gently as he steps ever closer, eyes falling from your own down to your lips. 

Your breath hitches as he inches closer, and you can feel the heat of his words as he speaks, air brushing over your lips. 

“Can I kiss you, love?”

You haven’t kissed since your wedding day. Not other than the chaste ones he’d press against your knuckles or your cheek on occasion. He’d respected the vow he spoke to you on your wedding night, never pushing you, never forcing you. He waited. Waited until you made the decision. 

The nod you give him comes quicker than you thought it would, and his lips are on your own in an instant. They’re warm and slightly chapped from the ride he no doubt went on today, but to you it’s…perfect. It’s warm and gentle and all consuming, and even though it isn’t heated or rushed or rough you suddenly understand the passion that all those romance novels wax poetry about. 

He doesn’t dominate you or control it in any way, he moves with you - coaxing you at times perhaps, smiling against your lips when you let out a small whimper. His hands never stray far either, only moving to wrap further around your or caressing up and down your spin, maybe toying with the hair at the base of your neck before finally coming to cradle the apple of your cheek in his calloused palm.

Only then does he pull away, and you flush at how breathless you are, the embarrassment only soothed when you see he is just as affected as you are. He rests his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering closed as his thumb brushes softly against your cheek. 

“Maybe I’ll have them move my desk in here,” he says after a comfortable silence. “That way even if I have things to tend to, I can still spend some time with you.”

You pull away from him only enough so he can see the smile on your face; and the next day when you come to the library, John is sitting at his desk, right next to your arm chair. 

———

Another thing that has changed for the better is your dreams. Nightmares used to be a constant for you before the wedding, waking up in cold sweats, fear making your very bones ache. But after the first few nights in the castle…they disappeared. Once you realize that the danger you used to live amongst  each and every day is no longer present, it’s as if your body finally allowed you to rest. 

Maybe that’s why this one is so much worse. 

You’d been lulled into a false sense of security, your body's survival instincts failing you, telling you that you were safe when you should know better. It’s the very thing he screams at you as he strikes you down in this hellscape. The bitter words he spits upon you as blood splatters across the stone flooring, as the toe of his boot meets your stomach again and again. 

You naive, stupid girl - you’re nothing! 

You want to scream out at him, tell him that it’s not true, that you are something and that someone loves you and cares for you. But the words are stuck in your throat like tar, and copper floods your tongue and any and all protests crumble like ash in your mouth as you see his guard raise the whip above his head. 

You wake up screaming. 

Throat raw, the taste of copper still coating your tongue and making you gag as you fight against the furs and blankest tangled around your legs. It’s pitch black, the fire having died out to nothing but embers. So when a pair of hands finds you in the dark you can’t stop the wail that slips from your lips.

He’s come back for you. He’s come to take you away-‘

“It’s me, love stop-” the voice is muddled, far away from your panicked mind. 

You fight the grip on your wrists, only stilling when one lets go to cup your cheek. Calloused hands, warm…they speak again.

“You’re safe, it’s me. Love, it’s me…”

“John?” 

His name is but a whimper on your lips, and when he assures you that it is him, you fall apart like glass when it meets stone. Shattered into a million little pieces. 

But he catches you, he catches and holds each and every piece of you as you sob in his arms, tears soaking the skin of his neck where you hide your face, fingers clutching desperately at the thin cotton of his shirt. He holds you so softly. Always soft, always gentle. His hands run up and down your back, over your shoulders, through your hair as he shushes you softly, cooing reassuring words into your ear. 

And when you finally do calm, sobs ebbing away into ugly sniffles and hiccups, he still doesn’t let go, shifting instead to lay back against the pillows with you tucked into his side as he pulls the covers around you - a safe cocoon against the world - against the things that still haunt you. He only stops speaking, stops humming some small random lullaby he had started up, when you begin to speak. 

He didn’t pressure you, didn’t ask - he’s never asked. The whole time you’ve spent together, and you know John is a perceptive man - he knows things. You assume he’s worked most of it out himself; yet, he never once asked you. Even now, when your screams no doubt jerked him from his slumber, or when you cried into him like a terrified child. He never once asked. 

So you tell him on your own. You tell him of your childhood, of the hatred your father held for you, of the cruelty he subjected you and your mother to. You told him of the scathing words and the nights sent to your room without supper and maybe even days without anything but a simple loaf of bread and some water. You tell him of the things you swore you’d never tell anyone, of the blood and torment and beatings and the whip. 

And in the darkness of your bedchamber you pull away from his embrace, slipping your shift from your shoulders as you tell him about the scars. He’s seen the ones on your hands but…as he traces the jagged angry marks on your back, your ribs, your stomach in the darkness…you can practically feel the rage radiating off of him like the sun on a hot summer’s day.  His hands shake, fingers trembling as they trace over the evidence of darkness, of pure evil. You tell him everything, until the tears finally prevent you from saying more and he’s tugging your shift back up your arms and turning you back to face him and kissing them away with a reverence you never imagined possible for you. 

“You will never come to harm here,” he swears, voice terrifyingly calm and steady. “And if you do, gods help the man to do it, for I’ll hunt him down and slay him where he stands.”

 He pulls you tighter then, lips pressing against the crown of your head as arms wrap around your waist, soft words urging you back into slumber. 

And despite everything….you sleep, and dream this time of warm hands and kind words and a future worth living for.

[jubealea]

18+|mdni

Gaz who eats pussy like a reward, who hurries home, always foregoing drinks with the task force to celebrate a personal win, because he knows you're at home for him, legs spread and gently touching yourself, only waiting to drop to his knees in front of you and drag you to his mouth.

Ghost who eats pussy to calm down, who needs something to anger him after he woke up from a nightmare, and he pushes you on your back, lips trailing down your soft skin, taking in your scent and feeling the pressure ease out of his muscles just a little. Ghost who takes his time sucking on your clit, making out with the sensitive bundle while just keeping a finger inside you to make sure your orgasm won't come until he wants it to.

Johnny who eats pussy like it's his last meal, who needs to stake his claim on you and checks his guns on his next deployment with your taste still on his tongue and the reassurance on his mind, that should he not come back, no one would ever compare to him in that particular way

Price who eats pussy like it's owed to him, who bends over backwards to not only keep you safe but to fulfill all your wishes before you could even utter them, so who were you to complain if he wanted a little treat for his troubles. If he bend you over your desk, skirt simply pushed up and panties pulled to the side, his fingers rubbing and pinching your clit with his tongue thrusting inside of your hole

[jubealea]

Simon doesn't think he's ever tasted something so good in his fuckin' life before.

He didn't know what he was in for this time when he got back from deployment, and nicotine and whiskey ain't got shit on this. Poor bastard can't remember the last time he had something so good invade his senses like this.

You said you had a treat for him, made him lay down, and promptly sat on his face, and Simon was fuckin' gone. Don't know what the fuck possessed him but he took one whiff and was instantly hooked.

Simon feasted on your cunt like a man starved. Tongue, lips, fingers, you name it. Anything to get his fix, anything to make you moan.

Anything to make you cum.

Didn't let up for shit, not even to breathe, and when you voiced your concern while whimpering and trembling, Simon didn't give a fuck and still continued to love on your pretty cunt because where the bloody fuck are you going?

Shut up. Shut the hell up and let him make you cum, sweetheart.

Actions have consequences. Shouldn't have made him feel so bloody good, shouldn't have poked at the beast, and he'd be damned if he didn't think this was the best post-deployment gift he's ever gotten. Better than the nicotine high or occasional pity wank.

Fuck, it's been so long and he's absolutely disgusting about it.

And Simon's aware of it all, the way his cock is so hard it's bloody painful and leaking in his pants, the way you're grinding on his face, smothering it and fucking his mouth (don't you dare stop, either), and how his everything is consumed by you. You coat his stubble, fill his nostrils up with your scent, his tastebuds are fired up—bloody hell, need he explain more?

Simon could die a happy man right now, and what would his gravestone say? Here Lies Simon Riley, Died Eating Cunt.

He'd chuckle if he wasn't too busy at the moment. Shit, he probably did if the way you're moaning is any indication. That felt good, didn't it, sweetheart?

It's your turn now to say his name like a prayer and believe in him just as he believes in you.

And it's the best fucking thing to ever bless his ears.

--

Turning Simon Out: Part I and Part II.

[jubealea]

Lying on the sand, cuddled next to your husband, who’s currently taking a nap, one arm behind his head, and the other resting on his chest, moving up and down along with him. He’s so beautiful, you can’t imagine how he could ever think he isn’t, if anything the very few gray hairs in his beard make him even more attractive.

You try to tell him that all the time, but your stubborn man refuses to believe it, stating that someone in their late 30s shouldn’t even have grays. It just makes your heart hurt when he says that, because those few grays poking out in his dark brown hair, are a symbol of his promise. His promise to always come home to you, to not leave you here alone on this earth despite whatever comes up in the missions he has. Even if he has grown a few early grays cause of his work, it makes you love him even more. It isn’t until he moves slightly in his sleep that you wake up from your trance on his godly sculpted face. Realizing that you are sore, so you sit up partially. You also had been dozed off in the sun with him, You prop yourself up on your elbow, taking a look back at where he brought you. A secluded lake, with a small island in the middle. You both having taken off your clothes and swam to the small island in your underwear. It’s rare you both are able to take a vacation, with John’s constant changing schedule it makes it difficult to plan things and actually carry them out, or any plans for that matter, since when he’s leave all he wants to do is stay home (in bed 🤭). So the morning after he came home from deployment he asked you to just pack a bag of your essentials and you guys would finally go on a trip. It’s only when you’re on the road that he tells you he has an “idea” of where he wants to take you. He takes you to the town where his father always took him camping, so you guys get a small cabin and try to make the most of your surprise vacation. 

Looking back at him, you just feel this overwhelming love for all he has done for you this past few days he’s finally home from leave. What better way to wake him up than climbing on his lap, and pressing kisses all over his face, teasing him, never kissing his lips. “You fuckin’ minx” He whispers raspy as he uses the hand that was on his chest to grab you softly by the base of your neck, guiding you to finally kiss him. It’s a messy sleepy kiss as he gripping your neck gently as he muffles your reply with his teeth, knocking the breath out of your chest, consuming you as he should. It’s gonna be awhile until you guys get back to the cabin. 

note: i’ll be back more regularly writing since im going home tomorrow, be on the look out 👀

[jubealea]

Current roomate!au thought, then watching kn the camera as you baby sit for a friend/family member and now they can't wait to get home to you to try and talk you into having a baby with them

Them watching you cradle a chubby, babbly baby girl with the sweetest dimpled smile in your arms made it hard to focus on anything else. You were perched on the edge of the couch, gently swaying as the little one babbled nonsense, fat tiny hands patting your cheeks and then pulling at your shirt, all too eager for anything that chould be considered. You laughed, soft and bright, like you didn’t have a care in the world, your eyes crinkling as you peppered her cheeks with kisses only to get more shrieks of laughter.

Johnny leaned closer to the tablet, grinning like a fool. “She’s too bloody good at this.”

Kyle nodded, voice quieter than usual. “Look at her. Like she was made for it.”

Simon didn’t say anything, but his gaze stayed locked on the screen, his usually guarded expression soft as you settled the baby against your chest, humming a lullaby while stroking her curls. The toddler yawned, her little fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt like it was the safest place in the world, still babbling quietly of her sweet little thoughts and dreams that could be cradled in one hand.

Safe and sound, loved and cared for, within your arms.

John leaned back, his hand brushing over his beard. “She’d be an incredible mum.”

They all nodded, not a single one of them disagreeing. Watching you with that sweet baby in your arms made something in their chests ache. The way you laughed, the way you handled her with such care, the way you clapped when she babbled a new sound- it was everything they didn’t know they wanted until now.

When the baby finally fell asleep, her face tucked into the crook of your neck, you sighed softly, your eyes fluttering shut as you cradled her closer.

Johnny exhaled, shaking his head with a wistful smile. “We’ve gotta talk to her when we’re back. There’s gotta be a way we can convince her…”

A way to convince you to have their baby. Any of them. Just- they just loved seeing you like this so, so much, all tender and soft. Like a dream, like a burning, warm match guiding them through snow.

They have to convince you.