jubealea

[jubealea]

omg I read the reader being part of poly tf141, started crying and then immediately thought what if in another time, the reader gets reincarnated with the rest of them and they have their past memories, looking to resolve what happened in the past 😭?

Look at that, someone has found a loophole. Good job, anon, you shall get what your heart desires. With a lil twist (I’m going to devastate everyone and then myself). Now, turn the music up, chief, we are going for a ride

Simon wakes up suddenly, chest squeezed, breath coming out in short sharp pants — there is grief magnitude of which he has never known, there is loss he feels like halfing of his whole being, there is mourning for someone.

Who is he mourning? Who has he lost?

There is warm palm on his bicep, someone’s soft voice asking him things, murmuring sweet nothings.

Simon focuses on it, pulling his sinking heart out of the water and leaning back in your arms, his head pounding with “never again-never again-never again”. He can’t help but stay up for the rest of the night, his embrace around you a little tighter than usually.

Like he’s afraid to let go. Stupid irrational fear that you will drip down his fingers and through the cracks on the floor, leaving him with nothing, leaving him empty and aching and raw.

Simon doesn’t want to be aching. Simon doesn’t like being raw.

Simon doesn’t understand why he feels like he’s going through motions, why he can’t help but kiss you-kiss you-kiss you, knot in his throat choking him out when you ask if everything okay.

He doesn’t know how to say what he feels. He doesn’t know how to admit that touching you is like touching a vision, that he can’t stand your white hoodie now for a reason he cannot fucking explain.

Did we bury you in white, luv? Why did you bury you in white? Why did we bury you, luv? Why-why-why?

Kyle now gets violently sick when it’s too cold in the rooms, the first time he touches your cooler than normal fingers his stomach churns, bile raising to his throat — terror so strong he nearly goes blind and deaf.

Terror so dark Kyle’s knees buckle, his heart thumping in his chest, panic raging through him as you ask him to name three red things. (Blood, darling, blood, is it your blood, dove? Are you bleeding? Are you okay? Why is there so much blood?)

Kyle doesn’t know why he is so scared, Kyle doesn’t know what hurts him so, Kyle doesn’t know why he needs your fingers to be warm.

Kyle doesn’t want to scare you so he kisses your hands all over during the night, his shoulders shaking and it’s okay, darling, it’s alright, at least his tears are hot, right? At least your hands are warm, isn’t it so?

He now follows you around, his hands on you more often than not, nuzzling in your neck and touching-kissing-feeling. Like a dam breaks, all of his achingly tender softness pouring out, his love dripping off every gesture, his love whispered in your ears.

His love the endless “darling-darling-darling” against your skin when he wiggles himself in your arms and presses his nose in your warm (god, you are warm-warm-warm) neck, murmurs that he just missed you. Missed you so badly, darling, it’s okay, please don’t worry.

Kyle now feels like turning himself out and spilling his guts whenever temperature drops, whenever the tip of your nose cools off, something in him howling because it’s wrong, it’s so wrong. Because cold means death, because…because maybe he is going mad. How can he admit that there is memory of a thing that never happened? How can he admit that he knows how your cold (wrong-dead-cold) hands feel?

Johnny who is suddenly so impatient and so hurried, he buys tickets back home, he calls his mum, he speaks in hushed tone and breaks in your room in the evening.

Johnny who feels like he’s out of time, like the bomb already went off somewhere, like the blast already deafened him. But there is no shock wave, no pain, no burn. Where is it? Why does he brace for blow that doesn’t come?

Johnny sits with you during breakfasts and lunches and dinners, Johnny kisses you first and then last just for good measure, joking that someone that pretty deserves two kisses. He has to hide his hands in the pockets because for the first time in years they are shaking. There is rage in his skull, a pounding “my fault-my fault-my fault” that drives him mad because he hasn’t done something wrong.

He hasn’t done anything.

“Exactly”, his subconsciousness hisses in a voice so wounded Johnny forgets how to walk, his blood running cold, his fingers tightening on your hands.

Johnny makes plans and plans upon plans, he writes a request for time off because “summer’s close, m’eudail. Summer’s comin’, want to show you home when it’s green and bonnie as ever”. He kisses your temple, breathing your scent in, breathing you in and doesn’t know how to let go.

Simon just joins in and now the three of you occupy the couch in the rec room, Soap clicking his tongue at any unfortunate sod who seems to be looking too fucking long. Not their bloody business how he loves his partners. Not their bloody businesses how he loves you.

Johnny now holds you longer, murmurs “bonnie thing, come home with me, mum wants to meet you”, says “come on, mo leannan, we always wanted to retire early, aye? Can see the world…the bloody Venice before the thing goes down”, whispers “need to keep you safe, thasgaidh, jus’ this once”.

Johnny doesn’t know why he says that last one.

Johnny doesn’t like the implication that the last time he didn’t keep you safe, that the last time you didn’t meet his mom and didn’t go with him to Venice.

Johnny doesn’t like the implication that he hasn’t done anything to stop it.

“Exactly”, breathes out the subconsciousness and he feels like the shock wave finally hits him.

Price wakes up after a beat and has to body the bathroom door because his stomach decides to empty itself, his chest burning, his eyes stinging and oh, dear lord, does it hurt.

Price sits on the cold bathroom tiles, forehead pressed to even colder porcelain of the toilet, his chest heaving. He can’t seem to remember where you went.

You were supposed to come back, why aren’t you back, where did you go, where are you?

John has the flash of a place he never been to, John has a flash of a body in a black body bag — eyes glassy, eyes blind, eyes empty. Eyes yours.

John retches again and again, sobs almost making him choke on vomit, sobs curling him into anguished twists, his skin crawling.

And he can’t get up, he can’t leave, his legs won’t listen and his knee aches more than it did in years — helplessness hitting him in the chest and spreading up to his throat with vomit.

But god, he needs to.

John needs to see you, needs to look you in the eyes, needs to hold onto you.

Price flushes the toilet and washes his mouth until his tongue just feels like heavy water and cold numbness rather than live muscle, his jaw tingling, his beard uncomfortably wet and dripping on his chest.

Every drop sending shiver, every drop a memory that he prevented, that never came to be, that he evaded.

John Price tricks the fate and tricks the world, but it still feels that he somehow lost when Kyle sits with you until he starts dozing off, when Simon can’t sleep without you pressed to his chest, when Johnny holds onto you and smiles like you hurt him, but he’d rather die and burn than let go.

When John feels like dropping at your feet and hitting his head on your knees until his skull splits open and you get to see all the moldy rusted insides of his. So then you can maybe understand that he is sorry, he will always be sorry, he will always be at fault.

He will always remember that once he wasn’t enough and once you never found out how much love he harbours in that stone heart of his.

John kisses your hands and your face and your shoulders, drinking in every giggle, laps up every huff and snap and murmurs “i’s alright, lovie, it’s all good” because yeah. It’s alright. They have never lost you.

John Price tricks the fate and the world.

John Price tricks death. Too bad he doesn’t trick himself — old worn-out journal burns in the fireplace, your head lying on his shoulder when he kisses the crown of your head, his jaw tightening.

John Price swears that they have never lost you.

And that they never will.

[jubealea]

“you’re quiet. i like that.”

that statement would be true on any other occasion, but when it comes to you— his sweetheart, it couldn’t be anymore false. quite the opposite in fact. silence— when it’s yours is unnerving. unnatural, like the total silence of a forest, absent of wind and bird song and of life itself.

he can’t stand the silence when it’s yours. a home devoid of the sound of you living in it is no home at all, but merely a place where you happen to reside. he needs to hear you to stay sane. it doesn’t matter what it is. whether you’re singing or humming, rattling on and on about your day or asking him about his, laughing with your whole chest or just giggling, he needs to hear you like he needs air.

he hates it when you’re quiet. but unfortunately, it is not a habit so easily broken, years upon years of staying silent, so quietly lingering on the fringes of other people. it’s not like you necessarily mean to stay quiet, rather it simply became second nature to you. to stay silent is to stay safe, what’s the point in talking when you have nothing meaningful to say?

and so he always prompts you to speak. asking you about your day, of that new necklace you bought or the new perfume collection that dropped. he knows the exact words to string together to make you sing (whether literally or metaphorically) because once you’re talking about something you like, you’re not stopping until you completely exhaust yourself or the topic. and it’s exactly what he wants.

talking excitedly, animatedly whilst nestled into his lap and he always spurs you on, asking “tell us why you like it.” or “really? how so?”. he doesn’t interject much, vastly preferring to hear you rather than himself but nodding and following along with your tangent all the same.

it’s like a double win for him, he gets to hear you talk and he gets to learn more and more about your likes, dislikes, interests, mentally taking note of whatever you say.

long, winding conversations that last from sunrise over the horizon to when the stars are twinkling in the night sky are common place. somehow, nikto never runs out of things to ask you, always eagerly listening to you and your thoughts.

that book you were reading? well he’s reading it now too and he’s eagerly awaiting your thoughts on the plot twist in chapter twelve. don’t even think of going to bed on time before discussing it with him, (well, you stay up well past bedtime analysing it with him regardless…)

nikto himself is most certainly not exempt from this either. you always want to hear him speak no matter what. (he could say the wackiest shit ever but as long as he’s saying it in that wonderfully smooth, accented voice of his then it’s a-ok in your book) it’s not uncommon to see nikto pulling you into his lap to ask about what you’re reading, but it’s just as common to see you crawl into his lap asking— practically begging him to read his russian copy of crime and punishment out loud.

whenever you ask, he always laughs. a tender, quiet and gentle thing, always in adoring amusement and never meant to demean.

“you won’t understand it, lyubov.” eyes twinkling with mirth as he squishes your cheeks with one hand, the other holding open his book. you only giggle and smile up at him, just as loving.

“doesn’t matter— just wanna hear you talk, baby.” he hums happily at that, warmth blooming in his chest from the pet name, but he doesn’t argue further (not that he really was) simply picking up where he left off, making sure to carefully and clearly enunciate every single word. just for you.

[jubealea]

john price as a handyman yet again making me feral.

a jack of all construction trades in the small town he retires to. called occasionally for a small household additions; installation of roof tile, grout placement, wall painting and railing mounting.

with a collection of busyworks under his leather belt, he decides to pursue a renovation project.

it’s a kitchen. feels fitting for a man like john, enjoying his second year of retirement with good whiskey and better food, sinewed by the heartiness of his last meal that layer years in service.

he lumbers up the stairs of the porch, knocks on the oak door, and waits.

and waits some more.

when he’s finally ready to call it, the door creaks open to reveal…you.

unexpectedly young, or at least you appear to be. fresh eyes that glow in infant spring. a franticness about you, one attributed to people who forget they have ages of time left. gorgeous.

you smile, and john’s jaw clicks. “hello, you must be john price.”

when you say his name, a fossilized part of him is uncovered and brushed off by your manicure hands.

“yes maam.”

he follows you into the house, which is barren. white walls, scarcely decorated floors, and windows that gleam without the evidence of life in the moldings or panes.

“excuse the…emptiness,” you clear your throat, “we just moved in.”

his eyebrows lower. “we?”

you nod. “my husband and i. newlyweds.” you laugh, and he resists the urge to recoil.

“which reminds me- he’s on a work call right now, and unfortunately I know very little about the project,” you send him a sheepish look, “so…can i get you anything?”

he stares at you for a long moment. accessing his feelings, the house, the ring on your finger and the lacking presence of its intended pair. swallows it all, and politely asks for a water.

when you return, your husband is close behind. he does not measure up to the man john thought he’d be. shakes his hand, and it’s weak.

he wonders if he fucks you with it.

“nice to meet you john, excited for you to help us settle in!”

john looks at your husband, boyish smile and an ounce of charm. then to you, the potential of this empty house, and it’s rootless marriage.

he smiles and squeezes the weak hand that will loose its wedding ring in under 2 months.

“can’t wait.”

[jubealea]

Outlaw!Price who goes to the brothel every Sunday instead of church to take his communion.

He watches you bathe in a copper tub filled with soapy water and rose petals. When you’re clean and glistening, he asks you to baptize him with your bathwater. You are his confessional, listening as he whispers about every successful heist and bullet fired. You absolve him of his guilt—of the blood on his hands. And when you bring him to bed, he finds heavenly redemption.

[jubealea]

You Have Nothing to prove to Your Birdie - Old Man!Price 🕊

It was the same every night, since he came back home from his most recent deployment.

His kisses were still the same filled with need and favour of savouring the sweet flesh he has become familiar too. Hands grope, grab, tug and pull at any sort of flesh John’s hands can grab onto, sliding up your thighs to press his finger against the dampness on your own ruined pantie. 

But the urgency is cut short, every night. A final kiss to the forehead, looking at you with remorse and regret as he apologises for being tired. You don’t press on his excuse, after all John could be considered a war hero at this point. The scars of battle wears a man tired as you living with its living proof. But something always felt off as of recent. 

A frustrated ‘I’m sorry, love’ begrudgingly leaves his mouth as he rolls away and settles on his side, trying to grasp onto the fragments of sleep. Your hand finds its way to his chest, rubbing the skin soothingly, to coax out his vulnerability. 

“Talk to me, John.” Your soft voice echoes through the room, soft but firm. 

John doesn’t move, allowing himself to melt into your touch. 

A beat of silence drops. Another, and another before he exhales, shoulders drooping in defeat as John tries his best to look at you. The honesty teeters on the tip of his tongue while the lies reach the back of his throat as John swallows down the white lies. 

“I don’t wanna disappoint you, Birdie.” John exhales with remorse, “can’t get it up, been that way since the last op. Figured it’d pass, it hasn’t.” John’s tone is hard, clipped like he’s reporting intel rather than baring something that clearly wounds him. He tries to keep his emotions at bay, still hesitant to let his vulnerabilities out. 

Leaning in, you press a chaste kiss to the corner of John’s chapped lips, “You’re silly if you think I only want you for your cock.”

Your actions slow and deliberate as you move to straddle him, arms wrapped around his neck to bring his face closer to his. A hand comes up to cup his cheek, your thumb caressing his cheekbone. 

“Captain Johnathan Price,” you say softly as your lips graze the shell of his ear before nipping his earlobe gently. “I want you. The man who holds me like I’m something precious. The man who makes me feel safe with a look. The man I ache for, even when you’re not inside me.”

You grind your lips against him as John finds his hands on your hips giving it a soft squeeze, curling into your flesh as he tries to anchor himself. Feeling the smallest twitch beneath, though it doesn’t last long earns a sense of victory to brew within you, however, the flicker of need and want once again returns to John’s gaze. 

You whisper sweet nothings, kissing along the line of his throat, "I think about you when I'm alone." I touched myself in our bed and in the shower. I see your hands and hear your voice in my mind.

As you move his hand down and place his fingers between your thighs, he lets out a low, guttural groan as you inch his fingers to your needy cunt. He notices how wet you are, and his eyes dilate softly rubbing through your panties.

"Fuck, birdie."

"Do you feel that?" You guide  his fingers into your sopping pussy urging him to slowly thrust in and out, saying, "That's you." That's what you did. Not your cock. You.”

Hungry eyes observe you with an unvarnished, almost awe-inspiring intensity, as though you were something sacred that was rupturing just above him. As his eyes follow every movement and every chill that runs through your body, his pupils are blown wide, his lips are slightly parted, and his breath comes in shallow draws.

John’s fingers slowly and deliberately press deeper, filling you to the brim scissoring into the gummy walls of your pussy, your entire body trembles as the pads of his fingers neatly curl. His calloused thumb makes tight, wet circles around your clit, first slowly and then more quickly and precisely.

Desperate for more, for everything, your hips rock to his beat. On each side of him, your thighs shake, and your hands fumble for support, grabbing his chest, Desperate for more, for everything, your hips rock to his beat. As the ecstasy coils tighter in your core, your legs quiver on either side of him, and your hands fumble for traction, clutching his shoulders, biceps, or chest, anything to anchor yourself. With a gentle, broken moan, you tilt your head back and allow the sound to fall freely from your lips. 

John’s breath hitches, “God, look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe and lustful love. “So fuckin’ beautiful when you fall apart, birdie.”

Sharp and all-consuming, your orgasm rises and falls like a wave. Your climax tears through you in shuddering waves as your hips grind against his hand, your back arches, and your nails bite into his skin. His name tumbles from your lips like a prayer as your voice breaks into quiet sobs.

You collapse against his chest, still panting, and press soft kisses to the damp skin of his neck.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” you whisper, fingers threading through his hair. “You’re mine. That’s enough.”

His arms instinctively encircle you as your breathing slows and you melt against his chest; they are secure, strong, and safe. John doesn't feel like a man who is failing at something for the first time in weeks. He feels like yours. The realisation that you don't need him to be tough, flawless, or unflappable is what warms and grounds him. 

All you need is him here, alongside you. 

Cherished. 

Wanted.

[jubealea]

Thinking about retired John with a younger wife, and he just can’t keep up or keep it up with sex, his hips hurt and he find it humiliating how fast he comes or that he just can’t finish. S/o is sweet about it, kissing his cheek and comforting him but he knows his pretty girl has need and he’s not taking care of them it eats at him, so he enlists some help.

he knows his sweetheart would never do anything with, or ask for another man. just go on, happily neglecting herself:(

He doesn’t know if he should ask Simon, he’s big and mean and he’s not sure if your pretty pussy needs that right now. of course it would be a pretty sight to see simon fucking his sweetheart, have them on all fours, trembling nearly ruined. John could already see the tears, he could ever be that mean to his girl:( he'd love to see it though

Johnny is similar, but less mean and a bit too freaky for right now, he’d love to watch the Scot wreck you, love to lap up your cunt and wanted to hold you still while you squirm but still a bit intense when the two of you hadn’t fucked in months and Johnny was always introducing him to the kinkest shit and its just too much to start with.

Kyle though? Perfect. Simon and johnny were takers but Kyle? He’d give you want you want and need, he'd bring you to tears and kiss them away, he was able to give you what you need and be gentle about it and of course more than happy to help!

the two other men are jealous to say the least, simon's known you the longest and John used him to protect you more than a few times, in fact the way simon looks at you is what sparked the idea:(

johns a proud man and loves showing you off, and it started innocent enough, it just escalated but John sure you'll love it

[jubealea]

Just thinking about Ghost having a shy, quiet wife. The glaring opposite of Ghost, painted in black and blood while you’re adorned in lace and frills. Smooth skin and delicate flesh, warm eyes and a bashful smile. Soft-spoken and so fucking sweet.

No one else knows about you, or that he’s married, not from lack of wanting people to know he has such a pretty dove waiting for him at home, but because he knows all the men on base would eat you alive.

But one day, he forgets the lunch you made him. It takes everything in you to refrain yourself from driving to base to make sure he has something to eat— you know he doesn’t have the healthiest eating habits.

You choose to message him, something he usually responds fairly quickly to. Always at your beck and call just in case his sweet girl needs him, but he doesn’t answer. Your lips are pinched raw with worry by the time you decide to get in your car.

So, imagine everyone’s surprise when a sergeant interrupts the meeting Ghost’s in— ‘Lieutenant, um, Mrs. Riley is waiting outside for you.’

Ghost is on his feet in an instant, it must be some emergency if you’re there. He rushes to the hallway, everyone else in the room stumbling behind to snoop through the thin crack of the door, see who their big bad Lieutenant is married to.

And there you are, Tupperware container in your manicured hands, white dress covering your frame with matching ribbons and bows in your hair. The look on your face is anxious, right up until you see Ghost, your eyes softening as he approaches you with wide strides despite the fact that he’s twice your size, hulking and threatening.

“Sweet’art, everything okay? You’re not hurt, are you?” He asks, brows furrowing as he does a once over your figure, checking for injury.

You exhale a quiet laugh, “No, baby. You just forgot your lunch, and you didn’t answer your phone so I got worried you would go the whole day without eating.”

He cups your jaw, a smile breaking out on his face. His sergeants are baffled for several reasons— they did not expect their Lieutenant to be married to such a sweet thing, nor had they ever heard their Lieutenant speak in such a soft, hushed tone, never seen him touch something with such care, like you were so fragile in the palms of his hands.

They would’ve thought it was all a joke if it wasn’t for the massive diamond ring on your finger, or the way you pushed deeper into his touch.

“Sorry, dove, just been in a meetin’ all day.”

He stamps a kiss against your lips, lets himself linger just a little longer than he should because he knows the whole room is watching from behind the door.

“Sweetest little wife, aren’t you?”

mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

[jubealea]

the wanting comes in waves.

mdni.

cw: obsessive behavior, yearning but like sickly, mentions of being followed but for like a second, mentions of being watched, minor violence & blood mention

screaming, crying--throwing up !! i needed to get this blurb outta my head like asap; was listening to angel by massiveattack which is an amazing song & made me gnaw at my cage !!

She’s full of sugar—one could think, will think when they see her–it’s inevitable like teeth rotting to the gums, like graves being dug. When someone smells her, like a man striking gold—pheromones going haywire, could see pupils dilating before their very eyes, hands shake and chests heaving.

Like a flower crushed between rough palms.

It’s her. There’s no secret perfume, no scented lotion.

It’s just her.

When she walks by Gaz once, he couldn’t help the inhale—heart hammering, lashes fluttering shut. Compared her to something of a bakery, soft—warmed, sweet. Tongue darting to lick at canines, easing the hunger away–thoughts of sinking into something honey-filled plagued his mind.

He could feel his teeth itch, his mouth water—Soap was no better, he watched the way her skirt fluttered, the way her tights stretched over her thighs. He rolled his shoulders, body tense–drumming with extra energy suddenly like lightning struck him, fingers digging into his thighs.

He was not a better man.

They think she’s of honey and sugar—easy to drown in, rot on the tooth like sweet milk right before it turns bad, curdling on the tongue making your stomach turn from it. Warms the throat as they beg for more–something hums in their chest, aches in their souls.

They always want more.

But she was never rotten—something closer to cherries hanging on trees, burning from the sun–syrupy, dripping to the floor as ants crawled and scrambled. 

Price standing with Laswell, eyes always on her—protection, wariness—a need to have her in his peripheral at all times. His brain screamed, grunted with the thoughts of the sweat that trickled down her the nape of her neck—temptation.

Soldiers watched her every move as she passed by, a sigh on her lips—a pack of dogs on her heels; not even throwing a glance at their way.

They whined for it.

The kind of girl you’d follow into the dark. The kind of girl you’d beg to hurt you and thank afterwards.

He didn’t like it.

“Don’t let her walk alone,” he told them once, voice low. “Don’t let her get far.”

“She’s not a child,” Laswell said.

“No,” Price muttered. “She’s worse.”

She’s made for obsession, human form of temptation—all for the taking, between hands and claws to dig in.

A mission down in Germany, her words soft and gentle—it’s the way trouble finds her without needing much. Her eyes found ones that tracked her like one with a prey—she hummed soft, sweet; hook, line and–sinker.

Not that she knew what she caused–making worlds tilt, having men and women gaze linger. Wondering, wishing–yearning for her eyes on them.

There’s a constant thrum around her—beneath the noise of the world, something that anchors within your chest, bleeds your soul dry for everything that it’s worth.

The man knew—kissed her hand like one would have royalty; one you’d lay your life down for and bleed at their feet just for a smile.

Ghost watched it—aching teeth, collar tight, dog tags clinking together; reminder of who he is, what he is—better than a stray who whines for attention.

But he watched her turn away, barely acknowledging the man—like a flower billowing in the wind—of course the man followed her–honey attracts all.

Ghost was already behind before the man could reach out–not a graze of a finger, not a soft hum leaving her lips–barely acknowledging the loud thud, a sharp scream. The man crumples to the floor, blood dripping from a broken nose. “Didn’t say you could touch,” He mutters.

She’s tilting her head now, lollipop between teeth, clacking as she licks it for what it’s worth–fingers grazing his knuckles, a wordless thank you.

Ghost feels his mind humming.

She’s of nectar—something forbidden, something to drown and beg for.

It comes in waves, thrashing and dragging everything underneath.

[jubealea]

heavy, dirty soul

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

He looks like hell.

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

You set the takeout down and say nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seriously?”

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

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

“Eat, John.”

It’s not a request.

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

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

“Good?” You ask, softer this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the silence answers for him.

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

This is routine. Nothing new.

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

And that means more than anything ever could.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You suck in a breath.

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

“I hate seeing you like this.”

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

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

“I’ll shower later.”

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

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

“I’ll come with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says nothing. Just lets you do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there it is.

The map.

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

But there are new stars on the map tonight.

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

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

He doesn’t flinch.

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

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

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

“Turn around for me.”

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

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

You lift the soap again and step closer.

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

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

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

You lather the soap again and reach between his legs.

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

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

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

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

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

No blood, no sweat, no grime. 

Nothing of the outside world. 

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

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

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

Who has seen him like this.

And loved what you saw.

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

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

With nothing but awe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But something fragile. Something honest.

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

Then you kiss him.

A slow, careful press of your lips to his. 

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

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

It’s comforting. Familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[jubealea]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[jubealea]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Masterlist

[jubealea]

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

Feral Guard Dogs

Pairing: Poly Task Force 141 x Chubby!Reader

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

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

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

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But none of them looked away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simon didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look at you.

Just kept walking, silent and dangerous.

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

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

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

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

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

The reaction was instant.

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

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

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

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

Simon finally turned his head to you.

Stared for a long, tense moment.

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

"Do it."

The silence that followed was deafening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because ruined or not—he was all in.

And that fashion show?

It was going to happen.

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

[jubealea]

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

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

but it also gave him a raging erection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he loved you.

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

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

inspired by recent events

[jubealea]

𝑯𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝑰𝒔 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑨𝒓𝒆

John Price x Wife! Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[jubealea]

"Talking about ...you"

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

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

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

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

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

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

[jubealea]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[jubealea]

Weaknesses 11: Indisposed

cw: lil bit of dubcon/noncon ideation

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

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

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

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

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

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