#And they fill me with a deep dread
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chat i think i might be aromantic
#not sure tho but like#maybe it's just been a while since i've made a deep connection with someone#but at the same time the thought of being in a committed capital R Relationship fills me with dread#aromantic#aromanticism#aro spec#grayromantic#aroace spectrum#aroace#lgbtq+
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Journal Entry #2
As of late I am reminded yet again of the mess and damage that I have caused. As we all are aware of the horrendous way I attained this sanctuary for my children I have obviously ruined it for the rest. It is becoming more apparent that if I am to make amends, if such a thing is possible, it is essential that I find a way to ease my human residents.
This is no easy task as they all rightfully despise me. I can respect that, as I have destroyed all that they held dear. But, what I cannot do is leave things as they are. This new path that I am walking simply will not accommodate any neglect. As of right now I am doing my best to see who would like to stay and who would like to leave.
With the help of Elrond I now have enough paper so that I may create a catalog of names of those who wish to leave. This list is rather lengthy as one might imagine. But it does help me understand the scope of how big of a place I need to settle. Having a sister village in unclaimed territory for them is a nice thought that I would like to make a reality. Though the venture is expensive, dangerous and the likelihood of its success would be slim....
I will need to sort out logistics and speak with others about what to do. Perhaps there is a way to make this a reality? Or there may be other options of which I have not thought of. Either way I am prepared to take responsibility for my past actions, and I also am prepared for any backlash I may face. It is all to be expected at this point. But, as I'm sure it was said somewhere 'the road to achieving ones highest self is a perilous journey'. Even beyond the responsibility of my actions, I have my children to think of. I must set a good example for them if they are to grow past their own internalized and learned behaviors. Their future depends on understanding how to properly co-mingle with others in a functional way.
#Dread fills me but I will not abandon responsibility#Stress is a terror#My headache grows#*I crawl off to my bed and burrow under all my soft things*#Deep regret weighs on me tonight#Brooding is a hobby of mine#Nibbling on something soft to cope#i cringe so hard#Cringing at my former self#My redemption era has started I suppose#adar#adar trop#adar rings of power#Adar roleplayer
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i spend five seconds thinking about capitalism and the current state of the economy and want to run screaming into the nearest body of water
#the thought of returning to work fills me with DEEP existential dread#DEEP DEEP depression man#we as a country are so so so fucked#we are cooked#it's so hard to look at my little siblings and the other young folks i know and not just#idk. tell them to give up now because no matter how hard they try it will NEVER be enough. never#but that's not helpful so idk
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i hate that duality that your mind can be your safe heaven that helps you get through some difficult things, keeps you going and brings you happiness at the worst of times. and at the very same time it could be your worst tormentor that won't let you rest and won't let you breathe, literally for no particular reason at all. and you can't leave or silence it. can't get it to stop when it gets dark in there. can't get the light in when you desperately need to feel a respite instead of suffocation.
#its so difficult#sometimes its too much to handle#yeah particularly today im just.. screaming internally#and the inability to do something YOU LOVE due to your brain having one of those bad days so everything feels fucking BAD is just so unfAIR#its frustrating#the only thing you can do is sob apparently#my room doesnt feel like my room anymore all i feel is fear and dread#i just dont understand why and how it came to this point i want out#nothing grounds me to reality or to my normal state and im afraid#instead of watch fav movie to get better ill count the duration time and decide thats its too long i dont have that much time#i will be painfully aware of numbers and wb scared of them and then ill just not move at all immobilized at place#i cant#all i could do is desperately bother my friends trying to connect to them and hiding that obvious ache#i dont have capacity to soothe myself with my favorite guys and gals from games and movies i dont feel anything at all#and i hate that but also i cant do anything im so idk what i feel like but like im not anything#i lost myself i lost my favorite things to do and my hobbies and my spark and everything i dont even know anymore#on small bad days you could conjure a good thoughts and watch somethinf and think about what makes you happy#theres a void in my head now that just counts and counts and counts and cant do nothing#i will just open up a chat w friends and look at empty textspace i want to connect so badly but i wont send anything just freeze still#i dont feel that im in here but i want badly to be here and yet i cant grasp anything to still keep myself real#and like i have a feeling that in next 2 hours I'll just vanish spmething bad will happn carcrash orso i cantbe spendin much timeon anythin#i hate this#suddenly your brain just want you dead and fills you with dread unimaginable and my dumbass thinks that it's right#that my brain is right and im inclined to believe in this shit. im not but deep down i kind of is so thats why this anxiety causes me probl#ms for the whole week i didnt done anything i just could not i want it to stop#its so sure of itself that i will pass away in couple of hours by unknown reasons that it imagined so why even try
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#as of right now im still not including the 9 Rings in my world building because they make no sense
Aww, that's too bad, but i get it. The 9 circles have a lot of fun story potential, but I can understand not wanting to try to incorporate something into your world building if it doesn't make sense to you. At the end of the day, you're the writer of these fics. So if something doesn't make sense to YOU, that's going to make it harder for you to convey it to your readers. Writing is hard, so you should do what you have to to make it less so while still being fun on your end.
But may I make a suggestion? How about you put a pin in this whole Circle thing and set it aside to mull over again later? I think I recall you mentioning that chapter three is going to go over Pentagram City world building stuff, so i can see why you might want to have some of this information hashed-out. But unless locations like Imp City are absolutely VITAL for this upcoming chapter, maybe put that off for later? Save that info for a future installment? Maybe all you need for everything to click into place is for another little lore tidbit to come your way, like with Andrealphus' palace?
I know I tend to get stuck on world building stuff too (ive tried my hand at DMing for my dnd group, believe me i know exactly how easy it is to get stuck on tiny world building details) The best thing to do when that happens to me is to step back for a bit and come back later with fresh eyes. Perhaps that'll help here too? If not, again, your the writer. Do what's right by you😁👍
The thing about world-building is that it is subject to change based on what fic I'm writing or what I need it to be. Even if I'm not including the 9 Circles in my base Hellaverse World Building, it's definitely something I'm keeping on the back-burner in case I do ever decide to incorporate it in a fic.
I'm not opposed to the 9 Circles being a thing, I just have a hard time making sense of it. There are a lot of ways to make it work, but so far, none of them work in a way that satisfies me. Fic 5 of Just Kiss Already will be the first deep-dive into the world-building I've concocted for the series, but most of that will be surrounding Cannibal Town and a specific punishment I came up for all the cannibals. It is Hell, afterall. It's meant to punish the wicked, and I like the idea that that comes with specific punishments for specific Sinners that's utilized in a way that punishes ALL Sinners.
I'm debating on whether I should make the world-building post for Cannibal Town now or wait until Fic 5 drops. It's one of my favorite headcanons because it explains how Hell kept the population under control until the Exterminations began (in somewhat recent years) and it gives me a lot of Alastor angst to work with, which is always a top my top priority.
#who knows? one day i may end up using the 9 Circles#its all about what I need for the fic#but with how things are looking now it works more for my world building if Pentagram City is the only section of the Pride Ring#if the 9 Circles are a thing in the Hellaverse shows I really hope we get more insight on them#I wanna know things SO BAD#I love exploring the world so much#thank goodness I have the creative freedom to do this without reading the Bible#I like doing my research but is it really worth the risk of bringing up my religious trauma?#maybe one day when the sight of it doesn't make my skin crawl#or fill me with a deep sense of dread#anon#anonymous#World Building#The 9 Circles#Dantes Circles
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6:30 am. Sleep still eludes me
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and i do not think i am making a cohesive argument in this paper at all. but what can you do
#i’m still not done with the draft and the idea of revising fills me with deep dread#but i feel like i keep bouncing back and forth between like gender ideology magic play and like. it’s all tied together in my brain but i do#not know if the written progression is logical for someone else to follow#jules.txt
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was on such a good run of dredge not really Getting To Me n then i went to the twisted strand & the trees fucking moved. absolutely fuck that
#yelling at clouds#im not enjoying being chased by the shouty volcano guys#but they are not filling me with the same bone deep dread of realising there Was in fact just a path there. And Now There Isn't.
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Or when you remember the facts of a memory but not the memory itself. I know for a fact that my late mother told us she loved us so often it was annoying(for younger me, anyway), but I can no longer recall any specific instance of this happening. Eventually, I'm afraid my memory of her will fade to the point that I will start doubting she even said it at all. I've lost so much of her, her voice, her smile, I don't want to lose her words too.
The most terrifying part of having memory issues is when you can feel something from 5 seconds ago be thrown out the window and there's an empty hole where it once was. You remember that you forgot something.
#memory issues#of all my symptoms it's the only one that fills me with such a bone-deep dread#text post
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truth: what’s your biggest fear?
being forgotten. having no legacy. not leaving a mark on this world.
#not even saying it has to be something dramatic#just having children would be enough#but the thought of dying without children#with no one to carry on my blood or my name or my memory#it fills me with deep existential dread#ever since i was a child
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#i get the weirdest looks whenever i tell people what i think abt myself. when i tell people i think on some spiritual leveli might be dead#idek how to express it anymore. nothing feels right. the things that should make me happy instead fill me with absolute dread and sadness#i know nothing good is going to last. why would it. im not supposed to be here. the world has to correct itself as best it can#on some deep-seated level i know that it'd all work out better for everyone if i died. i just don't know how to make that happen#but im not supposed to be here. i know the exact moment i was meant to die and i saw it slipping away#call it hallucination but i could see it happen. i could see the way the world shifted. i could feel my heart beat wrong. i felt the change#and the arms digging into my ribs. and the wrenching from what was meant to be into what shouldn't have been#the world just broke for me and i could see it happen and it was never fixed.#i don't know that it can be fixed with me still in it
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sometimes I think about how I would feel more comfortable if I was born a man because then I wouldn’t feel/be seen as ugly for not wanting to wear makeup or unhygienic for not wanting to shave all my body hair and it makes me want to throw up
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i am legit emotional about this
#SOMETHING ABOUT IT MAN#THE CULMINATION OF MULTIPLE TRIBAL QUESTS#THE THEME OF COMMUNITY AND HOPE AND COMING TOGETHER FOR SOME FUN AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE#THE FUCKING RAD CUTSCENE SEQUENCE#im tearing at the walls dudes#also. commemorates the first and only time seeing the words 'several cutscenes will play in sequence'-#-filled me with ecstatic excitement instead of Deep Dread#ff14#ff14 endwalker#stop talking to yourself flight
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getting the biggest, scariest bastard at the pub in your bed must have been one of your greatest achievements, especially after watching the way he turned down a few girls prior to you.
he glanced at you each time, disregarding the way the poor things scuttled off in embarrassment; their confidence dampened. it's like he was preening under your attention, and even underneath that silly balaclava of his, you picked up on the way he seemed to flush. his shoulders became more square, and his chest seemed to puff out more. the air around him became more charged with his cockiness rather than the pointless attempts at hiding himself from the other patrons. surely he's aware that he's the centre of the room, no matter which one.
he only grew more bold until he was right at your side, and you held his gaze the entire time.
now, he rewards you with the greatest dicking-down of your life, his fat cock stretching you impossibly thin, the thick girth bullying its way into you over and over again. he fucks you like a man starved, touches you as if he's trying to sink his hands beneath your soft skin and stroke your bones.
although nothing could have prepared you for how fucking filthy his mouth is. his voice holds the right amount of grittiness, the kind that makes your eyes roll back as he whispers the nastiest things in your ear, his accent adding to the thrill his words send down your spine. each moan that fell from his mouth, each promise of ruining you for anyone else after him, each pet name he called you had you going brainless on his cock, your sensitive bundle of nerves twitching under the pads of his fingers as he follows through with his promise. maybe if you were any more lucid, you might have realised it sounded more like a threat rather than just plain dirty talk.
the next morning, you woke up to an aching body, a bottle of water and a box of tylenol on your bedside table, and no stranger in your bed. this may be the greatest one-night stand you've ever had.
well, it was until you realised a couple of weeks later that you're still getting off to the image of him blanketing you and that damn voice of his purring low in your ear. your fingers circle your clit, your eyes unfocused as you imagine him on top of you, taking you deep right where he belongs, and when you think about how he growled at you to soak his cock like a good girl, you come all over your fingers with a humiliatingly loud whine.
it only gets worse from there. you can no longer come to porn unless the person in the video resembles the big boy who rearranged your guts, and even that is a feat of its own. you can't find anyone who has similar tattoos, similar scars, or even a similar voice. reading smut can only get you so far, and some nights, you go to bed feeling defeated because you just couldn't orgasm.
you get so desperate you start searching for those dirty little audios people post online, and for a while, you manage to make yourself come (maybe not as hard, but at this point, you'll take anything). the voices that rumble through your headphones aren't as husky as your mystery man, and their accents aren't exactly close to his, but it holds you off... until it doesn't. and now you're desperate to find him again, but he's probably long gone now.
you can't believe it; the fucker really did ruin you.
it's not until a few months later that you hear that familiar voice again, and your knees almost give out in the middle of the damn store.
(they actually do when simon, he tells you through hungry kisses, bends you in half in the dreadful alleyway, your poor cunt taking each brutal fill of that cock you've been craving so badly.
"she's fuckin' squeezin' me, sweet'art. missed me tha' much?" he chuckles hoarsely in your ear, and you would have fallen over if not for his firm hold keeping you upright.
yep, he can fuck right off again. you'll get your lick back. just as soon as your legs stop shaking and you're not seeing double.)
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no matter how hard you try, you just can’t make yourself cum tonight.
the position is wrong, your toy is still dead as hell so you had to resort to using your fingers, but those aren’t hitting somewhere deep and scratching that itch you have of wanting to be filled, and it has you crying in frustration.
god, you just wanted to fuck yourself into a good orgasm once. but your fingers are starting to feel numb, and your arm is cramping up, and you feel annoyingly sore already. you know you should call it quits; that you should just douse the flames of your desire with a cold shower and just retire for the night, but you are so, so stubborn and angry and—
you snarl, ripping your fingers out of your cunt before twisting to snatch your phone from where you’d flung it close to the wall. you use your clean hand, wiping the other one on your bedsheets—you might have to wash them tonight, anyway—and sends a message to johnny.
cant cum <
fuck me pls <
you drop your phone to your stomach, hearing yourself heave as your body catches up to the exhaustion. you stare up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the blazing heat and the soreness and the emptiness, and focusing instead on the little spark of need that you refuse to extinguish because you know johnny. you know he’d reply soon.
(he’s always fucked you good; filled you up with slurring words crooned to your ears, his big hands stretching across your stomach because he swears underneath all this skin and fat, he feels his cock fucking in, in, in.
he loves taunting you when your quiet tears turn into soft sobs—ye gonna cum soon, bon? show me yer cummin’ face, huh? c’mon bon.
he is so, so mean, and you need nothing less right now.)
true to your thoughts, your phone buzzes two minutes later. you pick it back up, grunting in confusion when instead of johnny’s name, you see john’s.
is he alright? did he need something from you? god, you think he’d let you do it tomorrow or at least in a couple of hours?
you tap at the notification, only to feel the curiosity bleed out of you to be replaced with startling horror. it’s like ice water was dumped on you, extinguishing every embers of your libido because there, on your screen, was john. replying to your message.
you had—
> quite forward of you. well, since you asked so nicely, we’re on our way.
you had sent the message to—
three knocks—taptap-tap—suddenly thud on your door. you gasp, looking up from your phone to stare at your locked door, dreadful.
you sent it to the damn group chat.
-
part 02
#suns#the bedsheets are gonna be soiled alright#task force 141#task force 141 x reader#tf 141 x reader#johnny soap mctavish x reader#cod x reader#cod smut#edited
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‘you’ll get used to it.’ | captain john price

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”
WARNINGS - 18+ mdni. smut. so much smut. darker themes ie death. a super deep and twisted interpretation of a solider who’s being reckless in attempt to run from their feelings. captain price is bred to hunt so it’s futile. piv. mirror sex. multi orgasms. size kink. dirty talk. dubcon slightly. we shouldn’t be doing this trope. slightly morally grey. a lot of sleep token references. fingering. reader afab. mentions of blood, injury. slight brat/dom dynamic. overstimulation.
The first thing you register is the weight of him.
Not his hands, though they’re there too — firm around your arms, holding you steady — but him. The heat of him at your side, sweat and cigarettes filling your muddled senses with each laboured breath you gasp for. The quiet, infernal energy that pours off him, taking up too much space, too much air from your already airless lungs.
“You with me?” His voice rumbles close to your ear.
You try to nod, but the motion sends a fresh bolt of pain ricocheting through your skull. Your breath hitches, and his grip tightens.
“Easy.” A low murmur, meant to soothe. “Almost there.”
There being the med bay, where fluorescent lights paint everything sterile. Too bright, too fucking loud alongside the offset drumbeat in your ears. He doesn’t let you sit on your own — eases you down onto the cot himself, hands as steady as they always are, even when yours are the furthest from.
You wince as you shift, and his eyes flick over you. He’s still assessing.
“Shouldn’t’ve let that bastard get a hit in,” he mutters, half to himself.
You know what he’s thinking. The result of your own impulsivity. Reckless. “Yeah, I’ll try to avoid that next time.”
He exhales sharply. A shake of his head. “Could’ve been worse.”
You know that. Just like you know he’s only saying it to ease your dread. But you can see it in the way he looks at you, something unreadable tightening at the corners of his mouth, that he’s seen it. Many more times than you think.
“I’m fine,” you tell him. “You don’t have to—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
Just gives you that look, the one that shuts people up without him having to say a damn thing. It’s something you’re still learning about him — the way he often communicates without words. How his silence and pointed stares hold more meaning than most people’s shouting. You’ve also learned the effort to argue with him when he’s like this is a futile one. You’re a part of his team. He’ll be with you through it all.
Then, without asking, he reaches for you — because he knows you’ll let him. One hand bracing your chin, tilting your head so he can get a better look at the damage.
And even through the agony, it’s all too much.
The touch, the closeness, the way he hasn’t taken his eyes off you for one goddamn second since you’d been hit. Your throat goes dry at the realization that it’s doing more to you than it should. But you’ll never get used to how he does it. How a man like him — a wartime killer with more bloodshed on his fingertips than skin covering his limbs — can still look at you with something even remotely soft, when he’s bred to be everything but.
“You always this stubborn?” His voice is quieter now. A rough rasp against his throat.
You swallow, pulse hammering. “You always this persistent?”
His lips quirk, but his grip stays firm, fingers cool against your fevered skin.
“You’ll get used to it.”
You wondered then, if you ever really would.
———————
Months later, you’re still wondering the same thing.
It’s been months since that night in the med bay. Months of keeping yourself at arm’s length. Of keeping things professional. Of projecting platonic renditions despite the cursed thing threatening to take its place.
Or, well, trying to.
Because if there’s one thing you know for certain, it’s that tension like this doesn’t fade. It festers.
No matter how deep you try to bury it, perseverance is its ally. Helps it crawl out of the grave you dug for it in every brush of his fingers against yours when he hands over a magazine clip, every order spoken gravel in your ear, every glance held a second too long when neither of you are fast enough to look away. It leaves claw marks in everything, has been ever since the day he carried you through crumbling stone and mortar — ever since you felt him so fucking close and you realized you didn’t mind it. Since the moment you learned more about him in twenty minutes than you have in the entire year by his side.
That night relinquished something. Made you see him in a new light. What was once a beacon is now a solar flare for dead gods.
And it erupts here. Now.
In the barracks washroom after a mission gone sideways. After a fight that took too much out of you — left your bones aching, your skull pounding with the remnants of a concussion you’re beginning to suspect never fully healed — skin still humming raw, soaked in adrenaline and something a little too fucking reckless.
After he follows you in.
The door slams behind him, the sound ricocheting off the tiles. You don’t turn around, just strip your tac vest off with more force than necessary, breathing hard, hissing under your breath as exhaustion begins smothering out the fire in your blood.
“You got a fucking death wish?”
You can feel him staring at you. You know he’s seeing red — the heat of his eyes on your back incomparable to the even the greediest hellfires.
You exhale, press your palms flat against the edge of the sink. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t start?” He steps closer. “You ran straight into that firefight without cover.”
“I handled it.”
“You barely walked away.”
Finally, you turn, glare at him over your shoulder. “That what this is? Another fucking lecture?”
He doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t snap at you like your previous COs would. He just watches. And somehow, that’s worse.
“That what you think I’m doing?”
You scoff, shake your head, turning back toward the sink. The mirror in front of you is cracked down the middle, splitting your reflection in two. And you think, rather ridiculously, that it’s a perfect fucking picture of how you feel. Torn. Between the persistence of him and the need to keep your distance. Between what you’ve spent months trying to ignore and the way it still catches you off guard—how you keep finding yourself watching him, noticing him, like something inside you has already made a decision you can’t retract.
Behind you, he exhales slow. You hear the shift of his boots against the floor.
“Can’t keep doing this,” he mutters. “Won’t.”
Something in your chest tightens.
“What, watching my back?” You force your voice to stay even. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”
“Not like this.”
The simplicity of that response has currency, and you know the behaviour. The familiar silence that tells you there’s more to this. Syllables pleading behind his teeth which he isn’t quite yet dignifying — but that slice along the back of his throat all the same. You meet his gaze in the mirror, and you see it then. In the dim light of his ocean eyes.
An emergence.
“I can’t watch you go down again.” There it is. Words coaxed out in that thick accent of his that inflicts them like a wound. He’s moving closer now, extinguishing the space. Stepping up behind you. “You haven’t been right for months. I need to know why.”
At that, you almost recoil — each syllable thrusting the knife deeper into your resolve, and you realize it’s not his accent that makes them cut, but the way he speaks them. Certain. As if he’s looking at you bare. No layers left to protect you. Like you’re nothing but sinew and marrow. Like your eyes and limbs are instruments to pick apart.
You stare at the sink. “So you are always this persistent.”
It leaves your lips exactly as you mean it — a callback, a test. You don’t watch his face, but the silence stretching long tells you it landed exactly where you wanted. A synapse snap back, an echo from the depths of whatever is eating you from the inside out.
“And you,” a pause, breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. “Are always this stubborn.”
He says it like an indictment.
You’re sure it’s because he knows you. Because he sees how you bleed and pretend you don’t. How you’ve been keeping yourself at arm’s length for months. Because you’ve cornered yourself — because you let the bruises fade without ever acknowledging how deep they burrow.
Your fingers tighten around the porcelain, like if you hold on hard enough you can keep the charade going. Pretend you don’t feel what you feel. But then, you glance up, and there it is — your reflection wavering in the split mirror, cut through by the fault line of your own indecision. Your own internal warfare.
“Yes,” you whisper. “But you knew that long ago.”
“I did.” His hand braces against the sink beside yours as he all but cages you against it. “But I keep thinking, sooner or later, you’ll let yourself stop.”
Another pause. A breath suspended in air too thick, in a space that feels too small.
“You want me to stop?”
He exhales through his nose. “I want you to want to.”
It’s an invitation. A quiet demand.
You swallow against the burn in your throat because it’s clear he knows what’s hiding behind your eyes. He’s just asking you to be honest. To pull the words from where they’ve been buried, to stop dissolving them like acid on your tongue. To let him in.
“Then you want for nothing.” Your voice is softer than you mean it to be, dangerously close to breaking. “Because you know I’d tell you anything if you asked.”
His eyes meet yours in the mirror.
“Tell me what’s making you reckless.”
You’d expected that — or something like it — but it still takes you apart. Thread by thread, a rope cinched through the hollow of your ribs. Pulling, pulling —waiting for you to give.
And you almost do. Almost let it spill, let it take shape in the open air between you. The truth of it. The rot you’ve kept pressed beneath your tongue, the slow, patient decay of something you know you shouldn’t feel.
But instead—
“It’s the head injury,” you lie.
A hollow offering. Brittle. A crumbling thing in place of the real answer.
His fingers twitch against the porcelain, reflection sharpening in the mirror — cutting through the fractures he’s causing. He doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t accuse you of lying. And that’s worse. So much worse. Because it means he’s seeing you. Means he’s waiting — sifting through the hollow, the fractions of you that no longer fit together in search of the thing you hesitate to give him.
“You can’t lie to me.” It sinks deep. Sticks somewhere you can’t pull it free. He’s right. “We both know it isn’t just that.”
You exhale something like a laugh except it’s boneless and bitter, just nerves spilling out because they’ve got no where else to go.
“Didn’t know you were a medic now.” You break your eyes back to the sink. “Or a mind reader.”
“I don’t need to be.” The words come fast. Convicting. “I just need to know you.”
And that. That makes you look up at him again. Makes you meet his eyes. Makes you burn.
“Price—“
His lips are against your ear. “Tell me.”
Your throat closes. The rope pulls tighter. You know what he wants — what he’s asking. But the answer feels like it won’t fit in your mouth. The swell of truth too large. Too longly suppressed because god this is your Captain and all he did was save your life. You know you should just be grateful and yet the only thing on your mind is granting him more than the debt you owe.
Because when you can’t swallow your demons, they don’t just disappear. They turn to hunger instead.
It was his hands that had fed them. They’re still starving now.
“The truth will ruin everything, Captain.” The words tear from your throat like he’s ripped them out himself. “This isn’t something you, or anyone, can help me with.”
You feel him go still the moment the words leave you. Feel it in the hand bracing against the sink, the exhale of his breath against your neck.
“So that’s what this is.” Your stomach coils, something twisting tight as you turn your head to face him. He doesn’t move back. Just dips his gaze to your lips. “You’re feeling too much, yeah? Think by being reckless you can run from it.”
It’s startling, the way he sees right through you. Your silence is a telling confession and he reads it like scripture.
You’ve always known it would be hard with him. Knew it from the beginning, because he’s as sharp as he is skilled, because he knows how to look at a situation and read the words left unspoken.
You nod. All while wishing it was anyone else.
“You can’t outrun this.” His voice drops, dragging his free hand up the nape of your neck. “Can’t outrun me.”
He tugs you toward him, something dark flashing beneath his eyes — something like possession, something that makes your bones ache as his mouth ghosts over yours. A torturous, drawn-out motion, withholding what you know he’ll take.
A breath passes between you, your eyes closed, a million things unspoken. Spinning. Thrumming in the silence.
Then, he brushes his lips to yours. And there’s fire.
A slow-burning ruin, heat licking through your stomach, curling in your spine, and it devours you — every breath, every instinct screaming at you to pull away, to run. It’s all gone. Gone until the moment he pulls back. Presses his forehead against yours.
“I know.” You reply, and for a second you think he’s backing off.
He doesn’t.
Lips against yours again, he takes. Your mouth parts on a sharp inhale. Shock, surrender, his tongue slipping against yours, before he kisses you hard. Like he’s been waiting for this, waiting for your admittance. Like this is something he’s fought against just as much as you have.
Your hands find his shoulders, something to brace against as he pulls you in deeper. The breath is gone from your lungs, your pulse pounding for an entirely different reason now. You open your eyes as he pulls back again. Take in the sharp cut of his features — the shadow of a beard against his jaw, the darkness of his gaze, drinking you in like he wants to keep you there.
“You don’t get to die on me,” he murmurs, and it makes your world tilt. Makes you wonder if you hit your head harder than you thought, all those months ago. Makes you wonder if you’re hallucinating. “Christ.” His fingers flex at your waist. “You don’t get to be careless.”
There’s something in him you’ve never seen before. Something undone. Something you don’t understand but do at the same time — because you feel it too. The decades of loss. The battle scars. The countless near misses that linger for life. You weren’t thrusting yourself into open fire with some raging death wish — but you weren’t being as methodical as you should have been either, all to chase that fucking adrenaline spike. You didn’t think he’d have this reaction.
And there’s so much you need to say. So much you need to do. But all you can do is whisper, breathless against him. “I’m sorry.”
There’s a pause. A click of his tongue.
“I’m not done with you.” His mouth finds yours again, something softer this time, but no less demanding. You don’t fight it. And when his free hand dips down your back, you tilt your head up into him, hands fisted in his shirt, wishing you didn’t miss the feel of it so devastatingly when he pulls back again. “You want reckless? I’ll show you fucking reckless.”
You don’t have a chance to answer before he spins you around and shoves you against the counter. A groan slips from your lips, but you relish the feel of him — the warmth of his chest as he steps into you, crowding you until all you know is his heat.
His hands slide down your sides, gripping at your hips, the heat in your gut burning hot as he holds you in place.
“This what you want?” He mutters against the side of your throat, his nose nudging your jaw. “Or do you still want to run?”
You swallow, mouth parted, breath coming hard. It’s a question, but you know he doesn’t really want an answer. Not with everything he’s doing. Not with the way he’s holding you, the way his hands slip beneath your shirt, calloused fingers grazing bare skin as he tugs the fabric up.
Your breath hitches. “Christ, Captain—”
You feel his mouth brush against your neck, tongue lavving out to taste you. Like he’s hungry and you’re a goddamn four-course meal. You moan. It’s all you can do to stay upright, legs going weak when he nips at your jaw.
“No Captain.” A demand. His hand sliding lower, dipping under the fabric of your cargos. “John.”
John. You shudder at the implication of it. John is a rare thing—something you’ve only ever heard him give to a handful of others, and no one else. John is personal. John is when he’s no longer your superior, but instead, your equal.
“John.” Somehow, it rolls off your tongue like breathing, like it had always been waiting there for this moment. Another moan follows it, just as his fingers find your clit. “Ohgod, John—”
He hums, teasing you, fingers moving in paced, languid circles like he’s got nothing but time despite the way his chest is pacing against your back. Pressure building beneath his skin. You feel the tension in him — the way his muscles shift, the way he tenses in response.
“That’s it,” he grinds out, fingers speeding up just enough. “You like that?”
Your answer is an afterthought. You don’t speak, don’t need to. Your mouth finds his again, and he swallows the breath you try to take. All you can do is nod.
And you know you have no fucking right to know what he sounds like. How he tastes as your tongue wrestles his. Your head spinning too fast for you to think because he is everywhere, a heady mix of lust and need as you desperately try to chase the way he makes your blood race. It’s all so new. So fucking wanton. Needy. As if all the months of wanting have finally caught up to the moment, a wildfire that seems to burn all logic. You know this is wrong — but fuck you don’t care.
You know in a second, he’ll be pressing you against the granite and you’ll have to make a thousand apologies to whatever god may be listening.
But then he pushes a finger into you, and you only have one prayer on your tongue. “Oh, John.”
He exhales against you, a quiet growl that goes straight to your head. It’s the same sound he makes when he’s in a combat, and there’s something about the idea of being able to make him feel the same as he feels when he’s a man of war that makes fireworks light up behind your eyelids.
“Mm. She’s fucking tight.” He mutters as he curls his finger and presses deeper. You gasp, the sound swallowed between you. “This is what you needed, hm? Needed me to pin you down. Make you fucking feel.”
That— that’s exactly it. Your eyes dart up to his in the mirror because yes. In the fractures he’d caused he’d found what you were too afraid to verbalize. And it makes you keen — the way it’s like he can rip out your soul and hold it in his hands. You know you can’t hide it in your gaze, the desperation that comes with that kind of dependency.
Of course.
“You. Mm. You always know just what I need.” You moan out, as teasing as possible, while your climax barrels closer.
And he relishes it. Every second. It’s obvious in the sharp inhale he takes, the way his pupils dilate until the blue in his eyes look like a halo in a sea of blackened lust. Your head feels like it’s splitting in two, caught between the pressure building inside you and the heat that seems to be coiling so tight you could implode.
He adds a second finger, and you have to grip onto the counter if you want to still find your feet.
“Ohmygod—fuck, John—“
You don’t know how you look, can’t bring yourself to face your reflection — but you know how it feels, the way the world is tipping like you’re on the deck of a ship, the way your stomach clenches and your nerves light like fire under your skin. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on you. You spent months running from him just to end up here. You realize now that he’s always been a step ahead in a way you can’t understand, and you know you’re playing a game you won’t win.
“Let me feel it.” He purrs against your ear, fingers pumping. “Let it happen.”
You moan loud at that, clenching around his fingers because it already is happening. The pleasure is hot and blinding.
“Ohgod—“ your voice breaks between words, your head falling back against of his shoulder. “Fuck. I’m—“
He knows. The heat building in your gut so bright it seeps through your skin. So, he dips his other hand back beneath your shirt, palming your breast and you know it’s to make you fall even harder — and christ, he manages it. You erupt, climax hitting you like a train.
The bliss is blinding, and you want to scream — but can’t because his mouth is on yours, capturing every strangled gasp you give as you try to catch your breath. You’re trembling, legs shaking, your body trying to find some sort of ground as you gasp for breath — but then he’s pulling his hand out and sliding off to one side. You feel empty. Breathless. You think, in some dim place in your mind, that you should feel embarrassed now, but you’re too distracted to care. As your breathing returns, you can hear him sucking on his fingers.
Tasting you.
You can barely stand it, the noise curling through the fog in your head. You hear a soft pop, and suddenly his hand is on your jaw, tilting you towards the mirror, and you finally look.
You think you almost look the same. You can almost pretend that that this is what it’s always been — something fleeting and nameless and reckless — but there’s a flush on your cheeks, a gloss in your eyes, that you can’t deny. In fact, the only thing that breaks you out of the fantasy is the way John’s eyes meet yours.
As if there was ever any mistaking what you would allow to happen here. You know, looking at him, that that the hunger in your gaze would always give away the truth. That he would always know how to read you.
“Reckless.” He mutters, as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking, as if it’s something he’d known all along. You watch his jaw clench, his fingers digging into your cheeks. It’s not angry — it’s something more. A possession. “You do not get to leave me.”
You’ve known this man for barely a year, and yet he understands something you cannot. Something different from all your previous CO’s. Something that goes deeper than protection of a superior. And for the first time, you realize you can’t hide—not from him, not from whatever this is.
“Is that an order?” You whisper. Smirking.
He leans in, the heat of him branding against your spine, and you feel his words before he speaks them, rough and low on your throat.
“An order,” he echoes, hands sliding down to your hips. “And a threat.”
Your breath stutters, head spinning too fast to think. This is dangerous — whatever this is. It’s like the two of you are careening off the edge of a mountain, barreling toward something irreversible. You should stop this. You should pull away.
“Mm.” Instead, you arch your back, pressing against him with a low, breathy hum. “Now who’s being reckless.”
“Mhm. Knew you’d like that,” he mutters, mouth dragging against your jaw. His hands are already working, tugging down your zipper. “Brat.”
You should hate that word. Before him, you would have even more so. But something about the way he says it makes you bite your lip.
“You want to be put in your place.” His hands are purposed. Tugging down your cargos, undoing his belt. “That it?”
“Depends.” Your breath hitches. “Where exactly is my place, Captain?”
“Right here.” He presses you forward, palm splayed between your shoulder blades. His other hand grips your hip, dragging you against him, the thick weight of his need sliding along the slick between your thighs. You swallow a moan. “Right underneath me, Sergeant.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your head is spinning too fast to think. Then, he’s pushing inside you, and you lose the last of your breath.
“Fuck.” Your eyes catch in the mirror, watching as he sinks in, stretching you wide, splitting you open. The breath punches from your lungs, knuckles strained where you brace against the counter. Your head falls back, and he groans — a low, guttural sound that ripples through you. “Price—“
His fingers press into your jaw, turning your gaze back to the mirror. “Look at me.”
You do. And God. You wish you hadn’t.
Dark, blown-out pupils devour the blue of his irises. His chest heaves, the cords of his neck pulled tight. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anything more wrecked, more devastating, than the way he looks at you now.
“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. His breath stutters. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”
You try. You really do. But fuck—
“Huge,” you gasp, tipping onto your toes for respite as he buries himself to the hilt. “Fuck—John—”
“Mhm. Don’t run—” his hand slides up your throat, fingers curling, just enough to make it dangerous. You gasp, pulse hammering against his palm. He knows. Of course he does. The way he knows everything about you. “You’ll get used to it.”
You’ll get used to it.
The words echo back at you. The same ones he murmured the first time you asked him if he’s always this persistent. If you could think, you’d laugh. But you can’t. Because now you know the answer. Yes, he is always this persistent. And no, you will never fucking get used to it.
Your moans have long since lost restraint, spilling from your lips in time with his thrusts, raw and wanton and so fucking desperate. He takes you like it’s not the first time, like he’s not far too big to be this deep — his grip bruising in the best way, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. You feel the fractures of yourself, a thousand pieces of you suspended midair, trembling on the verge of shattering. You’ve never been this close to the sun. And god, if it doesn’t feel like fire.
Then, he says your name.
Your name. Your real name.
And it’s like breaking the surface of water after nearly drowning—like oxygen flooding into starving lungs. It strips you raw, turns the world molten beneath you, sends you spiraling into release all over again, the pleasure so sharp it almost aches. His hand claps over your mouth, muffling your sob of a moan as your body locks up, trembling.
“Yeah. There we go. Let it all out f’me.” His voice is dark, rough with something that sends another sharp pulse between your legs. His hips slap against your ass, relentless. “I’ve fucking got you.”
And you know he does. In a way you don’t trust your breath or your bones. In a way that terrifies you just as much as it makes you need.
Your vision blurs, heat rippling through your limbs, but he—he is unmoving. Steady. Like steel. Like he can take you at your best and your worst. Like he could tame this thing between you, whatever reckless, nameless thing this is, and make it his.
“That’s right. You look at yourself,” he grunts, one hand digging into your hip, the other still clamped over your mouth. Your glassy eyes flick up to the mirror, catching his reflection behind you—pupils blackened, lips parted, gaze locked on you. “M’gonna dumb you out. Fuck you ’til you can’t walk, never mind run.”
Your nails scrape divots into the granite as he shoves you further over the counter, forcing you to take him deeper. A wrecked whimper slips through your teeth, body caught between overstimulation and desperate, eager want. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the slick drip down your thighs, soaking into your ruined cargos — you know he can feel it too.
“Shit.” He rasps, voice fraying. His hand leaves your mouth, slides down to your throat, not squeezing, just holding as his other moves. Fingers finding the mess between your legs, pressing slow circles over your swollen clit. “Tight little slut.”
Your body jerks. “Fuck—John—”
“That’s it. Gimme another,” he mutters, rolling his hips, hitting something deep inside you that makes your vision blur. “C’mon, sweetheart, I know you can.”
It’s too much. The thick, hot drag of his dick with every punishing thrust — the rough slide of his fingers. The weight of his body pressing you into the counter like he’ll never let you go. You can’t think. Can’t breathe—
And then he growls your name again, deep and needing, and it sends you over with a broken sob, body writhing, mind slipping into static as you cum again, clenched so tight around him it makes him stutter.
His hand fists in your hair, dragging your head back so his lips brush your ear. “Good girl. Fucking perfect—”
You feel it when he loses himself. Through the fog of pure bliss. When his grip turns almost punishing, when his hips stutter, when the ragged groan tears through his throat. He grinds deep, burying himself to the hilt, body rigid as he groans and spills inside you with a choked curse.
And then, there’s stillness.
Both of you breathing uneven — more so him, heavy against the nape of your neck. And for a long moment, it’s just that. Just the sound of your bodies slowing, just the lingering thrum of pleasure untwisting from both of your bloodstreams.
Then, his fingers tighten on your throat. Just enough. Just to make sure you feel it.
“You ever pull some reckless shit like that again,” he mutters, voice raw, scraping against your ear, “you won’t be able to fucking talk when I’m done with you.”
Your breath stutters, thighs twitching at the promise in his tone.
“You got a problem, you come to me. You don’t run. Don’t put yourself into the fire just to fucking feel something.” His hand slides up, grips your jaw, tilts your head just enough so you can see him in the mirror — blue eyes all pupil, sharp jaw clenched. “You’re mine,” he murmurs. “And I take care of what’s mine. No matter what.”
A slow, shuddering breath leaves you. He watches your lips part, watches the way your body reacts to his words. Then, his grip on your throat eases. A slow drag of his hands down your body, like he’s memorizing the feeling of you ruined under him.
“Understand me?” His voice is quieter now, but no less dangerous.
You swallow. Nod. “Yes sir.”
He hums. Seemingly satisfied, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder.
“Good.”
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