hidden-ember

[hidden-ember]

“Simon Riley has god-like stamina this, Simon Riley goes multiple rounds that” yeah yeah okay sure, but consider this. What if he doesn't? 

What if he's tired? Sick? Even just plain lazy? What if after a long day of getting his ass beat at work, he just wants to come home, cum quick, and knock the fuck out? Huh? Give me that Simon.

Simon who insists it's your turn to be on top since he was on top last time. Simon whose idea of foreplay is a little spit and a couple tugs, and then he's ready to go. Simon who prefers to have sex in the morning because he knows he'll be too tired if he waits until the night. Simon who starts to grouch about his tongue getting sore after it's taken more than five minutes to get you off. Simon who loves to wear condoms because it means he doesn't have to deal with a big mess at the end. Simon who half the time doesn't even bother undressing fully, just lowers his pants and underwear enough to pull out his cock. Simon who only has sex before having a meal because after he usually likes to take a nap. Simon who can't be bothered to change the sheets once you're finished, so he just lays on the wet spot you left on the bed. Simon who's huffing and sweating like he just ran a marathon even though you're only 60 seconds in. Simon who lasts just long enough to see you both cum, and then he's immediately rolling over and falling asleep.

Simon who may not be the most sprightly of lovers, but that doesn't mean he doesn't care. Even when he's got nothing but fumes left in the tank, he still finds a way to leave you both satisfied.

#!!!!

[hidden-ember]

Chokehold ⛧˚ · .

i’d turn my walls to gold / to bring you home again

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summary: don’t let ur dreams be dreams (also be careful about where ur jorkin it)

cw: SMUT - MDNI, price + ghost x f!reader, getting caught, threesome, oral -f!receiving, unprotected p in v, double penetration, creampie???? ig??????, prob unrealistic scenarios but fuck if we ball

a/n: GHOUL’S BAAAAAACK and finally inspired to finish this!! kinda lazy writing but idk i had fun and it’s v self-indulgent. pls enjoy :3

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

After a long day of training with your captain and your lieutenant, the three of you turn in for the evening. The sleeping arrangements at the base were a bit messy at the moment, so Price and Ghost opted to share a room to allow you to have some space for yourself.

“We’re right next door if ya need anything, doll,” they’d say, before offering you a nod and disappearing into their quarters. That’ll be the last you’ll hear from either of them until the morning sun rises and you’re making your way to the mess hall.

Well, usually.

Tonight’s different than most. Normally you’d shower and pass out immediately upon hitting the pillow after such rigorous and unforgiving training, but no matter what you do you just can’t seem to settle down. There’s a heat growing in your body, mainly accumulating near your lower stomach. You writhe, squeezing your legs together to try and alleviate it a bit.

But it’s not enough.

Thoughts of your captain and lieutenant flood your mind. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t attracted to them, but you’ve always done your best to keep it at bay. Tonight, though…

It wouldn’t hurt to indulge a bit, right? Just enough to calm yourself down and allow you to sleep. No harm, no foul.

Right?

Your hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties, rubbing your already soaked core slowly as you imagine the two men, their strong hands exploring your body. You imagine yourself in Ghost’s lap, his hands teasing your chest while Price leaves small marks on the insides of your thighs.

You moan, wiggling your hips closer toward his face, aching for his lips to touch you.

“Ah-ah,” Ghost would say, pinching your nipple just a bit more tightly to cause you to yelp. “Let us take our time, yeah?”

Whining, you melt into their embrace. The gentle caresses and sloppy kisses bringing you closer and closer to the edge. You moan, feeling your body tense as you start to orgasm.

A knock on your door pulls you from the fantasy, your release immediately ruined. You look at the clock: 2AM.

Who could possibly need you at this hour?

Quickly cleaning yourself up you pull on some shorts and head to the door, opening it to find the two objects of your desire standing in your doorway.

“Everything okay?” you ask, trying not to sound too out of breath. You study their faces, but their expressions give nothing away.

Ghost and Price glance at one another, prolonging the silence. The air in the room feels uncomfortable, and your blood begins to run cold.

You don’t think..?

“Just wanted to check on ya,” Price says after clearing his throat. “Heard some noises that were a bit…” He trails off.

Oh my god.

“Nope, everything’s good! Don’t worry,” you lie, your blood-red face absolutely giving you away. “Thanks for checking on me, though. Goodni—“

You go to close the door, but a large hand stops it. Ghost’s. He peers over the captain’s shoulder, staring into your soul.

“We heard it all, love,” he admits in a gruff tone. “Walls ‘ere are a bit thin, if y’hadn’t noticed.”

You groan, releasing the door and hiding your face in your hands. “Listen, it’s not what it sounded like,” you begin, only to be cut off my a deep chuckle. Price removes your hands from your face, exposing your flushed cheeks. He smiles down at you.

“Oh?” he asks. “Not what it sounded like, hm? See, to us it sounded like you were getting off to the thought of your superiors having their way with you. But by all means, correct me if I’m wrong, princess.”

Your mouth falls open, stuttering as you try to form excuses but nothing seems to stick. You settle on groveling, apologizing and asking them not to report you.

“Report you?” Ghost lets out a small laugh. “Darlin’, we’re here to help you.” Price nods in agreement, both of them looking at you expectantly.

“Help…me..?” It takes a moment for your mind to catch up to the situation at hand, slowly processing what’s just been said to you. When you realize what they’re proposing, your eyes widen. “Wait, you don’t have to—“

Price holds up a hand, cutting your protest short. “Why settle for your imagination when the real thing is directly in front of ya?” he asks, a smug grin plastered on his face. His eyes are dark, hungry, and you feel like you’re being devoured where you stand.

And you love it.

Sheepishly you nod, stepping aside and allowing the two to enter. Locking the door behind them, they make their way into the room. You stand there for a moment, looking at your feet and tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt. Sure, you’ve fantasized about this countless times. But handling things in a fantasy versus in real life? You were absolutely not prepared.

“S’matter?” Price asks, stepping forward and cupping your face. “Don’t get all shy on us now.”

Ghost hums in agreement, moving behind you to grasp at your hips. “Don’t be embarrassed, love. Y’sounded so pretty before. Make those sounds for us again, yeah?” He nuzzles his face into your hair, slowly slipping his hands underneath your shirt to graze your skin.

Your breath hitches in your throat.

“Sensitive, are we?” Price teases. “Good.” The captain move his hands from your face, trailing them down your arms to replace the warmth of Ghost’s previous grasp on the plush of your lower body.

Ghost moves your hair from the nape of your neck, leaving gentle kisses there that cause you to shiver. You can feel his breathy chuckle against your skin as you react so beautifully to his touch. Each little jolt, each tiny whimper… It was intoxicating to him.

In front of you, Price’s breath quickens. He takes in your form, only seeing you in casual clothing once or twice. This is different, however. Your nighttime clothing leaves little to the imagination. Your hardened nipples are clearly visible through the thin shirt, as if begging for some sort of attention, while the fat of your ass spills out from the underside of your tiny shorts. You’ve never really minded being scantily clad in the comfort of your own room, but the heated gazes you’ve found yourself sandwiched between leave you feeling more exposed than you’ve ever felt before.

“Need t’ taste your lips,” Price breathes, moving his hands back to your face to pull you closer toward him. Even standing on your toes, Price has to lean down a bit further just to brush your mouth with his own. “Can I, dove?” Teasingly his tongue slips past his mouth, tracing lightly against your bottom lip before returning to where it belongs.

“Please—” Your answer spills out as whine. Any attempts to hold yourself together were completely dissolved as soon as your face was near Price. He smells of smoke and earth, and the combination makes your head spin. At the sound of your acceptance he closes what little gap is left between you. Price works your mouth slowly, relishing in every moan and whimper he catches with his tongue. Wrapping your arms around his neck you attempt to deepen this kiss, but the height discrepancy between the two of you makes the task nearly impossible.

With a wry chuckle Price hoists you up by your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist. At this height, you’re able to press further into him. Behind you, however, Ghost lets out a disgruntled sigh. Thanks to the change in position, the poor lieutenant’s hands were ripped from where they resting juuuust beneath your breasts. He’s the sort of man to take his time, and god was he enjoying the sounds he was able to pull from you when his rough fingers grazed your skin.

“Sorry, Simon,” Price grunts between kisses, “Got a bit carried away.” Noticing the irritated look on his friend’s face he breaks the kiss, nipping your lip before moving to set you down on your bed.

Price moves out of the way, allowing Ghost space to remove your bottoms. In one quick motion he rids you of your shorts and panties, spreading your thighs so the both of them can take you in properly.

“Christ,” Ghost whispers. “Y’got this wet just from kissing him?”

“Or were you already this wet when y’opened the door? Maybe you’d we’d hear you and come over, hm?” Price breathes in heavily, licking what’s left of your kiss from his lips as he kneels down next to Ghost. “I imagine you taste divine…”

“Oi,” Ghost chides. “Who said you get to go first? Don’t be greedy, old man. You already got to kiss her.” Ghost’s rubs his thumb slowly along your pelvis, inching ever closer to your clit without actually touching it directly. Your hips squirm in anticipation.

Price chuckles, nudging Ghost’s shoulder playfully. “Now, now — don’t get your feelings hurt, lad. Let your captain show y’how it’s done.” He leans down, tongue out as his breath fans across your slick pussy. Just as he’s about to make contact, Ghost pushes him aside. You groan, throwing your head back as the two continue to bicker.

After a moment, the urge to devour you becomes too strong. Silently, Price and Ghost come to an agreement.

They’ll go at the same time.

You look down, confused, as the two men squeeze their large bodies between your thighs, each throwing a leg over their shoulder.

“What’s—” You begin to question the strange setup but your words are cut short by a choked whine as Ghost’s mouth encloses over your aching clit while Price’s tongue teases its way into your core. The room is filled with a symphony of moans from the three of you, both Ghost and Prices losing themselves in your taste. The only time their mouths leave you is to switch positions; Price sucking and nibbling on your clit as Ghost’s tongue mercilessly abuses your sopping hole.

“W-wait—!” The stimulation is overwhelming, and you can feel yourself coming undone quickly. “I— I can’t, S’too much, I’m—”

Ghost shoves two fingers inside you in response, moving in tandem with his tongue as Price’s hand finds its way beneath your shirt to play with your nipples. They knew you were close; they could tell by the way your legs kept trying to close as they held you open. All you could do is lie there and take it, biting your first to muffle your cries as your orgasm rips through you.

Reluctantly they pull away, their faces drenched in your slick as they both try to catch their breath. You sit up, clawing at Price’s belt to free his very visible erection. The longer you wait, the more your body craved them. The only thing on your mind now is them fucking you senseless.

You fumble with the buckle, hands shaky as you’re coming down from your high. The struggle makes Price laugh and he gently moves your hands away.

“Y’want it, sweetheart?” He groans, removing his belt and trousers quickly. The sight of his hard cock trapped inside his boxers forces another whimper from you. “Y’gotta ask for it, then. Tell me what y’want...” Pulling down his waistband he springs free. He’s far thicker than you’d ever imagined, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little apprehensive.

Only a little, though.

“C’mon…” Price rubs himself between your folds, collecting the remnants of your cum on his cock. He begins teasing your hole with his tip, sliding it in just enough to stretch you out slightly. “You can do it, dove. Tell us how bad y’want us to ruin you.”

“Y’want us as bad as we want you, yeah? Need t’hear it…” Saying that, Ghost climbs into the bed next to you. He’s rid himself of his own clothes as he begins to pepper your face in hot, sloppy kisses. You can feel his own arousal pressing into your side.

“Pleasepleasepleaseruinme.” Your words run together; they’ve rendered you a bumbling mess solely from eating you out, so imagine how you’ll feel they’ve fucked you. The thought alone makes your pussy clench. “Need it s’bad. ‘Ve dreamt about it…”

Price plunges into you at your admission while Ghost stifles your moans with his mouth.

Giving you little time to adjust to his size, your captain begins to pound into you without abandon. Each time his hips meet yours you cry out, Ghost swallowing each delectable yelp of pleasure you give him.

“Tha’s it,” Price coos. “Feels good, eh? Jus’ look at the way this gorgeous pussy sucks me in.” He slows his pace, grinding up into your deepest parts. He knows you should be quiet, he does, but each time he hits deeper you make the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard. You can’t blame him for wanting to push the limits, can you?

Your body tightens in a familiar way; your release is building again and you can tell it’s going to be one of the best you’ve had. Just as you think you’re about to break, Price’s cock is gone and you’re left empty and wanting.

Before you can protest at the loss of pleasure, your body is shifted to where your back is against Ghost’s chest.

“Y’up for a challenge?” Ghost’s painfully hard erection rests between your thighs now, twitching slightly with each shift of your hips. He’s comparable to Price in size, and absolutely not at all what you’d been expecting. “Be a good girl and take us both, yeah? Wanna feel you come on our cocks while we fill you to the brim.” Price grunts lowly in agreement as he positions himself back between your legs.

You nod furiously, drooling at the thought of both of them destroying you at the same time. Ghost’s hands reach down to spread your legs further. Once notched into your hole next to Price, the two take their time pressing their way inside. The fit is tight, but my god it’s delicious.

The size of them both feel like more than you can handle, but you’re by no means a quitter. With Ghost in your ear praising you for the way you’re taking them and Price above you telling you just how good you feel wrapped around them, you’re determined to make them both fit.

One final, firm thrust and they’re both balls-deep. You get a minute’s rest before your superiors are drilling into you relentlessly. Every single synapse in your body is alight, and you’re certain you won’t last long.

Ghost is leaving marks on your neck while Price kisses you feverishly, and the coil in your belly snaps with little resistance. You clench around them violently, your cum stopped from pouring out only by the tight seal of their cocks. The sensation of your orgasm is enough to send them over the edge, both Ghost and Price releasing as deep inside you as they can.

The room is still as you all try to catch your breath, the only sound to be heard being the thrum of your heartbeat in your ears and the chorus of panting around you. Slowly, gently, Price pulls out of you, with Ghost following suit. You whimper as a mixture of your fluids spills from your core.

With his fingers, Price swipes up the spend and stuffs it back into your overly-sensitive hole. “Best not to waste it, love, otherwise we’ll have to go again.”

#fucking hell #THIS IS INSANE /POS

[hidden-ember]

what a humongous compliment 😭💕

Feb 2024 Author/Fic Recommendations

I am going to be treating this like my own personal library for my favourite stories, so that way, I can come back and read them again and again.

If I have someone's full Masterlist listed, that is because I love their work and everything they write is good to me.

Please heed peoples warnings & tags. Some stories are 18+.

Masterlist - @valeskafics (18+) truly read everything. Just chefs 💋 - House of the Dragon, Game of Thrones, Saltburn, Ewan Mitchell Character's, & so much more.

Mafia 141 - @groguspicklejar (18+) - Call of Duty

Business Trip - @drabbles-mc - Miguel Galindo x F!Reader

Tear in My Heart: Mission Happily Ever After? - @im-just-a-mississippi-girl - Pairing: Single!Dad Matt Jackson x Teacher!Reader (wrestling)

Simon Says - @hidden-ember (18+) - captain john Price x fem!reader | simon Ghost riley x fem!reader - Call of Duty

Daddy's Biggest Fan (Drabble) - @theworldofotps - Hook x Reader (Wrestling)

Masterlist (18+) - @konigsblog - multiple COD characters. Hard to pick a fav story

#i’m never gonna be over this #ty all for always being so nice about my writing

[hidden-ember]

curious about what you all would like to see so i can gage the fic i’m currently working on (it’s soap x reader if that helps you choose)

[hidden-ember]

hungover 😓

[hidden-ember]

AHHHHHH I CANNOT STOP THINKING ABOUT HOW WELL PRICE WOULD EAT YOU OUT?? LIKE AFTER A ROUGH DAY OF WORK ALL HE WANTS IS TO RELAX BETWEEN YOUR THIGHS :(

i’m surprised that man’s beard hasn’t bleached yet cause he’s a dedicated munch

18+, afab!anatomy (no gendered pronouns for reader but she/her for your pussy LMAO price talks to your 😺 fyi)

no because price is a man who takes great pleasure in eating you out

like of course he does it for your pleasure too, but he loves nothing more than burying his face between your thighs, slotting his face against the heat of your cunt, and going fucking crazy

his large hands would grip your thighs and press them tightly around his head, essentially caging himself between your legs. he’d grip and knead at the flesh of your thighs, pulling and pushing and squeezing to his hearts content

price would lick up and down the seam of your cunt, splitting you open on the point of his tongue as the warm muscle dragged through your folds. then, his tongue would reach your clit and press flat against it, applying warm, wet pressure that’d have your thighs trembling around his head

he’d kiss your puffy clit, so polite and gentle, before sliding his face down to shove his tongue into the weeping hole of your cunt, his nose nudging up against your clit again and again as he used the leverage he had on your thighs to rock your wet pussy against his face

and he’d moan and moan. usually during sex, he’d grunt and groan and whisper absolute filth into your ear. but when he was blowing off some steam with his tongue licking in and out of you, he moaned

the vibrato of it would make you mewl and squirm, but his mouth would be unrelenting. while thrusting the solid muscle of his tongue in and out of you, he’d shift his hips against the mattress— rocking his hard, leaking cock against the duvet

the taste and smell of you, coupled with the breathy moans leaving your mouth, would have him throbbing, tip flushed red and drooling precum. he’d come if he wasn’t careful

sometimes, price would speak into your pussy as well. he was usually quite vocal when he fucked you, but when he was tongue-deep in the warmth of your core? he couldn’t help but coo at it. at her

“my pretty girl, s’always so wet f’me—” price would mumble into your slicken heat, and it would make you shiver at the fact he wasn’t talking explicitly to you. he’d moan praise at your pussy, depending on how close he was to coming across the fucking mattress. “such a good pussy. such a good girl— n’ she tastes fuckin’ divine…”

ok but he WILL come if you take advantage of his distraction and pull on his hair and shove his face back into your cunt. he’s just a little whore like that and we love it <3

[hidden-ember]

whiskey 🧡

[hidden-ember]

141 When They’re Sick

bilingual privilege is using your second language to scribble down notes for your tumblr fanfiction in class with the reassurance that no one else will be able to understand what you’re writing 😋 pure fluff (not proofread)

Johnny ‘Soap’ Mactavish

soap has such man flu vibes

i just know he will have a little cold from never dressing appropriately for the english weather (he thinks he can tough it out) (he can’t) and then lays on the sofa for a week, miserable and constantly pining for your attention

he loves a cup of tea when he’s sick but he also swears that irn bru has magic restorative qualities, and "that’s how i keep m’physique, bonnie"

Johnny groans, rubbing his face with his palm as he lays stretched out over the sofa, his feet resting on one arm and a hot water bottle flopped lazily over his stomach. For the most part, the grunts and sighs seem genuine, but you could swear that he makes sure to emphasise his suffering when you walk past, just to let you know what a big strong boy he’s being for dealing with his sore throat and slight headache.

"Head hurts…" he groans, holding a forearm over his eyes to shield them from the light.

"I know, honey… you want a paracetamol?" you pat his head, trying to hide your little, sympathetic laugh.

"Nah, only just had one… Y’could gimme a kiss, though," he grinned up at you, his tone lightening a little.

"Ew! Stop, I don’t want your germs," you laugh, pulling your hand away from his hair.

"Aww, c’mon… might make me feel better," Johnny teases, sitting up a little (he wasn’t really that weak in the first place) and holds your wrist so you can’t escape. When you see the stupid, irritating grin on his face, you know you don’t really care about germs. You just want to kiss him.

Captain John Price

price, when he’s feeling ill, likes to be looked after - the number one cure for ANY of this man’s problems is a warm bath

he loves it when you act like a little housewife for him, running him a warm bath and bringing him a constant stream of cups of tea - sometimes he’ll pretend to be sicker than he is for a little longer than he has to just for a day or two more of being doted on by you. not that you don’t do that anyways.

but he’s a menace when you try to go off shopping or to work - he lays a strong, hairy arm over you, mumbling something about being sick and needing you to stay

if you massage his back and shoulders when he’s feeling sick, he will be so happy. it takes a little longer than when he rubs your back because there’s just more of him, with his broad shoulders and muscular dad-bod (yum)

You have John laying on his front, on the bed, arms crossed under his head. His hair is damp, getting the bedsheets a little wet beneath him, and he has a soft white towel wrapped loosely around his hips - he smells strangely like lavender (he definitely used your shower gel instead of his because yours is nicer - you pretend not to notice, as your hands gently move up and down his sore back).

He’s managed to come down with a bad cold the day after an intense workout, so his body is totally exhausted and nothing really appeals to him other than laying down. Being as fit as he is, you wouldn’t expect him to be in such a state, but the man needs a break and it’s plain to see.

The soft light from the nice-smelling candles that you’ve lit on the bedside table plays in his wet hair, which you gently comb your fingers through.

"You been using my products again, hmm?" you grin with a gentle tone, leaning in closer to him.

"Sorry love…" he starts to respond, his voice a little hoarse.

"It’s okay," you laugh softly, nuzzling your face into his back as you lower yourself on top of him, like a weighted blanket. Your soft hands wrap gently around his scarred sides, as little sighs of contentment leave your mouth.

"What happened to my back rub?" he teases, feeling your body laying against him. Still, he doesn’t a muscle to stop you from cuddling up to him.

As you keep quiet, enjoying the warmth of his body, he chuckles and pulls himself into a more comfortable position below you.

"That’s alright, sweetheart…" he replies to your silence.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

simon would try to be an unphased tough guy but he’d have little moments of weakness

he’d insist that he’s not that sick while taking paracetamol and drinking tea constantly, pulling you close to him as often as he can and being clingier than usual (he’s always touchy, but he is particularly reliant on you now)

he’s in a terrible mood, but just resting his head on your shoulder or holding you while you work helps him… better yet, he loves it when you’re sitting on the sofa and working on your laptop, or watching a film, and he gets to lay down with his head in your lap - with your soft fingers occasionally brushing through his short hair

he’s a tough guy, but when it’s just you and him, he can just lay down with his girl without worrying about being ghost. he’s just simon - poorly simon, with his sweet girlfriend taking care of him.

Phone in your hand, you quietly text your friend about her crazy ex boyfriend and the dress that she’s going to wear out tonight - the red one or the other red one, with the different neckline? You look up to the doorway to see a tall, tired man walk into the sitting room - 6’4", dressed in an old grey hoodie and a pair of pyjama bottoms, ruffling his hair and looking utterly exhausted.

"Thought you were asleep, Si…"

"Can’t sleep," he mumbles gruffly, silently moving towards you and finding a spot to lay his head - right in your lap, his feet resting on the opposite arm of your big sofa.

Understanding his fatigue, you sigh softly and stroke his head as it lays against you. His skin is pale, showing his sickness, and his eyes look tired and dry. A little groan escapes his lips as he shuffles on the sofa, trying to make himself comfortable.

"Love you, darling…" he whispers softly, his eyes shutting in preparation to finally sleep.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick

i feel like kyle’s love language is food

if you make that man a curry or a good spag bol, he will secretly be making plans to propose to you as he eats it

and that’s all the more true when he’s ill or tired out - some comfort food home cooked by you would mean the world

Gaz had a bad cold and had been hibernating in bed all day, mostly asleep but occasionally watching the football or texting Soap to complain about how sick he is. As you walked into the room, brandishing a bowl of spaghetti carbonara, his eyes lit up.

"Hey, what’s this?" he grins, his voice a little hoarse.

"Carbonara. For you," you chuckle, placing it down on his bedside table, "I have some work stuff to finish, I-"

"Y’could just stay with me instead. I’ve been locked up in here all day," he teases.

"You’ve been asleep all day! I really need to… well…"

"Come on, baby."

You struggle to hide the grin that’s creeping onto your face, not wanting to procrastinate your work any longer (this wasn’t the first time Kyle has stolen you away from typing up emails) but he got what he wanted when, a moment later, you were cuddled up to him. Wearing his tshirt and your underwear, with your head resting on his shoulder.

"Oh my God, this is so good!" he chuckles, eating, voice still strained from the sore throat. He’s mostly just happy to have you next to him (oh, as well as the pasta).

gaz is my babyyyyyyy i don’t think you guys get it 😣😣😣 this took an age and a half to write i hope it’s up to standard thanks for reading!! xx

[hidden-ember]

I love your ghost design. I wanna squeeze him :⁠^⁠)

If no hug then why hug-shaped???

[hidden-ember]

when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go. It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog.  Of course he's going to take a bite.  He thinks you ought to have known this by now. 

SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.

AO3 MIRROR

John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His. 

And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts. 

It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him. 

It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain. 

He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it. 

And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious. 

This is, and always has been, about yearning. 

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go. 

Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity. 

Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it? 

And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?

The child would never write him out, either. 

Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool. 

Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way. 

It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm. 

Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.

Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.  

But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners. 

The rest, though? Spare parts. 

(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—

His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)

But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible. 

It's why he isn't married. 

Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface. 

But the real reason is because he knows better. 

He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own. 

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all. 

(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes. 

They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.

A pair of packless, stray dogs.)

But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face. 

It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child. 

It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy. 

Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge. 

He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction. 

And really—he’s just not a good man.

He thought you'd have known this by now.

He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet. 

(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)

Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—

It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head. 

He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber. 

You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—

Who was he to deny you? 

Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating. 

He let it. Encouraged it. 

“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you. 

And, oh—

The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment. 

Fuck. Fuck—

John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead. 

It worked. Works—

Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—

His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth. 

“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”

(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—

But—you do know that, don't you? 

Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)

“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”

He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?” 

“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.” 

His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”

You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”

And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, “right?” 

Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement. 

He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps. 

“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape. 

He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants. 

There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills. 

John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled. 

The little seed that started germinating blooms. 

He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black. 

“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being. 

Your dyadic has always been built on permeance. 

John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy. 

Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two. 

“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.” 

He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.

“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.” 

You smell it, and shiver. 

It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite. 

And so, of course he does. 

John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up. 

Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—

Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy. 

He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips. 

There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title. 

This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander. 

(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)

In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills. 

It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—

A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing. 

That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—

You're a dog just like him. 

In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection. 

And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct. 

You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs. 

So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants. 

John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind. 

(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)

It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you. 

He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash. 

That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—

You turn to him instead, knuckles white. 

“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped. 

He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—

John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed. 

His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath). 

The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in. 

You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat. 

This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood. 

He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—

He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective. 

Seven pills in a row. 

He files it away, lost in thought. 

The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath. 

When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper. 

You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down. 

(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)

“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. “Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.” 

John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish. 

It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether. 

As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off. 

That, too, he files away. 

John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion. 

There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him. 

(Only him.)

He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it. 

So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too. 

John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn. 

(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)

It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression. 

But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs. 

But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you. 

That's all for him. 

(Nasty old bastard.) 

And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him. 

Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it. 

(Nasty, nasty—)

But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't. 

And that simply won't do. 

So, he plots. Plans. 

The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it. 

He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No. 

He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way. 

Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up. 

It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb. 

And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through. 

“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”

“But—”

“It’ll be fine.” 

And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty. 

(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)

John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb. 

It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—

He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this—the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence. 

“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”

His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust. 

But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent. 

What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—

He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue. 

“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”

“But, John—”

The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick. 

And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after. 

“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”

You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease. 

But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape. 

He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace. 

“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.” 

“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed. 

You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot. 

John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed. 

You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—

There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin. 

“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.” 

You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep. 

(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)

“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill. 

“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.” 

“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.” 

He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat. 

“Could stop taking it.” 

It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud. 

You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins. 

“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”

You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—

A boomslang. 

One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike. 

Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world. 

“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”

He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead. 

“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”

Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is. 

“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in. 

You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—

You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts. 

Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—

His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum. 

It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments. 

You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans. 

He decides on a different route to the same end. 

Damnation at your own hand. 

John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face. 

With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this. 

And one with more opportunity.

Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up. 

He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip. 

The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.” 

“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste. 

With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper. 

You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea. 

He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim. 

It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle. 

You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him. 

“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image. 

He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart. 

“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”

You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle. 

You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear. 

With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside. 

It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—

He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it. 

John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you. 

When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below. 

He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it. 

The push-pull of this little game stretches on. 

Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.

The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual. 

And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—). 

He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing. 

In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all. 

The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break. 

You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar. 

John notes it down. Tucks it away. 

And then he amps up the pressure.

John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it. 

He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now. 

Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic. 

“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?” 

It's a tease. A test. 

He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him. 

This will be your cacoëthes. 

He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this. 

This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining. 

You want this. He wears the axiom like armour. 

And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat. 

The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess. 

And fuck—

The thought alone makes him throb. 

He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper. 

John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart. 

He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick. 

Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for. 

He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing. 

He can't wait to ruin it. 

If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs. 

Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new. 

His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it. 

“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt. 

His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls. 

You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—

The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it. 

Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—

As many as you'll let him.

And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent. 

The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva. 

“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation. 

To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh. 

He tastes salt and sin on your skin. 

(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)

“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.” 

And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds. 

But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart. 

Like this, though—you melt. 

All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock. 

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”

(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)

He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”

It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it. 

“Fuck—”

He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more. 

But even with the respite, he knows he won't last. 

John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down. 

Go easy on your pretty cunt.

(As if.)

John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape. 

Reshape.

He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you. 

“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”

You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat. 

He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout. 

Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—

“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”

“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”

You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—

“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”

He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—

As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone. 

(His, his, his—)

When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead. 

“Are you okay, John—”

He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach. 

He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape. 

“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.” 

“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk. 

“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”

It does. Of course it does. 

He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—

“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more. 

“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat. 

There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound. 

“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”

Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs. 

You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”

He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.

Cheeky little—

“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.” 

The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.

In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing. 

Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today? 

He just needs to wait things out. 

But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week. 

Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time. 

He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home. 

It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home. 

His bones ache for it. 

Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan. 

While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual. 

Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.

You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.” 

He tucks it away, lets the matter drop. 

If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff. 

“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”

He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this. 

A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown. 

It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—

Yet. 

You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank. 

He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call. 

But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.

It eats at him. 

He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in. 

His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you. 

An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie. 

He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank. 

His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used. 

Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars. 

He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next. 

Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt. 

His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew. 

Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks. 

A card, and—

His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular. 

—a pregnancy test. 

He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning. 

A pregnancy test. 

Fuck—

(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)

He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing. 

“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”

“Something bad happen?” 

His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”

It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—

Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt. 

In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured. 

Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything. 

She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”

“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”

It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.” 

“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”

“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”

“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.” 

“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin. 

“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.” 

“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”

“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.” 

Lucky him, indeed. 

On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog. 

Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.” 

He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't? 

Oh, fuck—

You better not be. 

But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel. 

This is happening, then. 

You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack. 

It shifts—

You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts. 

It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue. 

John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart. 

His. His.

—and then it all falls into place. 

Yours.

He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear. 

A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need. 

Until it becomes too much. 

“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”

“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”

“Oh, no… please take your time.” 

Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more. 

John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned. 

“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.” 

He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—

His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise. 

Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—

A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat. 

Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take. 

His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins. 

John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play. 

Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.  

In the back of his heat, the beast purrs.

“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.” 

You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.” 

More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart. 

“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”

Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”

He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated. 

When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away. 

A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.

Will help him fill. 

[hidden-ember]

simon says

🗯 pairing: captain john price x fem!reader | simon ghost riley x fem!reader

🗯 tags: nsfw - mdni, cucking, oral sex, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected pinv, established relationship, praise, ooc as fuck i'm sure

a/n: this one was incredibly self indulgent, so i got a little carried away with it. i fully intend to do a pt. 2 if you all want that!

You couldn’t believe the situation you found yourself in: your husband of several years just confessed to you he had always had a fantasy of watching you with another man. You expressed that you weren’t opposed to the idea; as long as it was something he truly wanted then you’d do your best to please him. 

When he threw out some names of people you may be interested in he never expected to see a spark of desire in your eyes as he mentioned his former boss.

“Oh really?” Ghost asked with a raise of his eyebrow, his tone laced with amusement. 

“Y-yeah,” you said shyly, not wanting to go into detail about how attractive you found Captain Price. 

The older man led Simon in a specialized task force for a few years, both having since moved on to different military ventures and then retirement. 

Price had always caught your eye at any get-together he and the rest of Ghost’s former team would attend, and you had never imagined revealing this attraction to your husband. Until now. 

Any time he would tower over you while making small talk, cerulean eyes subtly trailing down to your lips and chest before meeting your gaze you had to fight to keep your face from flushing. 

Your dreams the nights after these gatherings would be filled with visions of the Captain buried between your legs, his facial hair prickling your skin as he worked you with his mouth until your legs were trembling. 

Ghost cleared his throat, sensing you were deep in thought. “I’ll text him now?”

Once you gave him the go ahead he reached for his phone. His fingers trembled slightly as he tapped out a message, inviting Price over Friday evening for some ‘fun’. 

He tossed his phone down and leaned in close, his warm breath tickling your ear as he whispered, “I’m going to enjoy watching you with him.” 

“I hope so, Simon, because I wouldn’t be doing this otherwise,” you responded, pulling back to look at him. You wanted him to know even though you were indulging him in this fantasy, you would never imagine being unfaithful to him without his knowledge and without him being involved.

Ghost met your gaze, his eyes filled with appreciation and desire for you. “I know, love.” 

You left it at that, both carrying on with the rest of your week without mentioning it again until shortly before Price’s arrival.

“You’re still okay with this, yeah?” Ghost wrapped his arms around you from behind as you did your makeup in the mirror. 

“More than okay,” you reassured him as he tugged at your earlobe with his teeth. 

“Easy now,” he chuckled, a hint of warning in his tone. 

That was the best thing about this arrangement. You had always been attracted to Price and were eager to explore that, but you were most looking forward to what came after.

You knew that once he watched Price fuck you, Ghost would be ravenous. You had a long night ahead of him proving to you that while he may allow another man to touch you, they’d never be able to touch you better than he could. 

“I don’t know what to wear.” Your face grew hot as you began wondering what Price would think when he saw you again. 

“Anything,” Ghost replied firmly. “You look great in anything.”

“Well I have that dress from-,” you paused when he began shaking his head. 

“That won’t be necessary,” he murmured against your neck, trailing soft kisses down it as his hands settled on your stomach. “You’ll be waiting for us in the bedroom, sweetheart.”

“Oh,” you whispered, realization dawning on you that he was suggesting you wear lingerie. 

"Hmmm. Price seems like the type to enjoy white." You thought out loud, a lace baby doll you had in your dresser coming to mind. "Something about corrupting a good girl."

“S’that what you are?” Ghost smirked while making eye contact with you in the mirror. 

You laughed away his teasing, knowing he was only attempting to get you riled up. “Oh, please. If anyone’s corrupted me it’s you, but let me have my fun.”

"That's perfect," he agreed, his eyes roaming over the reflection of your body, envisioning the delicate white lace. "He's going to love seeing you like that." He leaned in close and whispered into your ear, his voice low and husky, “And so will I.”

His stiffening cock was now pressing firmly into the small of your back and you grinned at him in the mirror. “I can see you’re very excited about this.”

Ghost's eyes darted downward before meeting yours again, a mix of embarrassment and desire flushing his cheeks. "Not every day my wife offers up herself and her body for another man," he confessed with a shrug that did little to hide his arousal.

“Don’t be embarrassed, love.” You squeezed his hands reassuringly. “It’s hot you’re so into this.”

"Thank you," Ghost whispered as he wrapped his arms around you tighter. "I just want to make sure everything is perfect for Price tonight. He deserves it."

“Yeah? Deserves to fuck your wife?” You teased, knowing it would only make the hardness poking into your back ache even more. 

Ghost chuckled darkly at your words. "Yeah, he does," he growled while pressing his hips forward slightly into you with a noticeable amount of possession in his movement. "And I plan to enjoy every filthy second of it."

You spun around to face him, and he immediately stepped forward, pushing you into the edge of the vanity. Ghost groaned as he felt your hands slip beneath his shirt to stroke his stomach, a thick layer of fat having formed over his abs since retirement that drove you crazy in all the right ways. 

"Don't tease me like that," he warned when your fingers moved higher up his chest.

"Fine,” you conceded with a soft sigh, sliding out from under his shirt. “I’ll keep my hands to myself until he arrives.”

"That’s a good girl," he praised, loving how aroused you were getting. He pulled back slightly but kept his hands on your waist. "Now, why don't you get dressed and wait for us on the bed, hmm?”

As you moved to put on the white lace number and matching silk thong you knew both men would adore you in, Ghost left for the living room, leaving your bedroom door slightly ajar. You bit down on your lip nervously when you heard the doorbell buzz not even a few minutes later. 

Ghost’s heart raced with anticipation as he approached the front door and saw Price’s silhouette against the dim street light shining through the glass. He knew you were waiting for them in the bedroom, dressed in the lingerie that he had helped pick out and he had to make an effort to appear nonchalant as he opened the door for Price.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your heart rate quickening as you heard the Captain’s commanding voice fill your home. Their conversation was muffled, but the distinct sound of ice and alcohol being poured made you smirk to yourself.

The pair catching up over a drink like former colleagues while you were waiting in the bedroom like a piece of meat to be devoured only added to your arousal, the wetness gathering between your legs becoming more prominent the longer they left you alone. Ghost seemed to be carrying most of the conversation for once, probably out of sheer excitement.  

Price appeared to be enjoying himself as well, laughing at something Ghost said before they made their way to the bedroom together.

As they entered the room your eyes darted between your husband and his friend, unsure who to look at. The click of the door closing echoed through your mind as you pictured what was about to happen. 

Ghost took a step towards you, his eyes fixed on your body as he admired the sexy lingerie that clung to your curves. He couldn't help but feel a surge of possessiveness as he turned to look at Price, who was now standing close behind him.

He swallowed hard, the bob of his Adam's apple betraying his nervousness, before stepping to the side and sitting in the armchair at the corner of your room.

Price looked you up and down slowly, taking in every inch of your exposed body. His eyes lingered on your full breasts before traveling back up to meet yours. 

"You look bloody incredible, Mrs. Riley," he smirked, knowing it would drive Ghost mad to hear you being referred to with his last name. You were his after all and Price would do well to remember that. You glanced at Simon briefly, surprised to see his face beaming with pride rather than annoyance as he watched Price approach you. 

“Thank you, John,” you blushed, having to crane your neck to look at him the closer he got to the bed. The lamp in the corner illuminated his face as he stood before you and you noticed even more gray hair dusting his temples and beard than the last time you saw him. 

He wasted no time before kneeling down, his calloused hands running up and down your thighs lightly before stopping at your knees. You were sure your face was completely bright red now, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

“Oh, sweet thing,” Price let out a breath as he spread your legs. “You’re soaked already.”

He placed a kiss to your core through your panties, holding eye contact with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. Ghost sat up a little straighter in his seat at the sight.

The silk fabric clung to your folds now, saturated with your arousal. You felt yourself throbbing now, cunt desperate for attention. Many nights you had dreamed of being in this exact position, his handsome face staring up at you from between your legs.

Disappointment must have been evident on your face as Price pulled back and shifted on his feet, moving to lean over you. Your pouting drew a raspy chuckle out of your husband.

“Needy girl you have, Simon,” Price observed with a small smile, turning to look at him. He gave a single nod in response, eager for Price to continue.

With gentle hands he brushed your hair behind your shoulders as his gaze roamed your chest, his hum of satisfaction reverberating through the room. He unfastened the clasp on the front of the baby doll, letting it fall off of you and onto the bed. 

Your nipples hardened as the cool air hit your skin. Price’s hands found their way to your breasts immediately, beginning to roll his thumbs over your nipples in tight circles. He studied your face closely as it contorted in pleasure, admired the way your breath caught in your throat audibly at the sensation. 

“You know, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to fuck you,” Price whispered into your ear, his hot breath causing goosebumps on your skin. His lips brushed against your earlobe and your eyes widened, finding Ghost’s. He watched you with a hunger and possessiveness you had never seen from him before, clearly having heard what the other man said to you. 

You gasped in surprise when Price’s lips latched onto your nipple, too distracted by Simon to realize he had wandered lower once more. You moaned softly as his tongue circled the hardened bud, back arching as he squeezed your other breast roughly. 

Ghost watched attentively from his corner seat, a mix of arousal and pride coursing through him. He could tell by the way that you were responding that Price was taking good care of you, making sure you were enjoying every moment. 

Price’s mouth left your tit and he captured your lips in a kiss. It felt strange at first but you softened, losing yourself to the feeling of him. The kiss deepend as Price’s tongue slid past your lips, tasting you for the first time. His hands wandered down your body, teasingly grazing the hem of your panties before finally slipping beneath to run along your slick folds.

“All this for me, hm?” Price murmured against your lips.

“Y-yes,” you stuttered. A half truth. It was for him, yes. But it was just as much for Simon, who was now palming himself through his jeans.

Seeing how excited you were already, he didn’t hesitate to part your folds, circling your entrance once before pumping two fingers inside of you. You let out an exasperated gasp and squirmed as he did.

“Oh, c’mon, angel. I know you can take it.” He winked at you before continuing. “This is nothing compared to your husband’s cock,” he said playfully before curling his fingers inside of you, thrusting faster now.

"That's a good girl," he praised you as he felt your relax around his fingers, rewarding you by pressing circles into your swollen clit in a steady rhythm with his thumb.   

Ghost could tell by the sounds you were making that you were getting close already, the thought only serving to fuel his arousal. His chest tightened as he watched Price work you open. You faintly made out the sound of a zipper as your senses started to be overloaded, vision blurry and ears ringing.

“Fuck, John. I’m close,” you moaned, wrapping your arms around his free one to steady yourself as your climax rapidly approached. His muscles tensed under your grip; he was every bit as strong as you had imagined. 

Price tutted at you, shaking his head. “Ask your husband for permission, dear.”

“Simon,” you pleaded. “Simon, please, I-” your breath was coming in ragged gasps, leaving you incapable of forming a full sentence.

“Let go, love,” you heard him from the corner of the room. The way his voice strained told you that he was stroking his cock as he listened to you begging for release. Begging him despite another man being the one to drive you to orgasm.

Price grabbed you by the chin, angling it upwards and pressing his lips to yours, stifling your cries of pleasure as you came undone. As if he could keep your release all to himself like this, swallowing it down so Ghost couldn’t have it.

Ghost watched intently as Price took control of the situation, his body tense with anticipation for what was about to happen. He could feel his own climax building inside him, mirroring your pleasure as he listened to your cries of ecstasy being muffled by the other man’s kiss.

As Price continued to milk your orgasm, he leaned down and whispered into your ear, this time low enough that Ghost couldn’t hear, “You were never quite this pretty all the times I’ve imagined you coming.” 

He pulled away slowly, leaving you panting and covered in sweat. His eyes met Ghost’s once more before he finally released you from his grasp. You sat at the edge of the bed, legs trembling as you tried to catch your breath. He pulled your panties off, eyes glued to your glistening cunt.

“Lie back for me, sweetheart,” John ordered as he moved for his zipper, desperate to free his throbbing cock. You did as he said, gaze locked on his crotch as he tugged down his pants and boxers. 

As his cock sprang free, you hated the way you instantly noticed it wasn’t as big as Ghost’s. It wasn’t small by any means, maybe even a bit longer, but not as thick. You had gotten so used to feeling stuffed full by Ghost that now a part of you was anxious to have another man for the first time in years. What if you were spoiled? What if your husband had ruined you for all other cocks?

You glanced in his direction, noting the small smirk tugging at his lips and you knew he was aware of exactly what was on your mind. Smug bastard, you thought to yourself before returning your attention to Price, opening your legs wider for him.

Ghost’s expression remained impassive as he watched Price line himself up and penetrate you. His hand twitched unconsciously, the urge to reach out and claim what was rightfully his burning within him. But he held back, remaining silent and still, his hand freezing on his cock.

You moaned as Price buried himself to the hilt, having quickly forgotten any anxiety you were feeling a moment before. He let you adjust to his length before pulling out completely and slamming his hips forward, causing you to yelp. Ghost began pumping himself again as he saw how rough his friend was with you, how well you were taking him. 

“Fuck,” he hissed as he pounded into you. “Good fuckin’ girl.” 

His arms fell to either side of your head as he leaned in to nibble at your neck. From this angle his gut pushed into your stomach - the only distinction between the sensation of his and your husband’s was John’s more pronounced happy trail. 

He reached down between the two of you and began roughly rubbing at your sensitive clit again. His tempo didn't falter and he was hitting your g-spot with each stroke, white-hot pleasure clouding your mind and turning you into a mumbling mess beneath him.

“Yeah? Like that?” Price cooed at you and your toes curled. He kept up his pace, relentlessly pummeling you.

“Yes. God, yes,” you whined. The sounds of skin on skin and moaning filled the room from all three of you now. 

Your walls contracted around Price and your back arched, pressing your bodies flush together as you surrendered yourself to him completely.

“Come for me,” he encouraged with a hint of ownership. Not of you, but of this orgasm. The last one may have been for Ghost, but this one would be for him. 

He thrust into you more deliberately now, bottoming out each time. You let out a strangled moan as you climaxed again. Ghost came with you, spurting into his hand as he squeezed his cock tightly, his own sounds of pleasure drowned out by yours.

You whimpered as John suddenly pulled out of you and moved to stand at the edge of the bed. “C’mere,” he croaked, quickly sitting you up and bringing your head down towards his cock.

“You didn’t think I’d let anyone else finish inside that pretty little pussy of yours, did you?” Ghost murmured from the corner, voice hoarse as he was spent from his own release.

You shifted your gaze to Simon before parting your lips for Price. “Mm, see how you taste on another man’s cock?” He taunted as you wrapped your mouth around the head.

Though your eyes stayed glued to Ghost’s, you attempted a nod in response. Tears pricked your eyes as you slowly took more of his shaft into your mouth. 

“Simon says you’re good with your mouth. I intend to take full advantage of that,” he said, grunting as he pushed himself deep into your throat, your eyes returning to him.

As you moaned around his cock he smirked down at you. "Oh, you like it rough, do you?" He quickly lost control, hips meeting your face as he thrust in rhythm with your mouth.

You had mixture of saliva and pre-cum running down your chin now, mascara staining your cheeks. Ghost had you in a similar state countless times before while fucking your face, but seeing you like this wrapped around someone else's cock was turning him on in an entirely new way.

In an attempt to prolong his release, Price tangled his fingers into your hair, holding you in place at the base of his cock. When you gagged he loosened his grip, allowing you to back off a bit before you started bobbing your head on his length again. "That feels incredible," he said, admiring the way you milked his cock.

His balls were already tight, and you pushed him over the edge once you began to caress them with feather-light touches. He threw his head back with a low groan, frame tensing as he shot thick ropes of cum down your throat. His hips jerked forward as you hollowed out your cheeks. You swallowed most of his spend and pulled off of his cock with a satisfied moan.

He brushed the hair away from your face, his chest heaving as he looked down at you. His thumb trailed over your bottom lip, collecting the bit of cum that had dribbled out. He held it there for you, waiting for you to clean it off. You took it into your mouth, taking your time cleaning him, savoring the taste as you swirling your tongue around his finger. He pulled it out with a loud pop once he caught his breath.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, referring to your performance just as much as your disheveled appearance.

“That she is,” Ghost said, rising from his seat, looking at you with a predatory gaze. He tucked his still semi-hard cock into his pants and your stomach tightened at the sight.

Price zipped himself up as well and turned to Ghost. You were surprised he wouldn’t be staying, but it was clear the two men had discussed all the details beforehand. 

“Oh sweetheart, I don’t want anyone here for the depraved things I’m gonna do to you,” Ghost threatened in a low tone that had you clenching around nothing. Price let out a hearty laugh before turning back to you.

“Thank you for being so good for me,” he murmured and cupped your face in his hands. When Ghost cleared his throat behind him, he corrected himself with a sheepish grin. “Good for us.”

He gave you a genuine smile and a soft kiss on the forehead before leaving for the front door with Ghost. They exchanged goodbyes and the last you heard from Price as you walked to the doorway was, “Don’t be a stranger now, Simon.”

Shortly after you heard the door swing shut your husband was on you. “Alright, back to bed with you,” Simon grinned, smacking your ass playfully. You giggled, walking backwards, eyes never leaving him as he stripped. 

“You’re mine,” he reminded you with a growl before his lips crashed into yours, the two of you falling onto the bed.

#cod smut #price x reader #ghost x reader #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #captain john price x reader #captain price x reader #john price smut #captain price smut #ghost smut #simon riley smut #*mine

[hidden-ember]

Rain ⛧˚ · .

tangled in your trance and i’m certain / you have got your hooks in me

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

summary: coming home after a night at the bar with your husband always ends the way you want.

cw: SMUT - MDNI, not proofread, price x f!reader, drunk!reader, consent checks, oral (f receiving), pet names and praise, unprotected p in v, breeding sorta?? idk, basically all porn no plot

a/n: sorry for the long break! life has been a mess and it’s been a bit difficult finding the spark to write again. this one’s a bit short, but i hope you still enjoy!

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

You stumble to your door, fumbling your house keys in your hand before dropping them on your doormat. Muttering a curse underneath your breath, you lean down to retrieve them. The excess alcohol in your body, however, has different plans for you. You lose your footing and begin toppling over, until a pair of strong hands hoists you upright at the last second. A deep chuckle stirs the quiet night air.

“Told ya those last couple’a drinks probably weren’t smart, huh?” You turn, meeting your husband’s gaze and pouting.

“I am completely fine, thank you.” Your words slur slightly, not helping your argument much. The attempt at convincing him draws another laugh from John as he grabs the keys from the ground, unlocking the door to your shared home and ushering you inside. You attempt to kick of your boots, but it’s not long before you find John kneeling at your feet.

“Lemme take care of this, darlin’,” he coos. He works quickly to untie the laces, taking extra care to keep you balanced while he removes each shoe. He gives your feet a gentle rub, knowing how tired these boots make them, before standing upright and lifting you into his arms.

“What are you—“ you yelp at the change in altitude, confused as to why he’s carrying you up the stairs.

“Doll, I love you but you’re the least coordinated person I know, especially when you’ve been drinking.” John chuckles at the pout on your face as he ascends the final step and heads toward your bedroom. He sets you down on the bed gently, cupping your face and planting a soft kiss on your nose before kneeling before you. Slowly, almost teasingly, he runs his hands down your arms until they find purchase on your thighs. He takes a moment, kneading the flesh there before moving to unbutton your jeans for you. “Let’s get you into something more comfortable, eh?”

Your breath hitches as the rough skin of his knuckles brushes briefly against the small expanse of exposed skin on your lower belly. Squirming, you attempt to pull yourself together but to no avail. Your need for your husband was always high, sure, but the moment you have even a drop of alcohol in your veins that level of desire increases tenfold. Everything about John, from his smell, to the sound of his voice, to the way he moves ignites a fire so deep within you that it takes everything you have to behave yourself. His mere existence turns you into a feral beast when you’re drunk.

And John knows this.

So you can’t help but think that his slow, meticulous movements as he helps you undress (“don’t want you wobblin’ over, now do we?”) are intentional. You know for a fact he’s seen the hunger in your eyes all night, but you also now how much enjoys making you beg.

Pants fully removed now, John’s hands move to cup the space where your thighs meet the fat of your ass, squeezing just enough to garner a small whimper from your lips. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he looks up at you from the floor.

“S’matter, sweetheart? Somethin’ wrong?” John’s gaze glints with a touch of playfulness as his hands continue slowly sliding upward, his fingers stopping just below the hem of your silken panties.

“N-no. I’m perfectly fine.” Your face burns hot as your drunken mind urges you to be stubborn. As much as you crave him, need him to throw you down and ravage you right then and there, something inside you wants to push back a bit.

Your denial draws a low hum from John, his eyebrows raised as his calloused palms begin their movements once more. His hands completely encompass the plump crest of your ass, squeezing tightly to draw another sound from you.

“That so?” he prods, watching the way your lip quivers in anticipation. “I bet if I take off these,” he tugs at your panties, “your pretty little pussy will tell a different story, won’t it?” Removing his grip from your ass, John’s hands slowly slink to your hips.

The blush that’s settled on your face deepens as he gently presses your body back into the bed. Staying kneeled, he hooks is fingers in your waist back to slowly, tantalizingly remove your already-soaked underwear. Any facade of brattiness you had left immediately melted away as John spread your thighs, peppering wet kisses on your pelvis. The warmth of his breath against the cool wetness of your cunt made you whine.

“Ah,” he breathes. “See? What did I tell ya?” He moves his head lower, licking lightly around the outer lips of your core before speaking again. “My girl just needed some attention, s’that it?” You nod, urging your hips closer to him in hopes of his face making full contact. Instead, John places a hand on your belly to keep you in place. No matter how hard you squirm, you just can’t seem to get any closer.

“Ah ah,” John tuts, resting his bearded face on your bare thigh, “Words, darlin’. Need to hear it from you directly or this is where we stop.”

“N-need it,” you whine desperately. “Need your attention John. Need you so, so bad. Please—“ The final word was more of a choked sob than a plea, but your begging was more than enough to satisfy him.

“Good girl. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Before you can respond John’s lips are already wrapped around your aching clit, alternating between feverish licking and deep sucking that makes your entire body feel electrified. When it comes to you your husband is incredibly enthusiastic, but when it comes to eating your pussy? All bets are off. He continues abusing your clit with his mouth. Drawing moan after pretty moan from your throat, he moves to licking up inside you. His rough thumb circles your sensitive clit as near incoherent babbles of getting close fall from your mouth.

“I know, baby, I know.” John coos. “Feels too good, yeah? Then g’head, sweet girl. Come on my tongue, let me taste you.” He returns his face between your legs, picking up the pace of both his mouth and his thumb as you chase your release. Your thighs close in around his head and you grip at the sheets, your whole body tensing as you gush around John’s tongue. You bite your lip to stifle your pleasured cries, but when John continues to work you past your orgasm into overstimulation your attempts at staying quiet fail.

“W-waitwaitwait,” you cry out. You can feel your pussy clench as another wave of ecstasy already begins to loom over you. “Gonna cum again, John—oh, fuck—can’t hold it—“ With a groan you wrap your hands in his hair, coming again almost immediately. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and your eyes roll back in your head. This time, however, John decides to let up, continuing long enough for you to ride out this way. He unlatches his mouth from your cunt, licking his lips clean of your release.

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he moans, removing his belt and climbing over you. “Did such a good job for me, doll. D’you think you can give me one more, or d’you need to tap out?” John pulls his trousers down just enough to free his cock. Eating you out gets him rock hard every single time, and you can tell just how turned on he is by how heavily he’s panting.

“Need you,” you whine, hooking your hands beneath your knees and lifting them toward your chest. “I can’t wait any longer. Please jus—“

You can’t even finish your begging before John’s plunging balls-deep inside you. Still sensitive, the sudden stretch forces you to immediately come undone around him. The tightness of your cunt pulls a growl from John. He leans over, arms caging your head as he waits for your orgasm to subside.

“Not gonna last long like this,” he groans, slowly pulling out just to slam right back into you. The way you’ve positioned yourself allows him to hit deep, and the sensation coupled with the three orgasms he’s already given you turns your mind to mush.

John picks up pace, sloppily rutting into you like an animal in heat. He usually likes to take his time, but seeing you beneath him all fucked out and messy makes him lose control. He thrusting is brutal as he pounds into you, wanting nothing more than to fill you up.

“Gotta take it all for me, sweetheart,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Be a good girl for me and take every single drop.” The last three words are punctuated by three final, hard thrusts as John unleashes his load inside you. Breathing heavily, he collapses onto you, kissing any part of you and can reach and showering you with praise. You did so well, after all. You always do so well for him.

John leaves after a moment to go get you water and something to clean up, but by the time he’s returned you’re already fast asleep. He takes care to clean you up gently, redressing you in something comfortable and tucking you into bed.

After a quick shower and change for himself, he leaves a glass of water, a snack, and some pain medicine on your night stand. The hangover you’ll wake up to will most definitely be brutal, not to mention how sore your body will be, so he wants to make sure you can spend the morning in bed if you so desire. John turns out the light, climbing into bed next to you and pulling you flush to his chest. He buried his face in your hair, leaving gentle kisses in hopes to transfer some sweetness into your dreams.

[hidden-ember]

thinking about riding simon 😮‍💨

he would have your hands tied behind your back, and he would be sitting back against the headboard, watching you struggle as you moved up and down on his cock, struggling because there was sweat on your forehead, but also super horny because he just feels so fucking good

you would fall forward every now and then, your chest on his face as you rested your head against the headboard. he would immediately attach his mouth to your nipples, licking and biting them, making more and more wetness slip down onto his cock, wetting his balls and pubes. he would love it, because that would lower your speed, and he would spank you hard, mumbling, "don't stop, baby. you wanna cum so bad, don't you?"

you would nod pathetically, mouth hung open as you struggle to breathe, his cock stretching you open so good, your pussy rubbing against his pelvis with each thrust.

"you gotta work for it, then" he would spank you again, harder, making you mewl and whimper. you would pick up the pace again, wanting to cum so bad. he would reach his hand between your legs, finding your clit and rubbing circles on it. it would be so hot: wet, squelching sounds filling the room as you cum around his cock.

falling on him, he would hold you close, rubbing your back and kissing your forehead as you rode out your orgasm. but, his pace won't decrease. he would wrap his arms around you, holding you close as he overstimulated you, his cock fucking up into your drenched hole.

"know you're done, baby. but i'm not. so take it like a big girl, yeah?"

[hidden-ember]

quick update! thank you all so much for the support on what i've posted so far. i appreciate the follows, comments, and feedback so very much <3

sorry i haven't posted in a while. i fell out of writing with the holidays and what not, but i plan to get back into things soon. i have a handful of things in the works. highest prio right now is more price x reader and vessel x reader, and gaz x reader! i think it'll be fun to try out a new character.

#ember update

[hidden-ember]

welcome

very long overdue intro post here! welcome to my blog, you can call me ember! (she/her) 18+ MDNI

masterlist | requests

things you'll find here: smut, cod, sleep token

some notes-

╭୨୧ i try to be thorough when i tag cw on my posts, but please always feel free to let me know if you think something should be corrected or added!

╭୨୧ i am dyslexic. i spend a very long time editing my writing, but even then i'm sure it's littered with mistakes so apologies for that!

╭୨୧ i am open to requests! bearing in mind a few things:

there's not much i think i'd say no to writing currently but i reserve the right to pass!

HARD NO: pedo content, underage content, non-con content

i am more comfortable writing smut but am not opposed to fluff or angst, so you can request whatever in that regard

i do write mainly x reader fics right now but plan on venturing into character x character- i've got a few ideas in mind already. if there's a pairing you'd like to see for the fandoms listed above feel free to ask!

that's all for now! my inbox is always open for questions, about my writing or otherwise.

[hidden-ember]

ember's masterlist

call of duty

imagines/drabbles

price x gn!reader x soap: taking turns [smut]

fics

price x gn!reader: homecoming [smut] [fluff]

price x fem!reader | ghost x fem!reader: simon says [smut]

sleep token

vessel x fem!reader x iv: take me past the edge [smut]

#masterlist

[hidden-ember]

HI CAP!!! I’m the anon who requested breeding & overstim like a week ago AND IT WAS SO GOOD OML TY.

Anyways I know requests are closed but I hope you see this when they’re open 😭

HEAR ME OUT: Breeding kink, overstim, praise, slight restraint (yknow strong dad bod Price 🤭), and AGAINST THE WALL.

Thank you cap~ Love you!

sorry this is so late :(

anyway here’s some p0rn lmao

18+, fem!reader

price had you pinned against the wall of your bedroom, your legs parted as the large front of him pressed up against you. his broad chest and the warm curve of his stomach kept you motionless against the wall, rendering you immovable.

he held both of your wrists in one hand, holding them above you and pinning them to the wall as his other hand took hold of your hip, angling you into place so he could continue fucking up into you.

you were shaking beneath him, sweating with trembling legs as your husband fucked you, splitting you open on his cock. you could hardly moan anymore, releasing small whimpers of his name as each thrust knocked up against the plug of your womb.

he groaned above you, animalistic and claiming, marvelling at the way your cunt sucked in his cock, taking him so well. after three orgasms, your entire body was alight with overstimulation, but still reacting to his touch. it made pride surge within him, mixed with the feeling of possession. you were his.

his cock stretched you open, your previous orgasms dripping out of you with each thrust, running down the inner fat of your thighs. price’s dick and front of his pelvis was also slick with your releases (which he always loved). the sounds were wet, sounding around your shared room and making your head spin.

“mmm, so good, baby—” price grunted, cutting himself off with a groan as the silken walls of your cunt clenched around him. “being such a good— yeah, that’s it— good girl for me, aren’t you?”

you nodded deliriously, your entire body wracked with pleasure. you almost felt dizzy when your fourth consecutive orgasm began to build like static in your lower tummy.

“‘course you are, ‘course you are…” price muttered, slamming into you and keeping you restrained against the wall. his stomach pressed to yours, his chest against your bare breasts. the feeling of you both rubbing together was driving him insane. he groaned your name, followed by a string of curses. “fuck, my good girl. my best girl. always so good for me, aren’t you, sweetheart? always so good for your captain.”

you tossed your head back against the wall and moaned, his words going straight to your pussy. you felt yourself flutter around the thick girth of his cock, forcing a strained grunt from his lips before he leaned down to attach his mouth to the side of your neck.

price sucked kisses there, continuing still to grind himself against you. you could feel his warmth, the hair spanning his chest and stomach, and his facial hair scratching lightly at the link of your shoulder. you moaned at all the added stimulus, your trembling body beginning to seize up as your release approached.

“john—” you moaned, hands struggling and flexing in his hold. but he didn’t budge.

he held you against the wall while he fucked you, grunting into the curve of your neck as the tip of his cock continued to bully up against your cervix, drawing whimpers and whines from your mouth.

“that’s it, let me hear those pretty noises,” he muttered against you, licking over your hot skin. “let your captain hear you.”

you did. you moaned and whimpered outwardly for him. for your husband, your captain. you moaned with each upward thrust of his cock into the slick heat of your pussy, body shaking beneath him as finally your orgasm neared it’s crest for what felt like the millionth time.

“captain.” you whimpered, and price moaned in response, continuing his pace and keeping his thrusts consistent as he brought you to the edge, your vision blurring in the corners.

“that’s it… that’s my girl. been so good for me, baby. you can come,” he praised, and then urged gently towards the end. “you can come. come all over my cock one more time for me. one more time like my good girl.”

you shattered beneath him— coming around his cock again, losing yourself in the feeling of him. your entire body shook, muscles stiffening as you arched off the wall, pressing ever closer to him as your orgasm consumed you.

you had to stop yourself from squealing as your release gushed out of you— liquid warmth splattering out from around his cock, dripping down your trembling thighs. the thrusting sounds grew wetter, and price’s cock twitched inside you, still battering the entrance to your cervix.

he groaned. “fuck, fuck— that’s it, that’s it— my good girl, just— fuck— just like that. let me come inside you… let me come inside this perfect fuckin’ pussy.”

you mewled, practically going limp against him.

“s’alright, baby, i’ve got you. i’ve got you. just let me fill you up, okay? let me get you nice and fat with my baby…” he trailed off, interrupted by a string of grunting huffs. “yeah— yeah let me fill you up. let me breed this tight little pussy and make her mine.”

price came with a guttural moan of your name, still talking against your neck, the vibrations making you keen.

he stood true to his word, pumping you full of him. he was so deep that you could feel the warmth of his release spreading inside you, and he slowly softened as he pumped himself dry.

“shit…” he whispered, pulling out of you and dropping your arms. the mix of your releases dropped down your thighs in thick droplets, and the sudden loss of his cock made you whine.

“it’s okay, it’s okay, i’m here.” price cooed, guiding you slowly over to the bed and laying you down. he lay down next to you, before you felt his fingers brush up against your core. he slowly stuffed two fingers inside you, but not before dragging them up your thighs to collect his seed that had spilled out.

price held you against him with his other arm, kissing you gently over the top of your head and across your face, all the while keeping you plugged with his thick fingers.

“did such a good job, sweetheart,” he told you. “i love you.”